The small, piercing brass bell at the front gate clanged. "Nai Luang ma! Nai Luang ma!" The call echoed and repeated near and far through the compound.
"The king is coming! The king is coming!" Karin, Jo and I joined the chorus, dropped what we were doing and ran to the front gate. From the library, the dorm, the Center building, the kitchen and the gardens, students, cooks, servants and gardeners, all those who could leave their tasks, rushed out to the road, hoping to catch a glimpse of our king, who would be passing by to visit his mother in her palace on Phaya Thai Road, just across the Elephant Head Bridge.
We hoped he would be sitting on our side, so he could wave to us. Running breathlessly out the gate and across the small bridge over the klong, we waited, hearts pounding, under the shade of the tall rain trees that lined Phaya Thai.
First came the police. They cleared traffic off the roads and made sure no one's head was higher than the king's. Phaya Thai Road had no buildings lining it, but in other more crowded areas, upper-storey windows had to be shuttered along the king's route.
We stood there with others lining the road, our eyes fixed down Phaya Thai Road. After many long minutes of waiting, the cavalcade approached. First came the motorcycles -- maybe a half a dozen in all. They moved in slow formation, the solemn uniformed men swivelling their heads from left to right as they rode. Next were cars, maybe filled with bodyguards or dignitaries. But we had eyes only for the gold Rolls-Royce that carried the royalty.
Queen Sirikit (the most beautiful queen in the world) waved to the crowds, nodding and smiling. King Bhumibol never smiled. His face was always still, a solemn, fixed expression that matched the photographs that hung in prominent high spots in every home and shop.
Secretly I dreamed that maybe I would be the first to see him. Maybe he would look out the window, and among the crowds of Thais along the road, he would see a skinny, red-headed, pig-tailed farang girl in bare feet and dressed in shorts and a neat, buttoned blouse, wai-ing in the proper way … But His Majesty always had his hand up in a wave as he nodded in passing to his adoring people.
In the cavalcade following the King's gold car was another Rolls-Royce, identical to his, in case his broke down. After the second gold Rolls-Royce came a string of cars that neither we nor others paid heed to. The crowd dispersed, and we wandered back to whatever we were doing.
The coronation of King Bhumibol took place in 1949, shortly after my parents arrived in Thailand. They witnessed extravagant parades of thousands of richly costumed people with swords and headdresses of brilliant colours, decorated elephants and horses, music and dancing and elaborate ceremonies. We saw the lavish black and white photos and listened to these stories from Dad, and our imaginations painted vivid pictures.
Stories we heard made the royal family dear to us. One favourite was the time our parents went to an evening ball attended by the king and queen. It was held at a grand estate with beautiful gardens. The guests milled about inside, awaiting the arrival of the royal couple. Mum and Dad decided to take a quiet stroll outside. No one else was about. An old, mangy dog stretched out asleep on the warm driveway that had baked in the sun all day.
They wandered along paths through the lush garden. The sound of wheels crunching on the gravel told them of an approaching car. It was the royal car carrying the king and queen. The old dog was still asleep, right in its path. Mum and Dad stood in the shadows, watching, curious. How would they deal with this cur? The car drew up close to the sleeping dog and stopped. The dog still didn't stir. A meticulously uniformed footman rolled up the front windscreen, took out a trumpet, and blasted. The old dog opened its eyes, then slowly heaved itself up and hobbled away. The windscreen was rolled down, and the car continued to the entrance of the ball, where it stopped at the waiting red carpet. The king's love for dogs was highlighted in his later years in a book he wrote about his beloved pets.
The king shared his mother's concern for the poor, the marginalised and the oppressed, especially struggling hill tribes. One of the king's projects was to wean the hill tribe people from growing opium for their livelihood by substituting it for lucrative legal crops. He supported an experiment to grow apples and strawberries in the high, cool mountains of the north. The only apples you could get in those days were big, shiny red apples imported from Australia. A gift of these costly and perfect apples was a status symbol, but they were horribly mealy and mushy. As for strawberries, they were unheard of.
One day my mother, known as "Khun Betty", had tea with the Princess Mother. The Princess Mother knew of Khun Betty's work taking university students to do art and craft projects, play and read to children in hospital wards, in schools for the blind, the deaf and in the School for the Crippled (founded by the Princess Mother). My mother shared her desire to change people's attitudes and encourage compassion towards those less fortunate.
At the afternoon tea the Princess Mother served strawberries grown in the royal project in the northern hills -- some the first strawberries grown in Thailand. As they were leaving she gave two strawberries to my mother. She wanted to spread the fame of this wondrous new fruit, and my mother had contact with many university students at the SCC hostel. One strawberry was to show the students and one was for our family.
The marvels -- two pretty, bright red, plump small berries -- came home with her. We children shared one. We each got a tiny bite. I had pictured strawberries as being sweet, but this one was tart, not as sweet as most Thai fruits.
At dinnertime that evening my mother took the other strawberry over to the students' dining hall. The small strawberry was passed about and sniffed by more than eighty noses. "A strawberry from the king!" was the reverent murmur as the strange little fruit travelled from hand to hand.
The king's summer palace at Hua Hin, a few kilometres down the beach from Nong Khae, was where my family spent every April. The beach curved around to a point. Anchored outside the palace was a battleship. When the king was present, white lights outlined the battleship. We called it "The Fairy Boat". Each evening we looked out over the dark, quiet gulf to see if the royal family was in the palace. When the Fairy Boat was lit up our king was nearby. We felt protected, safe and excited.
One April day in the mid-1960s, Mum and Dad sailed down to Hua Hin in the Enterprise, the thirteen-foot sailboat Dad had built, to practise rounding the buoys set up in front of the palace. Intending to race in the upcoming Royal Regatta, Dad thought the king wouldn't mind if he practised on his buoys. As they were sailing back and forth, an inflatable, gold motorboat approached.
"WHO ARE YOU?" the uniformed man demanded through a big bullhorn, in English.
"Mr Downs," answered my father.
"WHY ARE YOU HERE?"
"I will be sailing in the Royal Regatta. I am practising."
"HIS MAJESTY COMMANDS YOUR PRESENCE IMMEDIATELY." The inflatable, gold boat puttered away.
Mum and Dad were dressed in funky Thai fishermen pants over bathing suits, and ratty straw hats, but they couldn't disobey the king's command. When they landed on the beach, two men ran down to pull the boat up the sand. The king, in pressed white shorts and a yellow button-down jersey, strolled down the beach towards them. Western style, he offered his hand to shake.
"Mr and Mrs Downs," he said. "Welcome. Would you like fresh limeade?" Tall glasses were brought by a bowing servant on a silver tray. He invited my parents to join him and others in practice racing on the following days.
The next day I got to be Dad's crew. I was thrilled. On the beach was a lavish pavilion with two thrones sitting on a large carpet spread over the soft sand. People were milling about, but when the king or queen strolled down to the beach from the palace, every man bowed deeply, and every woman fell into a low curtsy with arms swept back, one knee almost touching the sand.
Dad introduced me to His Majesty. "Your Majesty, this is my daughter, Elizabeth," Dad said. His Majesty shook my hand and said,
"Hello, Elizabeth." He didn't smile. I wondered if he recognised me from years passing me on Phaya Thai Road. I shook his hand and gave my usual bobbing curtsy.
"Hello, Your Majesty," I said.
Why had Dad introduced me as "Elizabeth"? I silently fumed. Only in my passport and immunisation card was I called Elizabeth. The one time in my life I got to be introduced to a king, I'd have liked to have him know my name was Libbet.
We came in last at every practice race. After each race people congregated on the beach. Trying to figure out fouls, the king drew a diagram of the boats and wind direction in the sand. When he knelt down, the dozens of people on the beach, near and far, went down on their knees, to keep their heads lower than his. When he stood, everyone stood. He knelt down to draw more, and everyone went down again. The king didn't seem to notice everyone's deference.
The day for the Royal Regatta in Hua Hin arrived. I was Dad's crew. The regatta was to begin, but the king himself had no crew. Prince Bhisadej was to be his crew but foul weather had delayed the return flight from a conference in Australia. The queen had never sailed and had no interest in helping out, but one of her young ladies-in-waiting had once been on an ocean liner.
The king ordered this girl to be his crew until Prince Bhisadej arrived. The terrified girl spent her whole time in the sailboat trying to keep her head lower than His Majesty's. She had no clue what to do with the jib in a ready about, or how to hold the lines in a jibe.
He ordered her to sit on the gunwale and lean out to counterbalance the boat's tipping, which meant having to be higher than him.
She could not bring herself to do that, even though the king himself ordered her to. In those first races the king's boat was lacking.
A helicopter waiting on the tarmac of the Bangkok airport for the arrival of the plane from Australia flew Prince Bhisadej from Bangkok straight to the beach in Hua Hin. With the prince as crew, the king's boat came among the top finishers.
Libbet Downs was born in Bangkok in 1950, the first farang child to be born at the Bangkok Christian Hospital. Her parents, Ray and Betty Downs, sent out by the Presbyterian Church to work with Thai university students, founded the Student Christian Center. Libbet now lives in Vermont.
