“Any more shopping stops?” Marilyn called out. “I’m almost out of money, though.”
“Please! No more stops where my wife can spend money,” John chuckled, taking out a white handkerchief and pretending it was a surrender flag. “I think we’d do better financially living in Beverly Hills then letting Marilyn loose on the streets of Bangkok.”
The boat driver asked Khemkaeng a question and he glanced at his watch before replying.
“What’s he saying?” John wanted to know.
“Do we wish to go to the snake farm exhibit? Very close by. Thirty-minute stop is all.”
An unpleasant shiver went through Rachel Marie at the mere mention of poisonous vipers. She still remembered the tale of Bucky’s close call with one of Thailand’s deadly reptiles many years ago. “I vote no,” she called out. “McDonald’s instead.”
“It sounds cool!” Ellen gave her teaching partner a mock thumbs-down vote. “Don’t be a big chicken.”
Rachel Marie shuddered. “I hate snakes.”
“This show is not so bad,” Khemkaeng explained. “Very safe. If you like, you can sit in the back row.”
He motioned toward the shore once again, and the boat operator revved up his engine, eager for the commission he would receive from steering a clump of paying visitors to the attraction. Filing ashore, each passenger handed over yet another fifty baht and squeezed their way into a darkened building shaped like a circular amphitheater. Several tourists from France perched on the front row, eagerly snapping shots of the snake handler nudging two inverted baskets into the center of the ring with his foot.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen!” A roly-poly Thai man picked up a mike attached to a small, ancient PA sound board which hissed and crackled with every syllable. “Wie gehts to all German friends. And perhaps bonjour? No? Buenas dias? Do all of you love snakes? Our Thailand snakes are very friendly and wish to say hello to you!”
The handler on the clay floor kicked over both baskets and feigned surprise as two slithering reptiles crept toward him.
“What kind are they?” Without realizing it, Rachel Marie found herself clutching at Khemkaeng’s shirt sleeve.
He pointed. “The brown one, of course, is cobra. You can see the hood?”
She felt a queasy anxiety in the pit of her stomach. The snake was at least four feet long and looked angry as it undulated before the young trainer.
“Do they bite?”
“Yes. Certainly. But the owner knows how to stay away from fangs.”
The show seemed to consist mostly of teasing and taunting the snakes, as the handler dangled his bare foot in front of the hooded cobra, jerking it away each time the snake lunged at him. “Oh! Close one!” the man with the mike screeched, goading the crowd into a buzz of delicious fear. “Next time the snake will get its dinner for sure. No?”
The French tourists warbled with nervous excitement as a yellow-and-black-striped banded krait actually began to slither into the first row. They jabbered, laughing, as they shoved each other to get out of the way. Smirking, the snake handler swooped in, picking up the reptile by the neck and tossed it into a quivering heap clear across the performance ring.
The climax of the show happened when the performer, pretending to turn over yet another upside-down basket, suddenly flung a snake right into the crowd. Involuntarily, Rachel Marie let out a schoolgirl scream, grabbing Khemkaeng around the neck. The crowd rocked with laughter when a teenage boy from Nebraska held the rubber toy aloft.
“That’s so unfair!” Rachel Marie groaned, ashamed of her fear.
“No. I thought it was real too,” Khemkaeng soothed.
She gave him a hard look. “I thought you came here last year with the new teachers. So you already saw this show. Right?”
He had the good grace to blush. “Maybe so. I’m not sure.”
Rachel Marie poked a finger at him. “May I teach you an American poem?”
“Of course.”
Her racing pulse returning to normal, she recited in a singsong voice: “Liar, liar, pants on fire.”
He grinned, absorbing the brief rhyme. “That is all? It is over?”
“Yeah. It’s short but right to the point.” She returned his smile. “Don’t you think?”
He sat next to her on the brief ride back to the wharf on the Bangkok side. Rachel Marie relaxed, enjoying the throaty hum of the engine as the long tail boat cut through the brown water. On the far shore a small boy, naked and innocent, walked out of a shack built right on the river and dove in. He emerged, grinning, and waved to the tourists as the boat passed by him and proceeded to the dock, its wake washing over the child’s jet-black hair.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was a drizzly Thursday afternoon, almost time for school to be out, and Rachel Marie glanced out the window at the trees outside her classroom. A flock of tiny sparrows huddled for shelter underneath the lush foliage, and she smiled, remembering an afternoon walk through one of Bangkok’s city parks the previous weekend.
A dozen boys had been engaged in aerial wars, dueling over whose kite could attack and conquer the other high-flying creations. Khemkaeng explained that Thai children often used specially designed “fighting string,” a kind of coated twine that could actually slice through an opponent’s line. The wind had been gusty and cool, and crowds of locals and tourists gaped at the active canopy of blue sky, cheering as a plummeting kite attempted a dive-bombing assault on a neighboring floater. There were collective groans whenever a line split and a defeated kite drifted into ignominious anonymity over the meandering river.
Along the sidewalk ringing the massive park, vendors worked the crowds, offering to “sell” a miniature bird cage. A fluttering captive sparrow, thrashing against the bamboo slats, could be purchased and released for only two baht.
“But why?” Rachel Marie asked as her male companion fished out two small coins and accepted the cage.
He smiled as he pulled the tiny latch and allowed the liberated bird to dart into the atmosphere. “When we set birds free, Buddha gives us merit. You know? Recording of good deeds?” In what passed for a Thai wink, he made it clear he was simply indulging in a whimsical bit of local tradition.
“Oh.”
“Missie Stone? It is girls’ turn, correct?”
She snapped back to the present. The class’s boys stood stiffly on the side nearest the door, while the girls were lined up facing them.
“Sorry,” she laughed. “All this rain made my mind wander. Yes, ladies, it’s your turn and you’re behind by one point.” She pointed to the whiteboard where she was keeping score. “If you get this one right, it’ll be a tie.” Rachel Marie scanned the line. “Okay, Duchanee, are you ready?”
“Yes, Missie Stone.”
“Here’s yours. If you add one-sixth and one-eighth, what would be your LCD?”
Thai girls tended to giggle and give away answers, and Rachel Marie had been forced to deliver a stern warning the first week of school about penalties for improper coaching. Now the females stood, their nervous laughter about to break through. One actually clapped her hand over her own mouth to keep from blurting out the correct response.
“Time is gone, Missie Stone.” A boy pointed to the wall clock. “Now is our turn.”
“No, ten more seconds.”
The young girl, her face in a panic, shook her head miserably. “I am sorry to not know,” she wailed. “I think–forty-eight?”
Cheers buzzed through the male line. “No! She miss! She miss! So boys win.”
Rachel Marie pretended to be sad that her gender had failed so pathetically. “Yes. Boys win again. Ladies, we have to redeem ourselves next time. Okay?” She turned to face Siroj, the self-proclaimed leader on the male side of the divide. “What’s the right answer, gentlemen?”
“Twenty-four.” The cocky lad smirked. “Six and eight both go into twenty-four, which is ‘least.’ Forty-eight is too much.”
“That’s right.”
“Okay, men and ladies,” Rachel Marie concluded. “Another really good day. You guys are so awesome; thank you for working hard. It honors your families and God each time you give your finest efforts here. I’m very grateful, and hope you always know that.” She gave them a sly grin. “So what does all of BCS know?”
Most of the kids pumped their fists in the air. “6C rocks!” They erupted into giggles and it took another moment to settle them down.
“Jongchit, why don’t you have our goodbye prayer?”
He was a slightly overweight boy with clunky eyeglass frames, but she had wisely ascertained ahead of time that he had the spunk to say a prayer in front of his peers.
“Okay.”
“Let’s all bow our heads.”
The boy cleared his throat. “Dear Jesus, we thank you always for good day here at school. Thank you for God’s kindness to us. Thank you for Missie Stone and her excellent teacher to be in our room.” There was a quirky pause before he plunged into the conclusion. “And thank you that boys win in contest three times in row amen.” He added the final words with a rush as if his momentum would keep the teacher from scolding him for his blasphemy.
A wave of suppressed chuckles swept around the room as the kids eyed her. Rachel Marie fixed her gaze on the offender, trying not to laugh herself. “Jongchit,” she managed, “thank you. It takes great wisdom, deep wisdom, to know what are the right things to pray for.”
He waited, his face innocent behind the owlish glasses.
“And maybe someday, when you are much older and grown up, you will find such wisdom.” She grinned at him and added a wink to let him know that in her view, even God had a sense of humor. “All right, greatest kids in all Thailand. Have a blessed evening with your families.”
“Goodbye, Missie Stone,” the girls chorused as they scampered out into the hallway.
Just as Siroj strutted out, a Lakers backpack slung over his shoulder, Marilyn poked her head in. “Knock knock.”
“Oh, hi! Come on in.”
The principal’s wife erupted into laughter as she sank into the spare chair next to Rachel Marie’s desk. “These kids crack me up sometimes. ‘Thank you, Jesus, that our team crushed the other one.’ They’re too much.”
“You heard?”
“Yeah. But you know, that’s all right. They’re learning that Christianity is a thing of joy and that we can smile and let God know how pleased we are with this or that.” She gazed cheerfully around the room. “Boy, you sure have come here and made a nice difference, Rachel Marie. Exactly what we hoped for.”
The compliment made her glow. “Well, you know, it’s such a great school, and these kids are so amazing, that it really isn’t my doing at all. But I appreciate you saying that.”
The two ladies visited amiably for a minute before Marilyn remembered the reason she’d hiked upstairs. “You know what? We don’t really have a full schedule made up, but would you and your class be able to put on our chapel program in three weeks? I think it’s October 5.”
“I think so. Just . . . like we’ve had so far?” Most Friday assemblies involved a few songs and then some kind of story or special feature.
“Uh huh. Anything you like. By the way, if I recall, one of your kids can really sing. And I mean, like a Broadway star. No kidding.”
“Do you remember who?”
“Well, she’s really tall. And always two braids in the back. Just as I came around the corner, she was almost the first one out. So she must sit close to the door.”
“That sounds like Vitaya.” Rachel Marie pulled out her keyboard and ran the mouse logo over to her trusty photo file. “There. Is that her?”
“That’s amazing,” Marilyn marveled. “You put all that together yourself?”
“Uh huh.”
“Well, that’s her, all right. Yeah, let her pick out a couple of girlfriends to sing with, and you’re all set.”
“Okay. Put us down.” Rachel Marie gave a little laugh. “Not like you came up here giving me a choice in the matter.”
“No, not really.” She got up to go, then added: “By the way, nice duds.”
Rachel Marie was wearing one of the new dresses she had ordered, an elegant print with a trace of Thai styling and also accenting the school’s colors. The maroon was blended in with an ivory background that made her brown hair look even more lustrous than usual.
“Thanks. I can’t believe the bargain I got too.”
“That’s the tailor shop Khemkaeng took you to?”
“Uh huh.”
Marilyn straightened out her own skirt. “He’s such a gentleman,” she observed blandly. “I just never hear him raise his voice, and he handles problems with parents beautifully. ‘Course, that’s part of the culture here. They hate any show of temper or anger. Thai people really loathe someone making a scene or losing control of a situation.”
“Huh.” She hadn’t thought of it that way, but now could see what Marilyn meant. “I guess you’re right.”
“Well, I know John really enjoys working with him. All week it’s really made an empty spot there in the office, with Khemkaeng flying down to Singapore for that Christian Education convention. But he emailed back and said he was picking up a lot of good ideas for us to use here.”
“I wondered why we hadn’t seen him around.”
“Yeah. I guess he doesn’t return until after the weekend.”
It was still misty as she exited the building around 5:30, tugging a half-empty tote behind her. Benjamin was just climbing into a taxi and he hollered at her. “Hey, good-looking lady. Can I offer you a lift?”
She laughed and shook her head. “You’re going in the wrong direction. My bus goes that way; it’s like a five-minute ride.”
“Right-o, then. Cheers.”
Rachel Marie stood back from the curb to avoid getting splashed by passing taxis. Drainage on most of Bangkok’s streets was a laborious affair, and quick cloudbursts left ankle-deep puddles all around the city.
The #5 bus lurched into view and she scrambled aboard, handing the requisite eight baht to the girl. “Kop kuhn kah,” she murmured, pleased with herself as she found a seat and gazed idly at the shops rolling past her rain-streaked window.
* * *
It was a lazy and lonely feeling as she kicked off her shoes and propped up the tote next to the front door. It hadn’t occurred to her that the usual Thursday evening routine with Khemkaeng wasn’t going to happen, and she realized how much she enjoyed the tasty meals and the companionship of exploring Bible ideas together.
“So now what?” she muttered as she peeled off the dress and hung it up. She rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a pair of jeans, sighing wistfully as she pulled them on and found a blouse that didn’t belong in the laundry bag.
The rain had stopped now, but the cloud cover was dark and almost ominous. Back home in Temple City, it would have been the perfect evening to curl up with a big homemade salad and an evening of ABC sitcoms, but she felt a strange urge to escape from the sudden solitude.
Stuffing some bills and Khemkaeng’s handwritten address card–in case she got lost–into her pocket, she locked the front door and shuffled down the rain-streaked sidewalk. The pavement near Orchid Garden Apartments was badly uneven, and pedestrians had to watch their footing to avoid taking a header.
Three blocks away, the BTS station came into view, and a sudden idea came to her. Hiking up the stairs with a gaggle of students and business people going home after a long day at the office, she purchased an open ticket and waited for the next Sky Train as it glided noiselessly into view.
The Sukhumvit route, Blue Line, was the longer of the two, and for a few baht she could simply ride and peer down onto the sodden city she was slowly growing to love. Bangkok was a strange mélange of beauty and poverty. Luxury hotels to rival Las Vegas’ fabled Bellagio towered over rows of shacks where pieces of discard
ed corrugated tin served as shelter for families of twelve. There were stately trees and stray dogs, the bright orange robes of priests and drab, cramped shops where a listless metal worker would squat on his haunches, pounding out a muffler with the vain hope that a customer might penetrate the gloom of his poverty.
The train slid into the main transfer hub, and passengers scurried out to various dinner engagements and for browsing or seeing hit movies in the high-rise malls at Siam Square. Rachel Marie, now kilometers from the security of her tiny flat, stayed on the Blue Line as it slowly encircled the Victory Monument, one of Bangkok’s noted tourist sites. A tall spire with a circular intersection surrounding it, the 1941 landmark heralded a rare smallish Thai victory over French forces during a dispute regarding nearby territories. She gazed down at the clogged traffic below as motorists tried to squeeze past one another, edging for an advantage in the mostly ignored lanes that formed concentric circles in the faded pavement.
The train sped up now as she spied the large Canon billboard bordering the Ratchatewi district. Buildings and traffic were sparse as the darkness gathered around the nearly empty car.
Rachel Marie could see a pale reflection of her face as she twisted her body sideways in the double seat and slumped against the headrest. Her mind was strangely confused, not unpleasantly so, and she reviewed her situation here in this colorful universe so far away from L.A.
More and more, she acknowledged, the joy of her new world revolved around one thing: the kind Thai man who had struck up such an odd friendship with the recently arrived single teacher from America. Her dinners with Khemkaeng were intriguing and delightful, a mix of easy comradeship and learning. He taught her a few well-chosen Thai words and warned her about cultural pitfalls; she explained the foundational pillars and oddities of Christianity to him. He selected restaurants and suggested weekend outings; she reciprocated by nudging him with rarely needed tips on English grammar. She was also a helpful sounding board, he told her, in predicting how administrative guidelines were perceived by teachers who had to make policies work in the classrooms.
Love In a Distant Land: Rachel Marie Series Book One Page 11