Chapter 9.1: Lost in Translation
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The cursed paper fluttered from Thomas's hand to the ground like some ghost had just delivered its bad-news memo. "Looks like a death notice for someone," I muttered, trying to sound brave, but my voice trembled slightly. Thomas flicked it aside with his foot like it was yesterday's trash, and we all just stood there, frozen, staring at each other like deer caught in headlights—completely shaken, utterly clueless about what to do next.
Then bam—my spidey senses went off. Sixth sense? Pure paranoia? Call it whatever you want. The atmosphere dropped into a sinister silence, heavier than anything I'd felt before.
I broke it with a sigh and a sarcastic, "Fuck me, man. I don't even have a Buddha amulet on me. If I get outta this alive, I'm buying a hundred of those bad boys."
James, never missing a beat, pulled out his cross necklace. "I got one, but who knows if it'll help or make things worse," he said, flashing the wooden cross like it was a holy weapon.
"Eh, that'll do. Same God, right?" I shrugged. When you're deep in these creepy woods, you take whatever backup you can get.
We kept walking, lost as hell, with no clue where the hell we were going. Eventually, we stopped to catch our breath.
Suddenly—someone grabbed my shoulder.
I spun around, heart hammering, but all I saw were pale faces staring at me like they'd just seen a ghost.
Damn it. Not this crap again. I braced myself, forcing a 'brave face'.
"Alright, bring it on, ghosties," I muttered with a grim grin.
I snapped my eyes up and locked onto this old man—looked like your sweet grandpa, but with the aura of a horror film villain. His face was all wrinkled smiles, but those eyes—cold, dead, freezing—bro, they could stop hell in its tracks. Then, out of nowhere, he let out a slow, creaky laugh, like a haunted rocking chair squeaking in a midnight graveyard.
"Ahahaha… you kids look lost," he said, voice gravelly, warm yet chilling at the same time.
My heart jumped like it tried to escape my chest. Half of me wanted to run; the other half wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.
The old man introduced himself as Saem—a gravedigger who apparently lived nearby. When Maria nervously asked, "How do you know we're lost?" he gave a crooked smile, "Well, you look lost."
Thomas rubbed his chin, squinting. "So where exactly are we headed?"
Saem nodded slowly, "If you go back the way you came, you'll get there eventually. But you'll be late as hell." With a nod, he gestured for us to follow him down a barely-there path.
Twigs snapped under Thomas's hesitant steps—crack crack—and leaves rustled as a chill wind whispered through the trees—shhhhhh. The deeper we walked, the more the weird cold seeped in, like someone left the freezer door open. Saem's skin looked paler than a ghost's, almost blending into the eerie atmosphere.
After a few minutes, Saem pointed ahead. "Just keep going straight, no more than five minutes, and you'll be there."
Jan leaned forward, whispering, "Why's he not answering when we talk to him?"
Saem just smiled silently, like a cat watching its prey.
We continued, and just as James started to joke, "Hey, your name's the same as that guy on that creepy paper Thomas grabbed," everyone went silent, like someone flipped a switch from chill to panic.
I glanced back—and poof—Saem was gone. Vanished into thin air, even though we hadn't taken more than a few steps.
The group lost it. "RUN!" someone yelled.
Branches snapped around us—crack crack crack—mixed with nervous shouts and laughter. Birds were silent, except for the occasional eerie hoot echoing from deep in the woods.
We bolted out of that creepy forest and—bam!—in front of us stood a wooden Thai house. But, of course, a banana grove blocked the way like a natural "Get outta here!" sign.
Without hesitation, we tore through the banana leaves like maniacs—crack crack—twigs snapping under our feet, leaves smacking our faces. "Ouch! Shit, that leaf just slapped my face!" James yelled, flailing as if fighting invisible ninjas.
The wind whispered shhhhhh, mixing with panicked breaths and random "eeek!" screams. Maria half-laughed, half-cursed, "If a banana hits me again, I'm officially done with this haunted jungle crap."
Sweat, wide eyes, shaky voices—but damn, we were moving like our lives depended on it. That mix of terror and absurdity buzzed through all of us.
"Almost there, keep moving!" I yelled, heart pounding like a bass drum.
We sprinted up the creaky wooden stairs of the Thai house, momentarily forgetting school was waiting because relief was that intense. Collapsing onto the floor, gasping like soggy noodles, I fluffed my hair just a tiny bit—holy shit, it freaked out the people upstairs.
Upstairs, there weren't just students. Some foreigners, too. And there was Teer—staring at me like I was the last slice of pizza, eyes locked on me.
Then I noticed a boy—a baby-faced charm that could make angels suspicious. But my gut twisted with hate and grudges I couldn't explain. This was the kid I'd been dreaming about… the root of all this mess.
Flashbacks hit—every fake smile, every act of "I'm so sorry" that screamed "professional troublemaker." This boy—Khwan Khao—was trouble wrapped in baby skin, the reason I ended up back here in this mess.
Thomas's voice pulled me back. "Ray, you okay?" he asked, holding my arm steady. His eyes mixed concern and relief, trying to anchor me to the present.
I forced a calm expression, but inside, a storm raged—anger, unease, and haunting sadness swirling together.
The forest around us whispered eerie rustles, twigs snapping underfoot, distant birdcalls slicing the silence. It felt alive, watching, waiting.
Thomas kept his hold on me, his voice grounding me as my face twisted in a mess of confusion, fury, and sorrow.
I turned to Jan—she seemed spaced out, distant, already sensing the mess unfolding. The silence said it all.
Whatever courage we had left? Gone. The woods closed in, and all I could think was, "Great, now we're officially screwed."
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Before I could even catch a proper breath, the village head—still glaring at us like we were guilty of crimes we didn't yet understand—fired another question. His voice was stiff, dry as old bones.
"And why," he demanded, each word clipped like a whip, "did you come through the cemetery path?"
My brain tripped over itself. A school… next to a graveyard? Who in their right mind thought that was a good idea?
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Before I could even catch a proper breath, the village head—still glaring at us like we were guilty of crimes we didn't yet understand—fired another question. His voice was stiff, dry as old bones.
"And why," he demanded, each word clipped like a whip, "did you come through the cemetery path?"
My brain tripped over itself. A school… next to a graveyard? Who in their right mind thought that was a good idea?
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Before I could even catch a proper breath, the village head—still glaring at us like we were guilty of crimes we didn't yet understand—fired another question. His voice was stiff, dry as old bones.
"And why," he demanded, each word clipped like a whip, "did you come through the cemetery path?"
My brain tripped over itself. A school… next to a graveyard? Who in their right mind thought that was a good idea?
Before I could even answer, the teacher appeared like he had teleported straight in front of me. My heart jumped into my throat. Thomas jumped in before I could say something stupid.
"I… uh… grabbed the wrong letter," he stammered, words tumbling over one another. "I led everyone through the forest until I realized the letter was for somewhere else, and by then… well, we were lost."
The teacher's eyes narrowed like daggers. "So… you just wandered until you found a way out?"
Then his gaze snapped back to me—again. Great. My favorite little pastime: Stare-at-Ray-until-he-combusts.
I forced a tone calm enough to sound composed. "Someone led us out. An old man… the gravedigger from that forest."
The teacher blinked slowly. "Gravedigger?" as if he'd misheard.
"Yes," I whispered, a little smaller now. "His name's Saem."
And then—boom—his eyes went wide.
"That's… impossible. He passed away three days ago."
I froze. The weight of his words sank slow and heavy. James shifted beside me, his grin thin and forced this time.
"Well… guess we're blessed then, huh?" His laugh was quieter than usual, almost brittle.
Jan let out a strained chuckle, her fingers fidgeting at her sleeve. "Yeah… blessed," she echoed, but I could hear the thread of disbelief in her voice.
"Or maybe he just… pitied us," I muttered under my breath.
James gave my shoulder a light, reassuring pat. Not the playful slap he usually gave—just gentle, grounding. "Either way, we're here now."
Even the teacher cracked a tiny smile, just for a moment, before slipping back into serious mode.
"Alright," he said, voice firm, "Since you're here, you'll be working together for today."
He led us toward the village's central pavilion—an open wooden structure, polished floor gleaming faintly under the sun, low tables scattered across, cushions neatly arranged for sitting. Inside, other students sat in small groups, all heads turning toward us as we stepped in, forming a half-circle of curious, judging eyes.
Why did it feel like we'd just walked onto the stage of some ritual for the supernatural?
The teacher clapped once, the sharp sound echoing lightly against the wooden roof. "Today, you'll be learning part of our local tradition—writing poetry and making garlands."
Poetry. Garlands.
After all we'd just been through, my brain still hovered somewhere between ghost-in-the-forest mode and disbelief.
Then the teacher added almost casually, his voice soft but crisp, "In this village, certain poems are meant to be read at funerals… or left at graves."
Blink. Oh… so the creepy part isn't over yet.
After we sat down, the teacher dove straight into the explanation, just for us. I glanced at Jan; she met my eyes with the exact same deadpan look. Both of us knew—we were terrible at this.
Back in first grade, our attempts at poems had been so bad the teacher had pulled us aside for a "special fix-it" session. Not a single improvement came from it. Not one.
———
I stared at the blackboard where he had written in chalk. Pointing with a long stick, he explained slowly, with firm clarity.
"Today, we're going to learn about Klon Paet—an 8-syllable Thai poem," the teacher said. "Klon Paet is a foundational structure in Thai poetry. Each stanza has 4 lines, and each line contains 8 words (or roughly 7 to 9 words)."
(The term Klon Paet refers to a traditional Thai poem consisting of four lines per stanza, each line having about eight syllables or words.)
He pointed to each line carefully.
"The first line is called Wak Sotab—the starting line.
The second line is Wak Rap.
The third line is Wak Rong.
And the fourth line is Wak Song."
(These are specific Thai terms naming each line in a Klon Paet stanza: Wak Sotab = starting line, Wak Rap = receiving line, Wak Rong = supporting line, Wak Song = closing line.)
"The beauty of Klon Paet," he continued, "comes from the external rhyme. The last word of the first line (Sotab) must rhyme with the 3rd to 5th word in the second line (Rap). Then, the last word of the second line (Rap) rhymes with the last word of the third line (Rong). Next, the last word of the third line (Rong) rhymes with the 3rd to 5th word in the fourth line (Song). Finally, the last word of the first stanza rhymes with the last word of the second line (Rap) in the next stanza."
(The external rhyme or "Samphat Nok" is the key rhyme scheme in Klon Paet, linking words at the ends of lines and parts of lines in a specific melodic pattern.)
He gave an example, slow and deliberate:
She suddenly came, unexpectedly,
Like a dream becoming real,
My heart, it is the very thing
That he shoots, again and again.
"If you want the poem to sound more beautiful," he added softly, "there's also internal rhyme—optional, but it adds charm. For instance, using words starting with the same consonant like 'Ter Tum' (You do) or 'Nang Sue Hai' (Book lost), or words with the same vowel sound like 'Ter Ngao' (You lonely) or 'Ta Ma' (Eye comes). This smooths the rhythm, makes it musical."
("Samphat Nai" is the internal rhyme in Klon Paet, adding melodic consistency by repeating sounds within lines.)
Then his tone softened. "Poetry can also describe scenes or feelings. Characters can speak in poems instead of normal dialogue, or express emotions indirectly."
He concluded gently, hope glinting in his eyes. "Alright, try to apply this in your writing."
I blinked blankly—this felt like a major throwback, and my brain was fried.
———
The teacher moved to the blackboard again. Next to the main section, a Kaph Yanee 11 example was scribbled in white chalk.
"Next, Kaph Yanee 11," he said, tone firm but friendly. "It's a simple, elegant traditional Thai poem, perfect for describing scenes or teaching moral lessons."
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I followed the teacher's pointing stick with my eyes as he tapped at the example written clearly on the blackboard. My heart beat a little faster—not from fear this time, but from the strange mix of curiosity and awe.
(The term "Kaph Yanee 11" is a Thai poem style composed of 2 stanzas, each with 4 lines. Each stanza has exactly 11 words—5 words in the first line and 6 words in the second.)
"The name says it all—'11' means each stanza has 11 words total," the teacher's voice was firm yet gentle, echoing slightly in the wooden pavilion. "Two stanzas, each with 4 lines. The first line has 5 words, the second line 6."
He tapped the board again, this time tracing the rhyme pattern with the tip of his stick, slow and deliberate.
"The key part is the external rhyme, which acts like a built-in melody. The last word of the first line (5 words) rhymes with the last word of the third line (5 words)."
He paused, letting the words sink in, then tapped again.
"And the last word of the second line (6 words) rhymes with the last word of the fourth line (6 words)."
A quiet wave of concentration spread across our small group as we tried to grasp the rhythm, the precision. The teacher glanced at us, then continued with a faint, knowing smile.
"There's also internal rhyme," he added, softer now, almost like a whisper carried by the breeze from the open windows, "which isn't required, but it makes the poem more beautiful. It happens when words in the same line share sounds—same vowel, same starting consonant. It adds musicality and rhythm."
I stole a glance at Jan, who was staring at the board with her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her face was the perfect mix of confusion and determination—I could feel her tension, and it mirrored mine.
"Using Kaph Yanee in a novel," the teacher said, leaning lightly on his stick, "helps you describe beautiful scenes, deep feelings, or even be used as poetic speech for your characters. Practicing this will sharpen your ability to express emotions subtly and vividly."
I tried to absorb that, the words floating like light through the pavilion, brushing past my mind and settling somewhere deeper, where my imagination wanted to play.
He then wrote a flowing example on the board, and I followed the rhythm with my eyes, feeling it almost like a story being whispered into the air:
Ngam Arun Rung Saeng
(Splendid dawn light shining bright)
Song Chai Yaeng Pha
(Shining and piercing through cliffs)
Nok Noi Ok Boi Bin
(A little bird takes flight)
Sod Chuen Ruen Roeng Rom
(Refreshing, joyful, full of delight)
(The external rhyme—Samphat Nok in Thai poetry—means the last word of one line rhymes with a word in the middle or end of another line. For example, "Saeng" (light) at the end of line one rhymes with "Yaeng" (piercing) in line three. Similarly, "Pha" (cliff) at the end of line two rhymes with "Ruen" (refreshing) in line four.)
(The internal rhyme—Samphat Nai—occurs within the line, like "Arun Rung" (dawn) and "Boi Bin" (flying), adding a musical rhythm, like soft chimes brushing together.)
The teacher's sly smile landed on us as he straightened. "Questions?"
We exchanged quick glances, nodding in unison, "Nope, nothing."
Truthfully, it wasn't that we had zero questions—we simply didn't know how to begin asking.
"Alright," he said, adjusting his stance, "next is Khlong Si Suphap." His voice carried calm authority, but there was a subtle weight to it, the kind that made the air feel heavier, the lesson feel… sacred. "Khlong Si Suphap is a traditional Thai poem, more complex than most. Its rules are strict—words must land in precise spots, tones must align, giving it a rhythm and beauty unique to itself."
(Khlong Si Suphap is a classical Thai poetic form of four-line stanzas, where rules dictate word count, rhyme, and tone placement, making it a delicate and elegant art.)
I could almost feel the poem's rhythm before even trying to write. The words wanted to flow, but the precision demanded control. My chest tightened slightly with anticipation—and a little dread. Jan beside me was mirroring the same anxious excitement, biting her lip, fingers twitching over the cushion.
This wasn't just writing—it was learning to shape thought, feeling, and melody all at once, in a language that carried centuries of nuance.
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The teacher tapped the board with his pointer, making a soft tap-tap sound that echoed faintly in the open Thai pavilion. The wooden floor beneath creaked lightly under the weight of the afternoon heat, and the sun streamed through the slats, painting warm streaks across our notebooks. I leaned in, trying to absorb every word.
"A Khlong Si Suphap poem has one stanza with four lines," he began, his voice steady but carrying a melodic cadence that made the words linger in the warm air.
"Lines one to three each have a front part with five words and a back part with two words. The fourth line has a front part with five words and a back part with four words. So, one full stanza has a total of thirty words."
I glanced at Jan, who was scribbling furiously in her notebook, her eyebrows knit in concentration. The faint smell of jasmine floated from nearby trees, mixing with the slight mustiness of the polished wooden floor.
"The rhyme scheme here is also important," the teacher continued, pointing with his stick. "The last word in the first line must rhyme with the last words in the second and third lines. Then, the last word in the second line must rhyme with the last word in the back part of the fourth line."
(This means the sounds at the end of these words match, creating a musical flow.)
I could feel the rhythm of the lesson settling into me, like the slow, steady hum of cicadas outside.
"But the hardest part is placing the tones correctly," he added, eyes scanning our faces. "There are two types: 'kham ek' words, which have a low tone, and 'kham tho' words, which have a high tone. You have to use exactly seven kham ek words and four kham tho words in specific positions in the stanza."
(Kham ek and kham tho are tonal marks in Thai that change how the word sounds. This is very important for the poem's rhythm and meaning.)
"This level of detail makes Khlong Si Suphap like a finely crafted artwork," he said, a slow smile creeping across his face. "It's hard to write, but when done right, it sounds beautiful and powerful."
He gestured to a simple example on the board:
'Rak Por Mae' (Love for Mom and Dad)
Rak por mae tee hai ma
(Love for my parents who gave me life)
Rak chart ying cheep na
(Love for my nation, more than life itself)
Rak pee nong prom na
(Love for my siblings, standing together)
Rak ter pan duang ta
(Love for you, like the apple of my eye)
(The words 'Rak' and 'Na' are in positions that require specific tones, a core rule of this poetic form. 'Rak' is a Kham Ek and 'Na' is a Kham Tho.)
He drew a neat diagram with chalk on the blackboard, lines and marks connecting each word to its proper tone:
(We'll use '…' for a regular word, 'Ek' for Kham Ek, and 'Tho' for Kham Tho.)
… … … … Ek … Tho
… … … … Ek … … … Ek
… … … … Ek … Tho
… … … … Tho … … … Tho
I could feel the rhythm of the syllables as he explained, like little pulses echoing across the pavilion, mingling with the gentle rustle of leaves outside and the distant call of a bird.
Then he pointed to a famous example from the classic Thai text, Lilit Taleng Phai:
Sia somdet phrachao yu hua (Ek) burapha kasat-tho
Siam hoey (Tho) pai mi (Tho)
Boon nak sak yai (Ek) lon (Tho)
Pinklao kasat (Tho) yuen yot (Tho)
(In the original text, the last word of the first line, "hua," rhymes with "hoey" in the second line and "yai" in the third line. However, the tones of these words must also be correct according to the diagram. This is the biggest challenge of this poetic form.)
I shifted in my seat, feeling the warmth of the sun on my arms, and tried to imagine each sound as it should be—like weaving a delicate melody out of words. Jan looked equally absorbed, her pen moving in rhythm with the explanations, occasionally glancing at me with a small, shared look of disbelief. This was going to be a nightmare—but a beautiful one.
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"So, composing Khlong Si Suphap isn't just about arranging words," the teacher concluded, his eyes holding a weight of reverence. "It's a dance of meaning, beauty, and strict adherence to form. That's why it's considered a treasured art."
The chalk dust floated lazily in the sunlit air, lingering as if the explanation itself had taken a physical form.
We sat there, frozen in a mix of awe and sheer panic. Then, as if casually tossing a life preserver into a stormy sea, he announced we could work in groups—just one poem per group. "Ask if you have questions," he said softly, a flicker of a smile brushing his lips.
Immediately, a ripple of laughter—"kek-kek-kek"—bounced from the corner group we already knew were troublemakers. I shot them a look, sharp and silent, but didn't let it rattle me. My Thai? Not great. My English? On another level entirely. Jan and I had an edge: years in an international school, flawless accents, and a handful of foreign friends who had schooled us in more than just language. Most people here, even the so-called elite, barely knew English beyond "hello" and "thank you," and accents? Forget it—they didn't care.
Normally, Jan and I spoke English only occasionally with Thomas's crew, but today the air felt different—charged with quiet defiance, an unspoken challenge.
Jan and I exchanged a look, a silent grin threading between us. No words were necessary. We knew exactly what we were thinking.
But before any of our big flexing could happen, we had to wrestle with Thai first. Because honestly? Nothing the teacher had just taught us made a single damn bit of sense. Zero. Nada.
I leaned toward Thomas and asked in English, trying to keep my voice steady, "Can you guys do this?"
A long, expectant silence. Perfect. The answer I didn't want.
Shit. We're doomed.
I muttered a curse under my breath, thinking, Okay… exactly the outcome I didn't want. We are so screwed.
Jan nudged me, low and sly. "Ask Maria. Maybe she knows."
Maria just shrugged, tossing her hair back, eyes weary. "I can do anything… except Thai. This one? Nope. Doesn't make sense."
Jan's lips pressed tight, eyes twitching in frustration. I scratched my head, trying to keep from panicking. Thomas stared blankly, already calculating our inevitable failure.
The tension hung thick, sticky in the warm afternoon air—like waiting for a bomb to drop but having no idea when it would explode.
We sat in dead silence around the low wooden table in the center of the old Thai house. Three sheets of slightly crumpled paper, a couple of well-worn pencils, and that suffocating weight of expectation lay in front of us. Dust motes floated in the sunbeams slicing through the faded curtain, streaks of gold landing across the table like light trying to soothe our panic. Footsteps creaked outside, distant and lazy, but inside our little bubble, time seemed to pause.
Then James leaned on his elbow, eyebrows arched, like he had discovered some universe-altering master plan.
"Alright… so what the hell are we supposed to do with these?"
I twirled my pencil, raising an eyebrow, while Jan, with that devilish glint I knew too well, dropped her "brilliant" idea.
"Easy. We burn them. Problem solved."
James snapped his head toward her, jaw dropping, disbelief written all over his face.
"Yeah… genius. And then what? We all get kicked out? Perfect plan."
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Maria, sitting cross-legged on the floor with her back resting against a polished wooden pillar, shot us a smirk that screamed mischief, like she was about to unleash a wild card nobody saw coming.
"Or… we just fake it. Scribble some random crap and call it art," she said, voice dripping with casual confidence.
Jan nodded, eyes glinting, like she'd just discovered the smartest plan in human history.
"Exactly! It's called creativity, babe," she whispered, nudging me with her elbow.
I had to chuckle—quietly, of course—but out of the corner of my eye, I saw Teer sitting nearby, watching us intently, lips barely moving, like he was trying to lip-read every thought we had. My stomach twisted a little. Yeah… we were so screwed.
Then Jan's eyes narrowed as she noticed it too—those guys were probably laughing at us. She leaned closer, whispering, "They think we're gonna fail."
And just like that, something flipped. Every one of us, ready to half-ass this, straightened up. Eyes sharpened, shoulders squared, like we'd silently declared war on the universe itself.
"Oh hell no," James muttered, already snatching a pencil like it was a sword in a battlefield.
"Alright… let's do this. But our way."
Even Maria, who a second ago looked ready to fall asleep on the floor, cracked a sly grin, her fingers already twirling a pencil with an artist's flair.
"Time to show them what 'creativity' really means," she said, a mischievous sparkle lighting up her expression.
And in my head, I thought—perfect. From zero effort to full chaos mode in under ten seconds. This could only go spectacularly wrong… or maybe, just maybe, brilliantly right.
Because that's us. The kind of idiots who can't stand losing.
Alright… screw it. Live or die, we're doing this.