Reunion

Since I left it in 1989, I hadn’t been back to the little town near the former site of the refugee camp. Our travels last week took us that way, so we stopped for lunch. Picking out the old landmarks was fairly easy. Things hadn’t changed much.

Soon Ma, Pa, and I found ourselves outside a corner shop where Jip and I used to meet up most nights, in our courtship days. Now, somebody sells mobile phones there, but back then it was a restaurant run by Mrs. Aun, a woman who came from the same province that Jip does. She and Jip had bonded , and before long she became like our mom, telling us when to get our hair cut, what to wear, and eventually who to marry (each other).

As I reminisced with my parents about Aun, along the street came a slow-moving motorbike. Hey!

Few things in life are more agreeable than reconnecting with an old friend or a long-lost relative, especially by accident. Aun was also moved by our reunion. She hadn’t known that Jip and I had really tied the knot (it took us several more years to figure out that she had been right all along), nor that Jip hasn’t been healthy (my eyes got surprisingly misty telling Aun that part—with most other people that never happens).

When I asked for news of the little daughter who used to hang around our tables at the restaurant, Aun told me “don’t move, be right back.” A few minutes later, the motorbike pulled up again, this time with both of them riding it. As you can see, the five-year-old I remembered has grown up.

Already Aun has been in touch with Jip by phone, and she may stop to visit us over New Year’s when she passes through Bangkok. The next time we see her won’t compare, though, to the lift I got from our chance meetup in the street last week. I’ll be living off it for some time to come.