Looting in Silom, a day in Ball's slummy life

Red shirt protester smashes up a 7-11 in Silom (file pic)

Maiyuu passed scenes of looting while cycling to Silom this morning.

Thugs had looted one 7-11 store he passed. The window was smashed, and the stock inside had been cleared away, possibly by the staff removing it for safekeeping rather than the people who did the offending.

The glass doors of a a bank were smashed. He also passed a bank of blackened ATM machines, which protesters had firebombed.

Youth on motorcycles buzzed about, but otherwise the streets were quiet.

Maiyuu took a side road to avoid a large group of soldiers, bought his food supplies in Silom, and hurried back. With parts of the city in an apparent state of lawlessness, why chance fate?

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Here is a selection of remarks from the lively comments section of this blog’s most recent post, about Mr Ball and his family in the slums.

Anon:

What if an 80yr old gay man took a liking to you and you had no interest in him sexually but he seemed to benefit you in different ways?

YOU WOULDNT LIKE IT.

Me (reply):

I must admit I have doubts about whether the relationship between Ball's family and myself is really 'natural'. Ball can still be awkward around me. He probably feels sorry for me.

However, he also understands why I might feel a need to care for someone in a family setting. 'You are far from home, and lonely,' he said once.

Part of me hopes for some development which changes everything, and which might lead to a parting of the ways which is just as 'natural'. It hasn't happened yet.

However, for the most part I just try to fit in. If I go out with them for the day, I help look after the little ones, just as the older ones such as Ball and his girlfriend Jay do.

At times, Jay dislikes my being around, which compounds my feelings of being an odd hanger-on.

Yet in that regard I probably feel the same way as many other farang who become part of a Thai family.

Anon:

You've written that anyone can walk into mum's house and sit down - just like you do. Are you sure that makes you one of the family?

Me (reply):

No, I'm not. Sometimes Mum looks startled when I hand her some money and suggest she buys this or that for the kids. 'Where did he get that idea?' she appears to be thinking.

Handing over money doesn't make me part of the family, as I can show interest in the welfare of its members anyway...by sharing in fun family moments, helping take care of the toddlers, and listening to Mum unload.

I still have to contribute something, of course, as even a visit to the department store can be expensive. Why should they pay for me?

If I didn't contribute, I'd become just another hanger-on - and Mum has enough relatives who has stuffed up their lives and rely on her for financial support as it is.

I have no claim to be a hanger-on, as I am not related...so I have to help with money occasionally. The question is, how much?

Assume Mum knows that I love her son. She is happy to accept my support as an expression of the way I feel.

I have my own reasons for being here...loneliness, perhaps. Who cares? Thais would tend to regard it as my business. No one asks why I am there, even though I am sitting in their own home.

But I don't think we should assume that the more money I give, the more eager they are to embrace my presence.

It's possible that a bare minimum would do; and that I have gained the right to be there because they enjoy a foreigner's presence, or because Thais are hospitable and generous people.

But where my financial contributions are concerned, if I knew what the bare minimum was, I'd embrace it eagerly myself!

Fran:

Do you really believe that by encouraging Ball's daily drinking, his laziness, his unwillingness to work, his long sleeping hours, his useless and purposeless life you are helping him to fulfil "his duty in life [which will] be complete when he is able to look after his mother, and his future wife and children"?

If you believe he can do it with his present life style, then it would be helpful to check your thinking process in an effort to make it logical and reasonable. Believe my good intentions.

Me:

Mr Ball is younger than many 19-year-olds, I suspect...and that is probably a product of the sad environment in which he lives.

I knew a young Thai once, only one year older than Ball, and lucky enough to come from a middle-class home.

By the time I met him, he had been on several trips to Australia, even to Europe, travelling alone.

When he felt like a break without going overseas, he would catch a bus to Hua Hin and stay in a fancy hotel by the beach for the weekend.

Compare his fortune with my friends from the slums. Mr Ball, a keen fan of English football, spent the day yesterday in a gaudy football shirt and shorts; he was intending to go out to play with his friends, but in the end stayed put.

That was the closest he was able to entertain dreams of life beyond the slums. His Mum abandoned Ball and the rest of his family at home while she played HiLo with friends nearby.

In the early evening, his elder sister went out to buy food in the market. Apart from one other simple meal which I bought for them earlier in the day - enough to feed two people, perhaps - no food appeared at their place all day.

In mid-afternoon, when I met Ball, he had eaten Mama instant noodles - the only thing which he could find to eat.

When I dropped in again at midnight, he was still awake, looking after toddler Feh, who refused to sleep.

His mother still wasn't back. In her absence, he and his girlfriend took turns waking to take care of the baby.

Is that a fair way to treat two young people still in their teens? I don't think so.

I didn't ask about the others...it's too depressing, and worrying about Ball alone is enough.

Anchan flowers, home sweet home

We’re coming up blue at our place. Boyfriend Maiyuu bought some blue anchan flowers, which go into Thai drinks and deserts.

He dried them on the balcony, and since then has put them into a blue, slightly sweet drink called nam dok anchan (น้ำดอกอัญชัญ).

He has also made ice-cubes out of them, and even put them into rice to turn its colour blue.

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I have spoken to Mr Noom a couple of times by phone since he returned to his home province of Roi Et to start the new school term.

We didn’t have much to say. The phone signal was weak, so I could not ask much about his life.

The first time I called, I could barely hear a thing, so had to cut our conversation short. The second time, he was having a meal with his family.

I still order a meal every night from the food stand where he spent his summer holidays, and where I met him shortly before his return to the provinces last week.

‘Has Noom called?’ asked the woman who introduced us, and who takes my orders.

‘We have spoken, but he is now back at school, so it is hard to find a time when he is free,’ I said.

I won’t call much more. The words, ‘Where do you think this is going?’ keep ringing in my head.

A farang friend asks me that question about my relationship with Ball and his slum family, but it might as well apply here.

To put it more bluntly, we could ask: ‘what are you getting out of it?’

I don’t expect my relationship with Mr Noom to head anywhere, as I have a boyfriend of my own, and a slum family nearby too. Both keep me busy, and happy. That’s enough.

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An anonymous reader leaves this remark in the lively comments section of this blog's most recent post:

‘It take a certain type of teenager that looks around and says ..im out of here...and takes school serious and gets out of the slums.....if ball was this type he would be studying english will anything he could get his hands on and keep a job and figure out how to better his social condition.’

How many young men do you know who do that?

Let me describe his place to you.

Mum has at least eight people living under her roof. It is a two-storey wooden house in a bad state of repair. Only one room, her bedroom, has air con.

Downstairs is the sole toilet/shower, sitting room, Mum’s bedroom, and her youngest son Mr B’s bedroom.

A see-through slide door is all that separates Mr B’s room from his mother’s.

Access to their home is on one side only, along a slum alleyway. It has two doorways. If I stand in either, I can view everything in the living room.

Mr B shares his room, which has no permanent bed, with an old computer and a wardrobe. He has no privacy, as people move in and out of there all day.

Mr B usually sleeps on the sofa in the sitting room, on his Mum’s mattress bed, or on the floor.

On the storey above is Ball’s bedroom, which he shares with his girlfriend; and his elder sister’s bedroom, which she shares with her boyfriend, and their son. I can barely get up the stairs to reach the top storey, as the wooden staircase is so narrow.

The other toddler of the household, Fresh, sleeps with whoever goes to bed first. When I called last night shortly before 11pm, Mr Ball had just taken her to bed.

During the day, the family occupies the living room space or Mum’s bedroom, as the top storey gets too hot.

When everybody is at home, space on the ground floor is at a premium; if I am sitting on the floor, as I usually am, I find it difficult to know where to put my legs.

There is no kitchen, or kitchen table. They place food on a low-rise tray. The sitting room also has a dusty display chest, a stereo and TV. I can recall seeing only one chair.

Clothes and towels are dumped on shelves along the wall; anywhere where they can find space for them, in fact.

The sole sofa is old but can fold down to serve as a bed for family guests. Family members cook on a small gas cooker placed in the doorway entrance.

I have to squeeze past it to get into the place. If they are cooking on it when I arrive, I have to use the other doorway, as I can’t get past it when oil is bubbling away in the wok; I might tip it up, and get burnt.

On a hot day, up to three or fans might be going at once.

The two toddlers need only crawl across the living room floor, and they're in the slum alleyway.

We pull them back from the doorway to stop them going too far. If they head out there - a pile of slum rubbish sits right outside Ball's front door - we will have to clean their hands and feet.

I visited yesterday about 5pm before work. Mr Ball was moving about restlessly in the living room. He could only sit still for a few minutes before having to get up again. The space was too small for him, the day was too hot, and his general surroundings, I imagine, were driving him mad.

Earlier yesterday, I watched Ball play with Nong Fresh for half an hour, and nurse her to sleep. As he arranged her sleeping body on the floor, I complimented Ball on his skills with children.

‘You could be a Dad now, I reckon...if you had a job,’ I said. ‘How many children would you like?’

‘Two or three might be enough,’ he said quietly.

Here’s a blunt message for Mr Anon.

Ball believes his duty in life will be complete when he is able to look after his mother, and his future wife and children. He has yet to find a steady or reliable job, but will get there...he’s only 19, for goodness sake.

Far from wanting to get away from the slum, he regards it as his home. As long his mother is there, so will he remain, as she is the anchor of his family life.

It's his job, as her son, to repay the sacrifices she’s endured in bringing him up. I imagine he would think about moving out only once he has a more stable or secure income, and has passed a few other milestones in his life, like military conscription.

It's the Thai way. How many Western youngsters feel so obliged?

In some ways, these people are brave. There's no white flag hanging above their door.

Happy home, new man interest, Ball's bosom buddy

Relations in our household are back on a strong footing after a rocky few days (which explains my silence, dear readers – sorry).

Boyfriend Maiyuu was already upset about the amount of time I was spending with Ball and his slum family.

However, a new argument developed soon afterwards about my moods...and Maiyuu's moods...as neither of us was talking much to the other.

‘I have a headache,’ I claimed. That was an excuse, but it did not buy me much time. ‘We need to forgive each other before we can start again,’ I said.

Maiyuu was also upset about my dictatorial attitudes. When last month’s power bill came in, we gasped: B4,000! I can’t recall it ever being so high. Since then we have been trying to ration our use of the air con machines. ‘On for two hours, off for one,’ suggested Maiyuu. I agreed.

Earlier, the battle over the air con had threatened to become another issue. For my liking, he uses it too much. From his point of view, I am being unreasonable. It is the hottest part of the year, and difficult to walk even 50m outside without starting to melt.

When Maiyuu is in good form, he operates on a high level. This morning, by the time I woke, he had been out to the supermarket. He cleaned the floor with a new half mop/half broom tool he has bought.

As I write, he is making us a chicken dish for breakfast. When his morning’s work is done he will retire to the couch in front of the TV, and put on the air.
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For the last few days, I have been ordering Thai food from a place on the footpath close to my work.

Every day, the Thai family which runs it unpacks the metal tables, coolers, boxes and what have you, transforming what is a grotty sidewalk, next to a railway track and running under a grimy overhead bridge, into a lively eating space.

I had walked past the shop every day for months when I decided I should give it a go. I placed an order, and took a seat while I waited. Half a dozen young people were working there, I noticed, including two young guys.

One, tallish and handsome, was straight. The other, squarish looking and cute rather than handsome, was gay.

The gay one chatted to me shyly as the girls looked on, giggling.

A middle-aged Thai from work turned up one day. He must have seen the youngsters fussing over me. I hope he felt jealous...only foreigners get this much curious attention.

Last night, the woman who cooks asked me a question. She popped it even before I could decide what I wanted to eat.

‘Can the young one have your phone number?’ she asked.

I knew which one she meant: the gay guy.

Thais often ask friends or family to request phone numbers on their behalf, presumably so they won''t suffer rejection if the answer is No.

I sat down and wrote it out, as the girls looked on. They had been briefed on the assignment, and asked me questions: my name, where I come from...

The young one’s name is Noom. He was dressed in a patterned, collared shirt, singlet, and smart patterned shorts. I wondered why he looked so good; normally he wears simple black shorts, and a black or white T-shirt.

‘I am going back to my home province of Roi Et. I came here to Bangkok to help during the mid-term break,’ he said.

‘What do you study?’ I asked, thinking he might be university-age.

‘I am in Mor 6, the final year of secondary school. When I finish, I want to study teaching at university, though where I end up will depend on how well I do in entrance exams,’ he said.

Sigh...why can’t the Lord send me someone in his early 20s for a change?

Later in the night, I was walking home from work when I noticed the shop was still open.
I crossed the road to talk to the woman who had asked me earlier for my number.

She was probably in his mid-30s, and looked like she might be a Mum. They work hard: on busy days, the shop opens at 2pm, and won't close until about 12 hours later.

‘Noom took the bus home to Roi Et earlier tonight, and won’t be back until October,’ she said.

So, that’s why he was dressed up: for the overnight bus back to Esan. How sweet. He was interested in staying in contact, she said.

‘I will carry on turning up every night, ordering as I did before, and if he wants to get in contact, he can call,’ I said, saying my goodbyes.
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Ball’s mother called as I was heading home.

She was somewhere else – possibly playing her HiLo – but her son had just been to see her.
I can just imagine what prompted the visit to his mother, and why she called me.

Ball wanted to suck on the teat of the brown stuff, and Mum wanted me to pay.

‘I will drop in,’ I said.

When I arrived at his place, I stood at the door observing, as I normally do.

Inside, Ball’s younger brother Mr B and Tum, the boyfriend of elder sister Kae, were seated, chatting.

Ball, wearing clingy shorts and a T-shirt, emerged from his mother’s room opposite where I stood in the doorway.

‘Come in,’ he said.

I had second thoughts. ‘No, thanks...it’s okay,’ I said.

I walked the rest of the way home.

An hour after I arrived at my place, Mum called, but after half a dozen rings thought better of it. The phone fell silent for the night.

Someone has to learn to say no to this young man, or at least push him out the door to look for work.

He’s chosen the hottest time of the year to quit his job as a security guard, at an air-con office in Silom.

I don’t expect he’ll find anything else in a hurry, so the rot will carry on.

It happens naturally, dear reader

Readers have left lively responses to yesterday's post. Here's my response to criticisms by one anonymous reader.

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Anonymous wrote: 'I've always wondered if I knew you, I'd see your world through your eyes.. and have a similar point of view.. or would I see you as a predator from the first-world, who's feeding off the labors and energy of those you try to manipulate.'

Wonder no longer. We'd have little, if anything in common, I suspect.

It's a family thing; I enjoy being with them all. It's not just about me, or Ball. He has a girlfriend, and when the two of them are happy and getting along, they are wonderful together.

There's also Mum. She calls me to unload about Ball, to ask me about him when she is not present, and occasionally to seek my advice.

Early this morning she called about a small drama which occurred last night between Ball, girlfriend Jay and Mum herself. I didn't have to talk, just listen.

As it happens, I agreed with every word she said, and at the right moments said so.

Idle taxi driver Lort - now in hospital with a diabetes-related illness, his comatose-like condition little improved - wants no part in this family's life.

I do. That's the difference, and Mum has spotted it. She talks to me like she would her own partner, if she had a real one.

Mum wants a man she can talk to about Mr Ball and his girlfriend. We seldom talk about Mr B, her youngest son, or her daughter Kae. Perhaps they don't cause her as much trouble.

Mum talked to me for 10 minutes. I told her I'd drop in to see them in early afternoon.

I'm doing the family thing. If Mum thought I meant ill by her son, she wouldn't call.

As for Mr Ball and his fondness for the brown stuff, I do no more to encourage him than would any other friend. In fact, the others are worse.

The cause of last night's drama? Carer R, who has moved to Yasothorn province in Esan, sent word through a relative that he wanted Ball to visit him there for a four-day stay. He is missing his drinking friends.

Mum wasn't keen on him going, as she would have to give him spending money, and Lort had just entered hospital. She can't take care of the toddlers in the household and pay daily visits to him as well.

'Who will he mix with? He knows no one there other than R himself. He has no idea about the conditions in which he lives. He is still a child. How can I let him go?' Mum asked.

Quite right. I don't want him to go either, and have told him so. When I saw Mr Ball last night, he was resigned to the fact that he should stay at home and help his Mum.

These are the types of things we discuss. Occasionally I slip up when we are tossing back the brown stuff, as we both like a drink. Jay usually pulls me up. Once or twice, Mum has questioned my judgement too.

However, Mum knows that her son is in much safer hands with me than when he is with his other friends.

His fondness for alcohol is a complicated issue which needs delicate handling. I can't ban him, and why should I, when I too enjoy the same pasttime?

Mum and I try to limit him to safe environments, while still permitting him to indulge. Explaining more takes too much time...I'll save that one for another day.

I love Ball, increasingly as a friend. I don't need booze to gain access to his life, and nor do I need to open my wallet constantly to win over Mum's trust or loyalty.

Those who argue otherwise are too quick to criticise, and perhaps letting their own experiences of this country colour their judgement.

Angry boyfriend, family health drama, old fears reawaken

I’m in trouble with the boss. I was hardly at home yesterday, which meant boyfriend Maiyuu had to spend many hours in his own company.

‘I don’t care if you are trying to challenge me to see how much longer I can carry on living life alone,’ he said bitterly.

I was away from early afternoon, as Ball and his family decided to visit a department store, and invited me along.

Making up our group were Mum, Ball, his girlfriend Jay, me, toddler Fresh, and a niece of Mum’s who is aged about seven.

In early evening, I returned for an hour or two, and went back to Ball’s place for a taste of the brown stuff.

In mid-evening, Mum’s partner Lort came down with a diabetes-related illness. We took him to hospital, which chewed up the rest of the evening. I returned home after 1am.

Maiyuu does not want to hear these tales of drama from the slums. When I started telling him the story, he asked me to stop.

‘Whenever you are in a bad mood, it’s usually because of something which has happened with your family over there. I don’t want to hear it, just in case I get more grief,’ he said.

I feel sorry for Maiyuu. I do not want to introduce him to Ball’s family, as they are my home away from home, but nor does he want it anyway.

He seldom invites his friends to our place, or goes anywhere. To kill loneliness, he shops for food at the supermarket.

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The night turned out to be more adventurous than expected, when Mum’s partner, idle taxi driver Lort, had a diabetes-related fit. Mum was away, but Ball, his younger brother Beer, Jay and I were present.

Ball heard Lort cry out, and rushed into the bathroom, where he found on the floor, inert. We dragged Lort’s bulky frame onto the sitting room couch.

Earlier, he had complained of seizures in his right hand. 'I have been like this for several days. Tomorrow, I must see a doctor,’ said Lort.

Ball, who seldom talks to Lort, went to his aid, asking him about his condition, rubbing his shoulders, and massaging his hand.

‘When someone is in distress, I will help, no matter how I feel about him,’ Ball explained later.

We assumed that Lort was having problems with his arm because he had quit the ya dong.

‘You shouldn’t go cold turkey. Ease into it,’ Ball urged Lort.

For Ball, the experience of watching Lort seize up was all too familiar. His birth father died of liver failure brought on by taking too much ya dong.

He died a few years ago, but Ball still recalls clearly the symptoms of his father’s illness. ‘His body used to seize up in the same way,’ he said. ‘In his case it was worse, as he used to bite his tongue.’

Lort had two fits at home before we hauled his body out of the slum and into a passing taxi. By then, a dozen people from the slum community had joined us in the packed living room.

Mr B found smelling salts. Someone else found a thin metal spoon, which he inserted in Lort’s mouth.

As Ball tried to hold up Lort’s stiffened body on the couch, Jay and I tried to pin down Lort’s legs, and uncurl his hands.

Mum, who was playing a card game nearby, turned up. She slapped his chest, just in case his heart was giving out.

She had seen it all before too. ‘My husband was the same way. We paid so many visits to the hospital...' she said, referring to Ball's father.

'I am bored with it all now,’ she said.

We lugged Lort’s body down the slum alleyways and on to the street, where someone hailed a taxi.

Mum and the patient travelled in one taxi, while Ball, Jay, Mr B and I took another.

Ball and Beer were shaken. I rubbed their shoulders and backs to reassure them.

Jay was terrific. Five minutes before Lort’s first episode, she and Ball had fallen into an argument about the brown stuff.

I was part of it too, unfortunately, as I am the instigator who helps him indulge.

For the rest of the night, however, Jay was supportive and loving towards her boyfriend, who needed the help.

At the hospital, we were told to wait. Ball and I decided to take a drink outside, so we went for a walk.

Later, Ball lay down on a wall in the hospital driveway. At his request, I stayed with him.

Mr Ball had left home in such a hurry that he had forgotten his shoes. Every 20 minutes or so, he sent me inside to see if anything was happening. 'I feel too embarrassed to go in myself, as I am barefooted,' he said.

When we arrived, Jay filled out a patient information form. While Mum went in to ICU to talk about how she would pay for his treatment, the rest of us waited.

Two hours after Lort was admitted, nurses had moved him to a regular ward. They let us pay a visit.

The wards were full. Some of the patients were but skin and bones. Nurses had pinned sheets on them to serve as nappies.

We followed the sound of groaning from deeper inside the ward. 'That's Lort,' said Mum, recognising the sound of her partner's voice.

In the whole ward, in fact, he was the only one making any noise.

Nurses had pinned down his body to the bed with the aid of cloth stirrups. The nurses had climbed on top of his legs, and were bouncing up and down, trying to stop his body seizing up.

Lort groaned, and in animated moments, screamed. The nurses had seen it all before, perhaps; they joked with each other as they manipulated his limbs.

Lort, said Mum, had never been to see a doctor in the many years they had been together. A nurse asked about the patient.

Ball stepped in to answer most of the questions, as best he could. Mum herself knew surprisingly little about Lort: she knew his name, for example, but not his age.

The diagnosis? Lort has diabetes, the doctors said. He would have to mind his blood sugar levels, and cut down on the booze. The seizure we witnessed was not related to his coming off the ya dong, but booze had contributed to his illness.

As Mum, Mr B and Jay answered the nurse’s questions about the patient, Ball wandered over to watch the nurses, who were still trying to pin down Lort’s body.

As Ball watched Lort writing in pain, I could tell he was thinking about his father.

He was also wondering whether he would follow in Dad’s footsteps. Ball’s Mum reckons the brown stuff has entered her son's veins.

‘You have taken up where your father left off,’ she told us in the waiting room.

I put my arm across his back and held him close.

I wasn’t around when Ball’s Dad left him, but will be here for Ball and his family this time should they need support.

‘Do all drinkers end up with diabetes?’ Ball asked me nervously as we left.

‘No..it’s partly hereditary. If you look after yourself, as you have promised me you will do, the chances are remote,’ I said.

On the way home in the taxi, Jay took Ball’s head in her arms, and nursed him.

Close to home, Ball gave the driver directions, as he had done on our way to the supermarket hours before. Mum appears happy for her son to take over. He is the head of the household, and does a good job.

Mr B was sweeping the floor when we arrived; his taxi had arrived before ours.

Mum went out to buy food, so they would have something to eat before bed.

Jay asked me if I wanted to stay, but I excused myself and went home.

The day had gone on forever. We needed to calm our fears, and rest our heads.