Warm Rain: A song

A monsoonal cloudburst yesterday inspired a song. Which, I am pleased to say, makes two  so far, apart from my prolific journaling! I’m also intending to tidy up a kid’s story for submission, and see what else emerges in the fiction department.

Meanwhile, the song (tentatively)…

Warm Rain

CHORUS

Warm rain, warm rain

Melt the icicles

Restore me to myself again

Warm rain, warm rain,

Touch the cold spot in my soul

Warm rain!

VSE 1

On a beach in old Siam

Nakalay Bay

Far from the “wham bam, thank you ma’am”

I rest and play

War-torn and weary though I am

I can see the light of day

And I just wanna dance

Out in the warm, warm rain!

CHORUS

VSE  2

To the weeping sky

I offer up my pleas

The sea breeze sends a quiver

Through the coconut trees

Sand and coral kiss my feet

Where the land and water meet

There’s a tidal wave of peace

Crashing over me!

CHORUS

 

The Night Market

Apart from the more than ample included buffet breakfast catering to both Asian and European paIates, I’ve paid a couple of visits to the night markets for cheap eats, when hungry in Patong. I was 3 and 4 and 5 years old when we lived in Singapore, so the experience of al fresco dining in the street in Southeast Asia is indelibly etched onto all my senses: the pungent aromas of food cooked on the spot, the tang of spices and plump fruits, the mysterious plastic bags full of exotic syrups and sauces. Not one for noise and crowds and hubbub, I find that open air markets, with their spruikers, the sound of chopping knives, and the hissing of wok-cooked delicacies, nonetheless make for a tolerable form of noise and hubbub. When pressed, I will admit that it is these kinds of experiences that drive me to Asia, rather than somewhere like Europe. Eating ‘clean’, simple, health-giving, fresh, organically grown tropical fruit and produce has, at the end of the day, far more nostalgic appeal than European stodge.

For instance, last night I was ravenous after a meagre lunch and a spot of shopping in the bazaars for some gifts, and cotton clothes and shoes that I know I will be grateful for back home in Perth this Summer. In the night market on the main drag opposite Jung Ceylon, a few blocks back from the ocean, I bought a rice dish, a large corn on the cob, and a delicious, large, freshly-squeezed mixed tropical fruit drink with ice (papaya, mango, dragon fruit and strawberries) for the modest sum of $5 in total. Much more fun and much better value than hotel prices! And with prompt, smilingly efficient, service, wordless apart from an authentic mutual exchange of “kop kun ka’s” (thank yous )instead of the fawning “madame, madame, sorry madame” memsahib treatment that can be so trying at times.

 

 

 

 

Woman The Gatherer

I’ve taken to smuggling breakfast food back to my room. I figure this is wholly justifiable, since I have effectively paid the single travellers toll of a two person deal. The response, when I asked the friendly waitress  (who knows me from my ukulele debut the other night), was  “okay, but don’t let the other guests see you”. Under the circumstances, I take exception to being forced to buy lunch or dinner for upwards of $10 an item, when there is a splendid array of buffet food that I and my permitted invisible ghost of a roommate cannot possibly eat in one sitting. I prefer to retreat to   my my room anyway, some days (I type up my hand-scrawled journal there, then hastily cut and paste the latest entries in the lobby where there is okay if shaky internet acces_ but for some reason (perhaps because there is a perception that it will involve staff clearing away plates), this is seen as requiring room service, which attracts a surcharge. Anyhow, I’ve decided I’d rather spend what money I have on a bit of shopping and perhaps an expedition to the islands, weather allowing. So Woman the Furtive Gatherer I have become!

I acquired a largish styro-foam take-way container with a closable lid, so I now have this at the ready in my collapsible day pack. This morning I managed to stow away some pawpaw, watermelon and pineapple slices; an omelette; a pancake; some salad, and various pastries and cakes. This feast will do for lunch and tea breaks , maybe even dinner, on this “plan-to-do-nothing-but–write-read-rest-swim- eat-and-gaze-out-at-the-ocean-from-my-balcony” kind of a day.

I am immensely grateful for the tea and coffee making equipment provided in the room, the bottled potable water (like many Asian and ‘third world’ destinations, drinking  and brushing ones teeth with tap water, unless boiled, is ill-advised). Ditto the small bar fridge , into which I have managed to squeeze my contraband food items and the gratis daily water bottles, after a little creative re-arrangement.

I’ve been eating a lot of rice, salads and tropical fruit and have brought some good probiotics with me, so I’ve felt okay about relaxing my gluten-freeness for now and am enjoying all the food that is on offer. That said, something gave me severe wind and cramps the other day, but a drop of peppermint oil, in its teeny weeny bottle, from my travel sized medicinal stash, did the trick instantly. I’m so glad I brought it, along with the tea tree which helps to unblock my ears after swimming, the lavender for baths, and the sweet ylang ylang, which, dabbed about my face and wrists, makes me feel like I am a perfumed princess in Paradise! These and other easy-to-carry comforts can make a huge difference to my comfort levels of one who succumbs easily to all sorts of minor ailments.

Although I believe my internet low season special rate was an excellent one, a couple travelling with two kids could comfortably fit in the same room, which has two  beds somewhere between a king single and a double. With only a small additional charge demanded for extra  kids, this place, with its child-friendly pool, babysitting services and other family-friendly features, is exceptional value for the average Australian family. Far from ‘high end’ five star  accommodation, but with enough of the perks and old world service, such as ocean frontage, that anyone might need. You can even book two adjoining, mirror-image rooms, as a kind of interconnecting suite.

I of course keep thinking how much my seven year old son, who I am starting to miss a lot, would love it here. This trip is primarily for me to rest, in the context of me being a six to seven night a week housebound single parent, most of the  rest of the year. My budget did not quite extend to flights for both of us, and would mean ripping him out of school for two weeks, since school holiday prices are prohibitive, and maybe he needs intensive times alone with his Dad?

In all honesty, two weeks is waaay too long to be away from the most gorgeous little fella on the planet, but the advantage is that it gives me plenty of do-nothing time in amongst some activities. I just don’t do intensive holidays without arriving home more knackered than when I left.

But on a future occasion, I would cheerfully bring him and let him roam a bit around the safe gardens and even the pool area, now that he is a strong enough swimmer. The hotel provides buckets and spades gratis, and a bit of snorkelling gear for reasonable fee, plus there is a kids club room for wet weather and a bunch of cute critters roam the grounds: roosters, rabbits, birds, lizards, frogs butterflies and dragonflies, crabs by the rocks at low tide, to name but a few. Apparently, there used to be a resident baby elephant, who played with the kids and squirted water from her trunk. No doubt the changing times and regulations,  a more humane era regarding the treatment of animals, are what sent her away, back to her family at a zoo in the north of Thailand.

Some things, au contraire, are not good value at all. At almost $3 per pair of undies for the laundry service, it’s a good thing my room comes with a decent sized basin, plenty of bars of soap, and an outdoors airing rack. I made sure to bring enough clothes, and have since bought a few items,  but I envisage hand washing my bras knickers if I fall short before the 12 nights are up. I can’t help thinking how bizarre it is that a full hour of pampering in the form of a facial, a massage or a shampoo-and-blow dry, costs little more than the hotel's fee for a couple of pairs of clean undergarments. Anyone would think they’re hand washing them in the river, at those rates. I guess it’s how a somewhat isolated hotel makes its money.
 

 

welcome fruit platter

 

the poolside bar is the cheapest option for meals at happy hour

 

Not Your Average Game of Table Tennis

When I think of ping pong, my mind’s eye and heart travel wistfully  to the table tennis table that resides in the common spaces of my community, where the kids spend happy hours  on sunny days, cheerfully batting a small, white, hollow, plastic sphere to-and-fro and then running around and rummaging around in garden bed for errant balls.

In Thailand, a Ping Pong show means something quite different. I imagine this is a tradition which began in the seedier back streets of Bangkok, but it appears to have spread like a fungus to Southern Thailand, where a steady migration of pretty girls from rural villages, lacking other employment options, apparenlty heads to work in the burgeoning sex show industry in Patong, far enough away from the embarrassing scrutiny of family.

So, after a shopping reconnaissance trip into Patong , where I buy nothing more than some takeaway fruit and cheap pad thai from the supermarket deli counter (my sortie is mainly to check out the lay of the land and take notes for future purchases) and mooch around the night market drinking in its many mysterious food smells,  I wander on down the infamous Bangla Rd.

After the tenth ping pong show invitation is thrust my way, by a Thai guy or gal who leaps nimbly into my path and shoves a placard full of naughty images in my face, I decide I might as well check out a show or two. So I brace myself, voluntarily lowering my vibration from its exalted spiritual state in an otherwise devoutly Buddhist enclave, and prepare to enter the seedier underbelly of Patong. Typically, women are allowed into these venues free of charge, the only proviso being that you must buy at least one rather expensive drink.

The first show, in a place called The Secret, buried in the darkened back rooms of an above-board bar that fronts it, is quite tasteful… at first. Three young and indeed beautiful women dance and flash a bit of ‘tits and twat’, their pert and obviously bald panty-less privates peeking naughtily out of their costumes. The audience is small and tentative. Although I am sitting centrally, in the front row, I use the excuse of my journal and pen to try and appear distracted and to indicate my unwillingness to actively participate.

A jowly, paunchy Englishman in his mid-thirties, sitting next to me with his fellow beer-swilling pal, is chosen to go on stage. The most curvaceous and extrovert of the dancers sits on his lap and allows him to mock-rub her down the front of her panties. But then suddenly, in what strikes me as a gesture of vengeful come-uppance, she grabs him and has him sit on her lap. She makes a show of rubbing his balls, flips his tackle out of his jocks, then pulls his boxers down to his ankles on stage, much to his embarrassment and the amusement of his mate and the rest of the small audience who are delivered this full frontal reversal of the expected order of things!

After the three hotties have caused a genuine stir in everyone present, the ‘ping pong’ act comes on as a kind of trump card finale. A rather older, rather chubbier, rather shorter-of-limb woman lumbers lethargically onstage and proceeds to pull a veritable umbilical cord of flowers out of her whatsit.  It is a real “but wait, there’s more!” moment by a clearly jaded almost-has-been of the Thai sex show world. She then sticks a whistle up it and blows us a merry tune. Rather more bizarrely, she gives birth to five slippery, live fish. Finally, she recruits the only others left in the room, the two Englishmen (after I have declined), to hold up big yellow balloons while she lies on her back on the stage, legs akimbo, and pops the balloons with darts, fired upwards from...you guessed it!

I leave via a visit to a beery-piss smelling  loo, clearly designed for and mostly used by blokes, and  am accosted once again in the street (“ you want go ping pong show Madam?”). I follow the poor soul, presumably earning commission from soliciting an audience in this way, into a second venue, Roxy Au Go go. This one is louder and younger and I can’t hear a thing, so it takes me a while to realize that the slim gay guy in the tight drainpipe pants is asking me to pay for my extortionate drink. The joint is less furtive, more modern, louder, younger and brasher, all sexy pole dancing and laughter and hoped-for  extras in the form of personal encounters on the plush sofas in its more brightly-lit corners.

There seems to be a recurring theme, at both venues, of lit candles dripping wax on the dancers’ legs, and their suggestion of scorched flesh. I shudder slightly. Is it sexy to some, the suggestion of pain and torture linked with nudity? I mean really? Whatever rocks your boat I guess.

Again, there are only one or two others in the audience. Across the room, between the two gargantuan birdcages in which the scantily clad Thai nympettes wiggle and strut, a tanned, European-looking middle aged guy has his hands all over a young woman dressed as a school girl. There seem to be some ”look but don’t touch rules” about this more private transaction. He’s visibly drooling and  gagging to get his hands and lips on her small, pert bra-less puffball titties, exposed to all of us through her unbuttoned blouse, but she will only let him caress her bare waist, and fondle her bum though her skirt. Perhaps there is a price attached to more erogenous gropings?

A pretty, petitely slim Thai dancer takes a break from her exhibitionist writhing in the central cage, sidles up to me when she sees me writing, and initiates a flirtatious conversation, asking me where I’m from and what I’m doing. Perhaps her ‘Lesbian antennae’ are fully extended during such  low season doldrums, when fraternizing with anyone foreign-looking might potentially remunerate. I read somewhere that 40% of Thai dancers like it both ways, perhaps turning to their girlfriends when tired of the unimaginative gropings of self-serving, objectifying, foreign and local men. 

Indeed, just as there is a visible community of Ladyboys, there is a visible population of Toms around Patong- short-haired, butch-looking lesbians who dress in the loafers, jeans and t shirts uniform of local guys, and who couple with more feminine girls. I’ve seen them working as bouncers, spruikers, security guards in supermarkets and even in the café up the hill today. They all seem to speak good English for some reason, perhaps because they are intimately involved with ‘show girls’.

The friendly dancer’s name, very aptly, is Fah. After some conversational probing on my part, it turns out she is one of the country girls, originating from and homesick for, her village in the north. Her English is quite good, so I explain that I am keeping a journal of my holiday to Thailand, and that as it is my first time here, I am curious about these shows. She nods and wonders off, no hard feelings. Beautiful, bubbly Fah,  seemingly cheerful, apparently really enjoying herself…or at least making the most of a difficult situation. Now living “in a galaxy fah, fah away” from her financially-dependent, unsuspecting, Northern Thai family.

I admit, the Mother in me is tempted to pay to take her by the hand, out of that place, offer her a hearty home-cooked meal and a bed for the night (there is a second king single lying empty in my hotel room) and talk to her about what she really thinks, what it’s really like for her, this life of bolstering the egos of the horny and the lonely, and all the loveless sex games required  just to earn a living. 

 Before dismissing the option, I attempt to make contact with my Inner Lesbian (such as she is) in a bid to understand what the attraction is. What is it like when someone hires an escort, aiming to get skin-to-skin with a pocket-sized nymphette strangerwho barely speaks your language, and have her lick away the cobwebs? Anyhows, my ego is not easily duped, and there is only so much disingenuous “you very beautiful lady” a switched on 40-something single woman from Perth can take from a teeny tiny Thai. Kowtowing to the Farangs, especially the revolting blokes, truly makes my eyes roll in my head, and I wish I knew how to cry out exasperatedly in Thai “cut the crap won'tchya?!”

I walk through the door of my hotel room at approximately 2:30am, after a near-death experience, hurtling recklessly hotel-wards in a gaudy tuktuk, along  the cliff back to Nakalay Beach. I sprawl for a while in the quiet breezy humidity of my porch, wondering what drives the horny Farangs to Patong, their sole quest being to ogle and copulate with grown women resembling school girls. Are they The Desperately Hard-up, The Adventurous, The Curious, The Unfaithful  or The Insatiable? Perhaps they are a little of each.

 

Bright, busy, brash & bawdy- Bangla Road, Patong (if you like that sort of thing)

The gaudy purple interior of the tuk tuk, complete with a TV screening loud music videos. I travelled back to my hotel in it, at breakneck speed, around a cliff full of bends! It reminded me of  a Mister Whippy ice cream van.



Stiff Upper Lift

And so, around 10pm at night, I come to, from something approximating a Nana nap, to find not one but two youngish Thai women paying close attention to my nether regions. No, I am not in some date rape, drug-induced, Lesbian ménage-a-trois, but a massage spa and salon chosen for its relative quiet, set back from the street at the far end of the Patong Beach Rd, the length of which I have trekked on foot to see what the fuss is all about.

I admit, I’m a bit of a sluggard and pretty ad hoc when it comes to hair removal. But neither am  I comfortable with remaining too hirsute in skin-exposing hot weather. The spa at my hotel is prohibitively expensive, so it makes perfect sense to avail myself of the abundance  of considerably cheaper waxing options available in Patong, where I head for the first time one afternoon and evening, on the free one-way hotel shuttle bus.

I walk in expecting the five minutes of torture I’m accustomed to in Australia every couple of months, that has at times saved me from both the daily tedium of the razor with its souvenir bumps and scratches, and the lunatic fringe stereotyping and exposure that comes with being too hippy and hairy a gal with a mo. What I actually get takes the meaning of ‘service’ to new levels: the dedicated application of these two bored aetheticiennes, for the best part of an hour. At first, they seem a little shocked as my sudden arrival drags them out of their low season torpor, but after that they seem to apply themselves to the job of depilating my bits with a dedication verging on a fever.

One is heavily-acned and wears braces, sly of eye and simperingly sycophantic towards this Farang lady, no doubt self-conscious about her ‘plain’ looks. Desperate for approval, in a land that places a premium on female beauty, her face distorts into a lie of a smile. The other is a classically pretty-faced, soft-spoken stunner with a great sense of humour, and no need to prove anything to anyone. Her smiles are genuine, unhurried, uncontrived.

Together, wearing surgical masks and discussing their next move, they topiarize me within an inch of my life. Like a surreal cross between a chess game and an appendectomy, I begin to question whether I haven’t been slipped a mickey, or accidentally wandered into one of the many dentists that are  a mecca for westerners seeking cheap tooth repairs and whiter smiles.  I fully expect to come away with some organs missing.  I draw the line at a Brazilian, but they do their best to prune, pluck, scrape and trim me within the available parameters of modesty that a strategically-draped towel will allow.

When it comes time to perform the euphemistically-named ‘bikini line’ part of the deal, what I think will be a speedy solution enabling me to wear my bathing costume without drawing undue attention to my dark and feral ‘lady fur’,  turns into a protracted work of art.  I cannot see exactly what is going on down there.  Are they waxing, plucking, scissoring or threading my despicable  hairs away, or some combination of all these methodologies? It’s as though there is a prize about to be awarded to she who can sculpt the finest design, and trophy the most Farang lady body hair. The fawning one grows increasingly brazen and, as her fingers probe close to my fun parts,  I wonder at one point whether I am in for a 'happy ending' – ay carumba!

It has taken me a while to understand the classic Thai pronunciation faux-pas, inscribed on the spa menu and outside on blackboard, but let’s just say, after what seems like an interminable amount of time in the clutches of these two waxing witches, I eventually leave with my “upper lift” expertly de-moustached… and my lower ones rather alarmingly and thoroughly de-bearded!

A Pampered Princess I will never be

(the title of this post is best hummed or whistled to the tune of A Wondering Minstrel, that annoying tune by Gilbert & Sullivan)

On the other hand, I cannot stand it when the attention is too forced, fawning  and servile. I become positively satirical and my eyeballs develop a sudden heavenward tic when, for instance, the young Thai woman who has just spent the best part of an hour waxing my bits within an inch of their life (more on that particularly hilarious episode  later!) exclaims “ you very beautiful now! You very se-ksy!”

Although it pales in comparison to Bali, I’ve already had a gutful of tuktuk and taxi drivers honking and slowing down alongside me while I’m out for a walk or a ‘reccy’. Okay, I know-  it’s the low season and they are gagging for the fare… but it annoys me that they assume  I am some sort of pampered European princess who is unused to heat and incapable of, or indeed  forbidden from, walking more than ten paces up a sidewalk.

Thus, I am an object of curiosity today as, clad in still-wet bathers , sarong and hat, wearing my sturdiest walking sandals, and carrying supplies  in my mini backpack, my ukulele case in my hand, I head up the hill towards a cluster of interesting cliff-hugging places along the road to Patong, in search of alternative and affordable  eateries with stunning ocean views.

I am halfway up a steep incline when the (possibly bored) security guard stationed at the entrance to the Absolute Nakalay resort next door, calls and gestures to me animatedly to come back down. So I comply, assuming there must be some rule preventing my access. But no, he has simply assumed I want to go the beach, and warned me off continuing on along  the high road. At which point I whip out my best daggers knitted-brow look, and my most “I am peeved” body language. I perform a charade to assure him that I am just looking around, and that it is MY CHOICE TO WALK! I also attempt “now look what you’ve made me do- I have to walk back up the rather steep hill again because you have distracted me from my purpose!!!” He sheepishly shrugs his shoulders and rambles on in embarrassed Thai and broken English.

I am vindicated after discovering a couple of interesting but low season, sleepy reggae bars and the Paradise View Point café, where I end up enjoying a delicious good value Thai meal, all with stunning views overlooking a beautiful but unswimmable stretch of ocean. On my way back down the hill to my hotel, the security guard sees me sauntering casually and steadily past on the opposite side of the road. He waves and points to me in recognition, laughing good-naturedly to indicate that he is impressed.  I do my best to respond in mime: “ye of little faith!”

The Invisible Ones

I am definitely one to notice the constant dawn-til-dusk industry around me. The thing I most willingly dedicate my Smile Surfeit /Sore  Jaw Syndrome to is The Invisible Ones- the teams of gardeners, cleaners, porters, ‘pool boys’, waiters, handymen and engineers whose presumably minimally-paid jobs here here make my life as a fat wealthy tourist (in world terms) so comfortable. Some are cheerful in Buddhist acquiescence, some are friendly extroverts with open faces and genuine smiles, who will stop and chat, perhaps confident because their English is good. Others, especially the gardeners way down the pecking order, swathe their heads in towels and hide like beekeepers behind their canvas hats, avoiding eye contact, protecting themselves from both the sun and the guests with whom they have no desire to chat, counting down the minutes to their working day.

I’m especially in awe of the young men who shimmy up walls and sit astride pitched Thai rooves the shape of Viking long boats, as if they are coconut palms. I cannot clasp my hands together prayerfully enough in ‘sawatdee’, nor bow deeply enough in thanks to this hive of silent drones. 

Earlier today, I caught a pool cleaner enjoying a secret dip in the corner of the lagoon-style pool nearest my villa. He looked embarrassed to have been sprung.  I tried to smile as encouragingly as I could and wished I could speak to him more fluently about how much it sucks that I can swim here openly, and he can’t.