Bangkok Filth

by Ken Austin

  The next day I pounded the pavement again, this time walking south down Suhkumvit near the Emporium shopping centre in hopes of stumbling onto some more options. I hopped on the Skytrain and travelled a three or four stations further south. A few of the side streets were mainly residential and some had signs at the soi entrance advertising schools. It was close to mid-day and I was already soaked in the shirt, tie and trousers I had worn with the aim of making a good impression.

  I came to the front entrance of a kindergarten. There was a large sign with pictures of animals in bright colours and some kind of annoyingly simplistic and optimistic slogan. I had certainly never considered the possibility of teaching such young children. At the same time, the thought of being at one location in air-conditioned comfort all day was appealing.

  I went through the gates towards the main office area. I was quickly ushered in to talk with the principal and owner of the school, a refined and pleasant Malaysian woman who was immediately receptive and indicated that they did, in fact, need a teacher or two. She asked if I was willing to do a short teaching demonstration.

  “What? Right now?”

  “Yes!’

  “Er, OK...”

  What did I have to lose? In fact, not even more than three minutes of my time. We went to a class that was already in session and asked the teacher if we could disturb her for a few minutes. I blundered to the front of the class, asked some of the students their names, told them a bit about myself and drew an idiotic picture of Snoopy on the board. With absolutely no idea what I was doing and creating what I was sure was an awkward and cringe-worthy situation, I was sure she would politely tell me “Thanks, but no thanks.” The very fact that she had cut the demonstration so short convinced me of this.

  But instead, she offered me a job. I hesitated, unsure if it was really what I wanted and again stunned at the ease of finding work as a completely inexperienced and relatively unqualified teacher. If the first few days had yielded such positive results, perhaps I should just keep looking. Not wanting to appear too eager, I told the woman that I would consider her offer and give her an answer shortly. A few days later I phoned her and told her that I would need more money to consider the job. She quickly agreed to add another 3000 baht per month (at that time, about an extra 100 U.S. dollars).

  I finally accepted the position, content that I had wrangled more than the standard salary other teachers were apparently receiving and certain that even if I didn’t like the situation I could leave and find something else in no time flat.

  Only Misfits Need Apply

  I began the following day.

  At first glance, my colleagues seemed to be a group of exiles, rejects and broken down desperadoes who had nowhere else to turn. Odd that a kindergarten would throw open their doors and welcome them all (including me) as the people to serve as the first teacher many of these students would know in their young lives.

  There was a Saudi Arabian man with a heavy accent, a wonky knee and a strict reliance on a handful of classroom games he played repeatedly with the kids, day after day, week after week. Another teacher from India was a motherly woman who seemed genuinely devoted to the idea of teaching and nurturing the children she was assigned. There was a chubby British lady who took her duties seriously enough, though from small talk I knew she was teaching mainly to extend her travels. And a Brit of about 27 was the longest serving teacher with three years under his belt at the school. It was obvious that he was the golden boy in the eyes of the principal and also appeared to be well-liked by all the students.

  The Brit had prepared reams of documents, lesson plans and supplemental material. He had a good grasp on classroom management and offered me advice and encouragement on how to establish myself with the children. The youngsters absolutely loved him. During recess he was swarmed by the screaming tykes and he never shooed them away or sought refuge from their relentless demands.

  However, at first it struck me as slightly odd how he interacted with them physically. He was constantly grabbing and hoisting kids in the air, which is nothing out of the ordinary. And they loved it. But on one occasion he was playing a kissing game with them during recess. I checked myself when I saw this and realized it was over-sensitivity on my part due to the climate of fear in the west and the notion that there’s a pedophile lurking on every street corner.

  Any ulterior motives just didn’t fit with this individual. Young, athletic, lean, drove a slick motorcycle and had a young and attractive girlfriend. I believe he was simply a devoted and skilled teacher who was a natural with kids. Still, it was bit strange.

  A Big Mistake

  After a few days I started to think about what it meant to be a “real” teacher. One with a degree in education, countless training courses under your belt, up to date on the current thinking in early childhood development and years of experience in the classroom. But many of these people I had been initially dismissive of looked to be pulling it off and providing a good environment for their students regardless of whether they had all the relevant qualifications.

  I quickly realized that I was the one who was out of place. I knew almost immediately that I had erred in taking the job. I just didn’t have the temperament nor the desire to spend my days babysitting. If I had had the patience, no doubt I would have seen that remarkable sponge-like learning ability of children who are so young and that would have motivated me to continue. But I didn’t have the desire to hold on that long.

  I had a few moments of clarity during the short time I spent there. They helped me to realize that I wasn’t cut out for being a kindergarten teacher and to stay any longer would only result in the children under my care being shortchanged.

  The first thing that turned me off was the overall set-up that existed at the school. While the female owner came across as wanting to offer the best for the students whose parents had paid so much tuition money, there was little organization. The materials the Brit had developed were helpful but essentially there was no course curriculum or syllabi to speak of.

  The husband of the principal was a certifiable asshole who strode into a staff meeting one day and stated that it didn’t matter what you did as a teacher, so long as the children were happy and in turn the parents satisfied. Whether any real learning went on was unimportant.

  On another occasion I was watching the children at the end of the day. We took turns supervising them as they waited for their parents to arrive. The father of one of the kids, a Caucasian who had evidently married a Thai woman, turned up and looked disappointed to see me.

  I had heard that the turnover for teachers at the school was quite high and I’m sure it was depressing for him to realize that no stable patterns were being established for his child. He seemed to sense my unease and awkwardness and briefly looked at me with near contempt. His feelings weren’t misplaced.

  Final Decision

  The final moment that cemented my decision to get out took place in the classroom. The first few days had been hectic but I had established some order and started to develop some routines with the kids. But the constant scolding and telling students to return to their seats was getting me down.

  Finally, I snapped at one child, a young Chinese kid (many of the students weren’t Thai but the offspring of foreigners working for multi-national companies) named Li Li and made her cry. I felt sick with guilt and knew it was time to leave.

  I went into the principal’s office after school and informed her of my decision. She begged me to at least stay on another week so that I would complete the probationary period and be paid for the work I had done. I refused and said that the money was irrelevant. Anyway, I had visions of her husband trying to rip me off if I stayed on.

  One week with no pay was easier to handle than another seven days wondering if I was going to be screwed over and putting up with further stress in the classroom.

  I strode out into the late afternoon sunshine and knew that I had made the right choice.

  I had last
ed one week at my first teaching job in Thailand.

  Heading Home

  Most expats make an attempt to return home at some point. Things sour in Thailand, or the realization that life is passing them by hits hard and they convince themselves there must be an opportunity just waiting for them “back home.” Sometimes things work out, but often the return is short-lived.

  In 2000, I returned from a long stint of working and traveling overseas. I settled in Vancouver, Canada, convinced that its climate and landscape would make it an ideal place to live. The city is located in a beautiful physical setting. The water, the towering evergreen trees, and the mountains in the distance make it serene and picturesque.

  However, the actual city itself, like most in North America, is a bland disappointment. The lack of distinctive architecture, poor planning that limits options for pedestrians, and a generally sullen and self-interested populace, all rank it as a wasteland compared to the cities of Europe and Asia.

  Bored of whiling away hours at the gym and realizing that most people had their own lives and little time for new friends, I began wandering around the city in the evenings and on the weekends.

  On occasion I strayed into the notorious east end for kicks. The public shooting gallery replete with junkies, whores, and other assorted freaks always provided some sordid, sideshow entertainment. A few decent drinking dens that offered cheap beer and catered to genuine sleaze and outsiders like me looking for a bit of seedy chic also made it a worthwhile neighbourhood to visit.

  Amsterdam North

  One night late in the fall of 2001, I was trudging up Pender Street when I noticed a shop-front sign: The Marijuana Teahouse. I assumed it was one of the many head shops in the area stocked full of the usual trashy drug paraphernalia and white trash baubles. I blundered in for a look.

  I was met by a wary brother decked out in the clichéd costume of one of society’s stock rebels. He was tentative yet welcoming at the same time.

  “What is this place?” I asked.

  “You can go in if you want...”

  I strolled into the relatively empty main area. It was dimly lit with some colourful spotlights here and there, an arrangement of small tables with chairs and some appropriately hip designs painted on the walls. The distinctive pungent odour of marijuana hung in the air. Against the back wall was a small bar that appeared to serve only a limited selection of non-alcoholic drinks such as tea and fruit smoothies. “I could spend some time here,” I thought.

  A small, bespectacled, energetic looking individual sidled up to the table where I had sat down.

  “Are you a cop?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Can I see some ID?”

  “OK.”

  I plunked my driver’s license down on the table. The agitated, cloak and dagger horseshit was contrasting weirdly with the environment.

  “Come in the back.”

  We walked down a short hall into a back room with a few tables, a couch, and a large cage that contained half a dozen white birds. The little proprietor introduced himself as Levi. He asked me what kind of product I would like to purchase after rattling off half a dozen absurd sounding names: Northern Lights, White Widow, Purple Haze and a few others.

  If this was the price of admission to this strange place, I was willing to go along. Levi disappeared behind a locked door and returned a few moments later.

  He handed me a small bag that he assured me would deliver a cerebral high, unlike some of the other strains which offered, depending on their properties, a full body assault, a vibrant relaxing buzz, or a bright, intense experience.

  I had tried a joint at a party many years earlier but had found that I didn’t like its effects. However, for the opportunity to have a front row seat for this spectacle I was willing to step back into the pleasant haze of the Teahouse. I would roll cigarettes with Drum tobacco and surreptitiously leave the other packet behind for someone who would get some enjoyment out of it. I was here to observe.

  A Brazen Gambit

  It’s important to emphasize exactly how remarkable the place was. Not for its decor or atmosphere or quality of jasmine scented llama-hair tea. It was the fact that they were openly flogging marijuana in a shop with a brazen store-front advertisement on a main drag. This was not a secret smoke club tucked away in some hard-to-find side street open to a select few individuals who luxuriated in the nonchalant head swiveling privilege of breaking the law in a semi-public place. The Marijuana Teahouse was as out in the open as Amsterdam coffee shops.

  Resident Gimps

  It quickly became apparent what the justification was for breaking the law out in the open. It was being done under the guise of providing medicinal marijuana to those suffering chronic ailments. The resident gimps may or may not have had prescriptions for the drug but they all derived some kind of relief from inhaling some of B.C.’s finest. Over the next few weeks as I checked in to experience the absurdity, there were always a few obviously ill individuals on location to lend credence to the ostensible purpose of the Teahouse.

  A morbidly obese, genial, bearded oaf who played a mean game of chess was always in the back room holding court as new opponents sat down in front of him for a game and a smoke. He had a deep sonorous voice and he mentioned that he had done professional voice work in his day.

  An assortment of other hard-luck individuals came and went. I recall witnessing an attractive young beret-wearing tart blanch while trying to maintain a cool appearance after the haggard looking individual she was sharing a joint with dropped the fact that she was HIV positive.

  So aside from the usual hacking that goes along with large groups of people sucking back joint after joint, there was a fair amount of wheezing and more than a few colostomy bags. And the good, compassionate little hipsters did the requisite fawning over the down-and-outers, tacitly thanking them for providing a defensible reason for this gathering place that provided both quality marijuana and the potential to socialize with other like-minded individuals.

  License to Print Money

  Of course, the medicinal rationale was shamelessly exploited and at times bordered on being a complete and utter sham. Were there people suffering who received comfort from the marijuana? Sure. Would that continue to be an important benefit the longer the Teahouse stayed open? No doubt. But from my observations, the real reason for the existence of the Teahouse was to print money. And that’s exactly what Levi and his partner, Dave, did.

  Levi flitted around and played the raconteur. He thrilled at being in the spotlight and being the dispenser of “legally” distributed marijuana. The transactions always took place in the back room where Levi segued into his little schtick, rhyming off the names of the current strains on offer and lighting up like a pinball machine as the fistfuls of dollars were handed over.

  Things became so busy that he had to start taking orders from groups of up to a dozen people all ringed around him listening to his descriptions of the highs they were sure to enjoy. Sitting a few metres away and listening, I heard some hilarious interactions. Inevitably, people started asking if cocaine and acid were also available, which resulted in loud guffaws from everyone in attendance.

  I only witnessed one instance of aggression during the dozen or so times I checked in. A group of sneering young Iranians was gathered around the large bird cage as I looked on through a surreal haze. The worthless little punks violently rattled the cage and then looked at me, as if their gutless little performance was somehow a challenge.

  Otherwise, a good vibe almost always prevailed. It was heaven for people-watching. I enjoyed seeing first-timers who openly marveled that such a place existed, while those who were visiting the Teahouse for the third or fourth time gave them the low-down in a world-weary voice. I engaged in a few good-natured debates with those who were constantly pushing the left-wing propaganda that marijuana was completely harmless. It was an absurd notion, especially considering the potency of the current strains available.

  An
“us against the man” sentiment seemed to prevail and I found few people who agreed with my view that the left-wing bullshit about marijuana was almost as ridiculous as the right-wing variety. However, I had to agree with the oft-repeated line that there never seems to be violence when a large group of people gathers and smokes joints, as opposed to when the booze starts flowing.

  A definite youthful element started to become the majority. They added their own distinct vibe, which included acting out with their inane methods of imbibing the drug. The place started becoming unintentionally farcical. A large framed picture appeared in the back room. To buy anything, you now had to tilt the picture aside and speak through a hole in the wall to Levi, who was in another room. The novelty was starting to wear off for me and I drifted away.

  Throughout the whole time I visited the Marijuana Teahouse, I was always amazed that the operation was being left alone by the police. It was an exercise in how quickly people become blasé about a situation and assume that because something negative hasn’t happened yet, it won’t happen in the future.

  The End

  I suppose it was inevitable that the place would get shut down. One day, a few weeks after I had last visited, I walked by the Teahouse and it was boarded up. The next day I scanned the most recent newspapers and found a small item mentioning that police had raided it and arrested Levi and Dave. I heard talk about the U.S. DEA leaning on Canadian authorities, or the new right-wing provincial government in B.C. as possible reasons for the raid. In the end, most people forgot it was still illegal to peddle drugs. The Teahouse had managed to stay open for less than three months.