Peak inside Ball's slum soi

He lives at the end of that grim alleyway

Carer R had ducked home for a midday kip when I turned up at the slum market yesterday.

It was shortly after noon, and I had missed him by minutes. I found trader Joe instead, laying out beef in baskets to sun-dry.

Joe was among guests who joined at our New Year’s Eve drinkathon at carer R’s fragrant-booze stall the other night.

He knows carer R, who is 22 and probably 20 years his junior.

That puts Joe in my own age category.

‘We went for a noodle together, came back here, and R has just gone home for a nap,’ said Joe, explaining R's absence.

I can’t fall sleep on a bowl of noodles, but I am not Thai. Only a sturdy rice dish does the trick for me.

‘How is Ball?’ I asked, referring to the young man with self-lacerated legs, another guest at our drinks party the other night.

Ball is 19, and a possible father-to-be. He loves football, is between jobs (but used to work in a supermarket), and needs friends.

‘I haven’t seen him since the other night,’ said Joe. ‘He’ll be out in the evening...he comes out for a drink every night.

‘He lives inside the community there,’ said Joe, pointing to an alleyway behind us, which leads into a slum.

Normally, I would try to avoid such areas, as the Thais who live there may not want farang looking closely at the way they live.

After leaving Joe, I took a peak down the alleyway.

Three or four builders were lugging construction materials into the slum area.

I joined their builders' march, and at the T-junction stole a peak.

I found narrow rows of two-storey houses squeezed together, competing for space.

The T-junction stank of human urine. It was not a good place to be.

I felt a pang of pity for Mr Ball.

'Are you here?' I thought. 'I hope you are okay.'

In search of a surrogate Dad

‘No matter whether they are men or women, I don’t like my friends getting too close,’ said carer R.

‘I am shy, so I like people to keep their distance.’

I drank at carer R’s booze stall in the slum area behind my place on New Year’s Eve.

Earlier the same day, I had come cross him standing in the vacant slum lot between his place and mine.

He had a cellphone pressed to his ear. I peered into his face, so I could admire his handsome features as he spoke.

‘Don’t stare at me like that!’ he said, leaving abruptly.

That night, as our group sat drinking at his Thai herbal liquor stall, R apologised for his abrupt departure. ‘I don’t even like my girlfriend getting too close to me,’ he said.

When I met him in the vacant lot, he was listening to a recording of a woman from the telephone company.

One of R’s neighbours, a 79-year-old man called Grandpa, was having trouble with his cellphone.

‘I took him to the department store today to help him pay the bill and fix his phone problem, as I don’t think he could have done it himself,’ said carer R.

‘You are kind,’ I told him.

‘Actually, I am not always so kind – but I know I can say whatever I like around you, as you like me,’ he joked.

Our New Year’s Eve party was held around a small table at carer R’s booze stand.

Guests included Grandpa, and a 19 year-old possible father-to-be, Ball. Both live close to R's stall, which is set up on a simple red table at the end of a narrow street in which carer R himself lives.

The street abuts a busy road with a 7-11 on one side, and a vacant lot leading to the rear of my condo on the other.

These colourful characters were just the mainstays of the evening. As we sat drinking, teens roared past on motorcycles. Mothers harried by with their children, and kids aged under 10 set off firecrackers in the vacant lot.

Half an hour into our session at R’s stall, two men lifted their shirts to show me their battle scars.

One man in his 30s, who had a deep scar running down his stomach, said he earned his scar in an operation on his bladder. ‘I drank too much and it burst,’ he said.

‘I didn’t know that could happen,’ I said.

The second man was Lort, aged 47, partner to Ball's mother.

He showed me his scar, in an almost identical place.

‘My scar comes from a traffic accident,’ he said.

Early in the evening, I met Mr Ball himself.

He lives with an extended family of eight, including Lort, and two infants, including an adopted baby girl.

Trader Joe, the other guy with the scar, knew Ball’s father, now dead.

'I have watched Ball grow up since he was boy,' he said.

A dried fish trader, Joe is a regular customer at carer R’s stand, as is Ball himself.

Lort ducked back into the slum for a moment, and emerged with Fresh, the household's adopted baby daughter.

I held her tiny figure my arms, my first baby hug in months, if not years. She cried, so I gave her back.

‘She is not used to farang faces,’ said Lort.

After Lort left, Ball opened up about his life at home.

He is not happy that Mum has a new man in his life, even if Lort has been around a few years now.

Ball’s dad died several years ago of an alcohol-related illness, but Ball misses him and wishes life could be the same.

‘He was so ill before he died that I used to spoon-feed him rice,’ said Ball, who started to cry as he recalled good times with his father.

‘My Mum is happy that I have a girlfriend, and is prepared to help us bring up our child...but when I feel lonely I still need someone who can listen to me.

‘I do harm to myself,’ he said, pulling up his shorts legs.

His legs were scarred - the legacy of Ball unleashing a knife upon himself one day when he felt in need of attention.

Ball’s girlfriend turned up, and sat with us for half an hour.

'She is two weeks’ pregnant by me,' said Ball, who has the face of an angel and is a keen follower of English football.

‘I can be a listening ear for you when you want to unload,’ I told him.

He liked that idea, as he promptly went into protective mode, fussing over me for the rest of the evening as best a 19-year-old man can.

Carer R also enjoys offering Ball advice.

‘When we want to ask the farang questions about his life, we should ask him first if he minds talking about personal things,’ carer R reminded Ball.

‘And if you really want to know about someone, you should ask him about his work,’ he said.

‘If you want a surrogate Dad, you have found him in carer R,’ I told Ball.

‘He is an excellent teacher, and cares for you very much.’

Indian temple curry adventure

Wat Kaek

Maiyuu is getting over from his cold bug quickly. He has mounted a recovery in just 24 hours, half the time it took me.

That is at it should be, however, as Maiyuu is 10 years younger.

This morning he took a long bicycle ride to Wat Kaek (Wat Prasri Maha Umathewee) in Silom.

That’s the little temple squeezed between high-rises in the central business district.

The temple, forever enveloped in a cloud of incense vapour, is a favourite with Indians and tourists.

I saw it last a few weeks ago.

My friend farang C and I were paying a visit to that wholesale computer barn, Pantip Plaza, which is nearby.

After looking at computers and cameras at Pantip Plaza, we caught a skytrain home from Surasak station, next to the temple. It was covered in incense that day, too, so much so that I could barely make out the tourists milling about outside.

But enough of the travelogue, and back to Maiyuu.

My boyfriend, a practical type, cycled to the temple not to make merit, pray, mix shoulders with wealthy Indians – but to fill our stomachs.

He has found a trader at the temple who sells tasty khao mok gai, a favourite chicken dish of ours.

‘I bought khao mok gai from the temple the other day, and you said you liked it, so today I will bike there again,’ Maiyuu said before heading out the door.

He was carrying his bicycle pump, and a small bag with a carry string which holds his wallet.

‘If you are not feeling well, you don’t need to go that far,’ I said.

I do remember the khao mok gai meal from last week, but didn't realise he had travelled as far as the temple to get it.

Maiyuu shrugged, and headed for the lift.

I sounded half-hearted at best, for I do truly like the spicy chicken, curry rice and sweet cucumber which Maiyuu buys from those parts.

Half an hour later, he was home. 

Last night, even s his energy sagged, he whipped up a clear soup with tofu and mince balls, and a beef vegetable dish.

PS: May I wish readers a Happy New Year. Normal service will resume just as soon as I feel better.

One side of Bangkok you don't want to see

I found him lying prone in this soi, down by the second power line

Maiyuu has now picked up my head cold.

I will return the interest he has shown in me over the last few days as I myself suffered with this bug.

He has not asked me once how I am feeling, and only mentioned the subject twice.

It is no fun being ill, as we all know. But if a loved one asks after our health, it can make us feel so much better.

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I was about to step over what I took to be a pile of household or shop waste when I heard it moan.

Thais leave their waste on the sidewalk for rubbish men to remove. It was late at night, and visibility in the deserted street was poor.

I looked down and found I was actually stepping over a thin, bare-chested man.

He was lying face down on the road, making hoarse, gasping sounds.

This was not the groaning of a drunk, sleeping off a hard night on the footpath, but a hair-raising, deep in the soul noise which sounded almost inhuman.

As he exhaled, his spindly chest heaved. ‘Hooooaaaarrr...’

I have never heard anything like it, except in dogs.

Occasionally I come across lame street dogs so racked with disease they can no longer move.

They look beyond help, though probably not beyond sympathy.

The man looked in his 60s and wore a loincloth, but nothing on his feet.

He was lying outside a dilapidated shop, about 50m down the road from a 7-11 store I had come to visit in urgent need of grocery items.

A woman in her 50s sat inside her aged shop, watching him sucking dust.

Perhaps she knew the man, or perhaps he had crawled down the street and ended up there.

'Leave him alone, dear,' she advised. She watched him intently, but showed no other interest.

Where in some circumstances I might stop and offer help, this was just too far gone.

Before sunrise, someone will have packed him up and taken him away, just like those mounds of rubbish on the street.

Back at home, I told Maiyuu about my slum-side encounter.

‘He’s mad...there’s plenty of them around here. Don’t go messing with him,’ he said.

Christmas cheer (not)

I have a head and chest cold, which is no way to celebrate Christmas. Maiyuu and I have also run out of money, so will have to scrimp and pare until pay day arrives in the middle of next week.

I worked yesterday and on Christmas Eve. Walking down the condo entrance towards home last night I noticed a Christmas tree standing proudly in the window of an upper-storey unit. The fairy lights blinked at me from above.

We have no Christmas tree ourselves this year, possibly because we threw the old one out when we moved months ago. So, no cheery reminders of Christmas there.

My office held its Christmas party the other day. As the beer flowed, I felt some seasonal cheer towards my colleagues, but not much. We are in the midst of a restructuring exercise, which could drag on for months yet.

On the day of the office party, I left home at 12.45pm, getting home about 10pm.

I felt sorry for Maiyuu, sitting alone in the condo all day. He does not work, so has to miss out.

This is the season to be jolly, or so they say. I am trying to imagine how my parents, brother and sisters are spending Christmas in the company of their friends and families.

I wish I could share the festive season with them too, as my family and I have spent too many years apart.

One day, we will have to do a ‘catch up’, as the young like to say. Lives are passing by. Where am I?