Chapter 7. Lemongrass Stains - Khon Kaen

---

As a gateway to Issan, Thailand’s oft ignored Northeast, an infant skyline looks down upon a layout of crowded gridded streets. It does little to differentiate Khon Kaen from any other Midwestern city. The region’s largest university pulls in a young, hip, and energetic crowd that harbors hopes of improving their lives in what is also Thailand’s poorest area. Khon Kaen does not incite awe at first glance; it has not a single remarkable feature. However, if curious to jump into a world far from the familiarity of Bangkok, Chiang Mai, and the southern strips of Thai sand, this is where to start. Issan food is the inspiration of Thai cuisine, a trend making a name for itself in Europe and the United States. No memorable sites await you in Khon Kaen. A slide show of Khon Kaen would be the perfect remedy for insomniacs. The city is but two hundred years old. The people are simple, straightforward, and friendly. This is what you would come to expect from down-to-earth folks who make a living in the Central Plains between the Rockies and Mississippi River. Khon Kaen is the Des Moines of Thailand.

An aimless walk through downtown Khon Kaen reflects its bland character. Only one tuk-tuk driver made the most mediocre of attempts to overcharge me from the station to my hotel. Merchants do not lift their storefront gates until after nine in the morning. Every single bicycle taxi occupies a niche next to a telephone pole or parked car; their drivers are asleep in the back seat. The two shopping malls are extremely dull unless you’re into spending hours bargaining over upgrades on cell phone ring tones. You might prefer to debate on which second-rate flat screen TV would best fit above your discount DVD player in which you hope to play pirated DVD’s of films Hollywood studios released two weeks ago. The Kosa Shopping Plaza dedicates an entire floor to wireless technology. The only saving grace for the entire four floors of Target-esque goods is that it is all air conditioned. Throngs of children in boy scout and girl scout uniforms run around uncontrollably to claim the last available arcade game. The lakeshore at the southern end of downtown houses a recreation area; basketball courts, a playground, and all the waterfront bars are strangely empty for an early Sunday afternoon. It came as a relief; my right foot has started to blister and I need to find a pharmacy and/or change my shoes. Having traversed the city from north-to south, I seek out a communal pickup truck/taxi, a songthaew, to take me most of the way back to my hotel.

When I cross the wide, dividerless perpendicular boulevards to change to another songthaew, there is little to guide me. Thailand is devoid of proper crosswalks and it requires much skill to synchronize looking both ways (to the right, then left) and bursting across to safely reach the other side with both legs still attached to your torso. Sometimes, my feet have covered the yellow painted line in the middle of the street that keep the two directions of vehicles apart. This is crazy. My pulse races and the adrenaline pumps. Crossing a street shouldn’t be this life-threatening. Yet, schoolgirls ten yards away do it without the slightest hesitation. They dance emotionlessly around speeding back bumpers and front license plates. On the other hand, I look like an epileptic grey squirrel scurrying back and forth on its third suicide attempt of the morning. The thought occurred to me: Which is harder, crossing a street in Rome or Thailand? Because I have to look to the right first here, Thailand wins out. Roman drivers get honorable mention.

“It’s awfully hot, isn’t it?”, a voice came from behind me. Perhaps he could tell that from the salt deposits on my cap or my darkened soaked shirt tightly stuck to my body in wrinkles.
I turned around. A few inches shorter than me, he was dressed in a white button shirt, dark pants, and a burgundy elephant print necktie. He was carrying an over-the-shoulder briefcase. More sweat gushed out of me at the sight of him. “This isn’t Canada” is all I could come back with.
“Oh, you are from Canada?” We started to cross together. All the lanes were amazingly empty.
“No, the United States.”
His eyes lit up. “Ah! I used to live there! Where in the U.S.?” Though accented, his English did not lack auxiliary verbs and articles like ‘the’ and ‘an’ most Thais inadvertently exclude.
“Connecticut.” I usually say Boston or New York. People can handle that. Connecticut is too unknown a state for most to connect with.
By this time, we had reached the other side. But the man was not done. “I lived in Connecticut, too!” Sure you did, pal. I figured he was trying to entertain himself. He most likely hadn’t had much chance to use his English and did not want the conversation to conclude too quickly.
That’s nice.” He gathered that I didn’t believe him. Then he dropped the bomb: “I worked a few years in a bank in New Milford. Near -”
“Danbury.” I easily finished his sentence. He couldn’t be making this up. No one pulls New Milford out of the contaminated air of Khon Kaen without having been there. I looked around for the cameras and someone to stick a microphone in my face, informing me that I was the victim of a reality TV show prank. I went into my daypack and showed him a map of Connecticut. He pointed straight to where New Milford would be if it were important enough to be mentioned. His finger landed right alongside Candlewood Lake. His location was perfect.
“See there. New Milford.” Unbelievable.
Professor Suvit Namboonruang had earned an extension of our conversation. We stood in some shade at the street corner and I rattled off an abridged version of my background. It seriously intrigued him. “You see over there? I am a teacher at Loei University. I teach Marketing. I would like to introduce you to my students. Do you have some time right now, please?”
All of a sudden, my pain in my feet subsided and I shook off any fatigue. Are you kidding me? I jumped at the chance.
“You bet!”

Leoi Rajabhat University has a campus in Kohn Kaen where students take classes on Sundays. They are barren chambers of petrified desks and dusty ceiling fans. Suvit introduced me as his American friend to his colleagues, all men who instruct in mathematics, history, and statistics. He conveniently skipped the part about scooping me off the street minutes ago. All of a sudden, I was his special guest. When his students passed, they offered a wai in his direction, and then one to me. I returned the gesture. I am getting very good at the wai. As long as you do not dish out to too many or overbearingly, it is a great way to save face and express gratitude in a land where the language barrier blocks out the sun.
He sat me down and offered a brief explanation to his class. The language of instruction was Thai. While he lectured on the external forces of marketing management, most of the vocabulary terms involving basic marketing principles were in English. While he spoke Thai, he wrote on the board in my familiar script. I followed his lesson flawlessly. It was one I had taken years ago and nothing has really changed. He conveyed the content accurately, though none of the twenty students, mostly young women, posed a question. They copied from the board diligently. A young guy stood up and pointed a floor fan at my face. By my reddened cheeks and forehead, he knew I needed it. At one point, the back legs of my plastic chair gave way and I flipped over backwards to the floor. The class erupted. I dusted myself off, bowed to the crowd, and let Suvit continue.

Suvit cut short his lecture and asked if I could speak to the class. Few students’ English was good enough for me to go it alone. But Suvit offered to interpret simultaneously.
“What do you want me to say, professor?”
“Anything you want. It’s OK.” I drew a blank. Absolutely nothing came to mind. Odd, isn’t it? Under other circumstances, I can ramble for minutes on end without inhaling a second time.
The twenty-one in the room pointed their noses at me and I rose to my feet. I started to wing it. “Professor, I can outline why I am here in Issan, my current professional responsibilities, my academic credentials, and job history.” My random thoughts started to become clearer. “I can finish off with how my job in Europe ties in with some of those marketing principles you talked about today. OK?”
“That is wonderful. Go ahead.”
I had no notes in front of me. The class was mine. Instinctively, I knew what to do.
“Thank you for letting me come to your class today.” Then, Suvit put it in Thai. I went to the board and wrote my name and where I was from. I switched to my interest in Thailand and particularly Issan, and why I wanted to dedicate more time to Issan then the more popular destinations in Thailand. I scanned the room and perceived a warm reaction from the group. But no one was about to jump in and ask questions. To liven up the pace, I decided it was time for me to ask them a few.
“Six million people visit Thailand each year. Issan comprises about one third of your land mass.” As I put the facts on the board, every student was writing down what I wrote, no exceptions. Can anyone tell me what percentage of them come to Issan?”
No one raised their hand. I looked out at twenty blank expressions. “Can someone take a guess? Anyone?” Silence. To counter their expectations that I would simply feed them information without reciprocity, I stalled and stared back at them.
A man in the back put his hand up. “Twenty percent!”
Finally. “No, lower.”
“Five!” came form another man.
“Lower.” Then the bidding stopped. “It is two percent. There is a huge imbalance between how big Issan is and how few people venture here. I would like that to change. Maybe then, these provinces will develop and the economy can grow without losing its character.” A short pause later, I moved on. “But what are the obstacles in Issan? Why do so few come here?”
Again, silence. It’s just not in their nature to speak out. No women even flinched to participate. “OK,” I had to think on my feet: “What are the popular destinations in Thailand, then?” I egged them on by waving my hand for their answers to come forward. The men began to shout out.
“Phuket!”
“Chiang Mai and Bangkok!”
“Also Ko Samui.” I finished the list by adding Ko Chang, Ko Samet, and some of the trendy islands: Ko Phi Phi and Krabi.
“OK, good.” I outlined the stereotypes that plague Issan. It was uncomfortable for the class to have a foreigner write poor, unimportant, stupid, rednecks, and no attractions on the board. Tension filled the room. My improvisation was not going how I planned. They were not happy. I had to bring them back before the capital I gained from them quickly disappeared. I shuffled to the side and wrote the heading Reality under which I began to list more positive qualities. In place of poor, I wrote friendly. I finished the list with authentic, history/Khmer culture, cuisine…I added aloud that the food here was wondrous. That got some rumbling approval. They were coming back to life, thankfully. Then I went in for the kill. I inscribed on the board with the chalk now brittle from the humidity it had soaked up: honest. “In Bangkok, people will try to take your money. “YOU”, I pointed my finger at them as I inflected energy in the word, “do not take my money. YOU do not ignore me or overcharge me!” My voice crescendoed and I recessed only a second to let Suvit catch up. The students’ eyes lit up and they stood up straight in their chairs.
“I am in happy in Issan!” I shouted with the forcefulness of a politician campaigning in front of supporters the week before an election. In the students’ heightened anticipation and with a power they don’t see in a classroom setting, I capped off my sermon-like fervor by rushing to the board and jotted down:

Bangkok ≠ Thailand

Issan = Thailand !!!

My words were met with thunderous applause. They were eating out of my hand and I loved it. I should have left right there.

I outlined my resume and academic accomplishments, which solidified my status with them. I even explained my role in introducing different wines into the European market and emphasized its significance by pointing to the lecture notes the class took before I started speaking. Though a bit tedious, it lent legitimacy to my prior claims and garnered even more deference from the class.
Suvit did not want me to finish. He kept the discussion going. “Does anyone have questions for our guest?”
“Yes!” came a voice from the back. “Do you have any advice for us?” Wow. What could I possibly come up with?
“Yes, I do. Learn English. Whatever you do, learn to speak English well. For some of you”, I pondered this as without Suvit communication between us would have been practically nil, “it will be very painful to accept. If you wish to get into marketing, without English, you will not be able to compete with Singapore, Malaysia, Indonesia, and Hong Kong. It is your key to success.” They knew my words rang true, but they did not completely sink in. I presented a hurdle over which some would not be able to jump.
“Also, be assertive. If you get into marketing, nothing will come to you; you have to go after it. And if you don’t, someone else will. Marketing is not a passive activity like getting a sun tan.” Again, it is not in their nature. I could just tell by peering at their faces. The class of mostly timid women struggled to pose a simple question to me. Insisting on assertiveness was asking too much.
I happily fielded the only question that came from a young lady. Suvit did not need to interpret. “How old are you?”
“How old do I look?” A pudgy guy in the back screamed, “I know! Forty-four!”
I motioned him out of the class while still smiling and shouted, “Leave now!” The class giggled. There was a great deal of laughter much of the time I was with them.
She could very well have been using English for the first time in years. I told her my age and returned her the same question.
“Twenty-eight” and she smiled. Very pretty, too. They all are.
The class filed out and each found me in the exterior corridor. They lined up to thank me, as I had done when I wrapped up a few minutes earlier to polite applause. Each faced me, smiled, thanked me in English, and performed a wai. I repeated the wai back nineteen more times in succession. I had to be bobbing up and down for ninety seconds, non-stop.
The appreciation and respect they showed has long since become old-fashioned and frankly unheard of back home. Students in the States do not recognize that level of regard for educators. Our teens usually dole out more disdain and apathy to educators than courtesy. When Suvit dropped me off back at the hotel, he reiterated how grateful he was to me.
“My students got much from you today. It was wonderful.” I would have none of it.
“No, Suvit. I was treated so well. Your students made my day, even my week. This is what I wanted to come see. And you delivered it to me.” I stepped out of the pickup truck, offered him a deep wai, and he drove off.

---

Photos

Asleep on the Job!
It's OK...There's no boss to fire him...

Patrol Officer
Keeping his mouth shut and covered with a surgical mask...

Professor Suvit
Hammering home marketing principles...

Leoi University at Khon Kaen
The university borrows classes from a local primary school....