Moonshine Operation

The trio of ex-pats living near the jungle might never have known the extent of their addiction had it not been for a care package. Winnipat, the local recruiter responsible for zeroing in on gullible trainees, felt he had struck gold when the three fresh-faced lads profusely expressed their desire to work in a rural area and “do some good.”

“Every child in this village dreams to meet foreigner and study English. You make dream real! The pay is quite low because it is poor place, but the accommodation is free. And dream making is priceless!” Little did they know he planned to take one-third of the salary which was a standard sum issued to all foreign teachers working in any government school.

“Of course!! We don’t need much. Just a roof and a cot and a shower and we’re good.”

The wooden house built on stilts had two rooms: one with four beds covered in mosquito netting, a large open room with a table, hotplate, kettle, and two chairs. Finding the squatter toilet behind the house signalled the beginning of the adventure for the young men.

Two weeks passed in chaos, confusion, and doubt about their philanthropic choice of career. There was no chalk to be found after the third day; all the textbooks were from 1979; the internet worked only 10 minutes in the morning and worst of all, no one spoke English, including their bosses, co-workers, or any of the 45 students jammed into the tiny sweatboxes of classrooms.

Winnipat made an appearance on the first day of the next month to give them envelopes of money. They outlined their complaints all of which he seemed to find incredibly hilarious. He promised to bring them supplies “soon, soon” and reminded them to sing songs and teach “A,B,C, 1,2,3!!!  

Mark, the angriest, spoke to the group. “I can’t take this. Honestly? I came here to get laid, not deal with this bullshit.”

“I came here to get away from being a slave to The Man!” said Adam.

Sam remained quiet, feeling suddenly shy about his desire to do good deeds in the village.

Winnipat seemed to be in deep thought for quite a long while before some secret decision burst open a smile.

“Ok. I introduce you to Pat.”

They were shocked when a 60 year old white man opened the door and more shocked when they later learned he was 40. Pat wore a sarong like a diaper and seemed to use it as such. He muttered and sang and believed Stanley Kubrick was the mastermind behind the moon landing hoax. He had married a girl from the village but she stole his money from under the mattress and rumour was left with another man to a bigger city in the north. Though he wasn’t waiting for her return specifically, he said he had nothing better to do.

“So what do you do?”

“It’s a marvellous night for a moondance……No? ”  He looked at them expectantly, jazz hands splayed and head cocked to the side. “I see a bad moon rising.” Silent stare. “Anything?”

“Jesus. You are as thick as they come. I make moonshine. Better than anything south of the Mason-Dixon, more potent than anything in the Amazon Valley, and sweeter than a virgin whore’s pussy.”

“No shit!? Awesome. Can we try some?”

“I’ll give you a sampler. After that, you pay. Same as the locals, plus the foreigner tax. It’s standard practice.”

He went out the back and returned cradling a large red plastic gasoline jug. With surprising deftness, he swung the jug out with one arm and filled four Hello Kitty glasses that seemed to magically appear on a table behind him.

“Is this formaldehyde?”

“It tastes like Spam.”

Twenty minutes later, all four were singing and laughing. Twenty minutes after that there was a Footloose rendition and by the second hour, they were on the floor spooning like biscuits in a pack.

The next day they had neither headache nor memory but a vague sense they had tapped into some bonhomie rooted in the jungle. So naturally, they had a glass for breakfast. In class, the students stood in delighted awe as the young men channelled Mr. Bean. High-fives while jumping in mid-air replaced the wai and the students’ chairs and desks had been piled into a precarious structure in the back of the room. By the end of the week, students were not only singing “The ABC Song” but had mastered the more challenging “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes”. Each victory was celebrated with raised glasses.

So popular had the three farang become, that they began to be treated like local celebrities. The best bits of meat now floated in their curries and complementary fried fish cakes and glasses of moonshine were brought to their already laden tables by the prettiest girls in the restaurant. Everyone smiled and waved and mothers gleefully shouted, “Hello ABC!”

Three months had passed when Mark received a package from home which included junk food and board games. The guys gathered round, gorging themselves on Twinkies and macaroni and cheese. They poured their third glass of the day and began to play Operation. What at first was hysterical suddenly became a source of panic as time after time none of them were able to hold the tiny tweezers without a severe bout of shaking. After an hour of all organs remaining firmly in place, they moved on to Yahtzee. They found that when they were able to successfully shake the plastic cup and pour out its contents, they couldn’t work out the dots much less put them together in any meaningful way. Tired and confused, they stumbled to bed.

Though the children were initially sad to learn their three teachers had fled, spirits were restored when Wannipat presented a box full of bite size chocolates and games.

He had kept the card on which was written one message in purple ink, “Stay out of trouble! Love, Mom”