Bangkok Filth

by Ken Austin

  “Of course it’s real! It’s right there in front of you!”

  “But this organization, you are some kind of member, you have had interactions with them in the past?”

  “Well...yes, I believe so,” said the Rev. “I belong to so many similar organizations that I lose track of them all.”

  “Even if you did belong to this organization, what does this letter matter? Are they capable of enforcing this demand about your preacher’s outfit?”

  The Rev looked around the room as if he were pondering the question. As he was thinking about this, I picked up the envelope from the desk. I looked at the postmark: Arizona. I remembered that the little missionary was from Arizona, though that didn’t necessarily mean anything. No doubt there were plenty of bible beaters and related organizations in the state.

  “Listen, Rev, who gives a damn about this letter. Even if this is a real group, what are they going to do, send around some thugs to rough you up when they find out that you’ve been wearing your outfit?”

  He sat down again and looked blankly at the dim room.

  “How do they know this?” the Rev finally asked, as if arriving at some important understanding.

  “Well, presumably someone who has heard you make some of these comments passed on the information to them.”

  This made him think more intently.

  “Just keep doing what you’ve been doing. All the other teachers like you, the students like you and you’re not doing anything wrong.”

  Finally, I had hit on something that buoyed the Reverend.

  “You say the students like me? How do you know that?”

  “I just know. You can pick up on these things. I’ve seen them interacting with you as well. They don’t act that way around every teacher.” I thought of the little missionary and the way I had seen him dismissively waving aside questions from some students in the hallway after one of his classes.

  The Rev seemed to relax and see the absurdity of what he had been upset about. When you live in a foreign country, things can easily get blown out of proportion in your mind. Still, I was interested to find out who had tried to throw a scare into the Rev. When I returned to my office, I did some searching online and found no website for the association the letter was supposedly sent from. No mention whatsoever.

  A few days later I went down to the computer room just after lunch. A time when there was usually a good-sized gathering of foreign teachers. Yes, there was the little missionary sitting at a computer in the corner with a smug little grin on his righteous face. A few other teachers were there as well though the Rev hadn’t arrived yet. Everyone was silent, engrossed in various mindless online distractions.

  As if on cue, the Rev strolled in, looking much better than he had the last time I had seen him. He was cleaned up and had some of the old bounce in his step, though he still wasn’t as lively as before.

  The little missionary glanced briefly at the Rev and a look of annoyance flashed on his face before he went back to his computer screen.

  “Your preacher’s outfit is looking nice and crisp today,” I said for the benefit of everyone present. I looked over at the little missionary as I said it, trying to gauge whether he was affected by my statement.

  I got the little missionary’s attention further, “It looks good, doesn’t it?” I asked him pointedly.

  “Well, I suppose so. Though I don’t think the Rev preaches. Do you actually preach, Rev?” he asked.

  “No, not at the moment.”

  I looked at the little missionary. He was wearing a grey polo shirt, with a colourful logo over the left breast pocket. Some coloured triangles joined together, and underneath it, the words Tri Angels Fellowship. He’s starting to be more up front about it. Trying to assert the superiority of his particular sect.

  “So then, what is the point of wearing it?” the little missionary asked.

  “I feel comfortable wearing my preacher’s garments,” the Rev said. He said it in a harmless and unaffected way. It was clear that he hadn’t picked up on the hints I was giving him the last time we talked.

  “You know anything about the Universal Interdenominational Reverend’s League?” I asked the little missionary, purposefully butchering the name.

  The little missionary started to say something and then caught himself.

  “No, I don’t,” he said. He shrugged his sloping shoulders and turned back to his monitor.

  This smug little fuck knew that I knew.

  “I hear the organization is based out of Arizona. You’re from Arizona, aren’t you? Surely you must have heard of this group.”

  “Nope,” he said without looking at me.

  “I think you have heard of them,” I said, as I bolted out of my chair and moved towards him. In a few strides I was standing over him. He refused to look at me.

  “I think your pathetic little cloak and dagger bit of nastiness highlights you as a hypocritical piece of filth. Dishonest little puke as you’re running around talking about how your purity will give you some eternal fucking life.”

  The little missionary’s face started quivering as he rose out of his chair.

  “How dare you!”

  “Shut your fucking cake-hole you duplicitous little fuck! Admit to us that you wrote that pathetic letter threatening the Rev!”

  The Rev naturally reverted to his peace-loving role. “That’s not necessary,” he said as he got up and moved between us.

  “Rev, this little fuck was trying to cause you grief just because you don’t have the same rigid interpretation of things as he does.”

  “No one is a true Christian who believes in gay marriage!” the little missionary shrieked as he backed away from us and pointed his finger at the Rev. “You will rot in hell just like all the deviant homosexuals you support!”

  The Rev dropped his hands at his side and looked at the little missionary with a pitying look on his face. He must have known now that the florid, enraged little freak gesticulating in front of him was the person who sent the letter.

  “You ridiculous buffoon. Do you really think that you are emulating what your religion preaches? Honestly?” I said. But of course, he did.

  The little missionary seemed to realize how much of a scene he was making. He looked around at the other teachers in the room who were staring with that intrigued sense of detachment people get when they witness others losing control.

  “Why exactly does it bother you that the Rev wears his getup? Are you jealous because students actually like him? And while we’re on the topic, there is nothing wrong with him wearing his preacher’s outfit as far as the university is concerned. On the other hand, they don’t like evangelizing in the classroom. In fact, it is forbidden...”

  The little missionary looked at me with contempt, composed himself further and walked out of the room.

  I had done some research and found that any proselytizing on campus could get a teacher sacked. An anonymous letter that was truthful would be sent to the administration of the university.

  And it was sent. The university undertook a brief investigation, which amounted to them asking the little missionary if he was indeed trying to convert students. Apparently, the little missionary answered in the affirmative, happy to take a fall with the knowledge that he was being martyred for an honourable cause. The last I heard of the little missionary, he had given up teaching and had headed to the north of Thailand, where some of the cushiest missionary gigs were located. While the Rev didn’t thank me directly, he returned to his former self and finished out the semester before he too moved on.

  The Rev knew that I openly mocked his beliefs and he in turn ripped me in his own affectionate way. I had no problem with anyone latching onto any kind of philosophy as a way to help them through life. It was the bitter, intolerant brand of self-righteousness masquerading as religion displayed by the little missionary that always turned my guts.

  The Rev and I got together before he left and we sent a response to the non-exist
ent organization which had enclosed a return address. If the little missionary did ever get the envelope, he would have found a single photograph of the Rev at the front of a classroom in his preacher’s garb, carrying his staff in one hand, and flipping the bird with his other hand, a broad, carefree smile on his face.

  Carpen Rutledge

  What can be most frustrating for foreigners in Thailand is offering up what they think is considerate and respectful behaviour and finding that there is no type of positive payoff similar to what occurs in their home country. What follows is an anecdote that demonstrates what can happen when your expectations are ground into the concrete when in Thailand. Alternatively, you will see that with some tolerance, shifts in attitude and an ability to laugh at yourself and the whole damn world, it doesn’t have to be that bad.

  Carpen Rutledge was a Mormon from Utah in the US of A. He was a hard-working, god-fearing sort who loved his family and was self-disciplined. He was so self-disciplined that he administered his own form of corporal punishment after he had relieved himself of that tension in his groin area out back in the old woodshed. That he was forming a connection between pain and pleasure deep inside his subconscious was something that never occurred to Carpen.

  One day tragedy befell Carpen. While his Mama was throwing out hallelujahs down in the cornfield, his Daddy unknowingly ground the old hag into the soil with the International Harvester combine. His lack of awareness about what he had done quickly turned to horror as bits of her flesh splattered back into the windscreen of the cab, where he was listening to the afternoon gospel hour on Righteous Radio 104 AM. Carpen’s Daddy rammed the combine’s gears into neutral and with the din of the powerful engine still clattering, he stumbled down the steps into the cornfield, clutched his chest and dropped dead.

  Carpen and his extended clan were stricken. After the burial proceedings were wrapped up he realized that he was left with nothing because his parents had willed everything to the church. Never one to waste time on self-pity, he started to think about his future and hit on the idea of teaching English in a foreign country as a means to cleanse his mind of sadness and a way to see the world and help others. He remembered that a few years ago a family from Thailand had joined the local congregation.

  He got in touch with the Thai family and was filled with tales of wonder and excitement over dinner at their house. He promptly set about preparing a carefully detailed plan to become a qualified teacher, move to Thailand and begin a new life. Rigorous study sessions ensued where he absorbed every grammar rule possible and slogged through volume after volume on teaching methodology. He took an intensive six-month TEFL training course at the local college, which almost sapped his resources dry. But he was certain it was more important to be prepared than to have a few more dollars when he arrived.

  He spent hours on the internet researching Thailand and locating school addresses. He e-mailed numerous schools that appealed to him and got a handful of responses. One offered him a teaching job. He promptly responded in the affirmative, a contract was faxed and he scrawled his name on the line marked with an “X” (as it was all in Thai) and sent it back to the school in Thailand. He was ready to go!

  At about the same time, Simon McCracken was working at a factory in a grimy industrial section in Slough, just north of London, England. He was almost broke and going nowhere fast. His only enjoyment in life was pouring pints of lager down his flabby neck at the local pub and surfing the internet at all hours of the night.

  Simon had completed a year of college but had never finished his full degree. Instead, he had majored in late nights at the pub with a minor in loose women. He was relatively content with his unmotivated life and the nights out with the lads. “If something else comes along, I might take the opportunity. But then, why should I waste my energy?” was his unofficial motto.

  With a few weeks of annual leave approaching, Simon and a couple of his mates decided to take a vacation abroad. They did some research and agreed on Thailand as a good destination. It exceeded their limited imaginations. They spent some time in Bangkok and then headed to one of the islands. Lazy days on the beach were followed by wild nights swilling beer in the bars. The time flew by and they returned to Bangkok, ready to fly back home the following day. On that final day, a late afternoon buzz kick-started at a Suhkumvit beer bar quickly revved into high gear. In their short time in the nation’s capital they had learned, as everyone quickly does, that nightfall turns Bangkok into an entirely different city.

  Simon vaguely remembered the hazy beginnings of the previous evening when he woke up the next morning. He was alone in his hotel room. There was no sign of his travelling companions and it was past the departure time for his flight back to London. He got up, stretched and looked out the window. Bleary eyed, he dressed and went down to the hotel restaurant for some coffee.

  Stranded in Bangkok. It had a nice ring to him. While not broke, he didn’t have enough to purchase a new ticket. The flight he had missed was the cheapest he could buy; non-refundable and valid only on the originally scheduled dates. He slurped his coffee and looked at the English language newspaper someone had left at his table. His eyes passed over some stories of maimings, mishaps and misappropriated land on the front page. He scanned the odd collection of articles in the entertainment section, written in English by Thais. The result was a strange and skewed syntax that had a disconcerting effect on his addled brain.

  Glancing at the want-ads, he noticed further inappropriate use of the language. Strange double entendres. Also, things a person just couldn’t write in the west “Wanted: Thai nationals only,” was a common tag at the end of many of the ads. But here was a cluster of ads all looking for foreigners. English teachers. Yes, he had heard of the ease with which someone could land work and extend their stay here by teaching English. Why not give it a try?

  It was remarkably easy to get set up. He rented a concrete box of a flat for the monthly sum that was the equivalent of a big night out on the town with the lads back home. He bought a few cheap pairs of trousers and some short-sleeved dress shirts that made him look like an airline pilot. After walking into a few schools to inquire, he was offered a job.

  On his first day he strode into the classroom with a reckless who-gives-a-damn outlook. He proceeded to introduce himself to the students by singing his name and where he was from while doing an asinine dance at the front of the class. The students were a bit taken aback at first but he continued the schtick and everyone was laughing within a few minutes. Simon flipped open the book he had been given, asking the students which chapter they had completed. A sharp-eyed student in the front row noticed that Simon didn’t have the correct book. “Mr. Simon, that book not same we have…”

  “Oh…well, which book have you got?” Everybody held up their books.

  “Which chapter?” asked Simon.

  “Three!!!” everyone shouted together.

  Simon had a quick look at one of the student’s books.

  “All right, let’s go over the homework! Two teams, each team will have a chance to answer a question for a point and then it will be the other team’s chance.” He had heard that playing games with kids in the classroom was a good way to keep them interested.

  Meanwhile, Carpen was at his first day on the job at the Catholic school where he had been hired to teach. His brand of fundamental Christianity was different than Catholicism but he was happy that at least he would be close to people who believed in the same god as him. Carpen arrived 30 minutes before classes were to begin and was a bit dismayed to find that his classroom was not open. “That’s OK,” he thought to himself, I’ll just wait outside the class and run over some things in my head.”

  At 10 minutes past 9 nobody had arrived to open the door and there were no students in sight. Carpen felt a slight twinge of annoyance but tried to relax. He went down to the office and asked if anyone knew what was going on. Nobody in the office spoke English. He spoke slower and louder in the hopes that this would
make them understand. The three secretaries in the office became frightened and since they had never seen him before, they thought he was looking for a job. They directed him to the fifth floor by using the few words they knew while pointing up. Carpen assumed that the classroom had been changed for some reason.

  Carpen went to the fifth floor and went into a room full of secretaries typing away at their keyboards. All of the secretaries were extremely attractive, many of them wearing short skirts. Together with the growing frustration of the first day miscommunications and Carpen’s puritanical outlook on male-female relations, he involuntarily twitched his head to the side, the cords in his next straining.

  Meanwhile, in no time Simon had become popular and well-liked amongst his Thai colleagues. Far from being seen as someone who would accept anything without question, his good nature and sense of humour endeared him to Thais. So much so that they started going out of their way to accommodate him and avoid instances where he would have to deal with inconveniences.

  Carpen suffered a much less honourable fate. There were various reports, none of them confirmed but somehow all plausible. People said they had seen him barking like a dog in Siam square, convulsing at the sight of students in uniform, and on his knees in the middle of a busy sidewalk pleading to the heavens.

  The Myths

  Myths about Asia are circulated at will and readily swallowed by westerners without question. The mystery of the Orient seems to make anything seem plausible. It frames things in a nice tidy way and plays up to our real lack of knowledge about the place. Someone who has spent a few months in Thailand thinks they have the width and breadth of every subject sorted out. And people believe them.

  Some gin-soaked old mule on a bar stool in Bangkok tells a new arrival about some nasty sounding scam to beware of and the narrative is reinforced. The wet behind the ears little whelp is living on the edge in gritty third world despotic chaos and loving it. He’s taking risks and most importantly, he’s proven to himself that he’s different from his mates back home.