This story was written in 2004 and made the longlist for the Fish Short Story Competition that year. Not, my usual thing, but I had to do something fairly mainstream to get myself included! I really hope you enjoy it and would ask that you leave a comment if you do!
Ong Phi’s Hostel
“Hello, hello!”
“What now?” Dave’s shoulders rose. Through the film of dirt on the window we could vaguely make out the boyish figure waving to us.
“Dave, leave it.” I put my hand on his arm. Sometimes he needed that physical reminder to cut through whatever Neanderthal algorithm he was calling up.
“Hello-o.” The guy shuffled around the edge of the doorway and gave us a smile that showed teeth made for a larger head. “Americans?” he asked with a mixture of optimism and that middle-of-nowhere worldliness that one encountered in every spot that a Westerner with a backpack could reach. His moustache put him at about fifteen, but his lined, wrinkled face told us he was at least forty.
“We’re Irish,” said Dave, turning away from the guy in a way that said the conversation was over.
“Ah, Irish! Roy Keane!”
“Yeah, Roy Keane.” Dave wasn’t breaking records for friendliness.
The guy didn’t seem too put out, but stood there, grinning like a castaway who saw a ship on the horizon.
Dave took a swig of his beer.
“So what can we do for you?” I asked. Sometimes, its better for me to do the public relations work.
“You have problem with hotel.” It wasn’t a question. Anybody within a fifty-foot radius could have heard what Dave called the hotel manager.
“Yeah, they messed up our reservation. You wouldn’t know anywhere that takes in guests, would you?” It was worth a try.
The little guy’s chest swelled “Ong Phi Hostel! Best. Best in town.”
Dave gave me a smile of encouragement. “How much does it cost? Can you tell us how to get there?”
“Cheap, cheap.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “I take you there now.” He motioned for us to finish our beer.
“I’m Sarah, and this is Dave.”
“Ong Phi,” he said, with pride. He put a lot of effort into the handshake.
“Let’s see the place anyway. It’s better than nothing,” I said. Dave had that face on him again. “If we don’t like it, we can leave.”
“He’d better not try anything.”
I didn’t reply. I was having second thoughts myself. Ong Phi was across the road arguing with the owner of a battered Toyota pickup. There was much spitting and waving of arms in the air, then, a bank note exchanged hands, and Ong Phi hurried back to us.
“Come, I take you.” Before either of us could intervene, he snatched up both of our bags and wobbled back towards the Toyota, his arms trembling with the effort. It was like watching an event from one of those World’s Strongest Man things that Dave always insisted on recording, only Ong Phi had about as much meat on his whole body as one of those guys had on their necks.
He threw our bags into the back of the truck and ran to open the passenger door for us. I jumped in first, so I got to push all of the aluminium fast food containers onto the floor, then Dave got in, and Ong Phi slammed the door. I said nothing, but pointed out the layer of white feathers that covered the dashboard.
Dave nudged me. “Will you look at that,” he said, motioning the rear view mirror. Ong Phi, was struggling to single-handedly lift a battered old moped into the back of the truck. We sat there, shaking with silent laughter, until, with an ominous crash, he succeeded. It never even occurred to us to offer to help.
When the little Thai jumped into the cab, he was shaking with exertion.
“Hang onto your hats, guys and gals,” he called, and we were off. He drove like Michael Schumacher on crack. In the five minutes it took us reach the outskirts of the village, at least a dozen different people had to dive out of our way, one of them a tiny girl holding a baby sister who was almost as big as her.
“How far is it?” asked Dave, as we swung off the road and began to bounce along a dirt road.
“Two minutes,” replied Ong Phi, then, “No. Ten minutes.”
I squeezed Dave’s hand and heard him exhale heavily.
In the end, it was only ten minutes, and in that time we left the town behind and entered a complete wilderness. It reminded me of an enclosure from the monkey house in Dublin Zoo. That struck me as kind of sad, later on, that the only thing I could compare the place to was something artificial.
The second that Ong Phi turned off the engine, we were enveloped by a blanket of exotic sounds. Birdcalls wove above the steady contrapuntal chirruping of the insects. It was as if the whole forest were breathing. Dave gave me a quick smile and went to recover our bags from underneath the moped.
“Welcome friends,” said Ong Phi. He opened his arms as if to hug us, then, turned and gestured towards the building in the corner. His house was a bamboo affair, resting on metre high stilts. All of the walls were woven from some thick green material, and exotic flowers, none of which I could name, graced the creepers that framed the porch. I was instantly jealous. I had expected to feel pity for Ong Phi, and to endure his attempted hospitality with a stiff upper lip and a good bitching session with my friends when I got back to Dublin. But the guy lived in a paradise. There was a small clearing where a handful of chickens pecked, plucked and perched. Beyond that was unspoiled rain forest that was ancient when the builders of Newgrange were still squinting at the heavens and placing their first stones.
“Come, I will show you your room,” he said, shouldering Dave off our bags.
The inside of the house was surprisingly cool and shady, although it looked like it hadn’t felt the benefit of a woman’s touch for quite a while. I had a sudden image of Calamity Jane beating the dust out of rugs to an audience of solemn-faced monkeys.
The floors were of bamboo strips covered in rugs that were closer relatives of blankets than they were of carpet. There were dirty plates, of dull and dented metal, and I was sure I saw the furtive scrabblings of something from the insect kingdom that could have gone five rounds with a mouse.
“So sorry is dirty. It is maid’s day off.” At least he had the decency to look abashed. “Don’t worry. I clean soon.”
At the back of the sitting room, our host pulled a string and a woven mat crept up to reveal what would be our room.
“Nice,” said Dave. The room had a long thin window set high in the wall, making the area look almost like one of those hides from which you watched wildlife and birds. The two beds were nothing more than sleeping mats, but they were clean, and I was tired.
Just the trick. I wanted to sink down right away and sleep until the day’s heat abated, but Ong Phi had more to show us.
“Come, come. I will show you best garden you have ever seen.”
It was the best garden we had ever seen. Something in me wanted to walk into the shady hollows between the boles of the trees and never return.
Ong Phi pointed to a spot at the edge of the clearing.
“The toilet,” he said grandly, “Is over there.”
“Where, behind those bushes?” I asked. It seemed like a good question at the time.
“Ha, ha!” He laughed for a moment, then, lowered his voice. “But bring a stick.”
“What, you use a stick to wipe your arse?” muttered Dave out of the corner of his mouth.
Ong Phi caught the comment. “Ha ha! Very funny. Use stick to wipe ass!” He was getting great mileage out of us. Maybe we should have been charging him. He wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. “No, no. Stick is to kill snakes. Ok, now I must go back to town to return truck. You relax. Enjoy.”
I awoke to the sound of Ong Phi’s tinny moped and walked out to the porch to greet him. He was carrying a string bag that held still-dripping prawns. Dave was out for the count with his mouth wide open, probably dreaming of chasing rabbits or stealing sausages from a butcher.
My host invited me to help him prepare dinner. This involved rounding up the hens and locking them into their tiny wicker enclosures. Then, I was given a papaya to cut into strips. Ong Phi got to work preparing a fire. He went into the house and returned with a half dozen bamboo containers of spices, which he began to fry.
“Flavour the oil,” he grinned. “Good. You will see.”
The smell of fresh lemongrass and the peppery aroma of coriander and chilli infused the small garden with an otherworldly air, almost like the incense we had breathed in the temples. I sat there mesmerised as he worked, wondering why he wasn’t head chef in some grand hotel. What was he doing here, waiting on us?
When the spices had nicely flavoured the oil, he added the strips of papaya, then, with no sign of a flourish, he lopped a coconut in half, and added some of the milk to the concoction. The rest of the milk, he set aside. Last of all, he plucked the prawns up from where they’d been grilling and rested them on the top of the dish.
“Call your man,” he said, garnishing the dish with fresh red chillies and coriander leaves. “Now he will taste real Thai food.”
“Jesus!” Dave shook his head in disbelief, juggling a hot prawn in his mouth. “That’s incredible! Where did you learn to cook like that?”
Ong Phi rewarded us with a toothy smile from across the fire. Night had fallen unnoticed while we cooked, and Ong Phi’s cheekbones were orange triangles beneath his twinkling eyes.
“I was chef one time,” he answered.
I thought of the scores of people we’d seen since we’d arrived, boiling noodles in huge vats, or turning over skewers of chicken on an oil drum barbeque.
“In town?” asked Dave.
“No.” Setting his plate down, Ong Phi walked to the porch and extracted a bottle of some clear liquid. This, he handed to Dave. Then, he picked three enamel cups off the porch and flicked the rainwater out of them.
Catching the look I gave him, he laughed. “Don’t worry. Alcohol will kill what is in cups.”
A smell like turpentine wafted over to me when Dave opened the bottle. We each took a cup, half filled it with coconut milk, then topped it off with a slug of the clear spirit.
Dave sniffed his. “Wooh! What is this stuff?”
“Some people call it Kill-me-Quick. I call it Mother’s Tears. Try. You will like.” He took a deep swig and smacked his lips theatrically.
It tasted like something you would use to strip paint. Perfect.
“So, you are married?”
“Just last week,” I replied. “This is our honeymoon.”
“Congratulations!” Ong Phi raised his cup. “You are beautiful couple.”
We downed our drinks.
“I will buy you another,” called our host. His voice was sounding a bit wobbly already. “Waitress!” He clicked his fingers and made a show of looking around for his imaginary waitress. “Mmph! I forgot. Is her day off.”
We held out our cups for a refill.
“So, do you often have guests here?” asked Dave.
“Normally, I fish, but everybody lost their boats in the tsunami. Here, I am trying to make home for my family.” He stopped and looked around. Maybe he expected his family to step from the shadows. “But it is your night. You were married last week, not Ong Phi.” He slurped from his mug. “When did you meet?”
“We met in college,” I said. “Twelve years ago. It took us a while to get round to tying the knot.”
“We wanted to be sure we liked each other,” added Dave. It was his usual joke at this point.
“And you are happy?”
I looked at Dave before answering. “Of course. But it’s a bit strange for us. Things have changed for us, and we’re not yet sure how. It’s difficult to explain.”
“We’re stuck with each other now,” said Dave. He was trying to be funny, but his words fell flat. They hurt. Because they were true. He took a guilty sip from his cup and smiled apologetically.
Ong Phi bristled like a scandalised vicar. “Never stuck!” he hissed. “Like the birds are stuck with the tree? Like the bees are stuck with the honey?” He snorted long and hard and spat in the fire. “You are not stuck.”
We sat, chastised, and let the balmy night air fall silent for a while. Each of us drank on, alone with our thoughts. Eventually, I became aware of Ong Phi scanning our faces.
“You are man and wife, but you are also like brother and sister. You are best, best friends. I will show you fire dance.” He jumped up with manic energy and grasped a stick from the fire. Taking a swig of the mother’s tears, he brought the glowing ember of the stick to his mouth and sent a plume of roiling flame heavenward.
The spell was broken. We clapped and cheered as the tiny Thai ran the flaming end of the stick up his arms and over his chest. I was sure I smelt burning hair. Then, lighting both ends of the stick, he proceeded to twirl it around like some mad majorette. All the while, he cackled and pranced like a madman. By the time we went to bed, our sides were sore from laughing, and our faces burning from the firelight.
When I got up the next day, my head was pounding. I went out on the back porch, where Dave was lounging in a hammock.
I didn’t see Ong Phi.
“Where is he?” I asked, scratching my head.
Dave grinned and pointed to a far corner of the clearing. All we could see was a skinny backside pointing out from under a bush.
“What are you doing?” called Dave. “Did you lose your mastercard?”
“Making breakfast,” came the reply. Ong Phi backed out of the foliage holding an egg to his eye the way a jeweller examines a diamond.
He jumped up onto the porch and set the egg down beside six others.
“Er, do you have any orange juice or anything like that?” I asked. I knew it was a long shot, but he nodded immediately.
“Orange juice,” he said. It sounded like the name of a long lost friend. “Of course. You wait here.”
He disappeared into the house. A few seconds later, we heard the whine of his moped, and my heart hit the floor. Dave didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He just shook his head and looked the other way.
Fifteen minutes later, and our host was back, swinging a buxom bag of oranges. He wasn’t put out by the errand, nor was he hung over. He looked chirpy as a cricket as he set about strangling the innocent fruit into a bowl.
Dave leaned across. “Have you been to the toilet yet?”
“No,” I said. “Why?”
“You might ask him now to go back into town to get you some toilet roll.”
We reached the waterfall at about one o’clock, sticky from the climb. I sat on a rock and surveyed the canopy below us and waited for my legs to stop shaking.
“Give us the water,” said Dave.
“You have your own water,” I snapped. We hadn’t spoken much since his comment about the toilet roll.
“I drank all mine.”
“Tough shit.”
“Aw, c’mon.” He made a goofy attempt grab me in a bear hug.
I turned to face him. “I mean it, Dave. I’m not your mother.”
“Ok.”
“I mean it.” He tried to grab me again. He gave me his I’m-not-listening-because-I’m-too-busy-trying-to-annoy-you smile.
“Yeah, I know.” This time he succeeded in grabbing me.
“Get off!” I started to giggle.
“Ooh ooh!” He picked an imaginary nit out of my hair and ate it.
“Get off!”
“Let’s go for a swim.” The gorilla was gone now, and Dave was back.
Before I could even answer, Dave had ripped off his shorts and was running towards the plunge pool. His arse was shockingly white – a halved boiled egg. I tugged my vest over my head, flung my knickers in the dust and dived right in.
We made love in the water for over an hour, stroking each other as the tension of the last few days and the build up to the wedding ebbed. As I came, we heard the ning-ning of Ong Phi’s moped from back on the trail and gave ourselves in to the laughter.
When we walked back through the trees we were holding hands.
That night Ong Phi cooked again, and the food was, if anything, even better than the night before.
After the meal, we drew close to the fire. Dave had filled the rain barrel with bottles of Tiger Beer, and we took one each. Night fell, and the ancient forest closed in around us like black velvet.
“Ong, why don’t you go into the city and get a job in the kitchens of one of the big hotels?” asked Dave.
Ong spat between his teeth, but didn’t answer.
“No, really. You must be as good as any of their chefs.” Dave never could take a hint and let things lie.
“I was chef, before. Long time, now.” Ong Phi took a swig of beer. “In London,” he said, after a while.
“London London?” said Dave.
Ong Phi laughed. “London London! Yes. Long ago.”
“So why did you come back?” I had to admit, even I wanted to know his story now.
“Too bad for me. People, cars, excuse me please, sorry please. No. I live here.” He gestured at the silent trees around us. The full moon had risen, grey lace on sepia. “I am as much this forest as a monkey or tree. Fish can’t leave the sea, I can’t leave the forest.”
“So you came back,” said Dave.
“How long were you there?” I asked.
“Eight years.”
“Eight years? Did you have family over there?” Dave was doing pretty well on the questions, now.
“I was with family.” He looked up and his eyes twinkled blackly in the firelight. “My family.”
“What, some of your brothers went with you?”
“No. My family. My wife, my daughter, my son, and my son that died.”
The hairs stood on the back of my neck.
“And where are they now?” I asked.
“They are in London. My wife has good job there. She is not of jungle like me.” He pointed back at his little house. “But they will come here to me. My wife, and my children who have never seen the forest.”
I heard Dave swallow hard, and avoided looking at him. My eyes were suddenly burning, and I coughed to cover a sob that was fighting its way up from my chest. They would never come.
We were silent then, around the fire, each of us in our own little world of gratitude and loss. After a while, Ong Phi pattered off into the house. When he returned, he was holding a homemade wooden flute.
“I play every time mister moon is full,” he said. “And he carries the music to my children. Maybe he will help them find their way back to me.”
Neither of us spoke as he brought the flute up to his lips. The lonely notes rose through the moonlight trees. I stared into the fire and thought about my new life with Dave. We’d had each other for so long, we’d forgotten how lucky we were.
When Ong Phi finished, his eyes were glittering with unshed tears.
“That was beautiful,” I said, and saw Dave nodding. There was nothing more to be said. I kissed his tanned cheek and we bade him good night.
The next day, Ong Phi was up early to borrow his friend’s truck. Breakfast was full of forced cheer. Our host bustled about, juggling eggs and shouting “Hurry up ladies!” at the chickens. Dave sat picking at the sole of his runner.
After breakfast, we clambered into the battered white truck and took off along the rutted road for the second leg of the Thai rally championship. Fifteen minutes later we arrived at the bus stop. My legs were shaking as I got out of the truck.
The ticket office was a peeling shack with a roof of corrugated metal.
“Bus is late!” barked the ticket seller. His teeth made me think of apples and tennis rackets.
“How late?” asked Dave.
“I will wait with you,” said Ong Phi.
“Not as late as it was yesterday,” snickered the man, tearing what looked like two raffle tickets from a book.
An hour late, the hulking crate that was to carry us all the way to Vietnam lumbered around the corner. Ong Phi insisted on loading all of our gear. Then, we hugged, and it reminded me of when my father saw me off to college that first time.
“You be careful and good to your wife,” he said to Dave.
“Thanks, Ong.”
Then he turned to me. “Listen to him. He is good man.”
“I will. Thanks for everything.”
He stood looking at us for a moment with his birdlike black eyes, as if he were committing us to memory. Then, he jumped into his truck and was gone in a swirl of dust.
