Part 2 - Twilight.
(1)
After she laughs and we both take a swig of beer, her hand lands easily on my upper thigh. It's a practiced motion, done deftly and without hesitation. I immediately know it to be too perfect – the contact without inhibition, but also without reaction, is a dead giveaway. It's the first step into a world of evening business here in the Land of Smiles.
Of course, “giveaway” suggests that it's something that is kept hidden. That would be, in another word, incorrect. It's flouted, touted, and endlessly advertised. Not just by the girls howling after any white walker's-by, but by the many old retired men who enjoy a very cheap fuck. And here, the advice of my father's friend does ring true for these young female employees: They never fall in love with their business.
But you might not know it. Sex feeds a fish for a day, but appearing to fall in love feeds for a lifetime. That is the story of Thailand – a single white man visits, and returns married. Old men walk with women half their age and have children that could be their grand-kids, or even great-grand-kids. And they're all well fed.
The bar girls up the ante. The bars are more explicit, they need not dress up their sale of sin. After dark, there is no cultural cover to abide by. Although they sell sex figuratively and literally, they do not look like your hookers on the streets of Vancouver or New York. Their every action is sexual, but their pose, posture and prose do a fantastic job of diverting your attention away from the fact that they've “seen more pricks than a pincushion.” And in a world where our currency makes anyone with white skin rich, there are plenty of pricks.
The bar is lined with several white men well over 35. Horn-dogs, self-made “locals”, and the odd undesirable here on vacation. I can feel their “casual” gaze on me as I am attended to by the young woman. There are plenty of other targets for her, but I am obviously the most desirable. The youngest man there, I am a welcome change of pace for the girls. Probably more fun. Also my age makes me far more likely to have a cultural naiveté and closer to my sexual prime; I'm a safer financial bet for whoever wins me over.
But her hand on my thigh has the opposite effect intended. In this country, I can have sex very easily and very cheaply. There is no raw, passionate, hunt here - merely shooting fish in the barrel of your choice. Unfortunately for this business-woman, it’s the chase that I’m willing to pay for. Prey that rolls onto its back sells nothing that will sate me. The run is what builds the hunger.
She swings her leg over mine, she tries her best to convince me across our language barrier that she's genuinely interested – it's not just business. But there is no illusion and no charged give and take of sexual tension. I know my good qualities, and my bad ones, and she has touched on neither. Nothing lay hidden between the lines. The continued patronage of the older men across the way has guaranteed that she’ll never understand how important it is.
Indeed, the truth is, it isn’t really important to her. I’m a pretty small minority in her trade.
~
(2)
They call him Crazy Joe.
He seems like the stereotype of a guy that did way too many drugs and now, though clean, his brain is a little fried. An old white guy, he lives out of his bar, and has purple John Lennon glasses, greasy black hair, and shouts across the street any time he feels like it. His bar rarely has anyone in it. Joe doesn't have time or interest in employing bar-girls. The bar beside him has enough for the both of them, and he’s vocal about his distaste for them. That bar next door is his wife’s. Or ex-wife's. Their marital status is unclear.
What is clear is his attitude – he's independent, off the wall, and doesn't give a damn. Crazy Joe claims to have disproved the Big Bang theory during his PhD thesis in quantum algebra. He believes that people shouldn’t bother going to hospitals, because if you don’t go, then you can’t find out you’re sick. If you sit and have a drink, he’ll tell you all about how evolution is simply not possible while he hangs up his clock with a mirrored face. He’ll trade tidbits about getting rich in stocks while he finds you some good 40’s and 50’s music. He’ll certainly invite you to get your own beer in the back while he goes to do his own laundry. You’ll settle the tab, or you won’t. Whatever. Does it look like he cares?
He doesn’t. This is Thailand. This is the rest of his life. His advice? Make a big chunk of money while you’re young – and retire here when you’re 35.
That last one’s not so crazy.
~
(3)
The night bazaar teems with unphotographical moments. There are no statues here, no cultural icons to be noted on a map, or worth anything more than a paragraph in a Lonely Planet. But, in fact, here is everything.
Every night the whole world is put up and taken down. The chairs from rows and rows of tables are unfolded, and the stalls of food open up shortly before sundown. Every kind of food, western or otherwise, can be found and deep-fat-fried on the spot. There is Pepsi and Coke and no end to the beer. In the foreground entertainment begins and in the background an endless scaffolding of material goods for sale materializes.
The people mix intermittently. The ugly and the pretty, the old white men of means and the young women willing to follow them. The groups of locals in for an evening's beers. The proud and the quiet. And for all, the evening air is a welcome relief from the oppressive heat of the day. Everyone smiles here. Everyone, at least for the night, is happy.
I am reminded of a short story I read once. It was about old photographs, and love. Every line was at pains to describe the thousand words that each photo held. Each word was inspired by some meaty meaning or bubbly memory. I remember reading it, yearning to see those photographs; to know life that meant so much.
As the sunset disappears behind the sight of the buildings, and the whole sky turns a subdued pink, those photographs come alive in my mind. Not everything can be captured in a picture, or in a word.
~
(4)
After the last customer is taken care of around midnight, the workers break out their own bottles. This side of the island is more tame than the north side. People go home around 11:30pm, when the tide starts coming in. As the musicians pack up their stuff and the three or four workers start bringing in the tables and chairs, glasses of rum and coke start getting passed among them. Having worked since 9am, now is finally their turn to party. By the time everything is brought in and taken care of, laughter abounds and a quarter of the tall bottle is done.
It will only take another hour to finish the other 3 quarters.
These are young people, and some things about young people are universal. The desire to cut loose and have fun is not a cultural construct. It’s a primal excitement. Another long day of 9am-midnight looming on the horizon is powerless to dissuade them. Chok Dee!
When the bottle is done, it’s time to party. Jump on the motorcycles and head to the north side. There, the clubs are still going. The music is loud, the shots are cheap, and anyone who is not sleeping is there. The dance floor is teaming with drunken white partiers, Thai island workers done for the day and lady-boys. The music is in English and everyone knows the words. Sweat drips from the bodies of laughing dancers. And when it is too much, they disrobe and head to the waves merely steps away.
Every night, the club on the beach closes at 4 with a full crowd. Every morning, the workers are awake, on time, and diligently at their posts. They catch a nap where they can, because tonight they may want to go again.
~
(5)
The best part of the island is the constant sound of the water. Nothing sounds quite like the marriage of ice in a glass and waves on the beach. I love it in the morning and in the constant heat of the afternoon sun. But I especially like it in the evening, when you can’t quite see them coming.
I don’t take any pictures of the beach like every other tourist. I need never worry about forgetting the feeling of cool water on my feet and the warm breeze against my skin. Walking along the edge of the water in the dark of night, hearing the sound of a wave crashing right before your naked feet are again refreshed; there is an indescribable peace about the experience. And it has nothing to do with a view. That’s why it can’t be captured in a photograph. That peace can’t be captured, or transported.
That is what I come to the beach for. That is what the whole journey is worth.
Everything else is a bonus.
~
(6)
It’s raining as my plane touches down in Vancouver.
Everyone stands up as soon as the plane stops. Overhead compartments must be opened. Bags must be arranged and gathered. Many are eager to get off the plane that has held them captive for over 10 hours. Others, more proactively, want to be the first in the line-up for passport checks and customs declarations; a full B747-300 makes for very long waits inside Vancouver’s terminal.
I am in a window seat. There is no need for me to rise with the rest of the crowd. Even if I had the same inclination, there is no room left in the isle for me. Outside, it is evening. It is surprising how similar every airport looks. A raindrop here splashes on the tarmac puddles and against the glass exactly the same way that it does in Taiwan. Exactly the same way it does in Thailand, and in England.
I know, because I’ve looked.
In a moment, I will lift the bag from underneath my seat, stand, and file out of the plane and into the airport. I will join a long line, smile to the custom’s officer while handing my passport over and answering polite questions about my trip. Then I will walk past the baggage claim, carrying my only backpack, and continue out into the airport proper. There I will meet my friend of over 10 years who has agreed to pick me up. In a moment, I will be home.
My father commented that when he went away on trips, he used to feel as if where he was going and where he was coming from were two totally different worlds. His whole concern and thought process was on the world he was in. Making sure everything was set and taken care of. Eventually, the time would come for him to step foot on a plane, or a boat, or into a car. As soon as he did, that world disappeared – it became a dream: real but intangible. Taking its place was the world of his destination. And when he returned, the same process would happen the other way around.
On this plane, in this moment, I am in a strange limbo. All reality and no substance. I am neither what I left behind or what lay ahead. But both of them have unmistakably brought me to where I am. I am that I am.
The rain is the same.
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