The Chinese and Korean governments have issued strong warnings to any of their nationals intent on travel to Thailand. The recent bloodletting has steeled the resolve of the red-shirt protesters. Thaksin is one plane ride away from the capitol. The ruling coalition is powerless to stop the disorder with promises of elections or armed force. I called my beloved Mam in Jomtien. My son had burned her foot with hot water. He is a very busy one-year old.
Now have only one foot.” She spoke with a laugh. The Thais have a good sense of humor, but Mam was sad about the violence. “Thai kill Thai. This no good. Red shirt very angry at army. Very angry at yellow shirt.”
“I bet no one is wearing a yellow shirt.” The elite had staged a coup d’etat to oust Thaksin, the exiled leader of the red shirts. Their color is yellow. A symbol of the Chakri dynasty.
“Only Pah.” Pah is the super of Mam’s building. He is old school Thai. The King is his god and rightfully so. Mam is red shirt as is most everyone on her soi. Thaksin is the messiah of the poor. He’s financing the conflict to regain power and the billions of baht seized by the Thai courts. He swears that this struggle is not about money, but on 47th Street whenever we hear someone state those words, we say, “It’s always about the money.
“Pah better not wear his yellow shirt out on the street.”
“Pah not crazy. Now red shirts hot. Have two pick-ups go to Bangkok to fight army. Men have gun.”
I could see the brandishing of automatics stuck in the waistband and old revolvers dug out of the dirt. Once alit the Thais are full of fire.
“They’re going to find themselves a good fight.” Soldiers are of the people. Many feel for the reds, but if someone is shooting in their direction they have three choices; shot back, run, or join the shooters. The third option seems most likely, except the Thais like a good beating almost as much as a good fight.
“Man ask if I want come.” Mam sounded in pain. She was a strong girl. A hard life had not taken away her love for her children or me. “I say I have baby. You go.I come later.”
“I don’t want you going anywhere near Krueng-Thep.” Her other son and daughter were coming to Jomtien this week. It’s Songkran. The Water festival. They were being brought to the beach by Nai, her ‘cousin’. He’s never been good after a prison stint for ja-bah. Something bad had happened to him in the Chonburi jail. He never told me what. Never said a word to Mam either.
“I stay on soi. No problem.”
“Only for your foot.” I wanted to see her now. She has big feet. Mam calls them ‘God feet’. They look like the feet of a ballerina, only Mam doesn’t like dancing.
“I have good foot.”
“Only one of them looks like you tried to cook it.”
“Your son. He too busy.”
Fenway is my boy. Busy young. I’m his father. Busy old.
“I’ll be coming soon.”
“You not scared of red shirt?”
“I’m green shirt.” It’s the color of Ireland and we like fighting with everyone. I didn’t tell Mam that, because she knows all about the madness of the Irish. She’s seen me fight on the street. It was a no win-no lose. Unfortunately this will not be the case for the red and the army.
It’s 9:30 in Bangkok.
The countdown is ticking.
Time bomb for 3pm.
First round over the head.
A return of fire.
The next volley straight into the crowd.
Or maybe not.
Either way I’m Bangkok-bound. I love cooked feet, especially tao gai or chicken feet.
For a related article click on this URL