Generous to a fault, ragged towels, cradle-snatcher

Maiyuu is the proud owner of a Moulinex food processor...actually, a mini-chopper, rather than a fully-fledged processor with many different blades.

He bought it himself, but I am paying for it. I suggested he buy the next model up, as his looks too small, but the next model up is twice the price...about B4,000. ‘I am too mean to want to part with B4,000,’ he said.

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‘Why do you like spending so much money on other people?’ asked carer R.

Ya dong is a social drink. Customers take it in turns to buy a bottle. If I sit down, someone will present me with a shot glass, filled from his bottle. When he has finished, I will buy one.

That sounds egalitarian, but in fact it isn’t. Thais tend to buy half-bottles, while I buy full ones, as I have hangers-on.

When young Ball joins the table, he drinks from my bottle. Carer R drinks from my bottle, too. So I end up paying more than most.

Last night I contributed B400 to carer Ball’s total takings of B700.

As he was counting the notes in his hand, carer R suggested I might like to be less generous. Thais whom I barely know are taking advantage of my generosity.

I agree. From now on, I shall call in advance. If Ball is not there, or carer R has company, I won’t bother turning up.

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‘Don’t worry – I won’t starve,’ said Ball.

He lost B400 from his pay packet while visiting carer R’s stand the other night.

Like me, Ball has responsibilities. He gives a share of his pay to his Mum. He also gives a share to his girlfriend, who is helping pay for her brother's board at a university hostel in Bangkok.

After dividing up his pay, Ball had just B400 left for himself – and now he’s lost it.

His Mum is angry. ‘Mum can’t understand how I lost it. She said I needn’t bother asking her for food money this week.’

‘How will you survive?’ I asked.

‘I will come home at meal-times, and fry an egg. I will have egg on rice, which fills me up,’ he said.

I contemplated helping my young friend, who I noticed had turned up with nasty red gashes on his arms and legs.

The night before, he argued with his girlfriend. To make a point, he picked up a cutter and started slashing away at his limbs.

‘Are you satisfied yet?’ he asked her.

If I met Ball half-way – say, by giving him, or his mother B200 – then he won’t have to suffer as much over the next few days. He might be able to buy himself some decent food to eat, rather than relying on fried eggs.

‘I don’t want your money, and have never asked,’ said Ball.

‘I know you haven’t asked, but sometimes I might just want to give,’ I said.

However, I am not sure if it’s a good thing. If I pay him money, I am underwriting poor decisions made by others in the household.

Why is he paying for the board of his girlfriend’s brother? And what about idle Lort, his mother's partner? He's a taxi-driver who rarely goes out to work, but sends poor Ball out to earn a wage instead.

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I had bought Ball a pair of jeans and a belt, which made little impact. ‘The jeans bulge in the groin area. They are too big,’ he told me.

‘I bought the size which your Mum recommended. Try washing them first,’ I said.

But if the jeans failed to make a difference, a ragged towel I presented him the other night has proved a much bigger hit.

I had turned up at carer R’s ya dong stand after work. Ball, who was there, watched as a pulled a towel from my work bag and mopped the sweat off my face.

The towel is barely large enough to wrap around my waist, but I keep it in my bag in case I need to take a shower at work, or to keep myself dry when I venture into Bangkok’s fetid heat.

‘Can I have that towel?’ Ball asked apologetically.

Images of Winnie the Pooh decorate it. I handed it over.

At home later that night, Ball’s elder brother and girlfriend wanted to know where he found the towel. As soon as they saw him wearing it on his waist, they asked about it.

‘They are envious,’ Ball told me.

I didn’t understand this comment. Carer R explained it to me later, out of Ball’s earshot.

‘He comes from a large family. There are not enough towels to go around. They have to share, but now Ball has a towel of his own.’

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Ball is working on trial at a coffee shop owned by a supermarket chain, but reckons he may soon be out of a job.

His boss has told Ball that he probably won’t pass the test.

‘I cough all the time. They worry that I will pass on my bug to customers,’ he said.

Ball is unwell, with a nagging cough which sounds allergy-related. A doctor told him he has an infection in his throat, but it sounds to me like it has spread to his chest as well.

He is seized by coughing fits, which are strong enough to wake him from his sleep.

‘I might have to go back to working as a security guard,’ he said.

Ball’s first job, after he left school, was working as a security guard at my condo.

Many youngsters from the slums where Ball lives apply for work as guards at the condo, as it is so close to their home.

Often, they are there just a matter of weeks before they leave again.

Ball is already unwell. I don't want him to end up at my condo as a guard; it would look too sad.

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Ball asked me to massage his arms and legs, which looked angry and red where he had slashed himself.

Miraculously, I was carrying a pottle of lemongrass-scented balm for easing muscle pains.

I rubbed balm on his arms and legs, and went to work. Within half an hour, he had fallen asleep in his chair.

Carer R tried to lift his body to get him home, but he fell into my lap instead.

I scooped up his legs, and cradled Ball in my arms, where he stayed for the next hour. Carer R chatted away aimlessly, and when he tired of that, played with a street dog which sleeps under his table.

Ball was snoring soundly, but I could barely move, and my legs were starting to ache.

Finally, I decided it was time for bed, as I could stand his weight no more.

Carer R helped me as we tried to get Ball to his feet.

I carried his leaden weight down the alley towards home, but had to stop every 10m to rest.

Mercifully, Ball woke. Carer R offered him a piggy-back ride home, but he managed to get there on foot himself.

His girlfriend Jay met him at the door, and took him to bed.

Earlier, as we sat at the ya dong stand, Ball told me that I was being too kind. He was starting to feel embarrassed.

I was massaging Ball’s back. Carer R told him not to worry.

‘The farang wants to give. You don’t have to ask, and you shouldn’t think he is this or that way inclined if he is helping you.

‘He’s doing it because he wants to, and you shouldn’t feel bad about it,’ he said.