Authors: Jennifer Kewley Draskau
Akha knew better than anyone how to survive in the jungle. The boy gulped down rotten-sweet moisture from the boles of trees; from crumbling logs he prised fat white grubs. With his slingshot he killed frogs. He even tugged the wriggling leeches off his bare legs and sucked them. At night he curled up beneath the colonnades of a banyan trees, stuffing his fingers in his ears to shut out the twittering of evil spirits. At last he reached the temple and collapsed on the steps of the courtyard, feigning dead to outwit the pain. The scent of joss and jasmine stole into his pores like smoke. As he opened his eyes, he met the mild gaze of the monk. His saffron robe dragging in the dust, the monk rested his gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. He rose and hurried toward the temple, where the abbot was concluding his sacred chanting.
‘Father, there’s a boy,’ the monk whispered, pointing. ‘A face like a skull with yellow eyes.’ Above the chanting of the other monks sounded an eerie wailing. ‘Father, he howls like a wolf!’
The two holy men looked down at the half-dead boy. The abbot rubbed his chin. ‘The boy may stay, for the moment,’ he decided. ‘It is written, despise no living thing, for all Life is one. He has the bones of a starved sparrow. He will soon die, no doubt. Perhaps in the next life his karma will be better.’
The boy fell upon the rice they brought him like a starving mongrel. ‘Disgusting creature!’ one monk muttered, regarding Sya’s festering sores and running nose, the filth and blood that caked his feet and body.
The abbot beamed. ‘The contemplation of ugliness is a valuable stage in the progress toward the State of Non-Being. But do not delay too long meditating on squalor. Bathe him.’ The boy had to be dragged kicking and screaming to the river, convinced the water spirits would devour him. But to his own amazement he survived, after which he shovelled more rice into his mouth with both hands, then rolled over and dozed like a contented cat with a full belly for the first time in his life.
‘It is time for you to return to your people,’ the abbot said, when a week had passed. The boy leapt to his feet, ran at the bronze door of the temple and banged his head until oozing scarlet gashes appeared. Appalled, the monks dragged him away from the door. He flung off their hands, snatched up two stones and smashed them against his skull, spattering blood on the monks’ bright robes as they rushed again to restrain him. In his basic Thai, he shrieked:
‘
Mai mee baan allai!
I have no home!’
So the boy was allowed to stay. Having survived bathing, he now underwent the enforced removal of his pigtail, even though he fought like a demon because his tribe believed it spelled death. It took four monks to hold him down. When he stopped struggling, he waited, holding his breath, for fiends to appear and rush him off to hell, but nothing happened.
Later, when the abbot felt the process of taming him had progressed, he was given the duty of leading the monks on their dawn promenade. The monks were trained not to glance at the food the faithful placed in their bowls. Any morsel too delicious they plucked from their mouths. Quickly the boy learned not to grab these scraps.
A stony impassivity replaced his glare. Eventually, he was permitted to carry the sacred scrolls. This was acceptance.
The years passed in a cloud of joss and jasmine, the hours marked only by the tolling of the temple bell. He chanted with them. One day he ceased to be the Akha Boy.
‘I will have a new name. I will be the Tiger,’ he announced.
‘Sya,’ mused the abbot. ‘A strange name for a temple boy.’
‘I will not always be a temple boy, but from now on I will always be Sya, the Tiger.’
January 7, 1962
I write now of when I first set eyes on the young anagarika who would become my Akha officer, our faithful Sya Dam, the Black Tiger. Truly, he was an anagarika when I met him—a homeless person who had given up all worldly possessions to commit to Buddhist practice. I recall the occasion vividly. Our peaceful country was on the brink of a bloody civil war. With the unrest stirred up by those misguided Communist agitators in Vietnam and China, the trouble even threatened to spill over our borders from neighbouring Cambodia and Laos. In the light of these concerns, my politicians had entered into a ‘gentleman’s agreement’ with our ally, the United States of America. The previous year the Americans had used five Thai airbases for reconnaissance flights. The bases remained under the command of my Thai air force to secure the defence of my realm. The political priority in these turbulent times was the Thai naturalization programme. The disaffected nomadic hill tribes were stubbornly refusing to be wooed.
Accompanied by an army of security personnel and journalists, I embarked on a journey to try and woo the hill tribes myself. Our itinerary took us to many parts of the country. We visited remote rural areas, making scheduled and spontaneous stops. We were on the road for the best part of two weeks. We roughed it, staying at temples and the homes of local dignitaries, even having roadside picnics at scenic spots, where the staff would set up trestle buffet tables under a silken canopy. We enjoyed feasts of noodles, fresh fruit, and refreshing iced tea. I quite enjoyed the break in routine, if the truth be told.
I could see how delighted everyone was. My people flocked to see me. Some had trekked for days through hills or jungle. Their devotion was most gratifying. They prostrated themselves in the red dust, some gabbling in excitement, many weeping for joy. I felt their eager eyes devour me; their hearts imbibed my essence as though they sucked the marrow from my venerable bones. By the time our travels were nearing their end, I was weak from happiness and exhaustion.
We had reached a remote jungle area in the north where the countryside was poor. Someone whispered, ‘The temple here has a novelty that may interest Your Majesty. They have an Akha novice.’
This caught my attention at once, as I had never met a tame tribesman. It struck me that such a person could be useful in bringing other hill tribes to heel. Monks had lined up formally on the steps to greet us. My gaze was immediately caught by a figure looming in the background, larger than all the rest, in the white robes of an anagarika, a novice. The other monks dropped their eyes and stared respectfully at the ground, but this young man’s eyes glared into mine before they looked away. I sensed the wariness of my attendants, but I stepped forward nonetheless, and examined the anagarika. He towered over me, not moving a muscle under my scrutiny, his stillness almost intimidating. Despite his tribal features, the young man was not only exceptionally impressive of build, but also distinguished of bearing. He did not grovel. Again he stared directly into my own myopic eyes. I could not penetrate his gaze but sensed some creature lurking in the depths. In an unworthy flash of superstition, I felt I had glimpsed a demon, and for a moment I was sick with dread.
‘I think your studies have not yet freed you from ambition,’ I chided gently, recovering my poise. ‘Ambition chains us to the earth, like all desires.’
‘Majesty,’ he said, his yellow wolf’s eyes still devouring mine, ‘I have no ambition but to serve you. To die for you.’
Suddenly I was sharply focused. ‘Well, one must hope the latter will not prove necessary,’ I said lightly. ‘But serve Us you shall.’
January 21, 1962
We were to return to Bangkok by helicopter. I had been looking forward to this flight after the exertions of the royal progress. As our helicopter took off with the usual deafening clatter, the Akha clapped his hands over his ears, shaking his head like a dog with a bee in its ear, but he soon adjusted and peered down at the green and red landscape, as though bidding it farewell.
In Bangkok I handed the young tribesman over to the charge of one of my many uncles, Worawong. The Akha was not the first of my acquisitions to be entrusted to his care. My uncle muttered irritably through his moustache that there was no such thing as an educated tribesman. My uncle further commented on the need to knock the nonsense out of him.
After distinguished basic training, Sya Dam was attached to the elite loyal Border Patrol Police, where a tame tribesman could certainly prove useful, but only if his allegiance were unshakeable. On the eve of his first assignment, I suggested my staff place him in Immigration, after which, if he proved loyal, to place him in Customs and Excise.
My uncle suggested I put him in Overseas Liaison, where the incentives were almost irresistible. Indeed, each successive post offered unlimited temptations. Those who sought favours brought limousines laden with sacks of money and opium and dumped the car keys on his desk. They left sapphire rings absentmindedly in his ashtray. They came to the interview room accompanied by nubile nieces and beautiful nephews; they brought title deeds to villas and apartment blocks, silver snuffboxes packed with snowy powder, and cufflinks set with rubies as big as pigeons’ eggs.
Sya never gave in to temptation. The petitioners were rich and important; most were vindictive and all were ruthless. During the years of his temptation in the outposts, Sya Dam made many enemies. He remained invincible in his righteousness, pure as gold, hard as diamond. People began to call him The Incorruptible.
June 18, 1965
My dear Queen Benjawan is dead now. She died producing our only child, our Crown Prince, Vajah. Before our marriage, I had never thought much about ladies. I was slightly in awe of these fragile, volatile beings, complex as myths. As a young king I had been immersed in my pet projects—dams, nature reserves, literacy programmes and the like, and in my music and the life of the mind.
But it eventually dawned on me that an unmarried monarch is a disappointment. Benjawan was gentle and kindly, not terrifyingly beautiful or alarmingly haughty. Her death paralyzed me with guilt. All those sad attempts to produce an heir, all those false starts and dashed hopes—and her own life finally the price for our only son.
I miss her quiet good sense, her undemanding company. I wish she had been around longer for the boy’s sake, too; while his servants and tutors are all excellent in their duties, they often display excessive adulation. I fear the boy will grow wilful and arrogant.
I also fear what might happen if I died, if the kingship were laid too soon upon his shoulders. My younger brother would be a conscientious regent. Still, I need to ensure, in the event of my demise, that my son has a stronger man at his side, one who will have the courage to make the hard decisions. My legacy to my son will be Sya Dam.
March 5, 1967
Sya’s star continued to rise. He won promotion ahead of more experienced, and even better connected, contenders. There was resentment, but no one protested. His rivals never mounted a coup. His luck and his karma were good.
Even when promoted and recalled to Bangkok, he did not fall prey to its dubious attractions. (I fear our beautiful capital does not enjoy an entirely unblemished reputation.) He gave his enemies no opportunity to condemn him as a man given to perversity and excess. My faith in his ability increased. He became the youngest full colonel in our country’s history, outside of our royal family.
My chancellor was clearly nervous when I told him of my plans for Sya, that I was creating a new post for him. I decided to give him the title of Director of Tribal Training Schemes and Information Dissemination. He would liaise with tribal headmen and promote centralization and a sense of nationhood.
The Chancellor disagreed with me, thinking it a mistake to give Sya carte blanche and worried at what his methods might be. It took some convincing to remind him that while Sya’s carte blanche would certainly include and accept bribery and intimidation, they would be in our favour—in Sya’s unquestioning loyalty, he would shun no means to further our goals. Any terror he inflicted would be in our interests. I was in no doubt that he possessed the fanatical ruthlessness of the terrorist. But he was my terrorist.
From Bangkok’s military transmitter he broadcast in tribal languages. In the deepest jungles of the Northern Hills, his guttural tones pounded the message home to the communities within earshot of every Border Patrol post. During my official visits to outlying districts, I heard that familiar roar; the passion with which he thundered out those strange sounds was oddly unsettling. Since the Akha are the most savage of the tribes, moral recruitment of the Akha will make dealing with the Meo and the Yao and the Karen tribes mere child’s play. If we win over the Akha, we will win everything.
March 5, 1968
Eventually it came to my attention that Sya Dam was perhaps going too far. I was told that he had made a brutal remark, something about burning down Chinatown and killing all the Chinese if any member of the Royal Family were assassinated.
Whims are the divine inspirations of monarchs. I happened to know that Sya Dam was inspecting the palace guard. I sent for him at once.
Under my questioning, Sya was unabashed. While he had no proof of any attempted assassination, he did comment openly on his desire to torch Chinatown.
‘Somewhat drastic, Sya?’ I murmured.
‘Majesty.’ He bowed low. ‘Behind any attempt to overthrow the blessed Chakri dynasty, one would detect the hand of the murderous, unassimilated, bloodsucking Chinese!’
It might be true, but this kind of incautious and intemperate pronouncement contributed to the climate of hatred that was gathering around Sya. Jealousy festered. None but myself dared question him. People were afraid of who else he might blame.
I mulled it over for a couple of days and eventually decided it would be better for Sya to leave the country for a while. I sent my uncle General Worawong to approach the American director of the Southeast Asia Treaty Organization. Together we chose California.