It was late one night this week and the local motorcycle gangs were out in force along Srinakarin Road.
They start around the Bearing T-junction then go tearing on down to the Theparak intersection a kilometre or so away. Upon arriving at Theparak they return to the Bearing T-junction and tear on down again. And again.
What was it Einstein said about doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results?
Well, there almost was a different result.
I was changing lanes when a gang of them suddenly approached from behind. I would like to use a different collective noun other than gang — a “braindead of motorcyclists,” even a “simian of motorcyclists” — but someone would be sure to brand me elitist or racist so I won’t.
Anyway, I nearly scuttled one young man who must have been leading the race. This rake-thin kid with yellow peroxided hair wore no helmet or shoes.
Nor was he alone. On the back of the bike was a girl not quite twice his size, but of dimensions that clearly divulged her love affair with sticky rice and mango.
My move into the left lane played havoc with his desire to win the race. He wobbled slightly on his bike, and in hindsight if it weren’t for adipose hands clutching his waist he may have gone over.
A second later he was back in control and he wasn’t happy.
He slowed down and mouthed a series of syllables that were clearly Thai but probably not found in better dictionaries. His girlfriend did some mouthing of her own, and judging from their collective scowl they weren’t wishing me a happy Songkran.
It’s not every day I nearly snuff the life out of two Samut Prakan youths. Had the kid lost his balance and ended up splattered like a watermelon at an Oscar Pistorius trial, it would have been just another fatality on the Samut Prakan roads.
But how much would my life have changed?
Not just for the inevitable litigation, but the shock of the accident and guilt of it all. I was in shock for an hour after the event anyway, and I couldn’t help but thinking if I’d killed the kid, then my breezy, happy-go-lucky life would take a sharp turn into darkness.
Such are the roadways of this lovely country, especially in times of celebration such as the Thai New Year. A split second on a road late at night almost changed my life.
You probably don’t know this but we Samut Prakan residents are already some of the most miserable in Thailand.
They did a Happiness Index not too long ago where they ranked all 77 provinces in order of happiness.
The results? When it comes to despair, I am literally wallowing in it. Samut Prakan came in at number 76.
It’s not just the motorcycle racers who drive us to despair. We can thank those illegal sweatshops spewing out pollution and paying its employees next-to-nothing salaries.
Other mitigating factors adding to Samut Prakanians’ perpetual state of malaise would be our lack of decent infrastructure, rampant crime and Megabangna. Thank god we are the illicit drug capital of Thailand; how else would we get our uppers to offset the angst?
Worst of all, we got pipped at the post.
Those morose no-hopers in Samut Songkhram beat us to the bottom. I mean, if you’re that far down on a list, nothing is more pathetic than coming second last.
(Inner city expats sipping mocha caramel skinny lattes on Thong Lor need not gloat; Bangkok ranked a lowly 65th. And the happiest Thai province on Earth? Nakhon Phanom in the northeast is the Disneyland of Thailand. Yes, the very same province with the illicit dog meat trade; the guys who send happy little puppies over to Vietnam to be slaughtered. Apparently that does wonders to your propensity for self-elation.)
Anyway enough of that. We are now on the other side of Songkran. I stayed in Bangkok because of work responsibilities and was witness to the motorcycle gangs that show wanton disregard for the law.
This has been a big problem in Bangkok for decades, as alienated youth unwilling to work or study find solace in speedy motorcycles like the one I almost obliterated this week.
I used to live in the inner city and the noise at night was deafening. The police would now and then instigate crackdowns but they were essentially powerless.
“What would you do if you saw one of those motorcyclists have an accident?” my friend Rachen the lawyer once asked me.
We were sitting on Ratchadaphisek Road at a late night khao tom restaurant after 15 loud motorcyclists had just sped past, drowning out our conversation.
“What — in front of me?” I asked.
Rachen nodded. “What if one of those guys who just sped past lost control and crashed in front of you. What would you do?”
Was it a trick question? “I would take him to hospital, I guess. Call an ambulance. Call the police.”
With each short sentence Rachen broke into a broader smile and nudged the other three friends who were sitting with us. They thought my answer was hilarious.
I didn’t get the joke.
“Why? What would you do?” I asked.
Rachen replied as if he’d rehearsed it. “Well, first I’d walk over to him. Then, as he was screaming in agony, I would stand over him, unzip my fly, and pee all over him. Then I’d walk away.”
Silence.
Was I supposed to laugh? Apparently not. Our three other friends nodded approvingly, and for the first time I caught a glimpse of just how vengeful my otherwise highly-educated, well-spoken friends were.
Vengeful … or had they simply had enough?
The most memorable news story of this Songkran occurred in the northeastern province of Buri Ram (#26 in happiness), where brawling hooligans at a Songkran fair were forced to battle it out with real-life muay Thai boxers as punishment.
Four of the five hooligans didn’t make it past round one; the sober professionals managed to knock out the drunken, oft-overweight hooligans within a few seconds.
The last one did manage to put up a fight and lasted into the second round, thanks to a piece of wood he brandished, but alas he too got KO’d.
The incident caused a big stir, mainly from wet liberals with ideas not unlike my own, claiming the hooligan’s rights had been infringed, and that such kangaroo courts were hardly what a developed nation such as Thailand should be encouraging.
I, too, would make such criticisms in public.
But upon arriving home, in the privacy of my bedroom in sullen Samut Prakan, I would do something we locals are not supposed to do as long as we languish at #76.
I’d exhibit extreme joy. I’d jump up and down and punch the air and shout out banal interjections like “Yeah!” and “Right on!” and “You da man!”
Sometimes in life extreme people require extreme infringing.
We helpless masses, slaves to deafening motorcycles and drunken hooligans, need some poetic justice now and again.
I haven’t seen Rachen in 10 years but I’m sure he’d approve of the Buri Ram solution, especially if he got the chance to stand close to the KO’d hooligans with a full bladder.
For me, just writing this is very therapeutic and helps me overcome the tension of a near-fatal car accident of which I was an innocent participant, but could have had on my conscience for life.
Oh but it’s supposed to be a celebratory time. Happy Thai New Year, dear readers, from your columnist at the near-bottom rung of the happiness index! n
