Mr. Thai

As I walk through downtown Bangkok, I don’t expect to find much human interaction. Being a large city, the locals are inclined to sell rather than to converse. I take to wandering as an escape. As with any place, though, there are pockets of beauty[a] that you can’t find on purpose; they find you. I just purchased[b] a train ticket for the next day and I’m returning to my hostel. [c]I’m not in a rush, as this is my last day to explore the city.


I pass under a bridge, when a gathering of locals catches my eye. A court is set up beneath the bridge and they are playing a game I don’t recognize. It consists of two teams of two players each. There is a net down the[d] center of the court, much like a small volleyball court. Everything seems familiar, until the teams start to play. Instead of using their hands, they use their feet! The ball is about the size of a grapefruit and made of woven plastic. My eyes won’t believe what they are seeing. I go in for a closer look.. 


I stand behind a chain link fence and watch the action. I hold on to the links like a child, waiting for an invite. The athleticism is incredible. They move the ball with such control and finesse making the game look easy. A player leaps into the air, flipping upside down to slam the ball against his opponent. The move is so exciting, I let out a cheer and begin to clap.


This catches the attention of one of the spectators, and he waves me in. Ah, the “wave in”.[e] It’s like a VIP pass to an event you had back row tickets for. It’s your older brother inviting you to play with the big kids. I look behind me just to make sure he is waving to me, then make my way [f]in.


I approach him with a look of amazement. I ask him his name, but he only tells me, “Mr. Thai.” The sport is called Sepak Takraw and he attempts to explain the rules. He points to his arms and shakes his head, “Foul.” A player is allowed to use his legs, chest, head, and feet to project the ball to the opponents side. A team is allowed to touch the ball only 3 times, just like volleyball. No part of their body can touch the net. I have the basics down, so we sit back and watch.


The pace of the game is quite fast and the crowd is very much involved. I watch on with continued amazement. The ball lands between two players, both expecting the other player to play it. They begin to argue with each other. I don’t need to speak Thai to understand. I know they are both accusing the other of being responsible. I can’t help but laugh at the miscommunication. Sports bridge all language barriers.


Mr. Thai is sitting on a rail that runs around a column of the bridge[g]. He waves me over to sit with him. “Stadium,” he laughs, pointing to the railing. His dry sense of humor is so similar to mine it feels like we are old friends. It feels like this is a normal Sunday. It feels like this is my ordinary life. It feels like I am home. 


I join him on the rail. The thought of taking pictures crosses my mind. For this trip, I decided to bring a Polaroid camera along. It takes up half the space in my bag, weighs more than all of my clothes, and makes me look more like a tourist than a hawaiian shirt and khaki pants, but I still decided to bring it. There’s something about the novelty of having your picture print instantly that intrigues me. It also forces you to be selective with your photographing, instantly adding meaning to the shots. [h]


I bring out the beast and ask Mr. Thai, “Okay?” I feel a bit weird about taking pictures in these situations. I want to simply enjoy what is happening, but I know these are the pictures I’ll really want later on. Mr. Thai nods and jumps off his seat. He pushes me to the sideline for a close-up shot. I wait for a the right moment and snap the shutter. The picture creeps out of the top and I turn around to hand it to Mr. Thai. It’s always a gamble, you never know what kind of shot will come out. He begins to shake it.[i] I laugh, thinking how universal this reaction is. It’s almost instinctual to shake a Polaroid picture. 30 seconds later the shot begins to develop. His face lights up with a smile and he takes off around the court. He shoves the photo in everyone’s faces, barely letting them see it before he moves on to the next viewer. “I’m in,”[j] I thought. If I had any doubt about being accepted into this group, it was erased with that picture. I knew I would end up giving most of the pictures away, but I chalk it up as the price of admission.[k]

After the initial shot, the excitement really begins to take off. A player in red shorts waves at me. He makes the camera motion with his hands; he wants an action shot. I wait for him to go up for a slam and take the shot. I wait, praying to the Polaroid gods that the moment is captured. As the photo begins to appear, I see the player in mid air, leg held high, making a great strike. I hand it over to him and he is elated. It’s such a simple gift, but seeing yourself right there, recorded in time is something unique. He holds the photo in his hand for the rest of the game.[l] 


I return to my seat with Mr. Thai as the match heats up. “Casino,” he tells me. I don’t understand. The player in the red shorts goes up for a spike and the ball lands in the opponents court, untouched. He cheers with his partner and the game is over. Mr. Thai points to the losing team and says “Casino” again. The losers are rifling through their pockets for bills. They hand over 500 baht, around $17, to the winners. “Casino,” I laugh, as I finally understand.


The player in the red shorts comes over to thank me. He is from Myanmar and tells me about coming to Thailand looking for work. He is a very good player, even Mr. Thai tells me, “Best Team” as he points to his team. I congratulate him and ask him if he has family here. He tells me they are all back in Myanmar. He works at a hotel restaraunt as a busboy. I think about how this game must be an escape for him, a way to hide from the realities for an afternoon.[m] He’s up for another round, so he thanks me again and returns to the court.


“Myanmar, Thailand, Laos, Malaysia and Philippines,” Mr. Thai lists off all the countries that play this unique game, “But Thailand number one!” He shouts it loud enough for our friend in the red shorts to hear. He scoffs. Mr. Thai stands up to leave. “I go,” he tells me. I thought he meant he was going home so I bid him farewell and thank him for the VIP seat. He just shakes his head, jumps on his motorbike and leaves. I’m puzzled at the miscommunication, but I decide to stick around for one more game. Within 10 minutes he returns. He comes up to the railing and pulls two beers out of a large plastic bag. He points to the bottle and says, “Leo.” He lists off the Thai beers in their respective positions in the public’s opinion. “Leo, number two beer,” he tells me. He opens the beer with his lighter, sticks a straw in it, and hands it over to me. 


I sit back, pondering the situation I found myself in. I couldn’t buy this experience and no tour guide could promise it to me. This kind of experience tends to find you and if you let it happen, you just might find yourself drinking Thailand’s number two beer with Mr. Thai himself[n].