The boys are musicians for a troupe of Thai khon-mask dancers. They rise early to rehearse, and if they they have been hired to perform at night, often do not get to bed until late.
One night at Mum's shop, a couple of disabled performers approached us. One played an organ, the other a tape-recording of look tung (country) music, to which he sang along.
Sam, one of the musicians our group, said that when he gives money to fellow artists, he always feels better.
If the beggars are physically disabled, they cannot make use of their talents in the same way that able-bodied people can, he said.
Later, a boy, aged about eight, saw our group. He made a beeline for our table to ask for money.
He was selling pens, but this time the boys were not interested, because his speech sounded rehearsed.
'His parents, or maybe the mafia have told him what to say. Sometimes you can feel sorry for them, but you know that if you give them money it goes straight back to the mafia,' said another boy earnestly.
'I don't give money to everyone, but I do have a soft spot for musicians, because they are in the same line of work as I am,' he said, and his friends nodded his head vigorously in agreement.
'I just can't help myself: if a see a beggar musician asking for money, I have to give.'
Our conversation was in danger of getting sentimental. Yet the mood didn't last.
In the next 10 minutes two more beggar musicians approached our table. I saw one boy reach into his pocket for loose change, then the other.
I began to feel sorry for the boys: they are not made of money, but this could end up being an expensive night, especially if they felt obliged to give away money in my presence.
I excused myself and sat somewhere else.
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