Page 34 of The Big Race
A local woman in a white T-shirt emblazoned with the red and blue race logo stood behind a table laden with durian, known throughout Southeast Asia as the world’s smelliest fruit. The ones on the table had already been cut open, their spiky yellow flesh waiting.
“Yield Sign,” Ray read from the clue. “Who’s hungry for a local delicacy?”
When you reached a yield sign, one partner had to yield to the other to take on the challenge. I looked at the fruit, then at him. “You’re the one always going on about protein and nutrients.”
“Yeah, but...” He looked genuinely scared for the first time since we’d started the race. “That stuff’s banned in hotels for a reason.”
“Stop being a baby.” I pushed him toward the table.
Ray sat down at the table. The challenge, we learned, was to eat an entire durian fruit, about two pounds of the custardy flesh. “Just think of it like a protein shake,” I suggested helpfully.
“Protein shakes don’t smell like gym socks left in a locker for a month,” he muttered, but he picked up his spoon. I saw his throat working as he tried not to breathe through his nose.
The first bite made him smile. “This isn’t so bad, if you can get past the smell. Which is like caramel-covered onions that died.”
“You can do it, babe!” I channeled all his encouragement from our hikes and climbs. “Mind over matter!”
He shot me a look that could have curdled milk, but he kept eating. About halfway through, the male models showed up, and their reaction to the durian was priceless. The one who wasn’t eating threw up in a nearby trash can because the smell was so bad.
Cody and the other cameraman huddled to the side, out of the range of the aroma.
I wondered how much of the Thai chaos would wind up on the cutting room floor.
And not for the first time I considered what narrative the show would construct for Ray and me.
Would they choose the film of us fighting?
That would make for better TV than showing us cooperating, like the way we’d fished the golden idol out of the pond together.
Fortunately there were other teams, like Jenny and Carlos, who had fought more explosively than we had. Maybe they would end up as the poster children for bad behavior on the race rather than us.
Ray finished his portion just as Adrienne and Fletcher arrived. “Good job, honey!” I said as he staggered away from the table. “Let’s get you some water.”
“I may never eat again,” he groaned. But we grabbed the direction card from the display and headed toward the next clue. “Culture Crash,” the clue read. “Hope you are ready for an authentic Thai experience.”
We hailed a tuk-tuk and after showing the driver the clue, he headed off. Cody clung to the bar beside the front seat with one hand, filming the street with the other.
There were no doors or windows, so we felt completely exposed to the traffic passing by.
Our driver must have been a Formula 1 racer in a previous life, because he drove extremely fast and in my opinion very carelessly.
The car was quite small, so it was able to wriggle between other vehicles, going like a zigzag on the road.
The tuk-tuk finally dropped us at a traditional dance school tucked away down a narrow side street.
The building was modest from the outside—a weathered wooden structure with a sloping tile roof—but the interior opened into a soaring hall with polished teak floors and mirrored walls.
Ceiling fans spun lazily overhead, barely stirring the humid air.
Young Thai dancers in practice clothes moved through their warm-up routines in one corner, their movements fluid and precise as water flowing over stones.
“Culture Crash,” Ray read from the clue. “Teams must immerse themselves in Ram Thai classical dance, learning not only the movements but also understanding the cultural meaning behind each gesture. Khun Malai, the school’s master teacher, will show you what to do and then judge you.”
A smiling woman in her fifties introduced herself as Khun Malai. Her silver-streaked hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and despite the heat, her makeup remained flawless.
“Ram Thai is more than dance—it is language of our culture, our history, our beliefs,” she said. “First you learn costume and basic movements. Then you must learn meaning. Finally, you perform telling story through dance. Only when you understand and embody spirit of dance will you pass.”
Two young assistants appeared, bearing what looked like elaborate ceremonial regalia on velvet-draped trays. My heart sank. This was clearly Ray’s domain—the physical challenges were his specialty, not mine.
“Are those... fingernails?” Ray whispered, eyeing the curved, golden extensions with undisguised horror.
“I think they’re called jeeb ,’” I said, remembering what I’d read in the guidebook. “They extend the dancers’ fingers to create specific shapes. Each position has a specific meaning in Thai culture.”
The assistants led us to changing areas on opposite sides of the room.
My costume was a rich emerald-green silk wrapped and pleated in an intricate fashion that required two people to assemble.
The traditional Thai costume included dozens of elements—base pants, various sashes and cloths wrapped in precise configurations, a structured jacket with ornate embroidery, and finally, the tall, spired golden crown that weighed several pounds.
When I emerged, feeling both regal and ridiculous, Ray was already struggling in his costume of burgundy silk. The golden shoulder pieces kept slipping, and he was batting away the assistant’s hands as she tried to adjust his crown.
“I can’t move in this,” Ray complained, tangling himself in the long, wrapped silk garment. He looked completely out of his element—my athletic husband, who could scale a cliff face or navigate white water rapids without breaking a sweat, undone by a Thai dance costume.
“Stop fidgeting,” I advised. “You’re making it worse.”
“Easy for you to say,” he grumbled. “You look perfectly comfortable. Like you were born to wear a pointy hat and fake nails.”
In truth, I was surprised by how quickly I’d adapted to the restrictive costume. There was something oddly familiar about the controlled movements it required—the precise positioning, the attention to detail, the pattern recognition.
I caught Cody filming out of the corner of my eye. He never made any judgment about what he was seeing, just filmed us as we were.
Khun Malai clapped her hands sharply. “Now we learn meaning of Ram Thai. Every movement tells story.” She gestured to a large, illustrated scroll on the wall.
“Our dance today tells story of Ramakien—Thai version of Ramayana epic. You will portray scene where Hanuman, monkey god, helps Rama find his beloved Sita.”
She demonstrated a hand position where the thumb touched the middle finger, with the other fingers extended. “This is ‘dok bua,’ or lotus flower. It symbolizes purity and divine beauty. When used in dance, it represents Sita’s pure heart.”
The male models arrived then, followed quickly by the sorority sisters.
Next, Khun Malai showed us a more angular position with the hands at different levels. “This is ‘Singh,’ the lion. It represents strength and protection—Rama’s qualities as warrior king.”
For the next hour, we learned not just the positions but their cultural significance—how certain movements represented elements like wind and fire, how specific head tilts indicated emotions from love to fear, how even eye movements carried meaning in the intricate storytelling system.
By then, all the remaining teams were there, having varying degrees of success.
Alex and Ross did the best, all their years of training for the runway coming in handy.
Gemini and Blaine did well also, after much pageant practice.
Adrienne and Fletcher were good at following orders.
Zara and Maddox seemed to have the most trouble.
Maybe all those years of watching Ray’s training had taught me something about body control as well. The dance teacher kept nodding approvingly as I copied her movements, the golden fingernails extending my gestures into elegant, flowing shapes.
“Very good,” she praised, demonstrating the next sequence. “This movement tells of Hanuman flying across ocean. Hands like wind, feet like clouds. It shows journey of devotion.”
Ray, on the other hand, looked like a drunken giraffe trying to navigate a china shop.
His crown kept slipping sideways despite the assistant’s efforts to secure it, and he couldn’t get the hang of the finger positions.
His athletic grace, so evident in every sport he attempted, had completely abandoned him in this context.
“How are you doing this?” he demanded after his third stumble, nearly colliding with a mirrored wall as he tried to execute a simple turn. Frustration radiated from him in palpable waves. Ray wasn’t used to being the less capable one in physical challenges.
“It’s like coding,” I said, trying to find an analogy that would help. “You have to follow the pattern. Break it down into discrete steps, then execute them in sequence.” I demonstrated the movement again, more slowly. “See? Step, bend, wave, turn.”
“I’m not a computer, Jeffrey,” he said, exasperation clear in his voice.
“No, but you are an athlete. Think of it like a playbook. Each move is part of a larger strategy. And remember what the movement means—you’re Hanuman crossing the ocean to save Sita. Let the story guide your movements.”
His brow furrowed in concentration. “Show me again.”