Dreams are made of this

Happy New Year to readers.

I spent mine in a slum close to my office, where I have befriended a new family.

They invited me to join them for the New Year’s countdown.

My family lives at the head of a row of slum houses which I pass on my way to work.

By the time I finish, they are often drinking out the front.

Anyone who takes a detour through the alleyway to the main road outside must pass their place. The passage is narrow, but the flow of traffic is constant.

Almost everyone knows each other; passersby are greeted with a lively cheer or a drink.

A few nights ago as I was walking home when a youngster offered me a whisky.

Dream is 18, and works for his aunt’s shipping company. I had spoken to him half a dozen times in passing as I cut through the alleyway where he lives out to the main road where I work.

The alleyway lies between my condo, on the opposite side of a railway line close to Pra Ram III,  and the office. It is behind a fresh market leading into Klong Toey and a popular shortcut for motorcycles in particular.

Dream wears a steel rod in his right arm after a recent accident on his motorcycle. We have talked about his injury, and the operation, which he says terrified him.

We usually chat a few minutes, and I head on my way.

However, after he thrust a glass in my hand the other night, I suggested I join his family for a quick drink.

He welcomed me to the table, where I recognised a boisterous uncle who had stopped me on my journeys down the alleyway before.

‘Happy, happy. New Year. Thailand. Fun!’ he said, shaking my hand vigorously.

The mainstay of the grouping is Aunty Lek, who introduced me to Dream’s mother, Orng.

‘She says little, but has a kind heart,’ she told me.

Her partner P' Noi was absent, as he was sleeping off a drinking session.

 ‘We’re all family here, and as you know Dream, you are now part of our family too,’ Lek told me proudly.

I also met Dream’s elder cousin, the delightfully named Dear, who occupies the bedroom next to his in their two-storey house.

Both young men are attractive, well mannered types. Getting to know them will be fun.

We have drunk together for the past three nights. As the only farang to have joined their group, I am the star attraction.

The first night was for introductions; the second, family bonding.

On family bonding night, I had only just joined the table when Aunty Lek asked me if I wanted to be Dream’s foster dad.

Being hospitable Thais, they are anxious that I keep myself stress-free and happy.

‘Yes,’ I said.

A few seconds later, Lek, who appears to enjoy stitching together the emotional fabric of this family, asked Dream to join us.

Dream, head bowed, quietly took a seat next to me.

‘Farang Mali says he wants to adopt you as his foster son. Do you want farang Mali as your foster dad?’ she asked, getting straight to the point.

Dream, who can be as boisterous as any teen when it suits, gave an emphatic ‘Yes!’

I was surprised, as I thought they were just having fun.

Since then, the family has introduced me as Dream’s foster dad.

No one has explained how this is supposed to work, though for the moment I am happy just to go with the flow.

Dream, an only child, is attentive. He makes sure I am rarely sitting with people I do not know. He jumps in to answer questions on my behalf at introductions.

He holds my hand, puts his arm around my shoulders. He pulls up a seat next to me when I am alone.

I have met cousins, elder sister-types, Dream’s friends, local eccentrics…it is a lively setting in which teens mix with family elders one moment, small children passing by with balloons and dolls in arm the next.

I am making tentative steps as foster dad… I bought Dream a baking treat one night, a hooded sweatshirt to keep him warm the next.

'He likes KFC, and dislikes sauce,' his mum told me.

'Okay,' I thought, making a mental note.

If I move from the main table to a chair sitting against a block wall framing the alleyway –it is wide enough for a motorcycle and couple of people to pass by, but little more – someone follows me with my drink and food.

Mum keeps a small coal fire going on which she cooks up tom yum and lab moo.

The young ones look after the music, choosing songs on their smartphone, which is plugged into a large amp.

The music sounds like techno pop. Once or twice, they treated us with ballads, or Thai ‘music for life’ songs, which I enjoy.

I waltzed with a guy in his 50s when one of the slower songs came on, as it was the only music I could understand.

When the techno stuff resumed, Dream's teen friends invited me to dance with them, but I declined. Their moves look too self-absorbed, as if they would really rather be looking at their own reflection in the mirror than sharing the moment with anyone else.

With midnight approaching, Dear helped Ong's partner P' Noi, who had risen from sleep, into a jacket, tie, and pair of fancy shoes.

He emerged playfully to shake everyone’s hand, imitating a robot with jerky hand movements. We took group photographs.

Meanwhile, Dear found a televised broadcast of the city’s main countdown party on a smartphone app.

We watched as the presenters on stage outside CentralWorld department store in Ratchaprasong counted down to midnight.

‘Three…two…one…’

The skies lit up with fireworks, at least where the crowds were in town.

I looked above me in lour Klong Toey slum setting for signs of life in the skies, but saw only a huge overhead advertising billboard, blocking the view.

The billboard, an enormous steel structure, looks sturdy enough. When the lights on the billboard go out every night – which they must do by city council order, Lek tells me earnestly – we rely on fairy lights, strung above our heads with the party balloons, to see anything.

Other folk were celebrating New Year down the alley. Some let off firecrackers, others turned up the music.

At our place, young ones jumped in the air to puncture the balloons with lit cigarettes.

‘Bang!’

‘Bang!’

After another 90min, I was spent.

I offered a wai to my new ‘family’.

Dream, wearing the oversized windbreaker I gave him and a pair of shades, led me away.

‘Are you sure you do not want to stay? I will keep dancing.’ he said.

A family elder gives me a lift home every night on a motorcycle, as they don’t want me walking the streets at that hour. Dream stays behind.

As I clambered on the back of the bike, I thanked my ‘foster son’ for a great time.

Really, I felt awkward for most of it, but I am still learning how to fit in.

‘Don’t stress! Don’t be serious! Just relax!’ the family urges me, thrusting a drink into my hand.

Perhaps I am just rusty.

Surrounded by so much family warmth – and with my new duties as foster dad to discharge – I am sure I’ll cast off my baggage in time.