I don't like the soup part of Cup Noodles. I guess it could all be considered soup, but the liquid part, the broth to me more specific, I don't care for. For one it is always extremely hot and I gulp down in an overzealous fit of hunger, every time searing my mouth leaving most food flavorless and the inside of my mouth a sand paper texture for the next few days. I also don't like the mess. Really I'm to blame for the mess, but the broth being present gives the opportunity for mess, puts the element in place. Removing this element ensures a much less sloppy dining experience, devoid of slurping and spillage. I like dry, simple food.
I usually dump the broth down a nearby sink but outside the 7-11 there is no drain. So I walk around to the side of the building, past a picnic area and dispose of the steaming, sodium bath in the grass near a tree. I turn and spot my boss and a student at a table and join them.
I click together the collapsible fork from 7-11, an invention that saves maybe 3 inches of space. It's a fork for eating microwavable noodles at a gas station. I don't plan on trekking up Everest with it, so the entire thing seems like gross overkill.
I'm preparing to shovel down my first bite when I'm stopped.
"That is the second thing you killed today," says my boss.
"Um, what?" I have trouble using the phrase "Excuse me?" here or back home. It sounds uppity when it comes off my tongue, jarring and unfamiliar.
"First you kill the ants, now you kill the tree," she says.
I glance at the tree. It looks fine. Green, full of leaves, lush. Thriving even. I look back at my boss, than back at the tree expecting to see it crashing to the ground, erupting into flames or shriveling into the Earth. It stays unchanged. Green, full of leaves, lush.
"You poured boiling water on the tree. Now it dies," she appears to be serious.
I'm not quite sure what to say. I rack my brain trying to think if I have ever heard of trees being harmed by water temperature. No? Yes? No, not a chance? Right? They can withstand below freezing temps and sweltering summers. Maybe Thai trees are different? Maybe I did just kill one? My momentary panic subsides as I refocus on how ridiculous this statement is. No fucking way I just fell a solid tree with less than a cup of not quite boiling, not quite water liquid.
"I think the tree will be fine. I honestly don't think there is any way that is going to harm it," realizing the absurdity of the whole thing, I'm now trying not to laugh.
"You killed the ants on the bus," her come back is quick.
Now that the tree homicide seems have been accepted as fictitious the attention has shifted to the ants.
She turns to the student next to her and rapid fire, machine gun Thai erupts. She holds her hands in the air, mashing her thumbs down as if playing with an invisible video game remote. She grits her teeth and lets out a strenuous "Arggh." I realize she is doing an impression of me. I realize it's fairly accurate. I realize I'm guilty of the ant murders, many of them, maybe hundreds.
Buddhism, particularly the Theravada school, makes up almost 95% of the religious population in Thailand. The predominance means that while living in Thailand Buddhism is almost inescapable. Monks in saffron robes, gilded temples, smoldering incense. It touches all senses daily and heavily influences the lives of Thai people.
The first of the five precepts of Buddhism states that one should abstain from killing. This extends far beyond human life down to the smallest of creatures. Insects, even ants, do not think like humans but can suffer in the same manner. There is also the issue of rebirth, which in an oversimplified explanation, means that animals could be our past relatives.
A few hours before this confrontation, I was sitting on a bus for a school trip. We had just re-boarded after one of the frequent stops and I found that an open packet of teriyaki sauce from some chips I had purchased had been infested with ants. The sauce comes, conveniently, with every bag of these particular chips and adds a little extra flavor to a food whose real down fall is its Styrofoam, teeth squeaking texture.
Upon seeing this my reaction was made up two parts.
First, Rod Tidwell. "I got ants Jerry!" What I believe to be a perfectly executed movie quote goes, understandably, unnoticed by all of my Thai students and fellow teachers.
Second, kill. I pick up the packet and begin to crush ants. I'm suddenly shot back in time. I'm an adolescent youth torching bugs with a magnifying glass at Adam Miley's house, a BB gun wielding pre-teen trying to pick off birds in the woods of Maine.
They are trapped inside the clear plastic, no way out. I'm playing God and I'm not a merciful one. Take no prisoners. They can run, they will simply die tired.
I have no idea my seat at the front of the bus and the height at which I'm holding the tiny bag has made this Formicidae slaughter visible to many people behind me including my boss. I can only imagine the look of sheer terror on her face, her attempts to shield the students' eyes from my blood lust as I smash the life out of what very well could be their favorite auntie or uncle.
Back at the table I try to defend my actions. I tell her the ants were biting me (lie), that it was a variable war zone (wild exaggeration), none of it helps.
"Ant killer." The dubious title instantly becomes a favorite of the students, who are almost all now doing impressions of me. Many more than I thought saw the incident.
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