For this week’s throwback to a time when I should have blogged and did not, I’m going back to my friend Alee’s place on Koh Sukorn. A little island in the far south of Thailand. To help me expend as little effort as possible on the task at hand, I will be using an excerpt from my book One Time In…

One Time In…

Koh Sukorn, Thailand

You know, the last time we met, he offered to find me a wife.
But context is everything. So that’s not really what had me concerned about paying a visit to my pal Alee in Koh Sukorn. Okay, it was that a little. But even as an invited guest with gift in hand, wrapped in yellow, per Thai gift giving customs, the “contract” of guest to host seemed at the very precipice of my business pedigree.
But this wasn’t someone’s house I was slipping into. It was a new way of life.
I wasn’t a tourist. I was just a friend. Going to sleep with the sun. Waking pre-sunrise to the chants of Alee and Seet at their morning prayers. Not just studying Thai language every day, but using it to live daily life (village kids are tenacious instructors).

On the morning of the 13th, I woke up for the sixth time in Alee’s home. When praying ceased, Alee went out to tend to the garden he maintained around the house. And I went to draw water for this morning’s bucket shower. Alee’s family lived in Satun, so it was just he, I, and Seet (an Arabic teacher also under Alee’s patronage).
I stepped into the bathroom and bent over the water bin to splash some water into my face. To my surprise, the barrel was nearly empty. To my greater surprise, when I opened up the spigot to acquire water to shower with, nothing happened. It’s one of those contradictions to the expected that leave you momentarily dumbfounded. Today, I would learn to appreciate a good well.
Normally the first bucket of cold water was something I looked forward to looking back on. But as I washed among the rubber trees like the Thais of old, I payed less attention to the refreshing shock than usual. Figured some village kid’s head was gonna pop out a bush like the peeping Tom’s of old and call the attention of the whole region.
When I was squeaky clean, my towel and I walked back to the house.
Alee and Seet were gathering the ingredients for breakfast. Everything we ate there came from within the island’s shores and, to me, it was the pinnacle of culinary achievement (only two steps lower than my grandma’s chocolate chip cookies).

This morning, my wet head and I helped shred the coconuts Alee had cut on the beach the day before.
First, Alee split the coconuts and collected the water/milk. Then I sat astride the scraper (shaped kind of like a square wooden horse with a sharp metal star on the head) and shredded the meat into a container. Alee could do this much faster than I, but I think he appreciated that I wanted to help. Anyway, he then soaked the shredded coconut in water and strained it to prepare the base of our soup. Then we fired up the kitchen and started to stew.
The kitchen was on the side of the house. Open at both ends, with two counters; one between the roof pillars and one on the wall. Over a gas stove built into the latter, I stirred the milk as it stewed with chilies, garlic, and onions. Once the broth came to a boil, Alee added Chaew (some kind of clam), Lemon Grass, and Pakhow (an herb that apparently doesn’t have an English name). Before breakfast was served, he also added salt and sugar to his taste.

As always, we dished our food out over steamed rice. When Alee couldn’t get me to eat any more, he left on his scooter to go supervise some workers he had fixing up an old resort by the sea. I cleared dishes and Seet washed. Then we retired to our respective habits. He sat on his bed and read singingly aloud and I started to write.
At that point, I was actually writing the first chapters of this book. And I was having one hell of a time with it. Not only was I struggling with whether or not it, and my writing in general, was any good. (Not a resolved issue.) But there was also a pair of little brown eyes watching me intently from the doorway.
No, two. There were three little Thai kids with big silly grins on their faces. Ahm and Ohm. The brothers. Plus one. They were the source of chaos in my life, as if I needed any help.
I was trying, as I am now, to install a set of habits in my life. Habits that would allow me to be more productive without so much conscious effort. To accomplish that, I felt a need for structure. I do this, then that. What I’m doing at any given time has a purpose, whatever that purpose is.
Ahm was the older brother, but Ohm always seemed in the lead (if not truly in charge). And they were constantly wanting to play cards, which always descended into chaos. They wanted to lead me off somewhere. They wanted to chatter at me in Thai.
Today, Ahm, Ohm, and a little girl named Deena plopped down on my bed and began the usual introduction. Rapid, winding, twisting sentences I could rarely understand in full, beginning with “Pi Tony” and ending with “okay?”. This conversation lasted about half an hour and involved me imitating every sound known to man, before I figured out that they were teaching me the names of things I was imitating.
Before lunchtime, I had been pulled out of the house and down the lane which runs between the rubber groves behind Alee’s land.

October, 13, 2019
…and the kids (Ahm, Ohm, and one other little girl) took me on a walk out back today. They kept giving me plant leaves to try, “Gin Doo! Gin Doo!”. They told me the names of all sorts of things, but all I remember is “bai poi”. That is what Ahm told Ohm when they seemed hesitant about crossing a fence line. From his gestures, I think it means “you first”.
For lunch, Seet and I spooned broth over our rice with left over Blaa Haa (Fish Five) and Bamboo Shoots from the night before. The youngsters ate with us, as was often the case.
See everyone on the Island of Sukorn knows who Alee is and everyone knows where his house is. In a culture where a man’s worth is judged by the generosity of which he is capable, Alee is the Godfather of Sukorn. That means Seet was Johnny Fontane. I was Tom Hagen. And all these kids were little Clemenzas.
Immediately after lunch, the Clemenzas followed me to my bed. I wasn’t going to get any work done this way, so I lay down and play dead. Hey, it’s not that funny. What’s funny is how Ohm, who only a few days ago hadn’t worked up the nerve to speak to me, quickly jumped on top of me and began chest compressions.
I don’t know where he learned to do that, but he learned well. Nonetheless, my persistence paid off! The cute little buggers scampered out the open door into the sunlight and I had time to plan a lesson for my student scheduled that afternoon.
In the meantime, it was about time for Seet’s lesson to begin. Whereas I would be studying spontaneous English conversation with a young Russian student, Seet was teaching Arabic. The children of the village would gather on the patio with their books open. Seet would chant a line and the kids would chant it back while their fingers glided over the line in their books.
He would sing it three or four times, sometimes reprimanding a student for an incorrect pronunciation. Come to think, I should try that with my students! You might think that this left me in the clear. Actually, I’d say not. You probably thought no such thing.
But while the Arabian sing song sprung up, I was slowly surrounded. This time, by two little girls and a little boy all aged about two years. As I tried to commit some more words to the old harddrive, they crept closer and closer. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the shyness melting away.
Today was the day, according to my journal, that I learned the word Rawang, meaning careful! Cause the smaller Clemenzas were jumping on the bed, my laptop, me, and falling to the concrete floor. Nevertheless, in these situations, one must maintain composure.
Especially with Thai kids, because in Thai culture, to lose one’s composure is very bad form. If an adult were to become visibly angry or stressed, it would constitute a severe sia naa, or “loss of face.” Because only children lose there tempers I guess.
Rather, then, than get angry with the cuties, I decided have perspective and a little fun. Taking out my playing cards acquired their immediate attention. Now I am really bad at magic tricks, but I thought, correctly, that I just might be able to pull it off for this crowd.
Holding the deck in my right hand, I performed a double lift. Showing all the good little boy and girls the second card down, while allowing them to believe that it was the top card. Then, I took and placed the real top card facedown on the blanket. When one of them grabbed it and turned it over, the card had “changed”.
If you want to feel good about yourself, perform magic for two-year-olds. They have no perception of what is and isn’t possible. There’s no cynicism. They just believe what their eyes tell them and their eyes told them that I was a wizard with dark magical powers.
As soon as the card turned over, gasps and squeals filled the room! Eyes cut from me to the card and back again. Pom, the oldest girl, flipped the card back over. Then frowned upon realizing that it hadn’t changed again. She grabbed another card and tried, with great concentration, to repeat what I had done. Turns out she isn’t a sorceress either and it remained the same.
Again, I demonstrated with great ceremony. The second changed card was greeted with even louder squeals. Then I did the trick again, but this time having a child lay the card down before I waved my finger at it. They attacked the deck! Insisting on trying every card and every method of laying them down in order to reach my result. (When I left the island, I left the pack as a gift.)
I considered waving my finger at one of them to see if I could clear the room, but at that moment, Alee came in and it wasn’t necessary. “You teach today?”
I suddenly remembered, “Yes. At four o’clock.”
“Okay.” Alee took me by scooter to the place he’s renovating. The old and soon to be new Cabana Resort. A row of little yellow houses near the island’s western shore. And there, I taught my online lesson. On a little porch by the sea.
My student said he couldn’t hear it, but the sky was dominated by dark thunderheads rolling in across the horizon. I work in the best offices!

The rest of the day was constituted mostly of food and conversation with Alee. Oh yes, and Alee also played himself a little joke on a certain Somkit and myself. Here’s how that went.
Sitting at the table outside Alee’s front door, were Alee, Somkit, and myself. Conversations like these happened every time someone passed by Alee’s house and they were a great chance for me to try to speak Thai. Somkit, whose name I hadn’t learned yet, was questioning me on what I do for a living. Obviously a tricky subject for me, especially since he only speaks Thai, but I was getting along quite well.
Alee, who was listening to both sides of our conversation with some amusement, suddenly spoke up. “You can call him Toh Tah.”
“Is that his name?”
“You can call him Toh Tah.” And he grinned. I turned to Somkit and asked, in Thai, if his name was Toh Tah. He just looked confused and, to Alee’s concealed disappointment, we passed over it. However, a little later, Somkit and Alee were talking. And I was listening, trying to pick some up.
Suddenly, I picked up the word ”falang”, meaning Westerner. On Koh Sukorn, that almost always meant me, so I asked Somkit, “Toh Tah. Kun poot ari?” Apparently context is everything, because the words Toh Tah now got an entirely different reaction!
A delighted Alee enjoyed the chaos for a moment before explaining in Thai and English. What he had told me to call Somkit was in fact the regional dialect for father-in-law. Somkit had two unmarried daughters and was now overly curious as to my meaning. For my part, I couldn’t help recalling Alee’s previous offer to find a wife for me. (Another story entirely.)
On tonight’s rice we ate a hearty meal of curried longbean, snails, and little fried sardines. Both men found my attempts at getting the snails out of the shell a trifle amusing before I figured it out. Alee passed me the small fry. “Easy to eat.”
As a matter of fact, Alee kept trying pass me things. Seemingly as a method of clearing the wooden picnic table.
At last he succeeded in getting the last of the rice onto my plate. Before I was done, we were knee deep in conversation. Alee told me about business on the island. Particularly the rubber, of which he had several sheets hanging just outside. He told me about his future plans for the land he’s collected over the years. He hopes to have the work ready to pass on to his son, who is about my age. Next time I come, I’d have to meet him.
According to Alee, not everyone understands why he feels friendship toward someone so different. He can’t see why not.
“All people in the world. Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, all. We are the world. When I see they fight, make me sick my head. I want people here to see we are friend. And now people, you know, the kids, Somkit, they know. They like you. When you come back, everyone know you.”
If for nothing else, I gotta recommend people visit Koh Sukorn, so you can sit out on a warm night with a friend and watch the Heng Hoi float between the trees.

…

Because I haven’t written all the chapters of this book in order. This is my final chapter. It has actually ended up being the longest one as well. So allow me to get a little artistic in describing the final scene of my first book.
Seet lay on his bed. Alee on his mat. I sat listening to the night sounds and Robin William’s impression of Mr. Rogers. Both the wooden doors sat tightly shut and smoke from an anti-mosquito incense spiraled towards the ceiling. It smelled kind of like sassafras.
The last thing I saw before rolling over to close my eyes were a pair of geckos chasing each other around the wall.

I should have this week’s post up later today…

So, until then, if it brings you peace and joy…

Feel free to check out One Time In… on the Kindle Store!