Bangkok and Maratee, burned into my memory

Bangkok is burning. What a shame. The madness that seems to be increasingly sweeping the world has finally reached a country that, for one brief week 45 years ago, was like a fairyland for me.

The Thai government, through the army and police, seems to have finally broken the back of the Red Shirt movement which has kept the capital city in chaos, of one degree or another, for upwards of two months. The Red Shirt protesters, mostly lower-income Thais from north and northeast Thailand who support deposed former prime minister Thaksin Shinawatra, kept pushing their demands until the government finally gave up and “put the boot in,” as the British say. No government would have tolerated such a disruptive force in the heart of its capital city indefinitely, however genuine its grievances might have been.

But that doesn’t make it easier for me to view photos and videos of the beautiful city of Bangkok, with palls of smoke rising over it where the protesters set many important buildings on fire. For Bangkok is, definitely, one of the world’s most beautiful and magical cities.

You see, 45 years ago this coming December, I was a U.S. Army soldier serving in the early years of the U.S. commitment in the Vietnam War. Yes, I was actually there, unlike Mr. Blumenthal who lied about it while seeking higher elective office.

One day while I was working in our office tent at our base camp of Di An (1st Infantry Division) about 20 miles northeast of Saigon, the office phone rang (no cell phones in those days!) and Capt. Donald Coolidge, one of the commissioned officers in our Public Information Office, answered it. He listened to someone for a couple of minutes, said, “Just a minute,” looked up, and his eyes happened to fall on me. “Engle, would you like to go to Bangkok?” he asked.

Silly question! Would Bill Clinton like the key to a whole sorority house full of willing coeds? Would a bear like a whole carload of honey? Would Spec. 4 Engle like to go to Bangkok? When does the plane leave?!

U.S. troops serving in Vietnam (possibly in other wars, too) usually would get one one-week R. and R. (Rest and Recuperation) to a pleasant resort-type city outside the country, during their 12-month hitch there. We GIs joked that it should have been “A. and S.” for “alcohol and sex.” But then, we were young men; what do you expect?

Special Services, which arranged those R. and R. trips, had a plane leaving in a few hours for Bangkok, Thailand, and they had one vacant seat. Why they decided to call PIO to round up one more horny, thirsty GI, I’ll never know. Mine not to reason why; mine to rush off to Thai (land)!

When our plane landed in Bangkok, it was plain as day that, while it was still Southeast Asia, “Toto, I don’t think we’re in Vietnam any more!”

Really!  Saigon was war-battered (almost 19 years of fighting by the Vietminh, French, Viet Cong, South Vietnamese ARVN army, etc.); it was a city of pastels (pale-colored buildings, neutral-hued clothing, an air of a society that was shrinking back, keeping its head down, to avoid having it shot off). The Vietnamese were tiny, slender little people, black-haired without exception, with an epicanthic fold to their eyes (slant eyes, to put it bluntly) that was noticeable, but not nearly so much as that of the South Korean soldiers we often saw there. The women often wore long, flowing blouse and skirt combinations with long, matching trousers of the same material underneath. They were frequently beautiful, but … somehow they seemed like doll people.

Bangkok, when we landed there, was a jolt — a cultural shock. The buildings, the vehicles, tended to be in bright, primary colors. The Buddhist temples were both more numerous and more striking than in (part-Catholic) Saigon.

The Thai people you would have never mistaken for Vietnamese, either. They were bigger, a little darker, huskier, with not much slant to their eyes, and moved around with the self-confidence one might expect in a country that never was ruled by a European power.

The women — ah, the women! They tended toward dark brown, rather than black, hair (well, I guess the men did, too, but I wasn’t looking as closely at them). The women dressed fashionably, with bursts of tropical color. And they were so friendly! They would actually turn their heads, smile and speak to you on the street! That didn’t happen much in Saigon, as I recall.

And the Thai women were the most beautiful that I saw in Asia — bar none.

Speaking of bars, after I checked in at the Bangkok Hotel where my reservation was, I decided to go out sightseeing — and wound up going into a small, neighborhood tavern near the hotel. It was owned by a Thai family; both the daughters worked in there. One was 21, a year older than me at the time, and married. The other was 18, and, like many young Thai women, drop-dead gorgeous.

Her name was Maratee Jauhari. I fell in love; I think she did, too. I wound up spending more time with her during that week than I did doing anything else. No, I’m not going to tell you what we did — except that we went with her sister to a Thai movie theater one afternoon and saw a Thai movie, of which of course I didn’t understand a word of the dialogue. At the end, a giant slide showing a portrait of the Thai king (he’s still on the throne today — been there 64 years) was flashed onto the screen, everyone stood and sort of came to attention, and the national anthem was played. I was probably the only Farang (that’s what Thais call White people) in the theater, and I didn’t feel one bit out of place or uncomfortable.

I didn’t spend ALL my time with Maratee  that week. I always addressed her that way; it wasn’t until years later that I realized the Thais, like most Asians, put the family name first — so her given name was “Jauhari.” Oh, well. I walked around a lot, just exploring, went to a massage parlor (I sat outside and drank a beer, but didn’t go in; was just too chicken). Saw a number of astounding Buddhist temples and other buildings. Went into a small Thai restaurant for a coke one day; again, I was the only European-descended person in there as far as I could tell. One of the Thais who was sitting in there looked up, saw me and said something in Thai; the Thai word for “American” was similar enough to ours that I could tell he was talking about me. Often have wondered what he said.

Despite my infatuation with my little bar girl, I did manage to soak up a pretty good week’s worth of Bangkok. Loved it. Some of the nicest, friendliest people I ever met. Unique, beautiful architecture. An ambience very different from that of Vietnam. I’ve never forgotten it.

Maratee, as I always called her, cried on the day I had to leave. Maybe I did, too; I don’t remember. She gave me her address; I wrote her a letter after getting back to Vietnam. Never got an answer. Always have wondered whatever happened to her. She would be 63 now. Probably a grandmother. Hope she’s safe and happy, wherever she is. Maybe, somehow, she’ll read this, and remember her tall, lanky (in those days, anyway) American boyfriend of one week.

And I hope the Thai people manage to settle the differences that have erupted there in the last few years, and restore their beautiful capital to its former glory.

They’re too good a people — their city is too much of a world urban cultural and tourist center — for the ugly events of the past two months to be allowed to spoil that.