The Writing Life
Of course, I realize my experience at Songkran that year was trivial enough in the scheme of things, but that is not the point. The problem with my writing about Thailand had been that I was seeing it through the anemic gaze of a farang who had been charmed by the people, especially the courageous and resourceful young women who work the bars. I had allowed myself to be charmed because it was a lot easier than facing the tragic reality behind the smiles. (There was a pattern here: A long time before I had chosen law as an easy option and very nearly bored myself to death.) Now I knew what pressures had produced that courage and resourcefulness, what incredible nobility it took for them to send 60 percent of their earnings home to support their families, buy buffalo, pay for day labor during the rice harvest, build toilets — and indulge alcoholic sisters and brothers. Now, when I watched them dancing in the bars, I knew where they were coming from. I had penetrated the surface at last.
Nong and I have remained friends, and I am still grateful to her. She called the other day on her cell phone to explain that she was in jail in a police station, having been busted for possessing a small amount of ganja , and could I lend her 5,000 baht to bribe the cop? I gave her aunt the money, and Nong came to see me, grinning, the next day.
“How was jail?”
“Fine, except for the mosquitoes.”
In Thai jails there is not the same heavy judgmental pressure that we exert in the West; people are left to chill out in their own ways and reflect on the negative karma that leads to insect bites and other tortures. For me, that somehow sums up the whole country. The analogy works on the creative level too, for human consciousness is a tiny, frail craft atop a wild ocean without a shore, and you must submit to the wonder and terror of it if you want to go fishing. ยท
John Burdett is the author of “Bangkok 8″ and “Bangkok Tattoo”.