by Alex Gunn
In response to this explanation the ambassador simply said:
“Have you found the buffet?”
He said it in a rather snooty voice as though he wasn’t at all interested in Luton Airport, or Lorraine Chase or me.
I wanted to snap back “I haven’t lost the buffet.” By now I felt irritated by the whole thing. I felt irritated that I had ended up sounding stupid, twice in quick succession. I felt irritated that the ambassador had never heard of Lorraine Chase. I felt irritated that our British representative in Thailand had possibly never heard of a whole host of 1970s and 1980s house hold names; who else hadn’t he heard of, Hattie Jaques, Hughie Green, Sid James...where did it end? Deep down I also felt mildly let down that there was no one even marginally famous at the reception and I felt irritated that I had gone to the trouble of getting a hot itchy suit and now I was being upstaged by a buffet.
With this last question the ambassador moved on and talked to some other people. I turned to Mike (or Jeff, or Gary). I puffed my cheeks out, blew slightly and shook my head slightly from side to side, like a builder about to give an on the spot estimate for a particularly tricky building job “fancy not knowing who Lorraine Chase is.” He just looked at me.
“I’m off to the buffet,” I said and busied myself loading buffet stuff onto my plate. It wasn’t a big buffet but what there was looked very nice indeed. I thought that this was probably a sign of exceeding poshness. There was smoked salmon, many types of marinated olives, small dainty sandwiches, tiger prawns, sushi and an extravagance of sun dried vegetables that had been rejuvenated in olive oil. What was significant by its absence though, was a huge pyramid of Ferrero Rocher chocolates like there used to be on the TV advert. I am happy to confirm that Ferrero Rocher chocolates are no longer consumed at ambassadorial receptions. If you’ve never seen the advert (which is highly likely) it’s worth a look on Youtube, you can search out Lorraine Chase at the same time as the chances are that you haven’t heard of her either, which is probably my third big fat mistake.
The buffet reminded me of an expensive version of what used to be called “A Party Tea.” A “Party Tea” was all the rage when I was growing up and was the main event at all birthday parties. There used to be a grapefruit in the middle of the table with loads of cocktail sticks sticking out of it with little cubes of cheese and tinned pineapple chunks stuck on the end. There used to be bowls of crisps, fish paste sandwiches, sausage rolls, watery slices of ham on which, to demonstrate the specialness of the occasion, would be a bright green sprig of parsley.
At my friend Laurence’s party we had something which his mother referred to as “potted meat” sandwiches which later my Mum said was very old fashioned as most of us just called it Spam.
I was just deciding to load a bit more onto my plate when there was a chinking sound. The ambassador was standing in the middle of the room chinking a spoon against his wine glass.
“If I could just have your attention I would like to say a few words.”
It was at this point that I dropped some prawns onto the carpet. He gave me a withering look and carried on.
I must say though, what followed was truly amazing. He delivered what I assume was an unplanned and unrehearsed speech that lasted about 15 minutes. He didn’t pause, or waver or go off track once. It was thoughtful, heartfelt, personal and global in equal measure. He talked of his own children and of his grandchildren, and the children he observed living in the streets just outside where we were standing. He talked about vulnerability and responsibility and protection. He mentioned families and love and people working together.
He also went on to mention the United Nations 1959 Convention of the Rights of a Child in order to back up all of his subjective thinking. It all seemed effortless, as if these words had been inside him for years and were at last ready to tumble out in perfect, confident formation.
He looked people in the eye while he was talking, gestured meaningfully but not too much, and most impressively mentioned people in the room by name whom he had clearly only just met (but of course not me). I can’t even remember my own children’s middle names let alone a room full of strangers who I have only just met. It was impressive stuff to say the least.
In comparison, I had observed how nice the room was, forgotten every one’s name as soon as they were introduced to me, described in boring detail the career highlights of an obscure British 1980s minor celebrity and finally dropped a plate of prawns on the carpet.
As the early afternoon sun poured in through the picture windows I stood apart from the crowd at the side of the buffet table picking at my plate of carpet fluff prawns. People started to drift off. The ambassador had left in a flurry of handshakes and smiles and good wishes, ushered off by his personal entourage of secretaries and security men to the next reception somewhere else, where again he would be required to memorise everyone’s name and make a fantastic inspirational and unrehearsed speech.
It occurred to me that it was a very particular skill set. A skill set in fact that is not too dissimilar to that of a good teacher. I wondered how he would have got on as a teacher at my first school where I worked and had to wrestle razor sharp martial arts weapons from youngsters twice my size. I wondered whether he could teach Thomas Hardy to teenagers who could just about grunt a few words of English, despite it being their first language. I looked out onto the huge lawn where ground staff where watering the palm trees and I looked beyond towards a tennis court and swimming pool and I wondered whether he really meant the profound things he said or whether it was just a trick he has learnt from a particular type of education.
Did he really mean the poignant things he said about Bangkok street children and human trafficking, or would it fade by the time he makes his next impressive speech about Fair Trade Negotiations, or Global Warming, or whatever ambassadors make speeches about.
By now after all this deep thinking almost everyone had gone except the woman who was involved with Logistics who was keenly “networking” with a man whom I assumed was also “networking” back, although I couldn’t quite tell.
I realised that I must pose something of an oddity standing alone in the middle of the ambassador’s reception room after everyone had gone. I was interested to see what they would do with me if I just didn’t leave. Would they just clean up around me? Could I remain here until the end of the day when the ambassador returned home? Can you imagine the shock he would get! How pleased he would be. We could talk about 1980s minor celebrities again.
After a while though, a member of the ambassadorial staff came up to me, keen to “move things along” as they say these days. He politely asked if I lived locally or had travelled in from somewhere else, keen to introduce the idea of homeward travel into conversation....I thought for a while. I told him that I had flown down from Chiang Mai with my family, but as I was saying these words I knew what I should be saying... “Nahhh, I’ve come from Luton Airport.”
Chapter 13
School Barbecue
Insect Invasion Hell
September: Escaping the heat by jumping into the swimming pool no longer works as it’s now hotter in the water!
“Please, please calm down , it’s justa kinda fly, do not panic, they will not bite you, do not panic …….” School Director.
My sons’ international school is very nice. It is full of nice teachers and nice children who do nice things. It’s almost the polar opposite of the school I went to, which was not very nice. In fact, not to put too finer point on it, it was shit. It was shit in a way that only huge urban secondary schools in the 1970s could be.
The highlight of the school year was at the end of the final term when the older boys would storm our classroom and throw Mr Ellis, the newly qualified and diminutive maths teacher out of the window. We all got very excited when at the beginning of our third year in secondary school the entire Maths department, along with the diminutive M
r Ellis, was moved from the ground floor up to the 3rd floor. He spent the whole year nervously eyeing the windows and assessing the drop. It certainly was an education, but not in the traditional sense.
We kept our heads down (as did Mr Ellis), did our work, put up with institutional bullying, spiteful and ineffective teachers and buoyed our spirits by thinking of the day when it would be our turn to throw Mr Ellis out of the window.
It is therefore a genuine and complete surprise that my children actually enjoy school and learn things (other than how to throw a small math’s teacher out of the window) and what’s more, they enjoy being what the Head Teacher refers to meaningfully as “being part of the life of the school.”
I’m not sure what this means but the first time I heard it I was immediately suspicious. It sounded like professional jargon, code for something that doesn’t want to be said; one of those many phrases that makes something terrible sound quite nice, like the phrase “credit crunch.” The first time I heard this phrase I thought it sounded like a cereal bar. I’ve always thought the phrase “ethnic cleansing,” as terrible as it is, actually sounds like a special offer in a dry cleaning shop, “50% Off Kaftans, 25% Off Ponchos...it’s ethnic cleansing week.”
I’m not as sure as my kids that I will enjoy being “part of the life of the school.” But, as inevitable as it used to be to see a small maths teacher plunging earthwards in July, I agree, along with my wife, to pay the princely sum of 200Baht to attend the School Teachers and Parents Barbecue where my sons will perform in an atrocious rock band, along with a display of Thai dancing by the Primary School students, some over enthusiastic and self conscious bongo playing by a couple of older boys and two little girls playing a recorder duet (unfortunately some things in schools never change).
In theory I believe that I should enjoy school social events; meeting other friendly parents, talking to enthusiastic teachers about the recent field trip, watching inoffensive musical ditties and generally having a pleasant time. In practice though, I find that I never know quite what to say. I hover uncomfortably somewhere between banal chit chat, (“so what do you do…you’re a Financial Adviser, well that must be nice”) and inappropriate (“I was just saying that your son looks like the young Mussolini”).
But so far, the evening is swinging along just fine, I have managed to avoid saying anything too inappropriate and have not yet met a Financial Adviser. The sun has just set and the barbecue is scenting the air with mouth watering barbecue meaty smells. The temperature is just perfect and large exotic looking moths hover around the floodlights which light the stage area.
Everyone is happy, and for a fleeting moment it feels like I have eventually made it, that I have settled into a middle class international life style, where I wear cream coloured chino trousers and a sky blue shirt and sip red wine and chit chat about inoffensive things with other inoffensive middle class international parents.
Out of the corner of my eye though, I notice a huge bat of horror film proportions, which is dive bombing the moths that are increasing in numbers and hovering around the stage lights.
I don’t say anything as I am fearful of slipping along a downward slope towards unintentional inappropriateness. I am keeping it safe and happily carry on a boring conversation about how this school is so much better than The American School in Singapore, and a quarter of the price apparently. My wife can see that I am distracted and want to say something about the bats. I smile at her to show that I understand and won’t be saying anything stupid about giant bats. I am keen to demonstrate that I am on my best behaviour.
Behind me I can hear Thom, who although doesn’t have children knows a lot of people who do. It’s always good to have Thom around anyway. He’s talking/ shouting with some other American parents. He is telling them how much pizza he can eat and arranging a burger eating competition with some other ginormous American dads. He’s half drunk, of course.
The smoke from the barbecue circles up towards the stars in the cloudless warm sky. The banana palms behind the stage act as a screen hiding the performers from their parent’s eager eyes. Our boys come on with some of their mates and set up their band. They are all looking cool and their parents are bursting with pride. The music thrashes out in a way that can only be achieved by school rock bands (thankfully). There is a pause in the assembled conversations. Everybody applauds. Everyone is enjoying themselves. Then two girls with recorders come on stage.
I diligently go back to the boring conversation about the terrible overpriced school in Singapore. But because I have not been listening properly I make a mistake, it’s not Singapore, it’s Shanghai, so when I say Singapore everyone looks at me blankly. Luckily my wife intervenes and says something funny about global dyslexia, and everybody laughs, including me. I only have half an idea of what I’m laughing at. I look again at the enormous black bats catching moths in mid air.
The recorders screech away in the background and people begin to move towards the barbecue grills where other people are emerging with paper plates piled high with burgers and vegetable kebabs. Some Japanese parents have also made some sushi and a really smiley group of Korean mothers (sounds like a name of a Korean punk band, The Korean Mothers, if indeed they have punk in Korea which they probably don’t) have made some traditional Korean salad called Kinchi which tastes like sick. Everyone is happy.
And then it starts.
For the first few minutes there is just a collective awareness that there are more flying insects than is comfortable. People begin to flap in a controlled and polite way, trying to keep flying insects off their food and themselves, but also keeping their conversations about schools in Singapore or Shanghai or wherever going. Nobody does much apart from flap their arms at an increasing, steady and unrelenting flow of large flying insects. It is of course more important to show restraint and politeness than save yourself and your dinner from an insect invasion.
I look around in wonderment at what is happening. I can’t believe it.
“What’s happening?” says my wife.
“I’m not sure, but it’s great isn’t it?” I reply.
A woman who has just heard me say this looks at me horrified.
With the increase in insects there is an increase in bats. Soon the air is thick with flying insects and bats. The insects are termites, and they only swarm on a few nights of the year, but when they do it feels like some ancient prophesy for the end of the world is coming true. They swarm towards any light source in biblical proportions.
Some of the Thai parents look worried. Then there is the first scream. An ear splitting girls scream from behind the screen of banana palms, and a beautifully dressed young girl in traditional Thai costume comes pelting out across the stage.
“Mummy, mummy it’s flown in my hair, I can feel it,” she screams.
An alarmed looking woman is trying to unpick flying termites from her daughters beautifully plaited blonde hair, whilst at the same time trying to swat them away from herself.
Within minutes the whole scene transforms from quiet middle class mutterings to an apocalyptic vision of hell. It’s like the sinking of the Titanic but with flying termites and bats.
The powerful stage lights are acting like beacons for millions of termites for miles around. Like moths they fly uncontrollably towards any light source. Unwittingly the PTO School Barbecue is draining the surrounding countryside of termites.
There are children and parents from 25 different nations screaming and swearing in 25 different languages and running in all directions. Termites and diving bats are everywhere. As soon as the termites land they lose their wings and start crawling about. I imagine that this is fairly innocuous if they have landed on some far flung mountain top but when it’s in your hair it isn’t very pleasant. They will crawl into your ear, up your nose and into your mouth if you let them.
“What shall we do?” says my wife.
“N
othing… have you got a camera?” I say.
People are leaving in droves. Cars are screeching to the front of the school and children are literally diving in and then roaring away. Meanwhile the School Director gets hold of the microphone and urges everyone to calm down and not to panic. She does this until a termite flies into her hair and then she screams and panics and runs off stage.
“We can’t just stand here,” says my wife trying to swat insects from her white dress which is now peppered with crawling termites.
“Are you nuts?” I shout, “this is brilliant,…it’s the life of the school,” I add, but she gives me a special wife’s look; a look that is familiar to husbands all over the world which says “ I am far from happy, and unless you do something now, bad things will happen.”
“Okay,” I say, “grab as many burgers as you can… and the kids, and I’ll bring the truck round the front.”
I linger, though, absorbing the scene. It really is unbelievable and I know I am lucky to be here to see such termite induced mayhem. It’s a once in a lifetime event and I want to soak it all up and distil it into one memory that will last a lifetime. Bats are now tumbling through the air, giddy with such a rare and plentiful feast.
I momentarily think about Mr Ellis and wonder if he ever found a way to stop big boys throwing him out of the window.
As I turn to leave, a Thai maintenance guy unplugs the electric stage lights plunging everything into moonlit darkness. For a few brief moments the screams intensify as parents and children are now not only covered in insects and being dive bombed by huge bats but are also plunged into complete darkness. I wonder if the maintenance guy simply wants to make things worse.
Within a couple of minutes though the relentless onslaught of insects subsides. Parents and children continue leaving and cars and trucks continue to roar off up the Hang Dong Road at high speed.