Hat Yai Happy New Year
Thailand
With the imagery of Alex Garland’s The Beach projected onto the screen of our minds’ eye, I joined three old school friends, Big Mick, Crufton Clumpf and The Dustman for a month in Thailand. For me the most poignant moment of Garland’s story was when Richard, the hero, on the rice run to the Ko Pha Ngam, came into contact with the Full Moon Party and the Westerners who had contributed to Paradise Lost. After attending a Full Moon Party on the 29th of December, where we witnessed people dancing disconnectedly, pissing, shitting, vomiting, throwing rubbish into the ocean, drunken British stab victims refusing treatment and the degeneration of Haat Rin into a conglomeration of muddied streets, tacky food vendors and Internet cafés, some of the same feelings resonated through our group.
Hat Yai to a far, far less visible extent had succumbed to a different type of cultural discolouration. The city’s close proximity to Malaysia has meant that its notorious reputation for allowing Malay men (as one of them told us between a broad grin and a crumpled cigarette), to “sort out personal problems”, has grown. Despite this, our New Year’s Eve experience in Hat Yai was far more social and friendly compared with the now contrived, managed and generally touristy atmosphere of the Full Moon Party. Hat Yai’s celebrations were tremendously refreshing.
In the south of Thailand, Islamic culture prevails and for this reason, the populace sees world events slightly differently. In a Muslim restaurant, that we identified by the crescent moon and star on the awnings, we noticed Osama Bin Laden photos decorating the spartan concrete walls. While we were not offended by a perhaps tongue-in-cheek display of hero-worship, I’m not quite sure what some Americans would think. But then again, what would they be doing in a restaurant that would surely, in the words of their President, “harbour terrorists”?
Due to the Arabic text on the menu, and our unilingual limitations, we ordered roti. It came, not served with curry but a white sauce, which we discovered was condensed milk, a vital ingredient in this part of the world. With some hesitation we dipped away and to our surprise, it was so damn good that it became a popular snack for the remainder of the trip. It was also a good thing that something sweet was served as I find beer and sweet foods impossible to stomach. Being in a devout Muslim restaurant, we were not going to get any sort of alcohol.
We moved along through a bustling street market, closer to the town square and decorated with the golden tables, chairs and banners of the Singha Beer Company. It’s not comforting at all to see that the western-style saturation marketing has spread to this part of the world. The market peddled the usual delights of southeast Asian items with fake sunglasses, fake jeans and abundant pirated CDs. Like in the Muslim restaurant we patronised, our eyes were immediately diverted to the T-shirts, rubber masks and other memorabilia celebrating such Middle Eastern notables as Saddam Hussein and Osama Bin Laden. It’s a long way from the caves of Tora Bora, so we could only assume it was a boy who we spotted in the crowd fitted out with Bin Laden mask and matching white robes. They do have a different way of looking at the world in these parts. Facetiously, we all joked about what sort of reception one would get if one was to wear one of those items onto the plane as we departed Bangkok International.
Uninterested in terrorist merchandise, I was looking for something salty to compliment the Singha Beer I planned to consume. At that moment my good friend, Big Mick, stepped in when I thought aloud about buying some chicken feet that were being hawked at the numerous stalls. When it comes to food, Big Mick might talk a good game. But when it comes to the crunch, it’s obvious that rather than having a heart for trying new things, all that is housed in that ample frame of his is a split pea. Mick, prone to bouts of manly bravado, picked up on my minor period of indecision and proceeded to lambast me in a very aggressive tone, suggesting that, “You’ve got no guts, Plowe. You’re all talk, Plowe. You’ve got no guts, and you won’t buy or eat those.”
Always one to take up a challenge, even one as manufactured as I knew this one was, I went ahead and ordered five feet. While not a culinary spectacle, deep fried chicken feet were passable, and generous fellow that I am, I offered them fully expecting that my companions, especially Big Mick, would sample at the very least, one claw. But Mick’s appetite for daring and adventure had disappeared for some strange reason. All of a sudden the mood of bravado was replaced with one of quiet reservation and cowardice. “No, I don’t want to try those. They don’t get good reviews.” (Presumably from his beloved guidebook, outside of which the rest of the undocumented world did not exist). I pressed him again but the issue was settled. Big Mick had his way.
I must admit that a serving of five chicken feet did not quite hit the spot. So, as we reached the main square, I ordered a bowl of noodle soup from an old woman’s stall, with the help of her young bilingual son. Loading the bowl with plenty of chilli, as is my style, I moved my way back to the yellow table that we had picked out amongst the many that had been assembled in what was the city’s main square.
Our position afforded us a terrific view of the stage that had been erected at the top end of the square. This stage was to be the centre of the New Year’s Eve entertainment and in front of the stage, it was standing room only. As you do on New Year’s Eve, we plied ourselves with several bottles of our ever-present sponsor’s product. As it came closer and closer to midnight, we caught the attention of some local Thai youths. To them, white people or farangs were something of a novelty. Being so conspicuous in the middle of the square with our white skin, we were continuously referred to by this term. I suppose they were laughing at us rather than with us, but we didn’t mind. If the roles were reversed in a western country, one wonders what the reaction would be.
On this night we were also introduced, live for the first time as opposed to a scratchy bus sound system, to the wonders of Thai Pop music. Thailand’s most popular pop band, who sing a song in which the lead female vocal wails a tuneless “do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do” was performing live. As they played, the usual New Year’s Eve antics occurred. Our youthful Thai friends started dancing on the frequently collapsing yellow tables and chairs, drinking and waving their hands to the music.
To capitalise on our novelty value, The Dustman and Crufton Clumpf decided, at the end of the pop-group’s set, to make an attempt on the stage. They pushed their way through the now extremely crowded square and the next thing Big Mick and I saw, was the Dustman, minus Clumpf, being interviewed by the Master of Ceremonies. The ever-predictable, “Where are you from?” question was followed by the only slightly more original, “What is the best thing about Thailand?” Ever the populist and with a cocked eye on the youthful throng in front of him, The Dustman answered in the expected fashion, “The young women of Hat Yai!” After the translation, there was a loud and shrill cheer from the easily excitable members of the crowd.
The Dustman poses with our new Thai Friends – Happy New Year and Up Yours!
One wonders what affect The Dustman’s comments had on T.V. ratings. Yes, there was T.V. coverage. Clumpfy and The Dustman were intercepted by the aforementioned Asian youths, while returning to their seats. They were offered beers, which they sculled, much to the delight of the eagerly-watching crowd. With our enhanced celebrity status that we gained by association with The Dustman (and by being farangs), we were now the centre of attention. As midnight drew closer, we and our Thai friends became the focus of one of T.V. Hat Yai’s cameramen. We must have been beamed live into many of the province’s homes, but I think the message of Happy New Year may have been lost somewhat, given our friends’ obsessive predilection for using “the bird” hand signal with reckless repetition. Viewers were probably watching and thinking, “Yeah, thanks, Happy New Year’s – and up yours too!”
At the strike of midnight, all hell broke loose. After politely exchanging handshakes, exclamations of “Happy New Year” and wai’s, (the Thai greeting or mark of respect signified by hands in a prayer-like position) with all, our Thai friends still encamped on top of tables and chairs, mobilised those wonderful packages of fun, firecrackers. The first salvo were sparklers, small stamp-sized bundles which would spin in an epileptic fit of sparkles when thrown at people’s feet.
The second most impressive and indeed inspiring barrage was the Roman Candle. A seventy centimetre long, 1.25 centimetre diameter baton, covered in colourful wrapping paper, the Roman Candle is an ingenious incendiary, offering more than the single burst of gratification a standard firework provides. Designed to be held at one end like a candle, the lit tip emits a series of ten projectiles at three-second intervals. It then traverses a distance of around ten to twenty metres before exploding into a not-so insignificant burst of light. In my mind, they offered far more pleasure than the two hundred and eighty Baht professional pyrotechnics that one could purchase on the lawless Ko Pha Ngam.
The evil Crufton Clumpf causing havoc with a Roman Candle
With one arm outstretched and hand firmly fixed in “the bird” position, our friends proceeded to set their candles alight, from atop their positions on the rickety tables, taking careful aim at those watching festivities from the balconies and windows in the buildings above. Needless to say, windows were shut and balconies vacated fairly quickly. Being without fireworks, I tried to get into the spirit of things by flicking water from my water bottle into various sections of the crowd. Some of the older more conservative members of the crowd (presumably, rich Malaysian businessmen and their families) were not that impressed. They left shortly after twelve. To my amusement, these actions were not lost on the younger members of the crowd as they started flicking away with their water bottles too.
So, when the street party quieted, and we decided to head back to our guesthouse, we still had to stride a gauntlet of handshakes, “Happy New Year’s”, and photo requests, most strangely from a group of young Malays fitted out in Manchester United strips. When Richard from The Beach was thinking of Paradise Lost when he saw the parasitic antics of all those westerners at the Full Moon Party, I think he would look upon the friendly unity of Hat Yai, with some degree of approval.
——–
