The key to finding an English teacher to Bangkok is remember that the job pays really badly. An expatriate teacher is doing well if he earns thirty thousand baht a month. That’s twice what a Thai would get, but it’s still only about a thousand dollars which doesn’t go far, even in Thailand, which means that they spend a lot of time hunting down cheap places to eat and drink. The Londoner Pub on Sukhumvit Road is one of many drinking holes that’s realised how hard-up teachers are and offers them a two drinks for one deal every Thursday. I left it until just before nine o’clock before heading there, figuring that the more they’d had to drink, the chattier they’d be. It had started raining again. I don’t know if it was the real thing or the result of more misplaced cloud seeding.
The pub’s down a basement under an office building, right next door to a bowling alley. The decor is standard dark wood and brass fittings and the only nod to the London theme were the Beefeater dresses that a couple of the staff were wearing. Two televisions were showing a British football match but nobody was paying them any attention. The clientele were almost without exception young men in knock-offs of designer shirts and shabby chinos.
A girl in a regular waitress uniform of white shirt and black trousers waved at an empty table but I shook my head and told her that I was there to see a friend.
I wandered among the tables letting the conversations wash over me.
Moans about working conditions. Long hours, low pay.
Places that sold cheap beer.
Why Singha beer always gave you a headache.
Go-go dancers who offered free sex in exchange for English lessons.
Not much talk about the education system or lesson-planning. That’s the way it is in the Land of Smiles – the vast majority of English teachers aren’t here on a mission to educate. They’re here to drink cheap beer. And hang out in go-go bars. Teaching is just a means to an end.
I took out Jon Junior’s photograph and went over to a table where half a dozen guys in their twenties were standing guard over bottles of Singha and Heineken. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but have any of you lads seen him?’ I said, handing the picture over to the teacher nearest to me. He shook his head and handed it around the table. ‘He’s an American,’ I said. ‘Salt Lake City.’
‘A Septic?’ said one of the guys. ‘Just what Bangkok needs, another Septic teacher.’
Septic Tank. Yank.
British humour.
‘He arrived a few months ago,’ I said. ‘Now his parents are worried. Jon Clare’s his name. Jon Clare Junior.’
The picture went around the group and back to me. They all shook their heads.
‘You a detective?’ asked one of the teachers. He was the smallest of the group with shoulder-length blonde hair tied back in a ponytail.
‘Just a friend of the family,’ I said.
‘No reward or anything, then?’
I shook my head and slid the photograph back into my jacket. A waitress hovered at my shoulder and I ordered a Phuket Beer. She smiled apologetically and said they didn’t stock it so I ordered a Heineken.
‘He came over as a tourist a couple of months ago, then decided to stay on as an English teacher,’ I said.
The guy with the ponytail sniggered. ‘Story of my life,’ he said.
‘How easy would that be?’ I asked.
‘To teach English?’ said the guy on my right. He was in his early twenties, overweight with slicked back hair and a gold earring in his left ear. He had a computer case slung over his shoulder and three cheap ballpoint pens in the breast pocket of his shirt. ‘Depends where he wanted to teach. There are some schools who’ll take anybody. Was he qualified?’
‘Not really.’
‘He had a degree, though?’
‘Sure.’
‘Then he’d get a job no problem. The Thai universities would insist on a teaching qualification like an RSA. The good ones, like Thammasat and Chula would want a Master’s degree. But most of the language schools will take on any farang provided they’ve got a degree.’
‘What’s an RSA?’ I asked.
‘Four-week course that supposedly prepares you for teaching,’ said the overweight guy. ‘That and a degree would get you into most schools. You can go on a course at the EEC in Siam Square. Set you back about sixty thousand baht.’
‘Or you can buy a fake one for a fraction of that,’ said Ponytail. ‘I got mine for two thousand baht on the Khao San Road.’
Khao San Road.
Uncooked Rice Road.
The jumping-off point for most backpackers embarking on a South East Asian experience. Cheap food, cheap lodging, cheap transport to anywhere in the country and beyond. You can buy pretty much anything on the Khao San Road. Fake certificates, fake passports, fake driving licences. Drugs. Weapons.
‘Don’t they check?’
‘Depends where you go,’ said Ponytail. ‘Some places are desperate they’ll take anyone. There’s an Indian at my school who can barely speak English. He just gets the students to read the text books. But he’s got a degree certificate from the UK. I don’t think the ink’s dry yet, but the school doesn’t care.’
‘What about the students? They must realise that they’ve been fobbed off with an incompetent teacher?’
Ponytail grinned. ‘They wouldn’t say boo to a goose. It’s not the Thai way. They’d probably just stop going after a few lessons. But there’s always more students joining. Most pay in advance so the schools don’t care about drop-outs.’
I made a mental note to ask Mr and Mrs Clare if Jon Junior had taken his educational qualifications with him.
‘So you’re saying that anyone can get off a plane and start teaching English in Thailand?’
The teachers nodded in unison.
My two bottles of Heineken arrived. I asked the waitress to bring a round of drinks for the guys and they all beamed at me like I was Father Christmas.
‘So where’s the best place for me to go looking for Jon Junior?’
‘If he’s legit and an American, you could try the AUA,’ said the guy with earring. ‘The American University Alumni. They’re one of the biggest schools in Thailand. But he’d need real qualifications and references. You could try the Thai universities and high schools. And the International schools. They’re the best payers and the most selective. If he’s using dodgy documents, then you’d drop down to the second division English schools.’
‘How many of those are there?’
‘Dozens,’ said the guy with the earring.
‘Hundreds,’ added Ponytail.
‘Needle in a haystack,’ added one of the teachers.
It wasn’t too daunting. There’d be a list of language schools somewhere. All I had to do was to telephone them all and ask if there was a Jon Clare on their staff.
The drinks arrived, two for each of the teachers. I paid the bill and then went around the bar, showing Jon Junior’s picture to anyone who looked like a teacher.
An hour later and all I’d seen were shaking heads and blank faces.
I went home. At least it had stopped raining.
Maybe my luck was starting to change.