Ginseng grip (part 3, final)

However, the people presenting the show did not lack for confidence. They had all the answers - apparently that's required of any good salesman.

'If you are put in the position where the customer is asking you questions, then you haven't done your job,' one said.

The seminar ended with a rousing singalong, in which everyone took the floor, but this farang managed to avoid by escaping to the toilet.

After the seminar, we were escorted to small office. Here a senior figure extolled the virtues of ginseng juice, while I gazed at large facsimile cheques adorning the walls. They were made out to the company's founder, for large amounts. Pictures of large, fenced suburban homes, boats and other expensive items appeared on the bottom of each cheque.

The subtle message, of course, was that all those riches could one day be ours if we worked hard enough to sell ginseng juice. Looking at those pictures, with the profligate wealth on display, I could have sworn I was witnessing a direct-sales presentation in the avaricious West. But here I was, in a rundown department store in Lad Phrao, surrounded by strangers happy to give up their precious Sunday afternoon listening to a woman giving a tired speech she had made many times before.

The woman pulled out 'before and after' pictures of the founder and his family. Before, his wife looked like a mere villager, sitting on the bare wooden floor of her home. Now, she wears her hair up in an enormous coiffured bun, like a Khunying. Husband and wife were pictured wearing formal dress, out on the town.

I did not wait for the end, as I had heard enough, and wanted to get home. Even as I made for the exit, I couldn't escape the clutches of the eager ginseng people - one stopped me to show me a sales brochure as I was waiting for the lift to arrive.

'I am sure it's terrific, and I hope it sells well. But right now I have to go,' I said.

I don't know how many of Pon's friends I managed to annoy. But I doubt my blunt tone made much impact, because they must get used to such brush-offs.

During the seminar, delegates were asked to identify problems they encountered with resistant customers. They split into groups to discuss them, before taking to the stage to offer a solution. One of the most common customer reactions is: 'I'll think about it.'

This doesn't sound so insurmountable, but of course it means the customer really isn't interested: he's just too polite to say so.

When little Pon took the stage with an adult male member of her group, she had trouble reading his hand-scribbled notes. Moments before, a woman with a microphone introduced her by the nickname of 'Wian', short for Laos's capital Vientiane. 'She's from Laos, so we call her that,' she said.

As Pon struggled to decipher her friend's writing, I heard a Thai woman behind me make a disparaging remark.

'Oh, she can't read Thai,' she said.

I turned around to faced a pucker-mouthed woman in her 40s.

'Actually, she can read Thai - and speak, too,' I said primly.

Pon might be from Laos, but she's learnt to speak Thai fluently, and reads the language voraciously.

She picked up her taste in perky self-help literature at her ginseng meetings. It is also at these forums that Porn practises speaking in front of adults.

The day I was there, she talked convincingly and well, drawing several rounds of applause.

'Was I alright?' she asked me on her return. Thankfully, she did not stop for the tiresome handshake.

'You were fine,' I said firmly.

I do not want to buy, sell or even try ginseng juice, but I have yet to tell Pon.

I talked to her grandmother, who was dismayed to learn that Pon, a single woman, had entered my condo unaccompanied, and called me several times on the phone.

'Young girls should not go seeing men in their condo, or people will start whispering about their reputation,' she said, pulling a face. 'They shouldn't call men on the phone either.

'What did you think of the ginseng people?' she asked.

'Pushy,' I said. 'It is a shame Pon has to get mixed up with that crowd.'

Ideally, Porn would mix with young people her own age, rather than the manipulative, silver-tongued types at the ginseng juice place. She is growing old before her time, and missing out on her youth.

As a seamstress, she has few chances to meet youngsters, and as an immigrant, she does not know many people here from her school or childhood years.

'She is like the young ones who move to Bangkok from the provinces. Their parents are absent, so they do whatever they like,' grandma said sadly.

When we first met, Pon and grandma alike were keen to assess my prospects as a mate. But as time has gone on, we can all see that such a pairing would be unrealistic.

Porn has not seen her parents in six years. The day I met her, she told me her mother was ill with diabetes, and needed B50,000 for treatment. I can't vouch for the accuracy of that story, as grandma looked uncomfortable when I asked, and would not add to the detail.

'Whether she is sick or not, Porn is still the eldest of four children and feels responsible for her parents. She sends money back to them, but does not earn much,' she said.

Grandma suggested that if I felt lonely, I could seek solace in religion. She told me about activities at her local temple, and the prayers broadcast on her favourite radio station. Everyone's selling something these days.

Still, I like grandma. She has emerged as a hero of the tawdry ginseng saga, as has Pon, despite her steely determination that one day she will overcome my resistance and persuade me to spread the ginseng message overseas.

'I'll take you back next weekend,' said Pon, as we left each other on Sunday night.

'Like your would-be ginseng customers say - I'll think about it,' I said.