Thai Girl

by Andrew Hicks

  ‘Why so? These women are tolerated. If they fail to follow the Eightfold Path they need to make merit like everyone else. There’s no hypocrisy round here … though she ought to suffer in hell for that skirt.’

  ‘Yes, I don’t think much of the bar girls’ dress sense.’

  ‘That’s why I like the go-go dancers,’ said Jack wryly. ‘They never dress badly … they don’t dress at all!’

  After what he had seen that evening, Ben thought there could be no more surprises, but just as they got to the Eleganza they passed a young Muslim man smartly dressed in stylish jeans, polo shirt and trainers holding hands with a blue pillar box. She was swathed from head to toe in Islamic dress, even the slot for her eyes covered with an opaque gauze. Ben felt he had now seen everything; this crazy place was where all worlds collide.

  The Eleganza Hotel turned out to be a huge nondescript tower block. In the lobby a few men, some Middle Eastern, were sitting around on plush sofas. Ben looked unimpressed.

  ‘The coffee shop’s where it all happens,’ said Jack. ‘It’s one of the oldest pick up joints around.’

  They went down the stairs into the basement and came to a doorway with a desk set up like a checkpoint. There was a notice over the door which read, ‘Weapon Free Area. Liquor and Beverage are not Allowed to Bring Inside.’

  They went through into a large and gloomy room like a canteen. It was very run-down, the drab decor unmaintained, the tiled floor worn and dirty. Two juke boxes, one playing western music, the other songs from Isaan, loudly competed for dominance. At the tables sat Thai women of all ages, the most ghastly looking slags and slappers that Ben in his limited experience had ever seen. One of them sitting nearby was fixing him with her beady eye. He felt distinctly uncomfortable and wanted to bolt back up the stairs.

  ‘Well, this is the coffee shop of the infamous Eleganza. Like it?’ said Jack.

  ‘No, it’s just about the most awful place I’ve ever been in.’

  ‘Well, you ain’t seen nuttin’ yet. Wait ‘til you see the Bier Kellar later on tonight. But now we’re here, do you want to see another goldfish bowl?’

  Ben was not sure he did.

  Walking back down the lobby, Jack steered him towards a small flight of stairs leading into the bowels of the building. They went down the stairs and along a corridor and there it was. A bored-looking girl sitting at the desk opposite the window ignored the new arrivals but there was an excited flutter in the goldfish bowl. The women put on their best pouts.

  ‘Christ,’ said Ben, ‘it’s the Widow Twankie.’

  The goldfish bowl was filled with pantomime dames of the most voluptuous sort. They were in lace-up boots with high heels, a short frothy underskirt displaying ample legs, their tight bodices and low-cut blouse bursting with cleavage. Large tumbled curls, plump rouged cheeks and mascara laid on with a trowel completed the picture. Ben hardly had the nerve to look at them but Jack was coolly surveying the field.

  ‘Nowt to my taste, but obviously the clientele here love ‘em like this,’ he said, smiling at the women who sweetly responded. When Ben turned and retreated down the corridor, the women’s disappointed eyes followed him. As he took a quick backward glance, one of them blew him a parting kiss.

  ‘Maybe we should go on to Big Bazzas next,’ said Jack as they left the Eleganza. It’s mainly Australian expatriates there and good for a quiet drink. I hope Bazza’s in tonight.’

  ‘Who’s Bazza?’

  ‘He’s the Australian who owns the place … great raconteur and good company unless he takes against you.’

  ‘He does, does he?’

  ‘Yes, sometimes. It’s like an initiation first time you go in … every spade’s a bloody shovel. Oh, and Bazza weighs half a ton, and he does The Times crossword faster than you can read the clues.’

  By this time they had crossed Sukhumvit Road and were heading down one of the sois on the other side.

  ‘In case Bazza’s there tonight, I ought to tell you one of his best stories,’ said Jack. ‘Wouldn’t fancy my chances if I told it in front of him.’

  Ben tried to keep up with Jack in the crowded street and to listen at the same time.

  ‘Bazza’s got this new girlfriend who takes him to her home in the North East … just a wooden house on stilts and all the animals living underneath. Now Bazza snores big-time, a gurgly, wet whoopee cushion of a snore. That night he goes to bed with his girlfriend and he starts snoring. The girlfriend can’t sleep, the family can’t sleep and the animals under the house can’t sleep. The animals wonder what beast their mistress has bedded. They’ve no idea what this wild, warbling sound can be. The dogs begin to howl and whimper, the pigs start snorting, the buffaloes bellow and the geese honk. This wakes up the dogs next door who join in the barking … then the next house and the next. In the morning everyone looks ashen. The local headman wants to know what set the animals off. But it was nothing … just big Bazza the Aussie windbag in full cry.’

  ‘Nice one, Jack,’ said Ben, not exactly splitting his sides.

  ‘Yes, and knowing Bazz, there might even be a grain of truth in it.’ Jack mopped his brow as he turned the corner. ‘Well, we’re here. This is it, the world famous, the one and only … Big Bazza’s bar!’

  20

  When they came off the street into the welcome chill of the air conditioning, Ben was surprised that Big Bazza’s bar was so small. The bar was a narrow room almost filled with a U-shaped counter enclosing a working space from which the girls served the customers, a motley collection of older farang men perched on bar stools nursing glasses of beer. The walls were hung with posters and with framed photos of past hijinx in the bar. There were several shots of girls in short skirts going upstairs, of pallid farang backsides with trousers at half-mast and one of Bazza himself stranded like a whale on an anonymous tropical beach.

  ‘The drinkers in here are usually expats working as engineers and so on,’ explained Jack.

  Ben thought they looked a rough lot.

  ‘But where’s Bazza?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve a horrible feeling he’s not here. Maybe he’s gone upcountry on snoring safari.’

  They found vacant bar stools and ordered drinks. A strikingly pretty bar girl in blue skirt and white blouse poured two large Chang beers into chilled glasses. With Ben’s interest very definitely engaged, Jack broached the unavoidable topic.

  ‘So, Ben lad, what do you think of Thai women then?’

  ‘Wow!’ he said dreamily, ‘they’re mind-blowing, but I’m not sure I even begin to understand them.’

  ‘Well I’ve tried pretty hard,’ said Jack, pleased to talk on his favourite subject. ‘Though it isn’t their looks that blows my mind. Farang women are just men with tits, but here they’re real women.’

  ‘Better not let the feminists hear you, Jack,’ teased Ben.

  ‘They’re half the problem, matey. Nowadays a Yorkshire lass can’t be a mother and home-maker anymore without feeling guilty. But the Thais can still be proper women.’

  ‘Maybe with a lower status?’

  ‘Maybe, Ben. But my point’s that they’re feminine right through and that’s what I find so attractive. And going with a Thai girl for a few weeks can still be a game … as a guy you’ve got all the cards but she keeps you guessing. Go clubbing in Huddersfield and you get jumped on by some inebriated tottie with fat legs wanting a one-night stand … but here there’s still a bit of subtlety.’

  Ben was definitely not convinced.

  ‘Tell us another Jack!’ he challenged. ‘Even when you’re paying?’

  ‘Yes, even then it’s a game. That’s what makes it fun.’

  Ben paused in thought for a moment, staring into his beer.

  ‘But Jack, I still feel uncomfortable with the idea of paying for sex.’

  ‘Me too, if you mean straight prostitution … girls servicing several men a night. But as I say, my girls are courtesans and I give’em money to help their families. It’s never a quick shag
for a fixed fee.’

  ‘But it’s not that great for the girls, is it,’ insisted Ben.

  ‘Not if they get pushed into it … by poverty, drugs, children to feed and so on.’

  ‘Exactly! That’s most of ’em, isn’t it? Which is why commercial sex bothers me.’

  ‘The girls that go with the farang can usually look after themselves, but it’s the ones getting screwed by Thai men for a few baht that I worry about.’

  ‘And what about the girls working with Asian tourists?’ Ben asked.

  ‘They’ve got their own clubs and places in Bangkok. The punters from Japan, Hong Kong, Taiwan and so on insist on pale skin … that’s what beauty means to them, while we like these dark skinned Isaan girls.’

  Mention of Isaan made Ben think again of Fon. Sent to work in Bangkok, she had somehow avoided being a bar girl, but her life seemed so hard and unrewarding.

  ‘What do you think it’s like for a girl from a poor farming family who stays behind in the village?’ he asked Jack.

  ‘She’ll end up with a Thai boy who’ll get her pregnant and then be unfaithful,’ said Jack. ‘She’s last in the pecking-order in the home. Mother-in-law kicks her round the place and she does all the house work … maybe the farming too. It can be tough.’

  ‘And what does she get out of the deal?’

  ‘She gets food and protection … but she shouldn’t be too interested in sex herself or she won’t be respectable.’

  ‘Is it always that bad, Jack?’ asked Ben dubiously.

  ‘No, probably not. If she raises sons and runs the household, she’ll be powerful … even more so if the men are always drunk or away working. I’m sure lots of Thai families function better than ours do, but a girl from a poor farming family probably fears the worst, so it doesn’t seem much to give up when she has a chance to work in a bar and be independent.’

  ‘But being a sex worker isn’t that great either, is it.’

  ‘Well, it depends. If she saves and gets out early, she can buy a farm or small business for her family and maybe get married.’

  ‘But she has to sit in bars all night waiting to be screwed by some old pervert.’

  Ben suddenly realised this was more than tactless but Jack passed it by.

  ‘Yes, that’s what they have to do,’ he said. ‘And then they can look a million dollars, send money back to their families and walk tall … exactly what every girl wants. And the alternative? Grubbing around in a rice paddy for life, carrying babies and waiting for her husband to come home and infect her with something nasty.’

  Ben was still not persuaded.

  ‘But isn’t a bar girl a social outcast compared to a farmer’s wife?’ he asked Jack.

  ‘Yes, she’s outside the mainstream, though a successful sex-worker has plenty of support from the other girls and she won’t want to be rescued. When she does go home, she’ll keep quiet about her past and they’ll love her for her money.’

  ‘There must be lots who can’t save, or get sick though, aren’t there?’

  But Jack did not answer him as they were distracted by a noisy party of men coming in from the street, led by a shaven-headed Australian with a massive beer belly, the girls greeting them with excited shrieks. They watched as the Australian ordered beers, talking loudly in monosyllables, every second word an expletive.

  ‘That’s a real rough diamond … must be a Queenslander,’ said Jack under his breath.

  ‘Pity any girl who fall into his hands,’ said Ben.

  ‘Yes, but if he’s got money and treats her properly, being grotesque’s no problem.’

  ‘Bet they don’t often get a nice guy like you, Jack!’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not a soft touch anymore. Two women sent me identical begging letters last month … got’em from a letter-writer or off the internet. You know the sort of thing … father dying, buffalo sick, mortgage lender about to seize the farm … unless of course I come up with the money. Lets face it though, their problems are all basically the same and the sob stories usually true.’ Staring with distaste at the Australian, Jack rocked back on his stool and took a swig of his beer.

  ‘So you’ve never had longer term friendships with Thai girls?’ Ben asked him. ‘You talk about enjoying the courtship thing.’

  ‘As I said, I try to remain dispassionate … love affairs with Thai women aren’t easy at the best of times. You see, there’s this fundamental problem … for the Thais, a man’s willingness to provide is a much bigger part of the love equation than it is with us. So the farang fears his Thai girl doesn’t really love him because she’s too keen on his money … and she thinks he doesn’t love her because he’s so reluctant to hand it over. The Thais detest a man who’s a meany, while we want a woman who’s not interested in our money. It’s the very definition of incompatibility.’

  ‘Sounds dodgy,’ said Ben, ‘and even worse with bar girls who are only in it for the money anyway.’

  ‘Yes, it’s amazing how many men fall for a bar girl and want to marry her. They go back home and keep sending her money, but she’s promised to marry several blokes and she’s milking the lot of them.’

  ‘Surely it catches up with her?’

  ‘Maybe, but she can stop’em visiting her at the same time and if there’s a problem she just dumps whoever’s the meanest.’

  ‘Serve the buggers right if you ask me,’ said Ben.

  ‘Well, everyone’s in it for what they can get, aren’t they,’ replied Jack.

  ‘I like the story of the farang who shacked up with a girl in the North East. He’d come out to Thailand to stay at her home for the winter months and was keeping the whole family going. But he didn’t realise one of the men who was always around the place was in fact her husband. Whenever the farang turned up, the husband moved over and kept his mouth shut.’

  ‘That’s outrageous,’ said Ben.

  ‘But who’s worse? The foreigner who buys the woman or the family who hand over their daughter and take him for everything they can get?’

  Their attention was again drawn to the big Australian who this time was noisily challenging one of the bar girls to drink a bottle of Bacardi Breezer against the clock. Ben thought her a classy looking girl, far superior to the foreign roughneck, but to his surprise she threw back the bottle and downed the sickly contents in four seconds. Wiping the excess from her mouth and gasping for breath, she looked distinctly green.

  ‘Well, I’ve been doing all the talking again,’ said Jack. ‘How about another beer?’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll have a Chang.’

  ‘So Ben, tell me about yourself. You hinted at a bust-up of some sort.’

  ‘Yes, it’s pretty simple. Came out here with my girlfriend and we split up … and now I’ve got involved with a Thai girl.’

  ‘Emotionally involved?’

  ‘Yes. She’s called Fon and she’s a masseur on Koh Samet.’

  ‘Does she tap you for money?’

  ‘No. Other than paying for a daily massage, there’s no mention of money. And she says unmarried women should keep themselves for their future husbands, which makes her a bit different.’

  ‘Sounds frustrating.’

  ‘And there’s a little girl she looks after called Joy, her dead sister’s child.’

  ‘Any idea what happened to the sister and why Fon took on the child?’ asked Jack.

  ‘No, nothing. Though I understand why she doesn’t like talking about her sister.’

  ‘Maybe Ben … maybe. So Fon’s had a tough life, has she then?’

  ‘Yes, her father died when she was thirteen and she was sent to Bangkok to work as a domestic … been working like a donkey ever since. Her mother’s sick too.’

  ‘Sounds familiar,’ said Jack. ‘But watch yourself, lad. In Asia, the literal truth isn’t always that important … life’s an illusion, so why worry about a few little white lies.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, take chastity. Being a virgin isn’t a matter of
real substance, is it … so you just tell people what you want’em to hear. Thailand may look westernised but the old ways are only just beneath the surface. Same same but different as they always say.’

  ‘Suppose that’s what makes a relationship with Fon so difficult. With an English girlfriend I know the rules and when things go wrong, I have some idea why. But chasing Fon’s another ballgame.’ He stared glumly into his beer.

  ‘And what are you hoping for?’

  ‘Everything I guess. Though I can’t see much future for us here … nor at home for that matter.’

  Ben looked across the bar to where the girl who had sunk the Bacardi Breezer was all over the ugly Australian. Her arms were wrapped around his neck and she was laughing and joking with him.

  ‘See that,’ said Ben. ‘How can she go for such a disgusting old bloke.’

  ‘It’s amazing what these girls tolerate. Looks like she really wants him … but then he’s got money.’

  ‘Imagine bringing home a slob like that.’

  ‘They’d welcome him with open arms, Ben. He thinks he’s jumping into bed with the girl but in fact he’s marrying the whole family. If he’s generous with’em they won’t thank him because that’s exactly what’s expected of a rich farang. And the more he shells out, the more they’ll think his money’s unlimited. They won’t believe him when they’ve bled him dry.’

  ‘I think you’re trying to warn me off,’ said Ben.

  ‘No lad, I’m just telling it the way it is. At first the farang’s a star, but one day when she wants more money he’ll say no and there’ll be a god almighty bust up. She’ll tell everyone he’s tight as sticky shit and then it’s downhill all the way. And if he’s bought’em a house, it has to be in her name. Trouble at mill … know what I mean!’

  ‘Well, that’s not my problem,’ said Ben. ‘I don’t have any money and I just want a relationship with Fon right now, that’s all.’

  ‘But, Ben, if she’s the traditional girl she says she is, she won’t go for anything temporary,’ said Jack. ‘A sexual relationship means permanence. You know, the old-fashioned thing that if you’ve been seen kissing the girl, you’ve got to marry her.’