What's Going On?

The little cafe sat hidden away on a quiet backstreet. It was a cramped place with only a couple of tables, two or three dusty computers, a menu that included baguettes and spaghetti, and a TV showing cheap action films with the volume turned down and the sun blaring on the screen so you couldn’t hear or see what was going on properly. John came there often, I suppose, because he spoke to the waitress familiarly, in Thai like he was failing GCSE French, and she greeted him warmly by saying “Hello John, how are you?”, overemphasising her English like she was narrating the Telly Tubbies; quite the pair. Well, that’s how I know his name was John, anyway.

I only got glimpses of John’s face; I couldn’t look for too long for a number of cowardly reasons for which I fully admit to. Firstly he had an awful red scab across his forehead that made his bloodshot eyes look unpredictable and wounded, although he spoke in friendly, conspiratorial Irish tones. He was in his twenties, had shaved blond hair, and was wearing a bright green football shirt with a little white shamrock where his heart must have been. I sipped my coffee and looked across the little street to the trees; there aren’t many trees in Bangkok so it’s always worth appreciating when one is nearby.

All the while I listened in, feeling vaguely superior, as John was reeling someone into his confidences; an African with a trendy plaid farmer's hat who said few words asides from “yes” and whose colourful stripy shirt looked a bit ripped and stained. I only saw the back of his cropped head, but he sat so still he looked like he had been caught in John’s headlights. John for his part was talking steadily like he’d lost a bet; hardly stopping to breath, and I didn’t want to lose myself in that kind of spotlight. The whole thing bemused me; for some reason the African seemed to think John could help him understand Thailand for business purposes. So I just looked away at the tall old tree, listening in smugly like I always do.

“This is Thailand, see, and Thailand works differently to other countries; you’ve got to understand that. I’ve got friends who are policemen and soldiers and I know. I’ve been here for a while and I’ve drunk with them, had a few drinks, you know, had a few laughs with them, and I know how they operate. It’s all about money, you know, money makes things happen. It’s the only thing that matters to them, seriously. And they’ll treat foreigners different too, you know. If they can get two hundred baht, they will take two hundred baht. If they can get five hundred baht from you, they will take five hundred baht from you. And they’ll sit there in the station every night spending it on a bottle of whisky and just having a laugh together after a hard day’s work in the hot sun. You know, you’ve got to understand how things work here.”

“Yes,” murmured the African vaguely.

By the guttural way he pronounced the affirmative, I wasn’t sure how much English he understood. Also, from where I sat, I couldn’t know what expression was on his face; yet his back spoke to me very clearly somehow whenever I happened to lay my eyes upon it. It was completely hunched, but not in an uncomfortable looking way; it seemed more as if it was part of his art of being cool, as if he saw himself as fulfilling that which was required of him to be number one. It was quite a contrast, him hardly moving a muscle as John ran through his monologue like he was scrambling magic eggs that would mysteriously coalesce if he ever stopped whisking. I sneaked a few more glances at John, desperately hoping he wouldn’t bring me into the conversation to back him up, but not able to help myself. His face told me something very clearly that doubled my resolve not to talk to him, though it was also a complete mystery to me; his eyes were bothered, and he definitely had something to get off his chest that bore no relation to his monologue.

“Bangkok’s a great place, you know. There are lots of women here and you can get all the food you’d ever want. If you ever want to go down to the islands there are buses and trains, and the airport’s only an hour away. You can fly anywhere in the world from the airport here, it’s a very good airport; Hong Kong, Singapore, China, you can fly to all those places if you want.”

I scoffed; it was like he was talking to a child. To my mind, there was definitely something slightly infuriating in the slow simple purpose of his voice, like he was uncovering the wonders of global air travel for all to finally enjoy. Still, the African didn’t seem bothered at all. He kept his posture up, and his back was as stony as ever, his shoulders hunched but still somehow so cool. It was probably just my inexperience, but he looked to me like some Lagos hipster sat at a street party, listening to Fela Kuti. I imagined everyone dancing around him going wild with the music, and him, just laying back, relaxed and unaffected; somehow getting more out of it than they ever could.

“Yes” said the African in that same grooved mumble.

A couple of kids ran in front of the cafe; one of them had some little fire crackers in hand he was trying to explode, but he couldn’t get the action quite right. He kept throwing them down lightly and picking them up again. He was only about six years old, and an older girl of around eight appeared to help him. You have to throw them down as hard as you can so that they bounce off the road like a rubber ball, she seemed to be saying. When he finally got one to pop, it sounded rather quiet, but the look of satisfaction and pride on his face shocked me a little. It was so cynical, so adult and spoiled somehow, like he’d bullied his first five year old into giving up their candy. I couldn’t help picturing him using that expression in ten or twenty years; in only a few years he would be one of John’s corrupt policemen sipping whisky after hours, throwing hundred baht notes joyfully onto the table, waiting for the next round of ice and soda.

Then John’s monologue caught my ear again.

“But you know what’s really going on here man, don’t you? For the Thais, it’s all about the King. They love the King and they’ll kill you if you say anything about the King. Be bloody careful mate, that’s my advice to you. Don’t ever mention the King to a Thai. You see those red and yellow shirts and all that stuff, that’s all about the King. One of my Thai mates told me all about it; he’s a yellow shirt see. The King is the only reason this country is still standing, and if it weren’t for the King, it would have all fallen down a long time ago. You can’t argue with that. So now these red shirts and that Mr.Thaksin wants to change all that, but the Thais aren’t having it. No, the Thais are standing up for what they believe in, getting together at last, wearing these yellow shirts. I know they caused a lot of trouble closing the airport and all that, but they just wanted to protect what they believe in, you know. You can see where they’re coming from, can’t you; just standing up for their country. I wish we’d do that more back home. And I hope somebody just shoots that Thaksin, I really do. He’s just a selfish troublemaker and he’s ruining it for everyone. Just ruining it for the Thais and ruining for everyone.”

For some reason, I always enjoyed listening to other Westerner’s views of Thai politics, even though I hardly ever took the same view. It was always so simple and so partisan; as if “the Thais” was just a single entity, and you could ignore all the enormous complexities of Thai history. I looked over at the main street at the end of the Soi, seeing all those cars and buses and motorbikes flying by.

“Yes, I can see that.” It was the African. Oh my, I thought, he can talk. But he didn’t elaborate any further. He was a dude.

“Anyway man, do you think you’re going to stay here for a while? I think you’ll like it here, you know. It’s a good place to do business you know, I’ve done quite a bit of business here over the years...”

Now the African was saying something about his business, but to my dismay I couldn’t hear. He just mumbled the words so quietly, and I wondered if John could hear either. But John didn’t seem to care; perhaps he could hear, perhaps not, or perhaps he wasn’t really listening; secrets just continuing to run through his head like a hidden waterfall.

Then they stood up and shook hands, mumbling and bobbing their heads in unison. John went off quietly to sit at one of the dusty computers, and the African turned to leave. He made a point of looking down at me as he left; he knew I’d heard every word. But what was I supposed to do? It was a small little cafe and it was impossible not to hear what other people were saying. It was definitely a rude awakening though; there were countable seconds when our eyes met, and his glare seemed to communicate a sense of offence taken, or was it violation, somehow caused by my very presence. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but it made me uncomfortable. Perhaps he misinterpreted my being there, or my quiet solitude, thinking I was somehow looking down on him, avoiding him; but he was wrong, I just wanted to get some breakfast. And I had no idea.

No idea at all, at that point anyway, and my subsequent discovery is the main reason I’m telling this little story in the first place. You see, I did sort of figure that African out, but not until I got a good look at him as he walked away down the street. I won’t claim to understand, that would definitely be going too far. But I have to try and keep it perspective; I have to think now that it wasn’t so strange in the context of what goes on. Still, it’s difficult to say it out loud without sounding ridiculous or coarse. Clearly for him it was of fundamental importance, so I won’t try to cheapen it with characterisations or personal interpretations. It’s simple; just facts of life stuff really, so perhaps I should go on and get on with telling you about it. Yes.

You see, I saw them through his open shirt front; anybody who looked would have seen them. I saw those white bra straps. Really they blazed out over those chocolate shoulders. And, the main event, so to speak, sat just a bit further down; the nascent breasts those elastic straps were supporting, their whole reason for being. So simple really. But of course they shocked for a moment. How could it have been otherwise? The way they just sat there under that stubbly black face, below that head upon which sat that trendy hat, bouncing discretely along to Fela Kuti in the backstreets of Lagos; just recently transplanted to Bangkok. Now do you get it? Incredulous? Are things are falling into place? Either way, it’s hardly my fault if truth is stranger than fiction.