Ten years ago Thaksin’s red shirts of targeted Bangkok’s luxury shopping malls of their political rivals, the elite yellow shirts. The riotous schism between the two classes was a mystery to most foreigners who regarded their adopted country as the land of Smiles, but a restrictive way of life to the majority of Thais.

I Googled ‘thailand five families rule’ and the search engine offered thousands of five-star hotel rooms without a single url leading to any information on the ruling cliques of Thailand. A second attempt on Thai hierarchy revealed little of the hi-so or high society other than saying that the King came first above all others and the loyal army of the elite repressed the uprising with beatings, bullets, and death.

Still to both sides of the conflict Bhumipol remained the one pure Thai and his family has been deemed sacrosanct followed by lesser nobility and then monks. For centuries social status receded from this monolith according to income, occupation, education, age, connections, and family, which is why Thais are inadvertently curious about the background of farangs in the West.

“Are you hi-so or lo-so (low society)?”

“Mi-so'”

Not that middle-class really mattered to zenotrophic Thais, who considered all farangs lesser than the the lowest drunk in the Klong Toey slum and recognize status with a glance.

Twenty years ago I was befriended by an aged female member of the royalty. The refined seventy year-old ran a grade school in Yala. I was one of the few westerners in that town.

“Why are you here?” Yala was the Deep South.

“I’m a writer. It’s quiet and out of the way.” Yala back then was peaceful.

“Too quiet.” Anana assumed most men were in Thailand for women.

“I like quiet.” The search for sex was partially true for many foreigners, although I didn’t have a girlfriend in the provincial city. Anana accepted my answer as a half-truth and told me about her university years in New Paltz during the 1940s.

“I know that town.” It had been founded by the Huguenots. The paradiasical lakes above the Gunks are surrounded by a boreal forests of eastern hemlocks.

“I’ve never met any westerners from there.” The older woman exuded etiquette by not calling me a ‘farang’.

She invited me to dine with her often and after a month asked, if I wanted to drive her to Chiang Mai.

“I’d love to.” Yala to Chiang Mai was a long way, but I was game for a road trip.

We took off in her BMW and stopped at temples along the way. The monks greeted her with deference and treated me as if I were part of her family. It wasn’t until we visited Songkla for a seafood dinner that I noticed how high was her placement on the social ladder.

We entered the airy restaurant without any fanfare, but the owner fell to his knees. The rest of his staff followed suit as did the diners. We walked through the dining area to a table vacated by the previous guests. We sat and Anana signaled everyone to rise.

“Now you see why I like you. You greet me like a normal person. I only wish that Thais could do the same.”

We had a delightful meal during which she discussed THE KING AND I at length.

“No one in Thailand has seen this film. It’s too much fun and the king is not fun. At least that’s the way the Thai people think of their father.”

And with good reason.

The King has presided over the rise of his country from a Third World pit stop to an economic miracle, however the riches reaped by the nouveau elite challenge the old ways.

Several years ago I was at a golf range and the Thai pro asked if I could move to another slot. I could tell the request hadn’t come from him and turned around to see several Mercedeses parked behind us. Their occupants were dressed in the height of shopping mall splendor. I was wearing Celtic green.

“Tell them to wait a few minutes.” I only had five balls left in my basket.

“They want you go now.” The Thai pro didn’t look in the direction of the parking lot.

“Really.” I waved to them that I’d only be a few minutes. Their eyes bulged in their sockets. One of them came up to me and said in good English, “Do you know who we are?”

“I suspect you come from good families and as such you should extend the good manners of your class to an older guest of your country. Thank you.”

I teed my ball and duffed my drive.

They laughed at my shot and the next one went about 50 yeards before burrowing into the grass. My third and fourth attempts flew left and right about 200 yards.

More laughter and I placed the final ball on the tee. I peered at the distant 300 yard marker and set my stance. I concentrated on the ball, the air, and my target and swung with all my might. The ball launched into the air about 200 yards and fell straight down 100 yards from the driving platform.

More laughter.

“That was worth the wait.” The oldest man said with tears streaming down his face.

“I’m glad I could be of service.” I shrugged and tipped the Thai pro 200 baht.

“Chok dee.” I waved to the Mercedes mob and got on my motorcycle to drive home.

Not a King, but a master of a bad swing.