Some things in life are beautifully predictable, but ultimately illogical. Let’s take an obvious example: the first thing most folks do down here, upon arrival, is to buy a Thai-English dictionary. This little marvel of research often proves useful when the newcomer is at a loss for phrases such as: “ How much for that beaten up nine-year-old Honda Dream over there?” Then, when the price is stated, and after a flurrying of dictionary pages, a more emphatic: “Are you kidding?” And that’s the predictable part.

I’m not saying that learning Thai isn’t a constructive exercise for newly arrived folks on the Island. It is. What I am saying is that, linguistically speaking, Thai is not enough on Phuket. In the course of a day, a Phuketian can easily hear five working languages on this island and speak three.

Cicadas, some of the most misunderstood inhabitants of the tropics, offer a delicious metaphor, here. After waiting 15 long years underground for his chance to mate, the male cicada at least has the manners to wait for his allotted time of day before frantically yelling for sex. (The selective mating call system apparently works by various species sounding off at different times of day. It’s so regulated that some locals claim to be able to tell the time from the differing pitches.) Cicadas, in spite of vibrating their bodies 1,000 times a second, are shy and retiring creatures compared to some visitors to Phuket, especially along the West Coast, where the incessant hum of multi-lingual testosterone levels would put the horniest cicada back in his place – below ground. That there should be so many European languages spoken on an island off the mainland of Southeast Asia is the ultimately illogical part and, as a result, I’ve turned into a polyglot on Phuket.

And here’s a typical day of a Phuketian Polyglot.

I wake up, mumbling a dialect that I’ve been using for the last 40 years: Liverpudlian, a.k.a. Scouse. This aberration of the Anglo-Saxon language has been widely popularized by John Lennon and 90 percent of all living comedians in the British Isles. Otherwise, no one would have noticed it.

Sagely realizing that no one will understand a single word I say if I persist in my natal dialect, I order my breakfast in Thainglish. This is a straight-down-the-middle compromise between Thai and English as, even though my Thai vocab is growing daily, my grammar isn’t. Visiting friends frequently comment on my fluidity in the language but – strictly speaking – diarrhea is fluid as well. Sorry about that. The point is, my Thai may sound fluent to foreigners but it’s a runny, smelly mess to Thais. Roughly translated, my normal breakfast Thai linguistic interaction sounds something like this to a native ear: “Good morning. Is it have eggs you any? Want. How are your child? Red curry. Today very beautiful. Have sun. You like sun? Ah. You are a trampoline. Yes. Okay, see you always again.”

Moving manfully on through my day, I stop off at a friend’s house to see if she’s finally mastered the notion of introducing oil and water into the internal workings of her jeep before it seizes up for good. She’s French, although she prefers to think of herself as Mediterranean. Her reasoning confuses me, as the term “Mediterranean”, in history books, describes an area encompassing three religions, a plethora of warring countries and a history so heartlessly homicidal that I’d cringe from anything to do with it if I were her. Still, she gamely ignores what she perceives to be mere bygone trivialities and equates the Mediterranean with good wine, rich but healthy food, and gobs of olive oil. We chat in French, shrugging our shoulders at the appropriate times and kiss random passers-by on both cheeks. When she’s not looking I grab a spare litre of her olive oil, pour it into her jeep’s motor and top up the radiator with a bottle of Nuits St Georges, then carry on shrugging.

In to work. The phone rings. It’s a bloke called Wim wanting me to write about his newly opened beer bar in Patong. I can just imagine this guy sitting bolt upright in his bed a couple of years back, experiencing some midnight epiphany thinking: “<I>What a grand idea to make money. I’ll open a beer bar in Patong!” The only trouble with that brainwave is that there are about 400 other simultaneous midnight epiphanies about opening beer bars in Patong happening world-wide on any given night. Anyway, 24 months later, realizing that he’s just about to lose his shirt in a move that rivals for stupidity climbing Everest dressed in a pair of pink polka-dot Calvin Klein underpants, Wim’s talking business in what I can clearly hear to be a Dutch accent. Great. I absolutely love being the first and probably the last English bloke in Dutch people’s lives to speak their language. It’s a blast to pronounce Scheveningen correctly – pronounced Skeiveniga’ - the very word Dutch people are convinced that foreigners can’t pronounce. We decide to meet tomorrow, but not before I’ve asked him if he’s from “Skeiveninga.’” He isn’t.

Buffet lunch downtown is eaten to a decidedly Teutonic soundtrack as unsere deutschen freunde are queuing ahead of me. (They arrived before me, of course) In the queue, I get to thinking that comparing the Thai language to German is a bit like comparing a tuk-tuk to a Mercedes-Benz. They both get to their destinations, of course, but it’s a hell of a lot more fun in a tuk-tuk. German grammar is as complicated as the electronic injection system of a SL convertible, whereas Thai grammar can seem to be non-existent – much like the electronic injection system on a tuk-tuk. What counts in Thai is how you say words. What counts in German is the order of how you say words.

And so the day flies by. By late afternoon I find myself north of Patong where, for some strange reason, there seems to be a heavy concentration of Italian bars and restaurants. Having no more Italian than: “Ciao Bella, che cosa fai?” I simply nod, wink and wave my hands around in circular up-and-down motions whenever a native of Rome asks me how I am. It works. If you’re not sure how to say something in Italian, or what’s being asked of you, simply pull down the corners of your mouth, turn lightly clenched fists towards your body and shake them back and forth. Any Italian would recognize that to be intimating anything from, “My wife just told me I look like the rear end of a buffalo” to “How come there’s an ‘h’ in spaghetti?” Trust me: I’m not fluent, but I know the moves.

Later, if I’m quick enough, I grab the baby and spend time on Nai Harn Beach before sunset. This requires a Gandhi-like immunity to one of the ugliest languages ever invented by man: Swiss German. Having spent eight long years in the cold shadow of the Alps I feel I’m entitled to comment on this language with impunity. I mean, you don’t hear any linguistic observations about the Arabic nuances between Syrian and Lebanese flowing from this pen, do you?

Swiss Germans can be agreeable, sensible people with a head for business that rivals an Israeli finance minister in a pinch; but their language stinks. Imagine a severe asthmatic suffering a bronchial attack while addressing a rowdy crowd through a faulty bullhorn. That’s not quite as ugly as sotto voce Swiss German. People tell me I’m too hard on the Swiss-German language, but one of the biggest disappointments in my linguistic education was to realize that, through all those glottal stops and forced plosives all they ever – and I mean ever – talk about is money.

And so to the evening shopping in Thai: “Hi. Have bananas any? Yes! I also get wet with vegetables. Toyota!” My visiting friends are impressed, the market-stall owners I’m talking to are depressed and I’m oppressed with a sense of linguistic failure that can only be calmed down the next day when I go to speak to Wim about writing for his bar. But life – as many better-paid philosophers than me have pointed out – is not that simple.

“Scheveningen,” I skillfully weave into a conversation homed in on balance sheets, ad schedules and large debts, “is a town adjacent to the Hague that is not only a successful resort but a cultural centre that rivals Barcelo...”

“Wait a minute,” Wim interrupts in a near-perfect English accent. “Do you think we’d understand each other better if we spoke in English… Or Thai?”
 

Quelle arrogance.