I watched young Teung perform at Sanam Luang last night. He performed in a small group playing Esan (north-eastern) music, as part of a cultural festival held to mark Songkran.
It had been raining, which made the ground at the entrance to the park muddy.
It had been raining, which made the ground at the entrance to the park muddy.
I dodged the puddles, and made my way towards the tents, where most of the activity was taking place.
On a large stage set to one side, with its own video screen and impressive, high-rise arch, performers competed noisily with cultural events taking place on smaller stages.
They, in turn, competed with recorded music blaring from loudspeakers.
As I moved around, a small woman with heavily-made up eyes kept popping up in front of me, making conversation.
As I moved around, a small woman with heavily-made up eyes kept popping up in front of me, making conversation.
The festival ground is divided roughly into the country's four regions. After a small walk, I found the Esan tent.
I waited next to a small stage, where players had left their gear - traditional Thai instruments, such as the ones Teung and his student friends study at their performing arts school.
The Esan group was due to play in another 20 minutes. I could find no sign of Teung, so I stood and waited.
Earlier, I had called Teung to say I might come to see him. In all the time I have known my performing arts student friends, I had never seen any of them play, other than in the occasional television show appearance.
I thought it was about time I showed my face, and this function was as good as any. I had seen Teung at Mum's shop the night before, when he invited me to watch him play.
The following day, Teung did not sound interested when I called, but then the background noise at Sanam Luang was deafening, so he might have been distracted.
An hour later, when I arrived at the Sanam Luang grounds, I sent him a text message to say I had arrived. No response.
About 20 minutes later, Teung appeared at the stage, with a group of five or six other boys. They started preparing their instruments.
The Esan group was due to play in another 20 minutes. I could find no sign of Teung, so I stood and waited.
Earlier, I had called Teung to say I might come to see him. In all the time I have known my performing arts student friends, I had never seen any of them play, other than in the occasional television show appearance.
I thought it was about time I showed my face, and this function was as good as any. I had seen Teung at Mum's shop the night before, when he invited me to watch him play.
The following day, Teung did not sound interested when I called, but then the background noise at Sanam Luang was deafening, so he might have been distracted.
An hour later, when I arrived at the Sanam Luang grounds, I sent him a text message to say I had arrived. No response.
About 20 minutes later, Teung appeared at the stage, with a group of five or six other boys. They started preparing their instruments.
I stood 10 metres away, but in gathering gloom, Teung did not see me.
The boys wore colourful, traditional dress - probably the same outfits I had seen them carrying the night before, when they were drinking at Mum's shop.
The boys wore colourful, traditional dress - probably the same outfits I had seen them carrying the night before, when they were drinking at Mum's shop.
They undress when they finish playing, and take their costumes home. The night at Mum's shop, Teung had taken off his two-piece costume, tied it into a square shaped package, and stuffed a newspaper in there as well.
He did not lay his usual instrument, the kim, but thumped away on drums. His face looked dark, and glistened with sweat.
Other boys played guitars, a bamboo mouth organ, and a xylophone. As they played, young men and women in exotic costumes danced on stage, performing what looked like a hunting ritual.
Ten minutes later, it was over. As they started packing up their instruments, I walked over to young Teung, who was kneeling on the ground. I tapped him on the shoulder.
'I came to see your show,' I said.
He smiled. I was a member of his audience, but knew better than to offer praise, as we might do when we watch someone perform in the West.
Thais have no need for it. They played, I watched, that's it.
'Are you drinking tonight?' I asked.
'I will have to talk to my friends first,' he said.
He looked embarrassed, so I did not linger.
A few hours later, I called him from Mum's shop. A sleepy voice answered.
'Hello?'
'Are you drinking?' I asked.
No. He was already asleep.
He did not lay his usual instrument, the kim, but thumped away on drums. His face looked dark, and glistened with sweat.
Other boys played guitars, a bamboo mouth organ, and a xylophone. As they played, young men and women in exotic costumes danced on stage, performing what looked like a hunting ritual.
Ten minutes later, it was over. As they started packing up their instruments, I walked over to young Teung, who was kneeling on the ground. I tapped him on the shoulder.
'I came to see your show,' I said.
He smiled. I was a member of his audience, but knew better than to offer praise, as we might do when we watch someone perform in the West.
Thais have no need for it. They played, I watched, that's it.
'Are you drinking tonight?' I asked.
'I will have to talk to my friends first,' he said.
He looked embarrassed, so I did not linger.
A few hours later, I called him from Mum's shop. A sleepy voice answered.
'Hello?'
'Are you drinking?' I asked.
No. He was already asleep.
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