Curse of the Pogo Stick (Dr. Siri Paiboun, Book 5)
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“[Cotterill’s] stories may glide by on their humor and wonderful characters, but the reason his books come alive, the reason his series continues to be worth reading, is the author's deep understanding of these people and their beautiful, troubled land. This depth enables him to bring us there for a brief vacation, make us feel, and still keep us laughing. Like Dr. Siri, Colin Cotterill has a touch of magic about him.”—The Boston Globe
“Cotterill’s approach in Curse of the Pogo Stick—so measured and offhand—actually achieves a remarkable feat: It cuts through all the never-again media saturation genocidal regimes often generate, and it makes us take notice once more. We wind up caring about Cotterill’s characters, because they’re mostly either decent or at least understandably flawed and therefore human. By avoiding the nastiness and nihilism of noir, they reach a sympathetic, soulful reality writers rarely pull off.”—Paste Magazine
“Cotterill’s ironic pen [is] as sharp as ever.”—Kirkus Reviews
Auntie Bpoo, the transvestite fortune-teller of Vientiane, Laos, has foretold that the seventy-three-year-old newlywed Dr. Siri and his equally mature bride will have children by the end of the year. When Siri helps Hmong villagers in peril, the prediction comes true.
Colin Cotterill, author of five previous books in the Dr. Siri Paiboun series, lives in Chiang Mai, Thailand, with his wife. His books have been Book Sense picks, and he won the Dilys Award for Thirty-Three Teeth.
and syrupy. “Yes, we were hoping to find Ajan Ming,” Phosy said. “Is that so? Then you must have consumed your lucky medicine this morning.” “Because?” “Because I am he.” Phosy and Dtui introduced themselves and briefly explained why they were there. Ajan Ming told them he was on his break and invited them to a slightly leaning building just beyond the back gate where coffee was sold. They sat at a table by a large rectangular hole in the bamboo wall. As they spoke, Dtui’s gaze returned from
in this case I have good cause to remember her.” The ajan’s spectacles seemed to be giving him a headache so he took them off and put them in the top pocket of his shirt. Three hot gooey coffees with condensed milk foundations arrived in unholdable glasses. “Why is that, Ajan?” “Well, it was soon quite apparent that she was a fanatical Royalist. I imagine her family had some royal connections although she didn’t boast about it. As you know, in the old days, if a family had money they’d send
Ming.” “Touché.” Siri sat carefully on the winged steed. He nodded solemnly first at Elder Long, who was wearing his best suit for the occasion, then at his three wives. Each was attempting to outdress the others. Their costumes were evidence of many years of work and great depth of artistic feeling. He smiled at the unattached ladies and waited for them to sit cross-legged in front of their elder’s seat. The room was full and Siri thanked the stars that two hundred more guests hadn’t been able
from all over. They connected the Lizard to this and that act of terrorism,” Civilai said. “They filmed the whole thing. They wouldn’t let us go till the tribunal was over, and we were in the middle of nowhere so we couldn’t contact anyone.” “Which reminds me,” Siri interrupted. “Speaking of wives and forgiveness …” “Fear not, Siri,” said Civilai. “I sent a message to Madame Nong as soon as they released us from security this afternoon. She’s probably packing for her next Women’s Union
desk from the end of a long busy row. Their officiant was in his thirties with the pallor of hepatitis on his skin and a drape of greasy hair that fell across one eye. He didn’t bother to look up as they sat on the nonmatching chairs in front of him. “Documents!” he said, tapping his forefinger on the desktop. It was probably the liver spots on the hand proffering said documents that brought him out of his clerical trance. He looked from Siri’s face to Daeng’s, then back at Siri’s, and grimaced