“I’ve never been robbed, mind, though a couple of drongos tried it once, in Calcutta.”
We waited for the story, but it never came. He merely took another big puff and then flicked the stub out onto the water. “It’s going to piss down,” he said, directing a canny gaze at the sky. There was a flash of distant lightning.
The Libber came out of the bush and we all piled back on board. I asked about the other boat, the one with the guard, and was told there’d been no sign of it since shortly after we’d first set out.
“We lost them a long ways back,” said Mr. Macho. “Don’t know what it is, what with them loaded down with ten or twelve people, and them with the same size boat and engine, but I guess they’re running lots faster than we are. Lost ‘em way back there on the second bend; we came around it and, just like that, they were gone.”
“We haven’ t seen any boats,” said Husband. “Only a big raft of bamboo being floated down by a couple of guys. I got some good shots of it, I think.”
I was feeling better, and I was sitting up front near the others. For the first time since we ‘d left the pier, I had a proper look around.
Rugged cliffs limned in white mist, steep, heavily forested hills receded from rich greens to grays and black in the misty drizzle, enormous gum trees, ancient teak giants towering here and there above the jungle canopy. We came across a stretch of low flat ground on either side, jagged limestone outcrops covered with thick vegetation thrusting out of intensely green rice paddies which, startlingly vivid, vitiated the prevailing dullness. Husband was fussing that it wouldn’t translate onto film. You’d really need your own darkroom so you could print the images just the way you wanted them, dodging and burning to bring out the depth and subtleties of light and color.
The river ran fast, squeezed between high banks covered in tangled undergrowth. I found myself looking along the river, scouting for likely ambush sites. Almost any given spot would’ve done the trick nicely. We came up on a hill tribe village, a few huts with woven bamboo walls and thatched roofs perched precariously on a muddy slope slashed out of the green. Pigs rooted about under the stilted dwellings. Several colorfully costumed hill people waved from the water’s edge as we went by.
Husband had drawn a bead on them with his camera, fiddling with the zoom and focusing rings, shaking his head fretfully and adjusting the aperture. “Not enough light,” he said to no one in particular. “Should’ve switched to 400 ASA.”
I heard the shutter fire up close to my ear; he recocked it and fired again. “Waste of film, really,” he said.
“So what’s new?” said Wife.
Husband told me how his zoom was a good lens, but that it was a nuisance having to focus separately at each focal length. And your focusing had to be right on, in this light, because you couldn’t get any depth of field at all and still use a fast enough shutter speed.
BW was talking to the Libber about bandits, and about Mr. Macho’s approach to getting robbed.
“You’re a man,” the Libber turned and accused him. “That’s okay for you; but what about us? ‘Give them what they want.’ Sure. They might want something more then money.”
BW’s eyes got bigger and rounder. “But Thais are so kind... They’re so gentle, and nice!”
This was true. Land of Smiles, and all. It was nevertheless also true that Thailand had one of the highest murder rates in the world. It was also true that Thai fishermen, for example, regularly robbed and killed Vietnamese ‘boat people’, refugees adrift at sea. Yes, and raped them, too. Then there was the bounty Khun Sa had allegedly just put on certain Americans in the country — men, women, and children alike. But I thought it best to keep these thoughts to myself.
Mr. Macho had no such compunctions. “Did you hear about that couple — Canadians, they were — the ones that got robbed in Chiangmai a while back? They shot the guy in the head. Killed him. Then they beat up the girl with a two-by-four. It had a nail in it, and it left her blind in one eye. Right there on Doi Suthep; they’d rented a motorcycle to tour the mountain.”
This charming anecdote might have been better left for some other time and place; it was clear that even BW was critical. She signaled her displeasure in part by suddenly deciding I’d been rehabilitated sufficiently to merit her interest, no longer quite the sodden, surly hulk reeking of dubious spirits I had been earlier. She asked me what I did, and I told her, and she wanted to know about the story I was working on. I told her I was interested in what was being done to develop alternatives to opium farming in the Golden Triangle.
Wife asked me whether the hill tribe cultures were threatened the way the American Indians had been. Under cover of gazing abstractedly while considering this proposition, I caressed the blonde fuzz on BW’s legs with my eyes.
Wife suddenly pointed and I turned to see a small dugout canoe shooting out from the bank on an intercept path. It darted across the surface with a speed and ease that was astonishing, especially when we realized it was being propelled by a couple of hilltribe urchins, a boy and a girl. They grinned at us with pure delight as they glided across our bows, paddling with simple bits of split board, digging in with deep strokes, one a side, in perfect unison.
Husband was panning and zooming like a pro. Then he swore softly and cocked the shutter, too late to get his shot.
Wife hooted. “And there’s another one that got away.”
There was a second village, much like the first, this one with a couple of water buffalo down by the water where a dozen naked children splashed and gleamed, waving frantically. We were past and out of sight before Husband had time to waste more than two or three more frames.
“God, I wouldn’t want to swim in this; it’s filthy!” The Libber wrinkled her nose at the water in much the same way she liked to wrinkle it at Mr. Macho.
The river was indeed a muddy brown in color, but it was only good clean soil of the land, more material for the already rich lands to the south, you might say. Perhaps I could use the notion in a story: a northern river representing the more general drain on the impoverished North. This muddy stream would symbolize the flow of resources — the depletion of the forests and erosion of the soil together with the migration of the young population, the one to replenish and enrich the fertile rice-lands, the other to man the engines of progress in the south...
“There’s nothing wrong with this water,” said Mr. Macho. “It wasn’t doing those tots back there any harm, was it? You bleedin’ city types.”
“Piss off,” the Libber suggested. Then she announced it was time for another pit-stop, and headed down to the stern to instruct our pilot. You could see a certain amount of heated argument going on for a bit, with the boatman shaking his head vehemently and pointing ahead. The Libber came back to tell us he wouldn’t put in yet. “I think he said there’s some fucking place further along. I don’t think I can wait”
When Mr. Macho mentioned he’d told her so, and she shouldn’t have eaten that green papaya salad back before we’d gotten on the bus because it’d been sure to give her the shits, she replied that he gave her the shits, if he wanted to know the truth.
BW was telling me all about Samui Island, and I was listening with great earnestness, gazing into her eyes and finding new reason to live.
After a few minutes, during which the Libber kept to herself, tightly contained, our boatman found us another cosy little beach, pretty well indistinguishable from the first, and ran the bow up onto it
“Shuffle your feet,” called Wife as the Libber disappeared up over the bank and into the bush.
The sky was by this time darkly ominous. Husband decided to change to a 400 ASA film even though the 200 wasn’t finished yet. He jumped off the boat and asked us all to look natural while he fired off a few, using flash fill to get detail in the foreground subject (us) against the black sky behind. “Really, you need two cameras,” he said, “so you can have two different films going at the same time.”
“Two cameras, he needs
now!” Wife appealed to the gods in disbelief.
I was feeling almost normal again, though a little sleep wouldn’t have done any harm. I was looking forward to the rest of the trip, never mind we were about to get stormed on in a big way. And then there was tomorrow; it was about time I got a good story together, for a change, and I had a hunch this was going to be a good one.
I arranged myself on the wet tarp which covered the baggage, thinking I’d nod off for a minute or two. Thus refreshed, was my plan, I’d set about getting to know BW better, swimming in her big gray eyes and peeking up her armholes and all.
I was dreaming I was in a canoe, hurtling through white water, and somebody was yelling at me... I woke up, and had the idea the boatman had just hollered something in Thai, and that there had been other voices... What I saw when I opened my eyes convinced me for a moment I was still dreaming.
“This isn’t happening,” said Wife, which expressed my thoughts exactly.
The Libber had just been pushed sprawling onto the sand at the bottom of the bank. She looked thoroughly frightened. There were two young Thai men with her, dressed in jeans and t-shirts. One had an M-16, the other had an automatic pistol, and both items were pointed towards us. The one with the rifle had intricate blue tattoos covering his arms, while the other had a fine droopy moustache. Standing spread-legged on top of the embankment was a third man, his M-16 cradled in his arms. He barked something at his colleagues in tones which suggested he was their leader, gesturing impatiently towards the boat with his weapon. They indicated BW, who was standing on the beach between them and the boat, and replied with something that made him laugh. His face, his whole manner was crazily animated with drugs or excitement, or both.
One of the men made a sharp comment to our boatman, who raised his hands. Wife and I followed suit immediately. With some show of reluctance, Mr. Macho also put his hands up, clasping them on top of his head. For a moment I thought B W was going to go to the Libber, but then she turned and ran towards the boat, floundering in the sand, finally falling against the hull with a sob. I saw Husband out of the corner of my eye, down behind Wife, and I wondered what the hell he was doing rummaging in his camera bag at a time like this.
I could speak a little Thai, but the exchange between our boatman and the others had been conducted in a rapid-fire Northern dialect, and I hadn’t understood any of it. Now, however, our boatman told me slowly and clearly that we should give our money to our visitors. All of it. He seemed exceedingly relaxed to me, for someone under the gun. Maybe it was because he didn’t have much to lose anyway, or maybe it was because these guys were countrymen and he was sure they wouldn’t hurt him.
Though they probably could’ve worked it out for themselves, I relayed the message to the others.
“I don’t have any money on me,” BW said to me in a quiet voice. “It’s in my pack. Under the tarp.”
For sure, with her loose sleeveless top and tight shorts and bare feet there was no obvious place to stash a bankroll. I advised her to stay put for the time being and see what happened. One of our new friends interrupted to suggest I keep my mouth shut. Then he indicated I should hand him over something, and my best guess was it was money he was after. Cautiously, I reached into my hip pocket and removed my wallet. There wasn’t a lot of money in it, and only one credit card, which I could cancel soon enough. Driver’s license and Thai employment card were only minor nuisances. They also wanted my watch. Small loss; I never wore a good watch on this kind of excursion.
To my relief, Husband had stopped fooling around, and he handed over his watch and wallet as well. His camera bag, however, was nowhere to be seen, probably pushed up under the tarp. Wife was good for a handbag and a Walkman.
Mr. Macho was standing with one hand on his head while he forked over 300 baht with the other. Tattoos said something to his friend, who trained his pistol directly on Mr. Macho. The Pistolero reached up and prodded Mr. Macho gently in the groin with his weapon. Mr. Macho surrendered the shoulder bag containing his little automatic camera. Another advantage of little automatic cameras, it didn’t hurt so much when you lost them. He patted his hip pockets and vest to indicate they were empty, putting on his honest face as best he could while wearing the shades. The Pistolero stared silently into his face for a long moment, and then signaled he wanted the glasses. Slipping them on, he turned briefly to get his partners’ approval. It could not be denied — they did wonders for his image as a bandit. Mirrored lenses are very useful; no one can see what your eyes are really doing, and if you’ re also holding a gun, your victims’ imaginations will provide you with eyes sufficient to make their blood run cold.
I noticed that Mr. Macho’s eyes were watering. He started to wipe them, but the man with the shades waggled the gun barrel at him, and he returned his hands to his head. The Pistolero reached into the shoulder bag and removed Mr. Macho’s cigarillos, opening the neat leather case and extracting one with an air of great satisfaction. He lit the hole cigar and sneered, staring hard at Mr. Macho and blowing smoke up at his face. “Nahphooying? he said contemptuously. “Face of a woman.”
I could sympathize with Mr. Macho’s discomfiture. It was easier for me — I hadn’t had a chance to promote my own hero image, what with the hangover and lack of sleep and everything. Relatively speaking, it was okay for me to stand there like an impotent wimp in face of all this outrage. Or so I told myself. I’d been pretty much the Invisible Man the whole day any way, and now I concentrated on perfecting the role.
At least they’d left him him his belt and his boots, I’d been thinking, but then they took those too, and Mr. Macho also had to worry about his baggy pants falling down, standing there with his hands on his head. On second thought they also took my belt, a nice narrow conservative belt you ‘d never have suspected held two $ 100 bills folded up tight, not to mention a couple of $500 travelers checks. They left me my sandals, however, and I was grateful for small mercies. I made my face look inoffensive, even friendly. Solidarity with the oppressed masses, and why shouldn’ t the wealth be redistributed? Sure. After all.
It was funny, now that I thought about it—I hadn’ t seen the boatman give over anything. Maybe these were some of those ‘communist insurgents’ you read about in the papers: take from the rich; leave the poor alone.
Attention now turned to BW. She had tried to go to the Libber, who was still collapsed on the sand, but Tattoos intercepted her. The Pistolero walked back to join them. The loony with the other M-16 called down to them from the bank and the three of them had a good laugh together.
“You bastards!” The Libber had gotten up, and now she suddenly launched herself at Tattoos. He turned to meet her rush with a full slap that spun her reeling to the ground. He walked over and kicked her hard in the side, and she curled up tight, gasping, but otherwise silent.
The Pistolero held BW from behind while Tattoos approached her, thrusting his gun at her midsection, snagging BW’ s t-shirt with the barrel and hiking it up, scraping her soft belly and revealing the heavy underswell of her breasts. He made it plain what he wanted her to do, and the Pistolero released her so she could pull the shirt off over her head, bending and tugging and then standing again, shaking her fine mane of hair into place. Her demeanor was calm but fragile; she stood erect, proud, perfectly tanned, pear-shaped breasts defying their own weight and fully preoccupying the assembly. The aureoles were big and pink against gold, and I wondered why they weren’t tanned as well. The Pistolero pulled at the tight front of his jeans, making room. There was a wheeze from the Libber, and BW began to cry silently, not bothering to wipe at the tears running down her cheeks.
This was really getting rough, I thought. One’s code of gentlemanly conduct indicated one should go to the ladies’ rescue. Only I didn’t fancy being dead, especially now that the hangover had almost cleared up. I looked over at Mr. Macho; it was hard to tell what he was thinking, though anybody could see he wasn’t having a good time. Husband, I noticed, was swinging h
is camera up to focus on ... Oh, my Christ, no, I thought. He wasn’t... But he was; he was going to take a picture of the loony on the embankment.
The Loony had been distracted by the events unfolding on the sand, but now he noticed Husband. Casually, with a mocking smile and appearing relaxed for the first time, he swung the M-16 up to his shoulder. The muzzle moved through a short arc and he fired.
Wife was already screaming “Noooo!” in a voice filled with urgency and despair. An M-16 makes a rather unimpressive noise —really not that much of a bang. Still, the top of Husband’s head, just above the zoom lens, blew right off. He stood there looking silly for a moment, while Wife reiterated her denial, “Noooo! Please!” Then he slumped backwards, buckling at the knees and falling over the side of the boat into the water. I noticed how quickly clouds of red billowed and eddied away in the current
A moment of time extended in silence. Stretched out forever. Then Wife screamed again. “You filthy sons of bitches! Noooo!” She sank down on the tarp, giving herself up to sobbing, choking grief.
Tattoos and the Pistolero, meanwhile, were losing control. The muzzles of their weapons nodded and waved and winked nervously as they tried to cover the situation and at the same time tried to determine what the Loony expected of them now. They paid no attention to BW as, still bare-breasted, she moved to help the Libber to her feet. Up on the bank, the bandit chief was wound tight, high on adrenalin and who knew what.
“Kha man tai hue mod” I heard. “Kill them!”
His colleagues seemed almost as alarmed as I felt, waving their guns about as though to fend us off more than threaten, glancing back and forth between us and the Loony.
Bangkok Knights Page 10