Back to Mum's shop, on a whim

The ferry heading for Pin Khlao

On a whim, I decided to catch a ferry boat down the Chao Phraya River.

‘Do you want to come?’ I asked boyfriend Maiyuu yesterday as I contemplated my adventure.

‘No...I want to make jelly and pears. But you go...it’s an outing, so should open your eyes and ears,’ he said.

Where to go? Mum's shop at Pin Khlao sounds like a good place. I hadn't been there in six months, since Maiyuu and I moved into town from the Thon Buri side of Bangkok.

I took a motorcycle taxi to the pier at Saphan Taksin, and a ferry boat down the river. It was packed, mainly with tourists, school students, and monks.

I overshot the pier by two stops, as I am not used to seeing the place from the river. I took another ferry back, and walked down to Mum's shop.

I have posted an image of the shop before. Here are a couple from Pin Klao bridge - one of my favourites in that area, apart from the stunning Rama VIII bridge. 

The ferry stops by the side of the Phra Pin-Klao bridge, which have I crossed by foot many times, including a few times in the early hours of the morning.

Pin Khlao bridge

A shot on the bridge

Arriving at the shop yesterday, Mum looked surprised to see me. We sat down for a catch-up, which took less than five minutes.

'We bought this marble table for the shop - 3,000 baht,' she said.

‘I have to go to the market. What a shame, you will miss the big party.’

Mum’s husband celebrates his 60th birthday today (I am writing this the morning after my visit), and has invited regulars to join them at the shop for food and drinks. I can’t go, as I shall be at work.

Mum has swapped shifts with her husband. After years of working the night shift, she now works days, while her husband comes out after 6pm.

'He wasn't sleeping properly...he was drinking here for hours after he knocked off. We changed over so he could get more rest.'

By midnight yesterday, some hours into my visit, the end of our little street was humming. My friend Farang C travelled out from town to join me, as did bad boy Kew, who brought a friend.

‘It is my birthday next month,’ said Mum. ‘Don’t forget!’

We were born in the same year, one month apart.

Mum will make several dishes for tonight's party, including green curry. She keeps a small gas stove space at the back of her shop.

Mum and I picked the tops off baby chili peppers during my visit yesterday, in preparation for the big night.

‘Are you still with your boyfriend?’ she asked.

‘I am...’

‘So you moved together?’

‘We did...’

She asked about my rent.

'I pay just a fraction of that price for my room just around the corner,' she said.

A walk was in order I thought, as I hadn't seen the neighbourhood in so long. Mum’s three dogs accompanied me.

At a food cart nearby I took a pork and rice dish, then dropped in to see Wut, who owns a smart eatery nearby.

When I arrived, Wut was standing on a foot ladder, putting up a light outside his shop.

‘Where did you go...you just disappeared!’ said Wut. ‘We don’t see you any more.’

‘I moved. We now live further away,’ I said.

'When it is finished, my place will have a bigger kitchen, more seating for customers, even space for a live band,' he said. 'You must come back for a visit.'

I visited the eatery next to Mum's place to use the toilet. Young Pao, a young tearaway from the Northeast who used to serve tables the last time I visited, still works there.

He is related to the owner. Actually, almost everyone who works here is related to the owner. We exchanged greetings.

'Hello, Pao,' he said.

He remembered my name. 'Hello, Mali,' he said, smiling.

‘He’s free!’ called out the cook, another relative, as I walked past.

She meant: ‘He has yet to find himself a boyfriend or girlfriend, so you can have him!’

I pretended not to hear. Pao is straight, but his family despairs of his chances of settling down quickly, so try to hitch him up with this lonely farang.

Actually, I am joking. I am sure they would rather that he end up with an Esan girl, though he will have to learn to be a provider first.

Kew turned up late, after hand-delivering flyers in the area, a part-time job which supplements his earnings as a security guard in town.

'How's your Mum?' I asked.

'She's at home,' he said, which is his usual answer whenever I ask after her health.

'I know she's at home...but how is she?' I asked, laughing.

Kew was growing teary, his usual reaction to drink.

'Come back again soon,' he said a few hours later, as farang C and I made our goodbyes.

'I will...maybe in two weeks,' I promised.

At Mum's shop, I feel I am in the company of family. Last night, our little family was reunited after months apart.

For more images of Pin Khlao and its bridges, see this collection of Instagram pics.

Minimalist Loy Krathong

Why jostle for space with the crowds on busy Loy Krathong night, when you can float your own boat at home?

Maiyuu and I tried something new last night. Rather than join the crowds on Pra Ram 3, the closest revelling spot to our home, we conducted our own candle-lit ceremony in the bathtub.

While families and young couples cast their candle-lit banana boats into the Chao Phraya River, we decided to stay indoors and do it privately instead.

About 9.30pm, Maiyuu went out to buy two krathong. ‘Have you taken a shower yet?’ he asked. ‘Do it now, because we need to use the bath to float the krathong.’

I did as I was told. Half an hour later, we charged the bath, and lit the floats.

Maiyuu held his, the smaller one, momentarily to his head, and made a silent wish, presumably for good fortune in the year ahead. He cast it afloat.

I cast a silent wish for the boyfriend. ‘I wish you happiness in the year ahead,’ I thought as I held my float to my forehead.

I cast my boat in the bath to float about with its little brother, turned off the light, and kissed Maiyuu's head.

For Maiyuu, the romance of the moment passed quickly. As I sat watching the floats, Maiyuu inspected the wall. He had just bought a towel holder for the bathroom, and was figuring out where to place it.

The city puts on a fireworks display for Loy Krathong each year. Half an hour later, we stood on the balcony to watch as the firworks burst into the sky over Silom.

For us, Loy Krathong was quiet, but romantic nonetheless.

See blogger Nye Noona's explanation of Loy Krathong here.

Last year, I visited a canal close to our old place in Thon Buri to watch families set their leafy candle-lit boats into the river.

The year before, I mixed with kathoey, young gays and a bossy trader to float a krathong close to Mum’s shop in Pin Khlao.

Keeping the riff-raff out, gay search by Thai cop

Tiring of youngsters on motorbikes and taxis passing through this condo on the way to the main road, the owners of this complex have now erected large metal green doors at one entrance.

After 11pm, they close the doors to stop vehicles getting through, so that residents inside are no longer bothered by the noise, and can sleep in peace.

The security guard abandons his post at that end, and goes to sit at the other entrance, manned by a wooden barrier. He keeps that closed, too.

If residents return after 11pm they must open the doors to let themselves in, which is fine if you are on foot, but less convenient if you have to get out of your car.

Still, it’s better than letting the public in.

During the day, non-residents are also being fined if they want to pass through the condo precinct – 10 baht for motorcycles, 15 baht for cars.

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Maiyuu met a policeman as he left the condo on foot. He was carrying a tap fitting, which he had just bought at Klong Thom market, when a passing policeman stopped him.

The policeman asked him where he was going. ‘I am walking out to the main road to get a taxi, to see a friend,’ Maiyuu replied.

It was after midnight, and Maiyuu was in a residential area, so perhaps the policeman was suspicious.

Or maybe he just wanted to subject Maiyuu to a gay body search, which Thai police have down to a fine art.

I have seen police search young motorcyclists by the side of the road. They don’t just pat their pockets, or frisk them, but rub, as if trying to get themselves aroused.

‘Lift your shirt,’ the policeman ordered.

Maiyuu did as he was told.

Rub, rub over his chest.

Then he started on his pants.

Grope, rub, feel.

The policeman, whom Maiyuu reckons was drunk, then asked to see his identity card.

Maiyuu handed it over, but still the policeman would not let him go.

‘You should come with me for a urine test,’ said the cop.

‘I am not going anywhere for a test, as I don’t drink and am going about my business. What is it that you want...money?’ asked Maiyuu.

‘I don’t want money,’ said the policeman, who was wearing uniform.

‘So why don’t you let me go?’

The policeman asked to search Maiyuu a second time. He refused, and walked away.

‘Hey...I said stop!’ barked the cop.

‘I am not stopping. If you want to take my ID card, then take it. But I am carrying on,’ said Maiyuu, who left, leaving the policeman standing there with his card.

At home, Maiyuu was angry.

‘He talked about calling a police friend to help him search me,’ he complained.

The encounter left my boyfriend feeling nervous. He peered out the window of our condo, and made several trips down to the forecourt to see if the policeman would come back.

‘The card is just about to expire, so I will make a new one,’ he said.

‘I might also ask the motorcycle taxi guys if they know the policeman, or where he works,’ he said.

Police here are a menace, because some act as if they are a law unto themselves.

Maiyuu has decided against visiting the police station to lodge a complaint, as that could provoke them.

He was needlessly harassed, lost his card, and subjected to a gay body search. But that was minor, by the standards of some Thai police.

Next time he could lose money or worse, so why tempt fate.

Nervous driver/cook, skinny-leg jeans

‘When is the last time you were behind the wheel of a car?’ asked my father, pointing at the family vehicle.

‘More than two years ago,’ I admitted.

The last time was on a previous visit to see my parents. I drove their car on the dirt roads around a large historical park and picnic area close to home, with Dad in the passenger seat.

Dad gets me to try out driving when I am staying with them because it is the only chance I get to exercise whatever remains of my driving skills.

In Thailand, I do not own a car. In the past nine years, I have probably driven a vehicle for no longer than half an hour in total, and always when I am overseas with my parents.

Here, I get about in taxis, or friends take me.

My parents want me to keep up my driving skills, as one day I might return to the West to live. There, I would have to be more independent. In my last life I owned a car and drove regularly.

‘Would you like to have a go?’ he asked.

I climbed in behind the wheel, while Dad took the passenger seat.

I should join a reality show on mastering real-life challenges. The previous night, I tried cooking a meal, again for the first time in more than two years.

It’s not nerve-wracking; it’s just depressing, realising how much I have forgotten, and how lacking in confidence I had become. Once, I cooked regularly.

This time, Mum was my instructor.

Just as Dad is worried about whether I can still recall how to drive, Mum is concerned that in the Land of Smiles, I rarely make food.

In Bangkok, cooked Thai food is available for sale on the streets. I no longer have to provide for my own needs. Apart from that, boyfriend Maiyuu enjoys cooking, so I rarely feel the need to pick up a saucepan or chop up a clove of garlic myself.

‘Let me make dinner tonight. I want to give you a break,' I said.

‘What do you want to make?’ Mum asked.

‘Well...whatever you like, as I might need your help,’ I said.

We made a lamb chop casserole, made from one of Mum’s recipes, which she had inherited from her own mother years before.

She assembled the meat and vegetables on the bench, found the fry pan and saucepans, and lit the gas.

‘When you cut the onions, look out for your eyes,’ said Mum helpfully.

The evening meal was a success, though most of the credit has to go to my mother, who had planned the meal the evening before, and knew we had everything we needed to make it.

‘This is delicious,’ said Mum approvingly.

‘Really, it was all your work,’ I replied.

That was just the warming-up exercise in showing me how much I have forgotten since I left the West for Thailand. Next day, as I say, I was to dust off a few skills outside home, as Dad attempted to show me how to drive.

Behind the wheel, I started the engine, but the gear would not shift from parking mode.

‘How do you get the thing to move?’

‘Put your foot on the brake. It releases the gear,’ he said.

We crawled down the driveway, and on to the road outside, which was deserted.

I drove for 50m, when double lines suddenly appeared on the road.

‘This doesn’t feel good. The lines in the middle make my lane feel too narrow,’ I said.

Dad had asked if I wanted to take the car down the road to fill up with petrol. I decided against, as I might have to share the road with other vehicles. Avoiding other cars might be too hard.

Dad suggested it might be time for him to take over.

He didn’t bother praising my driving, because both of us knew I was no good.

Mum, however, provided words of comfort, as she too feels uncomfortable on the road.

‘When I drive, Dad gets feels just an anxious,’ she said.

‘Will you try cooking when you get back to Bangkok?’

‘I will have to ask the Master of the Kitchen,’ I said, referring to Maiyuu.

Back in Bangkok, I asked Maiyuu if he would let me cook for us occasionally.

I used to enjoy cooking simple evening meals when I lived in the West. I reckon I could get those old feelings back again, I told myself.

In any event, I owe it to myself and my parents to try, right?

‘If you cooked, I’d have to spend all my time cleaning up the mess,’ said Maiyuu.

The next day, I tried again.

‘Can I cook?’ I asked.

‘Unless you are a chef of professional standard, access to the kitchen is forbidden!’ he declared.

I will have to save my enthusiasm for cooking for future visits to my parents.

My visits overseas provide an escape from the narrow, at times suffocating life I live in exciting Bangkok.

I am like a child, learning how to take first steps in the adult world again. My poor parents are having to show me how to do things again which they long ago must have hoped I had mastered, such as chopping up the vegetables.

Despite that, my parents and I enjoy each other’s company more as we get older. We should make the most of the opportunity while we can.

-

The skinny low-rise look

Low-rise jeans which cling to the hips and the legs are popular with the young, including Maiyuu, who turned up at the airport to greet me in a pair.

I can’t see the appeal. On skinny legs, they make men look spindly. On fat legs, they make them look even bigger.

Writing at the popular Pantip webboard, one daring poster is wondering why young men bother.

‘I know these are the fashion, but just how are they supposed to make me look fashionable or trendy?’ he asked.

‘It depends on the wearer,’ readers replied.

Condo gets make over, boyfriend goes bohemian, Mr Graceful says goodbye

I walked into my condo, and barely recognised it.

Boyfriend Maiyuu has taken advantage of my absence over the last 10 days to revamp the place.

Gone are the writing table and bed base in his room. He is now sleeping with the mattress on the floor.

The computer, which used to sit on his desk, is now on the floor. He has even bought a dinky fan to keep himself cool while he is using it.

Maiyuu switches into busy gear when I go away. He appears to relish the freedom which my absence provides. He can go to work on ‘big picture’ stuff, as he can suit himself what he does, and at what pace.

'I can do a much better job at cleaning and decorating when there are no farang around nagging me to clean this and do that,’ he told me on the way back from the airport.

We took a taxi home, but he took a bus out to the airport to greet me, to save money.

Maiyuu has also cleaned the place top to bottom, and hung pictures on the walls.

But the highlight of his welcome home was undoubtedly the changes he made to my room. Maiyuu moved the bed sideways, so it is now parallel to the green-tinted windows rather than at a right angle.

The headboard is now in front of where I used to sit at the computer. My old built-in table has now become an extended headboard, where I have placed framed pictures of my family.

Maiyuu also bought a two-tiered study desk for my computer, which you can see in the picture. Now, when I am working, I can turn to my left and watch him in the sitting room.

Before I had to leave my work station if I wanted to talk to him.

This is the first big shake-up of the furniture and other arrangements in our place since we moved in six months ago, and our condo looks much better for it.

If I want to know how much Maiyuu has missed me, I need only look around at the changes he has made. It’s all there, in the many hours he must have spent cleaning and transforming the place.

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At the airport, Maiyuu turned up looking fashionably depleted – a faded pair of jeans, cardigan over a T-shirt, and bright green sneakers without socks.

‘You look sir-sir...in a good way, ‘ I said, referring to the Thai word for fashionably bohemian, or rough.

‘Run down and haggard, more like it,’ replied Maiyuu, though his face was beaming.

When I am away Maiyuu rarely looks after himself properly, as it is no fun to eat alone.

‘I make food for myself, but it does not taste as good,’ he told me in a text message while I was away.

-
The graceful one has gone. Silom Farang wants a break from daily
blogging, and has stopped filing regular updates to his blog, Gay Boy Thailand.

The story of Silom’s adventures in the Land of Smiles was pulling in
3,000 or more readers a day by the time he pulled the plug last week.

It was much more than just a picture blog, Thai novel or diary of life with his Thai boyfriend, though it was all of those as well.

It was him; Silom’s ‘voice’ came across clearly in everything he wrote.

He treasured his interaction with readers, perhaps even needed it,
which gave his writing an earnest and vulnerable quality which is
lacking in many other Thai blogs, mine included.

He wrote in a personal manner, like a friend. At times I wondered what Silom might have made of some of my Thai encounters. In the manner of any good friend, he appeared to be there, watching.

By nature, Thais are gentle and self-effacing. The same qualities come across in
Silom's writing, which made his blog better suited to his subject matter than perhaps even he himself realised.

He is Gentleman Silom, and we are fortunate for having known him
through his blog.