We bought genuine Abibas day packs, faked right there at the store, and replaced toiletries and underwear. 1 rummaged around for reading material and came back with magazines and an illustrated Fang history.
To round off the morning we sat down to a sumptuous meal at the finest restaurant in Fang, wryly named the Fang Restaurant. It was all that remained of the old Fang Hotel which stood empty and sad next door. We looked out on the busy street. It was as if all the people milling around the town were visitors intent on doing their business and getting away. Nobody seemed to idle or loiter there. Cars stopped in front of stores with their engines running while the drivers hurried to pick things up or drop things off.
Despite our reckless spending spree the amok runners had taken only a very small bite from the discretionary fund handout. I calculated that the remainder would be enough to feed an underprivileged hill tribe village for several months. We toyed with the idea of making such a donation but soon got over it and divvied it up between the four of us. Ignoring her protestations, we drove Khin to the bus station and bought her a ticket back to Chiang Mai.
‘I think it would be a jolly good idea if you all forgot this cinema idea and returned also,’ she said.
‘Come on, Khin,’ I said. ‘Things are just starting to get interesting.’
‘You’d be surprised how disappointing ‘interesting’ can look from the inside of a coffin, Sister Jimm,’ she said. ‘Somebody tried to blow you up.’
‘We laugh in the face of danger,’ said Sissy with little conviction.
‘Mad as hatters, the pair of you.’
The Fang bus station was a gathering area for two-plank trucks, airless hire cars, and three-wheeled rickshaws. When the actual bus arrived they all yielded like courtiers from an empress. The bus stopped, the door opened, and a screaming youth in a white shirt jumped onto the platform.
‘Chiang Dao. Mae Taeng, Mae Rim, Chiang Mai.’
One old lady climbed down the steps and was consumed in a feeding frenzy of porters and motorcycle taxi drivers. Once they were sure no other passengers planned to alight they slunk back to their benches and their comics and their board games. Sissy and Arny pushed Khin towards the bus.
‘Get a move on, Khin,’ I said. ‘They only stop long enough to put down and pick up.’
‘But comrades,’ she said. ‘I feel like this is the time that you need me most.’
The bus was rolling now, the youth running alongside attempting to coerce passengers into a journey they didn’t want to make. Khin skipped onto the bottom step and left one flip flop on the concrete.
‘King Mangrai needs you more,’ Sissy shouted as the bus picked up speed. The youth leapt past Khin and up the steps.
‘Bring home the you-know-what,’ I shouted, throwing the flip flop into Khin’s arms. She remained on the step, looking like a destitute footballer, until the dust and fumes turned the bus into a mucky cloud. We waved it away.
I turned to my brothers.
‘You know? I wouldn’t think any less of you if you followed her,’ I said.
‘No?’ said Sissy.
‘No.’
‘And what would you do without us?’ said Arny.
‘Oh, the usual. Finish my movie. Have an affair with Dan Jensen that leaves him heartbroken and ruined. Write my article.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Sure.’
‘You wouldn’t go off on some hell-fired vendetta to find out who killed director Boon and who blew up our cabin?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely not…well, only if I got a couple of hours off work. I don’t have any choice. It’s written in the crime reporter’s code, “For Justice We Do the Irresponsible”. So, you going home?’
Arny seemed to give it some thought but Sissy laughed off the idea.
‘You ain’t got wheels, man,’ he said in English, ‘and I don’t have an income at present so I can’t afford to give up this job.’
‘That’s my boy,’ I said and kissed him on the cheek.
‘I’m staying,’ said Arny and I gave him a smack on the kisser too.
‘Where to first?’Sissy asked.
‘Fang police headquarters,’ I said.
‘Very funny.’
‘I’m serious. I’ve got a protection plan worked out.’
‘Oh man.’
‘We might have to make a couple of stops on the way.’
Chapter 11
“I don't remember a time when I didn't want to be a police officer ... apart from the summer of 1979 when I wanted to be Kermit the Frog.”
Hot Fuzz (2006)
Sgt. Chat was letting the limp hose water caress his motorcycle while he worked the sponge. Chat knew he’d have himself a truck soon enough. He’d done a few odd jobs for the major – been given little thank you gifts. Nothing substantial but a sign of trust. Yes, he’d buy a truck soon, have matching Serpico mud flaps on the rear tyres, Che Guavaras at the front. He had no idea who they were but he’d seen them on enough long distance trucks. He knew they’d protect him from the usual carnage of the road.
Chat, the desk sergeant at the Fang police headquarters, was under-worked. When they were still down in the town there used to be walk-ins. But once they moved up to that neat expensive-looking station at the end of its own paved road things slowed down a lot. People seemed to get the idea the police had more important things to do than offer public assistance. Fang folk were taking care of their own problems these days.
Chat wasn’t certain what went on in the upstairs offices. There had to be cases, he guessed. The inspectors and detectives put in long hours so there had to be something going on. But if anyone did stop by to report a crime, the senior people usually let the uniforms on the ground floor handle it.
Chat wasn’t an unaware man. Crime fighting had changed since he joined the force twenty years earlier. He read the newspapers. It was all white collar and computer fraud. He knew that’s what they’d be doing upstairs; clandestine stuff like the body in the pond. They couldn’t tell him what that was all about. He was sworn to secrecy. Ask no questions. Just do what you’re told. Keep focused on the fact there has to be a bigger picture. He scratched his balls. They’d been itching for two weeks. Damn that pond.
A red Suzuki Caribbean came huffing up the dead-end drive and crunched on the gravel frontage. Chat watched from behind his motorcycle. The driver was a Thai, good looking, middle-aged guy with a chubby girl beside him. In the back sat a small mountain of a boy who filled his shirt sleeves. Beside him was a fellow he recognized called Arun and a skinny white female in a gypsy costume. Arun was the local stringer for the Chiang Mai News. He covered road accidents and fetes and local council meetings. He knew better than to be messing around with police business. The jeep turned around and parked under a far tree.
Chat turned off his hose, wiped his hands on a cloth, and scratched the inside of his thigh before walking over to the visitors.
‘Problem?’ he asked.
Chapter 12
“I was the only guy who disagreed with the cops - and I had brain damage.”
Memento (2000)
‘Good afternoon, officer,’ I said. ‘We’re here to see Major Ketthai.’
‘Is he expecting you?’ the policeman asked, looking at me suspiciously.
‘He’ll be pleased to see us,’ I said. ‘We have good news.’
The cop glared at the press guy.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
Arun smiled and shrugged.
‘Local story,’ he said. ‘Police doing a good job, you know?’
The cop hesitated then led us all to the front desk in the open reception area. The seats were bus terminal style, joined together with metal rods. No danger of anyone walking off with those seats. He had us sit and spoke on the phone with his hand cupping the mouthpiece.
The major was downstairs in seconds.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked gruffly. He looked shocked when he saw us all sitting there.
>
‘Major Ketthai,’ I wai’d as did the others. ‘It’s me, from this morning.’
‘And?’
‘Well,’ I continued, ‘as you know, they’re making a movie up here. The director was so happy with your personal involvement in our little accident that he contacted the US embassy. He gave them your name and suggested they commend you to the police ministry. They agreed it would be good publicity for the movie and excellent for your career. They’d like a picture and a few words – Thai/US ties, working together in the field – that type of thing. They’ll send it to The Nation and the Post. This is Margaret from Reuters. She’ll get the story out through the wire services.’
‘Hi,’ said Margaret.
‘Arun here will make sure it gets into the local paper and we’re sure the national Thai press will pick it up. Public interest story. Everyone loves them.’
The concrete expression on the major’s face reluctantly cracked a smile.
‘Very well, but make it fast. I’m busy.’
The photo belied his ambivalence. He put his arm around the survivors’ shoulders and found a fatherly smile from somewhere deep. The reporters interviewed him with me translating for Margaret and the deed was done. We dropped off Arun who promised they’d have the story in the following day’s paper. The movie was big news in otherwise silent Fang, and Chiang Mai was looking for as many Siam related articles as they could get. Margaret, we returned to the Wieng Kaew Hotel where we’d found her. She was a backpacker, game for anything. She had no connection to Reuters or any other agency but she had a nice camera and now, several interesting Thai pictures for her album.
When we were alone, my siblings and I drove back in the direction of Tha Ton.
‘You think it worked?’ I asked.
‘We caught him by surprise,’ said Sissy. ‘If he’d had time to think about it I doubt he’d have agreed. I’d say by now he’s worked out what a mistake it all was. At least we’re not nobodies anymore. He’ll think twice about disappearing us.’
‘If he buys it,’ said Arny.
‘It’s just injected that element of doubt,’ I told him. ‘We might be full of shit but we might just know important people, too. Attack is the best form of defence.’
‘I bet someone famous said that,’ said Arny.
‘I bet.’
Chapter 13
“... they may take our lives, but they'll never take our FREEDOM!”
Braveheart (1995)
Karma picked up for a while. The landlady at Garden Home found us a house. It had been built by an elderly Swiss accountant. He’d had a fatal heart attack on top of his young Thai bride and didn’t really get to appreciate the place. As there were major obstacles in foreigners owning property, the house and land were in his wife’s name. She needed an income more than she needed a luxurious two-story villa on the river with a mountain panorama. Her agent hadn’t found a buyer at the exorbitant price she was asking so, while she was off hunting for a new husband, she left the keys with an acquaintance who happened to be related to the Garden Home manager.
The building was basically a wooden chalet - a tropical ski lodge. There was nothing Thai about it apart from the spirit house that stood inside the main gate devoid of offerings. The resident land spirits would be hungry – and probably mean. The gate itself was further evidence that money didn’t buy taste. It was an ornate metal web of tridents and artful spears. The landlady handed me the keys and told me she would charge no more than the cost of our previous cabin. She was doing all she could to keep the film people happy and her bungalows full. We stood at the front door shaking our heads.
‘Wow!’ Arny’s favourite word.
‘I guess it’ll do,’ Sissy agreed.
It was a little bare of decorations inside, evidently due to the fact the bride had sold off most of the antiques and pictures. But there was furniture, and wood was its own decoration so it didn’t feel bare. There were three bedrooms on the upper floor overlooking the river. Each bedroom had an en-suite. There was a large kitchen, an office, a living room that took up much of the ground floor and a sauna. But the piece de resistance, especially for us Jurees who did a lot of lounging and puffing, was the balcony out back. It was as wide as a badminton court and there were six teak wood recliners lined up on the deck. They were so heavy it took two of us to shift each one. Our view was all Mangrai with not a wire or a pipe or a pole in sight.
When the sun went down, Arny had an early night to rest his back. We experimented with the light switches and found one on the balcony that lit up the whole mountainside opposite. The floodlights were concealed in the lush vegetation. They were strategically placed so as to highlight, but not drown the natural flora and cast a green glow on the Kok. It turned the jungle into a mysterious place, like staring into the embers of a coal fire.
Thanks be to Buddha we had marijuana. The Fang market sold it in large plastic bags and called it vegetable. We’d bought enough to fill the secret Suzuki stash compartment and we sat on the ski-lodge deck and passed a joint the size of a small dachshund between us.
‘They’d need a missile to get us now,’ Sissy decided. ‘But, better than that, you know what we have here, sister? We have us a party house.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I mean, forget assassination by the local cops. We can have some serious boogey in this place.’
We talked movies for a while and told jokes at the expense of Dan Jensen but soon the weed started to pull us backwards into a deep mire of introspection and suddenly I had nobody to talk to. I forgot Sissy was there. I felt an obligation to have serious thoughts. I considered myself. I was, what? Approaching middle-age, no children and no hope of getting any, cursed with womanhood, short-legged and smart-arsed. Two tokes later I was imagining Dan Jensen’s toned muscles on top of me and I was lost.
Chapter 14
“Your skin, your long neck. The back. The line of you. You're why cavemen chiselled on walls.”
As Good As It Gets (1997)
The shooting location had become a planet. There was literally a cast of thousands. Slight-bodied extras milled around speaking in incomprehensible tongues. Arny in his newly-sewn frontiersman coat was on a hill looking down at them. We were astounded by the impossible logistics of it all and the military precision it took to create pandemonium. Three cameras on a scaffold behind Arny worked on his back. Assistant director Quirk now had a team of his own assistants coordinating the crowd. Today they were despondent city dwellers. Tomorrow they’d be courageous Thai warriors, thence evil Burmese invaders. They didn’t have a clue or a care. They’d pick up their day wages and return home flush and unaware of the contribution they’d made to world cinema.
Sissy and I were taking it in turns to watch over Arny. The head cameraman had him walk closer to the edge of the cliff and stand on a patch of crumbling rock. He went without a whimper and looked down across the quarter-city and the valley beyond. I stupidly positioned myself directly below him to break his fall. It was probably time for us to accept the fact he wasn’t seven any more.
At one stage, I found myself sitting beside a bushy-haired Thai who was wearing a yellow safari shirt. Yellow was the colour of the season as the population celebrated the sixtieth year on the throne of our beloved king. Clothing markets overflowed with royal yellow. Some days, a stroll down a crowded main street was like wading through custard.
‘Hello,’ I said.
The middle-aged tired-looking man turned his head slowly toward me as if a potted plant beside him had learned to speak.
‘But, your Thai is very good,’ he said.
‘I guess you pick it up when you use it every day for thirty three years,’ I replied.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I assumed you were one of them.’
He pointed his chin towards the sea of flesh below.
‘You aren’t dressed for the sixteenth century,’ I said. ‘What do you do here?’
‘I am a representative of the Ministry of Culture,
he said.
‘Really? I wasn’t aware they let you lot leave the building. I’d heard you were all chained to your desks.’
The man laughed. ‘Yes, I escaped. It’s a rare privilege.’
‘So, why are you here?’
‘The ministry likes to have an advisor on set to point out historical or cultural errors,’ he said.
‘You mean things like by 1560 the Burmese had already pretty much completed their rout of Lanna?’
‘Yes, things like that. And the fact that the enemy’s King Maeku wasn’t a fierce and great leader. In fact he was only a regent in name. He was a clerical ringer brought in by the nobles and the Burmese approved it. He had no qualifications to command an army. A couple of years later they assassinated him.’
I couldn’t wait to tell Sissy.
‘And you point these things out?’ I said.
‘Absolutely.’
‘And nobody takes any notice of you.’
‘The producers have more pressing concerns.’
‘So, nobody in Bangkok has the balls to tell them, “If you screw up our history you can’t make your movie”?’
‘Young lady, ours is a money culture. There’s a good deal of revenue to be had from a cinematic production. Even my own ministry gets a share.’
I admired his candor.
‘Do you happen to know why they chose to film here in Fang?’ I asked.
‘It’s historically appropriate.’
‘It’s the sixteenth century,’ I said. ‘Anywhere with trees and mountains is appropriate. It could be filmed in any one of thirty provinces.’
The Amok Runners Page 9