Thai Silk Factory Worker
Pay: Minimum wage (B203/day)
Working hours: 8am-6pm
Who did it: Gregoire Glachant
Real job: Managing Editor at BK Magazine
When they picked me up at On Nut, I figured the factory was in the neighborhood. Well, isn’t everything a five-minute walk from a BTS station? I’m now in the back of an SUV, drinking coffee from a branded Thermos from Emporium. I’m pretty sure I’m the only factory worker whose barista and chauffeur is also his boss.
It’s too early to make meaningful conversation. I’m just appalled at how we’re now past Suvarnabhumi. I keep making nervous jokes about us driving to the casinos in Poi Phet. If only. For this “day in the life of” story, I wanted to be a cop, but I’d have taken casino dealer. I’m now going to be printing silk. “Men work there, too,” the factory owner’s daughter promises. Men? What kind of man would print silk? Today’s batch, they tell me, is for Chitrlada, a Royal Thai silk project that does floral prints for affluent middle-aged women. Besides, the job title is sao rong ngan—that’s not very butch, is it?
We pass new and high-tech looking factories before reaching one that is straight out of a Dickensian novel on child labor. A scrappy dog missing half its fur greets us—thank god, the workers are grown-ups and they look fine. First, I get a nice grey shirt with the factory name embroidered on the pocket. At least, I’m not going to look completely ridiculous. Come on, let’s make this silk! Aunties eating Duc de Praslin in their boudoirs are waiting.
On the factory floor, I’m awed by the setup—a dozen 60-yard-long tables lined with steel rails and covered in yellow wax. At each table, one or two factory workers operate a silk screen printing device. Oh and the workers, they’re all girls (except for one guy carrying the screens). I’ve been had.
I start trying to operate the machine with step-by-step instructions from one of my new colleagues. I’m painfully slow and you can tell the workers are wondering what they’ve done to deserve having a clueless farang dropped in their midst. I’m not even supposed to be wearing the work shirt. Only employees who’ve been here a year get that honor. I’m really cheating. There’s no way I’m going to find out what this job’s really like.
For thirty minutes, I manage to make a few prints, two sao rong ngan coaching my every move. On both sides, the other girls are gliding up and down their tables with giant strides. I’m useless. Get me my magazine job back. Besides, it’s fucking hot in here.
Finally, an obviously more senior worker gets fed up with my inefficiency and comes over. “You stand in front of the screen. You don’t move around. Your right hand stays on the handle that lowers and raises the screen. Your left hand is either operating the rubber ruler pushing the ink through the screen or unlocking the screen from its guides.”
I’m much more efficient after my lesson. But I keep thinking about the women who buy this silk. Do they care about all this? Should they? Am I gaining some deep insight on the plight of the proletariat?
“Lower the screen!”
Somehow, I keep forgetting to lower the screen. Why do I have this mental block? How am I going to write this story where nothing....
“Lower the screen, first!”
Shit. Where nothing happens except me lowering the screen, sliding the rubber ruler forward, lifting it, swinging it back, raising it again, unlocking the guide, moving the screen down two notches, thinking about how I’m going to describe...
“Lower the screen!”
Oops. Forgot again. What happens if I fuck up, do they throw the whole roll of silk away? Will some hiso bitch end up with my mistake splattered all over her curtains. “Darling,” her friend will ask, “what’s wrong with your curtains?” Horrified shriek from the auntie as she realizes... “Lower the screen!”
Fuck, my colleagues must think I’m retarded. I need a break. I grab a Coke, try on some rubber boots (my look is ruined already) and check out the silk screen washing station. Scrub, spray water, scrub. Ok, printing was more fun.
After my break, I get into the rhythm. I’m printing. I’m lowering the damn screen. I don’t give a fuck about the aunties. I care about the silk. My mind is the silk screen machine. I am a sao rong ngan.
The veteran worker congratulates me. The girl supervising asks if I’ll be sticking around. “I’m a journalist, you didn’t think I was here to stay, did you?” She looks at me with a kind of pity and I nearly get it. But the moment passes, my hand reaches for the knob and I lower the screen.
There’s not much work in the silk business these days. Have you heard the news? There’s this re-say-shun going on. The afternoon is spent watching the silk go through giant rollers that steam it, dry it, squeeze it and roll it up. This job is much too easy to be left to girls. So a bunch of guys watch the machines while the dogs sleep.
“We used to have two factories until we sold one to Jim Thompson. We’ve been doing this for a century. This whole building,” the owner points to a junk-filled hangar, “we used to print silk there, too.”
So silk is dying, huh? I know the feeling. I work for a print publication.
Mascot at Siam Ocean World
Pay: B500 per day
Working hours: Six days a week, 9:30am-7pm
Who did it: Nick Measures
Real job: Associate Editor at BK Magazine
When the first thing you see as you get to work is fifty dancing cooks, you know you’re in for a weird time. But then, I guess dressing up as a giant underwater sea creature is a pretty surreal way to earn a living. In fact, surreal pretty much sums up the whole experience. It’s like entering a trippy world where everything looks normal but is also slightly off kilter. How else can I explain being stuck in a lift with an otter, a shark and a cheeky penguin. (It’s a tight fit by the way.) Or playing Jenga with a mermaid. Or discovering that Siam Paragon has a secret canteen filled with hundreds of coiffured shop girls in different colored uniforms doing karaoke.
That’s what you get being a mascot. You get to see things from the other side of the coin. You’re behind the scenes looking out, and let me tell you things look pretty strange when you are peering through the downturned mouth of a giant sponge ray, called Mr Murray. That’s me for the day, Mr Murray. I decided to be a mascot because I thought it would be fun. And it truly is, but I didn’t realize it would be such a head fuck.
I meet my fellow mascots in a windowless room filled with old props: a couple of penguins, a giant plastic polar bear and an angry looking husky. My bemused new colleagues stare as a middle aged white guy tries to get into a shark suit. Turns out I’m too tall to be Marc the shark so a furry ray it is. That’s when they tell me about the dancing. I don’t do dancing normally, let alone dancing wearing a giant rubber suit that makes me resemble a seriously pissed off frog.
Too late, it seems the life of a ray involves quite a bit of dancing, six shows a day no less. The rest of the time is split between wandering around posing for photos and, fortunately, a lot of down time which gives me the chance to learn the steps from Rom and Max. Having been Mr Murray six days a week for the last three months, these guys are the pros. As I stumble over or just plain forget the steps, I can tell they’re worried.
It’s a relief, when we get to don the costumes and head out of the room, accompanied by our minders. The minders are there to steer us ungainly foam creatures up escalators, into lifts and perhaps most importantly, keep over-enthusiastic kids (and adults) at bay.
The first time out is fun, people stop and stare as I glide up on the escalator squinting through the sweat and flapping my fins. The downside is, despite the malls ice cold air con, it’s crazy hot. The only way to cool down is to get my minders to pump my chest like a bellows. But, I survive unscathed and definitely enjoy the strange mix of attention and anonymity that comes from wearing this outfit. It’s a kind of invincibility—everyone can see you but no one can see what you’re up to. I confess, I have the urge to run amok, especially when I spot a five foot tall rabbit—is he stepping in my territory? Maybe this is a common side effect, mascot madness, perhaps that’s what the minders are really here for.
All too soon, I’m herded back downstairs and then I realize I stink. The suit has clearly been around a while, and I find I’ve been marinating in a lovely pool of sweat stained sponge. Still I haven’t got time to worry about that, I’ve got a dance routine to learn.
So the day slips into a rhythm we go out meet the crowds, the pros do a show and then it’s back to our lair where I murder the dance steps while everyone else relaxes sleeping, eating or playing board games.
With the big show approaching, I’m hit by stage fright. Jesus I’m going to be doing a dance routine in public. I can feel the tension rise; even the mermaid, Aey, looks nervous. What if I screw up, do they get punished? Do I get punished? Will I be fed to the sharks? Before I know it, I’m back in the costume and it’s then I realize. I haven’t done the routine in the suit, I can’t move my arms, or see my feet. God, how am I going to get up on a stage when I can’t see my feet. It’s too late, I’m in the foyer and that damn music starts. The next few minutes are a crazed blur, I somehow stagger onto the stage without falling on my face but my minds gone blank. I forget everything I was taught. Instead, I opt for running wildly around the foyer waggling my wings and then my ass. Confused, I stop running and realize that I’ve missed my cue again. What’s happening, get it together. Finally, I get into the rhythm, even manage to wiggle my fins in time with the others but the only mark I hit is the last one. It’s a pitiful, travesty of a performance but I don’t care. I’m absolutely buzzing, I loved it and want to do it all again.
Unfortunately, that’s it. All too quick my fifteen minutes of fame are over. All that’s left is one final walk around the shopping centre before I pull off the costume for the last time. It’s been harder than I imagined, but it’s also been so much more fun. My ray might have looked pretty grumpy from the outside but, inside, I was loving every minute.
Promotion Girl for Leo Beer
Pay: B280-500 a day
Working hours: No. of days vary. Shifts are between 6-8 hours, from 6pm till late.
Who did it: Mim Koletschka
Real job: Staff Writer at BK Magazine
Glossary of terms. Cheer: to get your customers to buy the beer you are promoting. Tae ang: butt slap.
How to cheer: You walk over to a table and ask if they would like the beer you are promoting. If they want another brand, get the other Promotion Girl (PG) to take the order. Take the order to the bar, serve the beer while looking pretty the whole time.
Rules: 1. Don’t steal other PGs’ customers. This is the cardinal rule; there’s no cueing system to get to the customers but, whatever else you do, don’t piss the other girls off. 2. Be polite, be a lady—you are selling beer. 3. You don’t get tips from the restaurant or bar. You can only accept the tips the customer hands over to you personally (this does depend on the bar/restaurant). 4. If a tae ang occurs, gracefully step away from prying hands and flirtatiously quip, “Does that mean you want a beer?” 5. Never fight with customers (this one really had me worried). And 6. NO drinking on the job (another one I had concerns about).
As a feminist who wears black-rimmed glasses with an all-black wardrobe consisting of trousers and flats, the thought of serving beer in a red mini dress and high heels not only irked my principles but also sent me on a downward spiral of insecurities. Neon-white legs that haven’t seen the light of day in years, fluent in only crass Thai and—I ask you—who the fuck has ever seen a pretty in black-rimmed glasses? The humiliation started before the workday began. Trying on the different outfits at the Boonrawd headquarters was an ordeal. The small didn’t get past my butt. The zip wouldn’t budge on the medium and while I squeezed into the large I also realized that I would have to make do with 20% less oxygen for my six hour shift. The worst part, the dress was polyester.
My first port of call is the Khao San Center. A restaurant bustling with backpackers and around 16 other PGs was definitely a competitive and cutthroat place to start my pretty career. However, I was pleasantly surprised by the camaraderie the women shared. Instead of competition, I found friendly banter and lots of laughter cutting through the boring task of standing around and looking pretty. And when it came to me, the other PGs were both courteous and curious as they tried to work out what the fuck a luuk kreung was doing cheering beer. When I was able to cheer (I got three tables drinking Leo, thank you very much), the tourists were equally confused at my native English tongue even if they were too polite to pry. They probably chalked it up to the craziness that is Bangkok. There was one unseemly incident with, surprise, surprise, a drunk expat. But my PG colleague took it in her stride and stated (in Thai), “Come closer, and you’ll have to shell out B5,000.” Seeing my confusion, she explained the story of her PG friend, who having received an infamous “tae ang” took the bastard to court and got some dough out of it. That’s real feminism in action!
My second site for the night was Hippie de Bar, an old white house turned into a popular retro, hip hangout for young professionals and expats in the know. Cheering locals is much harder when your punters already know what they want—not a great spot to try my new found cheering skills. Instead, I busied myself industriously serving towers of Singha and jugs of Leo. One thing to remember: mini dress and white underwear means walk like a lady. But this writer still has to learn the grace that comes with holding a Singha tower while walking up the stairs in a fucking short dress. Some customers definitely got more than they asked for. And for that, I apologize.
Some feminists, whatever that word means, may have qualms about women in tight dresses promoting beer. The only thing I have to say is, why don’t you try standing up for six hours in high heels, in a tight polyester dress in tropical heat, and then we can talk. My calf is still hurting from a pinched nerve resulting from running around for hours in high heels (I lasted for 4 hours before changing to flats, and then, in a burst of pure masochism, spent the last 10 minutes in white boots). The dress was soaked in sweat (sorry Boonrawd, it’s being dry cleaned). And muscles were aching that I never knew existed. Is cheering and serving beer work? Yes. And looking pretty the whole time? Hell yes. It takes a lady. The only regret I had from the night in the life of a beer girl: this feminist ended up feeling disappointed that her ass was left untouched.
Waitress
Pay: Varies depending on experience
Working hours: Six days a week, 9:30am-6:30pm
or 6:30pm-2am.
Who did it: Nuttaporn Srisirirungsimakul
Real job: Features Editor at BK Magazine
“You? A waitress?,” laugh my friends when they know that me, one of the clumsiest people alive, is due to wait tables at Huntsman Pub at the Landmark Hotel. Then they seriously start placing bets on how many glasses I will break. Like that isn’t enough, my best friend sends out an invitation on Facebook: “Lifetime Shame or Achievement: Nuttaporn Live at Huntsman—some beer and slapstick entertainment.” Thanks guys. Appreciate the support!
I show up at 5pm before the evening shift starts so I have time to familiarize myself with the place and the staff. Steve, the Huntsman marketing manager, quickly shows me around before handing me over to Nuch who is in charge of the day shift. I spend the first 30 minutes struggling to grasp how to jot down the orders (“The white one goes to cashier, the blue to the bar or the kitchen then stick the yellow in the box, got it?”) and memorize happy hours deals (“From 3-9pm, it’s buy-one-get-one-free on local beer and standard cocktails. Special prices on imported beer. You with me?”). The table numbers are the trickiest skill to learn because after No. 12, it’s 14. Obviously, 13 is too unlucky. And then you also have 21, 21A until 21E, before you can start counting No. 22, 22A, 22B, 23… Oh well…
Steve is back to check on me and leads me to the hotel’s secret canteen so I can fill my stomach before I actually start working. “It’s raad na today. Exciting, huh?” Tell me about it. There goes my dream of feasting on fancy, yummy-looking inter treats. After my quick dinner, I head down to the pub just in time for a daily meeting at 6pm, where I am officially introduced to the other waitresses I will be working with. My fellow (more experienced) waitresses seem to be happy to have me there. “These things can’t be taught. You learn by doing,” says Pat. “But feel free to ask if you’ve questions.”
After that, it’s a dizzy roller coaster ride.
“Nut, can you set up the tables?”
“Bring that to the kitchen. Heineken to No. 8 and No. 16 check. ”
“Cup your hand. You’ll have a better balance carrying a tray that way. And don’t walk like a duck!”
“Why are your hands shaking like that?”
“Don’t forget the stirrer. How do you expect the customer to stir his vodka tonic? With his finger?”
“I’m not putting any pressure on you but no one has ever broken a glass.”
Wow. Thanks. No pressure.
I soon learn that to be a good waitress, you have to be very, very dexterous: you have to do almost everything one handed. Imagine trying to carry a tray of two tea pots, biscuits, two sets of sugar and milk with one hand. I know I must look awkward and amateur. But I don’t realize that it’s quite so obvious until a lady sitting at the bar starts to giggle, asking if it is my first day, while I struggle to open a can of Diet Coke for her. With only one hand of course.
And just when I start to get in the groove, my friends show up for their share of laughs and entertainment. “Watch your words. You have to be polite now that you’re our server, or else we’ll call a manager,” they threaten the moment they are seated. That’s followed by an incessant flow of comments on my waitress skills. I don’t realize I am starving until I find myself drooling over my friends’ beef burger and thin-crusted pizzas. The tiny-portioned raad naa I had is nothing compared to the mouth-watering treats I’m serving. God, I really wish I could just sit down and wolf down those cheesy pizzas.
“Nut, go back and check if No. 10 want their fish and chips breaded or battered and the water sparkling or still,” shouts one of the veteran waitresses, snapping me out of my gastronomic daydream.
I manage to get better as the night progresses, juggling a bit of everything from taking orders to clearing the tables and carrying a tray of beer for the farang customer and his lady acquaintance who want to move to a cozier spot. Before I know it, my shift ends. Steve drops by to say goodbye. “You’re pretty good. Want a job?” I don’t know if he means it or just tries to be polite but it’s a big compliment after a long, hard night.
By the way, three is the number of glasses my friends had bet I would break. And zero is the actual total. (I did spill some soda, but hey, that doesn’t count.) I couldn’t be more proud.
Dance Instructor
Pay: Varies depending on experience
Working hours: Anywhere between 4-6 days a week
with 2-4 classes a day.
Who did it: Sonia Boonchanasukit
Real job: Staff Writer at BK Magazine
As a little girl with pigtails and no front teeth, I would often slip an Indian movie into our VCR, get up on my wooden living room table, and pretend I was a star stage performer dancing away to an over-the-top Bollywood song. It was then that I knew I was destined for the stage. So, when members of our editorial team had to pick a different profession for a day, it was no surprise (to anyone) that I jumped at something dance related… dance instructor! Fortunately, Bollywood dancing, is currently a huge trend at gyms around Bangkok. It was a simply a case of approaching California WOW who agreed to let me shadow dance master Nareen and conduct my own class.
I arrive at the all-women gym at the corner of Sukhumvit Soi 31 in the mid-afternoon and make my way through the sliding doors into the warm yoga studio. Slowly but surely, mommy-aged Thai women, with the words “I’m a regular” practically plastered onto their foreheads, start filing in. Everyone seems to follow the exact same routine: gym bags by the wall, water bottles out, an exchange of words and a quick hop and skip to their spot in front of the mirror. I, being the newbie, take up the space just to the left of the elevated stage, thinking, soon, I’ll be the one setting fire to this stage.
The lesson was fast and it was a challenge to keep up with his instructions. Being a Bollywood dance instructor isn’t just about repeating hip-and-hand movements and counting out the rhythm. It’s completely lyrical. You don’t just do random moves because you feel like it, you go with what the song tells you to do. Point #1, noted: with a class where 90% of students are non-Indians, you need to explain the song.
Another useful, and impressive, technique I picked up was trying to break down the dance moves. “For the first step, the leg movement is this and the hand movement is this,” he would point out, isolating the moves. “Then, you put them together to make this.” Point #2, noted. At least I have good hands and feet coordination, this really shouldn’t be too hard.
Finally, something that I, obviously, couldn’t provide much of, was the theory behind the technique. “When you turn your open palms into fists, you can control the flow of your body better.” If you say so, buddy… Nevertheless, Point #3, noted. Make your students understand the science of dancing.
Nareen is also kind enough to show me a few moves after class. I still can’t decide if that was an ego boost or an ego bust. The man is the epitome of the word “graceful.” Makes you know where you stand. Ha! So much for setting the stage on fire... Oh well, I take it as a challege, bring it on baby!
I wasn’t too keen on falling on my face while trying to mimic the graceful art of slow, semi-classical Indian dancing, so I pick a personal favorite, an all-girl, fast-paced, super famous song. Yup, when in doubt, stick to what you know.
Surprisingly, I don’t feel too much awkwardness or anxiety. Oh of course, it did help that I happened to know a few members of the audience and, even then, I am pretty sure I hear a few snickers. I touched the stage and then my forehead (a sign of respect) before I hop up to begin the hour.
It’s smooth sailing. I manage to pause every few minutes to explain what the words meant and even stop the class halfway through to get them to pull the right expressions in the mirror.
"The key is to imagine yourself as opposite Shahrukh Khan. She’s teasing [shoulder move], enticing [biting the lip] and playing hard to get [whips around and does a head turn].” Sheesh, what a Bollywood freak! While no one actually said it out loud, I could tell everyone thinking that maybe I was getting a little bit too into character.
Time flies when you’re having fun. I bet that’s why the women who literally gym-hop with Nareen, as he goes from gym to gym, do the classes almost every day. I could do this job part-time: you get to stay in great shape and live out your fantasy life, starring alongside Shahrukh as a Bollywood dance queen!
Street Entertainer
Pay: B1,215
Working hours: Six hours from 1pm-7pm but, really, up to you
Who did it: Sarita Urupongsa
Real job: Editorial Assistant at BK Magazine
What could be cooler than putting on my own little performance, using the power of the sunshine as a spotlight, the sidewalk as a stage, the public as the audience and me as a rising star?
Actually, I always had this dream of being a sao yakult, riding my bicycle from place to place selling the yogurt drink. Too bad, I’m so bad at riding a bike. So instead, I decided to rely on my natural talent and go busking. Before setting off, I drew up a check list:
One, location. The key to success. A good spot must be crowded. Where better than Chatuchak on the weekend. Check!
Two, outfit. Should I try and get the public’s attention? Dress up like a homeless person to look more pitiful? Or like a legendary rock star? Screw it, I’ll go as myself. Sort of check.
Three, list of songs. Another crucial element. I opt for a chilled out play list plus a few Thai songs. Check!
Four, is a fake audience required? No, I decide against telling anyone, even (or especially) family and friends, when and where I will perform. I don’t want to get all stressed out and tense. Still I need photos for the story so I reluctantly ask my best friend to tag along. Check!
After a few weeks of practice, my deadline is approaching and I can’t put it off any longer. Time to grab the guitar and get dirty.
Reaching Chatuchak around 1pm, I am surprised. Maybe it’s because it’s one of the few places where buskers can perform but there’s a hell of a big busking community—this is going to be tough. I do my best to ignore the noisy shoppers, try to get a grip and look for a place I can call my own. Then I see a spot near a traditional dancing girl with a costume so elaborate it’s making me nervous.
As soon as I take the guitar cover off, I’m drenched in sweat. Well, it’s my first time doing this, what do I expect? I am now utterly nervous. I decide to keep it simple and start things off with my favorite, “All My Loving.” As I belt it out, I start to calm down. My heart is still beating hard and my voice is shaking but no one seems to notice. After a few songs, I am into my rhythm but then I realize that no one seems to care about me singing my butt off. Twenty minutes later, there’s still not one coin in the guitar cover and my throat’s bone dry!
I call a break, grab a drink and feel like a loser. The sun keeps hammering down upon my empty head as I start up again with the song “Thank You.” Then I realize, there it is, B20 in the cover! I don’t know who put it in or when but I am so shocked I stop performing. I swear, I almost cried.
Thanks to the sun and the high number of competitors, I decide to leave Chatuchak and head to Benjasiri Park. Things pick up, the weather is cooler and the park is more relaxing. And without sounding too arrogant I was pretty darn popular, especially with the farangs who seemed to love the 80s songs. I even got a request! He asked for “YMCA,” which due to a lack of practice on my part came out a little rough. He didn’t seem to care and spent the whole song dancing along. Dude, you made my day.
By 4:30pm, I was exhausted and felt like dying. Sweaty hands, slippery fingers, a raspy crap voice and extra numb feet: that was me! Minutes later my best friend stopped by with my gang. More importantly they brought with them a meal. The park got busy with people heading home at 6:30pm, so I started to strum again. After a few songs, a crowd including my pals, had formed around me. I try to concentrate but there’s now an obvious shake to my voice. Still, I give it my best shot.
By 7pm, I’m done. I can barely open my eyes, no longer say a word. I smell terrible and dream of my comfy bed. My best friend counts up the tips in the guitar cover. My god it’s over a thousand baht! As I drag myself home I know exactly where that money is going… booze!
