Anchan flowers, home sweet home

We’re coming up blue at our place. Boyfriend Maiyuu bought some blue anchan flowers, which go into Thai drinks and deserts.

He dried them on the balcony, and since then has put them into a blue, slightly sweet drink called nam dok anchan (น้ำดอกอัญชัญ).

He has also made ice-cubes out of them, and even put them into rice to turn its colour blue.

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I have spoken to Mr Noom a couple of times by phone since he returned to his home province of Roi Et to start the new school term.

We didn’t have much to say. The phone signal was weak, so I could not ask much about his life.

The first time I called, I could barely hear a thing, so had to cut our conversation short. The second time, he was having a meal with his family.

I still order a meal every night from the food stand where he spent his summer holidays, and where I met him shortly before his return to the provinces last week.

‘Has Noom called?’ asked the woman who introduced us, and who takes my orders.

‘We have spoken, but he is now back at school, so it is hard to find a time when he is free,’ I said.

I won’t call much more. The words, ‘Where do you think this is going?’ keep ringing in my head.

A farang friend asks me that question about my relationship with Ball and his slum family, but it might as well apply here.

To put it more bluntly, we could ask: ‘what are you getting out of it?’

I don’t expect my relationship with Mr Noom to head anywhere, as I have a boyfriend of my own, and a slum family nearby too. Both keep me busy, and happy. That’s enough.

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An anonymous reader leaves this remark in the lively comments section of this blog's most recent post:

‘It take a certain type of teenager that looks around and says ..im out of here...and takes school serious and gets out of the slums.....if ball was this type he would be studying english will anything he could get his hands on and keep a job and figure out how to better his social condition.’

How many young men do you know who do that?

Let me describe his place to you.

Mum has at least eight people living under her roof. It is a two-storey wooden house in a bad state of repair. Only one room, her bedroom, has air con.

Downstairs is the sole toilet/shower, sitting room, Mum’s bedroom, and her youngest son Mr B’s bedroom.

A see-through slide door is all that separates Mr B’s room from his mother’s.

Access to their home is on one side only, along a slum alleyway. It has two doorways. If I stand in either, I can view everything in the living room.

Mr B shares his room, which has no permanent bed, with an old computer and a wardrobe. He has no privacy, as people move in and out of there all day.

Mr B usually sleeps on the sofa in the sitting room, on his Mum’s mattress bed, or on the floor.

On the storey above is Ball’s bedroom, which he shares with his girlfriend; and his elder sister’s bedroom, which she shares with her boyfriend, and their son. I can barely get up the stairs to reach the top storey, as the wooden staircase is so narrow.

The other toddler of the household, Fresh, sleeps with whoever goes to bed first. When I called last night shortly before 11pm, Mr Ball had just taken her to bed.

During the day, the family occupies the living room space or Mum’s bedroom, as the top storey gets too hot.

When everybody is at home, space on the ground floor is at a premium; if I am sitting on the floor, as I usually am, I find it difficult to know where to put my legs.

There is no kitchen, or kitchen table. They place food on a low-rise tray. The sitting room also has a dusty display chest, a stereo and TV. I can recall seeing only one chair.

Clothes and towels are dumped on shelves along the wall; anywhere where they can find space for them, in fact.

The sole sofa is old but can fold down to serve as a bed for family guests. Family members cook on a small gas cooker placed in the doorway entrance.

I have to squeeze past it to get into the place. If they are cooking on it when I arrive, I have to use the other doorway, as I can’t get past it when oil is bubbling away in the wok; I might tip it up, and get burnt.

On a hot day, up to three or fans might be going at once.

The two toddlers need only crawl across the living room floor, and they're in the slum alleyway.

We pull them back from the doorway to stop them going too far. If they head out there - a pile of slum rubbish sits right outside Ball's front door - we will have to clean their hands and feet.

I visited yesterday about 5pm before work. Mr Ball was moving about restlessly in the living room. He could only sit still for a few minutes before having to get up again. The space was too small for him, the day was too hot, and his general surroundings, I imagine, were driving him mad.

Earlier yesterday, I watched Ball play with Nong Fresh for half an hour, and nurse her to sleep. As he arranged her sleeping body on the floor, I complimented Ball on his skills with children.

‘You could be a Dad now, I reckon...if you had a job,’ I said. ‘How many children would you like?’

‘Two or three might be enough,’ he said quietly.

Here’s a blunt message for Mr Anon.

Ball believes his duty in life will be complete when he is able to look after his mother, and his future wife and children. He has yet to find a steady or reliable job, but will get there...he’s only 19, for goodness sake.

Far from wanting to get away from the slum, he regards it as his home. As long his mother is there, so will he remain, as she is the anchor of his family life.

It's his job, as her son, to repay the sacrifices she’s endured in bringing him up. I imagine he would think about moving out only once he has a more stable or secure income, and has passed a few other milestones in his life, like military conscription.

It's the Thai way. How many Western youngsters feel so obliged?

In some ways, these people are brave. There's no white flag hanging above their door.