Yes it is/was. She did say that, but not in those words. I've long since forgotten the exact words.SunSan wrote:Is this the poetic license part?“Tonight when smelly fat falang hurting my ass I close my eyes and I see you and I happy. In four month, six month when I die I close my eyes and I see you and I happy. Thank you Andy.”
Some old musings from Andy
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- 20,000 Posts; I need professional help !
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I came, I argued, I'm out
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- 20,000 Posts; I need professional help !
- Reactions: 2
- Posts: 22651
- Joined: Fri Jul 15, 2005 2:31 pm
- Location: Space, maaaan
6. Bangkok Made Me A Monster
I’m really sorry to be leaving Bangkok; I know my days will be no less interesting in Nong Khai but I could continue to ‘live’ in Bangkok for a long time. By ‘live’ I mean I feel like my body, mind and soul are working flat out, 100% of the time, which is a hell of a contrast to when I’m merely existing in England. Actually I had my palm read the other day by a lady who knew absolutely nothing about me and she told me that in my own country it’s no good for me and when I am in another country it is very good (I think she even said I’d become famous). So there; can’t argue with the hands I was born with. Having said that, from the following story you will probably conclude that Bangkok will be better off without me.
The other day I was in a cyber-cafe one afternoon catching up with all your e-mails and I found myself sitting next to this girl who was – ohmigod. Yes I know I say that (because I think that) about every woman here but I mean in the most objective, classical sense of pin-up celebrity full-on glamour status. What most struck me however was the way she moved and spoke – eerily slowly with a kind of elegance and ethereal nature that I could only associate with Tolkein’s elves as I’ve never seen that in real life before. We exchanged a few pleasantries, no big deal, and when she got up to leave she dropped a piece of paper on my keyboard with her number on it which I later chucked away.
A couple of days later just as I was finishing sending my last report to you I realized she had been sitting some time next to me again; I guess I hadn’t noticed as I was too shocked by the two schoolgirls on my other side that I mentioned last time. I was due to meet up with my Cambodian girlfriend who was just finishing her shift so I only had time for a brief chat. ‘What do you do?’ I asked her. Her whole demeanor changed; she sort of closed in on herself and spoke very quietly.
‘Nothing. Nothing good. My job bad.’
‘No, why say that?’ I replied, ‘Everybody has to do what they have to do. Everybody has to eat. There are not many choices for most people.’
‘Not many people think like that. Nobody says that to me.’
I asked her where she worked; it turns out she’s not just a dancer, she’s the top bill in a club rated by many as the best in the city – and considering which city we’re talking about here – wow! But here she was confessing to me that she was deeply ashamed of her work, her life, herself. I said to her, ‘Hey, we’ll go for a coffee tomorrow. I don’t go with you, we drink coffee and talk.’
So we duly met up; she wasn’t in great shape as she’d had a harrowing evening. A punter had barfined her at eight o’clock (i.e. you pay the bar to take out a dancer/waitress for the evening and then she’s ‘yours’; what you pay her is up to her – or ‘up to you’. Mind you in her case it’s let’s just say substantial) and they’d gone to another up-market club. The police raided the club and rounded up every farang who was not carrying his passport – some one hundred in all, plus their escorts. The current Prime Minister (Taksin – or ‘Toxin’ as he is know to all) likes to do these occasional gestures to please the Moral Majority and the police get to rake in the bribes, so all these people spent the night in jail. Anyway a coffee woke her up a bit and she told me a lot about herself. She’s 26, originally from Isaan, and she’s seen a fair bit of the world; she has a string of European boyfriends who jet her off to the best hotels in places like Hong Kong and Malaysia and take her shopping in all the best malls, in short someone who on a certain level really has it made. She told me how some of these boyfriends know all about her yet love her and don’t ask her to change, yet when things get to close she always runs away because she is ‘bad’. I said to her, ‘So, they love you for who you are, but you don’t love yourself.’
She asked me to see her dance at the club that evening; that she wouldn’t pick any man up and would wait for me to arrive - just to see me. I made it very clear I’m not a potential customer - she did offer to go with me to my hotel that afternoon (‘no money, you good friend’) but I explained to her that for me making love in hotel or sitting in café talking with her is same - I’m very happy, but for her if I go with her then I am like every other farang and it is good for her to have one different friend. She seemed to like that, but I was left silently thinking, ‘You bloody jackass! You’ve just spurned the opportunity of a lifetime!’
So that evening I went just to say ‘hi’ for ten minutes and there she was and I think it’s fair to say I couldn’t put her in the ‘tedious’ category (think Rocky Horror plus cowboy hat and ….. the rest I can’t begin to describe), although I think I was more distracted by the sight of all the punters drooling at her feet. Afterwards she came and sat with me; I complemented her and we chatted for a bit longer than I’d intended. She actually said to me, ‘Andy, I’ve been thinking, I want to change my life. Take me back to Isaan, help me make new life.’ You know, I can’t even use the term ‘fantasy’ in contexts like this; in merely one week I have discovered that fantasy is reality in Bangkok – you just can’t distinguish – rather you need to stay very very awake. Strangely, what caused me to come to a decision was the music that was accompanying the dancers at that moment, the city’s theme song: “One night in Bangkok makes a hard man humble” was the refrain that suddenly came into my sphere of consciousness. ‘Hang on to your heart Andy, use your brain!’ I told myself. ‘Ann [I’ll use one of her many pseudonyms], we’ll keep in touch, but I go to Isaan alone.’
And if only. If only. If only I’d said sawatdee and kissed her on the cheek and walked out there and then everything would have been just fine.
She skipped the rest of her cues to dance because she wouldn’t leave me, except for one dance the music for which as I recollected the next day was astonishingly ironic – if only she’s heeded the words she was dancing to, as bad dude Mick Jagger crooned ‘Don’t play with me ‘cos you’ll play with fire.’ So she changed her tack. I was absolutely firm in insisting there was no way I was going to sleep with her. I gave her a veritable raft of reasons: ‘I can be a good friend for you but if we have sex I’ll be just like any other farang to you’, and ‘I’m really not like other guys – if we do this I’ll get inside your heart and you don’t need that.’ Yes I do know how appalling that sounds but I really wasn’t bullshitting; I was trying to warn her and in fact I was all too correct as that’s exactly what happened.
She didn’t hear any of this; all she heard was her come on being spurned for probably the first time in her life, and I think it became a mission of ultimate cosmic importance for her. At one point an Amerikan threw a huge wad of $10 bills on her lap (it would have been uncool to have looked too closely but we’re talking serious bucks here) and she tossed them back at him. Believe me, I was really trying but my god she had a way about her. And I could have prevented all this so easily; instead of trying to warn her off with all my high-falutin’ higher truth bollocks I could have just come clean with the mundane truth; I’d only popped out for a pizza for the girlfriend I’d left in my bed after being with her all evening. Why didn’t I just say that? Or to put it another way, why the goddamn **** did I eventually deign to tell her this five hours later? All along I thought I was still just about in control and okay we’d go back to her place but just talk really; I’d completely failed to appreciate how outrageously horny she’d become – I thought it was just an act; after all we are talking about me here. I’m sorry, but just what is a guy supposed to do?
Maybe I should be feeling quite smug or something; here after all is a girl who is being flown out to Hong Kong for one night next week to stay with some Richard Gere-type (she showed me an e-mail from him from Athens – he’s some corporate big suit involved in the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games). But I don’t feel clever at all – behind the jet-setting hi-so glamorous lifestyle is a lady, with a tender heart like everyone else (except me evidently) and she deserved better than to open her heart to just another bastard who left her sobbing in her bed.
I think I’m beginning to work out what’s going on here. As I watch and listen to the other farang men I realise that they all talk to the girls as if they are pieces of meat and the girls are expecting that and their defences are well prepared. It seems to be that because I treat them differently – with the best of intentions, not in any calculated manner, it catches them unawares and they offer up their hearts far too quickly and readily to an extent that I’m not anticipating. Throw into that the factors that (a) I’m just a guy and (b) they’re unimaginably beautiful and things get out of hand. I’ll just mention in passing that there have been a couple of other instances I haven’t mentioned that follow the same pattern. Look, I’m not asking for understanding or mercy here – I realise that there can be no half measures. I’m making a pledge here and now that from this moment, as I await my plane to take me out of Bangkok to the quiet countryside with its river, temples and monks that it has to be nothing less than full-on celibacy from now on. Beautiful Isaan women – I’m not even gonna notice.
In the end I suppose it could have been worse - just the one broken heart that night. My girlfriend had been worrying all night but she readily accepted my lame explanation for why I rolled in at 5.30 in the morning in the most notorious red light district in the world. She was worried I’d been lured into some place by a ladyboy and had my throat slashed (they do that you know). I e-mailed Ann a sincere apology the next day; the following morning I was in the cyber-café and she slipped in without me noticing. An e-mail suddenly popped into my inbox saying simply, ‘mai pen rai, I love you’, and as I read it a pair of loving arms encircled my neck and a sweet kiss was planted on my cheek. I spent most of the day with her to make sure, but she’s alright really. When I told her the whole story her response was, ‘You idiot – why did you make yourself and me feel so bad when you did nothing wrong?’ I realised that I just haven’t got a handle on the distinctive morality of this Thai sub-culture (I say ‘sub-culture’ because I can’t yet extrapolate my experiences in Bangkok and apply them to the country). For instance, let me clarify exactly what Pui would ideally like: she would like to marry me and take care of me in return for love and security. Fidelity doesn’t enter into it – this is still too bizarre for me and like I’ve said before, it seems to be too damned easy to be a guy in this country. I clearly have much to learn yet and much to understand and accept before I commit myself to anything.
Actually it’s not quite true to say Ann was ‘alright’. I was a little disturbed to detect the germ of a serious jealous streak (I’ve been warned that Thai women can go to extremes over this) which struck me as rather odd considering (a) who she is and (b) who I am. It did become evident to me that at root I was offering friendship and she was looking for love; that was never on my agenda anyway and neither did I imply it was, and for goodness’ sake I’m an ultra-simple guy – she’s way way out of my league, whatever was she thinking? My instincts told me, ‘Walk away, and don’t look back.’ This time I will listen. I think that given my limited experience of life it was kind of understandable that certain temptations proved too much, but having had a fling with an astoundingly beautiful, sexy, wealthy, glamorous woman there’s nothing much left to be overly impressed with, I reckon. A sort of ‘been there, done that, what’s all the fuss about?’
I’d hoped to achieve another ‘closure’ the night after the incident above. Pui again sent me out to amuse myself as she was ready to sleep by ten so I went to seek out the lass from Nong Khai. I’d been feeling concerned about her since she hadn’t got the hang of protecting her heart plus I was the first falang she’d been with so I thought she might be feeling a bit vulnerable. When I got to her bar I learned that she’d quit. I hope that meant she’d quit the whole business and I wondered if she’d returned to Nong Khai. I decided that I’d call her later and promise her I’ll come and eat rice with mama. Spookily, the next girl to home in on me turned out to be from Nong Khai too – presumably there’s just no employment prospects in that sleepy little town. This time however I just smiled and walked off. Finally, whilst I expect the City of Angels will be mightily relieved at my departure, and whilst I can say with some assurance that in my ten days in Bangkok I ‘made a difference’, I don’t think it was all bad. I told you about ‘Noi’; well I really shouldn’t be sharing this but… in the midst of the entertainment sector of the sex capital of the world thanks to my wonky radar I acquired as a girlfriend a forty-year old virgin who’d never even been touched by a man (turns out her only previous boyfriend, the Dutch guy, had been an impotent Calvinist). Yes I know I did some seriously bad stuff, I know, but at the same time this girl really blossomed in the short time we were together. I’ve done good, I’ve done bad, and if you want to judge me can I repeat – first come to Bangkok to experience it for yourself – it isn’t like anywhere else you’ve ever known. But anyway, I’m duly announcing my retirement. No more women okay; the next report will be refreshingly dull. You do believe me don’t you?
I’m really sorry to be leaving Bangkok; I know my days will be no less interesting in Nong Khai but I could continue to ‘live’ in Bangkok for a long time. By ‘live’ I mean I feel like my body, mind and soul are working flat out, 100% of the time, which is a hell of a contrast to when I’m merely existing in England. Actually I had my palm read the other day by a lady who knew absolutely nothing about me and she told me that in my own country it’s no good for me and when I am in another country it is very good (I think she even said I’d become famous). So there; can’t argue with the hands I was born with. Having said that, from the following story you will probably conclude that Bangkok will be better off without me.
The other day I was in a cyber-cafe one afternoon catching up with all your e-mails and I found myself sitting next to this girl who was – ohmigod. Yes I know I say that (because I think that) about every woman here but I mean in the most objective, classical sense of pin-up celebrity full-on glamour status. What most struck me however was the way she moved and spoke – eerily slowly with a kind of elegance and ethereal nature that I could only associate with Tolkein’s elves as I’ve never seen that in real life before. We exchanged a few pleasantries, no big deal, and when she got up to leave she dropped a piece of paper on my keyboard with her number on it which I later chucked away.
A couple of days later just as I was finishing sending my last report to you I realized she had been sitting some time next to me again; I guess I hadn’t noticed as I was too shocked by the two schoolgirls on my other side that I mentioned last time. I was due to meet up with my Cambodian girlfriend who was just finishing her shift so I only had time for a brief chat. ‘What do you do?’ I asked her. Her whole demeanor changed; she sort of closed in on herself and spoke very quietly.
‘Nothing. Nothing good. My job bad.’
‘No, why say that?’ I replied, ‘Everybody has to do what they have to do. Everybody has to eat. There are not many choices for most people.’
‘Not many people think like that. Nobody says that to me.’
I asked her where she worked; it turns out she’s not just a dancer, she’s the top bill in a club rated by many as the best in the city – and considering which city we’re talking about here – wow! But here she was confessing to me that she was deeply ashamed of her work, her life, herself. I said to her, ‘Hey, we’ll go for a coffee tomorrow. I don’t go with you, we drink coffee and talk.’
So we duly met up; she wasn’t in great shape as she’d had a harrowing evening. A punter had barfined her at eight o’clock (i.e. you pay the bar to take out a dancer/waitress for the evening and then she’s ‘yours’; what you pay her is up to her – or ‘up to you’. Mind you in her case it’s let’s just say substantial) and they’d gone to another up-market club. The police raided the club and rounded up every farang who was not carrying his passport – some one hundred in all, plus their escorts. The current Prime Minister (Taksin – or ‘Toxin’ as he is know to all) likes to do these occasional gestures to please the Moral Majority and the police get to rake in the bribes, so all these people spent the night in jail. Anyway a coffee woke her up a bit and she told me a lot about herself. She’s 26, originally from Isaan, and she’s seen a fair bit of the world; she has a string of European boyfriends who jet her off to the best hotels in places like Hong Kong and Malaysia and take her shopping in all the best malls, in short someone who on a certain level really has it made. She told me how some of these boyfriends know all about her yet love her and don’t ask her to change, yet when things get to close she always runs away because she is ‘bad’. I said to her, ‘So, they love you for who you are, but you don’t love yourself.’
She asked me to see her dance at the club that evening; that she wouldn’t pick any man up and would wait for me to arrive - just to see me. I made it very clear I’m not a potential customer - she did offer to go with me to my hotel that afternoon (‘no money, you good friend’) but I explained to her that for me making love in hotel or sitting in café talking with her is same - I’m very happy, but for her if I go with her then I am like every other farang and it is good for her to have one different friend. She seemed to like that, but I was left silently thinking, ‘You bloody jackass! You’ve just spurned the opportunity of a lifetime!’
So that evening I went just to say ‘hi’ for ten minutes and there she was and I think it’s fair to say I couldn’t put her in the ‘tedious’ category (think Rocky Horror plus cowboy hat and ….. the rest I can’t begin to describe), although I think I was more distracted by the sight of all the punters drooling at her feet. Afterwards she came and sat with me; I complemented her and we chatted for a bit longer than I’d intended. She actually said to me, ‘Andy, I’ve been thinking, I want to change my life. Take me back to Isaan, help me make new life.’ You know, I can’t even use the term ‘fantasy’ in contexts like this; in merely one week I have discovered that fantasy is reality in Bangkok – you just can’t distinguish – rather you need to stay very very awake. Strangely, what caused me to come to a decision was the music that was accompanying the dancers at that moment, the city’s theme song: “One night in Bangkok makes a hard man humble” was the refrain that suddenly came into my sphere of consciousness. ‘Hang on to your heart Andy, use your brain!’ I told myself. ‘Ann [I’ll use one of her many pseudonyms], we’ll keep in touch, but I go to Isaan alone.’
And if only. If only. If only I’d said sawatdee and kissed her on the cheek and walked out there and then everything would have been just fine.
She skipped the rest of her cues to dance because she wouldn’t leave me, except for one dance the music for which as I recollected the next day was astonishingly ironic – if only she’s heeded the words she was dancing to, as bad dude Mick Jagger crooned ‘Don’t play with me ‘cos you’ll play with fire.’ So she changed her tack. I was absolutely firm in insisting there was no way I was going to sleep with her. I gave her a veritable raft of reasons: ‘I can be a good friend for you but if we have sex I’ll be just like any other farang to you’, and ‘I’m really not like other guys – if we do this I’ll get inside your heart and you don’t need that.’ Yes I do know how appalling that sounds but I really wasn’t bullshitting; I was trying to warn her and in fact I was all too correct as that’s exactly what happened.
She didn’t hear any of this; all she heard was her come on being spurned for probably the first time in her life, and I think it became a mission of ultimate cosmic importance for her. At one point an Amerikan threw a huge wad of $10 bills on her lap (it would have been uncool to have looked too closely but we’re talking serious bucks here) and she tossed them back at him. Believe me, I was really trying but my god she had a way about her. And I could have prevented all this so easily; instead of trying to warn her off with all my high-falutin’ higher truth bollocks I could have just come clean with the mundane truth; I’d only popped out for a pizza for the girlfriend I’d left in my bed after being with her all evening. Why didn’t I just say that? Or to put it another way, why the goddamn **** did I eventually deign to tell her this five hours later? All along I thought I was still just about in control and okay we’d go back to her place but just talk really; I’d completely failed to appreciate how outrageously horny she’d become – I thought it was just an act; after all we are talking about me here. I’m sorry, but just what is a guy supposed to do?
Maybe I should be feeling quite smug or something; here after all is a girl who is being flown out to Hong Kong for one night next week to stay with some Richard Gere-type (she showed me an e-mail from him from Athens – he’s some corporate big suit involved in the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games). But I don’t feel clever at all – behind the jet-setting hi-so glamorous lifestyle is a lady, with a tender heart like everyone else (except me evidently) and she deserved better than to open her heart to just another bastard who left her sobbing in her bed.
I think I’m beginning to work out what’s going on here. As I watch and listen to the other farang men I realise that they all talk to the girls as if they are pieces of meat and the girls are expecting that and their defences are well prepared. It seems to be that because I treat them differently – with the best of intentions, not in any calculated manner, it catches them unawares and they offer up their hearts far too quickly and readily to an extent that I’m not anticipating. Throw into that the factors that (a) I’m just a guy and (b) they’re unimaginably beautiful and things get out of hand. I’ll just mention in passing that there have been a couple of other instances I haven’t mentioned that follow the same pattern. Look, I’m not asking for understanding or mercy here – I realise that there can be no half measures. I’m making a pledge here and now that from this moment, as I await my plane to take me out of Bangkok to the quiet countryside with its river, temples and monks that it has to be nothing less than full-on celibacy from now on. Beautiful Isaan women – I’m not even gonna notice.
In the end I suppose it could have been worse - just the one broken heart that night. My girlfriend had been worrying all night but she readily accepted my lame explanation for why I rolled in at 5.30 in the morning in the most notorious red light district in the world. She was worried I’d been lured into some place by a ladyboy and had my throat slashed (they do that you know). I e-mailed Ann a sincere apology the next day; the following morning I was in the cyber-café and she slipped in without me noticing. An e-mail suddenly popped into my inbox saying simply, ‘mai pen rai, I love you’, and as I read it a pair of loving arms encircled my neck and a sweet kiss was planted on my cheek. I spent most of the day with her to make sure, but she’s alright really. When I told her the whole story her response was, ‘You idiot – why did you make yourself and me feel so bad when you did nothing wrong?’ I realised that I just haven’t got a handle on the distinctive morality of this Thai sub-culture (I say ‘sub-culture’ because I can’t yet extrapolate my experiences in Bangkok and apply them to the country). For instance, let me clarify exactly what Pui would ideally like: she would like to marry me and take care of me in return for love and security. Fidelity doesn’t enter into it – this is still too bizarre for me and like I’ve said before, it seems to be too damned easy to be a guy in this country. I clearly have much to learn yet and much to understand and accept before I commit myself to anything.
Actually it’s not quite true to say Ann was ‘alright’. I was a little disturbed to detect the germ of a serious jealous streak (I’ve been warned that Thai women can go to extremes over this) which struck me as rather odd considering (a) who she is and (b) who I am. It did become evident to me that at root I was offering friendship and she was looking for love; that was never on my agenda anyway and neither did I imply it was, and for goodness’ sake I’m an ultra-simple guy – she’s way way out of my league, whatever was she thinking? My instincts told me, ‘Walk away, and don’t look back.’ This time I will listen. I think that given my limited experience of life it was kind of understandable that certain temptations proved too much, but having had a fling with an astoundingly beautiful, sexy, wealthy, glamorous woman there’s nothing much left to be overly impressed with, I reckon. A sort of ‘been there, done that, what’s all the fuss about?’
I’d hoped to achieve another ‘closure’ the night after the incident above. Pui again sent me out to amuse myself as she was ready to sleep by ten so I went to seek out the lass from Nong Khai. I’d been feeling concerned about her since she hadn’t got the hang of protecting her heart plus I was the first falang she’d been with so I thought she might be feeling a bit vulnerable. When I got to her bar I learned that she’d quit. I hope that meant she’d quit the whole business and I wondered if she’d returned to Nong Khai. I decided that I’d call her later and promise her I’ll come and eat rice with mama. Spookily, the next girl to home in on me turned out to be from Nong Khai too – presumably there’s just no employment prospects in that sleepy little town. This time however I just smiled and walked off. Finally, whilst I expect the City of Angels will be mightily relieved at my departure, and whilst I can say with some assurance that in my ten days in Bangkok I ‘made a difference’, I don’t think it was all bad. I told you about ‘Noi’; well I really shouldn’t be sharing this but… in the midst of the entertainment sector of the sex capital of the world thanks to my wonky radar I acquired as a girlfriend a forty-year old virgin who’d never even been touched by a man (turns out her only previous boyfriend, the Dutch guy, had been an impotent Calvinist). Yes I know I did some seriously bad stuff, I know, but at the same time this girl really blossomed in the short time we were together. I’ve done good, I’ve done bad, and if you want to judge me can I repeat – first come to Bangkok to experience it for yourself – it isn’t like anywhere else you’ve ever known. But anyway, I’m duly announcing my retirement. No more women okay; the next report will be refreshingly dull. You do believe me don’t you?
I came, I argued, I'm out
-
- 20,000 Posts; I need professional help !
- Reactions: 2
- Posts: 22651
- Joined: Fri Jul 15, 2005 2:31 pm
- Location: Space, maaaan
7. Taking Flight
It’s good to walk down the street without attracting attention. By the end I was beginning to find all those beautiful women literally throwing themselves at me quite oppressive. I think that must be mainly down to Ann. I don’t know what to make of all that really. On the one hand I hate hurting anyone and the one thing I most hate more than anything else in all the world is to break a woman’s heart; I’ve been on the receiving end, I know what it’s like and I’d never wish that on my worst enemy so when I do it to someone I like I can’t tell you how lousy that makes me feel. I don’t even feel particularly at fault – I mean, man was she determined; the Kama Sutra’s 64 arts of seduction are nothing compared to what she threw at me but somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better. Her last few e-mails were revealing; first there was ‘I see you today with your girlfriend. She old woman! How dare you! You bullsh*t man.’ That was followed by ‘Why you no come my club? I wait all night for you. I say no all customer wait for you. I want forgive you make all things good. Why you no come?’ Since then they’ve progressed into full-on bunny-boiler territory. I really don’t understand why a girl who has a string of millionaire boyfriends and can have any man she wants is obsessed with me of all people (I mean I’m hardly Michael Douglas, am I?), but there’s nothing I can say or do that’s going to help, and no, sorry, these mixed messages and mind games are heavy heavy heavy; been there too – never again. Spending my last night in Bangkok making an ‘old woman’ tingle all over was the right decision.
And yet on the other hand there is a part of me that is sort of glad it happened. Not because it was an amazingly mind-blowing earth-shattering experience (it was – at least until I chirped up with “by the way…”; I mean that’s not the reason) but because I think it got something out of my system. I can’t exactly identify it but I think most blokes would recognise it. Well no, everyone would – after all most Hollywood love stories and all Bollywood plots involve the pursuit of some seemingly unattainable fantasy-figure, so it must be something universal. The truth I experienced is that when you get past the fantasy and the superficial glamour that fuels such a massive global industry, there’s really not a lot there.
I was leading a sort of parallel life in Bangkok. I think it was only my second day there when I met Pui and we saw each other every day, gradually spending more and more time together. Looking back now I can see that the contrast between my experience with Ann and with my ‘old woman’ was somewhat salient. I know you’re not going to believe me when I say this but I was good to Pui. Honestly, she is a very beautiful woman but she never knew it. Oh, she’s propositioned every day but ‘You’re a sexy lady, how much to go short-time?’ is hardly conducive to building a positive self-image. I showed her how beautiful she is, now she knows. Forty years of age and she’d never been cared for; emotionally and physically never been touched. I won’t tell you what I did but it was with tenderness. You know, the sex with Ann was like nothing I’ve ever experienced but the image that remains in my mind is the look on Pui’s face when I’d nibble her ear. They don’t make movies about that. They should.
Another reason I left Bangkok at the right time is that I was all spent up. I had a bit of a blow-out on the last day. First it was the books, then I picked up Pui after work. She was all self-conscious about me giving her a peck on the cheek as she was all out of face powder (or, in her words, ‘no power!’) I knew it to be a universal daft woman thing and that there was no point protesting so I took her to get some slap. We could have just gone across the road to the 7/11 convenience store but instead I decided to take her to a swanky department store. She balked at the prices but I wouldn’t let her opt out and I got her some ‘power’, lipstick and something else I couldn’t tell you even if it was in English. Then I said to her, ‘come on, let’s go upstairs and get you some clothes’. Now don’t get me wrong, this wasn’t some guilt-trip thing, I just wanted to treat her because she’s a very special (but poor) lady.
This was all somewhat ironic. I knew of the unspoken rule that if a farang goes with a bargirl or dancer for more than two nights she’s all his like it or not and you don’t get rid of such a girl. The first inkling the farang gets of this state of affairs is when she drags him to the shops for gold jewellery and a new wardrobe. And there they were, the bemused farang tee ruks being led by their noses by their new totties. The store assistants see it all of course and you could see the contempt on their faces. I’m absolutely convinced that I read on one or two faces, ‘Bloody hell, couldn’t you have something a bit fresher, like all the rest?’ Not that I cared, and it wasn’t like that anyway. I had to work really hard to persuade Pui to take three tops and a pair of shoes (her only pair were three years old and looked it). By the way, I’ve previously mentioned the colour factor in Thailand; I hadn’t even noticed that all the mannequins were white until she repeatedly insisted that the tops wouldn’t look good on her because they are for white skin.
For all the money I lavished on Pui it still came to about the equivalent of one night with a bargirl (or five minutes with Ann). And if we’re going to be really crassly honest here, you could say that I saved myself a fortune during my ten days (and nights) in Bangkok, the P4P (pay for pleasure) capital of the world. I’ve only told you the half of what I got up to but it never cost me a dime. So I was very happy to treat my girl. Our relationship evolved admittedly fairly rapidly but in a most natural and rather charming way. There was never a single moment with even a hint of awkwardness or tension (maybe it’s that whole ‘up to you’ thing; when it’s sincerely meant you literally just can’t argue with it). I don’t mind admitting I love her to bits. It’s a real shame but I have to accept that I’m just not made of husband stuff. Now that I’ve opened her heart and enabled her to be receptive I’d really like it if a good man came along to give her the love and security she deserves. He’d be a truly lucky guy. To this end I’ve given her the equivalent of about six weeks’ wages (still less than the price of two shags) to enable her to quit working in her restaurant in the nasty sector of Bangkok and seek work in a more salubrious part of the city with a better class of clientele. That way there’s just a slim chance she’ll meet a decent chap. Of course it would mean I wouldn’t be able to turn up and nibble her ear (or any other euphemisms) anymore, but as the great tantric god once crooned, “If you love somebody, set them free.”
So my initial reflections as I settle into life in tranquil Nong Khai have been of a personal nature. However I also wish to spend some time making sense of all this from a more detached perspective – after all, I haven’t left the sex industry behind, I’ve come to the source. There are many poor families from the villages round about here who have a daughter working in Bangkok and who rely on her remittances. I’m sure I’ll have students whose fees are being paid by a sister’s sacrifices.
As Pui and I reminisced over our brief time together I asked her why, if she’d never extended or accepted even one or her daily invitations to escort a man out of her workplace before, she asked me. She answered, “I never met anybody interested to go to temple.’ When I took her for a meal afterwards I was interested to learn about the food. I hadn’t considered this before but it occurred to me that in all my conversations with farang tourists and expats not one had expressed the slightest interest in the culture of Thailand (admittedly I might not have asked the right questions). It’s as if they were enchanted by the image of the Oriental concubine but they didn’t want to know the woman, her history and heritage behind the mask. They are all First World consumers partaking of goods of a better quality and value than they get at home (I’m referring to the sex industry here, not women!)
‘First World Consumer’: You know, for every woman in the P4P business in Thailand there are many many more not involved in it working for a pittance, like Pui. I’ve met some wonderfully bright and hard-working ‘good’ girls in Nong Khai and I learn what wages they get and I do understand. Many work in factories producing clothing, in fields producing exotic fruits and vegetables. Check your wardrobe, check your food cupboards – look for the ‘made in’ labels on your kids’ toys and your luxury goods. Here in the ‘Developing World’ are the poor sods working to give you a comfortable life. At least the sex tourists make ‘face to face’ contact with their suppliers, and they compensate their recipients more adequately than you do. I’m not suggesting they are better then you or me but I do believe that as willing participants in the global capitalist economy, those of us who enjoy the benefits are exploiters too.
At the airport: both the international and domestic terminals at Bangkok airport are small enough to be pleasant and stress-free. With my newly-acquired material possessions (a.k.a. books) my bag was more than two times over the baggage allowance and the excess baggage charge would have doubled the nine pound airfare (that over 600 km from one end of the country to the other, cheaper than the twelve hour journey by train or bus). However the check-in girl was such a sweetie. The more I get used to it the more I find this whole ‘mai bpen rai’ mentality rocks. The other thing that hits my soft spot is the wai. This is the gesture whereby you bring your hands together in front of your face and bow with a smile. In Bangkok every shop assistant, waitress or whatever does it (men too) and it really touches me. The one that left the deepest impression however was Pla, the clueless virginal prostitute, whose name means ‘fish’, who slept with me for free (before I gave her money) then wai-ed me in the morning (Why? Gratitude? Respect? I don’t profess to understand). That totally melted me.
The domestic terminal was full of bargirls taking their farand tee ruks home to meet the family (and repair the tin roof, pay the siblings’ school fees, sort out granny’s operation). You could easily spot the bargirls by their highly distinctive uniform of skin-tight jeans and figure-hugging T-shirts. Their boyfriends were still wearing smug grins that said, ‘Look at me, I’m getting hot totty for free!’ Oh no you’re not mate!
There is a serious issue of cultural misunderstanding here. The guys more often than not think they’re getting the whole package of great sex, a trophy to show off and tender attention and affection all for a small remuneration and that’s as far as their responsibilities go. In a nation that is devoid of a welfare state or social system the only security is family; the family always comes first. With the sole exception of Ann who’d cut herself off from her family out of shame for her ‘work’, the girls I met do what they do with their families’ knowledge and their earnings support a sometimes large family network. A number of expats I talked to (and they are especially numerous here in Nong Khai) would combine their slagging off of farang women with bitching about Thai girls. They perceive themselves as having been shafted by gold-digging cows and their money-grabbing extended families. It never occurs to them that their motives were exploitative. I don’t mind the out-and-out loonies but a lot of these guys (the Brits seem to be mostly ex-truckers or dockers, the Yanks ex-military) cling to some pretty arrogant attitudes and some unpleasant racist and sexist notions. Here I struggle to hit the compassion button and I can’t help thinking they got what they had coming. Of course, I know I got myself tangled up in a not entirely dissimilar situation in Calcutta and I still feel so bad about that. Can you see why I’m trying to be extra-careful and not leap in, not promise or even imply anything I might not deliver? I know - you’re waiting for the next great denouement. So am I.
The trouble with travelling in comfort is that there’s nothing to write about. The bus journey to Nong Khai was far more English than Indian. The thing about Thailand, even in the poorer parts, is that it’s so damn clean and civilised. As for my impressions of Nong Khai – they’ll be the subject of my next report. But I’m glad I brought books. Bangkok nights are over and it’s good to listen to the rice grow, but books are good too. All I’ll say as I end this report is that I appear to have wafted into paradise. This place is perfect – and that troubles me.
It’s good to walk down the street without attracting attention. By the end I was beginning to find all those beautiful women literally throwing themselves at me quite oppressive. I think that must be mainly down to Ann. I don’t know what to make of all that really. On the one hand I hate hurting anyone and the one thing I most hate more than anything else in all the world is to break a woman’s heart; I’ve been on the receiving end, I know what it’s like and I’d never wish that on my worst enemy so when I do it to someone I like I can’t tell you how lousy that makes me feel. I don’t even feel particularly at fault – I mean, man was she determined; the Kama Sutra’s 64 arts of seduction are nothing compared to what she threw at me but somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better. Her last few e-mails were revealing; first there was ‘I see you today with your girlfriend. She old woman! How dare you! You bullsh*t man.’ That was followed by ‘Why you no come my club? I wait all night for you. I say no all customer wait for you. I want forgive you make all things good. Why you no come?’ Since then they’ve progressed into full-on bunny-boiler territory. I really don’t understand why a girl who has a string of millionaire boyfriends and can have any man she wants is obsessed with me of all people (I mean I’m hardly Michael Douglas, am I?), but there’s nothing I can say or do that’s going to help, and no, sorry, these mixed messages and mind games are heavy heavy heavy; been there too – never again. Spending my last night in Bangkok making an ‘old woman’ tingle all over was the right decision.
And yet on the other hand there is a part of me that is sort of glad it happened. Not because it was an amazingly mind-blowing earth-shattering experience (it was – at least until I chirped up with “by the way…”; I mean that’s not the reason) but because I think it got something out of my system. I can’t exactly identify it but I think most blokes would recognise it. Well no, everyone would – after all most Hollywood love stories and all Bollywood plots involve the pursuit of some seemingly unattainable fantasy-figure, so it must be something universal. The truth I experienced is that when you get past the fantasy and the superficial glamour that fuels such a massive global industry, there’s really not a lot there.
I was leading a sort of parallel life in Bangkok. I think it was only my second day there when I met Pui and we saw each other every day, gradually spending more and more time together. Looking back now I can see that the contrast between my experience with Ann and with my ‘old woman’ was somewhat salient. I know you’re not going to believe me when I say this but I was good to Pui. Honestly, she is a very beautiful woman but she never knew it. Oh, she’s propositioned every day but ‘You’re a sexy lady, how much to go short-time?’ is hardly conducive to building a positive self-image. I showed her how beautiful she is, now she knows. Forty years of age and she’d never been cared for; emotionally and physically never been touched. I won’t tell you what I did but it was with tenderness. You know, the sex with Ann was like nothing I’ve ever experienced but the image that remains in my mind is the look on Pui’s face when I’d nibble her ear. They don’t make movies about that. They should.
Another reason I left Bangkok at the right time is that I was all spent up. I had a bit of a blow-out on the last day. First it was the books, then I picked up Pui after work. She was all self-conscious about me giving her a peck on the cheek as she was all out of face powder (or, in her words, ‘no power!’) I knew it to be a universal daft woman thing and that there was no point protesting so I took her to get some slap. We could have just gone across the road to the 7/11 convenience store but instead I decided to take her to a swanky department store. She balked at the prices but I wouldn’t let her opt out and I got her some ‘power’, lipstick and something else I couldn’t tell you even if it was in English. Then I said to her, ‘come on, let’s go upstairs and get you some clothes’. Now don’t get me wrong, this wasn’t some guilt-trip thing, I just wanted to treat her because she’s a very special (but poor) lady.
This was all somewhat ironic. I knew of the unspoken rule that if a farang goes with a bargirl or dancer for more than two nights she’s all his like it or not and you don’t get rid of such a girl. The first inkling the farang gets of this state of affairs is when she drags him to the shops for gold jewellery and a new wardrobe. And there they were, the bemused farang tee ruks being led by their noses by their new totties. The store assistants see it all of course and you could see the contempt on their faces. I’m absolutely convinced that I read on one or two faces, ‘Bloody hell, couldn’t you have something a bit fresher, like all the rest?’ Not that I cared, and it wasn’t like that anyway. I had to work really hard to persuade Pui to take three tops and a pair of shoes (her only pair were three years old and looked it). By the way, I’ve previously mentioned the colour factor in Thailand; I hadn’t even noticed that all the mannequins were white until she repeatedly insisted that the tops wouldn’t look good on her because they are for white skin.
For all the money I lavished on Pui it still came to about the equivalent of one night with a bargirl (or five minutes with Ann). And if we’re going to be really crassly honest here, you could say that I saved myself a fortune during my ten days (and nights) in Bangkok, the P4P (pay for pleasure) capital of the world. I’ve only told you the half of what I got up to but it never cost me a dime. So I was very happy to treat my girl. Our relationship evolved admittedly fairly rapidly but in a most natural and rather charming way. There was never a single moment with even a hint of awkwardness or tension (maybe it’s that whole ‘up to you’ thing; when it’s sincerely meant you literally just can’t argue with it). I don’t mind admitting I love her to bits. It’s a real shame but I have to accept that I’m just not made of husband stuff. Now that I’ve opened her heart and enabled her to be receptive I’d really like it if a good man came along to give her the love and security she deserves. He’d be a truly lucky guy. To this end I’ve given her the equivalent of about six weeks’ wages (still less than the price of two shags) to enable her to quit working in her restaurant in the nasty sector of Bangkok and seek work in a more salubrious part of the city with a better class of clientele. That way there’s just a slim chance she’ll meet a decent chap. Of course it would mean I wouldn’t be able to turn up and nibble her ear (or any other euphemisms) anymore, but as the great tantric god once crooned, “If you love somebody, set them free.”
So my initial reflections as I settle into life in tranquil Nong Khai have been of a personal nature. However I also wish to spend some time making sense of all this from a more detached perspective – after all, I haven’t left the sex industry behind, I’ve come to the source. There are many poor families from the villages round about here who have a daughter working in Bangkok and who rely on her remittances. I’m sure I’ll have students whose fees are being paid by a sister’s sacrifices.
As Pui and I reminisced over our brief time together I asked her why, if she’d never extended or accepted even one or her daily invitations to escort a man out of her workplace before, she asked me. She answered, “I never met anybody interested to go to temple.’ When I took her for a meal afterwards I was interested to learn about the food. I hadn’t considered this before but it occurred to me that in all my conversations with farang tourists and expats not one had expressed the slightest interest in the culture of Thailand (admittedly I might not have asked the right questions). It’s as if they were enchanted by the image of the Oriental concubine but they didn’t want to know the woman, her history and heritage behind the mask. They are all First World consumers partaking of goods of a better quality and value than they get at home (I’m referring to the sex industry here, not women!)
‘First World Consumer’: You know, for every woman in the P4P business in Thailand there are many many more not involved in it working for a pittance, like Pui. I’ve met some wonderfully bright and hard-working ‘good’ girls in Nong Khai and I learn what wages they get and I do understand. Many work in factories producing clothing, in fields producing exotic fruits and vegetables. Check your wardrobe, check your food cupboards – look for the ‘made in’ labels on your kids’ toys and your luxury goods. Here in the ‘Developing World’ are the poor sods working to give you a comfortable life. At least the sex tourists make ‘face to face’ contact with their suppliers, and they compensate their recipients more adequately than you do. I’m not suggesting they are better then you or me but I do believe that as willing participants in the global capitalist economy, those of us who enjoy the benefits are exploiters too.
At the airport: both the international and domestic terminals at Bangkok airport are small enough to be pleasant and stress-free. With my newly-acquired material possessions (a.k.a. books) my bag was more than two times over the baggage allowance and the excess baggage charge would have doubled the nine pound airfare (that over 600 km from one end of the country to the other, cheaper than the twelve hour journey by train or bus). However the check-in girl was such a sweetie. The more I get used to it the more I find this whole ‘mai bpen rai’ mentality rocks. The other thing that hits my soft spot is the wai. This is the gesture whereby you bring your hands together in front of your face and bow with a smile. In Bangkok every shop assistant, waitress or whatever does it (men too) and it really touches me. The one that left the deepest impression however was Pla, the clueless virginal prostitute, whose name means ‘fish’, who slept with me for free (before I gave her money) then wai-ed me in the morning (Why? Gratitude? Respect? I don’t profess to understand). That totally melted me.
The domestic terminal was full of bargirls taking their farand tee ruks home to meet the family (and repair the tin roof, pay the siblings’ school fees, sort out granny’s operation). You could easily spot the bargirls by their highly distinctive uniform of skin-tight jeans and figure-hugging T-shirts. Their boyfriends were still wearing smug grins that said, ‘Look at me, I’m getting hot totty for free!’ Oh no you’re not mate!
There is a serious issue of cultural misunderstanding here. The guys more often than not think they’re getting the whole package of great sex, a trophy to show off and tender attention and affection all for a small remuneration and that’s as far as their responsibilities go. In a nation that is devoid of a welfare state or social system the only security is family; the family always comes first. With the sole exception of Ann who’d cut herself off from her family out of shame for her ‘work’, the girls I met do what they do with their families’ knowledge and their earnings support a sometimes large family network. A number of expats I talked to (and they are especially numerous here in Nong Khai) would combine their slagging off of farang women with bitching about Thai girls. They perceive themselves as having been shafted by gold-digging cows and their money-grabbing extended families. It never occurs to them that their motives were exploitative. I don’t mind the out-and-out loonies but a lot of these guys (the Brits seem to be mostly ex-truckers or dockers, the Yanks ex-military) cling to some pretty arrogant attitudes and some unpleasant racist and sexist notions. Here I struggle to hit the compassion button and I can’t help thinking they got what they had coming. Of course, I know I got myself tangled up in a not entirely dissimilar situation in Calcutta and I still feel so bad about that. Can you see why I’m trying to be extra-careful and not leap in, not promise or even imply anything I might not deliver? I know - you’re waiting for the next great denouement. So am I.
The trouble with travelling in comfort is that there’s nothing to write about. The bus journey to Nong Khai was far more English than Indian. The thing about Thailand, even in the poorer parts, is that it’s so damn clean and civilised. As for my impressions of Nong Khai – they’ll be the subject of my next report. But I’m glad I brought books. Bangkok nights are over and it’s good to listen to the rice grow, but books are good too. All I’ll say as I end this report is that I appear to have wafted into paradise. This place is perfect – and that troubles me.
I came, I argued, I'm out
Andy actually has a proven track record that goes back 10 years on K440. He is known personally.
That's the difference.
And the titles of his pieces aren't attention whorish.
But I think I know what you mean...
That's the difference.
And the titles of his pieces aren't attention whorish.
But I think I know what you mean...
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SunSan wrote:Andy actually has a proven track record that goes back 10 years on K440. He is known personally.
So if he's known personally he can post the exact same "aww shucks" crap as Adventurous Kate and you guys will start furiously jerking him off over it?
I don't even understand how your minds can be that inconsistent.
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Touched a raw nerve there, didn't I?andyinasia wrote: I veer nauseatingly into khmeria/skywalker territory. I'm not editing anything; I can only apologise in advance.
I didn't mean any offence; I just can't be arsed being diplomatic.
In fact a few weeks later I got into serious trouble and had to face a disciplinary committee over the Nong Khai entries. I made an injudicious comments about my roommate's girlfriend so he leaked the blog to the management. There was nothing pervy, but I'd made quite a few frank comments about staff and students using their real names. The blog was on a restricted, invitation-only site, so the college could only know of it's existence through him dobbing me in it.
Anyway, I'm not trying to promote myself or my extinct blog; I'm merely responding to requests to post the entries.
I came, I argued, I'm out
Khmeria wrote;
"So many BS responses for this thread"
I think it's all to do with empathy really. The way a person digests and recounts their experiences is the difference here, not necessarily the content. I can easily relate to AIA's musings as opposed to others who have blogged here, not because I may or may not have had similar experiences, but because of the empathy the writer displays towards his experiences. Human element and all that. In saying that, Andy's literary career may have peaked with "installment 5". Looking forward to more; Kathmandu anyone?
"So many BS responses for this thread"
I think it's all to do with empathy really. The way a person digests and recounts their experiences is the difference here, not necessarily the content. I can easily relate to AIA's musings as opposed to others who have blogged here, not because I may or may not have had similar experiences, but because of the empathy the writer displays towards his experiences. Human element and all that. In saying that, Andy's literary career may have peaked with "installment 5". Looking forward to more; Kathmandu anyone?
"Not my circus, not my monkeys" - KiR
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I've just read the next 3 or 4 and they bored me shitless. I'm an English teacher in a quiet town. I still get into women trouble all over the shop but it's far from gripping.kinard wrote:Andy's literary career may have peaked with "installment 5". Looking forward to more; Kathmandu anyone?
Conversely, the India (and even more so Nepal) journals still astonish me. That's entirely sex-free although my observations and views horrified the middle-aged white women back home. It's about a western newbie trying to deeply understand and empathise with the lives of good-hearted but desperately poor Asians.
Up to the readers whether they want to post one, both or neither. Just let me know (and feel free not to click on the thread if you don't like it!)
kinaird - here's more from the first blog, then:
I came, I argued, I'm out
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Deleted - I decided it was too boring.
Last edited by andyinasia on Sat Jul 09, 2011 12:21 pm, edited 1 time in total.
I came, I argued, I'm out
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This Indian one was also too boring
Last edited by andyinasia on Sat Jul 09, 2011 12:22 pm, edited 1 time in total.
I came, I argued, I'm out
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kinard wrote:Khmeria wrote;
"So many BS responses for this thread"
I think it's all to do with empathy really. The way a person digests and recounts their experiences is the difference here, not necessarily the content. I can easily relate to AIA's musings as opposed to others who have blogged here, not because I may or may not have had similar experiences, but because of the empathy the writer displays towards his experiences. Human element and all that. In saying that, Andy's literary career may have peaked with "installment 5". Looking forward to more; Kathmandu anyone?
I'm saying you guys would be all on the attack if it wasn't a member of the old guard in crowd.
"Empathy" is more BS you just pulled out of your arse.
Neil Hamburger got physical threats and Andy gets "I...am...so...moved" or "sporting and kooky adventures, old chap!"
Khmeria wrote;
"...you guys would be on the attack if it was'nt a member of the old guard etc..."
I've only been a member a very short time, and owe no allegience [sic] to anyone here and expect none from anyone here. I can not help what I find funny, interesting or whatever, but I am free to have my opinions, albeit sometimes misguided. It would be more fun if you commented on AIA's blogs than have a go at others who are enjoying them.
Also.I've never slated your blogs or NS for that matter.
"...you guys would be on the attack if it was'nt a member of the old guard etc..."
I've only been a member a very short time, and owe no allegience [sic] to anyone here and expect none from anyone here. I can not help what I find funny, interesting or whatever, but I am free to have my opinions, albeit sometimes misguided. It would be more fun if you commented on AIA's blogs than have a go at others who are enjoying them.
Also.I've never slated your blogs or NS for that matter.
"Not my circus, not my monkeys" - KiR
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This might amuse one or two - no ladies but a druggie yarn. It's my encounter with Hindu holy men and their herb. I'm in Rishikesh, the hippy mecca ever since The Beatles tuned in here:
10. Ganga Man: Or, How I Became a Caricature of Myself
13 Dec 2002
A short walk along the beach brings to a small compound. By the entrance is a roughly made shrine housing a basic cement murti of Shiva and outside the shrine is a lingam arrangement. In front is a large bel (or betel) tree which inspired the choice of location of the settlement. Under the tree is a havan or fireplace encased in a square of concrete which is currently filled with ash and has a number of Saivite tridents which have fat malas wrapped around the prongs. Behind the campfire is a large tent made of sheets of plastic held up by large planks of driftwood, all tied to the bel tree. A large television aerial protrudes from the front of the tent which is connected to a small portable black and white television set. This, along with an old tape deck and small green fairy light all held together by a very Indian wiring arrangement, is powered by an old car battery.
Dominating the scene however is a figure sitting at the head of the havan – Babaji. Strikingly good looking with deep brown eyes, cool wild graying beard and Rasta locks down below his waist he looks probably half his age. He built this place and has barely left it in twenty years. With him initially are about a dozen disciples and friends, ranging from a sadhu in his sixties to one in his late teens and some lay followers among them. The younger ones had wispy little beard and were trying to cultivate their hair into dreads but were years off: this is not a path for western ephemeral lifestylers. As the day wore on a number of people came and went including a couple who were lured off the beach as they passed by – Cathy from Australia (who is in the room next to me in the hotel) and Woody from New Zealand. They’re doing fine until Cathy commits the faux pas of comparing Babaji to Bob Marley. A frosty moment ensues followed by an explanation by an acolyte: "We no like Bob Marley. Him dirty man." They scurried off soon after.
As I was invited by Babaji to sit on the thin blanket covering the rocky patch of beach I noticed the intense concentration required to prepare a holy chillum. Being offered to partake in the sacred pow-wow I realised it would be churlish to refuse such a request by a highly realised guru, although I had to apologise for my lack of familiarity as I spilled the contents of the first one on the rug thus burning a hole in it. But [excuse me – a lovely green lizard is crawling up the wall as I type this] as the chillums circled constantly throughout the day by the fortieth or fiftieth I was getting the hang of holding it and once or twice even worked out how to inhale.
Under the shade of the sacred bel tree with the sun high in the sky I received teachings. God is everywhere but the Ganga Ma, special times, places, objects, sounds and smokes are reminders of god’s attributes and help us to focus on consciousness of the One. All paths lead to the goal; you may arrive there on one motorbike or another motorbike but if you try to ride two … You can get to a stage when you can release your jiva from your body permanently to be One with the universe – see everything, know everything but not be able to engage or relate to the material world, but usually when a being gets that close to moksha they hear Shiva’s voice telling them to keep taking a body to bring wisdom and welfare to others.
There are non-spiritual distractions for the not-so-ascetic sadhus and friends too. It could be watching the ladies bathing and washing close by, or the kids (of both species) milling about on the beach. Two lads fetched down badminton racquets and a shuttlecock and had a knock-about on the sand while others disappeared into the inner sanctum to catch a soap or listen to canned bhajans. When the holy dealer arrived there began animated man-talk about the relative merits of various models of scooter, and when someone produced a bullet conversation turned to rifle velocities. However there was always the most intense one-pointed concentration of the face of the one who was preparing the next chillum. I didn’t ask why loose baccy is never used; perhaps Capstan ciggies make the holiest spliffs.
I accepted lunch and had a simple meal of rice, dhal, a little vegetable and chapattis. I caused slight offence when I produced my bottled water so I accepted cups of pure, natural Ganga water – very spiritually cleansing. Hygiene? My digestive system will let me know tomorrow. After lunch two lads climbed the tree and shook down hundreds of bel berries. Everyone consumed dozens; I was trying to be cautious as I wasn’t sure if they were hallucinogenic – well the leaf is chewed as a narcotic isn’t it? I ate dozens. Apparently they’re good for the breath, digestion, everything really. I need to run this by an Ayurvedic nutritionist but I’m developing the theory that Indian foodstuffs are like their gods – each one is a complete elixir of life in itself. There is no obsessing over x grams of carbohydrates, y grams of fats etc.
At one point they all looked at me with grins as I was chastised for my dirty Western habit of using my handkerchief. ‘You make dirty and then put in your pocket. Indian man is cleaner – he throws it up.’ Hmm, two motorbikes indeed. I wonder if this new understanding will exorcise my trauma? Interestingly, whenever one of the guys felt the need to clear his sinuses and ‘throw it up’ he’d wander away from the sacred space of the enclosure to do it.
Babaji spoke very good English: of the sadhus some spoke none and some a little. As the afternoon wore on some of the younger ones were getting more and more talkative, and the more they spoke English the redder their eyes became, and the redder their eyes the more the quality of their English would deteriorate, and as the quality of their English got worse so I found it harder to concentrate on what they were saying. But at least for the first time in India I was able to have extensive conversations, with Indians, not about money.
At six pm I went with a young sadhu to market to get the ingredients for dinner. On the way he was telling me Babaji married an Italian woman last year who wandered into the compound and now he has a kid in Italy (that explained why he was wearing a brown lungi, not saffron). He said he could find me a nice Rishikesh wife - good heart, good looks, any age but poor and with no English, and Babaji could conduct the ceremony on the beach. We passed and paused by a large open beach mandir where a dusk aarti puja is taking place. A light shines on a murti of Shiva rising out of the Ganga about fifteen feet from the shore, and rows of tidy devotees sit in neat squares and chant lively bhajans as Westerners with powerful spotlights atop camcorders step over them. It looked like Songs of Praise.
When we returned the fire had been lit with driftwood and as I’d bought dinner I agreed to stay for it. It took over three hours to prepare as there were some six different pots to heat and over sixty chapattis to cook, and only the one ‘hob’ as it were. The final product was a bit cold but tasty and filling. As I sat by the havan wrapped in my blanket trying to keep warm while listening to the sounds of the Ganges and distant bhajans I observed the sadhus about me. Babaji sat majestic and serene; one sadhu was cooking, one sleeping (‘When tired, sleep!’ I was told), two were talking quietly, as one stared into the fire. One had his back turned as he contemplated the impermanence within permanence of the swiftly flowing Ganga. One was preparing the next chillum as two were gathered around the fairy light listening to boppy bhajans on the car battery-driven tape deck. I thought to myself, ‘This scene hasn’t changed in thousands of years.’
As I sat under the moonlight listening to the gentle roar of the river hitting a set of rapids by a curve close to our left I considered what to do. Or to be. I was being invited to stay, or to return tomorrow. I reflected – here is the perfect place, perfect climate; here is good friendship, good teachings, good food and good ganga. There are many people, from Epicurus to friends of mine reading this who would say, ‘It is perfect! What more is there?’ But there is something more. And I fear that if I return tomorrow I will enjoy it less, and the next day less still until soon I would be very bored. It is not my path. And whilst I have paid my dues and am now a fully paid up card-carrying member of the Stereotypical Sad Stoned Hippy Society I fear I will not be attending many more meetings.
I returned to my hotel and lay on my bed contemplating my jiva whizzing around the ceiling. I reflected on my time in Rishikesh. Everyone’s a teacher here. You can learn to play every classical Indian instrument, classical dance, every form of yoga you’ve heard of and then the other 90%. You can learn meditation, reiki, Ayurvedic medicine and massage. The most common notice I see is ‘Learn English – Enhance your Personality’. Presumably Westerners settling here offer lessons to make ends meet. It is tempting to join them – maybe if Nepal doesn’t work out. But there’s a sense in which it is too perfect, too easy here. California Dreamin’ On a Winter’s Day. As much as I’ve had to rethink what on Earth I think I’m doing in the Indian sub-continent, and as much as I currently have no answers to my questions, I’m pretty sure spiritual self-indulgence isn’t part of it. I don’t want to imply that all of Rishikesh is about that; this town has restored my faith in genuine Hindu spirituality after the unpleasantness of Haridwar, but it just isn’t where I’m going.
So, I have now resolved to quit adventuring and get serious. Unfortunately my agent’s on the phone telling me to get stuck back in as there’s a book deal and TV series in the offing: "If Bill Bryson went to India…". Nah not really. I have to make up stuff as my life is so tedious. But seriously, I do wonder how keeping this journal may have affected rather than just reflected events. I spend an average of two hours per day in a cybercafé writing up and sending news, and at least the same time again jotting the notes as they happen, so that’s a big chunk of a day. But have I behaved any differently or done anything different just because I’m recording my life? I really think not, but writing does cause me to reflect on my experiences. As I looked at the reflection of the moon upon the Ganges tonight it occurred to me that as the light-hearted nature of my musings indicate, reflections are only on the surface and I’m not convinced there is much going on below.
So, my two weeks in India have been fascinating. I’ve had the best time. I’ve taken in and shared with you an intriguing snapshot of a vast country, but a snapshot is all it is. I’m not sure I’ve really learned anything about the place or her people. How could I? I cannot communicate and my only relationships with people (one or two surreal experiences aside) have been when they want to part me from my money. To begin to learn at all what I now need to do is learn the necessary languages and stay in one place. This is another reason why it is necessary for me to head now for Kathmandu.
10. Ganga Man: Or, How I Became a Caricature of Myself
13 Dec 2002
A short walk along the beach brings to a small compound. By the entrance is a roughly made shrine housing a basic cement murti of Shiva and outside the shrine is a lingam arrangement. In front is a large bel (or betel) tree which inspired the choice of location of the settlement. Under the tree is a havan or fireplace encased in a square of concrete which is currently filled with ash and has a number of Saivite tridents which have fat malas wrapped around the prongs. Behind the campfire is a large tent made of sheets of plastic held up by large planks of driftwood, all tied to the bel tree. A large television aerial protrudes from the front of the tent which is connected to a small portable black and white television set. This, along with an old tape deck and small green fairy light all held together by a very Indian wiring arrangement, is powered by an old car battery.
Dominating the scene however is a figure sitting at the head of the havan – Babaji. Strikingly good looking with deep brown eyes, cool wild graying beard and Rasta locks down below his waist he looks probably half his age. He built this place and has barely left it in twenty years. With him initially are about a dozen disciples and friends, ranging from a sadhu in his sixties to one in his late teens and some lay followers among them. The younger ones had wispy little beard and were trying to cultivate their hair into dreads but were years off: this is not a path for western ephemeral lifestylers. As the day wore on a number of people came and went including a couple who were lured off the beach as they passed by – Cathy from Australia (who is in the room next to me in the hotel) and Woody from New Zealand. They’re doing fine until Cathy commits the faux pas of comparing Babaji to Bob Marley. A frosty moment ensues followed by an explanation by an acolyte: "We no like Bob Marley. Him dirty man." They scurried off soon after.
As I was invited by Babaji to sit on the thin blanket covering the rocky patch of beach I noticed the intense concentration required to prepare a holy chillum. Being offered to partake in the sacred pow-wow I realised it would be churlish to refuse such a request by a highly realised guru, although I had to apologise for my lack of familiarity as I spilled the contents of the first one on the rug thus burning a hole in it. But [excuse me – a lovely green lizard is crawling up the wall as I type this] as the chillums circled constantly throughout the day by the fortieth or fiftieth I was getting the hang of holding it and once or twice even worked out how to inhale.
Under the shade of the sacred bel tree with the sun high in the sky I received teachings. God is everywhere but the Ganga Ma, special times, places, objects, sounds and smokes are reminders of god’s attributes and help us to focus on consciousness of the One. All paths lead to the goal; you may arrive there on one motorbike or another motorbike but if you try to ride two … You can get to a stage when you can release your jiva from your body permanently to be One with the universe – see everything, know everything but not be able to engage or relate to the material world, but usually when a being gets that close to moksha they hear Shiva’s voice telling them to keep taking a body to bring wisdom and welfare to others.
There are non-spiritual distractions for the not-so-ascetic sadhus and friends too. It could be watching the ladies bathing and washing close by, or the kids (of both species) milling about on the beach. Two lads fetched down badminton racquets and a shuttlecock and had a knock-about on the sand while others disappeared into the inner sanctum to catch a soap or listen to canned bhajans. When the holy dealer arrived there began animated man-talk about the relative merits of various models of scooter, and when someone produced a bullet conversation turned to rifle velocities. However there was always the most intense one-pointed concentration of the face of the one who was preparing the next chillum. I didn’t ask why loose baccy is never used; perhaps Capstan ciggies make the holiest spliffs.
I accepted lunch and had a simple meal of rice, dhal, a little vegetable and chapattis. I caused slight offence when I produced my bottled water so I accepted cups of pure, natural Ganga water – very spiritually cleansing. Hygiene? My digestive system will let me know tomorrow. After lunch two lads climbed the tree and shook down hundreds of bel berries. Everyone consumed dozens; I was trying to be cautious as I wasn’t sure if they were hallucinogenic – well the leaf is chewed as a narcotic isn’t it? I ate dozens. Apparently they’re good for the breath, digestion, everything really. I need to run this by an Ayurvedic nutritionist but I’m developing the theory that Indian foodstuffs are like their gods – each one is a complete elixir of life in itself. There is no obsessing over x grams of carbohydrates, y grams of fats etc.
At one point they all looked at me with grins as I was chastised for my dirty Western habit of using my handkerchief. ‘You make dirty and then put in your pocket. Indian man is cleaner – he throws it up.’ Hmm, two motorbikes indeed. I wonder if this new understanding will exorcise my trauma? Interestingly, whenever one of the guys felt the need to clear his sinuses and ‘throw it up’ he’d wander away from the sacred space of the enclosure to do it.
Babaji spoke very good English: of the sadhus some spoke none and some a little. As the afternoon wore on some of the younger ones were getting more and more talkative, and the more they spoke English the redder their eyes became, and the redder their eyes the more the quality of their English would deteriorate, and as the quality of their English got worse so I found it harder to concentrate on what they were saying. But at least for the first time in India I was able to have extensive conversations, with Indians, not about money.
At six pm I went with a young sadhu to market to get the ingredients for dinner. On the way he was telling me Babaji married an Italian woman last year who wandered into the compound and now he has a kid in Italy (that explained why he was wearing a brown lungi, not saffron). He said he could find me a nice Rishikesh wife - good heart, good looks, any age but poor and with no English, and Babaji could conduct the ceremony on the beach. We passed and paused by a large open beach mandir where a dusk aarti puja is taking place. A light shines on a murti of Shiva rising out of the Ganga about fifteen feet from the shore, and rows of tidy devotees sit in neat squares and chant lively bhajans as Westerners with powerful spotlights atop camcorders step over them. It looked like Songs of Praise.
When we returned the fire had been lit with driftwood and as I’d bought dinner I agreed to stay for it. It took over three hours to prepare as there were some six different pots to heat and over sixty chapattis to cook, and only the one ‘hob’ as it were. The final product was a bit cold but tasty and filling. As I sat by the havan wrapped in my blanket trying to keep warm while listening to the sounds of the Ganges and distant bhajans I observed the sadhus about me. Babaji sat majestic and serene; one sadhu was cooking, one sleeping (‘When tired, sleep!’ I was told), two were talking quietly, as one stared into the fire. One had his back turned as he contemplated the impermanence within permanence of the swiftly flowing Ganga. One was preparing the next chillum as two were gathered around the fairy light listening to boppy bhajans on the car battery-driven tape deck. I thought to myself, ‘This scene hasn’t changed in thousands of years.’
As I sat under the moonlight listening to the gentle roar of the river hitting a set of rapids by a curve close to our left I considered what to do. Or to be. I was being invited to stay, or to return tomorrow. I reflected – here is the perfect place, perfect climate; here is good friendship, good teachings, good food and good ganga. There are many people, from Epicurus to friends of mine reading this who would say, ‘It is perfect! What more is there?’ But there is something more. And I fear that if I return tomorrow I will enjoy it less, and the next day less still until soon I would be very bored. It is not my path. And whilst I have paid my dues and am now a fully paid up card-carrying member of the Stereotypical Sad Stoned Hippy Society I fear I will not be attending many more meetings.
I returned to my hotel and lay on my bed contemplating my jiva whizzing around the ceiling. I reflected on my time in Rishikesh. Everyone’s a teacher here. You can learn to play every classical Indian instrument, classical dance, every form of yoga you’ve heard of and then the other 90%. You can learn meditation, reiki, Ayurvedic medicine and massage. The most common notice I see is ‘Learn English – Enhance your Personality’. Presumably Westerners settling here offer lessons to make ends meet. It is tempting to join them – maybe if Nepal doesn’t work out. But there’s a sense in which it is too perfect, too easy here. California Dreamin’ On a Winter’s Day. As much as I’ve had to rethink what on Earth I think I’m doing in the Indian sub-continent, and as much as I currently have no answers to my questions, I’m pretty sure spiritual self-indulgence isn’t part of it. I don’t want to imply that all of Rishikesh is about that; this town has restored my faith in genuine Hindu spirituality after the unpleasantness of Haridwar, but it just isn’t where I’m going.
So, I have now resolved to quit adventuring and get serious. Unfortunately my agent’s on the phone telling me to get stuck back in as there’s a book deal and TV series in the offing: "If Bill Bryson went to India…". Nah not really. I have to make up stuff as my life is so tedious. But seriously, I do wonder how keeping this journal may have affected rather than just reflected events. I spend an average of two hours per day in a cybercafé writing up and sending news, and at least the same time again jotting the notes as they happen, so that’s a big chunk of a day. But have I behaved any differently or done anything different just because I’m recording my life? I really think not, but writing does cause me to reflect on my experiences. As I looked at the reflection of the moon upon the Ganges tonight it occurred to me that as the light-hearted nature of my musings indicate, reflections are only on the surface and I’m not convinced there is much going on below.
So, my two weeks in India have been fascinating. I’ve had the best time. I’ve taken in and shared with you an intriguing snapshot of a vast country, but a snapshot is all it is. I’m not sure I’ve really learned anything about the place or her people. How could I? I cannot communicate and my only relationships with people (one or two surreal experiences aside) have been when they want to part me from my money. To begin to learn at all what I now need to do is learn the necessary languages and stay in one place. This is another reason why it is necessary for me to head now for Kathmandu.
I came, I argued, I'm out