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Short Horns

All of you have been waiting for this part. You want to know what we talked about. I’m going to tell you. A lot was said. A lot more than I’m going to tell you here. We talked about all kinds of stuff, lots of different topics. Sometimes, I’ll write down verbatim what we said, but most of the time, I won’t. Some of it was about personal stuff. The buffalo’s and mine. You wouldn’t be interested in that.

I had been staying on the farm for a year or more. I’m not sure exactly how long as I lost all track of time. I never knew what day it was or what month most of the time. For the most part, I stayed on the farm and didn’t venture into the village, even though dozens of folks welcomed me over for a shin dig – weddings, funerals, birthday parties and monks’ initiation parties mainly. Sometimes, I went, but I was happier on the farm with the vegetables, fruit and the animals.

A bit more background. I’d had experiences like this before in Thailand and around the world. Some call it supernatural. I’m not going to tell you about them here. It’s not the place. It wouldn’t be appropriate. I’ve also had conversations with remarkable men and women who have had similar experiences. As far as I know, science hasn’t disproved it yet and definitely hasn’t proved it. It’s not geared up for that, but that doesn’t concern me. You just have to look at the evidence and either believe it, disbelieve it or have an open mind.

I was on my own on the platform in my hut. I called it my hut by then, even though I hadn’t built it and I didn’t own it. It was night. I’d had another fulfilling day of running around, chatting and eating. I was becoming really healthy, both physically and mentally. It was doing me a lot of good. I fell asleep quickly as I always did by that time, lying on the soft, wooden surface.

I didn’t usually wake up in the night. I always had a good sleep. I fell asleep when the sun went down, and awoke when it came up. However, on that particular night, I did wake up. I could hear movement outside. I thought my farming mates had come back for a bit of grub and a chat. I sat up, looked around, walked down the stairs, and saw no one. I shrugged and went straight back. A few moments later, I heard a voice, a woman’s voice.

I got up and looked out. All I could see was our buffalo called Short Horns. She was a good-looking, healthy, gentle, female, about fifty-two in human years, I was told. Let me back track a bit here. There were five buffaloes on the farm. There were two adult females: Short Horns and Cute. There was one adult male called Golden Spoon and two babies, born to Cute, called December and August.

Buffaloes used to be used for work purposes, but these days they’re pets. Farmers and their families seem to love them more than they love their dogs, more like people, a member of their family, and, it seemed to me, as if they were people. In turn, the buffaloes seem to love their owners. Children love them and let them ride on their backs. It was as if the good treatment and respect they have is the reward they deserve for centuries of hard labour helping the farmers with hard work, ploughing the fields, pulling down trees, going to war and transporting people and goods.

I digress. Forgive me. Then I heard it clearly: “It’s about time you and I had a chat”. I rushed down the stairs again and looked around. “Hey, look this way. Who are you looking for? I’m talking to you.” I didn’t recognise the voice. Now, I couldn’t say for sure at that time, that it was actually Short Horns talking to me. Lots of thoughts rushed through my head. My first thoughts were I was imagining it, or hallucinating. Then I was convinced someone was playing a trick on me, hiding in the bushes. May be they were strangers. But, if they were strangers, our dogs would have barked at them like banshees on a night out in the town.

I sat on the last step, grabbed the lao kow from under the rock, looked at Short Horns and swigged.It didn’t help and it didn’t taste any better than the first time I’d tried it. Now, at that time I still couldn’t say for sure that Short Horns was actually talking to me. She looked at me for a long time as buffaloes are want to do with people: they eat, they look up; they stare and you wonder what they are thinking about. I heard words but I wasn’t sure. However, after a few minutes, I gave it a shot and started to talk to her. No, it was more like at her.

I just talked and talked wthout giving her a chance to say anything. It all just came in a non-stop torrent, like a tropical storm. I askd Short Horns what she thought about the buffalo races in Chonburi and the buffalo fights in Ko Samui. I also talked about the statue in Bang Rajan with a buffalo in it commerating the fight against the Burmese, the film of the same name, and the buffalo training centre in Mae Rim. I asked her for her views on the work achieved at the universities on buffalo development. I think Short Horns was a Swamp Buffalo, so I asked her if she’d ever met any River Buffaloes. I don’t really know why I asked her those questions. I suppose I thought she would know about those buffalo topics and would have a lot to say about them. Eventually, I stopped and gave her chance to reply. She said she didn’t know anything about those buffalo topics as I called them and, by the way, as she put it, she wasn’t interested in any of them.

Instead, she had something to ask me. She wanted to know why I didn’t do anything.

“What do you mean I don’t do anything?” I asked her indignantly.

According to her I just chatted to people, joked, watched them work, slept, meditated, read, wrote stuff down, talked to myself, listened to music, danced, ran around, jumped about in the rice fields and the ponds, caught fish, cooked a bit, played with the dogs, and rode on the backs of the buffaloes. Why didn’t I farm, she asked me. I told her I wasn’t allowed to. It was against the law. Foreigners aren’t allowed to farm. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.

I told her she was a fine one to talk. What did she do all day? Just eat, sleep and bathe. She was like a permanent tourist in a five star hotel. She didn’t like that. She reckoned that they could still use her to plough or use her as transport if petrol prices went up. She also pointed out that buffalo fertilizer was the best as it was free and beneficial to the environment. The farmers also ate her placenta before she had a chance to eat it herself, and they could do again if she had another baby, (as if that was likely, I thought, but too polite to say it) and she insisted she could still be eaten especially if the farmers ran out out of other kinds of meat. She said she was lucky she hadn’t been eaten so far. She could also be sold. And what does that feel like? It doesn’t feel good at all. Then she added that she also had positive psychological advantages for people. She made the farmers and their families feel happy and calm.

Then she just walked off and, by that time, I’d got really tired and went back to sleep. I looked out for Short Horns the next night and the night after that. I waited by the dry rice plants. I talked to her, but she didn’t answer me. She just looked at me and then looked away. It was weeks later before we had our next conversation.

She wanted to know why I spent so much time hanging around the farm instead of going off to the village with the others. She suggested it would be better for me to spend more time with my own kind, as she put it. As for not going into the village, I told her that the people were really friendly, kind and welcoming, but I felt I just didn’t fit it. It wasn’t the big things, it was the small things. It sounds stupid to a lot of people, but not for me.

“Go, on, tell me then,” she challendged me.

I told her I didn’t like all the noise, the tanoys, the markets, the music, tvs, rice machines and people shouting. And I didn’t like the smoke from the fires burning day and night outside people’s houses, which gets into your lungs and makes you choke. The noise and the smoke are unhealthy. I told her that was one of the reasons I’d branched out from the town. (She hadn’t heard of Bangkok, but she knew about the town, so I said that, as I didn’t have the patience to explain about Bangko). She laughed loudly for a long time.

“That’s nothing,” she said, “ัyou can get used to that.” “I don’t want to,” I told her. “Why not?” she asked. I didn’t answer that. I didn’t know why at that time.

I asked her a question. It just popped into my head after that exchange. I asked her whether foreigners should behave as the Romans do when in Rome, but I didn’t put it quite like that: “Do you think I should behave in the same way as the villagers?” “์Not for everything,” she said slowly.

“What do you mean,” I demanded.

“Well, for example, they use certain words. If you used them they would be shocked and appalled. They’d look down on you, but it’s normal and natural for them. And no one thinks anything of it.”

“What kind of words,” I asked her. I knew what kind; I just wanted to hear her say them, but she wasn’t going to fall for that. I then asked her for more examples, but she just said, she wasn’t ready to tell me more for now. She said I should think for myself. At that, I walked away to the fish pond trying to think.

After a few months, one of my closest mates came up to me looking concerned. He asked me if we could have a chat. I thought he had a personal problem he wanted to discuss with me, something perhaps I could help him to solve. It was my belief that sometimes, it’s good to tell others stuff because it can help you to come up with a solution by yourself, or other people can look at it with a different perspective, which can sometimes help you to put everything into a meaningful context.

No. It wasn’t about him. It was about me. He said he was wondering whether it would be better for me to move back to Bangkok. I asked him why. He said that people around the village were gossiping about me. A number of people claimed they’d seen me, and heard me, talking to myself.

“Oh,” I said, “I haven’t been talking to myself. I’ve been talking to Short Horns.”

He looked at me with even more concern and then said, with some relief, “That’s not Short Horns. That’s I-Tung.”

“Who is I-Tung?” I asked him, perplexed.

“I-Tung thinks he’s a buffalo and sometimes turns up here. He lives outside in the fields, with other buffaloes. Sometimes, you see him in the village and by the side of the road. He became like that after his mother-in-law treated him like a buffalo. Her daughter says she thinks that her mother really things he is a buffalo. His wife can often be seen walking with him, just like we do with our buffaloes.”

I would have laughed if it hadn’t been so sad and frightening. I wanted to assure him. “์No,” I said, “I’ve been chatting to Short Horns.”

I had one last chat with Short Horns before heading back to Bangkok. I don’t know exactly how long I’d been on the farm, but as my mate suggested, it was time for me to go. I was beginning to be a nuisance for my farmer mates. Too many people were talking in the village and laughing at them.

Short Horns suggested I should marry one of the women from the village and if I did that, I could stay. A village wife would take care of me, she said. Many of the women also needed a husband to take care of them. Some of them wouldn’t mind living on the farm too, many did, and when they felt like it, they could always go back to the village to chat with their friends, or families or go to the market and, sometimes, the temple, of course.

I thanked her for her concern and told her I thought it wouldn’t work as my culture and the local culture were different. There would be too many misunderstandings, too many different expectations. I told her it was hard enough marrying someone from your own culture, let alone another culture even if you can speak the language. I said the women should marry someone from the village if they wanted to get married. Short Horns said they would if there were men available, especially ones they felt would suit them.

“So, you’re suggesting that I would be second best, then?” I said with a hint of anger.

“Yes,” she said, placidly.

I asked Short Horns if she’d ever been married. She told me not to be so stupid. Buffaloes don’t get married. However, she’d had a baby and he was eventually taken away. She could remember him desperately calling out for her milk when he got lost. He or she had wandered off from each other. He was big then but could run faster than a dog. He could jump over fences. She said she could also remember the shocked look on the men’s faces from the town when they saw her son running towards them. I asked her what the men were doing there. She said they’d come to look at the farm.

Finally, I asked her whether the other buffaloes’ experiences were the same as hers and whether they had the same views. She said I should ask them. I tried, but they just looked at me and said nothing.

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Dennis

Dennis, for that was his name; it was blazoned across his T-shirt, grinned widely and pointed in the direction of the temple on the outskirts of the village. He marched off soldier-like. Left, right, left, right. And I joined in. I fell in line. Both of us now were marching like soldiers, knees high, legs outstretched, arms swinging in unison. Up, one, two, up, one, two. “Company Halt! Attention! Stand at ease!” We were now standing outside one of the five gates of that great temple complex, with it’s splendid chedis, main gigantic central hall, monks’ sleeping quarters, a tower with a gigantic gong, tanoys, and vehan. Thousands of tats, some with loved ones’ photos imbedded, hugged the walls outskirting the compound. I noticed too a Brahmin shrine and a shrine for the village spirit. Dogs lay asleep under the awnings and two buffaloes lay tied up next to coconut trees. 

Dennis stood and scanned the compound. He waited, as was his way. I thought we were going to spend the night in the main hall, but no! Dennis had a better idea. He stared down by the side of the main gate. Propped up against the wall was a very large, transparent plastic bag. If it had been red, I would have thought it was Santa’s sack, but there were no kiddies’ toys in there. Inside were bottles and cans – all empty. He picked it up and swung it over his shoulder. And off he went, marching through the compound. We marched past the chedi, past the crematorium and out through a side entrance and onto a small road. Left we turned past some houses and there we were heading out to the countryside again. By now it had stopped raining and the reluctant moon shone down half heartedly, revealing a new landscape.

Over a bridge straddling a river, we marched. Rice fields to the left of us, rice fields to the right, forward, upwards along a straight, long road. Left, right, left, right. Halt! We’d reached a copse. The tall, dark coconut trees, eucalyptus trees and look dan trees looked down on us like looming giants, all standing closely together. Left we turned along a narrow, dark muddy track into the copse. Where we were going, I did not know. Out the other side and there we were walking, leaping and jumping through a rice field like young spirted dogs. Splash, splash, splash. Oh what fun it was! Oh to be young again in that rice field.

The rice planting season had started about three or four weeks before. There they were, the young, light green rice plants, freshly inserted. Now, I know what some of you are thinking. Don’t be alarmed. We didn’t destroy any of the plants. No! We were like the rice farmers who know where to step and how to move among the plants. We were like the dogs who enjoy bathing, running and leaping among the rice plants as if celebrating the harvest to come, and counting their pups before they are born.

A dog began to bark in the distance inside some of the trees. I assumed it was a small dog. Then, somone, who I assumed to be one of Dennis’s brothers, mates or relatives yelled out. I don’t know what he was saying. I couldn’t really hear. I think he was saying hello, or inviting us over to join him for a drink, a bit of grub or to lay down our heads for the night. He was clearly happy to see us. Dennis obviously didn’t hear him. He was dancing around in circles in a world of his own, an ecstatic world of happiness, peace and lack of suffering. Crying out for joy. A place where very few of us have entered or if we do sometimes, we forget that we’ve been there. The man amongst the trees then fired, what I think was, a gun. He was doing his best to call us over, but it didn’t work.

Off we spun into the next rice field and the next falling over in the empty patches away from where the rice had been planted. We ran past a pond into some higher ground, a clearing and into the company of several dogs who welcomed us with open barks. And then I saw it, for the first time. My home to be. A hut on legs. Six legs with no walls, just a platform and a roof. The toilet was outside. Under the hut pigs lived, chickens and chicks roamed, cats slept. Ducks were in the pond near the hut where a net lay. Off to the right was a pile of dry rice plants fit for a buffalo and kept dry by a corrugated roof of metal.

Up we climbed onto the platform. Dennis had dumped his sack with the pigs. By then, I was tired, exhausted but ready for rest. Down I lay on the wooden floor too hungry to be bothered to eat, too thirsty to want to drink, enjoying the fresh air and the smell of pigs and chickens. Dennis sat in the corner, bolt upright, legs folded, grinning. He was soaked and caked up with mud all over his clothes, on his face and plastered on his head. He didn’t seem to be tired. But he seemed to be waiting for something.

Maybe, I thought, he was waiting for his mates to turn up, or his family, perhaps his wife, baby tied to her back, with food and drink under her arms. Suddenly, he picked up a long knife from the floor. It almost looked like a short sword. He swiftly raised it up and made several deft sweeps at the ceiling made of straw and down fell three snakes, heads chopped off. The entire operation had taken less than two seconds. I thought for a split second he was going to kill me, stab me in the heart, chop off my head and cut out my heart. I wouldn’t have been able to stop him. He was too fast.

One of the snakes was short. It was green. I think it was a tree snake. One was yellow and very long, perhaps a metre. I don’t know what it was, and so far, no one has been able to tell me what it could have been. The third was black. It was about a metre long too. I think it was a cobra. He took them downstairs, peeled them, chopped them up, stuck in sticks and cooked them by a charcoal fire.I got up and joined him sitting on the earth floor staring into the fire, smelling the cooking, charcoal burning flesh. The culinary op didn’t take long. He passed me a stick of well cooked snake flesh on a stick. I declined. He put it aside and continued to cook the rest.

Then he pulled out a bottle of lao kow from under a rock, opened it and took a swig, grimacing while he did. He clearly didn’t like the taste, but must have enjoyed the effects. He passed the bottle to me and I swigged too.Grimacing more than he did and feeling decidedly queasy for hours after that. It didn’t taste good at all. He opened a small basket of sticky rice, took a fist full and squeezed in some of the flesh. He gulped it down. I grabbed the basket and ate some rice too. Next to the rice, was a pot of cooked mushrooms. I looked at him, I looked at the mushrooms, he nodded. I grabbed them. I needed to cover up the taste of the lao kow.

I don’t remember what happened after that. Perhaps I passed out, but I woke up on the same spot where I had sat. People were looking down at me smiling and laughing, saying “buck see da, farang, hello, hello.” The sun was coming up, cocks were crowing and when I looked around I could see people were already stuck in the rice fields planting. I expected to see Dennis, but he was no where in sight. His bag was gone. I asked them where he was and they shook their heads. They didn’t seem to know anyone called Dennis. Perhaps they knew him by a different name.

I didn’t want to just to sit there with people staring and laughing and looking friendly, so I suggested that we should get the party started. They nodded as if they knew what I meant. I ran off into one of the fields, grabbed some plants and started sticking them in the mud. They laughed even more. One shook her head, pulled out my plants and showed me how to do it properly. My next attempt was better but still not good enough. My plants weren’t straight. With practice, and more guidance, during the morning, I improved, but it still wasn’t perfect. It’s no where as easy as it looks.

Time for lunch. We had fish, (I think it was cat-fish), sticky rice, wild mushrooms, and insects, washed down with beer kept in an ice box. For desert we ate mangoes. It was hot then, so we slept in the shade. In the late afternoon, it started to drizzle. We planted more rice. The farmers had a very long field with lots of paddies.We worked until it was dark, but I knew it would take many more days until all the rice was going to be planted.

End of Chapter Two

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Conversations with a Buffalo

Chapter One

Ouwa Ouwa. A deep groan blows out. Now a lot of you will find this story interesting. It happened five years ago. Some of you won’t believe it. You’ll say “Na”. Some of you will believe it and say nothing and nod slowly a few times. Some of you, The Third Lot, will analyse it and then write in with helpful explanations and advice. Others, The Fourth Lot, will have had similar experiences and will share. This story goes out to all of you, but particularly to The Third and Fourth Lot.

The story I’m going to share with you has been reconstructed from written notes, vague memorial recollections, photographs and tape recordings. These sources are a collection of eye witness accounts, conversations and personal reflections. And it’s going to be a summary, not the full- blown, unadulterated version.

During the past five years, I’ve spent a lot of time going over the evidence and discussing this evidence with a lot of blokes and birds, who have listened, read, digested and tried to explain, in their own words, what exactly happened. Many of these people are open minded, broad minded, well travelled, experienced, educated, wise, intelligent and well read. Some aren’t.

You might find the first part of this story rather long winded and boring. It might appear like that, but it’s not. It’s an integral part of the whole story. You won’t be able to understand or explain what happened unless you digest this important part of the whole. It’s essential to the context. Some of you will come up with explanations as soon as you have finished reading. Others will have to sleep on it and when you wake up, it will come to you.

I’m going to tell you up front some of the explanations others have already suggeted to me in the hope that you can come up with something different. Here they are 1) I really did have conversations with a buffalo 2) I didn’t have conversations with a buffalo: I imagined it or I was delusional 3) I didn’t have conversations with a buffalo: I had a conversation with a man, or woman, who I thought was a buffolo, or he, or she, thought he, or she, was a buffalo and I believed him, or her, or other people thought he or she was a buffalo and I believed them 4) I knew all along that I wasn’t talking to a buffalo, until I forgot that and now, as a result, I believe that I did.

A warning before you start: This is all written in English. To be sure, numerous languages were used including English, Thai, Isaan, Lao, Chinese, French, Russian, Greek, Maltese and German to name a few. I can’t always remember now which languages were used when or to what extent or with what fluency or accuracy or register. Sign language was also used and interpretators. It’s all mixed up in my mind now, except for the recordings when I can hear the original tongue. Last word of warning, I’m going to write it as if it were a very short fictional story, but it’s not fiction: no apologies.

As often happens with a lot of my experiences, it all started in Bangkok. It was the rainy season. The rains were particularly heavy that year. Sometimes there was a cool wind blowing but often, it was stinking, stufflying hot. It was also a time when I chose to sleep outside. Some call it sleeping rough or living rough. I don’t. A lot of Thai blokes like to sleep outside during this season especially when the rain falls or when the nights are cool. Of course, my mates who live in-doors begged me to stay with them; but I, like a true, traditional English Bull Dog, or like my Spartan Greek mates, stayed steadfast; I resisted.

After a number of days of this spewing rain and hot tub temperatures, together with the rude, loud horns, vehicle exhaust, and snail like masses, I got agitated; I started to feel as if I was going mental. I began to yearn for a quiet, peaceful country life.Nay, I needed a break; I needed a holiday. Thank the Greek Gods! Tony turned up. He’d heard from my street mates that I could be going mental. He said he was heading off countryside way and would give me a lift.

I went at the chance like a dog going for a bone with meat on it and marrow inside and jumped into his car. Off we went. I didn’t know at the time where we were going to. I didn’t care. I found out later, much later though. I didn’t bother reading the road signs as I was so intent on listening to my music and reading a novel I’d read and re-read a hundred times. It was damn good too. I didn’t have an I-Phone; I didn’t have a book either. It was all in my head. I could just remember it all, note for note and word for word. I was transfixed. After about ten hours, I began to get bored and so did Tony and besides that he had buisiness to do in Bangkok the next day. H e wanted to head back and asked me if I wanted to alight. Of course, I did. I couldn’t wait. That’s why I headed out from BK right from the ready go. I jumped out and Tony sped off back to Bangers.

I looked around. It was dark, not pitch because there was some moonlight but I was in the countryside. There were trees, a bridge, a river and fields. For the first time in a long time, longer than I could immediately remember, I was breathing fresh air and the vapors of chicken fertilizer. My lungs were full and my stomach empty. I felt happy and I began to relax. I felt even better when it started to rain. Then it became pitch dark as the clouds covered the moon. It was exciting: the loud thunder, the lightning strikes, and the strong wind. Within seconds, I was loaded up with country water. How good it felt! After standing there for what felt like ten minutes, I walked off along the road into the dark not knowing where I was going and not particularly caring. At last, I was countrysided.

After five minutes a pick-up truck went past and stopped just ahead. I opened the door. The driver didn’t ask me if I wanted a lift and I didn’t say I did. I climbed in. We said nothing together. After a twenty minutes, she stopped the car and I got out. I was in the middle of a village. Some lights were on in some of the houses; a lot weren’t. There weren’t any street lights. Dogs barked at me; they were frightened and I forgave them. As soon as they got close, I just tried to kick them and none of them bit me.No one came out to see what all the noise was about. They must have been asleep. I don’t know what the time was, but it must have been later than ten.

I stumbled forwards after the last dog attack and saw a figure lurching in the middle of the road. Dogs barked at him too, ran out and looked as if they wanted to bite him, but he just ignored them, and eventually, they backed off. For me, at that time, he was a fellow philosopher. A person after my own heart, to use another cliché and thank goodness for them too. He was shorter than me, about five feet four. He had a shaven head, a round smiling face, some stuble, a slightly red complexion. He was wearing clothes, although I saw him many times after that not wearing anything while expeditioning through the streets. His clothes looked clean, but ragged, torn and unironed, like mine. His face was beaming; he was delighted to see me. He wanted to talk. “Where are you from?” he asked. And before I could answer, he looked me in the eyes, with what I considered to be total frank, honesty and innocence and said, “I want money”. I looked at him in his eyes and waited. “You and me both, cobber”, I ouwed. And after that, we became the best of friends, to use another cliché…No! I can do better than that- We deserve it: We got on like houses set alight. Like one great big, bloody bonfire lighting up the rice fields, laughing wildly, like happy, drunk bastards. As only drunk bastards can. (I’ll explain that bit later).

End of Chapter One

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By MEGA

Hunter S. Thompson is/was probably my favorite author. He had an unusual knack for cutting through the gloss of the human experience and getting right to the heart, the very core, of the basic shit that motivates us. And that, unsurprisingly, is us. Yeah, that’s it, we’re essentially a self serving, what’s in it for me, bunch of fuckers really aren’t we. But that’s okay because, if we’re honest about it, ninety nine percent of the worlds’ population thinks the same. Credibility problems only come into question when one tries to promote the idea that we’re in it for the noble cause or that we’re here to fight the good fight while, at the same time, our peers are still seeing that the talk doesn’t match the walk. Selfless types are few in this world. Mother Teresa and Sir Edmund Hillary are the only two that readily come to mind. So, why don’t we just cut to the chase and admit it? The primeval urges of the days when we were running around in bear skins still actually apply to this present day. Blokes, given the opportunity, want to procreate with as many women as they possibly can, during their short existence on the planet, and women are looking for the best possible provider, in terms of food, clothing and shelter, as they can possibly find.

Now, let’s apply this equation of basic human instinctive urges to the Thailand scenario. Are there any Thai women out there – and Thai women are no different to women in any other part of the world in this regard– that aren’t looking for the best possible male provider that they can find? In these modern times food, clothing and shelter essentially mean money. Are there any Thai women out there that don’t like money? Are there any Thai women out there that aren’t interested in getting as much as they can possibly get for themselves? Are there any farang blokes out there that don’t like sex? Are there any farang blokes out there, when presented with the opportunity, aren’t interested in having sex with beautiful, young, attractive Thai women? The silence is deafening.

I think I’ve just sorted out the Jayson debate in one short paragraph. Hunter, bless his soul, knew what he was on about; cutting through the gloss, and the rhetoric, and getting down to what really makes us tick. And, as far as I’m aware, the thing that makes most foreigners tick, here in the LOS, is purely about self indulgence. Being the honest character that I am, I’m going to fess up to being one of the most self indulgent types that ever stepped off the plane. I’m probably a disappointment to the minority out there, such as the Jayson types that do their best to promote the noble cause, but I like having sex with attractive, lithe gogo dancers. And, I’m sure, there’s no objection on their part to money that I give them.

 It’s been about four months since I broke up with the ex. The problem with breaking up with a professional Thai hooker – in their eyes at least – is that you’ve never really broken up, you’re just on hold. The fact that we’ve had the odd tryst, during the break up period, is a testament to that. The open ended arrangement; what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Who the hell am I kidding?

I’d been away working and was now back to get my fill of self indulgence. I’d spent a fair bit of time feeling sorry for myself but, as a couple of my hard-nosed work colleagues pointed out; sorry is a word in the dictionary somewhere between shit and syphilis. If you take a bird out of a gogo bar, and try to form a relationship with her, what do you expect? It’s time to harden the fuck up old sport. My first stop was the Tilac bar. After spending six weeks cooped up on an offshore diving vessel it was nice to be sitting in the comfortable surroundings of a place I’d referred to, jokingly of course, as Sticks’ office. Drinks in hand, and a couple of lithe twenty two year olds bouncing in my lap, I hadn’t reckoned on the speed of the jungle drums. The fact that the ex’s older sister, and cousin, work there as well probably didn’t do me any favors either. Within thirty minutes, of being absorbed in my little world of indulgence, my blissful reverie was interrupted by that bane of the whore-mongering experience; the ringing of the mobile phone. It was the ex.

“You butterfly man; I know you fuck lady tonight”

“Hmmm. What is it that you are doing then?”

“Not same. I am working”

“Is that what you call it?”

“You no good, you big butterfly”

“Well how about I just go with someone you know”

“Arai na?”

“I’ll just take your cousin and sister”

“Fuck you”

“You can later if you want”

At this point the expletive deletives were coming so thick and fast I thought it would be easier just to shut the phone off. Drink back in hand I turned my attention to the older sister and the cousin. What was that about revenge being a dish best served up, or eaten, cold? Hmmm, not worth the hassle, forget that. And besides, I’ve never really subscribed to the eye for an eye school of thinking; there was nothing to be really gained by rubbing her nose in it. It was time to move to a location that was less discriminating; the Dollhouse or Baccarra would be just the tonic.

My mood had been dialed down a couple of notches as I sauntered up the soi in the humidity of a post Songkran, Bangkok evening. Just as I was about to veer towards Baccarra, the enticing lilt of a Thai female voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Bai nai?”

It wasn’t a hello welcome, come inside please, buy one drink, it was a bai nai. I looked to my right. Sitting at one of those high, circular tables, in front of one of those small bars, that one never considers going into, was a couple of attractive Isarn ladies. I took a seat, introductions were made and a round was ordered. A couple of freelancers, down from Korat for a few days, trying to pick up some easy cash to supplement the pig farms they owned. Pig farmers indeed. Well, they were easily the most attractive pig farmers I’d bumped into for quite some time. One was tall and leggy with a small rack. The other a bit shorter with an abundant silicone enhanced chest and a killer body; the butt looked so firm you could probably bounce a ten baht coin off it. I instinctively moved my chair closer to firm butt.

We chatted, joked and, after another round or three, the decision was made to head off to one of those late night venues. Long legs decided to call it a night and so, without further ado, firm butt and I made our way up to the long line of taxi’s straddling the intersection of Cowboy and Soi twenty Three. I’d previously been to a place called Spicey but, after mentioning it to our enthusiastic cab driver, was told that Bossy would be a better choice due to the red shirt problem; Spicey was located somewhere down near MBK and would involve a long circuitous drive. Point made, we sped off into a red shirt ravaged Bangkok night.

There are those that would say that at fifty four I should grow up, act my age and what the fuck are you doing hanging out in one of those late night dance venues where  mood enhancing substances seem to be the order of the day. To be honest, I really have no answer to that except, when you’ve got a twenty four year old Thai gal with a firm butt hanging off your arm, it doesn’t really matter.

I paid the entrance fee, got some approving nods from the boys on the door, and walked into the full blast of house music. Firm butt had already told me that she liked dancing and, as we made our way to an empty table, she looked enthusiastically at the raised dance platform that runs the length of the subterranean bar area. There were already a number of groovers up there gyrating away and the three chrome poles, that formed part of the platform construction, gave the freelancers the added bonus of recalling their past days as professional pole swingers.

We ordered our drinks and I took in the atmosphere; the place was heaving and the music was pumping. I looked up at the dance platform again and it began to resemble something of a circus, or, a carnival. A large breasted, two hundred pound farang women, dressed in a pair of black lycra shorts, and a black body hugging top, was knocking people left, right and center as she gyrated around one of the poles and looked seductively down at the crowd below (take it as a given that the crowd was not looking seductively back at her). In front of us a Thai female dwarf, dressed in a pair of board shorts and a tank top, was dry humping some prone, twenty year old farang tourist on the platform. Fuck knows what he was thinking.

Firm butt took one swig of her Bacardi Breeze and then asked me to help her up; it was time for the show to begin. I’ve seen some hot movers in go-go bars before but, without a doubt, the routine that my sexy pig farmer had was the hottest I’ve ever seen. She was that good that she even out danced the hottest dancer from the Tilac Bar, number thirty eight, who was there to strut her stuff as well. While some of the other girls, who were watching, clapped her performance the younger guys, mesmerized by her moves, looked at me while I smiled smugly and thought yeah, that’s right boys, she’s with me and I’ll be banging her in another three hours; money talks and bullshit walks.  

My sexy pig farmer continued drinking and butt grinding into the small hours of the morning and, when the alcohol and fatigue eventually took its’ toll, we made our way back to my apartment. Her performance in a horizontal position was equally as good as her performance on the dance floor. By mid afternoon I’d paid her off but told her that, if she was up for it, we’d do it all again that night. As an added incentive I handed her some extra cash and told her to buy one of those body hugging, lycra, leopard skin patterned, one piece, skimpy dresses (the type that bar girls buy for three hundred baht down at the On Nut open markets) for herself, and her long legged friend, for that night; a dastardly plan had begun to form in my mind.

By late afternoon the grumbling stomach finally forced me to order a full English breakfast down at the restaurant on the premises. A couple of the other expat residents were there enjoying the odd sundowner, or two, and, as is usually the case, we shared our tales of drunken debauchery from the previous night.

“So, are you hooking up with her again tonight?” said Sean.

“Absolutely, I’ve told her go and buy one of those one piece, body hugging, leopard skin patterned, skimpy, lycra things that you see on a lot of the girls down on Soi Six in Pattaya” I said enthusiastically.

“What devious scheme have you got in mind” said Sean.

“I’m taking the pair of them to the bastion of the Hi So clubbing scene tonight” I said sniggering.

“Where’s that then?”

“Narcissus”

“Fuck mate, you’re taking the piss aren’t you”

“I’ve got every intention of doing that” I said laughing.

My phone began beeping. It was an sms from firm butt. She and long legs had completed their shopping assignment and would be good to hook up at the same location, on Cowboy, at nine pm.

I got there a few minutes before nine and took up a position looking back down Cowboy towards Asoke. I wanted to get an eyeful as they walked up the soi to our allotted meeting point. They were running a few minutes late but, as my second beer landed on the table, I spotted them walking side by side; about fifty meters back down the soi. It was a sight to behold. Those skimpy, body hugging, leopard skin patterned, three hundred baht lycra dresses – if you could call them that – looked bloody fantastic on a pair of hard bodied Korat pig farmers. Firm butt was a total knockout and her skimy dress was so skimpy it barely covered her crotch.

There were smiles all around as they arrived at the table. Due to the fact that I had rivulets of sweat coursing down my back the decision was made to go into the bar that had been providing my beers during my wait in the humidity of another pre wet season Bangkok evening. We entered the bar. It was a narrow go-go with a small dance platform on the right near the door. The girls on the platform gave us a cursory glance as we looked for a place to sit. A friendly looking Isarn lady appeared out of the huddle of girls, which were sitting at the far end of the bar, and gave firm butt, and long legs, a hug and a warm greeting. It was then that I realized that they weren’t in here purely by chance. No doubt this was, more than likely, one of their previous places of employment and the lady giving us the enthusiastic greeting was an old work buddy.

We settled on a position about half way along the length of the bar and ordered our first round. The sexy pig farmers informed me that it was going to be their last night in town and they wanted to make it a big one. I had a pretty good idea what that meant; I’d be doing another trip to the ATM before too long. I ordered a beer and the girls ordered tequilas. There was no mucking around with this lot; they were going in hard right from the get go. I’ve often wondered what it was that attracted people to that vile concoction; it’s not too far removed from the constituency of high octane fuel. Whatever the case, bar girls seem to love the stuff and most of them seem to be able to put it away like they were raised on it. Whenever I’ve enquired as to their liking for it, I always seem to get the same response; it give me power.

We were into our third or fourth round when firm butt cuddles up next to me, grabs a hold of my old fella and, with one of those seductive looks that only a Thai bar girl has, asks me if I could bar fine their work buddy so she can join us for the night. What do you do? Answer yes, of course. To do otherwise would see me consigned to the ranks of those considered mai sanuk or, god forbid, a jai dum. My affirmative response was rewarded by a firmer squeeze of the old fella and sniff on the cheek.

Our new found drinking buddy was certainly good value for the six hundred baht bar fine as she kept up a constant stream of slapstick Thai humor. There’s no doubt that bar girls have always got one eye firmly fixed on the money (tell me who in this world hasn’t though) and one must never forget that they’re simply doing a job. Even so, their entertainment value can’t be underestimated and they certainly know how to create a lot fun while they’re prying the cash out of your pocket. I don’t think I’ve laughed so much, and so hard, for a long time.  

After what seemed like too many rounds to remember I checked the time; it was nearing eleven pm and I decided that a move up to the Sheraton of the Thai clubbing scene was in order. There are some that would argue that Spazzo’s, at the Erawan, could lay claim to that tag but, having spent the odd night or two there, I can safely say, in the hindsight of my night at the Narz, Spazzo’s is simply an upscale meat market these days and isn’t much in the way of a true dance venue. Simply put the Narz rules.

Narcissus isn’t too far from Soi Cowboy, in terms of distance, but it’s a world away in terms of the social strata that hang out there. A stand alone, three story building of architectural coolness, its upscale construction reeks of middle class and Hi So Bangkok. Even the bloody toilets wouldn’t look out of place in a five star hotel.

Our taxi pulled up at the entrance and, as the four of us clambered out, the boys on the door gave me a bit of a smirk and a thumb up when they saw it was one farang accompanied by three rowdy Isarn gals. There are two bars within this shining glass and steel edifice to electro dance music. The one dedicated to Techno is on the ground floor. We glanced at the entrance and continued up the stairway to the hip hop bar on the next level, arriving there to find the place virtually empty; we were definitely early. The wait staff assured me that, as it was a Saturday night, it wouldn’t be too long before the place started filling up; midnight was the time that things normally kicked into gear.

We made a bee line, through the plush lounge setting, to a seating area next to the windows that looked out over the car park below. My three Isarn gals, having not been to this standard of venue before, were well impressed. A bottle of Black label was ordered and the girls got into the groove straight away alternating between double shots of Black and working on their sexy dance moves. Firm butt had already done a warm up session on the dance platform back at the bar on cowboy and was quickly into her stride with more of her butt grinding rhythm. The skimpy dress she’d bought was probably a tad too skimpy as it continually worked its way up her thighs to a position slightly above crotch level. A hasty readjustment and it was back down to a position slightly below crotch level.

It wasn’t long before the tables around us started to fill up with those that one could clearly see considered themselves to be part of Bangkok’s elite. To be honest I really don’t know any Hi So’s but, from what I’ve seen while hanging out in Paragon and The Emporium, most of them look as though they take themselves fairly seriously. They also look as though they don’t really know how to let their hair down. It’s as though they’ve got to be continually on their guard because every move they make is being scrutinized by their peers.

A large group sat down at the table in front of us and I gave firm butt her cue. She got straight into it by doing that thing that the hot go-go dancers do; they spread their legs slightly apart, lean against a wall, or hang on to a pole, and roll their butts as though they’re engaged in copulation from the rear. It was classic and I sat their laughing like hell as her actions caught the attention of some of those hi so boys. I don’t think they’ve ever seen anything quite like it in their lives as they looked on wide eyed and slacked jawed. Their female contingent looked on in disgust with their noses in the air.

Prologue

I sat back and took a slurp of my lukewarm Nescafe in the fading light of a late afternoon in Bangkok. I closed my eyes in a moment of total relaxation and thought about the previous forty eight hours; it had been exhausting but totally entertaining. Although the sexy pig farmers had gone back to Korat, to continue breeding pigs, they’d mentioned to me that it wouldn’t be too long before they’d be back in town for some more fun. My sedated state was interrupted by the ringing of my phone. It was the ex.

“Hello”

“Teerak, what do you think about us be back together again?” she said with that seductive voice that I knew only too well.

“I’ll have to think about that” I said enjoying being in the dominant position.

“Ta mai?” she said with that edge to her voice, that I also knew so well, when she wasn’t going to get her way immediately.

“I’m going up to korat to have a look at a pig farm” I said with a grin

“Arai Na”

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Twisted Tales

To splice or not to splice? Read the previous post “Sucked In”. In my opinion, it’s best not to, but not all of my mates agree with that, so I’ve got some of them sitting here now with me to ask them their views and for their advice before giving my own. Surprisingly, some of them are really positive about splicing even though they’ve had some rotten experiences.

I’m not going to use their real names or the dates and places to save people from embarrassment, but if you’ve had a similar experience and would like to share, do write in. You’ll also want to express your opinions. Yes, please do that, too. It’s healthy. Last word, I’m also going to clean up the language, cut down on the verbiage, and take out the slang, so everyone can understand it. This will be a summary; and some parts of the conversation will be expunged. My mates will be reading this before it’s submitted to make sure they agree on the facts and they’re not going to be compromised.

Ok. I’ll get some of my mates to edit. But once, again I take full responsibility.

First on the spot, John. “Now John tell us about your experience, mate.”

John: “I don’t want to talk about my experience. It’s too painful and too embarrassing. I don’t want anyone to know about it, but I would like to give some advice. I don’t even expect blokes to take it. That’s up to them, too.I’m not going to tell blokes not to get married. That’s for them to decide. I don’t even want to turn this into a Thai vs the rest of the World thing, let alone Thai vs Farang. Anyone could have similar experiences in whatever country they’ve been too.”

Me: “Ok, John. What’s your advice?”

John: “Don’t marry a girl who’s beautiful, especially one who’s a lot younger than you and who’s more beautiful than you are handsome because a lot of men, both farang and Thai, will try it on with her, even your friends.She might be tempted, she might do something behind your back and she might leave you for one of them.”

Me: “Thanks, mate. So, another way of saying this is, marry a girl who you think is attractive, but not other blokes. Other blokes then, might find her unattractive, or mildly attractive, or even ugly. Is that right?”

John: “That’s it. You could put it that way.”

Me: “Anything else?”

John: “Not for now. Thank you.”

Me: I can see Mary wants to chip in here.

Mary: “That doesn’t just apply to men. That’s what happened to me. I kept a man. My own race and nationality. I was the bread winner. He was much younger than me, very handsome, a real stud. And the scoundrel went off with another woman.”

Me: “ Thanks for that, Mary. I’m sorry to hear that. This can happen to both men and women, then. Would you be prepared to get married again, Mary?”

Mary: “If the right man came along, but not another stud.”

Me: “Thanks for that contribution, Mary. Do you want to make a further comment?”

Mary: “No.”

Skipper: “Frankly, I don’t agree. I’ve met a few chaps who have stunning wives. The men are nothing to look at, but they know how to make their wives happy; their wives love them and they have a really successful relationship. It’s pleasing to see. I’ve also seen handsome men with, frankly, awful looking women. They always seem like happy couples.”

Me: “What you’re saying then, Skipper is that there are exceptions. Or maybe, any ugly personage could keep a beautiful or handsome partner if they know how to keep them happy.”

Mary: “That’s rubbish. Are you suggesting I didn’t make him happy? Are you saying I’m a failure? I resent that.”

Frank: “I prefer lady-boys. I make no secret of it. I walk down the street with my partners. We often hold hands. A lot of people stare, but we ignore them. My partner looks proud and so do I. Most of my friends don’t like lady boys in that way but they still go out with me and my partners. I’ve had a lot of relationships and I’m in a happy one now. But, I had a really bad experience once. I dumped her and she managed to get me to pay her a huge amount of money. I didn’t expect that. I could afford it. I’m not short of money, but I didn’t like it.”

Me: “So, what you’re saying is, if you’re in a steady-married like relationship, whether with a woman or not, you could end up paying a handsome fortune once that relationship ends. And this doesn’t just happen in the West. Is that right, Frank?”

Frank: “Yes, exactly.”

Rick: “I wouldn’t want to be seen out with a lady-boy, but I have had a rumble with one or two. I like them for that.”

Steven: “I’ve read your article called “Sucked In”. I think we all have. I can understand where you’re coming from. I was ripped off. I was a fool. I let my lady have access to my bank account. I went off on an overseas business trip. When I came back, the whole lot had gone. She’d gambled it away. I still love her, though and can’t leave her.”

Me: “Do you still give her money to gamble, Steven?”

Steven: “Er…Yes”.

Beau: “I think I’m handsome. I’ve done a bit of modelling. I was in a relationship. I considered the lady to be my wife. I went overseas on a modelling assignment. On the way back, I was sitting next to someone who said he was an oil rigger. He looked really happy. I was bored and got talking to him. He pulled out a picture of his girlfriend. As soon as I saw it I nearly fainted. It was my so called wife.”.

Stella: “Hey, this kind of stuff doesn’t just happen here. You think it does because you’re here. Before I came here I was married to someone I trusted. Guess what? A couple of good friends came over for dinner. My husband and the other woman were in the kitchen. I was talking to her husband in the living room. I went to the kitchen, and I’m not going to tell you what I saw, but that was the end of our marriage. Yeah, I’m married again, but it took a long time before I could trust someone.”

Bella: “No, I don’t agree with you there, Stella. I lost my husband to an Asian woman. We’d been married for twenty years. I thought we had a really good relationship. I was happy and he was too. Then he met the other woman. That was the end of it.”

Mick: “I think Bella’s got a point. I much prefer Asian women, especially Thai women. But I’ve been screwed over a dozen times. I’m not an idiot but it’s happened too many times. My problem is I end up trusting them, giving them the benefit of the doubt. I’ve been let down though so many times. When I meet a new one I want to settle with I take them off to the hospital for STI checks. If they’re clean, and they always have been so far, we live together. What an idiot I’ve been. Really. Most of these affairs have ended up as disasters. One gave me an STI. She went off with a few guys behind my back: her ex husband, a mutual acquaintance…I trusted her. Like a fool I still wanted to keep her.”

Marti: “Oh no…I caught my wife in bed with my mate in (my country). We had a couple of kids; I thought we got on; I loved her; I thought she loved me; Ok, we had our problems; who doesn’t? I was a good provider and I’m good in the sack.”

Me: “Nut, May, Nid…what do you think? I know you’ve got strong opinions.”

Nut: “I live with a farang. I have a Thai boyfriend. I send him money. My farang “husband” doesn’t know I think, but if he does, he doesn’t show it or care. He goes off to bars. He met me in a bar. What does he expect? Would I prefer to be with my Thai boyfriend or my farang husband? Definitely my Thai boyfriend, but I get all my money from my farang husband. He’ll go off one day and leave me. He’s old anyway and could die at any time. When that happens, I’ll find another one”.

May: “I have a farang husband. As you know…Kevin. I’m proud of him and he’s proud of me. I love him. He loves me. I will never leave him. Anyway, I prefer farangs to Thai men. Thai men are so untrustworthy and useless.”

Kevin: “ I want to chip in there. I fully agree with what May says, except I’ve met a lot of really good Thai guys who don’t fit the usual stereotypic mould. They’re good men. And good for us too. I mean May and me. I don’t know whether we are the exception that proves the rule. Frankly, we don’t give a damn.”

Nid: “Personally, I would never be seen with farangs…no offence to the present company. People would look down on me. My husband is Thai. He has his women and I have my boyfriends. It works. That’s the way it is.”

Prim: “Hey, you didn’t ask me. I’ve never met a good Thai man. I’ve had lots of bad experiences. I thought farangs would be better, but I’ve never met a good one so far.”

Me: “Tony and B, what do you want to say?”

Tony: “No comment in the present company. You already know.”

B: “Hergh, hergh…”.

Me: “OK. I think I know what you mean B. Thanks mates. You’ve been a real blessing. God bless you for sharing.”

Well, I was going to write my own take on this, but listening to all of this has done my head in. I’ll give you my take later in the week. My mates are now going to take me out for a handsome bit of grub and a glass or two. After all this, we deserve it. They’re calling me. OK, mates. Cheers then.

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Sucked In

Ok, mate, so you’ve been sucked in. You don’t realise it now but you need help. This post will help you to find your way out of your stupor. Now, I’m writing this on my tod this time, so I’m going to ask my mates to chip in later to help me out where I’ve got things wrong or I’ve forgotten something. I’m getting on a bit. Back to it: This is crisis management stuff we’re talking about or, worse, damage limitation control. Your mates have done their best to talk you out of it and all your mates and family back home are pulling their hair out, screaming blind obscenities.

But you can’t help yourself. You’re emotionally weak. Admit it. You’re what we technically call “emotionally blinded”. Some will even say you’ve been voodooed. Pricks may have been inserted into your dummy with pieces of your hair or nails attached and special words might have been murmured in low, hot, breath by specialists.

Back home, many of your family members and your mates will tell ya you should marry one of your own. In fact, a lot of wise men and women will go further than that and tell you, you shouldn’t marry at all, whoever she is, wherever she comes from, because for most blokes it will end up as a crippling emotional, psychological, physical and financial disaster who ever you marry. They will tell you your missus will go off with a richer bloke and take all your resources. It might take a year; it could take two or even thirty, but it will happen. And when it does, you’ll think of yourself as a stupid sod.

Ok, married men who manage to stay the course live longer, but who wants to live longer when you’re having a good time? We blokes can have a good time and live longer than single blokes used to even until we’re in our seventies or even longer now with special diets, exercise, goals, targets, money, fresh air, sunshine, mates and birds.

Some of you will be wondering what all this marriage stuff is all about. Those of us in the know will tell you this: There are three states of marriage.

1) This is the most popular form. You live with someone in the same room, flat or house as a monogamous couple. Well, at least the bird is supposed to be and you trust her about this. In fact, you trust her with all your heart. You as a bloke, however, have the right to forget from time to time that you told her you would too because that’s what blokes are like and everyone knows that. The good thing about this is you’ve got someone to clean your house and cook for you; you don’t need a maid and you don’t have to spend money on going to bars every night unless you want to

2) This is second best. You have a cultural celebration to show everyone you are now together. This could be in the form of a village wedding with no paper work or it could be Chinese cultural style with no paper work. In these celebrations, some blokes have even married two women, or men, at the same time, and sometimes sisters. These events are great fun and everyone has a great time. In the villages, you’ll have a music and dancing show; there’s lots of food and drink, people make speeches; people sing songs and you’re blessed by monks and a Brahmin. The bad news is: you’ll pay for it; the good news is: it’s a hundred times cheaper than in your country.

3) This is the least popular form of marriage. When this happens, there’s a serious problem going on. It can be extremely sticky to extricate your self from that one. It could end up costing you a lot of money. You sign the deeds either in your country or here in Thailand in a government office, but that can be boring if you have to wait around. Some of my mates will give you more info about this.

Now, ok. Why shouldn’t you go through with all this stuff? You think you love the bird; you think she loves you; and you think she can make you happy; happier than you’ve ever been before, especially if you’ve had a bad experience in your own country. In fact, you’ve never met anyone like her before. She’s beautiful, kind, charming, lovely and interesting. Oh, I forgot about sexy. In addition, some of you will think she’s cheaper than a bird or wife from your country. I haven’t conducted any surveys. I haven’t done any secondary research. But, I can tell you what I’ve seen; I can tell you what I’ve heard time and time again.

Oh, I don’t have the stomach to tell you these stories now. I’ll tell you a few in another post. Maybe I’ll tell you tomorrow; maybe the next day. Ok, I promised. I will tell you, but not today. I’ve got to go off and find some grub. I’m hungry and thirsty. I haven’t had a meal all day. I can see some on the table over there and a glass of ale with no one’s mits on it. Here goes.

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Dogs

Love ‘em; hate ‘em. They bark loudly; they foul the path; they bite; they can give you rabbies. They can also be faithful friends; protect you and give you companionship and lot of pleasure; as well as healthy psychological benefits. Who cares? There seems to be millions of them in Thailand, and Bangkok is no exception. But what can we do about them? What approach should we take?

ืNow before, I start. I realise this is a delicate topic. So I’ve asked my mates to help me make this as politically correct as I can. But I take full responsiblility. Some of you will be outraged. Some of you outraged people will be doggy lovers. Some of you outraged people will hate dogs. Both sides must write in and comment. It will make you feel better to get it off your chest.

Many live in packs in sois (small roads). They’re called soi dogs and many like to bark at you. They also come running out in vicious, angry packs from houses. The owners don’t seem to give a damn most of the time. They tell you that their dogs don’t bite, but I’m not so sure. I’ve heard too many stories from people who’ve been told that only to be bitten. If you are bitten, you have to go and have a series of rabies injections, which is a pain – mentally, physically, emotionally and financially. You can have one big special but that costs an arm and a leg.

I always take a cane when I go out for a walk. I bang it on the road first when they come running out, which startles them and if they get too close, I swing the stick. The owners don’t usually call their dogs off but they do seem scared I’m going to hurt their dogs. You can also shout out in Thai or Isaan to tell the dogs to stop, but I find it more effective to tell the dogs that they look delicious and I’m going to eat them. Owners get worried then and call their dogs back.

People do eat dogs here. They collect them in vans and sell them to dog cooks who stew them up into a spicy soup. People exchange their dogs for plastic bowls or buckets. They look a sad sight locked up in a cage on the back of a pick-up.

I have hit a few dogs on the snout and taken them by surprise when they’ve tried to bite me in a doggy ambush. I can see them out of the corner of one of my eyes. They then run off and hide. The next time I walk past, they cower down by a wall or a tree. I’ve also thrown small rocks at their faces. That works too. I’ve also had to pretend to pick up a stone and hold my hand up. That usually holds them off. If the dogs look reasonable, I sometimes make soothing noises and that can work too. It often helps if they get to know you. Give them food and then they’ll like you. If not show them who’s boss. That always works.

Another trick they have is to come up behind you without barking so they can bite you in the calf. One dog tried that with me once. I swung my shopping bag at it. A bottle fell through the bag and exploded in front of the dog’s face. That frightened it. I then threw the other bottle at the dog. The owner saw it but stayed hiding in his house. I could see him.

A mate of mine once said he would like to go around on the back of a pick-up and shoot them with shot guns. He suggested we could throw them into the pick-up and cook them. When pressed, he backed down. He was scared the owners would have him done in, not forgetting it’s not a good idea for foreigners to be seen with guns.

If I’m driving and a dog runs out, I slow down and hoot but I will never swerve. As a result, some dogs have gone under my car. I could hear them bouncing around. One also ran into the side and one, I think, tried to attack my car at night by running straight at it. It’s not so bad when I’m driving, but when I’m riding a bike I often swerve out and then I could be hit by an on-coming vehicle.

Now, I don’t always blame the dogs. It’s the owners often who don’t keep them locked up, don’t train them not to attack passers-by and don’t call them off when they attack. There are also a lot of irresponsible dog owners who let their dogs foul every where where humans step. Worms in the dog faeces can blind children, not forgetting the awful smell. They should pick it up. However, thank goodness, a lot of dogs like to eat their own faeces or other dogs’ faeces. You see that particularly with the soi dogs, who are obviously hungry.

There are also too many owners who don’t walk their dogs. They get frustrated and want to attack. This is especially worrying with big dogs like the Rot Weilers and the Rot Weiler cross breeds. When they come out, I don’t run. I don’t look them in the eyes. I stay still and look down and call out to the owners to call them off. Oh, and I never run. Never run from a dog. They run faster. They will chase you; you’ll get tired eventually and they might bite you in the back of your leg.

You probably think I hate dogs. I don’t. I have one of my own and I keep it on a farm. It’s well looked after; it’s healthy, strong and happy. It goes to the vet when it has too and the vet has said how impressed she was with my dog. Whenever I visit my dog, it follows me on country walks. It’s smart and knows how to deal with the vicious packs who run out to intimate it. I didn’t buy the dog. I rescued it from the street when it was a puppy. It knows that. It’s grateful and has tried its best to do what it thinks I require it to do.

One last note about the soi dogs: I go out with my family and feed them. We use scraps-meat, veg. and rice. The dogs love us and never cause us any problems when we walk past them. One person suggested we shouldn’t do that as it encourages them to breed and cause a nuisance. I pointed out that that is not the Buddhist way. Buddhists believe it will create good kharma for them and their family. No, I used to hate dogs before I came to Thailand, but now I don’t. I’m beginning to understand them; I’m learning how to live with them and I want to help them.

Now, a lot of you will say we shouldn’t feed them, but if you want to you can too. Kitchens will give you the food they usually throw out and you can feed the dogs with that. It’s a cheap, free hobby. You get to speak to other people who do the same and it will make you feel good about yourself and your life. Go on, do it! Woof, woof.

A lot of my mates hate dogs. They are going to write in and comment on that. A lot of mates love dogs and hate people who hate dogs. They will write in too. Be ready. Are you ready for the doggy party? Woof. Woof.

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Advice for stingy bastards in Bangkok

Are you a stingy bastard? I am. Do you want to be a happy and successful stingy bastard in Bangkok like me? If you do, then read on.

Now, if you’re like me, you’re not happy unless you can go a day without spending. And if you have to spend, you don’t spend more than you were planning to. If you end up spending more, then you’ll be in a foul, stinking mood. And when that happens, you don’t want to talk to anyone, and nobody wants to talk to you. They all end up asking one another, “What’s wrong with him then?” Or, “What’s got up his goat?” Now, you don’t want that to happen because then you could end up turning into a miserable bastard, instead of a happy bastard.

Now, these are only going to be a few suggestions to get the ball rolling. Some of my mates will be chipping in with more tried and trusted methods on how to be successfully stingy. A quick word on the mates: You need a wide range. I’ll explain later, but your best mates will be just as stingy as you and me.

Now, first up, you need to have a thick skin. If you don’t have one already, you’ll have to develop one. It takes practice and it takes time. It’s essential, because people are going to be envious of you, or worse, jealous. You know why? They can’t do it or they can’t do it as well as you do. You’re better than them. You’re successful and happy too. They don’t want that for you. They want that for themselves. They’ll call you names, like they’ll say you embarrassed them or you’re embarrassing. They might call you a stingy bastard, but that ain’t an insult; they think it is though. No, for you and me, that’s a compliment!

Now, I’m sure many readers will know a lot of these methods I’m going to impart to you, but some of you won’t know all of them. So, keep reading; don’t give up, pal.
Ok, here we go then. The second rule for successful stingy bastard hood status: All really successful stingy bastards have to be successful scroungers. What do I mean? Here are some examples: Have you seen those adverts for ladies nights and free drinks for the ladies? Go to those events, as long as you don’t have to pay to get in. Turn up and look around. Look at the ladies. Ask yourself what are they drinking. Are they drinking the free drinks? Now, not all ladies will take those drinks. You have to go up to one of them who’s bought a drink and ask her to give you her free drink. Not all the ladies will do that, so you have to be persistent. That’s where the thick skin comes in. Some of them will tell you to piss off, but don’t be offended. Think like this to help you harden your skin: That’s part of their charm. That’s part of who they are. Accept them for what they are.

Ok, here’s another example. Keep a list of people who like being generous. Invite one of them out for a drink. Listen to them, make them laugh, make sure they have a good time and then drink ‘em drinks and then at the end of the evening tell them you owe them a drink. When you say that, they’ll think you’re generous and will like you even more. They’ll ask why and then you pull out your wallet and show them you haven’t got any money. Now, they won’t mind because they’re generous, they had a good time and you’ve just told them you owe them a drink. Great eh? But, you won’t be able to use this method twice with the same person. That’s why you need a long list of generous people.

More about Booze: Don’t drink if you have to pay. It’s a stingy fool who does. It can ruin your health, which leads to doctor’s bills; you can’t work and it’s expensive. But, if you really do have to have a drink sometimes, let’s say once a month, then just have one and buy cheap, if you have to pay. Buy the cheapest drink on the shelf in the supermarket, but only one. In addition, there are plenty of left drinks on tables around Bangkok. Drink those. They’re free.

Another piece of advice: Want a girlfriend? Think again. It’s best not to have one. They can be expensive. They’re not as expensive as wives, but they can be expensive. Best thing you can do is not to have one, but if you really must, then find one that a) doesn’t expect you to pay or b) even better, will always pay for you. Now you think I’m joking. I’m not. They are rare but they are around. It will take time to find one though. Now, you’re probably wondering why they should pay for you. Well, some of them like to boast to their mates that they’re keeping a bloke. They think it ups their status and it improves their self respect and their self esteem.

Food? Eat free grub left on plates around Bangkok or if you have to pay sometimes, eat once a day from one of the food stalls by the road. Make sure though you’ve got plenty of immodium if you’re new here and you might need anti-biotics which you can get from the chemist. Eventually, you’ll get used to the bacteria and it will get used to you. The grub shouldn’t cost you more than a hundred baht. Water? Buy the cheap stuff in translucent plastic bottles. It doesn’t taste so good but you’ll get used to it as well. Accommodation? Stay with someone who’s willing to put you up for free. There are plenty of empty rooms. It’s best to have a long list of people who will put you up in case you get fed up with someone. Move on every week or so.

Well, that’s enough of me gassing on. Some of my mates will contribute their suggestions over the coming year, starting from tomorrow.

Cheers then.

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New to Bangkok? Want to pull a bird? Take a sneek then geezer. Lots of blokes roam around Bangkok looking for Birds. Birds know it. Blokes know it. Even the ones who aren’t looking. And many aren’t. For every 10o blokes in BK, about 40 are looking out for it. Now, when I say “pull a bird”, I don’t mean going down to a bar or a hook joint. I mean pulling a real bird who’s going to last a week or more without tagging you for loot.  Corse you might have to pull out some change from time to time to pay for a bit of grub or a bit of booze, but they won’t be jumping on you for your dosh bag. Got it?

Secret  is…go where you fit in. If you’re good on the street, plenty of em. Eating noodles from street stools. Go and join them, but be a gentleman, as a gentleman does. Speak respectably  to the lady and don’t give her the frights. If you do, she’ll jump a yard and might get a few blokes to dosh you up.

Now the good news is, a lot of ladies love an Englishman, so if you’re not one, you shouldn’t pretend. You can show them that not all gentlemen are English, some come from other countries. And you don’t need a posh accent either. A good London one will do it. Tell em you’re an Arsenal supporter. That’ll do it. Loads have heard of Charlie George. Good ol Charlie. Take out his photo from your pocket.

Now, here’s a secret…don’t pick on the gal on her own. Won’t work. Talk to a group of birds. Makes them feel brave and most likely one of em will  try and pull you. That’s what you gotta do. Make them think they’re pulling you, you’re not pulling them. Makes them feel secure. And she’s got her mates there to protect her and back her up incase something goes off the wall.

Next step, she’ll get your personal details. Be ready. Married? Kids? On holiday or stayin? Got money? (She wont’ want to support you fella) How old are you? What’s your name? (Easy now, nothin hard. You can use a Thai name, they love it.) Where you live? Phone number, email, Hi-5 etc.

Give it to her. Don’t push it. Wait. She or her mate will call you. Within a week. Lovely? Go on. Give it a try, mate.

First date. Nothin fancy. Start as you mean to go on. Take her somewhere where she feels comfortable. Suggestion? Just a bit better than where you met her. Next thing you know she’ll be divulging all her personal details: single, married, boyfriend, babies, job, birth location, family residence, hopes and dreams.

Then, you’ve got to make a decision. Will I see this piece of crumpet again or not? Now don’t be pulled in. Don’t be sucked. Many have been. Many are and many will be. Even the ones who think they’re smart. They’re smarter than us. Don’t be a fool on a donkey’s hiding. I’ve seen many a grown man taking a hiding and never seen him again, just because of a bird.

Best thing is..take a mate, but be careful. The bird might like your mate and the mate might like your bird and then they’ll go off together for a quick one. Seen that happen too. Bloke comes back with bacteria oozing cause his bird has gone off with another bloke for five minutes.

Look bud, this is just part one of a series. More tomorrow or the next day. Best of luck. Cheers.

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In December 2010, Michael David Nepia intends to walk the 750 km from Bangkok to Chiang Mai in an attempt to raise money for charity and give hope to children who were not as fortunate as most of us.

Such a big task could never happened without Hope Worldwide Thailand, a non-profit organization dedicated to helping needy children and underprivileged girls. Hope Worldwide is coordinating with Michael in helping out to survey the local accommodation en route before his walk. Read more here.

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