Hat Yai II

The day after we arrived in Hat Yai Debbie went off to lecture Nongnut's students about feminism. One of the talking points was the Thai Buddhist proscription against women touching monks. The conversation went on for a while about the usual stuff, that it is believed women are unclean because they bleed but do not die, until at one point during a break a young woman came up to Debbie and asked why a woman would want to touch a monk. After all, monks, she said, were no picnic themselves. A lot of them, she said, go into business for themselves, others have mistresses, still others have a fondness for boys. A man can declare himself a monk for a couple of weeks, then leave, and they can all jump ship at any time. So why, exactly, should she want to go out and touch one? 

It's like I tell my children: don't trust anybody in a robe. 

I spent a stupid day back at the hotel, venturing out for a few concentric rounds through the neighborhood, most of which was devoid of anyone except a few sleeping car mechanics and food stall operators closing up shop. Hat Yai reminded me of another Asian industry town: Kanpur, the site of the massacres I chronicled in Our Bones Are Scattered. It boasts no ancient monuments, and there was this slight whiff of menace, in this case from the Moslem separatists who later in the week would apparently set off a bomb on a highway en route to Hat Yai. Debbie and I seemed to be the only westerners in town, though a couple would later emerge at the airport: rubber executives from Australia.

That evening, however, Nongnut took us to a scenic overlook: a Buddhist temple with some Chinese annexes on a hillside overlooking the town, and by the time we got there people had gathered to watch a lovely sunset unfold. As we climbed up the stairs to admire the giant golden Buddha at the apex of the complex of effigies and pavilions, an ancient Thai lady caught up to us and asked Nongnut who we were and where we were from. Nongnut talked with her as though they were old friends, and we noticed this Thai manner of touching each other on the arm: very lightly, almost imperceptibly, when they are chatting. Nongnut did this while escorting Debbie around, and, strangely enough, so did Debbie's mother. 

The old lady told us she was 93 years old, and I told her that my mother was too. This seemed to end the conversation, though without apparent offense. Then we climbed down to gawk at some gaudy Chinese effigies, before which a trio of schoolgirls were vamping for the camera. 

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