Isaan confidential: (more) tales from northeast Thailand

[somtamslap]

I find these read really well after half a pint of strong liquour. Enter sober at your own risk...



Barbie and the beast
I was drinking beer and watching Barbie and the Three Musketeers when it happened. Of course I was. What else would I be doing? When you have two young daughters and you reside in the arse-end of Indochina, you generally only have two friends to speak of — beer… and Barbie. The former allows you to retain a soupcon of sanity while the latter gets played on an interminable loop which after several months you surmise will continue for all of eternity — so you do what you have to do and try and make friends with it. And after all, Barbie and her pals seem to be doing a fine job of keeping the children entertained so we’ll just leave her be…
Save for myself and the girls, the village was empty on this Sunday evening. An event at a neighbouring temple had piqued the interest of many and the locals had decamped en masse to join in the merriment-cum-merit making malarkey. It was now eerily quiet. Apart from the fussy cluckings of next door's chickens as they rounded their young, and the occasional breeze-bound howl of a stray hound lamenting its luck, the only sound to be heard was that of Barbie, crooning yet another ballad about how her fucking pony died or something.

It was as one such ditty was coming to an end that I felt the aura of my living room change, almost tangibly Spontaneously spinning my head around, I looked into the kitchen where the only life to speak of was that of the rice cooker stoically bubbling away on the kitchen counter. Out on the balcony, the light had attracted a melange of insect life which had in turn garnered the interest of a posse of geckos who patiently stalked their prey. Aside from this, and the now gentle snores of my offspring snoozing cherubically on the sofa, it appeared that the only presence in the immediate vicinity was my own, and Barbie’s of course.
But I just couldn’t shake that feeling off. The feeling, the acute sensation that someone, something, was watching me. And it — whatever it was — was close. Very close indeed. Agitated, I decided that the only way to allay this intense discomfort was to drink more beer, immediately.

Making to stand, however, from the corner of my eye I caught a bowel-loosening glimpse of something standing behind me. Instinctively cowering away while simultaneously preparing to engage this person, this thing, with a huge right hook, I was stopped in my tracks as I began to process the situation.
An entity, shod in a mish-mash of ill-fitting and threadbare garments. Piercing eyes that never left mine. A gnarled and bony hand held out, fingers slowly unfurling to reveal a calloused palm. And now, surely the killer blow — opening its mouth out comes a rattling and rasping sound, almost like a whine or a plea, three frightful, disturbing syllables: “Yeee-sippp baht”, it hissed. “Yeeeeee-sipppppp bahhhhhhhht”.

“Oh, hello Por”, I said. “Didn’t you go to the temple tonight?”


Isaan angling association

I was sitting in my local shop one weekday lunchtime, deeply immersed in the pages of a Bill Bryson bestseller while nipping at sporadic shots of Ya-Dong. For those of you that don’t know, Ya-Dong is essentially Lau Khao — rice whisky, Thai moonshine, liquid fucking satan — with a liberal sprinkling of various herbs added. This serves not only to make it slightly more palatable, but also lends it a degree of social acceptability — because only the plebs and the ruthless drunkards drink neat Lau Khao, didn’t you know…

Anyway, I’d just finished up a chapter, the one where Bill laments, at length, the price of taking a piss in Manchester Piccadilly, when a gaggle of undesirables marched forth into the venue and boorishly plonked themselves down on the seats next to me. Ordering an entire bottle of Lau Khao (the bloody peasants), they proceeded to drink themselves into a splendid stupor, and, as is customary in this part of the world, everybody on the table (including myself) was included in each round of shots. Come early evening we had decided that we were all the very best of friends and that we actually loved each other very much. And by 8pm, just before we were violently ill in unison on the edge of the neighbouring papaya plantation, we arranged to meet the following day for a spot of fishing. The chaps, you see, knew the perfect place…

The next day of course did not start well. My mouth tasted like I’d been fed the weekly sweepings of a guinea pig hutch. And my head felt like it was full of freshly passed donkey diarrhea. Regardless, I was still keen to cast a line with my newfound chums and after seven cups of coffee and a laboured slice of toast, I packed my telescopic (and never-before-used) fishing rod into a rucksack, clambered aboard my motorcycle and made haste to the river.

Being the first to arrive, I found a likely spot under the shade of a bamboo thicket and tackled up. I was intrigued; how would my angling technique compare to that of the locals? Would they use floats of ledgers? Did they pre-bait the swim? Did they feel the maggot trumped the worm? Or would they just plump for the humble kernel of corn? Oh, how I was looking forward to a day tranquility and relaxation.

You may forgive me for being a little startled then, when the Brothers Lau Khao eventually turned up to our little clandestine aquatic gathering and brandished a piece of apparatus not dissimilar to a cattle prod. Cackling with an insanity exclusive to regular moonshine users, the oldest of the three then proceeded to plunge the device into the river and electrocute every fucker living in it.
And so concluded a delightful day in the country. I’ve had eel on the belch ever since...

In the battle field

In the winter (yes, despite the temperature regularly topping out at 38 degrees we are still supposed to call the period between November and February ‘winter’) I would invariably flaunt my unskilled labourer credentials to an in-law who owned a dozen or so acres of farmland. By the year’s end his land would be bursting at the boundaries with sweetcorn, and some lucky punter would be paid the princely wage of 40 baht a sack to harvest the crop. I always got the job for several reasons: a) I lived next to his land and would therefore, in theory, always turn up to work on time, b) I was perpetually short on cash — he knew this, and I suppose he took pity, c) He wanted to watch my white ass toiling in his fields.

It was hard, back-breaking graft which would yield a paltry financial dividend. The money was fucking awful. The first ever day I worked in the fields I grinded away for ten solid hours amid torrential humidity and came away with about 20 English pence. And nurses think they have it bad.

One particular day though, towards the end of November, I had already cleared a quarter of the land and was now working next to a thicket of dense jungle at the back of the field. By this time I had established a system which as well maximising productivity, also gave me the opportunity to sit on my backside for protracted periods of time... The morning would be spent ripping husks from plants and creating a gargantuan pile, which I subsequently shucked and sacked in the afternoon — I’d usually do this while listening to an audiobook to stave off the onset of insanity. Unskilled work had been brought to new heights of ennui.

At around 5pm, just as the day was winding down and I was bagging the final fruits of the day’s labour, I noted, with large amounts of interest, a snake gliding through the thicket purposefully towards me. I decided the most appropriate course of action at this juncture was to run away very fucking fast indeed. So I rose deftly to my feet and began sprinting for the horizon. However, en route, due to my haste and fluster I was blind to a low-hanging ball of foliage which I ran straight into. Unfortunately, this particular low-hanging ball of foliage transpired to be a red weaver ants nest and they spilled over me like the contents of a burst water bomb. If you’ve ever been bitten by one of these psychotic little critters you’ll know that they are so intent on inflicting pain that even if you remove their bodies from their heads, they will continue to gnaw ferociously on their chosen square centimetre of skin. The bastards. So imagine being subjected to thousands of pair of pincers. And then imagine — if you can possibly conjure this thought — falling head first into a fucking wasps nest.

This had turned out to be a really rotten evening.

I think I’d look good shod in saffron robes. And if I could just perfect my sweeping technique and practise sleeping for protracted periods of time I could well qualify for a spot in the local monastery.

[somtamslap]

It was hard, back-breaking graft which would yield a paltry financial dividend.

Regarding the corn/animal feed.

I was in Pets at Home with the kids yesterday when I stumbled on these...



This is the exact product I was harvesting.

Uncle Sombat is making a fucking fortune.

[aging one]

I really liked these installments. Plus it made me realize, get off of TD when you have your first great buzz of the day and start penning your memoirs. Slap just may have kicked me in the butt. Slap, Hemmingway, Casteneda look out.

[Maanaam]

What a great read! Thanks STS.

Castaneda AO? Hahaha..I read one of his books maybe 35 years ago. Inspired me to try Pacific island mushies with kava.....great stuff.

[somtamslap]

first great buzz of the day

Hemmingway

Balls to that. Do everything drunk and eat kebabs.

[beerlaodrinker]

It was hard, back-breaking graft which would yield a paltry financial dividend.

Regarding the corn/animal feed.

I was in Pets at Home with the kids yesterday when I stumbled on these...



This is the exact product I was harvesting.

Uncle Sombat is making a fucking fortune.

fucking hell, 3 quid for corn that looks like por,s had a nibble out of it already?wow. There's gotta be an easier way to make a quid slappers. Rice farming perhaps? I've heard the hours are good except for when you plant and harvest it. Just a thought.

[klong toey]

Our Gert has to stop the craving for eating bugs whilst we are in the UK.
Fecking £6:49 for 45g of mealworms daylight robbery not paying that much for a few bugs.She is even more annoyed at the moment because mother was given a load of Durian the other day.
Darling, Durian from South Thailand aloy mak i want to eat she is just going to have to wait another 6 weeks until we fly back home to Bangkok.

[somtamslap]

fucking hell, 3 quid for corn

I know. I've already started the marketing this end. Anyone fnacy boarding a new money making venture - involving corn?

^Your Gert wants to get a herself a job in a Thai restaurant. I had pad krapow moo gob with Singha on Friday. For free. Thai people in England give you stuff. It's mental.

[klong toey]

Your Gert wants to get a herself a job

Looking after me is a big enough job for her without finding a bit of part time work on the side.

[Dillinger]

She could take care of you even better with a big corn on the cob and some lurpak.

[Maanaam]

^ and pepper.

[somtamslap]

Darling, I want to cover you in pepper and sneeze all over you.