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Part 6

Finally the 'guilty' party arrived, in the blue Isuzu lorry and two pick-up trucks; with the truck driver, his father, his brother, his wife, and four of his friends. The laughter and joking ceased from my party. Sawasdee's (hellos) were exchanged, faces turned grim, I feared a gang war was ready to break out, flick knives would appear from the back pockets of blue jeans and Muay Thai (Thai kick boxing) stances would be enacted before my very eyes. These guys all looked serious. Must have been the thought of the extracted baht to come. Nothing gets a Thai guy more serious than the thought of having to spend his hard earned baht on something other than 'sanuk' (fun). Especially irksome if it is because a stupid falang had the nerve to get behind a poor working Thai guy when he backs up his truck when not looking. Luckily the cops were there I thought at the time. Electricity crackled in the air. It was time to do the dirty deed.

All the women sat around on the rock hard benches and started chatting merrily away. All the guys surrounded the damaged red shitbox and poked and prodded the damaged areas muttering what I assume were intelligent informed comments on the cheapest way to fix what the stupid falang did to the truck. Yeah, right. Negative sounds were made in clucking tones and grimaces made over the extensive damage. Excited chatterings were exchanged between the opposing parties. The American was blamed for having too damned many nukes ... oops ... wrong negotiations. But evil glances and dark looks were thrown from the opposing party's members my way and quite a few muttered 'falang' were overheard by the falang, and it did not sound like they were using 'falang' as a mere descriptive. Sounded more like a swear word in this usage. 

The hood was opened to more exclamations and clucking. The mechanics circled the truck and uttered prices, all conflicting, and pooh-pooh-ed by the opposite parties. The tall cop called the supposedly 'unbiased' mechanic over to give his verdict on the cost of repairs. When he uttered the total of what he thought the cost would be BOTH parties eyes opened wide and he was pummeled with derisive laughter, and not so politely told to "fuck off you thieving bastard, we'll do this with our mechanics, your help is no longer needed. Beat it." He smiled and left. I still think to this day that his overinflated estimate was a ploy from my family's cop friend and my truck's owner to get the price jacked-up there, for a sensible negotiation downwards toward something more agreeable to both parties. We all know how good these Thais are at haggling! For them it's a game; it's exciting, it's fun, it's a test of each party's negotiating skills, and they truly love this stuff.

Now the hood was opened again to more chattering and haggling. Then it was closed and everyone chatted some more. One guy started picking some small fruits off a tree that the broken truck was parked under. Others saw this treat and climbed in the back of the truck for easier reaching and proceeded to strip the lower branches bare, sharing with each other this delicacy. Friend and foe alike chomped down on the small fruits, and opened the hood again with a screeching noise. More jabbering ensues. The sun turns a ruddy red and races towards the horizon. Mosquitoes start their early evening explorations of the available food supply in the yard.

The hood is opened and closed again. The falang, me, decides he doesn't care much for the fruit, too bitter. How the hell can they eat the damned things? They taste like crap. He washes his mouth of the fruity taste with the dregs of a warm cola and lights another cigarette. He offers his Winstons around as a gesture of friendship and camaraderie. No takers. They prefer the Thai menthols, Spring Rain, but smile at the farang in appreciation of his friendly gesture. The hood is opened and closed again. The farang wonders why the hell they keep opening and closing the hood. What? Do they expect the radiator to miraculously be repaired by Buddha while they wait around and chat? Let's get the freaking show on the road here boys! The mosquitoes zero in on the falang's ankles, prime feeding grounds. He resists scratching the bites until some of the Thai guys start to scratch themselves. No showing of falang weakness from this white boy.

A consensus is reached. Another mechanic needs to be consulted by the guilty party. They seem to think he can give an even cheaper price for the repairs needed, since Buddha doesn't seemed too inclined to do any repairs as we all stand around and get eaten by the mossies. This is conveyed to the tall cop, with promises to return in an hour. He approves and the guilty party all climb back in their vehicles and leave.

The puzzled farang, me, asks what the heck is going on, and it is all explained patiently to his dumb ass.

"We wait, they come back." is the hue and cry.

The tall cop comes over to me and puts his hand on my shoulder and, smiling, says something in Thai, the only part of which I understand is, "Chang". What the hell's this about elephants?

(to be continued)

Cent
(The Central Scrutinizer)

© Written in the year 2000. All rights reserved by the author.