Free leg rub, job search struggle, healthy baby on way

A farang colleague and I stopped at a small open-air store for a few drinks after work.

The store is squeezed between a railway line and a truck yard but does a busy trade with customers from the slum across the road.

Pong, a short, plumpish woman in her 30s taking a drink at a nearby table, greeted us.

‘I am a regular customer, and know the owner,’ she said, as if explaining her interest.

Pong, who works at a fuel depot nearby, fetched our drinks, and – as the mosquitoes started to bite – offered to apply soothing anti-mosquito balm to our arms and legs.

‘Stick out a hand...and a leg.’

Normally, when the mozzies start to bite, the owner brings out a mosquito coil. Pong, however, said she could do one better.

We had only been seated a minute when Pong brought out the mosquito repellent. We extended our limbs obediently as she gave us each a rub-down.

My friend farang T and I decided she probably fancied us, but we couldn’t work out who she likes more.

Farang T is straight, lanky, and looks vulnerable, so perhaps it was him. He is just as popular with a girl who serves at an open-air eatery across the way.

When he wants to catch a taxi, she gives him a ride down down the road on her motorbike. Farang T reminds this girl that he is married, but she persists regardless.

As for Pong, she had a ready explanation for her helpful behaviour. ‘Thais are always kindhearted,’ she said chirpily.

At our invitation, she took a seat at our table. 'I should warn you – I never stop talking,’ she said.

And so it was. Pong told us chattily that she works two jobs, and is a single parent, bringing up a six-year-old daughter.

An hour later, as we were leaving, a rainy-season-style downpour arrived.

Pong brought out an umbrella, and escorted farang T down the road. They waited for 15min for a taxi.

‘I have a feeling that she wanted to join me,’ farang T told me later. ‘I jumped in the front seat as fast as I could, and thanked her for her help,’ he said.

Pong returned, looking sodden and bedraggled. She asked if she could also find a taxi for me.

I declined the offer, as I had borrowed an umbrella from the owner, and decided I would walk home.

However, we have swapped phone numbers, so perhaps we shall meet kind-hearted Pong again.

-
‘What do you think of me now?’

Ball, with a plaintive but pained looked in his eyes, wanted to know if my opinion of him has fallen over the past three months that he has been without work.

Actually, it has, but I am getting over it.

Up until a month or so ago, I believed he was deliberately dragging the chain, sitting at home all day rather than making honest attempts to find himself a new job.

His old one, for an insurance company, folded.

However, since New Year he has been to at least half a dozen interviews, so far without success.

Lately he has applied for work as a typist, even though he can barely type; and serving in a Silom restaurant popular with farang, even though he can’t speak English.

At the interview for the restaurant job, he was asked to sit a 30-question English test. He passed, though I wonder how when I recall one slip-up he made. Given the Thai word for ‘chicken’, he was asked what it meant in English, and Ball replied: ‘Snake’.

Usually, he attends interviews with one or two of his slum friends who are also without work.

No employers have called them back. Ball believes it is because he is too poorly qualified: he left school with a third year leavers’ qualification, when most employers offering semi-skilled work are demanding a sixth year leavers’ certificate at least.

When I dropped in to see Ball the other day, he was smarting after his elder brother Boy had taken him aside for a quiet word about his lack of work.

With furrowed eyebrows, Boy told Ball that he wasn’t doing enough to help their mother, who runs the household and finds it hard to make ends meet. He suggested Ball go back to work as a security guard, a job he loathed last time he did it a few years ago.

Ten people live in their cramped slum home, but not everyone works.

Boy himself has only recently returned to the labour force. He spent months at home idle after leaving the military last year, so can hardly complain to Ball that he is bludging off mum.

Ball is feeling the pressure. His elder sister has nagged him previously, and his mother and girlfriend have also told him to go back to work.

‘I do want to get out of home and find a job. I am tired of feeling guilty,’ he said.

'My elder brother shouldn't give me the furrowed eyebrows treatment. I am grown up, and can make my own decisions,’ he said grumpily.

I told him not to worry, and that my opinion of him hasn’t fallen.

‘You are doing your best...but you might have to try a little harder,’ I said.

-
Ball will be a dad in just three months, all going well.

He took his pregnant girlfriend Jay for an ultra-sound test last week.

Jay is carrying a baby girl, they learned. The child is due in early June.

Tempting offer, sleepless nights, lost cause

Chef Maiyuu has cooked up a few desserts lately, almost as if he wants me to cross the 100kg body-weight threshold in style.

He’ll have to try harder...the last time I checked, a day ago, I had lost a little bit, and was down to 98.6kg. I have not yet reached 100kg, which I fear would be the point of no return.


Valentine's khao tom surprise

I used to be handsome. Now, in the eyes of those Thais who like a fulsome farang figure, I am merely ‘cute’ (narak).

-

My body won't let me sleep. Two weeks ago, I spent a fitful night worried about something; I didn't enter the land of nod until 4am.

Since then, my body has reset its clock and now believes that 4am is my normal bed time, even when my eyes are popping out with exhaustion.

It lets me sleep about 4am, but not before. I might have to take a couple of sleeping pills tonight, as this can't go on.

I hate tossing and turning for four hours a night. What is there to think about?

I have no idea, but my head finds enough stuff to occupy my exhausted mind.

-

At his mother’s request, I dropped in to see Ball.

He was heading out for a job interview at a hotel, and looked smart.

His girlfriend Jay, who is pregnant and quit work to prepare herself for the big day about a month ago, saw him off.

‘Would you like to raise him at your place?’ asked Ball’s mother, who seems forever short of money.

Last week, I dropped in briefly most days, only to find her sitting with friends drinking the brown stuff.

A few days passed. On Friday, when I called in again, she proposed I shout the family to a moo kra ta meal (Korean-style bar-b-que).

‘Everyone wants to eat it, including him,’ she said, referring to Ball, who was playing on the computer.

‘How much?’ I asked.

‘About B500 should do it,’ she said.

I left promptly. That’s too much, even if I haven’t seen them in a while. And I was working that night, so I would have no chance to join them.

That night, Mum called, no doubt wanting to know if I was going to drop in with her B500. I ignored it.

She has referred to the money again since. 'I had to pay, because you didn't come!' she said.

Mum would still like me to help, even after the event.

I can’t see the point in giving away money when Ball has yet to find work. Why reward poor behaviour?

Other reasons are that I don’t see them that much any more; and the mother is forever wasting money on the brown stuff, then pleading poverty after the event.

You’re on your own, dear...good luck!

Curry tummy, Valentine's rejection, Mr Scrooge

My body weight teeters on the brink of 100kg.

Since Maiyuu bought an electronic set of weight scales last week, we have been weighing ourselves regularly.

Both his weight, and mine, has increased in the past week, probably as a result of his beef curry (pictured here), which we feasted on for several days.

He weighs just 54kg, up a couple of notches from the last time he stood on the scales.

I remember when I was 50kg, though it seems a long time ago now.

-
Valentine’s Day approaches, and we have no idea how to celebrate it.

I suggested to Maiyuu that I take him out to a small eatery I have found in the industrial-cum slum district in which I work.

A couple of hi-so workplaces employing many staff, including my own company, provide most of the customers.

The eatery would not look out of place in the tourist and business district of Silom, and yet here it is, defying the odds in one of the poorest areas of Bangkok.

I took a quick pre-work meal there last week, and liked the place. The food is good, the prices cheap, and I can ogle pictures of regular customers which they keep on the walls.

But Maiyuu can’t see the point.

‘I’d rather just make food for us to eat at home,’ he said.

I hope this doesn’t mean I will be expected to peel off another B500 note from my less than well-padded wallet, to give to Maiyuu in lieu of a Valentine’s gift, or any better idea of how to mark the occasion together.

How dull. I would rather get some fun out of the occasion too, not merely hand over cash for someone’s else’s enjoyment.

If I give money, Maiyuu can salt it away in the same place where he keeps the rest of his extensive savings.

Rather than put it a bank like most normal people, he keeps his savings in tantalising close proximity to myself, under lock and key in his bedroom.

I brood over his growing stash of cash it in those moments when I have run out of my own money, and consider how, one day when I am poor and destitute -  or perhaps just dead - my boyfriend will be a rich man.

Shop 'til you drop, save a rose for me

I can't shop to save myself, but my boyfriend knows how to do it.

Life is seldom dull. These days, every time I come home from work, we have a new purchase.

Maiyuu the shopper has a good eye. In recent days, he has bought a water purifier, digital weighing scales (for me, not his food), and library lamp.

Sometimes he will dart off on his pushbike. For heavy items, he will take a taxi, or ride on the bus.

He shops alone, but the experience gives him pleasure, and he hopes I will enjoy his purchases too.

For the most part, I do.

None of these items are things we need, which makes we wonder if we are wasting money. But they are fun nonetheless, as they help decorate our gay household and bring colour into our lives.

He is also doing creative things around home, including erecting on the balcony a hanging towel rail made from rope, and a plant watering device, made from up-ended water bottles, screws, rope, and clear plastic pipe.

Maiyuu the gardener controls the flow of water into his hanging plants with the aid of a plastic lock which fits around the hose.

Maiyuu's home-made watering device

My busy householder's interest in hanging devices has even extended to cooking oil.

When I returned from work last night, I noticed that with the aid of Maiyuu's ubiquitous rope and screw contraption, he had erected an upended bottle of oil over a cooking pan. Now, when he needs oil, he need only reach above, and squeeze.

Pictured:  Recent creations from the chef’s kitchen, including flawless custard set in pumpkin, crunchy pizza made with Japanese cheese (of all things), and a silky crème bruille.

-
Ball and his family are well. As a largely absentee dad, what more can I say?

I seldom visit any more. If his mother calls, I will drop in. We might see each other briefly once every few days.

Ball is still out of work, his girlfriend pregnant with a glow.

I do not ask about his life, as I do not want the headache. I chat to his mother, play with the kids, and leave.

When I dropped in yesterday, his younger brother Beer was flat on his back, bouncing the younger of the two kids on his bare chest.

Mr B grows more handsome by the day, and unlike his elder brother has a job, as a cook at a hotel restaurant. Good on you, lad.

I watched, chatted briefly to Mum, who was picking her way through a bunch of roses, and left.

I like it this way...life is too short to take on their problems. Let them sort out their fragrant lives themselves.

Pictured: Maiyuu's pizza; creme brulee; custard pumpkin.

The laab moo bowel blues pay a visit

Everyone wants to leave his mark on Bangkok -  but not like this.

I am a fan of laab moo (ลาบหมู or spicy pork salad - pictured above), but know it can be hard on the stomach.

I like to eat it every night before work, but have learned from experience that if my guts are unaccustomed to it, I will often suffer in the hours to follow.

So it was the other night, when I ate laab moo for the first time in a week.

The trick is to make sure your stomach saves its protest for the next day, when you are in the relative safety and comfort of home.

You can make a quick dash for the toilet...no harm done.

My stomach protested for the first few weeks after I started eating the spicy pork dish regularly.

The next morning, I would suffer a dose of the cramps.

But such is my desire for the stuff that I find I must eat it, no matter that it might cause me pain.

A couple of months ago, I found a stand selling north-eastern food – the ones with a slab of raw meat hanging in the glass case – in the slum area close where I live.

A woman aged in her 40s and her smelly male partner sell it. They set the stall up in front of their home, which fronts a busy road running past the slum.

For weeks, I have bought the dish every night before work. Lately my stomach has grown accustomed, so I no longer need to go through toilet seat-gripping stomach pain the next day.

Four or five days ago, when I paid my customary pre-work visit, I found the place closed, and the smelly one chatting to friends nearby.

‘We’re closed until the 10th...going back to the provinces,’ he said.

For the next few days, I went without my cherished lab moo. I bought a relatively tame fried rice dish - khaow pad kraphao moo - instead.

But last night, an Esan food seller in these parts flashed me an enticing smile as I walked to work, and I knew it was time for more laab moo.

Normally I avoid her stall, as it is expensive, and so it turned out to be last night: her meagre serving of laab moo, including green salad and sticky rice, was 55 baht, compared to the B30 I pay for a much more generous portion in the slum.

But with the slum place closed, what could I do?

I bought her blasted laab moo, and complained to myself soon after as I tucked into the dish at work that at those prices, I should never go back again.

She must have heard me.

On my way home from work six hours later, in the dead of night, my stomach was gripped by pain.

It had grown unaccustomed to laab moo again. Yet the safety of home was another five minutes’ walk away.

Bugger it, I thought. This is Bangkok...no one will mind.

I found a shrubby area by the side of the road and, after scouting about for dogs (there were some, but they looked tame enough), I ducked in, whipped down my pants, and relieved myself.

The whole gruesome procedure took no more than a minute.

I applied a leaf to cleanse my bottom hole, whipped up my shorts, and a moment later was striding down the road again as if nothing happened.

A taxi passed me. A moment earlier, and he would have been treated to the sight of a foreigner defecating in front of a local landmark.

Today, my stomach is still suffering, but as I am close to the sanctity of the toilet, I have no reason to fear that I will get caught short by the laab moo bowel blues again.