BOTM2

Blast from the past

2025-03-17T09:29:00.025+07:00

Jacks Point golf club, with the Remarkables range

"You have been here before," the restaurant manager said mysteriously.

The restaurant is the heart of a golf club and "luxury estate" near Queenstown where my parents live.

The manager, a friendly, outgoing type from Poland, supervises a staff drawn from many nationalities, including several Asians, he told us proudly.

He greets and farewells diners to the restaurant, attached to a golfing supplies and fashion store. While I had indeed been to the restaurant before, it was my first visit to the southern alps in 10 years.

The last time I was there, my parents had only just moved into their place on the hills at Jack's Point about five minutes away.

The golf club at Jacks Point

It was barely developed, as they were among the first residents; unlike today, 10 years later, when I saw hundreds of houses nestled in the hills.

The golf course is wrapped around Lake Wakatipu, with the Remarkable mountain range as a backdrop. It's remote and quiet, with spectacular, often snow-clad views almost justifying the frigid cold residents must endure in winter months.

My parents are spending their first full 12 months here this year, after previously dividing their time between this house during the summer months, and a second home in Banks Peninsula, close to Christchurch, which they have now sold.

My parents' old place in Banks Peninsula

I sat on a small wharf jutting into the lake outside the restaurant while waiting for lunch to arrive.

I recall the last time we visited the restaurant: my parents, two sisters, their families and I took a table outside overlooking the lake. My young nephews and nieces ran about the place as the adults mused on life.

Today, it was just Mum, Dad and me, and we dined indoors to protect against the cold. I was to see my sisters later in the week in nearby Wanaka, where the older of the two girls, S, has bought a large home.

Their children, the same ones who ran about the place 10 years ago, are now grown up, with only one still attending school; the others are studying at university or have entered the workforce. I saw none of them on this trip, though spoke to three of the six on video call.

My parents were to tell me later that our family ties to this part of the snowy southern alps go back to our first visit to New Zealand, when we arrived as tourists from Australia, in the early 1980s. I had no idea.

"More than 40 years ago we visited New Zealand with you kids for the first time and took a boat to have lunch at Walter Peak, which you can see there to the west of the lake," they said.

"We liked New Zealand so much we decided to move here," they added.

We had spent our childhood on the northern beaches in Sydney where we went to school and lived close to relatives. We swapped the sun-drenched years we enjoyed there for the uncertainty of new lives in cold, insular Christchurch, a city on the east coast of the South Island we barely knew.

My father found a job at a Christchurch school after we returned from our Kiwi holiday, and asked if we would like to move to New Zealand permanently to start our lives again.

On the day we left, in autumn 1982, we visited my maternal grandparents at their Pittwater home about 10min away from our own place in Sydney; earlier, we farewelled our cousins, and said goodbye to our mates at school.

I have an awkward memory of us kids turning up at my grandparents' place for the last time before our flight to Christchurch in which we, believe it or not, wore our school uniforms.

My Nana and Grandpa wanted a last picture of us together before we left. I hope not to come across that pic again in the family archives; too earnest!

Our previous home in Sydney as it looks now, and above, the view of Pittwater

My parents decided to keep our family home in Sydney, which they rented out for many years before selling it.

I moved to NZ when I was just 16, finished my schooling and worked a few jobs in journalism, before finally exiting the place at the age of 35.

For me, saying goodbye to NZ wasn't hard, even though I was abandoning the start of a promising career. I had just ended a long-term relationship with an older woman, sold my house and farewelled family. It was time to move on.

I thought first about going back to Australia, and in fact visited an uncle in Brisbane for some weeks while I looked unsuccessfully for a job.

However, after visiting Thailand as a tourist around that time and loving it, in the year 2000 I moved to Thailand instead, where I have lived happily since.

Side view of the golf club at Jack's Point

My younger brother was to move back to Australia after graduating, where he married and started a family.

However, my two sisters met Kiwis while studying, and settled down in New Zealand where they still live: one in the South Island, the other in Auckland in the North.

My parents, who were slow to give up their ties to ancestral Ausrtalia, bought a home close to the New South Wales/Queenstown border in 2005 to be close to my brother, who lived there. However, they sold it when he died and now live in New Zealand permanently.

The wharf where I did my musing

They have not gone back to Australia to live, and nor have my sisters.

I suspect my sisters would regard themselves more as Kiwis today rather than Aussies, as they left Australia when they were still little.

When I returned to my parents' place on this trip, and visited the golf course restaurant for a second time where I met the chatty Polish host, it was my first to New Zealand in five years.

I last saw S, the older of the two girls, on that earlier trip five years ago, but I had not seen the younger one, H, for 10 years.

As I sat musing over the lake, I could have been looking at reflections of myself on that boat trip in the early 80s: a boy in his mid-teens who could not suspect that his family's life, if not his own, would remain entwined with the southern lakes district for decades to come.

Today, the elder of my two sisters has bought a second home in Wanaka, about 90min from Queenstown, where she hopes to move by the end of the year from her main home in Auckland.

View from my sister's home in Lake Wanaka

My other sister lives in nearby Dunedin, about 3.5 hours away, but takes regular skiing trips to this part of the South Island, which she knows well.

My family and I packed a lot into my 10-day stay. My sister H, who is big on fitness, took me down lengthy running tracks and on brisk mountain walks.

Sister H, Mum out for a walk

I tried out an e-bike for the first time on the hills around my sister S's place in Wanaka. We visited historic Arrowtown, and drove through the Millbrook golf course.

We tried fishing for salmon at the lake-to-plate fishing restaurant Hook (no luck, unfortunately); and for a little quiet reflection headed to a beautiful pebble beach by Lake Hawea.

Sister H knows these stamping grounds well, providing a background commentary about friends she knows, places she goes when she's in town.

My parents have settled in to the area since their move there full-time, as has my other sister S since she bought her home in Wanaka.

That leaves me the odd one out, as I asked myself that day on the wharf: so what is it about ski resort towns and spectacular mountain scenery that I don't like? -

Old clippings from my mystery box

"We have an old box of your things here which surfaced during our move."

That was my parents, on a recent Google Meet call, shortly before I travelled to see them in NZ.

An old box of fading papers which I had last rifled through 25 years ago, I suspect, when I first left NZ for my new life in Thailand.

I put a bunch of papers in a white stationery box and forgot about them.

When I was at their place in Jack's Point, I took a closer look. The box contained old news clippings from my time as a reporter in Christchurch, some of which I can't recall ever writing.

I also found legal papers dating from my split with my former partner, and documents related to the sale of our house shortly before I left.

More interestingly, I unearthed old emails between her and her chat friends talking about her affair with the man who was to marry her.

They look tacky, even now, but I have taken pictures of a few of them to illustrate this post - for old time's sake!

A collection of awful chats...

I also found an old cartoon of me which the resident cartoonist at my last newspaper drew to accompany a feature story I wrote about a men's support group with whom I spent a challenging weekend on the outskirts of Christchurch.

I am reposting it here, partly because it's one of the few pieces I wrote for which I still have an online record (the others were clippings), and because the cartoon bears a good likeness to the hairy, bespectacled young guy I was back then.

As for the other stuff, those tatty memories can go back in the box for another 25 years!

Pushing the comfort zone

2025-03-17T09:28:00.003+07:00

A cartoon's rendition of me attending the weekend

This feature piece is about a testing weekend I spent with a men's support group, which I wrote for my old paper in Christchurch, New Zealand.

The story was accompanied by moody pics taken by our photographer of candles, incense and blokes around a campfire in a forest-like setting where the weekend event was held. It was also illustrated with the cartoon you see above.

The organisers were a secretive lot. A photographer from my paper came with me on the night it opened to snap a few quick pics, but they wouldn't let him draw too close to the gathering.

In fact, they withheld from the other participants the fact that I was there as a reporter, to observe and record them for this article.

We agreed that I was to pretend to be just another man on the weekend course, without disclosing my real identity. Needless to say, they were shocked to read the story when it appeared.

When I turned up at a follow-up meeting a few days later, I came under heavy attack from partipants and organisers alike. The men who ran the workshop — the hairy-chested courage they exhibited during the weekend's bonding rituals having suddenly deserted them — minimised their own role in inviting me and suggested I strayed beyond my brief.

No doubt they wanted an air-brushed look at the often grueling rituals and self-abasing routines which made up men's encounter groups in those days. Too bad!

A new-age bloke in no-man's land

Published 29/9/98

Christchurch Press

Michael R takes a deep breath and ventures out on a 'men's weekend' for a serious, soul-baring encounter with his inner self.

Taking part in a men's weekend sorts the tough guys from the pretenders. Were it not for the wellspring of emotion trapped within, just bursting to get out, no right-minded bloke would take part. At its worst, this is an emotional self-flagellation which pushes the boundaries of the personal "comfort zone'' to stretching point.

It's that sly awareness that most of us have so much more to offer to the world — we just need help getting to the good bits, deeply suppressed as they are — that keeps us going. Inhibitions such as shyness have no place. Things can turn boisterous at any time. That's a very blokey thing, of course, but in this context vigorous activity takes the scary form of anger workshops and rebirthing techniques, rather than hairy-chested physical exertion.

Rituals set apart this type of manly endeavour from the sweaty, muscle-bound sort: from symbols of one's manhood (taking pride of place on a makeshift "altar'') to hand-holding, group hugs, and chanting. Women are part of the problem, of course — all that nitpicking and nagging can get a man down.

Slagging women is not the purpose of this exercise, however: it is to reclaim one's masculinity, from whatever dark place it has been consigned. Some men lost that essential something in early childhood trauma; others in bad marriages or career hassles.

On this weekend, run by the Men's Trust of Christchurch, 34 blokes come together. No alcohol is allowed. Watches are left at the gate. If a bomb went off we'd be the last to know.

The staple diet of men's talk — safe and familiar ground such as sport, work, the weather — will no longer do. That, we are told derisively, typifies a "level one'' conversation — the merely functional. We are to aspire to level three — that's where we get to hug each other and feel good about it.

We'll have to invent a new language to explore that no-man's land of social interaction — feelings. There is much talk of "pushing the buttons'' (anger), and getting in your head space.

A silent trek through the bush to the meeting house at Bellbird Heights, on Banks Peninsula at Living Springs, is foreboding. The night-time march takes place to the primitive thump of jungle drums.

Living Springs, where the weekend was held

Candle flames waver. Incense lies thick. New Age music creeps about.

Something begins to stir, and it's fear. I appear to be entering the clammy embrace of a cult. What have I done? How do I get out of here?

Form a circle, we are told. Join hands. Breathe deeply, connect. Now, get up in front of everyone and introduce yourself. Do a silly dance.

To those of us who express emotions through physical gestures, this comes easily, like play antics at a football game. For the wordsmiths among us who take shelter behind intellect, it is not so simple. I'm Michael, I say, stepping into the circle. Modesty forbids anything more extravagant.

Guided by members of the "core group'' (the people in charge), men reply loudly and in unison:

"Welcome Michael, Michael, Michael!'' Some have done this before. "Ho!'' one says, with emphatic closed fist. To the uninitiated, he is showing approval — a kind of Freemason's handshake. Men are invited to say why they came along. Some have horrible stories. Before the night ends men are dancing and singing together in a fetid, heaving circle. We start to chant. This religious-style droning is magnificent: with so many powerful voices our sounds take on a life of their own.

Another shot of Living Springs

Men do not shrink from touching each other, I note, although ideally this is in "approved'', non-threatening ways. We are shown positions in which we may safely hold one another, such as the cradling position.

Then there are the group hugs — little clusters that pop up spontaneously, like spawning sealife. Stumbling upon one of these can be a shock. Early on, I discover that some eager types will pounce panther-like, with arms outstretched, so keen are they to bond. One of these guys is ticked off before the group for being too "intense'', too keen to flash his credentials. The ones who get in your face, your personal space, invariably have bad breath. One cannot help turning away. A little voice criticises me: the point, Michael, is to open up.

Sleeping quarters

We wake to the maddening drums, a kind of Boy Scout reveille. The cubicle showers contain unspeakable horrors: black hairs in the soap; men honking their noses, animal-like. Men are surprisingly modest: a queue forms outside the showers, each of which is firmly locked shut.

Later, we present the symbols of what it means to be a man. I choose Shakespeare: plenty of Boy's Own stuff, I say, married with beautiful language.

This hardly gets a second glance. One guy, a builder by trade, brings an enormous nail gun: to him, it represents power and strength, and something about fertility. Later, conversation turns to sex. Interestingly, the issue of orientation hardly comes up. Most talk is about performance and how considerate we should be (message: think of yourself, not just your partner).

That afternoon, the group splits into two for a rebirthing workshop and exercises in anger management. For the latter, three techniques are on offer. One can kneel down and pummel a mattress; tackle an upturned mattress; or lie on one's back and throw a tantrum. I try the first and second. I attack with vigour but say little. A quiet one, onlookers think . . . obviously too inhibited.

One of my colleagues is much more adventurous: he tries all techniques, in a spectacular display of aggression that goes on for half an hour. By its end the man is physically exhausted, sweating, and with bleeding hands. Next door, someone is revisiting painful childhood memories in deep, convulsing sobs. Both are trying to rid themselves of demons, and probably need an audience to do so.

Is it uplifting, or merely embarrassing? Fidgeting in the sunlight of a new day, it is easy to dismiss such behaviour as extravagant, self-indulgent. Deep down, I know I witnessed something moving: the ghastly things that lurk within, and the heroic lengths some will go to exorcise them.

Still, most of us have wobbly knees. Our newly found manhood is emerging like a butterfly from a chrysalis. As New Age blokes we are sensitive about our tender manhood. Humour helps relieve the tension. The exercise gives one man a headache: an avowedly gay guy, ever the wag, quips: "But I haven't asked you yet!''

So potentially life-changing is the bonding and sharing thing that, before leaving, men are warned not to make any big decisions for at least a month. At a follow-up meeting on Wednesday, men say they had a tough time keeping the car on the road. Some had trouble getting on with family and friends. Most were distracted, head-achy, bewildered.

Don't forget to bond

As ever, there are moments when a serious exercise slides into farce. Some say they had noticed a richer timbre to their voice; and, sure enough, they appear to be speaking with deeper, more resonant tones (Timberrrr!). One says he is more aware of how his wife smells, and the different smells that hang around men.

God help us. As for me, one guy says he is still wondering how to get through my brick wall. Most agree, however, that I am more relaxed.

Having stretched myself admirably over the weekend, I make further inroads against shyness by going dancing for the first time.

Mr Handsome returns

2024-06-09T16:36:00.004+07:00

A regular contributor to this blog back in its heyday was Mr Handsome, a young gay Thai living in Bangkok.

When he started writing for the blog in late 2006, he had finished his studies and was taking his first steps into the adult world.

I cannot recall how we met (we never managed to do so in person), but we kept up regular email correspondence while our online friendship lasted.

At the time I provided a English translation to accompany his Thai, though I no longer have the English, as I deleted the posts that appeared on this blog.

Going through old emails, however, I found I still have his original pieces in Thai, and would like to repost them here.

His writing could be caustic, entertaining and witty, as regular readers noted at the time.

He was a natural talent, and enjoyed sharing his stories. I am not sure if he ever showed his writing to his Thai friends, but Mr H was seldom short of story ideas, and could surprise me with some of the topics he chose.

A prolific contributor, Mr Handsome penned over 50 stories between December, 2006, with an opening piece about his quest to find a boyfriend, and June 2008, when he wrapped up his contributions with a story on Camfrog.

The first of his posts is here. I will put up the others gradually over the next couple of months, under the Mr Handsome label.

Note: Thanks to this site for the Chinatown pic. Most of the images which will illustrate his posts are unrelated, though in a few cases I have found pics which pertain to the subject matter, such as the films which Mr H reviewed back then.

Visit to the shaman (5, final)

2024-05-13T09:36:00.007+07:00

Final glimpse of the offerings plate, with my worried partner in the background

Talking about the encounter later, I adopted the phrase "witch doctor" (หมอผี) to describe Mor Sawaeng. I was speculating aloud whether he sends a cut of his earnings as a shaman back to Mor Joe, who sent him our trade after all.

I also wondered why Mor Sawaeng's boss at the restaurant puts up with his frequent excursions into the carpark to perform his ritual over customers, and also the fate of the alcohol, which we left there unopened with him.

Perhaps it finds its way into the Chinese dishes on offer at his restaurant, or maybe the cooks knock it back together out the back.

Maiyuu said that if I was being polite, I should call him a mor peun ban (หมอพื้นบ้าน), which translates as traditional doctor. This is a more innocuous phrase, of course, but also helps salve my partner's bruised ego, after he regretted leading us on this silly expedition.

Later, as I mused over whether I should feel upset at having parted with a stupidity fee (ฝรั่งเสียค่าโง่) as the Thai rather bluntly puts it, or the cost of my own ignorance, Maiyuu suggested we should see the encounter with Mor Sawaeng and his enabler Mor Joe in a more positive light.

The day's expenses, which came to over 1,000 baht including the teacher's fee, alcohol and taxi fares, were really the price of buying a new experience (ค่าประสบการณ์), said charmingly.

However, Maiyuu admits he should have thought about the expedition more carefully. "I panicked, but I was worried about your condition," he said, wearing a sorry look.

It's not as if we were not warned what was coming, in a roundabout way at least. As I left Mor Joe's place for the taxi, he uttered some parting words which puzzled me at the time: "Never mind, we all have to help each other in this life."

I can see now that he was referring to his mate Mor Sawaeng, to whom he was sending a "referral", courtesy of our own gullibility.

Never mind, indeed. I learned from the experience, and enjoyed meeting Mor Sawaeng, warm, ebullient soul that he was. I hope your days are plenty and prosperous, if I may offer a prayer of my own in return.

I am sure they will be, if Mor Sawaeng indeed is treating a constant procession of needy types from the provinces in search of low-cost cures for shingles as he says. The cost of seeing an ordinary doctor, in our case, would have been much cheaper.

As a postscript, I should add that I realised on the way back in the taxi what was really causing my red spots: an allergic reaction to clothes washing liquid. I wash some items in a bucket, slothful person that I am, and in my haste to get the items into the sun, forget to rinse properly. I passed this news on to Maiyuu, who looked relieved to have a more likely explanation of what ailed me.

Since our misbegotten adventure to Phaya Thai, we are now converts to modern medicine. Maiyuu has bought some conventional lotion for inflammatory dermatoses, which he applies to my body at night before bed. The red spots are fading nicely.

He has also replaced our clothes washing liquid with a softer mix tailored to children and which is less likely to inflame my skin. It has a great scent, I am happy to report.

Maiyuu knows my habit of rinsing clothes inadequately in my humble bucket, which I keep in the bathroom, is unlikely to change, so buying products suitable for kids rather than adults is the best way to keep me safe. How apt, I thought. Now I can stop pretending I am grown up.

Visit to the shaman (4)

2024-05-13T09:32:00.011+07:00

The offerings plate: alcohol, a few baht for the monks, leaves, dry herbs

No, as it turns out. Mor Saeang placed the bottles of alcohol on a plate, one each for me and Maiyuu, who also underwent a similar ritual for a persistent viral complaint in his eye, for which he takes ordinary meds.

Mor Sawaeng said a prayer for him too, just as he did me, to drive the virus away, just in case his meds fail to work.

Alongside the bottle of alcohol, Mor Sawaeng dropped a few leaves and, from a grubby bag in his pocket, some dry herbs, no doubt to add some spice to his cure. He also asked us to donate a few baht for local monks, and had us hold up the plate close to head level as if making a sacrifice to the gods.

In my case I had to accomplish this with one hand, while holding up my shirt with the other, so he could blow on my red spots.

So how did it go? "Gibber gibber gibber....pause...blow, up and down the body." Be careful not to miss any red spots, my health may depend on it. I made sure to keep quiet as he chanted, lest the health gods not be amused.

Forgive me if I can't recall the words of his mystical Buddhist cure. I don't do Esan, though I swear I heard the Thai word for diabetes (เบาหวาน) thrown in there.

He blew on me a lot, and I admit I enjoyed the experience. I can hardly wear my sceptical foreigner's hat after such an event, as I happily took part in the ritual, even when the outline of what was to follow started to take shape and I realised he was not a real doctor at all.

When the chanting ended, Mor Sawaeng told us not one, but multiple times, that practitioners such as himself do not charge for dispensing their wisdom, but merely suggest we leave a teacher's fee.

"It's up to you how much you give," he said, smiling. 'but people come from all over the country to see me for a cure."

Maiyuu parted with 500 baht, or 250 baht for each of us, as we both recevied a prayer while holding up our booze plate.

I went first, followed by Maiyuu, who managed the plate more adeptly than I did, and offered a graceful prayer to the spirits as Mor Sawaeng did his thing. The way Thais have with their hands when they pray; it's an unfailingly beautiful thing to watch.

My ritual, if I can call it that, lasted longer, perhaps because I was the main attraction, reporting with "shingles" as I did.

That said, Mor Sawaeng looked surprised when he came out to greet us and realised that I was a farang. I am sure few foreigners seek him out for his cures, no matter how grand his reputation might be. They would rather place their faith in modern meds, but there you are.

now, see here

Visit to the shaman (3)

2024-05-13T09:27:00.004+07:00

The restaurant where our shaman works as a cook

However, to get them, Thais would have to part with money for a doctor's consultation and of course the meds. Shaman's cures in the provinces, however, are cheaper. A Thai friend in his 50s told me recently that when he was a boy, shaman's cures, often dispensed by a monk, could be obtained for as little as one or two baht.

Maiyuu anxiously called Mor Sawaeng, and made a time to see him. Within half an hour, my partner and I had hailed a taxi and told the driver to head for a restaurant (of all places) opposite Vichaiyut Hospital in Phaya Thai.

Initially we had planned to go the following week, but Mor Joe impressed upon us the urgency of it all.

"It is in the early stages. Catch it now, you can cure it. Leave it, you could die," he said, vouching for the effectiveness of Mor Sawaeng. "I have sent hundreds of customers to him for a cure," he added.

Nice work if you can get it. Shaman such as Mor Sawaeng typically ask for a "teacher's fee", a payment supposedly for the monks who taught him the magic words he chants. But more of that later.

Mor Joe's shaman friend is a portly, cuddly looking chap who works as a cook at the restaurant and offers cures as a sideline. We met after a tense 15 minute drive from the massage place and many, many phone calls between Maiyuu and Mor Sawaeng, who guided us to the spot.

Initially, muddle-headed Mor Joe mistakenly gave us the name of a restaurant in Pattaya, not the one in Phaya Thai we needed, which confused our taxi driver, who looked it up on Google Maps and asked why were going so far afield.

When we arrived, Mor Sawaeng came out to meet us in the carpark wearing his cook's apron and ushered us to a table under a tree. The carpark faced the rear of the restaurant, where from an open door I could see cooks working on Chinese dumplings in little bamboo boxes.

A motorcycle taxi driver from a nearby queue came over to watch. He was to be our audience of one for the unusual ritual which followed.

Before we left, Mor Joe asked Maiyuu to buy two small bottles of lao khao, a severe Thai spirit which tastes like rocket fuel. Maiyuu said later that he assumed that the mystic would blow the alcohol on my red spots.

now, see here

Visit to the shaman (2)

2024-05-13T09:24:00.006+07:00

The turnoff to Vichaiyut Hospital, with ambulance handily placed at left.

The sound of the hospital was re-assuring. I assumed he was a doctor there and would pop out to see us with some meds, without us having to go to the bother of seeing a doctor the normal way. But blowing?

At first when I heard the word blow (เป่า or Pao), which in this context was shortened from pao raksa rok (เป่ารักษาโรคงูสวัด), I was none the wiser, though my partner knew what he meant, and should have put a stop to it then and there.

It's his job to protect me from such voodoo stuff, and any other con jobs which naughty Thais might want to spring on me, or so I thought.

Mor Joe wanted to send us to his Esan shaman friend Mor Sawaeng, transplanted to Bangkok, who blows his breath on the patient's body while reciting religious incantation in Esan dialect.

It's a traditional remedy handed down through the generations and which doctors these days recommend against.

Look up the Thai words above (เป่ารักษาโรคงูสวัด) and Google intones solemnly at the top of the results page: ไม่ควรเป่าหรือพ่นยาลงบนแผล เพราะจะทำให้ติดเชื้อแบคทีเรียแทรกซ้อน แผลหายช้าและกลายเป็นแผลเป็นได้ (You should not blow medicine on a wound, as it may become infected with bacteria, grow worse and leave a scar").

The medicine is often alcohol. In this clip of a traditional blowing ritual, which I found subsequent to my visit to Mor Joe, needless to say, we can see a female shaman blowing booze on a guy with the shingles virus, which appears as a long red, scaly patch (see the 1.56 mark).

The clip warns viewers against such things, just as Google did, while also adding confusingly that viewers should exercise their own discretion whether to believe in such miracle cures (well, yes). Another clip is here.

Doctors are unanimous in warning against blowing on shingles, for the practical reason that the shaman's saliva may infect the wound; I imagine the alcohol wouldn't help much either.

Apart from that, patients are placing rather a lot of faith in the healing properties of the mystic's religious incantation; why not just see a doctor and ask for a conventional cure? Ordinary meds will provide a fix in most cases, no further drama necessary.

now, see here

Visit to the shaman (1)

2024-05-13T09:22:00.005+07:00

Portly shaman Mor Sawaeng

"Oh, that's shingles," my massage therapist, a middle-aged guy who hails from Esan, pronounced assertively. For months, he had been poking about my body as it lay on his bed, marvelling at how many spots show up.

Inevitably, he asks what they are. "Pimples," my partner calls from the corner of the room. He rarely looks up from his phone when we are with Mor Joe, as he is known, unless directly engaged in conversation.

Boyfriend Maiyuu has turned to collecting and trading household adornments such as crystal figurines, spectacular coloured vases and even dolls, which bring in a modest income but keep him busy. Most of the business is online, though occasionally he will venture into town to vie with hordes of fellow traders for the latest consumer item which has caught the public imagination (most recently: Cry Baby dolls).

Maiyuu takes me for a massage under Mor Joe, a specialist in tackling disorders (mine is office syndrome), in the Sathu Pradit area every two weeks.

It has been a regular outing of ours for several years. The office syndrome never gets any better, but the visits to Mor Joe do offer some temporary relief. Apart from that, it's fun.

Mor Joe has a constant stream of customers, who have no doubt heard about his healing powers, which in my case he achieves largely with a hot compress and a deep knowledge of bones (so he says) rather than the firm hands of a heavy therapeutic, or deep tissue massage.

"You must be living your second youth," Mor Joe jokes, marvelling that someone my age can still develop acne spots, and we laugh it off.

On this occasion, however, he was sure that the spread of red spots on my upper frame, back and front, was more serious. He referred to shingles (โรคงูสวัด or gnu sawat), which is triggered by an onset of the varicella-zoster virus, often leftover from a childhood chicken pox infection (โรคอีสุกอีใส).

This pesky virus lies dormant in our bodies if ever we have caught chicken pox as a child. I assume I did; I can't recall.

My partner sprang to his feet and rushed over for a look. "I didn't notice, and the farang never bothers to examine himself," Maiyuu said, referring to me, as he explained why the isolated red spots - hardly an angry, weeping sore or rash, which would be more worrying, and is more typically associated with shingles - had gone undetected.

Mor Joe, sitting in his premises

This rash of activity, if I can call it that, broke over me as they inspected my front flank.

I also flopped over on my front at their beckoning so they could inspect my back as well. No one bothered asking if I knew what was going on; this was a job for the adults.

I had heard the Thai words for shingles and chickenpox in my travels, but as panic filled the air I had to ask Maiyuu to look them up on his phone with the English translation. The English left me none the wiser.

Shingles? A colleague at work had complained of a skin rash recently which doctors initially attributed to shingles, but on later inspection diagnosed as the fruits of anaemia.

As for chicken pox, presumably that has come and gone. Painful and itchy in their day, I am sure, but the spots which had broken out on my body since my last visit to Mor Joe rarely bothered me.

"I have someone who can cure these," Mor Joe averred, recommending we visit an Esan friend of his, Mor Sawaeng, opposite Vichaiyut Hospital in the Phaya Thai area. "He'll blow on them."

now, see here

We've seen better days (part 3, final)

2022-11-26T09:03:00.004+07:00

Street food in Talad Phlu market, or should that be track food?

Curiosity drove me out to the wilds of Pin Khlao, which I rarely visit, and Talad Phlu.

Scouring Pin Khlao on Google Street View, as I have done previously, I realised how much of it seemed familiar, even the nooks and crannies far from Mum's shop. I must have made a hundred visits out there; so many it was really like a second home.

I didn't bother walking around on the day of my visit, as thanks to my digital foraging previously, I felt I had already seen it. Oh, there's the spot I once taught uni students; oh, over there is the spot I once hung around with insurance agents (of all things). The list of faltering memories never ends, and did any of it amount to anything?

As for the feeling that I am really making my farewells to my former life in Bangkok as I head towards retirement, in a more optimistic sense I could also regard these odd visits as new starts. I have neglected these places for years and am now showing interest in getting to know old friends again.

However, I doubt that's it. The relationships I am rekindling on my ocasional sorties to playgrounds past have no future, and having said that I can only hope retirement holds out better.

I will have to invest time and energy into getting to know people and places in Chon Buri, where we hope to settle eventually, just as I did once when I was new to the Thon Buri side, and spent so much time rattling about Talad Phlu and Pin Khlao.

In the intervening years during my absence, both have reshaped themselves, particularly Talad Phlu, parts of which I barely recognise any more. I am sure the soul of these places remains the same, but does mine?

We've seen better days (part 2)

2022-11-26T09:02:00.010+07:00

Pin Khlao bridge

After chatting to Bom, I walked down to the river and watched tourists pile into a Chao Phraya River ferry boat.

From Pin Khlao I took a taxi to my next stop, Talad Phlu, the market where we lived before our move into town 13 years ago, and where I still have a few friends. That took another 20min and cost 100 baht.

The driver, aged in his 60s, was one of those crafty, silent ones who engages in cursory conversation but turns a deaf ear to anything he doesn't want to hear.

As we were heading to the market I saw the turnoff to Pran Nok Road, the quick way back which I would take to get home in years past. However, I failed to alert him in time.

I am sure he would have refused anyway, as it's cheaper than the long way back via Thoet Thai Road, at the rear of the market, which his scheming type will always take if given a choice.

I spent the next few hours at the market, with a former masseur friend who now sells fried food out the front of her shop with her sister-in-law.

We watched TV and sat about as customers dribbled past. It was a fun way to spend an idle afternoon.

Talad Phlu itself is lively, especially in the evening when office workers and students come out for a bite. The market is full of streetside food places, and even some franchise eateries. Several jostle for space under overhead bridges where traffic does a U-turn before heading back into town.

The shops along the main road look modern, not out of keeping with a stroll through Silom or Siam. And of course Talad Phlu now has its own skytrain link, which it did not have in my day.

But some parts of the market have barely improved: the canal, which long-tailed tourist boats still ply, is the market's teen zone. I sat next to a basketball court under an overhead bridge.

On one side is an old wooden restaurant perched over the canal bank. Many years ago I had a meal there with my ruthless young friend Kew, who fended off a hostile diner wielding a paper-cutter.

The eatery, and concrete structure

A small wooden pier used to sit on this side of the bridge, but it is now gone. Another one sits on the other side of the bridge.

A glimpse inside the eatery

It serves diners who arrive by boat for a meal at a Thai restaurant on that side. A bunch of school kids had gathered there but I could see few adults around.

A strange concrete structure like a pillbox still sits on my side. I suspect it was built there for the old pier, now gone.

Teens have defaced it with graffiti. While I was there, one lad in school uniform greeted me. A secondary school is about 50m down the way. He clambered on top to smoke a cigarette and call out to his friends on the other side of the bridge.

"Hey, bring over the bag of glue!" he shouted to his mates. They ignored him, so he climbed down again, muttering to himself.

On a previous trip to Talad Phlu, I took the skytrain and walked from the station on Ratchapruek Road.

The Ratchadapisek Rd entrance, and First One market

On my left, I noticed someone had bowled a block of old houses close to my old apartment on Ratchadaphisek Road, just before the overpass at the entrance of the township.

In its place is the First One night market with an enormous concreted car park area, and barely a shrub or tree in sight. It sits almost empty during the day, as its name suggests, and reminds me of a dusty cattleyard.

Signs of progress, perhaps, though I could think of sweeter, more intimate spots to visit at night.

The trip from Talad Phlu back into town on the 205-route bus cost less than 20 baht and took another half an hour. I left before peak hour traffic set in. And yes, dear reader, I have taken a motorsai, subway and skytrain out there as an alternative means of transport, but it takes just as long.

now, see here

We've seen better days (part 1)

2022-11-25T09:00:00.018+07:00

Down by the pier in Pin Khlao

A trip to my old drinking haunt in Pin Khlao, my first in 11 years, was a little sad.

Mum's shop as I knew it looks just as it did in the updated Google street view pics I posted here about six months ago, only more rundown, if that's possible. Out of deference to fonder memories of times past, I did not take any new pics. Too depressing; locals would wonder why I bothered.

I appear to be bidding farewell to my Bangkok life, perhaps in anticipation of retiring to the provinces, which we hope to do when I come of age in the next three years or so. But I know the move won't be that tidy; nothing ever is.

I took a motorcycle taxi from our place in Yannawa, which cost 160 baht and took 20 minutes.

I went to Mum's little shop in Pin Khlao, at the turnoff to Wat Daowadueng, as I wanted to see what had happened to it since I saw it last.

I did not expect to meet Mum, as the last time we spoke many years ago, she had parted ways with her husband. She ran a food card in the area, and he was running their shop during the day.

Now Mum's shop itself, as I knew it, only opens now at night. When I dropped by, it was closed.

I chatted to a couple of staff from the eatery next door to Mum's old shop, which Mum and her husband also once owned, in fact, but which presumably is now in someone else's hands.

I remember Bom, one of the staff there, from my old days in Pin Khlao. He brought me up to date with Mum's news.

Mum herself has moved back to Kalasin, and her husband now works in the Phra Ram 8 area along with their son, he said.

Mum's shop, where I spent many hours at the peak of my nighttime frolics in Thon Buri some 15 years ago, was shuttered, with no signs of life. It is run in the evenings by Mum's younger sister, who in this blog I called Isra.

Isra, at the shop (LINE)

Back in those days she was going out with a foreigner, a young painter from the north of England who I knew and called in this blog farang J.

He visited Thailand every few months when he would spend a few weeks with Isra's family in Kalasin and the rest of his time in Pin Khlao (for a selection of our tales together, see here, here, here and here).

Mum and her husband, a former army man, settled in Bangkok years before to run the shop and raise their son, who I once taught English but has now left school.

Isra helped them run the shop when they were still together, and occasionally, during school breaks, bring her kids with her to Bangkok (her own son has since left us, sadly: see here).

Today, she is still there, Mum and her husband having moved on to other things. However, farang J is out of the picture, and Isra, once so keen on foreigners, is now seeing a Thai.

"She and her partner sell food, though the place only opens after 5.30pm," Bom said.

I left my phone number with Bom. He offered to pass it on to Isra, whom I did not get a chance to meet as I had come too early in the day.

Isra and I chatted on Line later that night, and I have since found her on FB, along with the shop itself, which now has a name (เคาร์เตอร์บาร์ ปิ่นเกล้า), and admittedly looks better after dark:

New look for Mum's shop (FB)

now, see here

Dream spell breaks (5, final)

2022-05-02T17:28:00.053+07:00

Reprise: Teenage Dream left, and Lek, far right

Finally, more than four weeks later, I biked down Dream's soi on my way home. Since our bizarre conversation that night, I had chosen to avoid them by taking the long way back via the main road skirting their soi.

Dream was setting up a drinks table to welcome friends to another gathering. The ever-present Lek, sitting nearby, called me over. I dutifully stopped for a chat, and she immediately called out: "Dream, Mali's here!"

If the script played out correctly, he would come over and greet me before returning to his friends, and I would sit down with Lek and shout her a beer.

Lek was making explicit the link between her opening the door to Dream's renewed friendship, and my need to pay for her booze habit by way of thanks.

"I need a drink. Shout me a beer," she said.

Once happy to shell out for alcohol or even help the regulars there with various expenses (including Dream's tuition costs, unbeknown to him), I recoiled inwardly as I contemplated helping such a hard-boiled user.

Not content with the misery our first manufactured coupling caused, when she paired us as "father and son", more than eight years later she was trying to reboot it, in "estranged friends reunite" mode, again to her cynical advantage.

Dream was party to this arrangement on both occasions, though first time round, I suspect, he was too young to understand. And where was his mother? As ever, a mute witness.

"No thanks, I am heading home," I said.

With that I peddled off and left her, before she or Dream could say another word.

She wore a sickly, disbelieving smile as this old bird perhaps realised that I am no longer in thrall to her cynical manipulations, or bewitched by the Dream spell.

He failed to deliver on his sales pitch, despite his marketing smarts, as she was left with nothing but her empty plastic drinking cup.

Lek was indeed a good friend to me in reuniting Dream and me for our first heart-to-heart. Our conversation showed me that I was foolish to spend so much time worrying about the friendship which could have been, and which in the heat of the moment, many years ago, I had destroyed.

He's just a lad; an unusual one, granted, but no one I need to know.

He's also happy to be used by this old boozer Lek, even if it means conning this farang. I wonder what hold she has over him.

Regardless, to the extent he really did want to be friends, he left his run too late. While I am relieved we were finally able to bury the hatchet, and grateful he gave me the chance to talk, I lack the energy to get to know him or his friends again.

Dream gave me a steely-eyed look as I arrived as he, too, perhaps realised that the game was over. I have not been back.

Rock on!

Dream spell breaks (4)

2022-05-02T10:05:00.026+07:00

Dream, left, and some of his mates

A few minutes later I made my own excuses and left. As I hopped on my bike, Lek made sure that I knew that she was responsible for Dream approaching me that night: "I am such a good friend to you," she said unconvincingly.

Right.

The next day, I met Dream briefly as I was heading home. Now we had moved our relationship into "friends" mode, I felt relaxed when I stopped my bike and exchanged a few words of greeting.

If he was embarrassed about his drunken magnanimity the night before, he didn't show it.

Over the next few weeks, as I tried to absorb what happened, I avoided Dream's place. He had invited me to celebrate his birthday during the Songkran festival, to seal our rebooted friendship, but I did not go. I felt annoyed that Dream was so happy to monetise our friendship at Aunty Lek's urging.

What if I was to take advantage of my new status as his "friend" and turn up at odd hours asking to see him, or crash his drinking circle? Before long we would argue and go back to where we started.

As always, my access to him would be under the controlled conditions of his choosing, and presumably conditional on my playing the game: if Lek is there, I can stop for a chat with Dream, but only if I help pay for her booze.

The drinking circle outside Orng's house as I once knew it more than eight years ago is a shadow of its old self, beaten about by the passage of time, Covid, and the sad state of the economy.

His mother, who previously sold noodles in the market but now works as a cleaner on Rama IX Road, goes through moody phases when she won't talk; nor does she drink outside her place much any more, but keeps to herself indoors.

Some of the regulars who gathered there back in 2014 have moved away (Pee Mee, a fabulous cook), fallen ill (a practical joker known as Pooh), or died (Orng's younger brother, Tong, who beat her up in my presence one night).

Lek is one of the few stalwarts left, turning up faithfully day after day and rattling about in search of paying friends.

I have seen her pick through plates of old food left on a table in the fetid darkness of a typical Bangkok night after almost everyone had left for home. Why does she do it?

Aunty Lek tells me she lives with five relatives, including a young nephew of whom she is fond. Why not spend her nights with them?

now, see part 5

Dream spell breaks (3)

2022-05-02T10:02:00.037+07:00

Nearby Talad Penang, in Klong Toey

A touching assessment of my worthiness as a life partner followed.

'You would make a good partner," he said, "but Dream has no style," he added, referring to himself diminutively in the third person. By "style", I gather he meant that he was straight, so not a good match.

"Bring your partner around to meet us some time," he offered expansively. "And if you ever need a new one, get in touch."

Some idle conversation about work followed, with Dream noting that his boss is a foreigner, like me.

"He likes me because I speak my mind," he said, asking if I had met many other Thais like him in my travels.

"No, Dream, you are a one-off," I said confidently.

Commenting on why we have remained virtual strangers all these years, he said: "I see you biking past but never said anything. I wanted you to be the first to talk," he said, explaining the absence of any greeting. I felt the same way, needless to say, but apart from that, it never felt right.

Finally we reached perhaps the strangest point in the evening, when Dream started a sales pitch on the virtues of drinking. Lek, I gather, had told him that I had quit alcohol and seldom sat at their table for long when I drop by.

This, of course, had to change.

If I am not shelling out to help cover the cost of the next bottle of whisky, as I did regularly in the past, regulars like Lek are forced to go dry.

I suspect this is what prompted her to approach him, though I don't know the precise nature of the plea. Perhaps it sounded like this: "If you tell the farang you want to be friends, he might come back and start drinking again."

Orng's place is in a quiet alcove at the end of the soi. In years gone past, she could draw 30 or more drinkers on good evenings, including her elder brother, a DSI policeman, who was treated with great respect.

Some regulars further down the feeding chain still come even without an invitation, as Orng's place adjoins a community centre overseen by the soi committee. Some of that space around the spirit house outside his front door is regarded as common land.

Some of her regulars - messengers, labourers and the like - are noisy drunks. I spotted one guy in recent weeks urinating on the front path running up to their place, just metres from the front door.

Surely Dream had grown sick of this riff-raff by now? Well, no, at least not on this occasion.

"People still gather here to drink at night," he began.

I chipped in to finish his sentence: '...making a lot of noise."

Naively, I thought he was about to complain about the drunken regulars who gather outside his house, depriving his family of that middle class eccentricity known as privacy and perhaps also interrupting his sleep.

Silly me. "People still gather here, and alcohol loosens people up nicely," he added. "My mum and Aunty Lek don't have many friends, so you are welcome to come back and keep them company as you did before."

I had heard enough. I suggested my young friend head inside for a shower and sleep. He smelled musty after drinking outside for hours.

By this time he had hugged me half a dozen times, and even kissed my neck, for which he sought my permission.

"Aunty Lek, please look after Mali," Dream, ever the generous host, said as he bade farewell.

now, see part 4

Dream spell breaks (2)

2022-05-02T10:01:00.023+07:00

Back to Dream's effusive conversation opener - "I know you like me, but I don't want you liking me like that" - I can't say I was too impressed.

I barely look at him in "that way": having Dream as a friend or even a younger brother-like figure would be enough.

His assumption that I am addicted to his physical beauty and barely holding myself in check after all these years of suppressed excitement was a bit much. But in the shock of the moment, I did not have the smarts to react.

As for his offer, repeated many times that night, that "I am ready now to be your friend" - far from welcoming, it sounds more like he had to talk himself into it.

More surprises were to follow. "I want to say sorry for the way I spoke to you that day. A younger person should not swear at someone more senior. If I had let it go, we could have moved on," he said, referring to our argument when we cursed each other and he told me not to return to his house again.

"But I swore at you first, remember? it's only natural that you should respond in kind," I replied.

"Well yes, you did," he smiled, while insisting he still needed to say sorry.

"When will you forgive yourself?" I said. "It's no big deal. In fact, I quietly admired you for it. I didn't know Thais could be so outspoken."

Score one for Mali!

An odd teen-style bonding ritual followed, in which at his invitation we swapped Line app details so I could contact him should I ever run into trouble in the Land of Smiles.

"I can vouch for the people in the soi, but nowhere else," he said grimly.

He believes that as a foreigner in Bangkok, I must tread warily to avoid dark threats lurking around every corner. Dream and others in his mother's drinking circle have warned me many times over the years not to trust Thais (other than themselves, of course), and also seem sceptical about my partner.

"You must stop going into the community near your place," he said protectively, referring to the slum soi next to my home. "But if you ever get into trouble, just contact me on Line, and my friends and I will be there."

Dream has many mates, it is true, but this sounded too much like the Thai teen gang ritual where youths seeking to avenge wrongs committed by rivals in the neighbourhood go on the rampage.

My young friend and I had our heart-to-heart standing by his front door. I was on my feet for the occasion, as I needed to be, as Dream offered me one warm embrace after another, and even a kiss.

Dream's mother, normally a quiet one with little to say, was next to me, along with Lek. They were perched at a small table outside their place which has been witness to many gatherings over the years. Though they said little, I suspect they were no less stunned than I was by Dream's behaviour.

My erstwhile "son" seemed unflustered by their presence as he unburdened himself, and in fact I wonder how much of it was intended for their consumption. Lek had approached Dream before I arrived, I was to learn later, asking him to break the ice with me.

Dream, who works for a freight forwarding firm in Wattana, likes to play the genial host. He was nothing if not a showman, slapping his mates on the back and farewelling them noisily as they headed off on their bikes.

He also has a night-school qualification in marketing, I told myself, so perhaps all this performative drama is par for the course. But it still sounded odd.

"I also want you to know I was never angry with you after our row," he said, claiming that his mother would have shunned me from the drinking circle if he had really been upset. "She sides with me if I take a dislike to anyone," he said.

"Never angry?" I thought. What about the time he slammed the door in my face?

One day I tried to hand him a painfully composed note apologising for the way I had treated him. He threw it to one side and flung the door closed with disgust even as I stood there. Boom!

Once again I said nothing, for the most part simply watching as Dream's Mr Geniality act rolled on.

"I am happy when you bring your family here," he added, referring to the time I brought one of my sisters and her family, visiting me in Bangkok in April 2014, to Orng's place for lunch.

She puts on a big meal for locals in the soi every year to mark her mother's passing, and that year, my family were special guests.

Dream and I were still in no-talkies mode back then, so he made sure to sit with his friends with their backs pointed to me and my family rather than acknowledge their presence or, God forbid, interact.

now, see part 3

Dream spell breaks (1)

2022-05-02T10:00:00.088+07:00

Friends again...

"I know you like me, but I don't want you liking me like that," said my young friend Dream, with whom I have shared a rocky relationship since a regular drinker at his place tried to pair us as foster father and son many moons ago.

"I want to be your friend. I am ready now!" he declared after I dropped in to see his mother and her drinking friends recently after a long absence.

As if to prove his sincerity, Dream, 26, who had spent the night drinking when I turned up after work, hugged me repeatedly and even kissed my neck.

A lengthy heart-to-heart - the first time we have opened our hearts to each other, so to speak, in the many years since we met - followed.

Strange? The night he festooned me with hugs and kisses was also the first time we had spoken in almost three years. We had barely managed more than a few words in the more than eight years, in fact, which had passed since that fateful argument, and yet here he was proposing to make a new start and offering profuse apologies for the past.

Our troubled father-son venture hit the rocks in early 2014, barely weeks after it had begun, when I swore at him one day after he grew distant.

For another two years after that, surly Dream refused to talk to me. While we made up eventually, relations were tense. While we chatted occasionally on Messenger, we avoided talking to each other if we happened to meet. This is a shame, as the young man was charming company for the brief time I knew him.

I have spent many fanciful hours wondering over the years what my young friend was doing with his life and what he was really like.

Dream's change of heart gave me an intriguing chance to find out, I thought. However, I was wondering about his motives: while I believe he was genuine about wanting to be friends with this foreigner, I think he was also put up to it.

A close friend of his Mum's, Aunty Lek (as she styles herself) asked him to talk to me that night, I was to find out later. She likes a nightly drink, but needs someone to pay for it. If Dream and I made up, I suspect was was thinking, this farang with money might turn up more regularly to see him - and shout her booze by way of saying thanks.

Cynical?

Let's take a step back. About a month ago, I started dropping in to see his mother Orng and Lek after an absence of many years, though I held out no hope of getting to know Dream as I thought that phase had passed. I had visited three or four times at most, stayed half an hour, and left again.

On the night Dream and I reunited, I had dropped in after work. Dream's mother many years ago started inviting friends to drink at her place at night, and one or two locals in the soi would cook up delicious Thai meals for those who came.

On this night Orng and Aunty Lek were sitting outside the house. Dream himself was wrapping up a drinking session with a group of his own friends at a separate table in the concreted area out front.

Seeing me turn up, he noisily announced his intention to clear the air with an expansive remark aimed ostensibly at his mates, but really meant for me:

"Mali knows what my temper is like, don't you Mali?" he said at the tail end of a conversation as he farewelled his friends, referring to our argument many years before.

Orng's place is in a slum alleyway in Klong Toey, close to Talad Penang market between my condo and office.

I used to walk to work back in those days when we first met. I would cut through Dream's soi as it's quicker than following the main road.

He was often chatting to mates outside his house. We'd exchange greetings as I walked to work and back again. I didn't think much more of it than that.

Then, as I was heading home on New Year's Eve 2013, my young friend, then 18, thrust a glass of whisky into my hand and invited me to sit with them to drink in New Year.

Most of the regulars were friends and family of Orng's and included some colourful locals from the soi. We enjoyed many boisterous nights sitting at the rickety wooden table outside her place as I got to know the crowd, some of whom, such as Aunty Lek, had been drinking there for many years.

Aunty Lek, a family friend rather than a blood relative who calls herself "aunt" as befits her middle-age, quickly asserted herself as the genial hostess, pouring drinks and introducing me to the others.

When I wrote my first post about this family, I had been drinking there the previous three nights. On night two, Aunty Lek paired me with Dream as foster father/son, even though I barely knew the lad.

I suspected later she had motives of her own: Lek, a cleaner, is a sturdy drinker who needs her nightly alcohol fix. She saw me as a financial enabler, as cynical as that sounds.

She figured that if she could persuade me to take an emotional stake in the family's life via Dream, I was sure to come back regularly.

Once there I could be persuaded to help pay for her drinking, Lek barely having the financial means to do so herself. At the table she took on the role of barman, in return for which regulars were expected to keep the alcohol flowing.

In that first post, I wrote it up like this:

We have drunk together for the past three nights. As the only farang to have joined their group, I am the star attraction.

The first night was for introductions; the second, family bonding.

On family bonding night, I had only just joined the table when Aunty Lek asked me if I wanted to be Dream’s foster dad.

Being hospitable Thais, they are anxious that I keep myself stress-free and happy.

‘Yes,’ I said.

A few seconds later, Lek, who appears to enjoy stitching together the emotional fabric of this family, asked Dream to join us.

Dream, head bowed, quietly took a seat next to me.

‘Farang Mali says he wants to adopt you as his foster son. Do you want farang Mali as your foster dad?’ she asked, getting straight to the point.

Dream, who can be as boisterous as any teen when it suits, gave an emphatic ‘Yes!’

I was surprised, as I thought they were just having fun.

Since then, the family has introduced me as Dream’s foster dad.

No one has explained how this is supposed to work, though for the moment I am happy just to go with the flow.

Our falling out came a mere few weeks later. At the time I wrote:

In the past week or so, I have called and he didn’t answer.

I send text messages, often prompted by snippets of information his mother has given me about her son’s day-to-day goings on, only to get no response.

I was tired of his lack of interest, and told him so when I tricked him into answering the phone one day. I called him on a number he does not recognise as mine, and he answered.

‘What do you think you are doing, ignoring my calls?’ I demanded, swearing at him.

‘You have no right to talk to me like that. You are someone from my home life. When I am at work, I focus on answering work calls,’ he replied.

'Many people enter my life. I am not dependent on you, and can pick and choose,' he said confidently.

now, see part 2

Young man between jobs (part 4, final)

2020-08-20T07:00:00.005+07:00

Man, showing off the tatts

My parents' reply was sane and sensible:

'Make friends but please do not give them money. These people will take everything you give them, start to expect it, and become resentful when you stop supporting them.'

I was to take their advice, as I didn't feel comfortable handing over money. Man was able to help himself before I came along; even if he had to ensure a bit of hardship, I am sure he would have coped. I replied:

'I am not prepared to just cut off support as he won't have petrol to get to work nor food to eat. However, I am sure he can make do with a bit less than I have been giving. When this is over I will confine my help to meeting them as a group for a meal.'

After Man's finances improved, I started seeing him less, as he was working long hours. However, we kept in touch for a time on social media.

At first man was responsive to my messaging; one day he posted sadly about loss of his Mum and I suggested he light a candle for her and wai before her portrait, as I had seen him do previously on Facebook.

A year later, on the anniversary of her death, he posted a similar message and I left a similar suggestion. By this time I had stopped giving money and Man ignored my advice. In fact, he didn't even bother with a reply.

This did not really surprise me: I always get the impression with social media addicts that they would rather be talking to someone else.

The friendship had started to peter out well before then, when I visited the gang at our old haunt on Chua Phloeng Road one night and saw them in a different light: just a bunch of tatty teens.

"Man's here, Man's here," his mates said, ushering me towards a dark corner where I found him sitting in a smart soft collared T-shirt and pair of shorts. They knew we were once close, and recall that I supported him for many weeks when he was in need of help.

I had also help steer him towards young adulthood, in the brief time we were together, encouraging him to come off the drugs, quit smoking, eat properly, get sleep...

Despite his financial problems, Man always looked well dressed. When I asked him about that once, his reply was frustratingly, vintage Thai: "I am up all hours of the night and day. No one understands how I live."

On this occasion, I barely talked to him. He gave me a big smile but somehow looked less than the person I had known previously. Everything, in fact, looked diminished.

It took me 10min to cycle there from work, but surveying the uninspiring scene before me, I lost interest in conversation and decided to leave.

Man looked shocked when, with barely a word, I turned on my heel. He could see the spell was broken. I see him pop up on social media, but we have not met since.

Young man between jobs (part 3)

2020-08-19T17:40:00.004+07:00

Another shot of Man

In a lengthy email to my parents about Man and his mates, I described things this way:

"He chews through the money a bit, and thanks to my help is certainly doing well compared to some of his mates over there, who go without some meals because they simply have no money.

"I met some of his mates over there again today, and the lack of money to buy food appears to be a common problem...two complained of being hungry. I helped one youngster but I can't give money to everyone.

"I wonder how they feel when they see me helping Man but rarely them.

"Anyway, Man and I are developing a relationship of sorts...I find I have to tell him what to do often, as kids his age appear to have few ideas, though he generally does better than I expect he will.

"Today he opened a bank account and organised an ATM card and Thai ID card, all without adult help. I was impressed.

"I had arranged to meet him so I could give him a bit of money to cover his expenses, but when I turned up, found he had already left.

"I sent him a message saying he would have to wait now until evening, and he put up a sad post on Facebook (our way of communicating when he is not happy) where he wrote in English: 'I asked someone to be sincere...' I retorted that I asked someone to wait (but he wouldn't)."

When I went to see them again he was asleep at a friend's house in a slum off the main road. I had forgotten how mixing with teens could be so chaotic. I take up the story here:

"His mates were sitting on their motorcycles outside and told me how to get there. The place was a wreck...it's a family home, but there was bare cement on the walls, a mere fridge dividing the parents' bed from the one occupied by Man's friend, called Por. There were clothes hanging from the ceiling, the door was falling apart.

"I gathered one of his mates, Arm (there's a big lad called Arm and a little one by the same name; this was little Arm) had let a third youngster take Man's motorbike out to buy something...Man was worried he would run out of petrol on the way to work.

"Yet another youngster berated Arm for lending the bike, as it was not his, although both Man and Arm work together at the brewery (Thais do everything together) and probably go on the same bike, so maybe he thinks it's almost like his own. I told Man amid this hubbub that I was impressed that he managed to open his bank account and get the ID card, but I doubt he was even listening.

"I haven't told Maiyuu about my new friends, as I decided to put all this child-support stuff behind me years ago, and he would not be happy to hear it had started up again. Normally I keep my money to myself but in this case I decided to help." (email, Aug 18, 2018)

now, see part 4

Young man between jobs (part 2)

2020-08-18T04:00:00.003+07:00

'I have only you (to look after me)': another FB post

This drama followed a clash between the two groups in which both sides armed themselves with iron bars, planks of wood and so on and attacked each other. One lad showed me his injuries which he suffered in the clash, which thankfully did not result in any serious bloodshed.

They had gone to the police, who called in both sides for a chat. However, the police had not advised the parents of any of the youngsters involved, Man and his mates told me, as at age 18 or thereabouts they were now considered young adults. The case had resulted in police charges, and some of the cases were likely to end up in court.

Chua Phloeng Road is known for its clashes between rival teen groups, though I am not sure I had heard about this one. Never mind...we would just have to keep ourselves out of plain sight, in case the gang with the handgun came back for a reprisal clash.

I drew closer to Man, the lad who took me on his bike in search of ya dong on our first night, because his life story seemed so sad. He lived alone after losing his mother to cancer three months before; he showed me pictures her funeral. He had an elder brother, but he, like their father, lived elsewhere. Man still lived in the rented place he had shared with his mother in Suan Phlu, about 15min away.

Man and a mate at their meeting place on Phra Ram III Road

Man, in common with one or two others in the group, also had a young child of his own, despite his tender age. The little boy stayed with an "aunt", really a close friend of the mother's, he said.

Man and the child's mother, herself a teen, had broken up after the lad was born and she was not interested in raising the boy herself.

When we met, Man was about to end a no-hoper job lifting goods somewhere, and had applied to join a German brewery-cum-restaurant on Phra Ram III Road.

I was to help him over the next few weeks meet his expenses, as the first pay he received from the brewery, where he worked six days a week, was only just enough to cover his rent.

I told him I would look after him until he starts getting paid properly (normally they are paid every month, but he had started in the middle of the pay cycle).

now, see part 3

Young man between jobs (part 1)

2020-08-17T07:30:00.002+07:00

Man, telling me I let him down

'I asked someone to be sincere...' lamented a young Thai friend, Man, writing in English on Facebook.

Man, 18, was upset that I failed to meet him that day as arranged to hand over money. He was about to start a new job and at his boss's request had to get a Thai ID card made, and open a bank account.

Man was about to start work at a German brewery on Rama III Road. We had arranged meet on Chua Phloeng Road, across the way from my condo, where I would give him some money to get to the get the card done at the local body office, and also visit the bank.

I was taken aback to see his FB post, accompanied by a staged picture of himself, no doubt taken where we were supposed to meet. He was looking at the camera, and holding up thumb and finger in the shape of a heart.

I suspect he had friend take the picture for him; he and his mates, social media addicts all, routinely take pictures for each other as they dream up their next FB post, I was to discover. It was the first time I had seen the heart gesture, and marvelled at how youngsters have time to arrange these set-piece stunts for Facebook when they could be doing something useful like - well, working.

I did make our meeting as arranged, as it happens - he had left early without letting me know. His friends told me Man had already left for his errands. He borrowed money from them instead.

I met Man and his teenage friends some weeks before on a lone walk one night across from the slum community in Klong Toey where my regular drinking friend Ball lives.

Ball and his younger brother were seldom home since they started working as chefs at a restaurant in town. I was at a loose end, and decided to go for a walk to see if I could find anyone in the neighbourhood still selling ya dong.

I came across Man and half a dozen mates in a shadowy corner as I walked along Chua Phloeng Road. Some lived in the slum community behind the road frontage; others, like Man, had gone to school in the area and perhaps even lived there once but since moved away. However, they would bike back to see their friends, usually after dark, as they liked to take drugs, shoot the breeze, and race their motorcycles up and down the road late at night when the traffic eased.

"Do you know anyone around here who sells ya dong?" I asked Man and his mates. Man knew of a trader further up in Phra Ram III Road and took me there on his motorbike.

"Watch out, the farang might seduce you," his friends teased him good naturedly as I climbed on the back of his bike. Unfortunately, that vendor had closed for the night, so Man took me back to see his mates and I shouted everyone beer instead. It was raining as we made our way back, but I held up a small folding umbrella I had brought along to shield us as Man steered his vehicle.

This was to the first of a series of after-dark meetings which seemed to grow with new cast members every night. Many of the youngsters in the neighbourhood go to the same state school. The primary school is adjacent to my condo; the secondary campus about 200m down the road.

Occasionally lads from over Ball's way would pay a visit to see Man and his crowd, or we would head over to Ball's side of the road for a meal close to the local 7-11 where a dozen or so traders open food stalls at night.

The first night, we posted a picture of ourselves on FB, and within 24 hours I had 30 or so new FB friends, all of them youngsters who knew Man and his mates.

When I asked why they seemed to be hiding in the dark, they said a gang of youths had gone past and shot a handgun at them a few nights before (they showed me what looked like a bullet hole in a corrugated iron frontage to some old guy's place).

now, see part 2

Culture shock (part 5, final)

2020-08-16T10:53:00.004+07:00

How can you get your fill on this stuff?

In the course of the night the ranks of the "kids" swelled, when we were joined by another cousin of Robert's, aged 20 or so, who was to start working for Pim at her stand within weeks, replacing Robert himself who was still being lippy with his aunt.

Pim's boyfriend, James, also turned up on his motorcycle, though paying for him wasn't my problem. I took the kids home in a taxi about 10.30pm, as I was sick of the place. Pim contributed to their taxi fare, which was kind, as the bill including food came to almost 2,000 baht.

On the way home, Robert started chatting to the taxi driver, a friendly guy well into his 60s. Robert referred to me as his Dad throughout, and talked to the driver about my habits, likes and dislikes. He was a touchingly attentive surrogate son, I thought.

His mother had started a new family in the provinces, he told me once, and his real father had vanished from the scene years ago. This was a lad in need of a role model and all that, perhaps - but really, just a growing teen looking for a bit of fun. At the first distraction, he would be off.

The next day the mood soured when a woman who runs a streetside eatery down the way from Pim's stand and who I have known for more than 15 years, warned me off the family.

"We are worried about you and don't think you should get too friendly," my friend, who I shall call Mai, said.

Mai runs a great eatery nestled in a small garden and employing two or three young workers from Laos. I discovered her shop years ago, and drop in every day before work. Before leaving home I phone ahead with a order: two boxes of food which I pick up on the way to the office. I know her family, and when we go away on trips we buy presents for each other. Civilised behaviour, and no one trying to gain an advantage over the other.

"We have never wanted anything from you. but these folk have taken your money for clothes, a guitar, a restaurant meal..." Mai said. "What's next?"

Actually, Robert had asked for a new smartphone, but I had told him he would have to help me save if he wanted that item.

Mai had been talking to another trader who runs an Esan-style eatery next to her own shop, who has also known me for years. Her husband works for the same company as me, and I have known her son and daughter, both kids when I met them and now grown up, for as long as I have been here.

Both traders were annoyed by the presence of the Laos family, as their stand drew customers away from their own eateries - but their unease went further than that.

"If one day they decide to move shop again and they forget about you, what will you be left with?" Mai asked.

I decided to heed my trader friends' advice, especially when I heard that Pim and her young charges had been muttering among themselves about how the outing to the food barn in Bang Kapi was "too expensive" and not worth the effort. They were grumbling together as they set up shop the morning after our trip and Mai overheard them.

In the coming weeks, Robert was to grow distant as he spent time with his elder cousin, the one who turned up at the food barn that night and eventually joined Pim at her stand.

Shortly after he started, Pim was to banish Robert back to her brother's shop in Jet Sip Rai, and I didn't see him again for more than a month.

He did not ask his aunt how I was, even though he saw her every night after work. Nor did he call or send messages. I wrote letters which I asked Pim to pass on, but she seldom brought back word.

I decided I had had enough. When Robert finally returned he apologised for the lack of contact and declared he had mended his ways with his aunt and was now back for good. However, I suspect he had really come back to persuade me to buy him a smartphone - our last bit of unfinished business before he had disappeared.

"Do you still want to buy Robert that phone?" Pim asked me one night around that time, and I knew after that I should expect a visit from Robert, and so it was. Within a day or two, he was back.

I listened to him patiently but did not commit. I had no intention of parting with any more money, but said nothing. In fact, we weren't to speak again.

I passed him at the shop another few times before his aunt realised I had lost interest in supporting them. She sent him back to the brother's shop, as I suspected she would, and some weeks later closed her stall permanently and moved.

I seldom spoke to any of her crowd after I saw Robert that day, and for weeks biked past their stand with my nose in the air as if I didn't know them. We have not seen each other since.

Culture shock (part 4)

2020-08-15T11:15:00.003+07:00

The Korean-style moo kra ta joint in Bang Kapi; also, below

He looked at me, fish-eye indifferent, as if he was used to getting such brush-offs. Robert, who heard the exchange, looked shocked at my response. I stormed away.

I fumed all the way home, pedalling furiously, and stopped in the slum soi to compose a stiffly worded message to Pim. "Your father has just tried to menace me into buying him khong fak," I said.

Pim replied almost instantly. "Oh, he's always saying that to people. Think nothing of it. It's a misunderstanding," adding hurriedly that she hoped I would still take them out to dinner to celebrate Robert's birthday at a moo kra ta joint as planned.

"Of course," I replied niavely. "Just because he has no manners is no reason to punish the boy."

The next night Robert, a teenage cousin who also worked at the stall and I piled into a taxi close to Pim's shop for the long trip to Ramkamhaeng. Pim, who was elsewhere, spoke to the driver on the teen's phone as we climbed in, but didn't tell the kids where we were going. I had to ask the driver, a crabby guy in his 60s, where we were headed, as she didn't talk to me either. We had been travelling for 20 minutes, edging our way through peak hour traffic, with still no end in sight.

"Why, do you want me to let you off here?" he asked sarcastically, when I dared ask where he was taking us.

"No one asked for your feedback - just drive," I replied tartly.

Pim, it transpired, had spent the night in Ramkhamhaeng where she has a flat, no doubt for an inimate night with James the motorsai driver. She lived there before moving some months ago into the Jet Sip Rai community to be close to her brothers.

A good looking bunch: Pim and her son...

...brother Jalin

...and brother Lek

No doubt it was convenient for her to summon us out to that remote part of town rather than travel back to the city. But as far as I was concerned, it was cheeky - why have us battle heavy traffic for an hour and a half, including a lengthy wait for two motorcycle taxis who took us on the last leg of the journey, when we could have done this in town?

The eatery was off Ramkhamhaeng Road in remote Bang Kapi. I can't recall the last time I visited that part of town ...I may as well have gone on a trip to the provinces, it's so far.

She had been to this Korean-style bar-b-que joint before and enjoyed herself, she said later. "They put no time limit on your stay, unlike some others in town which give you a couple of hours and charge extra if you haven't finished everything on your plate," she said.

It was a huge barn-like place, so far out we were almost in a rural area. After the motorcyle taxi left us we had to dodge traffic on highways as we made our way towards the two storey restaurant (see pic), which was almost empty.

Diners eat smorgasbord style, moving between food stations which offer dishes from a variety of nationalities. I took a look at the place and realised it was ideal for families and large gatherings, not the kind of restaurant set in more intimate surroundings which I would typically visit with my partner. But then, I would insist on interposing myself in some else's young family... I took one look and wish I had never come.

I saw the way Pim was piling her plate to the brim with expensive shellfish and the like and decided to lay down a marker. "I will pay for the kids only. The adults are on their own," I declared. Pim looked non-plussed, as if she was expecting it.

now, see part 5

Culture shock (part 3)

2020-08-14T10:51:00.000+07:00

The Jet Sip Rai community in Klong Toey; also, below right

I was drawing close to Pim, the boss of the family, who also had a good head for business.

This was a woman of intrigue, I decided: she had a teenage son by an ex-lover in the South, but in Bangkok had remade herself as young, sexy and available.

She dyed her hair blonde, wore clingy, figure-enhancing clothes, and enjoyed flirting with male customers. One admirer, a trader in Klong Toey market, would turn up to pester her occasionally, annoying her boyfriend, James, the motorcycle taxi guy, who asked a woman who sold food from a pushcart across the road to act as lookout for him. If any admirers turned up to flirt, she should let him know, he said.

Anyway, I was heading to work one day when Robert told me his grandmother was coming for a visit. When she arrived he alerted me by text message and I biked down the road to see them.

I gave her a wai, as is the custom, and sat down for a chat. However, James reprimanded me for turning up empty-handed.

"Where's the gift?" he said bluntly, in front of everyone.

I ignored the taunt, but it stung. How could I buy a gift, when I knew only the hour before that she was coming? I put it down to a cultural misunderstanding, though complained later to Pim.

We arranged an action packed weekend around that time to coincide with Robert's birthday. It was our first big outing as a family, as really I knew them only at the stand. My partner was away in the provinces so I could indulge myself.

I had noticed that Robert had virtually no casual clothes so asked him what kind of clothes he needed. Pim overheard me and joked I should buy some for her too. I didn't think much of it, but should have realised she was serious.

The first outing of the weekend was to take Robert to Saphan Phut wholesale clothes market. The family goes there regularly to buy cheap clothes, Pim told me.

I was expecting her to turn up with Robert in a taxi, but was shocked to see she brought along her father and another young employee from the shop as well...anyone she could squeeze into the vehicle, it seems.

Saphan Phut wholesale clothes market

I was expected to buy clothes for everyone, I was informed, and they helped themselves as we wandered from stall to stall - a pair of jeans here, a belt or T-shirts there, even a jacket for Pim's father. If they were embarrassed to be relying on the generosity of a farang who was not a genuine part of their family, they didn't show it. The trip was expensive and I wasn't happy about it.

A day later Pim's father, who about to return to the provinces after a brief visit to Bangkok to see family, approached me as Robert was packing up shop. Pim had quit early and gone home, leaving her nephew to clean up and close the stall.

He asked me for gifts (khong fak) for his relatives back in the sticks. Like a true farmer, he wanted bags of rice, or fish. A humble enough request, I suppose, but given that I had just clothed his back, had met him only days before and didn't know his relatives at home from Adam, I refused.

"Of come on, you know you can afford it!" he said in vaguely menacing manner, as Robert stood by our side.

He was trying to bully me in front of the lad to improve his chances of getting me to part with money. However, that only made me angrier.

"I don't know you, and you ask me for money? You have no manners. Don't ever pressure me in front of that boy again," I growled at him.

Culture shock (part 2)

2020-08-13T08:21:00.001+07:00

All that's left of their stall these days...

She was to run into similar problems at her site where I met her down the road from my office in central Klong Toey. She was to last a matter of months before packing up and moving somewhere else.

By then our relationship had also moved on, as I grew sick of their strange ways.

Robert lived with his aunt Pim at a rowhouse in the Jet Sip Rai area, about 10 minutes from where they set up shop. She had several brothers who ran their own food stalls, much like her own, including one in front of the rowhouse where they lived.

One day I chatted to members of the family as they turned up at Pim's stall lugging supplies or equipment. First I met her partner, an amiable motorcycle taxi driver.

Later I met her brothers, cousins, uncles, Pim’s father, and even an elderly grandmother with whom Robert, one of the youngest members of the family, had lived for years before moving in with Pim.

All arrived from Laos years ago and no one had work permits or visas permitting them to stay. Robert, 16 when I met him, had been in Thailand since he was little boy when he crossed the border with his grandmother.

Because he lacked paperwork, including an ID card, he could not enter the schooling system. While he spoke Thai well, he could barely read or write.

Pim could see I felt sorry for him as we chatted away, and was keen to encourage idea that Robert was a hard worker with few friends.

It took me a while to piece together the events in his life, but I found out Robert had moved in with Pim only recently; six months before, he was still living off Chua Phloeng Road with his granny.

I could understand why he wanted to leave Granny's place. Pim's home in Jet Sip Rai offered the independence of young adulthood and a job. At granny's place he was just a kid with no income, spending his days playing football and computer games.

Nonetheless, it was a tough life. Pim paid him a pittance, just 100 baht a day assuming sales went well, but he worked 12 hours at a stretch, with few breaks or days off.

“We are all family so it doesn’t matter. We help each other out. Apart from that, I have to keep money aside for his future,” she said expansively. Still, it looked like slave labour to me, and I told her so.

Perhaps because he was finding the adjustment to working life tough, Robert and Pim bickered often.

Robert did not let his youth hold him back; he was outspoken and blunt with his aunt, even in front of customers. When Pim tired of his surly behaviour, she would pull in other youngsters as helpers, and banish Robert to her brother’s shop at Jed Sip Rai. When she forgave him she would let him come back again.

When Robert worked at Pim's shop I was protective of him, as I didn't like to see him exploited. He was much smaller than other boys his age - a family trait, the elders told me. "They all grow up small in our family," one said.

I helped Robert heavy items in the shop, put up the umbrella when it rained, lift the gas bottle off his motorbike after he went into the market to fill it up. If I fussed too much, he would reprimand me jokingly: "Just sit still!"

Robert enjoyed playing guitar, he said, so I bought him one on the internet. I had never bought online before and enjoyed the experience. However, I felt deflated when someone at Pim's place broke the guitar the same day Robert took it home.

During this time I had all but abandoned my friends in the slum next to my condo. When a youngster from that community contacted me one day wanting money, I suggested he come and see me. Nong Ton and a school friend turned up on their motorbike and I shouted them a quick meal at Pim's stall.

At the prompting of the ya dong stall owner down the way, I also gave them 200 baht for a meal at a Japanese eatery where were heading to meet friends. When they left, Pim caustically remarked: 'You should stick with us. They they just want handouts."

Meanwhile, curious members of Pim's family were turning up at the stall to meet me, as if welcoming a new member to their family. They included the grandma on her first trip away from Chua Phloeng Road in months (a relative escorted her). It was as if I had married into the family through the aunt or Robert and everyone wanted to check me out.

now, see part 3

Culture shock (part 1)

2020-08-12T11:10:00.005+07:00

Pim's stall sat where the pink chairs are now

"Everything that's yours is also mine"...that's a public-spirited attitude I hadn't bargained with when I decided to help a young man at an eatery close to work.

I bought Robert a guitar, but his relatives, with whom he lived in a rowhouse nearby, borrowed it and broke it on the first day.

I offered to buy him clothes, as he appeared to have few of his own, but his family invited themselves along and insisted I buy clothes for them too.

Weeks after we met, in early August last year, I suggested we go out for a Thai-style bar-b-que for his birthday, but his aunt, wo also ran the streetside stall where he worked, hijacked the occasion. She dragged us along to a huge barn of a place in faraway Bang Kapi because she had been enjoyed herself there once before.

By that time I had grown wise to their exploitative behaviour, and offered to pay for the kids in our group only; the adults would have to look after themselves.

Robert was doing well because he happened to meet a farang who felt sorry for his plight. Yet his family was not content with that, as they wanted some of the action for themselves.

If he was doing well, then by rights they should benefit too, as they were an indivisible whole - an extended Laos family in which anything which accrued to one member should accrue to all. How joyfully socialist!

The family welcomed me as one of their own when I met them a year ago or so, which was touching, but it proved too much of a culture shock.

Back in those days I would drink regularly at a ya dong stand down the road from my office. The mainstay of the family, an attractive young woman in her 30s called Pim, opened a little stall on a vacant space next to us on the footpath.

Her stall was sandwiched between a busy road on one side and a truck yard on the other.

Some customers drove up alongside, barked out their order and waited for their food to be delivered in a white styrofoam box.

Others with more time on their hands parked their motorcycles and took a seat at one of the rickety tables and chairs which spilled onto the roadside.

Occasionally we would have to shout to heard above the din of the trucks, as all that separated us on the footpath from the yard behind was a chain link fence.

Robert

I noticed her nephew, Robert, sitting alone for hours at a time as I knocked back my ya dong from shot glasses at another stand next to their little shop.

He and one or two other youngsters served customers while Pim made their orders. They also helped her open and close the stall each day, and fetch supplies from the market.

This was a casual family-run stall, consisting initially of a gas cooker, a few pots and pans and a glass display cabinet, and not much else. It had no roof or walls or doors as such - when finished for the day they would string netting across their belongings, tucked into a corner on the footpath, and hope no one stole anything.

They turned up overnight after Pim reached a deal to rent the footpath space from the owners - a family living in a squattie or lean-to arrangement smack up against the chain-lik fence in the smelly truck yard.

Don't these people own a proper home - and how did they gain possession of what was a public space by the side of a busy road?

The husband and wife who lived in this hovel argued often, sometimes coming to blows. Customers in Pim’s shop heard the racket as it drifted through the chain link fence; we all did, but pretended not to notice. Welcome to life in the slums!

Pim, who comes from Laos, opened the stall originally in a busy nearby community called Jet Sip Rai, where she and her brothers live, but ran into trouble with the local council inspectors, who did not like the way her tables and chairs spilled onto the road.

now, see part 2