'Hopeless colonial in Pattaya'
Thailand, long ago.
Visiting a restaurant with wife Oy, located in the bustling Pattaya by the sea.
As I make earnest attempts to act like a 'man of the world' by tasting the small amount of wine the Thai waitress has just poured for me, my wife asks me why I don't just have a whole glass.
I do that at home too, don't I?
Fortunately, the lady at the table doesn't understand English, so I can simply continue with my ritual of carefully sipping, looking doubtful and pretending to know which French bank of the Rhône this Australian grape juice comes from.
My wife, who had already put many a cork back in the bottle prematurely so as not to have to accompany me staggering back to the hotel, dives back into the menu.
Her part in the coming steamy calorie battle will therefore consist entirely of wolfing down a fair amount of seafood, sipping on a glass of iced fruit juice, and casting disapproving glances at both my food choices and my intake of unwholesome fluids.
A little further away at another table, an older white-bearded farang sits opposite a small Thai girl.
The child belongs to a Thai lady who has just walked to the buffet with her farang friend, leaving her daughter in the care of her grandfather for the time being.
This one, who from his appearance appears to be the farang's father, leans towards the girl and then says in a blisteringly loud tone: 'you are a lucky girl!'
The child looks at him as if she sees water burning, and probably hasn't understood a word of it. Whereupon grandpa Decibel repeats it one more time to let it sink in.
Again at ship's horn volume, which gives me the impression that he used to hang around in thumping discos too much, leering at lipsticked wenches and is now deaf as a token of gratitude.
The girl stares at him slightly bewildered, and then looks back at the buffet to see if her mother is not yet approaching. So that she might get a translation of what this foreign Santa Claus is shouting at her young brain.
I myself have an idea of what the old one is referring to, and I don't like it.
Even Mrs Oy, whose degree in English is the equivalent of entering the 100m Olympic butterfly with a forged treading water diploma, understands what she's talking about.
She is not amused either.
Then the poor child is saved by the gong, as a waiter arrives at their table and holds out an unopened bottle of wine to the old foghorn for his approval.
Who doesn't come, because immediately it rings out across the mountain and valley that 'we always have our own wine' or, in other words, save this stuff for the plebs, we are special.
This sentence, delivered with great indignation and accompanied by sweeping gestures, suggests that he had already been drinking his 'own wine'.
Whereupon the waiter returns empty-handed with the rejected gesture.
After this disconcerting display, you will probably open all the kitchen cupboards in search of a pair of suitable earplugs, or ask the chef for a knife that is not too blunt, at your own risk of bloodletting.
Considering all this, I can only hope one thing for the mother of the sweet child, namely that she will be completely spared from visits from her father-in-law in the future, and that his cringe-inducing colonial genes have not been passed on to her companion.
Later that evening, however, back in our hotel room, a few experiences richer and a few Thai bucks poorer, it turns out that the old Dutch VOC spirit is still around here and I simply can't resist.
And Mrs. Oy, (in a loud announcer's tone, receiving cheerful pats on the back from the spirits she has taken), adds something that I think is extremely witty.
It turns out to be a not unimportant detail that it is advisable to first take the bottle of leftover wine from the listener's hands and also to determine her exact location in order to be able to find a safe haven.
Now this carelessness cost me serious discomfort in an unspecified part of my body.
After the 'Lucky Girl' standing right behind me tried to introduce a Thai-Australian bottleneck there without any hesitation.
About this blogger
-
Lieven Kattestaart (1963) lives with his wife Oy on the beautiful Goeree-Overflakkee.
Works as a harbour master and has been visiting faraway Thailand since 1993, where he met Oy in 98' and persuaded her to say goodbye to the sun and settle in this chilly swamp behind the dikes.
Nowadays we usually spend our holidays in our mother-in-law's Isan home, alternating with some beach time in Pattaya, or getting stuck in a bus or train to visit other and unknown Thai regions.
Intending to move to Thailand with Oy after retirement, both can hardly wait for that to happen.
Hobbies: whenever a spark of inspiration strikes, but usually plagued by writer's block, touching the keyboard in order to provide the beautiful Thailand blog with a new piece, practicing physical activity by means of jogging (in moderation of course), online chess, and occasionally drinking an excellent Single Malt while smoking a cigar of Cuban origin.
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'Stierstarnakel', Lieven. So you also contribute to new words in our language! That shows youthful élan.
I entered the word 'starnakel' in my Mr. van Dale and it appears to mean 'deaf'. And in yours it means 'deaf'. I didn't know that you could go deaf from a bottle of bad Fleur de Matrasse; you could from other activities, as Mr. Pastoor once told me in class a long time ago... And it also gave you a pain in your back...
Hope your seat unit survived the penetration… No, no need for a photo. Really not…
Dear Erik,
I once read the saying somewhere and didn't know any better than it already existed, concerning deafness. But starnakel is apparently a kind of prefix, so it can also be used for other purposes.
If I remember correctly, the wine on this occasion was fine, provided it was taken orally.
Thank you for your response,
greetings Lieven.
In Flanders, “Fleur de matrasse” means bad tobacco….
RonnyLatYa, then I'll have to upgrade the bottle to Château Migraine…
That’s right, dear Ronny. And bad wine: Chateau Migraine..
For the true connoisseur: Château Migraine, appellation Aspirine contrôlée.
Top entertainment that penetrates to the deepest regions.
Beautiful, yes!
Lovely, Lieven, your writing style! It is always a pleasure to read your texts!
You have a unique way of writing with lots of humor, self-mockery and creative use of language. A special talent, you can be proud of that.
Dear Farang Kee Nok,
Thanks for the nice compliment, but don't underestimate yourself either.
Because your own latest story below was certainly not created without talent, and you know how to beautifully fill in the serious narrative picture (which I will never succeed in) on Thailandblog as far as I'm concerned.
Your writing style reminds me somewhat of that of Alphonse Wijnants, who also left many gems about Thailand here.
Sincerely,
Lieven.
Well, I don't really consider myself retarded, but I don't know what was said "wrong" and why that girl is "lucky". Is it because she has a farang as a father? She is apparently half farang, half Thai, so you could also say that she is unlucky if her father doesn't want to take care of her anymore. Or not? And why is this considered "colonial"?
This is basically saying that someone who is half Thai must be “lucky.” Isn’t that racism? I just read that in the US, anyone with even one black ancestor is considered black. You have to be “pure” to be considered white… Didn’t we have someone who advocated that a long time ago? What a strange way of thinking.
Too bad, too bad how many prejudices you can have based on a single sentence. I would say, spend your time in Zeeland on more useful things
Pim
Sjaak S, the journey of the Beagle was recreated, some years ago, on the clipper Stad Amsterdam, and DNA tests during that tour showed that everyone has some traces of the first man in their DNA. In the view of Americans, we are also 'black'; on the other hand, I sometimes wonder if Americans don't have a tic...
I think you see more evil in Lieven's article above than is in it. It makes me smile broadly.
Dear Jack,
Whether or not the child was half-Thai (the latter probably not given some of the external characteristics, but before you accuse me of racism, I'll keep these characteristics to myself) of course doesn't matter much to the story.
Furthermore, it is not stated anywhere that the farang is the father of the child or 'no longer wants to take care of it'.
When I sent it in, I was already somewhat afraid that someone would touch the keyboard to take the whole thing out of context and thus push it down a 'certain' side track, which is so fashionable these days.
To you that dubious honor.
I can only hope that you still had some pleasure reading my story (which is always my starting point when submitting these writings), although I cannot deduce that from your response, which I would regret because then I would have missed my goal.
All the best and kind regards,
Lieven.
Neatly resolved that minor friction, Lieven, and I'll end with the words, It can be done this way too.
Sjaak, if you read Lieven's stories regularly, you know that there is nothing 'annoying' behind it. This reaction is very far-fetched, I am a bit disappointed of you.