Blast from the past

Jacks Point golf club, with the Remarkables range

"You have been here before," the restaurant manager said mysteriously.

The restaurant is the heart of a golf club and "luxury estate" near Queenstown where my parents live.

The manager, a friendly, outgoing type from Poland, supervises a staff drawn from many nationalities, including several Asians, he told us proudly.

He greets and farewells diners to the restaurant, attached to a golfing supplies and fashion store. While I  had indeed been to the restaurant before, it was my first visit to the southern alps in 10 years. 

The last time I was there, my parents had only just moved into their place on the hills at Jack's Point about five minutes away.

The golf club at Jacks Point

It was barely developed, as they were among the first residents; unlike today, 10 years later, when I saw hundreds of houses nestled in the hills. 

The golf course is wrapped around Lake Wakatipu, with the Remarkable mountain range as a backdrop.  It's remote and quiet, with spectacular, often snow-clad views almost justifying the frigid cold residents must endure in winter months. 

My parents are spending their first full 12 months here this year, after previously dividing their time between this house during the summer months, and a second home in Banks Peninsula, close to Christchurch, which they have now sold.

My parents' old place in Banks Peninsula

I sat on a small wharf jutting into the lake outside the restaurant while waiting for lunch to arrive.

I recall the last time we visited the restaurant: my parents, two sisters, their families and I took a table outside overlooking the lake. My young nephews and nieces ran about the place as the adults mused on life.

Today, it was just Mum, Dad and me, and we dined indoors to protect against the cold. I was to see my sisters later in the week in nearby Wanaka, where the older of the two girls, S, has bought a large home.

Their children, the same ones who ran about the place 10 years ago, are now grown up, with only one still attending school; the others are studying at university or have entered the workforce. I saw none of them on this trip, though spoke to three of the six on video call.

My parents were to tell me later that our family ties to this part of the snowy southern alps go back to our first visit to New Zealand, when we arrived as tourists from Australia, in the early 1980s.

"More than 40 years ago we visited New Zealand with you kids for the first time and took a boat to have lunch at Walter Peak, which you can see there to the west of the lake," they said.

"We liked New Zealand so much we decided to move here," they added. 

We had spent our childood on the northern beaches in Sydney where we went to school and lived close to relatives. We swapped the sun-drenched years we enjoyed there for the uncertainty of new lives in cold, insular Christchurch, a city on the east coast of the South Island we barely knew.

My father found a job at a school after we returned from our Kiwi holiday, and asked if we would like to move to New Zealand permanently to start our lives again. 

On the day we left, we visited my maternal grandparents at their Pittwater home about 10min away from our own place in Sydney; earlier, we farewelled our cousins, and said goodbye to our mates at school. 

Our previous home in Sydney as it now looks, and above, the view of Pittwater 

My parents decided to keep their house in Sydney, which they rented out for many years before selling it, shortly before I was to leave New Zealand for Thailand, in fact. I had finished my schooling and worked there for 12 years, and decided it was time to move on.

I thought about going back to Australia, and in fact visited an uncle in Brisbane for some weeks while I looked unsuccessfully for a job. However, in the year 2000 I moved to Thailand instead, where I have lived since.

Until my most recent trip back to New Zealand, I did not know my family's ties to this rugged part of the South Island stretched back so far, or that they would prove so enduring. 

Side view of the golf club at Jack's Point

My younger brother was to move back to Australia after graduating, where he married and started a family. However, my two sisters met Kiwis while studying, and settled down in New Zealand where they still live: one in the South Island, the other in Auckland in the North. 

My parents bought a home close to the New South Wales/Queenstown border in 2005 to be close to my brother, but sold it when he died and now live in New Zealand permanently. 

The wharf where I did my musing

They have not gone back to Australia to live, and nor have my sisters.

I suspect my sisters would regard themselves more as Kiwis today rather than Aussies, as they left Australia when they were still little.

When I returned to my parents' place on this trip, and visited the golf course restaurant for a second time where I met the chatty Polish host, it was my first to New Zealand in five years. 

I last saw S, the older of the two girls, on that earlier trip five years ago, but I had not seen the younger one, H, for 10 years. 

As I sat musing over the lake, I could have been looking at reflections of myself on that boat trip in the early 80s: a boy in his mid-teens who could not suspect that his family's life would remain entwined with the southern lakes district for decades to come.

Today, the elder of my two sisters has bought a second home in Wanaka, about 90min from Queenstown, where she hopes to move by the end of the year from her main home in Auckland.

View from my sister's home in Lake Wanaka

My other sister lives in nearby Dunedin, about 3.5 hours away, but takes regular skiing trips to this part of the South Island, which she knows well.

My family and I packed a lot into my 10-day stay. My sister H, who is big on fitness, took me down lengthy running tracks and on brisk mountain walks.

Sister H, Mum out for a walk

I tried out an e-bike for the first time on the hills around my sister S's place in Wanaka. We visited historic Arrowtown, and drove through the Millbrook golf course. 

We tried fishing for salmon at the lake-to-plate fishing restaurant Hook (no luck, unfortunately); and for a little quiet reflection headed to a beautiful pebble beach by Lake Hawea.

Sister H knows these stamping grounds well, providing a background commentary about friends she knows, places she goes when she's in town.

My parents have adapted well to the area since their move there full-time, as has my other sister S since she bought her home in Wanaka.

That leaves me the odd one out, as I asked myself that day on the wharf: so what is it about ski resort towns and spectacular mountain scenery that I don't like? -

Old clippings from my mystery box

"We have an old box of your things here which surfaced during our move."

That was my parents, on a recent Google Meet call, shortly before I travelled to see them in NZ.

An old box of fading papers which I had last rifled through 25 years ago, I suspect, when I first left NZ for my new life in Thailand.

I put a bunch of papers in a white stationery box and forgot about them.

When I was at their place in Jack's Point, I took a closer look. The box contained old news clippings from my time as a reporter in Christchurch, some of which I can't recall ever writing.

I also found legal papers dating from my split with my former partner, and documents related to the sale of our house shortly before I left.

More interestingly, I unearthed old emails between her and her chat friends talking about her affair with the man who was to marry her.

They look tacky, even now, but I have taken pictures of a few of them to illustrate this post - for old time's sake!

A collection of awful chats...

I also found an old cartoon of me which the resident cartoonist at my last newspaper drew to accompany a feature story I wrote about a men's support group with whom I spent a challenging weekend on the outskirts of Christchurch.

I am reposting it here, partly because it's one of the few pieces I wrote for which I still have an online record (the others were clippings), and because the cartoon bears a good likeness to the hairy, bespectacled young guy I was back then.

As for the other stuff, those tatty memories can go back in the box for another 25 years!

Pushing the comfort zone

A cartoon's rendition of me attending the weekend

This feature piece about a testing weekend I spent with a men's support group, which I wrote for my old paper in Christchurch, New Zealand,  was accompanied by moody pics of candles, incense and blokes around a campfire in a forest-like setting. It also came with the cartoon you see above.

The organisers were a secretive lot. A photographer from my paper came with me on the night it opened to snap a few quick pics, but they wouldn't let him draw too close to the gathering. 

In fact, they withheld from the other participants the fact that I was there as a reporter, to observe and record them for this article. 

We agreed that I was to pretend to be just another man on the weekend course, without disclosing my real identity. Needless to say, they were shocked to read the story when it appeared. 

When I turned up at a follow-up meeting a few days later, I came under heavy attack from partipants and organisers alike. The men who ran the workshop — the hairy-chested courage they exhibited during the weekend's bonding rituals having suddenly deserted them — minimised their own role in inviting me and suggested I strayed beyond my brief. 

No doubt they wanted an air-brushed look at the often grueling rituals and self-abasing routines which made up men's encounter groups in those days. Too bad!

A new-age bloke in no-man's land

Published 29/9/98

Christchurch Press

Michael R takes a deep breath and ventures out on a 'men's weekend' for a serious, soul-baring encounter with his inner self.

Taking part in a men's weekend sorts the tough guys from the pretenders. Were it not for the wellspring of emotion trapped within, just bursting to get out, no right-minded bloke would take part. At its worst, this is an emotional self-flagellation which pushes the boundaries of the personal "comfort zone'' to stretching point.

It's that sly awareness that most of us have so much more to offer to the world — we just need help getting to the good bits, deeply suppressed as they are — that keeps us going. Inhibitions such as shyness have no place. Things can turn boisterous at any time. That's a very blokey thing, of course, but in this context vigorous activity takes the scary form of anger workshops and rebirthing techniques, rather than hairy-chested physical exertion.

Rituals set apart this type of manly endeavour from the sweaty, muscle-bound sort: from symbols of one's manhood (taking pride of place on a makeshift "altar'') to hand-holding, group hugs, and chanting. Women are part of the problem, of course — all that nitpicking and nagging can get a man down. 

Slagging women is not the purpose of this exercise, however: it is to reclaim one's masculinity, from whatever dark place it has been consigned. Some men lost that essential something in early childhood trauma; others in bad marriages or career hassles.

On this weekend, run by the Men's Trust of Christchurch, 34 blokes come together. No alcohol is allowed. Watches are left at the gate. If a bomb went off we'd be the last to know.

The staple diet of men's talk — safe and familiar ground such as sport, work, the weather — will no longer do. That, we are told derisively, typifies a "level one'' conversation — the merely functional. We are to aspire to level three — that's where we get to hug each other and feel good about it.

We'll have to invent a new language to explore that no-man's land of social interaction — feelings. There is much talk of "pushing the buttons'' (anger), and getting in your head space.

A silent trek through the bush to the meeting house at Bellbird Heights, on Banks Peninsula at Living Springs, is foreboding. The night-time march takes place to the primitive thump of jungle drums. 

Living Springs, where the weekend was held

Candle flames waver. Incense lies thick. New Age music creeps about.

Something begins to stir, and it's fear. I appear to be entering the clammy embrace of a cult. What have I done? How do I get out of here?

Form a circle, we are told. Join hands. Breathe deeply, connect. Now, get up in front of everyone and introduce yourself. Do a silly dance.

To those of us who express emotions through physical gestures, this comes easily, like play antics at a football game. For the wordsmiths among us who take shelter behind intellect, it is not so simple. I'm Michael, I say, stepping into the circle. Modesty forbids anything more extravagant.

Guided by members of the "core group'' (the people in charge), men reply loudly and in unison: 

"Welcome Michael, Michael, Michael!'' Some have done this before. "Ho!'' one says, with emphatic closed fist. To the uninitiated, he is showing approval — a kind of Freemason's handshake. Men are invited to say why they came along. Some have horrible stories. Before the night ends men are dancing and singing together in a fetid, heaving circle. We start to chant. This religious-style droning is magnificent: with so many powerful voices our sounds take on a life of their own.

Another shot of Living Springs

Men do not shrink from touching each other, I note, although ideally this is in "approved'', non-threatening ways. We are shown positions in which we may safely hold one another, such as the cradling position.

Then there are the group hugs — little clusters that pop up spontaneously, like spawning sealife. Stumbling upon one of these can be a shock. Early on, I discover that some eager types will pounce panther-like, with arms outstretched, so keen are they to bond. One of these guys is ticked off before the group for being too "intense'', too keen to flash his credentials. The ones who get in your face, your personal space, invariably have bad breath. One cannot help turning away. A little voice criticises me: the point, Michael, is to open up.

Sleeping quarters

We wake to the maddening drums, a kind of Boy Scout reveille. The cubicle showers contain unspeakable horrors: black hairs in the soap; men honking their noses, animal-like. Men are surprisingly modest: a queue forms outside the showers, each of which is firmly locked shut.

Later, we present the symbols of what it means to be a man. I choose Shakespeare: plenty of Boy's Own stuff, I say, married with beautiful language. 

This hardly gets a second glance. One guy, a builder by trade, brings an enormous nail gun: to him, it represents power and strength, and something about fertility. Later, conversation turns to sex. Interestingly, the issue of orientation hardly comes up. Most talk is about performance and how considerate we should be (message: think of yourself, not just your partner).

That afternoon, the group splits into two for a rebirthing workshop and exercises in anger management. For the latter, three techniques are on offer. One can kneel down and pummel a mattress; tackle an upturned mattress; or lie on one's back and throw a tantrum. I try the first and second. I attack with vigour but say little. A quiet one, onlookers think . . . obviously too inhibited.

One of my colleagues is much more adventurous: he tries all techniques, in a spectacular display of aggression that goes on for half an hour. By its end the man is physically exhausted, sweating, and with bleeding hands. Next door, someone is revisiting painful childhood memories in deep, convulsing sobs. Both are trying to rid themselves of demons, and probably need an audience to do so.

Is it uplifting, or merely embarrassing? Fidgeting in the sunlight of a new day, it is easy to dismiss such behaviour as extravagant, self-indulgent. Deep down, I know I witnessed something moving: the ghastly things that lurk within, and the heroic lengths some will go to exorcise them.

Still, most of us have wobbly knees. Our newly found manhood is emerging like a butterfly from a chrysalis. As New Age blokes we are sensitive about our tender manhood. Humour helps relieve the tension. The exercise gives one man a headache: an avowedly gay guy, ever the wag, quips: "But I haven't asked you yet!''

So potentially life-changing is the bonding and sharing thing that, before leaving, men are warned not to make any big decisions for at least a month. At a follow-up meeting on Wednesday, men say they had a tough time keeping the car on the road. Some had trouble getting on with family and friends. Most were distracted, head-achy, bewildered.

Don't forget to bond

As ever, there are moments when a serious exercise slides into farce. Some say they had noticed a richer timbre to their voice; and, sure enough, they appear to be speaking with deeper, more resonant tones (Timberrrr!). One says he is more aware of how his wife smells, and the different smells that hang around men.

God help us. As for me, one guy says he is still wondering how to get through my brick wall. Most agree, however, that I am more relaxed.

Having stretched myself admirably over the weekend, I make further inroads against shyness by going dancing for the first time.

Mr Handsome returns

A regular contributor to this blog back in its heyday was Mr Handsome, a young gay Thai living in Bangkok.

When he started writing for the blog in late 2006, he had finished his studies and was taking his first steps into the adult world.

I cannot recall how we met (we never managed to do so in person), but we kept up regular email correspondence while our online friendship lasted.

At the time I provided a English translation to accompany his Thai, though I no longer have the English, as I deleted the posts that appeared on this blog.

Going through old emails, however, I found I still have his original pieces in Thai, and would like to repost them here.

His writing could be caustic, entertaining  and witty, as regular readers noted at the time.

He was a natural talent, and enjoyed sharing his stories. I am not sure if he ever showed his writing to his Thai friends, but Mr H was seldom short of story ideas, and could surprise me with some of the topics he chose.

A prolific contributor, Mr Handsome penned over 50 stories between December, 2006, with an opening piece about his quest to find a boyfriend, and June 2008, when he wrapped up his contributions with a story on Camfrog.

The first of his posts is here. I will put up the others gradually over the next couple of months, under the Mr Handsome label.

Note: Thanks to this site for the Chinatown pic. Most of the images which will illustrate his posts are unrelated, though in a few cases I have found pics which pertain to the subject matter, such as the films which Mr H reviewed back then.

Visit to the shaman (5, final)

Final glimpse of the offerings plate, with my worried partner in the background

Talking about the encounter later, I adopted the phrase "witch doctor" (หมอผี) to describe Mor Sawaeng. I was speculating aloud whether he sends a cut of his earnings as a shaman back to Mor Joe, who sent him our trade after all.

I also wondered why Mor Sawaeng's boss at the restaurant puts up with his frequent excursions into the carpark to perform his ritual over customers, and also the fate of the alcohol, which we left there unopened with him. 

Perhaps it finds its way into the Chinese dishes on offer at his restaurant, or maybe the cooks knock it back together out the back.

Maiyuu said that if I was being polite, I should call him a mor peun ban (หมอพื้นบ้าน), which translates as traditional doctor. This is a more innocuous phrase, of course, but also helps salve my partner's bruised ego, after he regretted leading us on this silly expedition.

Later, as I mused over whether I should feel upset at having parted with a stupidity fee (ฝรั่งเสียค่าโง่) as the Thai rather bluntly puts it, or the cost of my own ignorance, Maiyuu suggested we should see the encounter with Mor Sawaeng and his enabler Mor Joe in a more positive light. 

The day's expenses, which came to over 1,000 baht including the teacher's fee, alcohol and taxi fares, were really the price of buying a new experience (ค่าประสบการณ์), said charmingly.

However, Maiyuu admits he should have thought about the expedition more carefully. "I panicked, but I was worried about your condition," he said, wearing a sorry look.

It's not as if we were not warned what was coming, in a roundabout way at least. As I left Mor Joe's place for the taxi, he uttered some parting words which puzzled me at the time: "Never mind, we all have to help each other in this life."

I can see now that he was referring to his mate Mor Sawaeng, to whom he was sending a "referral", courtesy of our own gullibility.

Never mind, indeed. I learned from the experience, and enjoyed meeting Mor Sawaeng, warm, ebullient soul that he was. I hope your days are plenty and prosperous, if I may offer a prayer of my own in return.

I am sure they will be, if Mor Sawaeng indeed is treating a constant procession of needy types from the provinces in search of low-cost cures for shingles  as he says. The cost of seeing an ordinary doctor, in our case, would have been much cheaper.

As a postscript, I should add that I realised on the way back in the taxi what was really causing my red spots: an allergic reaction to clothes washing liquid. I wash some items in a bucket, slothful person that I am, and in my haste to get the items into the sun, forget to rinse properly. I passed this news on to Maiyuu, who looked relieved to have a more likely explanation of what ailed me. 

Since our misbegotten adventure to Phaya Thai, we are now converts to modern medicine. Maiyuu has bought some conventional lotion for inflammatory dermatoses, which he applies to my body at night before bed. The red spots are fading nicely.

He has also replaced our clothes washing liquid with a softer mix tailored to children and which is less likely to inflame my skin. It has a great scent, I am happy to report. 

Maiyuu knows my habit of rinsing clothes inadequately in my humble bucket, which I keep in the bathroom, is unlikely to change, so buying products suitable for kids rather than adults is the best way to keep me safe. How apt, I thought. Now I can stop pretending I am grown up.

Visit to the shaman (4)

The offerings plate: alcohol, a few baht for the monks, leaves, dry herbs

No, as it turns out. Mor Saeang placed the bottles of alcohol on a plate, one each for me and Maiyuu, who also underwent a similar ritual for a persistent viral complaint in his eye, for which he takes ordinary meds. 

Mor Sawaeng said a prayer for him too, just as he did me, to drive the virus away, just in case his meds fail to work.

Alongside the bottle of alcohol, Mor Sawaeng dropped a few leaves and, from a grubby bag in his pocket, some dry herbs, no doubt to add some spice to his cure. He also asked us to donate a few baht for local monks, and had us hold up the plate close to head level as if making a sacrifice to the gods. 

In my case I had to accomplish this with one hand, while holding up my shirt with the other, so he could blow on my red spots.

So how did it go? "Gibber gibber gibber....pause...blow, up and down the body."  Be careful not to miss any red spots, my health may depend on it. I made sure to keep quiet as he chanted, lest the health gods not be amused.

Forgive me if I can't recall the words of his mystical Buddhist cure. I don't do Esan, though I swear I heard the Thai word for diabetes (เบาหวาน) thrown in there. 

He blew on me a lot, and I admit I enjoyed the experience. I can hardly wear my sceptical foreigner's hat after such an event, as I happily took part in the ritual, even when the outline of what was to follow started to take shape and I realised he was not a real doctor at all.

When the chanting ended, Mor Sawaeng told us not one, but multiple times, that practitioners such as himself  do not charge for dispensing their wisdom, but merely suggest we leave a teacher's fee. 

"It's up to you how much you give," he said, smiling. 'but people come from all over the country to see me for a cure."

Maiyuu parted with 500 baht, or 250 baht for each of us, as we both recevied a prayer while holding up our booze plate. 

I went first, followed by Maiyuu, who managed the plate more adeptly than I did, and offered a graceful prayer to the spirits as Mor Sawaeng did his thing. The way Thais have with their hands when they pray; it's an unfailingly beautiful thing to watch.

My ritual, if I can call it that, lasted longer, perhaps because I was the main attraction, reporting with "shingles" as I did. 

That said, Mor Sawaeng looked surprised when he came out to greet us and realised that I was a farang. I am sure few foreigners seek him out for his cures, no matter how grand his reputation might be. They would rather place their faith in modern meds, but there you are.

now, see here

Visit to the shaman (3)

The restaurant where our shaman works as a cook

However, to get them, Thais would have to part with money for a doctor's consultation and of course the meds. Shaman's cures in the provinces, however, are cheaper. A Thai friend in his 50s told me recently that when he was a boy, shaman's cures, often dispensed by a monk, could be obtained for as little as one or two baht.

Maiyuu anxiously called Mor Sawaeng, and made a time to see him. Within half an hour, my partner and I had hailed a taxi and told the driver to head for a restaurant (of all places) opposite Vichaiyut Hospital in Phaya Thai. 

Initially we had planned to go the following week, but Mor Joe impressed upon us the urgency of it all.

"It is in the early stages. Catch it now, you can cure it. Leave it, you could die," he said, vouching for the effectiveness of Mor Sawaeng. "I have sent hundreds of customers to him for a cure," he added.

Nice work if you can get it. Shaman such as Mor Sawaeng typically ask for a "teacher's fee", a payment supposedly for the monks who taught him the magic words he chants. But more of that later.

Mor Joe's shaman friend is a portly, cuddly looking chap who works as a cook at the restaurant and offers cures as a sideline. We met after a tense 15 minute drive from the massage place and many, many phone calls between Maiyuu and Mor Sawaeng, who guided us to the spot.

Initially, muddle-headed Mor Joe mistakenly gave us the name of a restaurant in Pattaya, not the one in Phaya Thai we needed, which confused our taxi driver, who looked it up on Google Maps and asked why were going so far afield.

When we arrived, Mor Sawaeng came out to meet us in the carpark wearing his cook's apron and ushered us to a table under a tree. The carpark faced the rear of the restaurant, where from an open door I could see cooks working on Chinese dumplings in little bamboo boxes. 

A motorcycle taxi driver from a nearby queue came over to watch. He was to be our audience of one for the unusual ritual which followed.

Before we left, Mor Joe asked Maiyuu to buy two small bottles of lao khao, a severe Thai spirit which tastes like rocket fuel. Maiyuu said later that he assumed that the mystic would blow the alcohol on my red spots.

now, see here

Visit to the shaman (2)

The turnoff to Vichaiyut Hospital, with ambulance handily placed at left.

The sound of the hospital was re-assuring. I assumed he was a doctor there and would pop out to see us with some meds, without us having to go to the bother of seeing a doctor the normal way. But blowing?

At first when I heard the word blow (เป่า or Pao), which in this context was shortened from pao raksa rok  (เป่ารักษาโรคงูสวัด), I was none the wiser, though my partner knew what he meant, and should have put a stop to it then and there. 

It's his job to protect me from such voodoo stuff, and any other con jobs which naughty Thais might want to spring on me, or so I thought.

Mor Joe wanted to send us to his Esan shaman friend Mor Sawaeng, transplanted to Bangkok, who blows his breath on the patient's body while reciting religious incantation in Esan dialect. 

It's a traditional remedy handed down through the generations and which doctors these days recommend against.

Look up the Thai words  above (เป่ารักษาโรคงูสวัด) and Google intones solemnly at the top of the results page: ไม่ควรเป่าหรือพ่นยาลงบนแผล เพราะจะทำให้ติดเชื้อแบคทีเรียแทรกซ้อน แผลหายช้าและกลายเป็นแผลเป็นได้ (You should not blow medicine on a wound, as it may become infected with bacteria, grow worse and leave a scar").

The medicine is often alcohol. In this clip of a traditional blowing ritual, which I found subsequent to my visit to Mor Joe, needless to say, we can see a female shaman blowing booze on a guy with the shingles virus, which appears as a long red, scaly patch (see the 1.56 mark).

The clip warns viewers against such things, just as Google did, while also adding confusingly that viewers should exercise their own discretion whether to believe in such miracle cures (well, yes). Another clip is here.

Doctors are unanimous in warning against blowing on shingles, for the practical reason that the shaman's saliva may infect the wound; I imagine the alcohol wouldn't help much either.

Apart from that, patients are placing rather a lot of faith in the healing properties of the mystic's religious incantation; why not just see a doctor and ask for a conventional cure? Ordinary meds will provide a fix in most cases, no further drama necessary. 

now, see here

Visit to the shaman (1)

Portly shaman Mor Sawaeng

"Oh, that's shingles," my massage therapist, a middle-aged guy who hails from Esan, pronounced assertively. For months, he had been poking about my body as it lay on his bed, marvelling at how many spots show up.

Inevitably, he asks what they are. "Pimples," my partner calls from the corner of the room. He rarely looks up from his phone when we are with Mor Joe, as he is known, unless directly engaged in conversation.

Boyfriend Maiyuu has turned to collecting and trading household adornments such as crystal figurines, spectacular coloured vases and even dolls, which bring in a modest income but keep him busy. Most of the business is online, though occasionally he will venture into town to vie with hordes of fellow traders for the latest consumer item which has caught the public imagination (most recently: Cry Baby dolls).

Maiyuu takes me for a massage under Mor Joe, a specialist in tackling disorders (mine is office syndrome), in the Sathu Pradit area every two weeks.

It has been a regular outing of ours for several years. The office syndrome never gets any better, but the visits to Mor Joe do offer some temporary relief. Apart from that, it's fun.

Mor Joe has a constant stream of customers, who have no doubt heard about his healing powers, which in my case he achieves largely with a hot compress and a deep knowledge of bones (so he says) rather than the firm hands of a heavy therapeutic, or deep tissue massage.

"You must be living your second youth," Mor Joe jokes, marvelling that someone my age can still develop acne spots, and we laugh it off.

On this occasion, however, he was sure that the spread of red spots on my upper frame, back and front, was more serious. He referred to shingles (โรคงูสวัด or gnu sawat), which is triggered by an onset of the varicella-zoster virus, often leftover from a childhood chicken pox infection (โรคอีสุกอีใส).

This pesky virus lies dormant in our bodies if ever we have caught chicken pox as a child. I assume I did; I can't recall.

My partner sprang to his feet and rushed over for a look. "I didn't notice, and the farang never bothers to examine himself," Maiyuu said, referring to me, as he explained why the isolated red spots - hardly an angry, weeping sore or rash, which  would be more worrying, and is more typically associated with shingles - had gone undetected.

Mor Joe, sitting in his premises

This rash of activity, if I can call it that, broke over me as they inspected my front flank. 

I also flopped over on my front at their beckoning so they could inspect my back as well. No one bothered asking if I knew what was going on; this was a job for the adults.

I had heard the Thai words for shingles and chickenpox in my travels, but as panic filled the air I had to ask Maiyuu to look them up on his phone with the English translation. The English left me none the wiser.

Shingles? A colleague at work had complained of a skin rash recently which doctors initially attributed to shingles, but on later inspection diagnosed as the fruits of anaemia. 

As for chicken pox, presumably that has come and gone. Painful and itchy in their day, I am sure, but the spots which had broken out on my body since my last visit to Mor Joe rarely bothered me.

"I have someone who can cure these," Mor Joe averred, recommending we visit an Esan friend of his, Mor Sawaeng, opposite Vichaiyut Hospital in the Phaya Thai area. "He'll blow on them."

now, see here

We've seen better days (part 3, final)

Street food in Talad Phlu market, or should that be track food?

Curiosity drove me out to the wilds of Pin Khlao, which I rarely visit, and Talad Phlu. 

Scouring Pin Khlao on Google Street View, as I have done previously, I realised how much of it seemed familiar, even the nooks and crannies far from Mum's shop. I must have made a hundred visits out there; so many it was really like a second home.

I didn't bother walking around on the day of my visit, as thanks to my digital foraging previously, I felt I had already seen it. Oh, there's the spot I once taught uni students; oh, over there is the spot I once hung around with insurance agents (of all things). The list of faltering memories never ends, and did any of it amount to anything?

As for the feeling that I am really making my farewells to my former life in Bangkok as I head towards retirement, in a more optimistic sense I could also regard these odd visits as new starts. I have neglected these places for years and am now showing interest in getting to know old friends again.

However, I doubt that's it. The relationships I am rekindling on my ocasional sorties to playgrounds past have no future, and having said that I can only hope retirement holds out better.

I will have to invest time and energy into getting to know people and places in Chon Buri, where we hope to settle eventually, just as I did once when I was new to the Thon Buri side, and spent so much time rattling about Talad Phlu and Pin Khlao.

In the intervening years during my absence, both have reshaped themselves, particularly Talad Phlu, parts of which I barely recognise any more. I am sure the soul of these places remains the same, but does mine?

We've seen better days (part 2)

Pin Khlao bridge

After chatting to Bom, I walked down to the river and watched tourists pile into a Chao Phraya River ferry boat.

From Pin Khlao I took a taxi to my next stop, Talad Phlu, the market where we lived before our move into town 13 years ago, and where I still have a few friends. That took another 20min and cost 100 baht.

The driver, aged in his 60s, was one of those crafty, silent ones who engages in cursory conversation but turns a deaf ear to anything he doesn't want to hear.

As we were heading to the market I saw the turnoff to Pran Nok Road, the quick way back which I would take to get home in years past. However, I failed to alert him in time.

I am sure he would have refused anyway, as it's cheaper than the long way back via Thoet Thai Road, at the rear of the market, which his scheming type will always take if given a choice.

I spent the next few hours at the market, with a former masseur friend who now sells fried food out the front of her shop with her sister-in-law.

We watched TV and sat about as customers dribbled past. It was a fun way to spend an idle afternoon.

Talad Phlu itself is lively, especially in the evening when office workers and students come out for a bite. The market is full of streetside food places, and even some franchise eateries. Several jostle for space under overhead bridges where traffic does a U-turn before heading back into town.

The shops along the main road look modern, not out of keeping with a stroll through Silom or Siam. And of course Talad Phlu now has its own skytrain link, which it did not have in my day.

But some parts of the market have barely improved: the canal, which long-tailed tourist boats still ply, is the market's teen zone. I sat next to a basketball court under an overhead bridge.

On one side is an old wooden restaurant perched over the canal bank. Many years ago I had a meal there with my ruthless young friend Kew, who fended off a hostile diner wielding a paper-cutter.

The eatery, and concrete structure

A small wooden pier used to sit on this side of the bridge, but it is now gone. Another one sits on the other side of the bridge.

A glimpse inside the eatery

It serves diners who arrive by boat for a meal at a Thai restaurant on that side.  A bunch of school kids had gathered there but I could see few adults around.

A strange concrete structure like a pillbox still sits on my side. I suspect it was built there for the old pier, now gone.

Teens have defaced it with graffiti. While I was there, one lad in school uniform greeted me. A secondary school is about 50m down the way. He clambered on top to smoke a cigarette and call out to his friends on the other side of the bridge.

"Hey, bring over the bag of glue!" he shouted to his mates. They ignored him, so he climbed down again, muttering to himself.

On a previous trip to Talad Phlu, I took the skytrain and walked from the station on Ratchapruek Road.

The Ratchadapisek Rd entrance, and First One market

On my left, I noticed someone had bowled a block of old houses close to my old apartment on Ratchadaphisek Road, just before the overpass at the entrance of the township.

In its place is the First One night market with an enormous concreted car park area, and barely a shrub or tree in sight. It sits almost empty during the day, as its name suggests, and reminds me of a dusty cattleyard.

Signs of progress, perhaps, though I could think of sweeter, more intimate spots to visit at night.

The trip from Talad Phlu back into town on the 205-route bus cost less than 20 baht and took another half an hour. I left before peak hour traffic set in. And yes, dear reader, I have taken a motorsai, subway and skytrain out there as an alternative means of transport, but it takes just as long. 

now, see here

We've seen better days (part 1)

Down by the pier in Pin Khlao

A trip to my old drinking haunt in Pin Khlao, my first in 11 years, was a little sad.

Mum's shop as I knew it looks just as it did in the updated Google street view pics I posted here about six months ago, only more rundown, if that's possible. Out of deference to fonder memories of times past, I did not take any new pics. Too depressing; locals would wonder why I bothered.

I appear to be bidding farewell to my Bangkok life, perhaps in anticipation of retiring to the provinces, which we hope to do when I come of age in the next three years or so. But I know the move won't be that tidy; nothing ever is.

I took a motorcycle taxi from our place in Yannawa, which cost 160 baht and took 20 minutes.

I went to Mum's little shop in Pin Khlao, at the turnoff to Wat Daowadueng, as I wanted to see what had happened to it since I saw it last.

I did not expect to meet Mum, as the last time we spoke many years ago, she had parted ways with her husband. She ran a food card in the area, and he was running their shop during the day.

Now Mum's shop itself, as I knew it, only opens now at night. When I dropped by, it was closed.

I chatted to a couple of staff from the eatery next door to Mum's old shop, which Mum and her husband also once owned, in fact, but which presumably is now in someone else's hands.

I remember Bom, one of the staff there, from my old days in Pin Khlao. He brought me up to date with Mum's news.

Mum herself has moved back to Kalasin, and her husband now works in the Phra Ram 8 area along with their son, he said.

Mum's shop, where I spent many hours at the peak of my nighttime frolics in Thon Buri some 15 years ago, was shuttered, with no signs of life. It is run in the evenings by Mum's younger sister, who in this blog I called Isra.

Isra, at the shop (LINE)

Back in those days she was going out with a foreigner, a young painter from the north of England who I knew and called in this blog farang J. 

He visited Thailand every few months when he would spend a few weeks with Isra's family in Kalasin and the rest of his time in Pin Khlao (for a selection of our tales together, see here, here, here and here).

Mum and her husband, a former army man, settled in Bangkok years before to run the shop and raise their son, who I once taught English but has now left school.

Isra helped them run the shop when they were still together, and occasionally, during school breaks, bring her kids with her to Bangkok (her own son has since left us, sadly: see here).

Today, she is still there, Mum and her husband having moved on to other things. However, farang J is out of the picture, and Isra, once so keen on foreigners, is now seeing a Thai.

"She and her partner sell food, though the place only opens after 5.30pm," Bom said.

I left my phone number with Bom. He offered to pass it on to Isra, whom I did not get a chance to meet as I had come too early in the day.

Isra and I chatted on Line later that night, and I have since found her on FB, along with the shop itself, which now has a name (เคาร์เตอร์บาร์ ปิ่นเกล้า), and admittedly looks better after dark:

New look for Mum's shop (FB)

now, see here

Dream spell breaks (5, final)

Reprise: Teenage Dream left, and Lek, far right

Finally, more than four weeks later, I biked down Dream's soi on my way home. Since our bizarre conversation that night, I had chosen to avoid them by taking the long way back via the main road skirting their soi.

Dream was setting up a drinks table to welcome friends to another gathering. The ever-present Lek, sitting nearby, called me over. I dutifully stopped for a chat, and she immediately called out: "Dream, Mali's here!"

If the script played out correctly, he would come over and greet me before returning to his friends, and I would sit down with Lek and shout her a beer.

Lek was making explicit the link between her opening the door to Dream's renewed friendship, and my need to pay for her booze habit by way of thanks.

"I need a drink. Shout me a beer," she said.

Once happy to shell out for alcohol or even help the regulars there with various expenses (including Dream's tuition costs, unbeknown to him), I recoiled inwardly as I contemplated helping such a hard-boiled user.

Not content with the misery our first manufactured coupling caused, when she paired us as "father and son", more than eight years later she was trying to reboot it, in "estranged friends reunite" mode, again to her cynical advantage. 

Dream was party to this arrangement on both occasions, though first time round, I suspect, he was too young to understand. And where was his mother? As ever, a mute witness.

"No thanks, I am heading home," I said.

With that I peddled off and left her, before she or Dream could say another word.

She wore a sickly, disbelieving smile as this old bird perhaps realised that I am no longer in thrall to her cynical manipulations, or bewitched by the Dream spell.

He failed to deliver on his sales pitch, despite his marketing smarts, as she was left with nothing but her empty plastic drinking cup.

Lek was indeed a good friend to me in reuniting Dream and me for our first heart-to-heart. Our conversation showed me that I was foolish to spend so much time worrying about the friendship which could have been, and which in the heat of the moment, many years ago, I had destroyed. 

He's just a lad; an unusual one, granted, but no one I need to know.

He's also happy to be used by this old boozer Lek, even if it means conning this farang. I wonder what hold she has over him. 

Regardless, to the extent he really did want to be friends, he left his run too late. While I am relieved we were finally able to bury the hatchet, and grateful he gave me the chance to talk, I lack the energy to get to know him or his friends again.

Dream gave me a steely-eyed look as I arrived as he, too, perhaps realised that the game was over. I have not been back.

Rock on!