Bun's Story

by Cheyenne Carter (Netherlands)

Making a local connection Thailand

“What's the story here?”, I asked as our food arrived. The server stared at me. Riven laughed. “First tell me what you think of the food, then we'll talk stories”. Riven, a Chinese photographer living in Bangkok, and I had met a few days earlier. We bonded over food, Chinese heritage and a love for stories and pictures. This evening we met up to have his favorite food. The shop Riven took me to was tiny, the well-lit sign above the entrance reading 'Bun's Story'. I looked around. There was the clattering of pots and pans. The soft murmur of voices talking over steaming bowls of food. It smelled familiar to me, like ginger, steaming dough, beef broth and chili. I felt like I was peeking through the window of a distant world. No wonder it was a favorite of Riven's. We ate, discussing Chinese diaspora, being homesick and keeping traditions, until we were both satisfied. Everyone else seemed to have left, customers and staff alike. Except for the man who'd served us. I quietly asked Riven again what this place's story was. He shrugged, took another picture and said 'Let's go find out'. Apparently Riven never had a chance like this before. With his camera in hand he approached the man. The man glanced at me again with a sad smile. Then he started to explain something; Riven nodded, smiled and emphatically gestured in turn. I was puzzled, as he gestured for me. His eyes shining. “Can I take pictures of you making the dough?”. I guessed the story in his pictures would benefit from this, so I complied. The man began to teach me. Being so patient and gentle, that language didn't matter. During my lesson Riven took pictures, sometimes repositioning us or our hands. It felt like time had stopped. After the sticky dough was ready Riven grinned mischievously and told me it was part of the deal he'd made in exchange for a story. “I'm sorry but I didn't think you'd mind”. He was right. I didn't mind. I'd quite enjoyed myself, and could add another story to my own collection. It turned out the man was from Myanmar, his name was Bun and I had reminded him of his daughter. Since he wouldn't get to teach her, he had enjoyed teaching me. Bun looked at me and smiled a teary-eyed smile. Without thought he put his hand on my head, stroking my hair lovingly. He abruptly stopped. I blinked. There was now a dusting of white flour everywhere and I could see Bun panicking a little. I couldn't reassure him with words so I smiled and wiped my head. Forgetting my own hands were covered too. Bun laughed, then frowned and disappeared into the back of the shop. Coming back with a bowl of steamy water and some towels. He dipped one in the water and motioned for me to wash my hands. I crouched and did, while Bun gently cleaned the flour from my head and hair with the wet towel. Riven sat next to us looking amused and taking more pictures. When deciding I was good to go Bun smiled. The three of us sat for a little longer. Riven and Bun talked. Every so often they would pause so Riven could translate for me. Listening to Bun's story I felt his loss and love. Bun had just been married before moving to Bangkok alone to earn more money. Life in Myanmar was difficult. With his wife lived his daughter from a previous marriage. She was 16. He showed us pictures. I felt like I was looking at my younger self. Dark, curly hair and a crooked smile that mirrored my own. I got why I reminded Bun of her. Just a few months ago she'd fallen ill and passed away. Bun hadn't been able to be with her. Bun looked sad but also very accepting. He told us everything happens as it is supposed to, which the Chinese call Yuanfen. He couldn't be too sad or he would rob his daughter of her peace. We sat silently while Bun finished up. This too must be Yuanfen, then.