Buhay Bangkok

A lot has been said about the seemingly infinite patience of the Thai. The phrase, “Mai pen rai” summarizes it all—“Never mind,” “No problem,” etc. Yes, I have always seen how they would just graciously smile during occasions when a Filipino like me would frown, or at least withhold a smile.

But on two occasions I got a first-hand glimpse into how patient they can really be.

Last month, I joined several officemates for lunch at the eatery near the Ayudhya Bank branch at the corner of Ploenchit and Wireless roads. There were eight of us, including a senior staff.

Almost all of them ordered noodles while I had my usual fare whenever I eat there: grilled fish and roasted pork. We were enjoying our conversation (or at least they do; I still comprehend little of their language to enjoy a conversation in Thai. I just do what I do best whenever I am in that situation, just display a slight smile and let my mind drift to other matters) when I heard the girls raising their voices approximating that of a collective shriek. Hhmm, I told myself, what could prompt these Thai girls to shriek like that?

It turned out that as the senior staff, whom we’ll call L, was making his fifth or so sip of his noodle soup, he noticed  something wriggling underneath the pile of noodles and fish balls in his bowl. Struck by curiousity, he plunged his spoon into the area in question and guess what he discovered?

A cockroach. Still alive. And kicking. Or at least, wriggling. Sorry, but I can’t describe what variety of cockroach it was, whether it was the common reddish brown-and-black ones we see scurrying about in the kitchen, the much rarer brown wingless specie that look like it is armored or something, or some other cousin of theirs. I was seated at the other end of the table so I wasn’t afforded a ringside view of the spectacle. I’ve asked the girls what it looked like, ditto L afterwards, but understandably, they could not—would not—provide an answer. But my imagination supplied the rest: There lay the cockroach, most likely the more common reddish-brown one—wet and wriggling—on L’s spoon. Tuk looked almost ready to faint; she had to abandon her lunch. She had the same kind of noodles as L’s, so it’s perfectly understandable.

The girls were all babbling as they tried to coach L on what to do, but he just sat there, oblivious to the world around him, transfixed by the sight, as if undergoing epiphany or something. Then he snapped out of his trance, lifted the bowl with both hands and brought it back to the noodle shop. A few minutes later, he came back, armed with another bowl of steaming noodles and amidst some sporadic teasing and giggles from the girls, resumed his lunch.

I was surprised by all this. Surreal, I think. If it happened to me, I know what I would have done. I would have flushed all red in the face, march back to the noodle shop with the contaminated bowl (with the still-wriggling roach, now back to the soup, struggling to stay afloat and struggle against death by scalding; Exhibit A, Your Honor), and armed with all the self-indignation I can muster, bawl out the shop owner while brandishing the roach-laden bowl and demanding for damages. Simply put, I would raise hell. This cockroach-infested bowl of noodles has threatened my health, assaulted my mental well-being, unhinged my emotional balance, caused me sleepless nights, blah-blah-blah, so pay me at least 50,000 Baht for damages or else I’ll call the tourist police, I’ll sue you and run you out of business. Yeah, that would be a good script; I ‘m sure I can come up with a good performance on that one. It would put the fear of God in the shopkeeper. However, the thing is, I’m not in the Philippines. I’m in Thailand. And the shopkeeper is Buddhist.

So, later on, as we were walking back to the office, I asked L, “What happened at the noodle house? What did you tell the shopkeeper? Did you demand payment for damages?”

“Oh, no, no,” he said. He wasn’t smiling when he told me this, neither was his face a mask of anger, though. It turned out that when he confronted the shopkeeper with the noodles ala roach, she just did the wai, said, “Kot thot ka,” took back the bowl and had one of her assistants give Jay a new serving. “And she did this even before I can get angry.”

“And would you?” I asked him. “I mean, would you have gotten angry and showed it to her?”

“Ah, no. It’s not good to show that.”

“So, that’s it? Just a wai, an apology, a new bowl of steaming noodle, and everything’s settled?”

He nodded.

“In the Philippines, I could have sued her. Or at least, raise a ruckus so she’ll lose many of her customers.”

He barked a laugh. “But it’s only a small shop, they won’t have enough money to pay for damages.”

It might sound at first that he doesn’t want to go to all that trouble and squeeze only a few Baht from the poor shopkeeper. But I can read between the lines.

For Thais, expressing anger makes them lose face. Their culture frowns (pun intended, ha-ha!) upon emotional extremes, especially negative ones. The solution to such a dilemma would have been to smile (yes, even a ngiting aso will do), let the party at fault apologize, make up for the trouble and everything is forgotten (or at least  pretend that everything is forgotten). Patience and self-control (remember chai jen [‘cool heart’]?) are two of the most admirable virtues for the Thais.