Open Writing

1968. Our new home in Bangkok was a small ground floor apartment in a newly-constructed block of about six apartments set back from the soi (street) by a wide curved pebbled driveway.

Soi Somkit was a short street which ran off the busy Ploenchit Highway, one of the main roads of the city, and ended at one of the many khlongs (canals) which criss-crossed Bangkok.

To get to the markets or into the main city area, I would follow the khlongs, admiring the beautiful red, purple, pink and white bougainvilleas, which spilled their blossoms into the greenish waters. It was a pleasant three kilometre stroll, with a short-cut via the grounds of the Royal Bangkok Sports Club and the manicured lawns of the UK Embassy, a good way to avoid the frenetic traffic snarl of the city.

We had a private, walled lawn space about ten feet by twenty feet, which then opened out into a communal recreation area with a small swimming pool. My three daughters attended an American school for U.S. Army families and had to catch the school bus at 7 am, returning about 4.30 pm, so our recreation space was very necessary.

The apartments were too small to have live-in servants, so servants' quarters with motel type rooms, a communal laundry and kitchen had been built at the end of the driveway.

We had passed the word around our Thai friends that we needed a live-in cook. Within a week our friend Miriam arrived with Boon, a South Vietnamese refugee from Saigon, and one of the first of the hundreds of 'boat' people to escape from the war in Vietnam.

Boon spoke only Vietnamese and a smattering of French. She was about 4 ft 6 inches tall, petite and slim. She arrived for her interview dressed in traditional Vietnamese sarong and organdie blouse, her dark hair swept up in an elegant coiffure. I guessed her age to be late fifties.

She stood demurely, her small bag of belongings beside her while Miriam and I talked.

'I'm sure she's a great cook,' I said, 'but how shall we communicate?'

'She's desperate for somewhere to live,' said Miriam. 'She needs food and lodging and she'll be happy with whatever wage you give her. She's an excellent cook and she says she can find someone to do the laundry and the floors. Please give her a trial.'

At the word 'cook' Boon's face lit up. 'Madam', she said, 'Boon Number One cook!'

Shortly after our arrival in Bangkok I'd learned that Thais rated everything on a scale of one to ten. Number one was top quality and number ten was not worth bothering about. How could I refuse?

So Boon moved in with us. Despite the language problem we managed to communicate with sign language and my small knowledge of French.

I soon discovered Boon's habit of smoking her evil-smelling Thai cigarettes while she chopped vegetables and cooked. No matter how often I scolded her, I could not break her of the habit.

Our kitchen stove was connected to two large LP gas tanks on the verandah, stuck bang up beside the kitchen window. Although Boon seemed to understand the importance of turning off the tanks at night I usually double-checked.

But then, of course, one night I forgot.

Boon arrived the next morning at 5 am. I heard her shuffle into the kitchen. But then instead of the cheerful sound of the whistling kettle I heard an almighty bang!

I jumped out of bed and ran into the kitchen. A wild-eyed Boon cried out, ' C'est la guerre!'

She had forgotten to turn off the tanks, which had been leaking gas into the kitchen all night. She had one of her cigarettes dangling from her mouth when she opened the kitchen door. Half asleep, she had lit a match and leaned over the stove. Luckily for her the explosion had gone outwards, blasting the slatted wooden door off its hinges and breaking the windows. Luckily for all of us, I had left one of the windows ajar, so some of the gas had escaped.

After this brush with death, she refused to touch the kitchen stove. For several weeks she watched me cook without blowing myself up, and finally was persuaded to use the stove again. At least the incident cured her of her smoking habit in the kitchen!

© Peggy Mitchell

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Peggy writes for Bonzer! magazine. Please visit www.bonzer.org.au