by
Juzzzy
@ Monday, Aug. 27, 2007 - 11:50:37 am
August 27, 2007
1
I REMEMBER lying there on the cushioned blue mat, staring feebly at the ceiling, my hands cupped tentatively around my bruised crown jewels, the only sound to come from my mouth an occasional, childlike whimper.
Poo was sleeping soundly next to me, enjoying the slumber of the just, but although she looked so peaceful and beautiful, with her jet black hair fanned out across the white pillows, I couldn't help feeling that the look of contentment on her face was less to do with her unconscious feeling of bliss at having her beloved at her side, and more to do with the fact that she had slammed two hardy punches into her beloved's unprotected and unsuspecting testicles the night before.
"No more new lady for you no more," she'd said, in a whisper in my ear after my shrieks had finally ebbed, a warning that any more acting "same same heli cop-terrr" - flitting between ladies like a honeybee in a flower bed - could result in something far worse.
"Far worse" in Thailand is, incidentally, just that. It is known over there as "feeding the ducks", which to anyone who can remember being taken to the park with their grandparents to throw bread to the mallards will be something of a shame.
They're not entirely dissimilar phrases, though. Because the ducks do indeed get fed. The difference is that in the UK, you hold chunks of Warburtons in your mittened hands, your pink nose running in the winter chill as you run squealing with delight back and forth along the lake's edge.
In Thailand you are also squealing, but not in the uplifting shriek of youthful excitement, but in the manner of a man who's flaccid penis has been cut off with a pair of kitchen scissors while he was sleeping off last night's bellyful of Sangsom whisky (which is really rum), woke to find a set of bollocks covered in blood and a suddenly missing vital body part above, and the sound of ducks outside quacking excitedly as they fight over the piece of fresh, raw, still-warm meat that's just been offered to them as a break-of-day feast.
There are about thirty reported cases of duck feeding in Thailand every year - though it's estimated that most cases go unreported, given that the men are too shamefaced to admit what happened. But however many cases there actually are, having a bit on the side in that part of the world really does leave your "ham" - penis - in a state of clear and present danger.
Those images weren't exactly at the forefront of my mind that morning - in fairness, I was too busy wondering when my balls would stop flashing like a Belisha beacon - but they were there, murmuring furtively in the background, like old women in a court's public gallery.
How had she known, though? Had the hell had she found out?
2
I blame Keith.
My friend had landed a rather brilliant job on the oil rigs off the coast of Nigeria, a job so easy and so well paid that the very thought of it used to bring me to the brink of tears, especially considering that I was a penniless illegal immigrant six thousand miles from home (as against the penniless writer I am now, six thousand miles from success).
Keith was a foreman in charge of a team of locals whose job it was to constantly keep the rigs covered from head to toe in rust-proof paint. As he himself once described it to me, cackling at his own good fortune as we nursed Heineken after Heineken in the suspect confines of Coco Bar: "Basically, I point at something and say 'paint that'," he said. "And then they do."
And for a whole month, seven days a week, that is what he would do, working twelve hour shifts, gorging thrice daily in the well-stocked and free canteen, working out in the gym, watching the latest movies in the cinema, and then sleeping like a log before the next day's pointing at things would begin all over again.
For this arduous task, he was paid £6,000 a month tax free. Tax free, because he no longer lived in the UK. Instead, he spent a month on the rigs pointing at things, and then a month in Thailand.
And his flights to and from were paid for by the oil company.
"Good, eh?" he laughed throatily, before ordering two more Heinekens.
3
Of course, there was just one chink in the otherwise shining armour that was his God-given employ, and that was of course that no alcohol was allowed on the rigs. And after a month dressed in overalls and a hard hat under the Nigerian sun, that tended to make him - and all other riggers - very thirsty men.
On arrival in Thailand, Keith always had the same modus operandi. A few days "acclimatising" in Bangkok - read into that what you will - he would then suddenly appear on the beach, in shorts, T-shirt and training shoes, shades on, an "aw shucks" lob-sided grin, and a thirst unmatched by camels in the Sahara.
His pockets would be overflowing with money he wouldn't be able to spend, but before he joined his girlfriend in the evening, he wanted to play out during the day.
And I was his chosen playmate.
So his month off, if you like, was my month on, thirty days of hammering away at as much beer and whiskey (which was really rum) that we could get our hands on, at the "far" end of what is not a very big beachside village, working on the assumption that no one knew us down that end, so we could behave in a way unlikely to be de rigeur in the local Buddhist monasteries.
And somewhere, in the drunken midst of this bi-monthly orgy of Dionysian revelry, I met Mae.
4
God only knows what she saw in me. I was thin (which to the Thais means poor), I was penniless (see?), and I was always very, very drunk. And with Keith finding it difficult to find ways of disposing of his not-at-all hard-worked for loot, there was often curious little bags of white powder thrown into the mix, too.
When out of it, my Scouse-twanged stilted pigeon Thai would transform effortlessly into old Scouse-twanged stilted and slurring plain pigeon, and our laughing fits at things that only Keith and I ever found funny - but very, very funny, nevertheless - would frequently have me retiring to the rest room to throw up, which sometimes I even managed to reach.
Not a pretty sight, then. But there must have been something about me, because Mae - who's profession involved loving people "long time" and assuring them she loved them "very big" - insisted on her less busy days on using me to practise her technique.
She worked in a split level bar restaurant, which was owned by a German man who'd married a Thai. So the menu consisted of sauerkraut, sausages, Thai dishes, and booze, with Thai lay-dee for dessert, presumably.
Still, restaurant it was, and despite the presence of a couple of pretty girls sitting at the bar smiling shyly at any single men who happened to pop in there, regular couples and families would often turn up early in the evening for a bite to eat before they went on about their business.
It sounds strange and off kilter, but that's just the way it is. As the Thais tell you all the time: Same, same, but diff'ren.
5
We'd been hammered for a fortnight, so much so that I'd actually begged for some time off, because my insides were turning into jelly and I was actually missing working in the bar.
Keith had been missing for two days, having bought enough stimulants to awaken the dead. He hadn't slept, he'd been drinking constantly, but when he ambled along the beach towards the bar he looked frustratingly as fresh as a daisy.
"Come on," he said, nodding to Auy, the bar owner, with a grin. A knowing smile was returned, and Auy waved me off, chuckling to himself, knowing what was in store.
First, we went to the neighbouring, larger resort of Chaweng, effectively the island's capital even though its administrative centre and official capital is Nathon, on the western side. Chaweng's main street is packed with motorbikes, taxis, songthaews (stop me and ride pick-up trucks with belching engines), and lined with restaurants, travel agents, diving centres, clothes shops, email and internet cafes, and the inevitable girly bars.
We stayed there all afternoon, but were soon hankering for Lamai, smaller and more peaceful, though many argue more seedy, which in parts it is, but then so are many places if you actually go looking for them.
It was low season, and Lamai itself was quiet, with Mae's end of town nigh on deserted but for the die-hard farangs staring pathetically up at a jaded hooker dancing on a bar, and the odd two-stroke motorbike blaring past with entire families - mum, dad, three kids, maybe a chicken or two - all clinging on.
"Alec! Alec!" Mae was sitting outside the bar chatting to another girl. She called me Alec, very possibly because she couldn't get her head round Dut Tin (which was odd, because she could get her head around other things quite magnificently), or possibly because that's what I'd told her in the first place.
So into the bar we go and take a table. Keith sits on one side, me on the other. Mae and her friend join us. Drinks are ordered. Then more are ordered. And then many, many more. And then more after that. The weather is warm if a little windy, and the occasional tropical shower shatters down onto the bamboo roof, fat drops of hot rain occasionally working their way through to land on our heads and arms.
We're enormously drunk, all four of us. There is only we four in the place - the girls are serving us at the same time as themselves, except Keith's buying all the rounds - and I stagger to the toilet in my ridiculous white pants for a leak.
I'm staring vacantly at the wall behind the cistern, in that drunken not-really-there way. I hear laughter outside, and wonder what on earth is happening this time.
And then I stagger out again, trying miserably to tie a knot in my linen trousers. Mae is holding her mouth, laughing, while Keith is sat there grinning away.
The girl next to him is bent over in his lap, giving him a blowjob.
6
The family were peckish. Famished, even. They'd only arrived in the resort that afternoon after the flight from Germany, to Dubai, on to Bangkok, and then finally down to Koh Samui, where they landed like all others in the charming "international" airport made out of bamboo and wood, like something you'd expect to find in Hawaii (but probably don't).
With the sky bright and hot, endless coconut trees lining the roads, the out of place mountains in the middle, and the sun glinting off the shimmering, ice-blue sea, this was to be the family holiday of which each of them had dreamed.
Their hotel had sent a driver to meet them, and the driver, smiling as ever in the Land of Smiles, would have chattered happily about the seafood, the diving, the wonderful beaches, and amazing Thai food - "You like Thai food! Thai food very good! Spicy!" - as the minibus steered through the various tourist spots, interspersed with Thai villages, on their way to Lamai.
Who knows what they were looking forward to eat? They'd heard that Lamai had several restaurants serving German food, and despite their adventurous spirit, the long journey had taken it out of them and just for now, they wanted some simple, favourite fayre.
Apple of the earth, perhaps, which could be prepared either as salt potatoes, stewed potatoes or as fried potato cakes. Or sausages, eaten with plenty of mustard, prepared in plain hot water, boiled with spices, raw, or fried as bratwurst?
These thoughts would have been rumbling around their stomachs as they walked into the cheerful looking but near deserted empty restaurant. A Thai lady was in the corner, sat talking to a farang. They were laughing as the family entered, and the girl immediately got up to greet them.
Yes, they would like to eat. Yes, they were indeed very hungry! Yes, they like Thailand. They have not seen very much yet, because they have only just arrived. But they very much look forward to exploring the island tomorrow. The girls smiles broadly, understanding very little of what has just been said to her, but knows that she's been polite.
Where would they like to sit? She smiles again, because all but one of the tables is empty. It is only early for eating in Thailand, she says. Most people come later. So they're lucky. They get food very quickly! And then they not hungry anymore!
The father asks, can they go upstairs? The three kids, two girls and one boy, all early teens, would like to do so. His wife nods in agreement, happily. "No prob-rem," says the girl.
And up the stairs they go.
7
The ridiculous white cotton trousers were on the floor, pooled around my flip flops, which were still on. Two olive brown legs were wrapped around my waist, writhing in unison with the naked body that was shuddering beneath me on the table.
Mae was the first to notice, as she shook her head to one side, briefly opening her eyes.
"Alec!"
My red face, panting with exertion and too much drink, paused for a second.
Followed her gaze.
To the German family of five, standing open-mouthed in appalled astonishment at the sight of this skinny white non-arse banging away at a lady of local persuasion, with a perfectly angled view to catch every wheezing, drunken thrust, on top of the dining table nearest to the top of the stairs.
I have no idea where they ended up eating that night, or any other night.
But I suspect that story may have quickly filtered its way a half mile down the same road, into the suspicious ears of a lady who between bouts of sparring practise, was saving up to buy some hungry ducks.
