His shop is like a cluttered information center devoted to a single life—his own. Mr. Kasol Tanaitapor of Bangkok, Thailand has lived a full life, and he has the goods to prove it.
“Here,” he says, taking me by the hand to a sepia-toned framed photograph, “Here is me with King. Thailand King.” There is a neatly but modestly dressed man standing opposite what is obviously a much younger version of Tanaitapor. The King’s posture has military precision and regal confidence. The young Mr. Tanaitapor seems awed. He might be thirty years old in this picture.
He goes on, “Once a year, I meet King”. To Thais, who idolize their legendary monarch, this is like having an annual appointment with God.
Kasol Tanaitapor is not the kind of person you meet in the states. In fact, he’s not the kind of person you meet anywhere. He’s unusual even by Thailand’s very high standards. But no country in the world is so well suited for a man of his personality and interests. He’s a fish in water—or a Venus fly trap at a garbage dump. Here’s what he does: He sits in his shop facing the street and waits for an opening with a foreigner to present itself. In my case, it was offering to help me make an overseas call. He saw me struggling with the pay phone and told me I could make an international call from his phone, which I gratefully said I would like to do. Trap sprung!
Once you enter the shop, you discover that it is not a shop at all—it is a museum, and the subject matter is the same as the tour guide: Kasol Tanaitapor. The 25’ by 6’ museum has 3 loosely organized “exhibits”. Up front we have “Family history”, in the back we’ve got “All the places I or my family have been” and smack in the middle, in the position of most importance is “And this is where you come in”.
In that order then:
Family History. The first 8 or 10 feet of the shop feature an astonishing array of photographs displaying 5 generations of Tanaitapors. In addition to pictures with the King, there are family photos from 55 years ago, photos of parents, cousins, children, siblings (Kasol is one of 5 children), and neighbors. His grandparents, who lived to be 100, look down impassively over a wall crammed full of their very successful progeny. They will have a grandchild who will fraternize with the monarch, and he will have grandchildren of his own, whose education and professions will take them all across the globe. They are the roots of a tree whose branches will encircle the earth.
The centerpiece of this collection is undoubtedly the enormous panoramic photo of his grandfather’s funeral. Everyone attending is posed for the shot. They are standing 7 rows deep, and the rows stretch on and on, endlessly. There must be a hundred people in each row. When this man died, a village lost its elder. They’re like an ocean. It’s an unbelievable tribute.
We move on to the back of the shop.
In comparison to the august display at the front, our next exhibit looks very humble. We go to the back where we are awaited by… a refrigerator. The first rule of memorabilia is, if you’re going to have a lot of it, put some on a refrigerator. And the first rule of refrigerator aesthetics is, clutter looks good on a vertical surface. With these two things in mind, Kasol is really in luck, because his fridge is absolutely covered in shit.
It’s mostly magnets, but the magnets adhere strictly to a theme. Places Big K has gone. By this time, I’ve been joined by my friend Brent, who’s come to investigate why this call is taking me so long, and K asks us both to look through his huge magnet collection and point out all the places that we’ve been. I see Disneyworld and say I’m from Florida. Brent sees Toronto, his hometown, and several European countries he has visited. We ask K how many he has been to.
“All! All!” he says proudly.
It’s a huge collection. There must be 50 countries represented here, as well as many individual cities. It’s a life time of traveling. Here I am feeling like a traveler in Thailand—my 4th country, and this guy’s got a whole door full of destinations I’ve never seen. Show off!
There are also a few pictures. Kasol tells us how many times he has been abroad (“Ten times! Ten!”) and points to a picture of himself with two young adults. They are his grown sons. They don’t live in Thailand. They are doctors. The three of them are hiking together on a mountain in Central Europe. Boss.
Now it’s almost time to bring this tour to its conclusion. One thing you can be sure of on any tour, though; you will be exiting through the gift shop. The last exhibit in the museum of Mr. K Tanaitapor is called “And this is where you come in”. You see, if you thought this tour was just a man who is very proud and happy about his life, and that his offer to allow me to use his phone was simply out of kindness, oh ho, my friend, you have another think coming. To you, this may have been fun and games. To Mr. K Tanaitapor, this is business. The transaction, as Mr. Tanaitapor sees it, goes like this.
I showed you my life.
You owe me a shirt.
Right in the middle of the shop, across from the phone, there is a desk and a chair, and both are covered in packages. He begins going through them to show his credentials. This one is from Texas. This one is from Switzerland. Here’s one from New Zealand that came with a letter enclosed. He shows me the letter. Some nice Kiwi thanks Mr. Tanaitapor for being such a swell guy and says he hopes the shirt will fit. I assume similar letters were enclosed in the other packages.
I’m being instructed—we’re being instructed, because Brent is a part of this too, now—that when we get home, we should find a shirt in his size, and send it to him. He tells again. He shows us a shirt he was sent from Texas. He makes the point one more time. Send me a shirt. Go home and send me a shirt from your home. I’m going to let you use the phone in just a minute, but first, you need to understand that I want you to send me a shirt.
And there it is. Before I know what the hell is going on, there is a pen and paper in my hand and I am taking down a name and address—so that after I make my phone call, enjoy my trip, and go home, I can send Mr. Kasol Tanaitapor a shirt. Well, hey, what the hell. Every museum has a suggested donation.
Goodnight all. Much love.
Randy
No comments:
Post a Comment