Arthur wanders into ‘Silly Suds’ and is delighted to find his favorite bar
stool unoccupied. Before sitting down he adjusts the stool slightly so that he
can see the TV and the street. Jim’s new girl is already pulling a draft. The
‘pub’ is the same as ever. Four or five of the regulars are sitting at the bar.
BBC World is on the telly. Last week’s Bangkok Post is open at the crossword
(Arthur has an eye for detail) and behind him a couple of blokes are playing
pool. Outside on the street things are much as usual. It’s another slow, hot
day in Mai Mee Nakon.
There should be another bar in this town, thinks Arthur. He’d open one himself but who wants to sit behind a counter all day talking rubbish? Jim apparently.
Jim says “Look mate don’t get me started on girls. Let’s find something else to talk about for a bloody change.”
“I hear Skipper’s back in Bangkok,” says someone.
“Skipper’s dead.” says Jim.
“Not that Skipper. The Ozzie one.”
“Oh him.”
A young fellow with long blonde hair and a backpack who they haven’t seen before wanders in and orders a Sing. He sits at the bar and says, “Anybody feel like a game of Trivial Pursuit?” English by the sound of it, waiting for a bus probably, “ Nobody? OK. Just asking.”
One of the pool players, the Yank, says, “Ask louder pal. They’re all deaf in here.”
“Saw Max in Chiang Mai.” says the same bloke who’d tried to get the Skipper story going.
“What’s he doing?”
“He was eating pie and chips. In Eddie’s old place.”
“No I mean what’s he doing?”
“He wants to send motor bikes to England. Good business he thinks. Buy ‘em cheap in Chiang Mai. Crate the buggers up. Put ‘em in a container. Somebody at the other end flogs ‘em for him. Good demand he reckons…”
Arthur was only half listening to it all. After a few beers it all got to be a bit of a drone anyway quite frankly. The quality of the conversation, and the caliber of the ex-pats, these days had gone right downhill if you asked him, which nobody ever did. He hardly ever heard anybody say anything interesting and he wondered why he bothered going to the place really. He even knew the answer to that one. Not much choice. It was either beer at the “Silly Suds” or sit in the bookstore.
The Yank at the pool table was talking; to his friend Arthur supposed, but loudly enough to include everybody in the bar…and even a few on the street…
“…it’s the falang this and falang that that gets to you in the end…falang, falang, falang…it never stops…even when they don’t mean any harm it’s always there…hello falang, here comes the falang, look at the falang everybody…yeah I get a laugh out of these guys who’ve been here twenty years and think they belong here…”
When Arthur had first come to Thailand 20 years ago things had been different. The Thais had been more…what was the word? Not innocent exactly but certainly more likeable. He’d had a bar in Pattaya for a while with his wife at the time, Dao, the bar had been her idea come to think of it. He smiles inwardly to think how naïve he must have been in those days. Mai pen rai. All water under the bridge. Dao had cleaned him out but he had learned a lot from the experience.
“Got any good videos then?” asks the young English lout. No manners at all obviously. Can’t he see everybody is watching the news? Smoke and flames over a city somewhere. Baghdad? Tehran? Jerusalem…can’t hear the TV properly with all the noise…
“…met a guy once,” the Yank again, “been married 3 times here still couldn’t figure out where all his money was going. He didn’t care about it too much, had a pension from the military and a couple other pensions coming in, but boy did those women know how to skin him…”
The bar phase had lasted about two years then Arthur had met Nong, his second wife, whose ambition was to open a guest house in Chiang Mai. So he’d got that started, one of the first to do trekking actually, and he’d even done a bit of import/export work on the side until things had become impossible with Nong and he’d moved back to Bangkok with Ning where he’d tried teaching English but that was a young man’s game and then came Tui and the move to Isaan, which was when he’d taken over the used bookshop…ah the Bangkok Years (sigh)…if he ever gets around to writing his autobiography…which he fully intends to do…he will refer to his time in Bangkok as his Panty Period…perhaps talk about the collection…or perhaps not…nobody would ever publish stuff like that anyway…(first few years….he had gone a little crazy, as many new arrivals do)
“...money! That’s all they want from us…basically they hate us…don’t ever kid yourself otherwise…”
The American is still talking. Arthur is tempted to comment but he keeps his mouth shut and listens. Until recently, the last few years say, he’d always found the Thai people polite and respectful. In fact it was one of the things he’d always liked about them. They could be infuriating in some ways but they understood the value of good manners. Lately though he’d noticed a change…especially among the younger people. He attributed it to exposure to Western culture. In fact he blamed Western culture for a lot of Thailand’s ills. It had been the Americans after all who started the whole Patpong/Pattaya thing for R&R. Oh the Thais had gone along with it readily enough…there were always two sides to everything…he would be the first to admit that…
“…those girls can’t get out of the villages fast enough. Get themselves a rich stupid falang and they’ve got it made...”
Arthur listens. How come every expat in Thailand is an expert on Thai culture?
“ …I’ve lived in a village. Boy that was something...being the resident falang…that was a real test of mental stamina let me tell you. They treat you like a god dam ATM machine…it gets to you…sure there’s some good folks there but most of the time I’m playing with half educated chimps. The phee/nong stuff. I’m supposed to do what the older chimp says! The guy might be a smack head but he’s telling me what to do! Do it like this falang…we need this and that falang…no respect at all… and I was the one that fed ’n kept them all…and I’m supposed to keep smiling…oh yeah keep smiling whatever you do…don’t for god’s sake get angry…and don’t ever criticize anybody…cos you’re just a dumb falang anyway…”
The fellow had a point. Arthur wouldn’t have put it quite the same way but he had written several letters to the Bangkok Post -- anonymously of course -- on exactly that subject. The difficulty foreigners had finding acceptance in Thailand. It was all part of the same paradox…the way the Thais could be welcoming and tolerant on the one hand aloof and xenophobic on the other. He could write a book about it.
“…trouble is,” said the American, winding up his monologue, “we’re all pussy-whipped….”
the young backpacker fellow says, “Alright then…anybody fancy a game of pool?” Nobody does. Arthur continues musing then suddenly he hears… CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! What? Long time since we heard that. Good heavens…somebody is ringing the dusty old bell. Arthur missed the actual ringing but he looks up to see the young person with the backpack heading for the street.
“Did he pay his bill?” someone asks.
Jim picks a 50 baht note off the counter and calls out, “Here mate, see that sign, you’re supposed to buy everybody a drink when you ring that.”
“Fuck that,” says the young yob, “I can’t read.”
There should be another bar in this town, thinks Arthur. He’d open one himself but who wants to sit behind a counter all day talking rubbish? Jim apparently.
Jim says “Look mate don’t get me started on girls. Let’s find something else to talk about for a bloody change.”
“I hear Skipper’s back in Bangkok,” says someone.
“Skipper’s dead.” says Jim.
“Not that Skipper. The Ozzie one.”
“Oh him.”
A young fellow with long blonde hair and a backpack who they haven’t seen before wanders in and orders a Sing. He sits at the bar and says, “Anybody feel like a game of Trivial Pursuit?” English by the sound of it, waiting for a bus probably, “ Nobody? OK. Just asking.”
One of the pool players, the Yank, says, “Ask louder pal. They’re all deaf in here.”
“Saw Max in Chiang Mai.” says the same bloke who’d tried to get the Skipper story going.
“What’s he doing?”
“He was eating pie and chips. In Eddie’s old place.”
“No I mean what’s he doing?”
“He wants to send motor bikes to England. Good business he thinks. Buy ‘em cheap in Chiang Mai. Crate the buggers up. Put ‘em in a container. Somebody at the other end flogs ‘em for him. Good demand he reckons…”
Arthur was only half listening to it all. After a few beers it all got to be a bit of a drone anyway quite frankly. The quality of the conversation, and the caliber of the ex-pats, these days had gone right downhill if you asked him, which nobody ever did. He hardly ever heard anybody say anything interesting and he wondered why he bothered going to the place really. He even knew the answer to that one. Not much choice. It was either beer at the “Silly Suds” or sit in the bookstore.
The Yank at the pool table was talking; to his friend Arthur supposed, but loudly enough to include everybody in the bar…and even a few on the street…
“…it’s the falang this and falang that that gets to you in the end…falang, falang, falang…it never stops…even when they don’t mean any harm it’s always there…hello falang, here comes the falang, look at the falang everybody…yeah I get a laugh out of these guys who’ve been here twenty years and think they belong here…”
When Arthur had first come to Thailand 20 years ago things had been different. The Thais had been more…what was the word? Not innocent exactly but certainly more likeable. He’d had a bar in Pattaya for a while with his wife at the time, Dao, the bar had been her idea come to think of it. He smiles inwardly to think how naïve he must have been in those days. Mai pen rai. All water under the bridge. Dao had cleaned him out but he had learned a lot from the experience.
“Got any good videos then?” asks the young English lout. No manners at all obviously. Can’t he see everybody is watching the news? Smoke and flames over a city somewhere. Baghdad? Tehran? Jerusalem…can’t hear the TV properly with all the noise…
“…met a guy once,” the Yank again, “been married 3 times here still couldn’t figure out where all his money was going. He didn’t care about it too much, had a pension from the military and a couple other pensions coming in, but boy did those women know how to skin him…”
The bar phase had lasted about two years then Arthur had met Nong, his second wife, whose ambition was to open a guest house in Chiang Mai. So he’d got that started, one of the first to do trekking actually, and he’d even done a bit of import/export work on the side until things had become impossible with Nong and he’d moved back to Bangkok with Ning where he’d tried teaching English but that was a young man’s game and then came Tui and the move to Isaan, which was when he’d taken over the used bookshop…ah the Bangkok Years (sigh)…if he ever gets around to writing his autobiography…which he fully intends to do…he will refer to his time in Bangkok as his Panty Period…perhaps talk about the collection…or perhaps not…nobody would ever publish stuff like that anyway…(first few years….he had gone a little crazy, as many new arrivals do)
“...money! That’s all they want from us…basically they hate us…don’t ever kid yourself otherwise…”
The American is still talking. Arthur is tempted to comment but he keeps his mouth shut and listens. Until recently, the last few years say, he’d always found the Thai people polite and respectful. In fact it was one of the things he’d always liked about them. They could be infuriating in some ways but they understood the value of good manners. Lately though he’d noticed a change…especially among the younger people. He attributed it to exposure to Western culture. In fact he blamed Western culture for a lot of Thailand’s ills. It had been the Americans after all who started the whole Patpong/Pattaya thing for R&R. Oh the Thais had gone along with it readily enough…there were always two sides to everything…he would be the first to admit that…
“…those girls can’t get out of the villages fast enough. Get themselves a rich stupid falang and they’ve got it made...”
Arthur listens. How come every expat in Thailand is an expert on Thai culture?
“ …I’ve lived in a village. Boy that was something...being the resident falang…that was a real test of mental stamina let me tell you. They treat you like a god dam ATM machine…it gets to you…sure there’s some good folks there but most of the time I’m playing with half educated chimps. The phee/nong stuff. I’m supposed to do what the older chimp says! The guy might be a smack head but he’s telling me what to do! Do it like this falang…we need this and that falang…no respect at all… and I was the one that fed ’n kept them all…and I’m supposed to keep smiling…oh yeah keep smiling whatever you do…don’t for god’s sake get angry…and don’t ever criticize anybody…cos you’re just a dumb falang anyway…”
The fellow had a point. Arthur wouldn’t have put it quite the same way but he had written several letters to the Bangkok Post -- anonymously of course -- on exactly that subject. The difficulty foreigners had finding acceptance in Thailand. It was all part of the same paradox…the way the Thais could be welcoming and tolerant on the one hand aloof and xenophobic on the other. He could write a book about it.
“…trouble is,” said the American, winding up his monologue, “we’re all pussy-whipped….”
the young backpacker fellow says, “Alright then…anybody fancy a game of pool?” Nobody does. Arthur continues musing then suddenly he hears… CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! What? Long time since we heard that. Good heavens…somebody is ringing the dusty old bell. Arthur missed the actual ringing but he looks up to see the young person with the backpack heading for the street.
“Did he pay his bill?” someone asks.
Jim picks a 50 baht note off the counter and calls out, “Here mate, see that sign, you’re supposed to buy everybody a drink when you ring that.”
“Fuck that,” says the young yob, “I can’t read.”
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