Where Chingchoks Chirp My Childhood Days in Bangkok

By Kim Pao Yu

Bangkok in the 1950s and early 1960s was a relatively small city consisting of exotic temples and palaces built in bygone days surrounded by rows of commercial and residential shophouses. Author Kim Pao Yu, a child born into a traditional Northern Chinese family, writes about his parents, their origins in Shandong, and how they escaped the war and communism in China to settle in Bangkok.
In Where Chingchoks Chirp, a collection of essays, he shares his parents’ beliefs and values, their hopes and joys, and their struggles to ensure a better life for their children. Raised in a shophouse where his parents owned an antique and furniture store, situated in a compound inhabited by immigrant Chinese from Swatow, Kim describes everyday activities—the myriad vendors who sold their goods and services, the neighborhood children and the games they played, and how they celebrated holidays and festivals. The selections also cover the food and recipes his mother left as a legacy; his memories of people and experiences encountered while growing up; and his adventures at an American school as a local Chinese boy attending with the children of American expatriate and military families that shaped his thinking as he left Bangkok for higher learning in the United States.
Where Chingchoks Chirp shares the sights, sounds, and smells of the bygone days of Bangkok, now a modern, bustling city that still retains much of its past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jan 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665735032

Kim Pao Yu

Kim Pao Yu was born in Bangkok, Thailand. He came to the United States for college, earning his BS degree at Lowell Technological Institute, and his master and doctoral degrees at the University of California, Berkeley. His professional career spanned across multinational power and IT corporations, where he held engineering, sales, and general management positions in the United States, Hong Kong, Thailand, and Taiwan. Retired, he lives in Mountain View, California.

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Copyright © 2023 Kim Pao Yu.

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people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

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ISBN: 978-1-6657-3502-5 (sc)

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Archway Publishing rev. date: 01/10/2023

Contents

Preface

Chapter 1 My Mother

Chapter 2 A Compound in Bangkok

Chapter 3 Vendors along Siphya Road

Chapter 4 Vendors In Our Compound

Chapter 5 Lunch Vendors

Chapter 6 Snack and Other Vendors

Chapter 7 Holidays and Festivals on a Calendar

Chapter 8 Chinese Holidays and Festivals

Chapter 9 Thai Holidays and Festivals

Chapter 10 American Traditional Holidays

Chapter 11 Winter and Christmas

Chapter 12 My Mother’s Banquet

Chapter 13 Mom’s Recipes - Slightly Altered

Chapter 14 The Origin of Popular Thai Dishes

Chapter 15 Roast Duck and Hainan Chicken

Chapter 16 Durian

Chapter 17 Dining at the Pacific Hotel

Chapter 18 Shopping in Bangkok

Chapter 19 Going to the Movies

Chapter 20 Movie Theaters

Chapter 21 Western Movies

Chapter 22 The Wat Flicks

Chapter 23 Beijing Opera Phonograph Records

Chapter 24 Childhood Scents

Chapter 25 The Legend of Tiger Balm

Chapter 26 Hu Ba Ba

Chapter 27 My Chinese Teacher

Chapter 28 Tao Kae Niang

Chapter 29 Marian’s Godmother

Chapter 30 Pian Tze in Old Bangkok

Chapter 31 The Refugee Who Hid in Our Godown

Chapter 32 My Year as a Boy Scout at ISB

To

My Mother

Preface

During the late 50s and early 60s, the compound of shophouses where I grew up in Bangkok was filled with all kinds of sounds from dawn to dusk.

There was the constant blaring of horns and revving of engines from the cars and tuk-tuks (that noisy, smoke-generating motor tricycles that have become an icon of Bangkok traffic vehicles) on Siphya Road, a major thoroughfare connecting Chinatown to the rest of the city.

And from the homes and shops, separated from each other by only wooden plank walls, came the clanking of pots and pans, screams and yells from mothers and children, and the timpani and shrieks of Teochew operas from radios.

However, after dinner, and after cooling showers that splashed away the sweat and grime of the day, it was time to put children to bed, and quiet finally descended onto the compound.

I listened as I laid on my mattress on the second floor that served as the bedroom for the family, feeling the soft breeze from a slow whirring electric fan.

From outside the screened door and windows, I heard the soft chirping of chingchoks, those harmless little lizards that hung on the walls and ceilings of every home.

Chingchoks come out after dusk to feed on mosquitoes, and as dozens of them are drawn to light, this feeding frenzy scene, nature’s way of pest control, can be seen every night in the arena of lit light bulbs.

Their appetites satisfied, chingchoks give off chirping sounds. There are four or five chirps, one after another.

They sound gentle, almost like the ‘tut tut’ sound made by a well-mannered lady, politely expressing her mild reproof over something.

As a child, relaxed in bed and lulled by the comforting chirps, I felt that all is well and safe in my surroundings, a familiar sound that sent me off to dreamland.

Familiar senses trigger our memory cells, and for a moment, we are transported back to our childhood days.

Nowadays, walking past just as a waiter takes the lid off a hot bamboo steamer to let out the fragrance of freshly steamed buns and suddenly, I am at our kitchen table in Bangkok, as my mother lifted the bamboo cover of a large steamer to reveal a tray full of white steaming bao tzu.

As school children pour out of school, our neighborhood ice cream cart vendor is there to greet them, playing Little Brown Jug as he drives past my home.

I think back to the time when I return home from school, to be greeted by snack vendors plying icy drinks, fruits, and so many kinds of kanom, the Thai word for desserts, in the compound where we lived.

When I bruised myself, or when I got bitten by a bug, I reach for my small capsule of Tiger Balm. And when I see that embossed trademark of a running tiger, I remember a similar one that laid in the cabinet on top of our sink in the home in Bangkok, where we stored bottles of lotions, colognes, and local remedies.

As I prepare a familiar dish without needing to refer to its recipe because I have done it so many times before, and as I stand over a wok, adding ingredients and stir-frying, I see images of my mother who did the same so many times before.

And as I lift my chopsticks at a banquet table, celebrating some holiday with friends and loved ones, I remember when I was a child, how our family gathered around the round teak table at home, waiting to dig into all my mother’s grand dishes served on china that was used only for special occasions.

Watching old movies on TV, many now labeled ‘classic films’, takes me back to when I saw them the first time in Bangkok cinemas, each showing an event with ads, previews of coming attractions, then the audience standing up in respect when the King’s image is projected onto the screen and his anthem played.

And when I binge on historical dramas from China, episode after episode that told familiar stories from famous classical novels such as The Romance of the Three Kingdoms, and The Water Margin, I remember the Beijing operas that sang those tales and the books that my Chinese teacher, Zhu Laoshi, eagerly introduced to me when we visited a bookstore in Bangkok Chinatown.

When I read about the plight of refugees, I remember the one whom my parents helped – a stranger from Burma who hid in our godown (warehouse) until he safely emigrated to Taiwan.

Experiencing familiar senses are catalysts to bringing back our memories, and childhood memories are the most vivid and long-lasting.

Someone said that our brains work on our memories so we retain mostly happy ones.

Be that as it may, my memories of my childhood days in Bangkok are certainly happy ones, and it is my pleasure to share them with you.

01

My Mother

Unlike many Overseas Chinese families who settled in Thailand as refugees that fled from the homeland when the Communists took over China, my parents were more fortunate. They were already in Bangkok when World War II started.

Shortly after the war, they rented a small shophouse that my father used as a base, storing imported table cloths and textiles that he sold by bicycling to the homes of expatriates.

He saved his money and dreamed of the day when he could return to his hometown in Shandong Province as a merchant who made his fortune overseas.

His dreams were shattered when the Communists took over. When land and property got nationalized by the new regime, he realized that he couldn’t return home, and he must continue to live in Thailand.

Hearing and believing propaganda that the Communist regime is short-lived and soon they will be able to win back the mainland, and also fed by his wistful thinking, my father’s new dream was to live in Thailand, save money, and return home after the Communists are driven out of China.

Instead of bicycling to sell his textiles, my father decided to set up shop and import other merchandise such as furniture, antiques, and works of art.

The shop prospered.

All this happened about the time when I was born, in the year 1950.

As children, my two sisters and I, having been born in Thailand and never having stepped foot in China, what we know of this homeland of our parents came from pictures from story books, objects of art sold in our antique shop, and mostly from tales and stories told to us by our parents, relatives and their friends.

During evenings after supper, we gathered together in front of our parents, sitting on low stools, fanning ourselves to keep cool.

As a lit coil of Cock brand incense released a lazy spiral of smoke to repel mosquitoes, we listened to our parents telling stories about themselves and their homeland.

My mother was born in 1915, in the town of Zhucheng in Shandong, a northeastern province of China.

She was the eldest of four in the Li family and was given the name Kwei Tze, which translated as Osmanthus Flower.

The Li family was an old and venerable family in Zhucheng, a town renowned as the birthplace of legendary heroes and loyal officials.

Indeed the most famous among them was Zhuge Liang, a prime minister during the period of the Three Kingdoms, perhaps the most famous strategist in Chinese history.

And there was Liu Yong, the famous calligrapher and incorruptible prime minister who served the Manchu Qianlong Emporer so faithfully that his entire hometown Zhucheng was bestowed the rare honor of tax exemption for an entire generation.

Zhucheng had its share of villains as well.

The most notorious person from Zhucheng was Madame Mao, maiden name Jiang Qing, who was born a year before my mother and also in a family surnamed Li.

Any mention of Jiang Qing to my mother, she would frown and curse, asserting that the surname is pure coincidence and that she has absolutely no relation with Jiang Qing.

Old photographs of my mother’s father showed a tall, thin, and dark bald man.

My mother added that he was a fearsome-looking, tempestuous, headstrong man - a description met with repeated nods from my father.

Her mother, on the other hand, was a small, timid, and kind woman.

Her father got into a heated argument with his father one day and decided that very same evening to abruptly leave their home, henceforth severing all relations.

He took his family and settled in the nearby city of Qingdao.

My mother grew up in that beautiful coastal city.

Unlike places such as Shanghai and Canton during the 1920s, the northern part of China continued to practice the old traditional, conservative ways handed down over generations.

And she was brought up that way.

As a child, her feet were bound for a short period, until a government edict banned the practice in time for her feet to be spared any permanent damage.

In such an environment, girls were not allowed to attend school but must stay home to learn the skills to become good wives, such as sewing and cooking.

Her father was a heavy drinker and smoker.

When he signaled for a smoke, she sat by his side and as a dutiful daughter, filled and lighted his water pipe.

That’s how she picked up the smoking habit that lasted her lifetime, and the cause of her steadily failing health.

To support his family, her father opened a wine distillery.

He was not good at business, and soon the distillery failed.

The family then moved to Yantai, another coastal city east of Qingdao.

Being the eldest child, to support the family, my mother found work at a factory making hairnets.

Her sewing dexterity and intelligence soon paid off and she rose through the ranks, becoming a forewoman in charge of a group of workers.

The early days of Republican China witnessed the start of the struggle for workers’ rights.

Labor unions were starting to form in factories, and hair net factories were no exception.

My mother believed strongly in the struggle for better wages and working conditions, so she organized meetings and protests to form a union.

There was excitement in her voice and a gleam in her eyes when she talked about her role in leading these struggles.

My mother also talked about her siblings.

Her favorite younger brother was a student during the time of the Japanese incursion into Northern China, and he was swept up by the rising political tide of anti-Japanese nationalism.

He joined a student group and took part in clandestine activities.

He was subsequently arrested and executed - another martyr, among the countless young men and women who sacrificed their lives for a cause that they believed in.

My mother’s face was full of sadness when she talked about him.

She did not share any more details.

Her other brother was the one whom we know, as he was her only relation who left China and settled in Bangkok.

But when he was in China, my mother said, he was a good-for-nothing who languished at home, talked big, and spent lots of money.

Her only sister was also spoilt. She stayed behind after the Communist takeover, married, and stayed in Yantai.

Well into her twenties, when most women were married by then, my mother remained single, working hard every day to support her family.

During arguments with my father, I heard her mention a romantic relationship with one of her distant cousins.

But on this subject, again she shared no more details.

During the late 30s, my father who was living in South East Asia selling linens and tablecloths to European expatriates decided to return to Yantai, where his parents and brothers lived, and where he got his goods to sell.

He had made some money, and like all dutiful men, sent his savings back home to support his family and to purchase land and property.

While in Yantai, he hired a matchmaker to help him look for a wife.

The matchmaker introduced him to my mother.

Because of his reputation as a rich merchant with property, my mother’s father readily agreed to the match.

The wedding was held.

And it was after the wedding that my father confessed that he has another wife in his hometown of Qi Xia, who is still alive and living there with their three children.

He further explained that his wife is a mentally deficient woman who is unable to support him as he makes his fortune overseas.

At that time, polygamy was accepted in Chinese society.

Even so, this news upset my mother very much.

She felt cheated by him. But she had no choice but to accept this situation and considered it her fate in life.

I don’t believe she ever forgave my father.

So, my father brought my mother, and his three children from his first wife to Bangkok, at about the time when World War II broke out.

When my parents and my half siblings settled in Bangkok to wait out the war, it was my mother her skills and hard work that kept the family fed and alive.

As expats hid and ran away from the Japanese invaders, my father’s business, selling tablecloths and linens to them, evaporated with the expats.

The family moved to the Thailand countryside to escape the Allied bombings.

Among the fields and klongs, my mother searched for edible plants and herbs, collecting wild water mimosa and the like to put on the dinner table.

She also raised chickens for their eggs, and for some income, she took in sewing work.

She boasted with pride that she counted many upper-class ladies among her customers, as word got around about her fine skills in sewing, tailoring, and embroidery.

She told us stories about that period, and how she devised ways to protect her chickens from marauding animals such as toads and cats.

Her faraway gaze was filled with nostalgia as she recounted her experiences, confessing that even though life was hard and uncertain, they were the best times of her life.

The war was ending, the economy improved, and soon my father’s business slowly revived.

The family moved back to Bangkok and rented a three-story shophouse in the middle of Siphya Road.

My mother supplemented the family income by continuing to take on tailoring jobs.

She worked tirelessly into the night without regard to her health, with only her cigarettes keeping her company.

She shared two unforgettable stories about those times.

The first was about how she saved the building and the lives of those in it.

As the defeated Japanese army retreated, Allied forces continued their bombing of Bangkok.

The British dropped bombs by day and the Americans by night, she recalled.

One night, an incendiary bomb dropped onto the attic balcony of the shophouse.

It ignited right away; its flames were on top of the tar and oil that rapidly spread all over the cement floor.

In desperation, my mother picked up a cotton blanket, dashed over to the flaming slick, and covered it, a brave deed that saved the building and everyone in it.

She said with a chuckle that the only thing she regretted was the blanket - it was totally ruined and had to be thrown away.

The second was a ghost story, so personal and so scary that it stuck in my mind forever.

It happened shortly after the family moved into the shophouse.

One late night, as she was working away on her Singer sewing machine when everyone else was sleeping, she noticed a movement in the shadows by the windowsill.

She glimpsed through the corners of her eyes while keeping her head down on the sewing machine and saw a woman sitting on the windowsill.

The woman had long black hair and was dressed in black. She was weeping as she glanced out the window.

My mother kept still, not wanting to disturb the ghost, and eventually, it went away.

Several nights later, the ghost appeared again.

A woman in the neighborhood dropped by to talk to my mother.

Have you noticed anything funny about the house you are staying in? the neighbor asked.

No, why do you ask?

"Don’t you know that there was a tragedy, that a previous tenant committed suicide there?

I hear that her ghost is hanging around haunting people."

Don’t be silly! replied my mother as she brushed away the woman. There is no such thing as ghosts. And I’d thank you not to spread such rumors around!

One night, when the ghost appeared again, my mother talked to it. She told her that spirits and humans reside in different worlds and that no matter how badly she was treated in her life, it is time to forget her suffering and leave the human world in peace.

After that night, the ghost never appeared again.

She ended her story by saying that she kept the encounter to herself for a very long time, and only disclosed it to us children as a lesson. That the ghost world and the human world are separate. One should not be scared if and when one encounters something supernatural, but to remain calm and steady, as humans are more powerful than ghosts and spirits.

Was her story a real experience, or a made-up tale to teach her children to be unafraid when faced with the unknown and unexplainable?

No matter, recounting this story still sends shivers all over me.

My father’s shop steadily prospered, and my mother’s thoughts now turned to bear children of her own.

At the same time, she continued to perform her duties as a stepmother to three young adults.

After my sisters and I were born, the eldest of her stepchildren, by now a young woman, got married and moved to Taiwan to live with her husband.

The second, a young man, had an independent streak and wanted to live his own life, away from the family.

My parents tried to rein him back into the family. They found a wife for her and held a big banquet to celebrate the wedding.

That didn’t work. My stepbrother left the family and went to live with a Thai woman.

This made my father very angry.

After many bitter arguments, he paid for a column in the Chinese newspaper, declaring that he had publicly disowned his son.

My stepbrother never returned home again.

When my mother spoke of this incident, she lamented that outsiders would view the breakup, as being her fault, and that she instigated it all to drive her stepchildren away.

It was only after so many years gone by, after my parents passed away, that my sister happened to see this stepbrother at my cousin’s home.

He then told her that during the ordeal, my mother was kind to him and sided with him and that he most faulted and resented my father for his unyielding, conservative attitude and harsh treatment.

My second stepbrother was mentally deficient, a trait probably inherited from his mother.

He lived away from home but was frequently taken advantage of by strangers.

My parents took him back and he became our driver.

One day, he brought home a Thai woman, an amiable person, whom he announced that he would marry.

My parents accepted his decision.

My mother decided to pass on to the couple her famous recipe of soy sauce braised duck, advising them that they can use this to start a small business by opening a noodle shop.

And that was what both did.

They opened a duck noodle shop in the city of Siracha, using this soy sauce braised duck recipe.

Their business thrived, and soon the shop became a famous landmark in the seaside city.

Long lines of diners waited for seating, anxious for that delicious braised duck in rice noodle soup.

This is another proof of the proverb – Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day; show him how to catch fish, and you feed him for a lifetime.

My mother witnessed the way my father raised her stepchildren, how he imposed draconian restrictions on my step-sister’s movements, and how he used the end of the rattan duster to mercilessly whip my stepbrothers when they misbehaved.

She told him in no uncertain terms that the upbringing of her children must be left to her alone. She alone will administer punishment to them.

So, when I misbehaved as a child, my mother gave me a stern lecture and then punished me by sending me to kneel in front of my grandparents’ photo that hung in our living room.

This form of punishment is equivalent to sending a child to his or her room or to sit alone in the corner.

She also told my father that she would decide on our education.

My father yielded to her on the behavior, but education was another matter altogether.

My father did not believe that formal education is needed to become successful in life.

After all, he never had any.

He taught himself letters and characters by reciting the books Hundred Names and The Three Character Classic, as done by countless children in old China.

As for numbers, while apprenticed to a trading company, he watched other clerks and learned to use the abacus and to write and keep accounting books.

That’s all one needs to start learning a business and make a living, that and to be a quick learner and pick up things while on the job, he said.

My mother had different beliefs.

She, and my father, eventually realized that their dream to go back to China will not happen soon, as Communist China held firm to its control over the people.

Elsewhere in the world, including in Asia, economies were booming with the help of new technologies, while old ideas, traditions, and conventions were pushed aside.

She witnessed the demise of a rich neighbor - a large Cantonese family dependent on one man, who lived a corrupt life and squandered his wealth, then died suddenly and overnight bringing the entire family to ruin.

She noticed the emergence of western countries, particularly America, that emerged from the war with new ideas of democracy to fight communism, which was leading the future with new inventions and technologies to dominate the livelihoods of people in the rest of the world.

She believed that education was the way to improve the future and that any future will have to be away from Thailand.

The way pointed to higher education the western way, starting in Bangkok, then eventually in America.

The standard of education in Thailand at the time was very low, even compared to other neighboring countries that at least had a more progressive system left over by their European colonial masters.

Thai was the only language allowed in all schools; a decree established by a nationalistic regime.

There were a few schools associated with Christian missionaries, but even there, Thai was the primary language.

Perhaps a western education leading to a successful career as a scientist or engineer is the modern equivalence of becoming a zhuang yuan, she thought.

She knew that throughout Chinese history, for a male commoner to escalate in class and status by merit and not by birth, one must become a scholar that excelled in studies, then attend the imperial examination to win the top prize and be given the title of zhuang yuan, to be paraded on the streets of his hometown, and to be awarded an official position by the emperor.

She could associate with that process. It was described in countless novels and depicted in many operas and movies.

But for her girls, it was different.

The emancipation of women, their rights, and the idea of equality among the sexes had not yet reached the shores of Asia.

A girl should be well educated of course, but then be prepared to marry into a good family. She must be taught the art and skills of being a refined lady.

Learn to play the piano, dress well, cook, and take care of a family.

But how to achieve all this, when the physical and mental world that she lived in was very limited?

Physically she was confined to a small neighborhood in downtown Bangkok, surrounded by Chinese from an alien province, spending her days helping my father with the shop and raising her children.

She never experienced anyplace beyond her hometown and Bangkok.

Without proper education, she could only read and write some Chinese while struggling to learn more words from my father, whenever there was some free time.

But she was a quick learner and an intelligent observer, driven by an obsession to improve her life and the lives of her children.

She sought help, to find the right people, not in the business environment, but people in academia, educated people in official positions.

Su-Mei, my older sister, was already enrolled in the nearby Chinese elementary school called Yiu Min School, located on Sathorn Road by the banks of the Chao Phya River.

The principal of the school was a Chinese woman, surnamed Wu.

She and her family immigrated to Thailand many years ago. Her husband passed away, leaving her to support three teenage daughters.

Principal Wu was a native of Hunan Province and spoke Mandarin. My mother became a close friend.

It was Principal Wu who advised and assisted my mother to enroll my sisters into Wattana Academy, an exclusive boarding school for girls considered to be the best school in Bangkok, where Thai and English were equally respected and taught.

All the girls from the elite Thai families of Bangkok attended Wattana School, where they are taught the fine arts and skills, and learned refined manners befitting their family’s higher social class.

Finding the best school in Bangkok for her son required much more planning and strategy.

My mother had heard about an international school in Bangkok run by Americans, an exclusive school where only the children of expats were allowed to attend, where English was used and the Thai language was treated as another ‘foreign’ language.

She had to find a way for her son to enroll in the school.

To do this, she must enter into the social circles of Chinese officials residing in Bangkok.

She had several advantages.

The first was her background and origin. She was from Northern China and spoke Mandarin, the official language of China used by scholars and officials.

The second was her knowledge and experience gained from her years of residence in Bangkok, necessary and invaluable to high social expat ladies trying to cope in this foreign place.

She found whom she was looking for among the wives of officials of the Republic of China (Taiwan) Embassy and officials at the United Nations.

The ambassador of the Republic of China (ROC) at the time was Mr. Han Li Wu, a respected educator and diplomat.

His wife, Madame Han, was an ardent Christian and often preached at the Mandarin Baptist church where my mother attended.

She was an ardent supporter of the movement to draw Chinese women out from the ancient traditional mode into modern times.

In her role as the ambassador’s wife, Madame Han displayed no official airs, and couldn’t care less about protocol as she worked hard to improve the relations with the Chinese immigrants in Thailand.

Madame Han sponsored free lectures and film viewing sessions on progressive subjects during commemorative days, such as International Women’s Day and national holidays.

The embassy sponsored a booth along with other nations represented in Thailand, at the annual YMCA Christmas bazaar.

Madame Han and my mother became good friends.

My mother idolized her as a symbol of the modern Chinese woman, while Madame Ham treated her as an equal.

Madame Han would visit our shop unannounced to confer and plan events with my mother.

These visits always resulted in