Black Tiger (23 page)

Raven

I flipped the sunblind down, shielding my eyes from the white glare. Beside me, General Blaze van Hooten spun the wheel of his big black Chevrolet Impala expertly. He had dispensed with the services of his chauffeur for this trip of ours upcountry, and appeared to relish sitting behind the wheel himself. Plainly exhilarated, he radiated energy and bonhomie. When we finally emerged from the chaos of Bangkok and found ourselves on the open road, rushing eastward between brilliant green paddy fields, he thumped the wheel and emitted a cheery yell, like a Hollywood cowboy, and I grinned.

I was still mystified by his invitation. Was it just typical American friendliness, or was there more behind it? I was conscious that Sya Dam, the focus of my interest, remained in Bangkok. But I was curious to learn more about the country, both for my own interest and the purposes of Smith and his ilk. I needed to get away from Bangkok for a while, to consider my confused feelings about Nancy, and my new, unlikely awareness of Chee Laan Lee. I was haunted by thoughts of her, and in grave danger of making a first-class idiot of myself.

The general settled his bulk more comfortably behind the wheel. ‘So long, Sin City!’ he crowed. ‘Sin City, ha! They all lay the blame on us, par for the course. Let me tell you, Raven, both the Chinese and the Thais have created Bangkok’s reputation themselves. All the American presence ever did was inject hard currency into the situation. Hey—bastard!’

He broke off, cursing. A top-heavy truck, emblazoned with painted eyes and dangling jasmine leis, swerved halfway across the highway, shouldering the Chevrolet toward the deep bank down to the roadside khlong, where the buffalo wallowed and the snowy egrets stalked among the corpses of abandoned or burnt-out vehicles. Fortunately, like many Americans, van Hooten seemed to have been born clutching a steering wheel.

We made our first rest stop where a row of spikes marked the 450-mile-long frontier with Kampuchea. I studied them for a moment, pondering the gleaming white sphere that topped each spike. Realisation dawned on me slowly. They were human skulls, bleached white in the sun. Nausea made my head buzz in the heat, and bittersweet bile surged into my throat. Van Hooten glanced over his shoulder and nodded. ‘Yup. Fugitives, gunned down by the frontier guards. There are hundreds who try, but the Khmer Rouge’ve got every inch of the frontier booby-trapped.’

‘How many make it?’

‘Maybe sixty a month.’

In the fierce sun, I was suddenly cold.

We returned to the car in silence and drove on, northwest now. I was still contemplating the haunting fence of skulls sometime later when, as if telepathically, van Hooten grunted.

‘The Thais never used to be afraid of the Khmer,’ he began. ‘Traditionally, they got their slaves from Cambodia. These days, they’ve got a bad case of insurgency paranoia.’

‘How come?’ I still wondered what his game was, and where I fit in. But the more he talked, the more he would relax.

‘You want the official version? Thailand discovered her insurgency problem in the early sixties.’ His tone was conversational. ‘Wheels were set in motion—economic and political—making counterinsurgency high priority, and rightly so. The threat to the Thai Constitution was openly sponsored by hostile powers outside the country. Communist infiltration had the express aim of undermining security and eroding Thai culture, including the freedom of the individual. Nowadays, every two-bit noodle seller is a dragonslayer, defending the fatherland from the Red Threat.’ He paused, then added quickly, ‘The whole situation has been inflamed by the fanaticism of one individual.’ Correctly reading my silence as curiosity, he spat out the name: ‘Sya Dam!’

‘I gather refugees are hardly welcomed with open arms here,’ I prompted.

He nodded emphatically. ‘Right. Officially, “refugee” is read as “infiltrator or spy”. After the French defeat at Dien Bien Phu in 1954, Thailand took in fifty thousand Viet refugees. Many are still active in the northeast today. Communist agitators, taking orders direct from Hanoi. Even before the boat people gave the whole world a headache, the UN maintained sixteen camps for more than one hundred thousand refugees from Indochina. The camps cost the UN eleven million a year. The Thais are better businessmen: they fine refugees as illegal immigrants. If they can’t pay, they lock ‘em up and throw away the key.’

‘Lock them up where?’

‘Why, right here!’ the general declared, with the timing of a showman, hauling the Chevrolet violently off the highway and onto a red dirt track leading straight to the camp. Here, on the frontier between Thailand and Laos, an open-air cage held a listless horde of sad-looking people staring into space.

‘Laotians. They’re the lucky ones,’ van Hooten said. ‘The Thais don’t mind Laotians in general. They call them “Black Thais”, regard them as somewhat inferior ethnic cousins. They rob them blind while they’re in the camp, of course—nothing personal, just business. When they need cheap labour for their own factories, they hire refugees. Refugees are less trouble than Thai labourers. Thais are wising up to their rights, getting uppity, the usual things: trade unions, social security, paid vacations. Whereas refugees are grateful. Everyone wins.’

I studied the Laotians. They didn’t look as if they appreciated their good fortune. There was a commotion at the Border Patrol Police point. Van Hooten shrugged into his uniform jacket as we left the car and strolled over. A few police officers stood around, watching an emaciated Thai clad only in a ragged vest and greyish tattered pants. He was telling a dramatic tale with much gesticulation. The burly Thai police captain introduced himself to us. He pointed at the storyteller with his baton, proudly, as one exhibiting a rare and valuable animal. ‘This man, Thai soldier, escape Pathet Lao. Pathet Lao, very bad people. This man work all-same pack animal. Human buffalo. Long time long time ne’er mind this man, drink only rice water.’

The man, following the exposition of his story with hot, dark eyes, nodded violently, and demonstrated vividly how sick he’d gotten of rice water. ‘Only way not to be sick, this man pretend drinking Ovaltine,’ the police captain concluded triumphantly.

It was a surreal moment. In Bangkok, every pig-iron fence around a new building site is plastered with posters featuring those curiously old-fashioned, Janet-and-John Ovaltine ads, red-cheeked kids with hair slides and Fairisle sweaters. Clearly, this nursery goodnight drink, in the Thai consciousness, rivalled Tiger Balm as a universal panacea.

‘Fight again,’ declared the Human Buffalo suddenly. He walked close to van Hooten and examined his uniform meticulously. ‘But not side by side with American. American not understand war. American think off duty, boots off, gun down. Think only bad sportsman kills unarmed man eating ice cream. But guerrilla, very bad people, shoot plenty American with mouth full ice cream!’

‘I think this man does not mean rudeness,’ interjected the police captain anxiously.

‘Sure, son,’ van Hooten beamed. ‘Well, men,
tempus fugit
, as the man said. Gotta hit the trail.’

As we drove off, van Hooten said, ‘He’s got a point—that Human Buffalo guy. There’s an element of complacency. I guess many Americans are just too comfortable.’ He laughed, a fat, rich, deep chuckle that suggested he was pretty comfortable himself.

We slept that night—uncomfortably—in a Chinese village hotel, its damp walls green with slime. Awakened at dawn by the screeching of jungle roosters, we breakfasted at the coffee shop in the dusty street: greasy cold rice saturated with putrid fish sauce, coffee like liquid varnish. An old man played plaintively on a three-stringed fiddle, and among the poultry and goats a group of saffron-robed monks walked in silent file, impassively accepting food in their bowls from the devout. In the opposite direction strode an elephant in silent majesty toward his day’s work in the teak forest, his newly washed hide gleaming copper and blue.

‘Poor Pastor Waddle, now.’ Van Hooten rocked a little on his chair, regarding without enthusiasm the raw eggs served in two streaked glasses. The café owner, a toothless sage with betel-stained teeth, had set the eggs before us with pride. ‘Preaching to the La-wa’s no walk in the park, even for a dedicated man. The La-wa always ate missionaries, until the fulfilment of the prophecy.’

My uneasiness deepened. I shut my eyes and downed an egg, doing my best to pretend it was an oyster and I was in New Orleans after a long night, the bloodsong of the drums still throbbing in my ears. I failed dismally. ‘Prophecy?’ I repeated.

‘The La-wa were deserted by their gods. Much like the rest of us.’ Van Hooten sighed and fell silent for a moment. ‘Difference was, they foretold a god would return, as a white man, mounted on a white mule, with a book in his hand, who would show no fear. So when a Caucasian doctor, riding a white mule, fell into one of their animal traps, they were about to terminate him until some smartass recalled the prophecy. So they fell down and worshipped him instead. Man hadn’t shown fear because he was drunk as a skunk at the time. Much later, some busybody told the La-wa the truth, and they were sore as hell. That’s why I need to check up on old Waddle. Make sure they haven’t eaten him out of orneriness!’ He grinned boyishly. ‘Shattering illusions is dangerous, Raven; folks get mighty upset.’

We left the Chevrolet, guarded by locals after negotiations conducted by van Hooten in a mixture of pidgin Thai and sign language, and took to the water in a long-tail boat manned by a betel-chewing skeleton. As our boat roared up the river, I was struck by the deathly stillness of the landscape. I had expected the jungles of Thailand to teem with exotic wildlife. Brilliant tatters of bright blue snagged on the reeds. Seeing it, I cried, ‘A kingfisher!’ against the noise of the engine, only to be disappointed when it was just a rag. But there were more turquoise rags, and these had chestnut heads and moved independently of the breeze, and I realised that there were kingfishers after all. A few white herons and egrets flapped furiously, creating momentum to slip the water’s muddy face. A flock of great hornbills clattered into the bamboo thicket on huge piebald wings. Rabid bats infested the cave shrines, jungle bees as big as birds, and bee-eater birds smaller than butterflies. Except for one curious squirrel, we saw no mammals, not even a rat. I’d seen more wildlife in Hyde Park.

‘Locals like to hunt between rice harvests,’ van Hooten shouted to my unspoken question. ‘Any source of protein, and pow!’ he mimicked, pointing his finger first at my stomach, lingering just too long for comfort, and then, grinning lazily, across the turgid stream at the peering squirrel. ‘I think you’re going to find Mae Sod interesting,’ he said.

‘Interesting how?’ I asked. But he just put on one of those jovial, impenetrable smiles of his.

In Mae Sod, a market town on the banks of the Myawaddy River, which marks the border with Burma, people were going about their affairs casually, without curiosity. Down the gravel pathway leading to the riverside, an incongruous figure approached on a wavering course.

‘Ah, behold, the man of God cometh,’ van Hooten boomed, stepping from the river craft onto the muddy shore. The missionary was riding an old-fashioned lady’s push-bike. He pedalled inexpertly and extremely slowly, wobbling to a degree that caused his sun helmet to bob up and down. Beneath the sun helmet his face gleamed with a rigid pinkness, like week-old ham. ‘Well, Pastor? How goes it?’ boomed the general.

‘Welcome in the Lord’s name, friends!’ the pastor cried, dropping his bicycle in the dust. He seized our hands as though he would have dragged us to our knees there and then to offer up a prayer. ‘Isn’t this delightful? Come, my treasure has prepared refreshment!’ I contemplated him in silence as, wheeling his cycle now, he walked slightly ahead of us through the narrow street. As if piqued by this scrutiny, he declared: ‘My treasure, Patsri. She keeps house for me. The only soul I can be quite confident of having won for Jesus amongst the La-wa, I’m afraid. Historically, they are a people responsible for much mistreatment of God’s servants. Most lamentably resistant to the Word.’ He shook his head disconsolately. Van Hooten grunted and slapped the missionary’s bony shoulder in a bracing manner.

Patsri, a vast dark woman, scorned us and refused to offer a respectful Thai greeting. In keeping with her status as one of the Saved, she shook our hands in a crippling grip and pointed imperiously to three bamboo chairs. ‘I bring drink,’ she announced.

‘Tea?’ Waddle suggested, smiling anxiously.

The woman clicked her teeth. ‘No tea. Forget.’

‘Oh, dear. You forgot to buy tea? But you know how I like my tea, Patsri,’ he whined like a disappointed child.

‘Ghost steal my shopping list.’ She stared down at him implacably.

Waddle grew pinker than ever about the gills. He removed his sun helmet, setting it upon a glass-topped table. ‘Now, Patsri, sheer superstitious nonsense! There are no ghosts!’

‘No ghost, no Holy Ghost!’ As we three men appeared silenced by this casuistry, she continued: ‘Maybe Holy Ghost Himsef steal shopping list.’ Waddle continued to glare as she placed tall, rough-edged glasses before us and filled them with 7-Up. No alternative was offered. I gritted my teeth and let the sickly fizz swill around them.

‘So, how’s life, Pastor?’ the general asked, wiping his mouth.

Waddle looked depressed. ‘Challenging. I wrestle constantly with Satan for the souls of these people, steeped in ignorance and superstition, and yet the Lord sees fit to visit other trials upon me. Prickly heat. Such a pestilence!’

‘You always contrive to wring my heart, Waddle! Last time you were dying of gut-ache!’

The missionary winced. ‘Ah, yes. I fear that affliction still recurs.’ He wrinkled his pink nose, reminding me incongruously of a rabbit. Much later, I would discover that even as a corpse, Waddle, with his pink nose, his air of perplexed anxiety frozen in death, would resemble a white rabbit.

‘Soon you’ll have the diversion of the Asia rally,’ van Hooten remarked.

Waddle’s forehead contracted as in pain. ‘All that dust, that loudness!’