Pressure points (1)

‘Do you think we will have another coup?’asked my masseuse, called Tuean.

At this massage shop, about 15 minutes’walk from my place, I am known as Robert.

That name has stuck since my first visit a few weeks ago. It is not real name, but my last masseuse must have misheard me.

She passed it on to other female and kathoey masseuses at the shop, so ‘Robert’ I became.

Tuean was bearing down on my back. She had just asked me what I do for a living, which in an indirect way sparked a discussion about politics.

‘The economy would go down again. Thais would not stand for it,’ I said.

Tuean agreed. ‘My family is hurting so much at the moment. At this massage shop, customers have fallen away, because they are saving money. The cost of living keeps going up, but politicians can’t stop attacking each other,’ she complained.

‘Politicians like to tear everything apart,’ I said.

Police want to charge a man who served as PM’s Office Minister with lese majeste, for a speech he gave about Thai politics and patronage.

A busy-body investigator at Bang Mod police station in Bangkok was the first to lay a complaint about Jakrapob Penkair’s speech.

The opposition Democrat party saw their chance. Claiming his speech was a veiled attack on the monarchy, they seized on the issue as an opportunity to appear at one with the people, and attack the government at the same time.

Jakrapob, whose speech to the Foreign Correspondents’ Club was conducted in English, has now quit his post. The charge carries a potentially lengthy jail term of up to 15 years.

A lively side-debate opened about what he really meant to say. Jakrapob’s English is not perfect, but the average policeman has even less idea.

At least three translations into Thai have been sought by police as they assemble a case against the MP. They can’t rely on what the meaning might be in English- the language in which the speech was given – but insist on translating it into Thai. Only then will they know what he really intended to say.

Tuean and I decided that Jakrapob deserved sympathy, not necessarily because of what he said, but the way the system appeared to be victimising him for having the courage to say it.

now, see part 2

Conversations with a taxi

I hopped in a taxi.

I sat in the front, as I normally do when I travel by taxi. I can respond more quickly if I think the driver is about to mow someone down.

'Stop!' I will say.

I might even grab the driver by the knee to drive home my point - regardless of how good he looks.

The other night when I sat in front, my taxi driver wasted no time in putting his hand on my knee instead, where it rested for most of the journey.

'You like lady?' he asked.

He pulled out a brochure advertising the services of a massage parlour. Pretty girls were on the front.

'They have everything - girls, boys, ladyboys...'

He looked at me.

'You like girls...?' he sounded doubtful.

'I have someone already,' I said.

The hand stayed in place on my knee.

I returned the brochure. The driver switched to talking about his sex life instead.

'I am single,' he said. 'Women are hard work.'

He was once married to a woman, he said, with whom he had one child. He made her pregnant, and her family forced him to marry her. He still supports both mother and child, even though they now live apart.

His cellphone rang, and he answered. He spoke in the kind of silly, cutesy talk which some men reserve for the women in their lives.

'Who was that?' I asked when the call finished. 'That sounded like a girlfriend. I thought you were single.'

'I am. That was just my kik [close friend on the side].'

'If you are not married, then how can you call her a 'kik' - there's no one else,' I said, confused.

'True, but she doesn't qualify as a girlfriend. She sells her body for sex. I pay her, too,' he said. 'We've known each other for years.'

The next night, I hopped in another taxi.

It was an old one. The driver was old, too.

My Thai partner, who was not present, is good at telling from the street the old-model taxis from the new ones.

The new ones are wide inside, with plenty of legroom and good seating. The old ones have tiny seats which are hard to move.

I can't tell which one I have flagged down until I open the door; by then it's too late.

I hopped in the front.

Most Thais get in the back, even when they are in a group.

Drivers keep the front passenger seat pulled to the front as far as possible, so passengers in the back have more leg room.

When I get in, I have to push the seat back again.

If I get in and cannot move the seat back easily, I get cross, and swear.

The driver seldom realises I am swearing. I am just talking farang-speak.

After I hopped in, I found I could not move the seat back, because it was broken.

'No way,' I said.

I hopped straight out again, and slammed the door shut.

The taxi drove away empty.

I refuse to ride in a taxi with a broken seat. Cars in that state should not be allowed on the road.

Man of the household (3, final)

More than 30 homes in the Thai community where they live were razed to the ground. Fire trucks were slow in arriving because streets leading to the community were too narrow to give them access.

In the end, they sprayed water at the houses from an expressway above the community.

Muay told me that they managed to get out only in the clothes they were wearing.

"We shall just have to start again," she said bravely.

At my workplace, senior staff started a charity appeal to help the family. Muay's husband and his younger brother are on the full-time staff there, as am I.

When they are not doing their main job there, they help at the shop, which is about 30m away.

"At the moment we are renting a place behind our old home. They are about to level the ground and start building again. We own the place, so we want to get back there as soon as possible," said Chuay.

Walking past their shop today, you would not know that they lost everything in a fire. Nothing appears to have changed. No one walks around moping; they just carry on.

At the moment, we do not have much time to talk. I am usually going somewhere, and they are busy working.

"I will try to drink more often - maybe on Fridays, after work," I told Chuay.

Often I spot him at a motorcycle repair shop down the street, talking to male friends from the neighbourhood. He always wais, or gives me a wave.

"Any time you want to come back, we are waiting," he said.

Before I left, I asked their names. To my shame, I had forgotten them all, as I drink there so rarely. However, after all these years, they still know mine.

Chuay is now a young adult, making his way in the world, and eager to assume greater responsibility in the family.

He is tall and well-built for his age. I noticed he still has the same broken teeth formation that I remember seeing when I talked to him as a teen.

I doubt he's ever begrudged his parents the lack of money to fix his teeth; he just gets on with life.

I don't know where Thais learn to be so kind towards others, especially when they have nothing themselves. They make strangers feel as warm as family, even when they are not.

Man of the household (2)

When I first met Chuay eight years ago, he was barely into his teens. He has now finished school, and in his spare time plays for an American-football team.

The last time I last spoke to him, he was about to sit an exam to enter the police force.

It was time I caught up. The night after the motorbike ride, I dropped in to the shop.

I stopped to talk to Chuay, who was sitting at his Mum's shop.

"I sat the exam, but didn't get in. I found out later that I would need to pay B200,000-300,000 to get in to the police force, no matter how well I did in the exam. Either that, or I would have to have a relative working there.

"I don't have any family connections I can exploit to get in, and I wouldn't want it that way anyway. The police force is corrupt, and widely seen as such by Thais. I would rather be in the military instead," said Chuay.

He has now entered the military, and is working as a driver to an army chief. He works a regular Monday-Friday week, though if his boss is going somewhere overnight, he will say at the same place as him.

"I enjoy it. My Mum is getting older, and one day I want to tell her she can stop working at this shop, and that I will support everyone.

"First, though, I need to save money. Why I like my job? People respect the military more than the police, and the welfare entitlements are good.

''If anyone in my family falls sick, their medical care costs are covered by the state, because I am a soldier. I also get to serve my country," Chuay said.

One night in February, the family - Muay, her husband, Chuay, and the newest addition, a girl aged three - lost their home and belongings in a slum fire.

now, see part 3

Man of the household (1)

A Thai woman runs an eatery close to my workplace. She saw me walk past, on my way home. I had just finished work.

Mauy, 38, comes from Esan, in the Northeast. Her shop, which sells Esan food and alcohol, consists of metal tables lined up on the sidewalk against a wire fence.

It is basic, but a good, cheap place to eat and drink for people who work in the area.

Many years ago, I used to drink regularly at her shop. Now I rarely visit. The last time was a few months ago. Her shop is on the same road as my office.

Thais are expert at remembering people's names. Muay has always known mine, but until this week I couldn't remember hers.

When it rains, and she sees me walking past, Muay owner asks her son, Chuay, to take me to the office on the back of his motorbike, so I don't have to wade through puddles.

If he's not there, she will ask her husband to do it, or brother-in-law. All three have given me a lift down the road in the past.

In years gone by, the road would flood badly. I would take off my shoes, and wade through ankle-deep water to work.

When it rains, taxis fill up quickly, and tuk tuk drivers don't want to know.

Thanks to climate change, or maybe simply better drainage, flooding on the road is no longer so bad. But if Muay sees me, she will ask one of the boys to take me anyway.

They take me to my office, or in the opposite direction to my bus stop.

The other night, she asked Chuay, a handsome lad aged about 20, to take me to the end of the road towards my bus-stop.

Chuay hopped on his motorbike. I climbed on the back.

As we pootered down the road, I asked after the young man's mother.

"Is she okay?"

"She's fine," he said.

He asked me where I live, and if I had just finished work.

It was small talk. I rubbed his shoulders as we went.

now, see part 2