~~~
Not much has changed. My table and stool are vacant, while clanging bells and the clink of glasses continue to ring throughout the bar. The number of people traversing Bangla Road, however, has increased dramatically. It is now jam-packed with tourists from many parts of the world – American servicemen on leave wanting to gratify their sexual proclivities, Western teenagers seeking action in the discos and music clubs, an assortment of Indian folk looking rather bemused, and even a few sightseeing Muslim families with the women covered from their heads to their toes, all seemingly enjoying the evening’s activities. Scores of hawkers are mingling with the crowd, selling cigarettes and hair combs, and the air is filled with whirring helicopter toys that, once projected by rubber bands into the sky, return to earth like flapping penguins. Sleazy characters, luring people into clubs offering ‘ping-pong’ shows, round off the Kafkaesque parade – only these offerings are not of the sporting variety, but of the kind where women launch ping-pong balls, and other sharper objects, out of unexpected orifices.
Although my brain is being misled by the alcohol – thus making any rational judgement concerning further imbibing highly contentious – I go up to the counter and order the free cocktail. The lady behind the bar remembers who I am and has the drink delivered to my table.
It’s 10:30pm, although it seems as if hardly an hour has passed since I joined the bar at around eight, but I’m enjoying the fanfare and the sensation of lightness in my body. I figure I’m unlikely to get into any mischief while safely ensconced in the Honky Tonk Bar, so I sip my drink, keenly observing the crowd, and watch the level of liquid in my glass head south. As it approaches the bottom, I’m feeling a sharp need to pee again.
I make a bee-line for the toilet in Soi Easy and give the attendant a wry smile, knowing she’s milking me for every baht I’ve got. As I walk out, I notice for the first time a circular bar directly in front of the toilet, one of the many bars that line the central section of Soi Easy. It’s called the Soccer Bar, and there are around six bar-ladies all wearing tight football shirts cut to reveal much of their torsos, short mini-skirts and long white boots. They’re milling around the bar, hooting at passers-by, except for an incredibly sexy bar-lady who is dancing around a pole on a small circular stage built on the bar-top. She is slightly taller than the others and has that characteristic straight flowing hair that has me enchanted.
I position myself on one of the stools in front of her, a little to the side. She picks up a black foam tube and hits me on the head with it. Her laughter is drowned out by the loud cracking sound the tube makes.
A lady serving drinks from the inside of the bar approaches me. From the more conservative way she’s dressed, I’m guessing she’s the mamasan, the supervisor of the bar activities, including those of the bar-ladies.
‘You buy lady-drink?’ she asks, pointing to the pole-dancer.
‘Yes,’ I answer.
The pole-dancer swirls around to face me and grins.
‘What you drink?’ she continues.
I weigh up the options. Another cocktail will probably have me falling off my seat, while a beer will have me running endlessly to the toilet. I go for the lesser of the two evils.
‘Beer. Heineken,’ I answer, this time giving the lower alcohol content of the imported beer greater priority in the decision-making process.
Another bar-lady takes the seat beside me. She’s a short Thai woman with a round face and large brown eyes. Her body has undulations in all the right places.
‘What your name?’ I ask her.
‘Boom-Boom,’ she answers.
‘And what her name?’ I point to the pole-dancer.
‘Bam-Bam.’
I half-grimace at these ridiculous names that remind me of The Flintstones – their pet dinosaur, Dino, would not be out of place in Soi Easy.
‘Where you from?’ Boom-Boom asks me.
‘Australia,’ I reply.
‘Sydney?’
‘No, close Brisbane.’
‘You like here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where you stay?’
‘Few minutes away.’
The mamasan returns with the lady-drink and places it in front of me. I pay up and hand the drink to Bam-Bam who reaches out to take it. She makes eye contact with me and smirks. Her posturing is off-putting, as is the inane banter of Boom-Boom and the other bar-ladies who are standing a short distance away shrieking. I wonder if they really think Western men are attracted to such antics.
Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I notice one of the bar-ladies in the middle of the group is not actually participating in the banter. She seems more reserved, even shy. I turn my face directly towards her to get a better view, and smile. She returns the smile and I beckon her to come and join me. My heart skips a beat or two as she approaches – she’s not as pretty as the two ‘Flintstones’, nor as voluptuous, but I find her more attractive in an indefinable way.
When she’s standing beside me, close enough that I can smell the soft perfume of her body and the sweet aroma of her long hair, I motion the mamasan to bring a lady-drink. I put my arms around her torso and feel her bare waist. She clasps her hands around my neck and moves closer, at an angle, half-sitting on my lap, so that she remains mostly facing away from me.
For the first time since venturing into Bangla Road, I’m feeling a force of attraction for a woman which is more than sexual excitement alone. It’s thrilling, and disconcerting, at the same time.
When the drinks arrive I turn her around to face me. I hand her the lady-drink and pick up my beer.
‘Cheers,’ I say, as the glasses clink.
‘Choc tee khap,’ she replies, the expression for ‘cheers’ in Thai to a man.
‘What your name?’ I ask.
‘Areva. What your name?’
‘Eddie.’
‘How long you stay here?’
‘Thailand, six weeks. Patong, two weeks.’
I gently push her off my lap before dismounting from the stool and turning towards the toilet.
‘I go toilet,’ I say, hating the fact that I’ve got such a miserably weak bladder, especially in a moment like this. The toilet attendant has pity on me this time and waves me in. Areva is quietly sipping her drink when I return.
‘You have lovely hair,’ I say, gently stroking her locks.
She smiles, her lips parting slightly, revealing the contrasting whiteness of her teeth against the chocolate colour of her skin.
‘I want spend time with you,’ I continue. ‘You come with me?’
‘Yes,’ she says, and calls the mamasan over. They have a brief conversation in Thai.
‘Long-term or short-term,’ the mamasan says turning to me. ‘Short-term is one and half hours.’
‘Long-term,’ I answer, knowing that means all night.
‘Long-term, 1000 baht bar-fine.’
‘How come so much?’ I ask, surprised at the amount.
‘Because it before one. Very busy.’ She points to a sign pinned on the fridge with the times and costs for short-term and long-term bar-fines. After 1am, the bar-fines are halved.
‘How much lady?’ I ask.
‘You talk her.’
I look at Areva.
‘2,000 baht,’ she answers.
‘Okay,’ I say, making a quick conversion in my mind to dollars.
‘Wait here,’ Areva says. ‘I change.’
When she’s gone, I finish my drink, then quickly make my way to the toilet once again. I pull out a 10 baht coin, the only coin left in my pocket, expecting change from the attendant. She feigns not having any and slots the coin in a piggy bank next to the official toilet monies. I chuckle, remembering how foreigners, or ‘farangs’ in Thai, are humorously known as ATMs.
Areva arrives at the bar just as I return from the toilet. She’s wearing street clothes – jeans, a light cream-coloured top that covers her entire torso, and high-heeled shoes – and is carrying a bag draped over
her shoulder. It’s almost as if she is someone else, perhaps a more real self. I grasp her hand and lead her past the array of bars and A Go-Go clubs, around the Hollywood Discotheque and out onto Bangla Road, which is surprisingly pleasant after the cloistered surrounds of Soi Easy.
As we walk together, I reflect upon the unchartered territory I find myself in; a foreign country with its people speaking an incomprehensible language, an environment of unaccustomed tastes, smells and sounds, and I’m accompanied by a Thai woman who is remarkably attractive in some mysterious way and whom I will pay $65 to spend the night with. I ask myself if there is something immoral or exploitative in paying a woman for sex, especially one who is likely to be relatively poor. Would a higher moral choice be made by giving the woman the 2,000 baht and walking away?
Areva adjusts our hands so that our fingers are intertwined. I look at her and wish we spoke the same language so I could accurately communicate what I’m thinking and feeling. It’s a strange sensation not being able to speak freely with another person, especially when there is physical contact.
‘You hungry?’ I ask, rubbing my hand in a circular motion around my stomach.
‘Yes,’ Areva answers. ‘You?’
‘A little. Where we eat? Thai food?’
Areva nods her head. She leads me across the motorway through the chaotic traffic with a confidence that astonishes me, then down a narrow street which is, fortunately, on the way to my hotel. We enter a large, open enclosure with a sizable bar and lots of tables and chairs. It resembles the airy, old-fashioned cafes with laminated benches commonly found in the smaller country towns of Australia. A waitress comes over with a menu and asks if we would like a drink. Areva says something in Thai and points to the image of a glass with oranges on top. She then orders a Thai dish with prawns.
‘We share,’ I say to the waitress, who nods and smiles in return. I’m sure she knows the type of arrangement I’ve entered into with Areva, but there is no sense of judgement or presumed impropriety.
‘Where you from?’ Areva asks me. She is holding my hand again and seems very relaxed.
‘Australia,’ I reply. ‘Where you from?’
‘Isaan.’
I remember reading that Isaan is a region in north-east Thailand, bordering with Cambodia and Laos. It has a population of over 21 million people. Many Isaan women travel to the larger cities and towns of Thailand hoping to earn significantly more money than they could at home. They are known for their lack of guile and their sweet disposition.
‘How old you?’ I ask, fascinated with how young Asian women appear in general.
‘How old you think?’ she answers.
Guessing a woman’s age at the best of times is not a good idea, but I write the digits 2 and 3 with my index finger on the table and say ‘23.’
She smiles broadly. ‘No, 30,’ and writes the number on the table.
I enjoy playing the age-guessing game because when I ask someone how old they think I am they always underestimate my age, sometimes by as much as 15 years. I have had people in the past so disbelieving, they demanded proof.
‘How old you think I am?’ I ask, curious to see the expression on Areva’s face when I get to confess my true age.
She looks at me for a few seconds and says, ‘43.’
I laugh. ‘No, 56,’ and draw it with my finger.
I’m enjoying myself even though verbal communication is severely restricted; but, once again, my bladder is demanding an immediate response.
‘I go toilet,’ I say, wondering how Areva views my frequent absences in toilets.
The food and orange juice arrives soon after I return. Areva picks up a fork and begins eating. I watch for a while before fishing out a prawn with the extra fork the waitress has brought us.
‘You have boyfriend?’ I ask.
‘No, he gone,’ she answers. ‘You?’
‘No, we split-up few months.’ I bring my two index fingers together, then pull them apart.
Areva gives me a look of recognition.
‘How long you been in Patong?’ I ask.
‘Four days.’
‘Four days? Not long. You stay?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You have children?’
‘Yes, boy. He with mother.’
I notice a lump in my throat, not sure as to why Areva having a child adds to a percolating unease I’m feeling.
‘You have picture?’
‘Yes.’
Areva pulls a wallet out of her handbag and shows me a small photo of her son.
‘How old?’
‘Two.’
I tell her he’s a good-looking boy. Areva smiles, then puts her wallet away.
When the food is eaten, I motion for the waitress to bring the bill, which I pay and include a tip. We get up and walk out of the restaurant holding hands.
The hotel I’m staying at, the Amethyst, is only a few hundred metres away. It is characterised in the accommodation guides to Patong as a ‘boutique’ hotel; clean, efficient and comfortable, offering exceptional service. The Deluxe King room I’m staying in fits the description; it has a sitting area with a table and two chairs, a fridge, a balcony, a wonderfully large king-size bed, air-conditioning, and a shower with hot and cold water. Two 600 ml ‘complimentary’ bottles of water are provided every day.
I’m feeling nervous and excited as we enter the hotel and make our way up the stairs to my room on the second floor. I put the key into the lock of the door, turn it, then open the door and lead Areva into the room. I switch on the lights and lower the intensity with the dimmer, while she takes off her shoes and puts her bag on the table. We sit down on the edge of the bed.
‘Shower,’ I say, after a few uncomfortable moments of silence.
Areva tentatively takes her clothes off, puts them on the table and walks into the bathroom. I follow suit. We rub soap on each other’s backs and spray the suds off using the hand-held shower nozzle. The feel of her skin on my hands is immensely pleasurable, as is her touch on my body. Australia suddenly seems like lifetimes ago, and Bangla Road, Patong, another realm altogether.
The walls of the hotel room now contain my experience; there is no thought, no doubt, only connectedness which carries us through the night and late into the next morning.
I awake before Areva and watch her lying beside me. She has a fine body; fragile, with long fingers that taper slightly and legs that are shapely and strong. I know that at some point in the future the implications of my actions and the real import of our encounter will unfold. For now, I feel a simple contentedness.
After Areva wakes we enjoy further sexual play, then shower and dress separately. While she packs her toothbrush and other items into her bag, I go to my wallet and take out 2,000 baht, a stark reminder that our interaction was based on a commercial transaction. I give it to her before leading her down the stairs and out of the hotel. She holds my hand tightly, fingers entwined. As we arrive at a T-intersection, I ask her if she would like to come with me for an ‘American breakfast’ consisting of two eggs, a slice of bacon and a coffee.
‘Thai food,’ she says, hesitantly.
We look into each other’s eyes with surprising intensity. I don’t want her to go.
‘Where you stay?’ I ask, not knowing how to respond, whatever her answer.
She points in one direction.
‘I go this way,’ pointing in the other direction.
She hesitates; we kiss, then release each other’s hands and go our separate ways.