it's been the ruin of many a poor boy

Taxi rides in Thailand evoke many sensations, from relief (the air-conditioned taxi is a wonderful refuge from the heat) to terror (lane markers, speed limits, and other niceties go by the board as the driver propels you to your destination at the maximum possible velocity). However, they are generally not occasions for merriment: Husband and I converse in low tones in English, occasionally leaning forward and attempting to communicate directions in wretched Thai and with what we hope are universal gestures. Our recent ride home from the Bangkok airport was an exception.

When we got into the taxi, the driver asked us in English where we were from. This is not too uncommon—in fact, many taxis have signs in the windows that read “We love farang. We can speak English.” Often this is a filthy lie, but frequently enough there is some truth to it—many drivers know enough English to have a rudimentary conversation. Combined with our unholy attempts at Thai, we can sometimes get along quite well. Topics of conversation generally include: the fact that we like Thailand, the fact that we are teachers of music, and the fact that it is hot. And no taxi conversation would be complete without the following exchange:

Me: “Something totally wrong and unintelligible in Thai.”

Taxi driver: “Arai na?” (WHAT?)

Me: “Sorry!” (Most people understand this English word.)

Me again: “Puut passa tai yaak.” (Thai is difficult.)

Taxi driver: “Mai yaak! Passa tai ngaai! Puut angrit yaak!” (No, Thai is easy. English is difficult.)

Me: “Mai chai! Angrit ngaai!” (No, English is easy!)

This can go on for quite a while.

Anyway, with this particular taxi driver we covered this familiar ground, but we soon moved on to a topic dear to his heart: music.

American and British popular music of the 1960s and 1970s, to be exact. He listed for us all of the rock concerts he attended in Bangkok in the 1970s (quite a lot), told us that he plays guitar, affirmed Elvis’s status as the King, and expressed his admiration for Paul McCartney’s left-handed bass playing.

And then he started to sing.

Actually I think it was Husband who began it. The driver was waxing poetic about the time when Elvis Presley shook the hand of the King of Thailand (what a moment!), and at a suitable pause, Husband started to sing “Hound Dog.”

The driver was delighted.

He joined in, of course, then started naming other songs and ordering Husband to sing them. They did “Love Me Tender,” among others. We moved on to the Beatles, whose songs I know better than Husband does. The orders passed to me. We did “I Saw Her Standing There” and “From Me To You.” The driver declared “P.S. I Love You” to be his favorite, but for some reason he didn’t care to favor us with that one. All together the three of us sang “Hey Jude.”

And then, out of the blue, he said, “The Animals. The House of the Rising Sun. You sing.”

Well, you don’t have to tell me twice!

The driver started humming the guitar part and I came in with the vocals. I did the first verse in what I considered to be a polite, unassuming undertone, but come on folks, you know this song! It’s just crying to be sung loudly. I couldn’t help myself. By the time I got to “My father was a gamblin’ man” I was delivering the words in what can only be described as a bellow.

The driver was having the time of his life. I have to admit that we were too. It may have gone a little too far, though, when he took his hands off the wheel to play air guitar.

We did get home safely, though, and I can only hope that he had as much fun as we did.