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Editor: Sydney Van Vleet
Production: Narisa Chakrabongse
Production supervision: Suparat Sudcharoen
Cover design: Mykhailo Uvarov
Design: River Books
ISBN 978 616 451 088 3
Printed and bound in Thailand by Parbpim Co., Ltd
Southern Siam in 1920
PAKDEE: Back to the Past
Songkhla, July 18, 1918
The afternoon sun was still blasting down between piles of dark clouds as Pakdee trudged down the curving staircase outside the monthon offices. Less than two years ago, he had climbed those steps full of confidence that one day he would oversee the four provinces in the monthon as high commissioner, but that confidence had evaporated like puddles in the midday sun.
He could take a rickshaw home. Better not. Walking was cheaper, and there was no reason to hurry as long as the rain held off. Apinya had cut his monthly allowance. It was almost gone, and he had to make it last two more weeks. Three more children since he lost his position, school fees, and books for the older ones. Maybe it was a good thing his appetite for his wives had waned. More children, more expenses, and few chances for extra income as a powerless advisor. But he had earned his old position – worked hard, deceived a raja, lied to his friends, and risked death to get it. Now, I have to find a way to get it back.
Passing the docks, he saw a rust-stained freighter taking on a cargo of tin ore. Coolies staggered up the gangplank straining under large burlap sacks slung over their shoulders. The ship’s engines rumbled and coughed. The smell of burnt diesel fuel hung in the air.
Since the start of the war, demand had surged for the tin, rice, coconut oil, and tungsten of the south, but there had been a lack of ships to move products to Europe. Now that Siam had entered the conflict, the demand for ships was even greater. The latest issue of the Daily Mail reported that Siamese soldiers had bravely joined a big offensive in France. Army truck drivers were delivering munitions and supplies to the front, sharing the danger with soldiers of many nations.
According to Chaophraya Yommarat’s last letter, it was his idea for the king to buy the Daily Mail. So it was no surprise the newspaper proclaimed the country’s participation in the war as a triumph. It was a sign, an editorial said, that Siam, unlike the colonial territories around it, was an independent actor on the world stage. As usual, his old mentor
PAKDEE: Back to the Past
had been clever. Instead of suing editors or shutting down newspapers, Yommarat had advised the king to buy them. That way, the king could get more favorable treatment and project a better image of the country.
Siam was rising in the world, prospering. Why not him, despite the secret he had hidden for so long?
By the time Pakdee reached his yard, his jacket was soaked with sweat, and his legs were sore. He was forty-one already, but that was no excuse. He needed to start going on those hikes with the Wild Tiger Corps – get fit and gain favor with the prince. He leaned on the thick carved timbers of the gate and looked up at the sparkling orange tile roofs of the seven rooms surrounding the central platform. Two of the tiles looked cracked, and several more were hanging loose. He would have to find someone to fix them before Apinya complained about a leaking roof. But the house, ‘the mansion,’ Apinya liked to call it, still looked impressive. Its massive wooden pillars held the floor eight feet above the ground, providing a shady place for the children to play.
He stepped out of his sandals and washed his feet from the ceramic jar at the base of the stairs.
No music. Good – no rehearsals tonight for Apinya’s dance-drama group. No masked khon actors prancing around. Too much to hope there would be no crying babies or gossiping wives.
The shower would feel good. He could wrap himself in the soft cotton of a phatung and relax. After dinner, he would invite one of his wives to join him in his room. He didn’t like eating alone, the way Apinya insisted was proper for aristocratic men. He was tired of it but had to keep playing the role.
Maybe he should invite Siriporn. She always had an appetite, not just for food. She could be counted on for a joke or some amusing local gossip. Even after three children, she was still eager and adventurous on the sleeping mat.
Apinya would probably encourage him to take Ubon because she was the only one of his wives yet to bear a child. He could tell her about his problems translating testimony in that trade dispute. She understood legal matters well but was skinny and usually lay motionless beneath him, waiting for him to finish.
What about Ngwe Lay? It had been so long since he had enjoyed her. She had been innocent and joyful. She used to giggle and try anything he suggested, but lately, the joy had gone out of her. It was the baby, of
we’re setting up new organizations to allow us to organize legally. The new Chinese Chamber of Commerce secretly works closely with the angyee, and the different societies are now collaborating. The days of pitched battles between rival angyees are over.”
Frankie knew nothing about the angyee in Nakhon. There were battles still to fight, payments outstanding.
“You’re right, of course.” Kokteng smiled. “We Chinese must stand together.”
PAKDEE: Problems
PaTTani, SePTember 24, 1918
Pakdee watched an old mosque with a single minaret slide past the window as the train eased to a stop with a squeal of brakes and a hiss of steam. Further down the tracks, he could see the tall white chedi of a Buddhist temple. Thais and Malays seemed to live peacefully together here at Khok Pho village; why not elsewhere?
Vendors gathered at the railway car doors hawking drinking coconuts, roast chicken on bamboo skewers, and a variety of sticky sweets. Pakdee pushed past them to head to the rojak stall he had spotted from the train. For ten satang, he bought a banana leaf bowl of the concoction made with sweet chili sauce, ground peanuts over fried tofu, and hard-boiled egg. He took a bite. Not as good as Mother’s. Was she still making rojak Friday afternoons before mosque? What would Saifan think of me – a brother who let his family believe he was dead? The family he could never see again.
He grimaced as the rojak turned bitter in his mouth. He tossed what remained into a bamboo bin and scanned the roads around the openair station. Where was his ride? Khok Pho was some twenty miles from Pattani town, so Hamidi was supposed to rent a vehicle and meet him here. Luminous green rice paddies stretched towards the mountains to the west, their earthy smell mixing with the pungent odor of dried latex sheets piled on the platform for shipment to tire factories in Bangkok. He shook his head at a rickshaw puller who raised his hand, hoping for a fare.
A man on a bicycle peddled past, a bundle of bamboo poles on one shoulder, the long stems drooping almost to the road behind him. A truck stirred up a cloud of dust from the road in front of the station. Behind it, a small black automobile turned towards the station. Must be Hamidy. The car looked like a two-seater Humber, a step down from his Morgan Runabout Deluxe, but fit for his role as a Malay rubber plantation owner from Padang Besar.
The auto pulled up beside Pakdee, and the turbaned Hamidy leaped
“That will be difficult,” she said. “Our livelihood depends on public places.”
“What about the children? Maybe we should keep the children away from school. We can teach them at home.”
Ploi put her hand on her bump. “Yes, the children. From now on, they stay home, and we don’t let anyone visit. We’ll check our workers for fever every day.”
“We should examine customers too, keep anyone with symptoms off the boat. Even better, we should cancel the gambling cruises for a while. Too much risk to you and the child you are carrying.”
Ploi shook her head. “What will we do for money – just when we need to pay for the refit of the boats? I’ll be careful, and this will be over soon.”
18
SOM: Herbs
CaPe TalumPuk, oCTober 15, 1918
Phra Som was worried. Sick people were coming to his little temple from all along the coast. Some even journeyed north from Songkhla, a full day’s sail away, even with a favorable wind. A half-dozen boats bobbed at anchor in the shallow water of the bay; more were pulled ashore on the sea side of the cape.
His monks clustered around him in the primary treatment room to get instructions for the day. “We’ve now examined every patient and assessed their symptoms. According to traditional Chinese medicine, these symptoms are due to Wen Bing – elevated temperature disease.” Som looked at the rows of mats and bodies covering the floor of the main treatment room. Unlike people coming for sermons, these had an anxious lethargy about them. They were exhausted, yet their labored breathing gave them a desperate look.
Som consulted one of his cardboard-bound notebooks. “In the Han Dynasty, this type of illness was treated by the herbal decoction mahuang xing ren shigao.”
“We have some in the storeroom,” Phra Pat said.
“We’ll need to make more, Pat. I’ll write out the formula, and you’ll go into town to buy the ingredients. You can get ephedra and licorice at Toh’s shop, Tan’s Excellent Chinese Medicine, next to the fresh market. You should be able to find the apricot pits and gypsum powder in the market.”
“If I leave now, I can catch the incoming tide.” Pat adjusted his robes and headed towards the bay.
“Talk to Younger Sister Toh,” Som called after him. “Maybe there is something new from Bangkok. The newspaper says the sickness has reached the capital.”
“There are rumors that the king is ill,” Phra Panya said. “If even His Majesty is sick, no one is safe.”
“We’ll also need to get more rice, vegetables, and some chicken to feed all these patients,” Phra Tia said. “The village doesn’t have enough food.”
of the mountains, looking like they were about to dissolve into the sky like a crust of salt disappearing into the rising tide.
He saw a ragged line of fishing huts ahead. There might be children. He tapped Kahlil’s shoulder, and the car slowed. The last thing they wanted was to hit a child or to startle some old man in a hammock. But when they drove close to the huts, no one could be seen. Tangled fishing nets sagged from a tree. A stack of fish traps awaited repairs. A slim fishing boat was half-painted in green, blue, yellow, and red stripes, but the paint pots were dried out. He saw no one as the car sighed to a stop. There was a fluttering sound. Small white flags hung from each door frame and flapped in the sea breeze, plague flags – warning of disease within. Even here, on this beautiful beach, on this sparkling day, the sickness was here. His guilt was here.
PLOI: Spirit Signs
PakPanang, January 4, 1919
The morning sun slanted through open shutters onto the teak floor polished by generations of bare feet. Bird songs drifted from the garden into the main bedroom. Ploi had just finished packing when Mother pushed open the door, pulling an elderly woman behind her. It was Grandmother Toey, the midwife Mother wanted for the birth that was still nearly two months away. She’d already told Mother she wanted the better-trained nurse-midwife who had helped deliver On. What was she doing here?
“Ploi, beloved child. We need to talk.” Mother’s tone was the one she used when she wanted something. She was dressed in a pretty blue cotton phajongkraben and a white blouse that contrasted with her face, dark with concern.
“Mother, I’m leaving for Phuket in a few minutes, so I don’t have much time.” She gestured to the pile of bags next to the open door.
“Do you have to travel when you are so far along?” Mother came closer, pulling the midwife behind her. “Better to call off your trip.”
“You saw the telegram from Suda. This is urgent,” Ploi said. “And the doctor said the pregnancy won’t be affected as long as I don’t do anything too strenuous.”
“I’m glad you want to help your brother, but I worry about the baby. You could catch the sickness. I should go in your place. I’m concerned about Chit, too, but I have a bad feeling about the baby.”
“Prem says the same thing.” She exhaled and took her mother’s hand. “I know you’re all worried for me and the baby, but I was close to the children and our workers when they got sick, and nothing happened to me. It looks like I’m one of those who just don’t get the big fever sickness. I’ll wear one of those cloth masks. Besides, I’ll have Phra Som with me; he’s as good as any doctor.”
“But I had a frightening dream last night – a woman’s head floating in the air, her entrails hanging down. Horrible. I woke in a panic. I felt it was something about the baby, so I consulted with Grandmother Toey.”
Karma would cure them.
“You must help Mother. Make sure she gets Phra Som’s medicine,” Saifan rasped after drinking a cup of Mahuang. “Father will be at evening prayers.”
Hamidy led Pakdee past a line of bamboo and rubber wood houses, ghostly in the light of a half-moon. They stopped at a thatched hut little different from the others in the village, except for the pen where a halfdozen goats nosed futilely for grass. Pakdee stared at the rough wooden door. Why hadn’t he gone to Mother before this? Now, there was too much to say, too much to apologize for. But Saifan was right; Father wouldn’t be there, and Mother wouldn’t care that he worked for the government. She was over sixty. He had to do this now.
“Let me see her alone,” he told Hamidy. “Give me your songkok and sarong.”
He placed the black crocheted cloth over his Thai-style haircut and pulled the brown and white checked sarong around his waist to partly cover his official uniform. He was about to walk up the short path to the door when it was flung open. A man backed out, clasping a long, white cloth-covered bundle. Another man had the other end – a corpse. Behind him, an elderly man staggered through the doorway. His face was clenched tight like he was straining to hold something in. The old man walked past Pakdee without a glance. His face was streaked with tears. It was Father.
He had come too late.
PLOI: Distraction
PakPanang, DeCember 31, 1919
Ploi felt proud as she looked at the gleaming wooden Jaikla 1 tied to the dock. The new coat of shellac made it look like a jewel in the setting sun, but the Jaikla 4, in Ban Dorn, would be even more elegant once it was finished. If only Father could have lived to see them.
Had she foolishly spent too much to outfit the Ban Dorn boat? The loan from Nit had come just in time for her to make the payments. The interest was high, but with the end of the epidemic in sight, she should be able to afford it.
“Prem, let me see that menu again. We need to make this New Year’s Eve Cruise a special one that will convince people to overcome their fears.”
“We have all the fancy dishes, the curried crab, the braised mushrooms, those little dim sum bits, and lots more,” Prem said.
“Did you check the guest list so we have their favorite foods?”
“I don’t have to check the list. I know what our customers like and what they will like if they haven’t tried it before.”
“Better go over the list anyway, just to check.”
“A waste of time,” he grumbled under his breath.
She stared at him, saying nothing for more than a minute.
“Oh, alright.” Prem pulled a sheaf of paper out of his shoulder bag.
Prem was proud of the food served on the boat, but he should realize it could always be improved. It was good that Prem and Mother worked so well together on the food. Somehow, they never had the arguments she had with Prem. Why hadn’t he learned to understand her wishes after, what was it now, eighteen years together?
The floating dock dipped to one side as Dam stepped onto it. Good, he had finally accepted her requests to provide security on the cruises. After the way she had treated him, she hadn’t been sure he would show up. Dam was another one who didn’t seem to understand the pressures she was under to keep the business going. It had taken an hour of her most soothing persuasion and an envelope of baht bills before he
“No, I’ll open a small shop in town selling canned food, cooking oil, rice, candles – stuff all people need. My wife makes delicious steamed salapao. We can sell those too.”
“You need money to rent a shop,” Awt said.
“Once I pay off the angyee, I’ll look for other work, better pay.”
“Beng, I tried that a couple of months ago,” Hsien-Jung said. “Work is hard to find. The rice fields are dry. The mills are idle. Businesses aren’t hiring because of the big fever sickness, so here I am again.”
“Hsien-jung is right.” Awt took the cigarette that Beng held out to him. “Even the fishing boats aren’t hiring.”
“We’re stuck?” Beng’s shoulders slumped.
Awt sucked on the cigarette stub and handed it back. “It’s hard, but not impossible, to save up some money. You have to be smart. Don’t buy stuff at the company store. Walk to the shop in town. Don’t send money home through the angyee – a guy in town will do it cheaper. Don’t be late for work. They dock your pay. And don’t go to the gambling hut, the opium den, or the brothel.”
“Then why bother living?” Hsien-Jung stood up. “The dreams are so nice and peaceful. They’re all that gets me through the week.”
“Pressure’s up,” the foreman shouted. “Back to work.”
Awt opened the nozzle and braced for the kick against his shoulder. What was it that got him through the week? He missed his family, especially that rascal On. He could be helping On with his studies. Losing his temper with Mother had been stupid, but she was constantly pushing him to do stuff he didn’t want to do. Even more stupid had been trying to steal back the money for Lert. Now, he was cut off from school, friends, and family. What did he have? The other workers? The mine management?
If he returned to Pakpanang, he would get to see his friends again and see Dara again. But what would she think of him after all his big words about getting Lert his money back? And what was there for him to do in Pakpanang? Wait tables at the restaurant? Mother would surely pressure him to work on the casino boats, exploiting people’s addiction to gambling.
Here, I’m making my own way in the world and hurting no one. I have skills and should take advantage.
PLOI: Return to Normal
PakPanang, aPril 21, 1920
Ploi straightened the thua mats again. It had been two years since they had set up a hut at the temple for Songkran gambling. Everything had been canceled last year. Despite her best efforts, the casino boats had attracted so few customers she had to cancel all but a few of the cruises. Too bad the license for the festival didn’t allow for the roulette wheel. That colorful wheel had set Jaikla apart from the other gambling huts.
“We’ve done everything we can.” Prem pushed the cart of liquor closer to the door. “We can’t force people to gamble.”
“People need some fun at Songkran,” she told him, “so we should get a big turnout. Even the government is back to organizing gambling.”
The government’s twists and turns on gambling were hard to follow. Casinos were licensed, then banned, then allowed. Some games were legal; others were not. Gambling was sinful, but it was permitted in temples on holidays. Her lottery was illegal, but the government’s lottery was not. Of all people, Chaophraya Yommarat, the minister of the capital, had just organized a lottery connected to motor racing at Sanam Luang. In his decade as high commissioner in the south, Yommarat had been a dedicated foe of gambling. Maybe he was just being realistic. Gambling was an easy way to raise money for a government that always seemed to expend more than it took in.
“Let me check on the food.” Prem hurried out.
Preparations for the Songkran gambling had been rushed, but she didn’t mind. The work kept her from thinking too much about the children. On was having trouble fitting in with the other novices at the temple. Having a son become a novice monk was supposed to be a good thing, an honorable thing. All her friends congratulated her, but she knew it resulted from her failure. At least he was safe. But where was Awt? It had been months since he had run away, and all she had was a couple of short letters saying he was fine and she shouldn’t worry. She had lashed out at Dam for his failure to find the boy. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so harsh. After all, he had helped her get the Kuman Nee.
trigger when they need to,” Kokteng said. “We need more like that –eager to shoot.”
The next one was tall and gaunt, with a mop of frizzy hair. Unlike most of the others, he was Thai and spoke with a bouncy rural accent.
“This is Yik,” Heng said.
“What was your last job?” Kokteng asked.
“Cattle herding – if you don’t count jobs in prison.”
“I don’t think we need anyone to care for cattle,” Heng said.
“I wasn’t caring for ’em, just herding ’em.” He gave a short laugh. “Herding ’em away from their owners. I also guarded some gambling dens.”
“Gambling?” Kokteng asked. “Where?”
“Phrom Loke and a couple of places around there,” Yik said.
“Who’d you work for?”
“Tiger Thuam, ‘til that fuckin’ cop killed him.”
“You mean Dam, the Pakpanang policeman?” Kokteng asked.
“Yeah, that’s the motherfucker. Did six years in Nakhon prison ‘cause of him. Guy nearly got me again two years ago.”
“Are you afraid of him?” Kokteng asked.
“Not if I can get him outgunned.”
“Come with me,” Kokteng said, “and maybe you’ll get your chance.”
PLOI: Reconnection
ron Phibun, auguST 12, 1920
Three days of intermittent rain left the track into the hills from Nakhon town soaked and muddy. Ploi and Prem were forced to overnight in a farmhouse when their automobile got mired in mud churned to a slippery ooze by the daily passage of heavy tin ore trucks. The stretch beyond the town was steep, rutted, and narrow. At least a dozen times, they had to squeeze to one side to let a truck pass. At last, they slid to a stop past a weathered wooden sign that said Taling Tin Mining Group, PLC.
Ploi looked at herself in the rearview mirror. The cinnabar powder on her cheeks had faded, and her hair was frizzy from the humidity. Her phasin was spattered with mud, and her delicate sandals were slippery with gritty slime. It didn’t matter. Her son might be in that collection of huts ahead. She pushed the door open before Prem could reach it and stepped onto the muddy track. With Prem holding her arm to steady her, she teetered up the slope on a series of planks laid end to end beside the road.
Prem had tried to persuade her to wait for Awt to visit them in Pakpanang. How could she do that? Her eldest son had been missing for months. Once they had figured out where he must be, how could she stay away? It was time to reconnect, to bring everything back to normal, better than normal. All Prem’s prattling about giving the boy some freedom to grow was ridiculous. Awt had to come home.
The sickness that had disrupted life for over two years appeared to have finally ended. The restaurant was making money again, and soon she would increase the casino cruises to twice a week. On was doing better at the Talumpuk Temple. Once Awt was home, On would come back too.
They reached a low building that a painted sign identified as the administration center.
“We’re here to see Mr. Praphot,” she told the toad-like Chinese man sitting behind a big, rough desk.
were nice phrases about the proximity to the police station, Dam’s public service, and the security bond he posted, but the real reason was simple: Dam was police, and the police looked out for their own. It would be better if Dam got a taste of what he had dealt out to so many others. The Pakpanang jail had been rebuilt, so it wasn’t the same dank hole it had been twenty-five years ago, but Dam should see iron bars slammed shut in his face. He should have to eat prison slop and shit into a bucket in front of the other prisoners.
Why not? For more than five years, he had suffered those indignities. Now, he was the chief justice with the power to overrule the police chief. I can give Dam a taste. He dashed out an order and signed it with a flourish.
90
CHIT: Testimony
PakPanang, January 18, 1921
“She was stubborn,” Chit said with a nervous giggle as he slid into a seat at the restaurant table in front of Kokteng. “I could see I intimidated her, but she doesn’t believe Dam is truly in danger. We need something more.”
Kokteng scowled. “So, you failed.” But then he shrugged. “I never believed she cared enough for that ugly policeman to give up her business for him.”
“Right, Boss. Anyway, she’s sure Dam can wriggle out of it,” Chit said. “She says the court will never punish a Thai policeman for killing a jek gangster.”
“Yeah, I don’t expect the court to be fair, but the important thing is that she had her chance to help him and refused to take it. I’ll make sure Dam hears about that.”
“So, what’s the point of me testifying?” Chit asked.
“Time. We must ensure Dam stays in jail a little longer.”
“Ploi said I could go to prison for lying to the court. Maybe I shouldn’t testify. I could disappear.”
Kokteng glowered at him. “Without a witness, they’ll dismiss the case right away. If you want to get rich, you must take risks.”
“But Ploi’s good at protecting herself.” Chit rose from the table. “Even without Dam, she still has friends in the police and the district office. People say she has links to the chief justice.”
Kokteng leaned across the table, pushed him back into his seat, and stuck a finger into his chest. “Putting Dam and Nit together at the restaurant, along with the physical evidence, will mean the police can’t make this go away, and the judge will at least have to make a show of considering the case. I’ve taken steps to encourage the judge to see things my way, so maybe he’ll find Dam guilty of something.”
“But if Ploi doesn’t sign the papers, how will I get anything? You promised me.”
Kokteng smiled. “I have a plan.”
Mother sprawled facedown. The bamboo scaffolding shook back and forth. One leg slipped off the trough, then the other. She held on with two arms and kicked her legs, but she couldn’t get back on the bamboo.
Awt scrambled up the bamboo. “Mother, hold on, I’ll get you.”
Trying not to shake the structure, he caught her by the arms. His shoulders ached with the strain. His heart raced at the thought of what would happen if his grip were to fail him. He slowly dragged her onto the trough and held her in his arms. She was safe, for the moment.
Pebbles clattered onto the cement platform above him. He looked up. A Chinese face peered over the edge. The man held a pistol. Kokteng?
“Awt, is that you?”
Relief swept through him. “Keng Chee?”
“To the rescue,” Keng Chee said. “Sorry it took so long.”
Another face appeared beside him. It was Beng. The wiry miner slid down the side of the pit to the cement platform, then edged out onto the tubing. “Stay where you are. I’ll help you up.”
Beng reached out and slowly pulled Mother to her feet. He led her carefully up the bamboo to the platform.
Awt hurried up the scaffolding after them and hugged his mother. He grinned up at Keng Chee. “We’re alive!”
DAM: Wounds
ron Phibun, february 10, 1921
Dam ran towards the sound of the shots. He stumbled over the rough ground in the dark, ignoring the pain of the rocks slamming into his knees. Prem ran past as he struggled to his feet. Fear filled him.
When he reached the pit’s edge, he saw Prem pull someone up. Ploi! She wrapped her arms around Prem, and they sagged to the ground together.
Dam thought of the times when it was him that Ploi held. But those days were behind them. Then Awt’s head appeared. He ran forward to help the boy up the slope. Once Awt was safely out of the mine, he hugged the boy. Over Awt’s shoulder, he saw a young Chinese man and a scrawny man in soiled work clothes. Three men with shotguns stood grinning at them.
“Prem, you saved us,” Ploi gasped, breathing heavily. “And Dam, you too.”
“And the workers and my friend Keng Chee,” Awt said.
Dam turned to Ploi, still in Prem’s arms. “Are you alright?” She didn’t seem to hear him, so he turned to Awt. “What happened?”
Awt recounted the drama in the mine. “My friends Keng Chee and Beng arrived in time to chase off the others,” he concluded.
“We heard the gunfire at the shack,” Keng Chee said, “so we circled around the mine pit to come up behind it.”
“Didn’t you get Kokteng?” Ploi asked.
“Who’s he?” Keng Chee asked.
Ploi looked grim. “The man behind all this.”
Keng Chee shrugged. “We heard the noise of someone running away when we reached the mine but didn’t see who it was.”
Ploi strode to Dam. “Send your men after him. You can’t let him escape.”
Dam shook his head. “The moon has set; we can’t see anything in the dark and have more urgent problems. Several men are wounded, some serious. Chit is one.”
Born in southern Thailand, Dr. Yuangrat Wedel graduated from Thammasat University and earned a doctorate in political science from the University of Michigan. She has taught and researched Thai political philosophy at Thammasat University, Ramkhamhaeng University, and Singapore’s Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. She taught Thai culture at Assumption University and researched Southeast Asian economic development at Chulalongkorn University’s Institute of Asia Studies. This academic experience was followed by more than a decade of work in rural, community, and child development for UNICEF and Plan International. Dr. Yuangrat has family links to a reform strain of Buddhism and traditional herbal medicine. One grandfather was a senior royal official in the south, and one grandmother was a Mon from Burma.
With a degree in English literature, Paul Wedel taught at the Pakpanang Boys School in Nakhon Srithammarat and later produced educational television programs for the Bangkok government. Paul earned a master’s degree from the Columbia School of Journalism. He won a traveling fellowship that took him back to Asia and spent the next 14 years working as a journalist for United Press International. Paul later served for 19 years as executive director and ultimately president of the Kenan Institute Asia, a Thai non-profit organization. He has written a book on the language of newspapers and contributed to a biography of King Bhumibol Adulyadej. He is on the board of directors of the Fulbright Foundation in Thailand.
Married in 1977, Yuangrat and Paul are avid ballroom dancers who split their time between Bangkok and a cottage in the forest of Nakhon Nayok. As co-authors they wrote Radical Thought, Thai Mind: A History of Revolutionary Ideology in a Traditional Society. Dark Karma is the second book in a projected trilogy. The first book, Beads on a String, is available from River Books, at https:// riverbooksbk.com/ and from Amazon.com.
