I was visiting John and Beth, missionary friends working in Cantana in Thailand. I went there to build a small wooden boat for them to use at a youth campsite set on a lake. I hadn’t done any woodworking since making a wooden pencil case at school.
“It can’t be too hard” I thought.
“A wooden boat is just like a wooden pencil case except it’s bigger and one end is pointy”.
John and I travelled around buying sheets of plywood, wood for the frame, and some copper wire and wood glue for the “stitch and glue” boat building method required by the plans. I wasn’t sure exactly how that method worked but I thought if I could darn socks I could stitch a boat. However we could not find any copper nails to fix the plywood to the frame. Copper nails don’t rust, unlike standard steel nails, so they avoid the cruel irony of a wooden boat falling apart due to rusting. Off I went to Bangkok, that sprawling, crawling, odiferous anthill of a city, armed with a list of suppliers of boat building materials.
The journey started with a near death experience. John was a very experienced motorcycle rider and I wasn’t. “Hop on the back and I’ll take you to the bus station” he said cheerily. We were late. I gingerly perched myself on the back of the bike, and John roared off, and on every curve of that 5 minute journey I thought I was going to die. I wondered how I would meet my end.
Would I die crashing into a car, a truck or a tuk-tuk or would I be flung through the front window of a beauty salon?
“Here we are then” said John jovially as we pulled up at the bus station with a squeal of brakes. I was still alive.
“Just ask for the bus to Bangkok. Have fun, must fly” he shouted and he gunned the motorcycle and flew off, just missing an elephant. The paunchy pachyderm was, according to local legend, bringing luck to the customers who bent down and walked underneath it. What a way to make a living.
I staggered like a recently hatched zombie over to the booking office and asked for a ticket to Bangkok. The ticket seller looked puzzled at my Aussie pronunciation. “Bangkok” I said 13 more times with no more recognition than the first. This was not going well. Finally I pointed to Bangkok on a map on the wall and we came to a mutual understanding. I made a note to ask John and Beth to teach me how to say “Bangkok” in the local way. Thai is a tonal language and I had already confused some people by saying “Sit on the tiger” instead of “Sit on the chair”. Perhaps I had been saying to the ticket agent “Think positive thoughts” over and over again or “Cook your grandmother”.
I paid the fare, boarded the bus and we headed south for a hair raising two hour ride to the capital. It was a narrow two lane road built a few metres above the rice paddies.
“Dangerous road” John had said earlier. “The buses are always trying to overtake farm carts and end up overturned in the paddy fields and the passengers drown in the mud or are trampled by water buffalo”.
We had a few near misses but I arrived in one piece at the Bangkok northern bus terminus where buses come and go to all parts of Thailand.
I crossed the road to reach the bus stop for the local bus. I just missed being hit by two men on a small motorbike. The pillion passenger was wearing gloves and holding onto a large pane of window glass. It felt like he was brandishing several razor sharp samurai swords. I checked myself for slashed arteries but I was okay. I caught a bus going into the city and eventually I arrived at ThaiTanic Boat Bits just near the river. I bought the precious non-rusting copper nails.
On my way back to the bus station I wanted to get some lunch. I was longing for something comfortably familiar in the burger line of cuisine. Bang Bang Burgers in the main tourist shopping area look just right. I ordered the top of the line Big Bang Burger with the Lot, which I discovered included all the usual ingredients plus fish sauce, pickled ginger and a layer of sticky rice. It deeply confused my stomach.
Retracing my route I caught several buses to arrive back at the familiar Northern bus station. Clutching my precious parcel of copper nails, I lined up at the booking office and asked for a ticket to Cantana. The ticket seller looked at me blankly. I was getting used to this. I wrote “Cantana” on a scrap of paper. A helpful local guy behind me in the ticket line peered over my shoulder at what I had written. He seemed to have a eureka moment of recognition. A rapid fire conversation in Thai ensued between my helpful fellow traveller and the ticket agent. I paid my fare and was given a ticket which my new best friend kept reassuring me was for “Cantana”. As the ticket and the bus signs were printed only in Thai, I had no way to verify my destination.
We boarded the bus and sat together. He told me his name was Nit Noi. Tired from travelling and bilious from the burger I soon fell asleep as the bus swayed and swerved past endless rice paddies. Two hours later my friend nudged me awake, bundled me off the bus and dragged me by the elbow down some unfamiliar street in this totally unfamiliar town.
“Cantana?” I asked again and again, gesturing around me. Nit Noi nodded and vigorously pointed forward and I followed, full of foreboding. Eventually we turned a corner and he looked at me with a huge grin and pointed to the sign on a sleazy looking bar. “Cantina Cantina” said the sign.
My heart sank.
“Cantana” I croaked feebly pointing into the distance.
“Cantina” he nodded gleefully.
I had no idea where I was other than somewhere in Thailand clutching a bag of copper nails outside a cantina called Cantina. Seeing my distress, my new friend, who owned the cantina, hauled me inside and gave me a drink. It tasted like fortified fish sauce with a shot of chili, boiled frogs and soda water. “Pick me up” he said enthusiastically. I pointed on my map to Cantana where I was staying with John and Beth. Light dawned for Nit Noi. “Cantina” he said pointing to the floor. “Cantana” he said pointing to the town on the map. I was on the other side of Thailand. Then his finger traced a route from where we were, back to Bangkok and then back to Cantana.
He showed me the way back to the bus station. “Bangkok?” I said to the ticket seller, without much hope. On my 14th desperate attempt to make myself understood I gave up and shuffled back to the Cantina.
Nit Noi greeted me warmly.
He’s been a good fellow. He has even given me a job at the Cantina and a room out the back. It’s not so bad. I can mix a mean fish sauce, frog, chili and soda water pick me up and I attract a lot of customers. They asked me to say “Bangkok” and then explode with laughter. Nit Noi won’t tell me what it sounds like. He just grins at me.
-Geoff Milton
