Snake Snake Fish Fish is an ongoing series based around Thai idioms/phrases/colloquialisms written about and illustrated by Cloé Fortier-King and guest contributors.
Cloé Fortier-King, 134 YinD
“The breaking of a wave cannot explain the whole sea.”
Vladimir Nabokov
On a recent trip to Krabi to celebrate a friend and fellow volunteer’s birthday, I found myself floating in the famously warm and gemstone clear sea off the coast of Ao Nang. Floating is perhaps too peaceful of a description—in fact I was being buffeted by a veritable washing machine of waves and swallowing enough salt water to season my food for a year. The water in the south of Thailand, like many oceans around the world, could hold its own in a fight. It’s a glistening, heaving mass with the force and torque to grind the earth into submission. I’ve always admired this about the sea. Since my earliest childhood memories, I’ve savored a salty breeze and run with reckless abandon into beckoning waves. Some part of me recognizes a kindred spirit in something that so skillfully juxtaposes serenity and chaos.
So, it’s no surprise that I was in the water that day in Krabi. Even being pushed around there was nowhere else I wanted to be. Over the course of my swim I realized a few things that reminded me of Peace Corps service. The first is that I was not in control. As much as I fought to swim in a particular direction or stay floating in one area, the waves fought back, pushing me to the shallows, pulling me out to the deep, and shifting me far down the beach from my friends. The second is that no matter how the water churned and where it pushed me, I was nonetheless surrounded by the most stunning views of my life. Once I submitted to the whims of the ocean, I could raise my eyes to rocky island cliffs, blanketed in greenery, rising into a clear sky.
That day in Krabi was one of the highlights of my time in Thailand so far. A counterbalance to that high, though, is the times I’ve been too sick to leave my bed, felt irrevocably isolated, completely misinterpreted comments and questions, or biked many kilometers more than I thought myself capable of. Every gently shimmering arc of a wave ends with a crash that can knock you off your feet and drag you into the depths.
When I find myself in these depths, another one of my close friends and fellow volunteers often gives me this advice: ride the wave. The first few times they said this, I resented the simplicity. But as time passed, I built my own series of associations around the advice, one of them being the Thai idiom: naam mah, plah gin mot, naam lot, mot gin plah. This translates to when the water is in, the fish eat the ants, when the water is out, the ants eat the fish. It’s a nod to the ebb and flow of tides and the shifting patterns of life and death. As the ocean moves, fish and ants each have their time to prosper. And these creatures, much like me, have no choice but to ride the wave wherever it may take them. They do so, assured that where the wave takes them may be more or less favorable, but it is never permanent.
As a volunteer, I’m in turn the fish and the ants. Some days I’m the water. I’m everything and nothing at all—and I’m reminded time and time again that everyone’s floating looks a little different as we all ride this wild wave of life.
P.S. If you caught the last edition of Snake Snake Fish Fish, you saw that it was a guest contribution by the lovely Teresa Derr. SSFF is lucky to feature her experiences and writing. Remember, we would love to feature yours, too! If you have an idiom to suggest, or if you’d like to write your own article or create your own art based on one, please reach out. You can send ideas directly to me (Cloé) or to pctm.stickyrice@gmail.com.
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