Bangkok Boy (16 page)

When I was first admitted to the hospital I underwent a blood transfusion, receiving six litres in total. I was bleeding inside my skull due to the head injuries I’d sustained and the volume of blood was putting a lot of pressure on my brain. I had to have several operations that involved opening my skull to relieve the pressure. I received 100 stitches to my head alone.

My medical bills amounted to over 100,000 baht. But Nuan begged the hospital to cover my costs under the governmental 30-baht healthcare scheme and thankfully, they agreed.

During our many heartfelt conversations, Nuan and I would discuss our future plans for raising Chuan. Nuan worries that he’ll one day become a bar boy, a kind of karmic punishment for the fact that it was bar-boy earnings that fed and clothed him during infancy. Indeed, he is highly familiar with the sights and sounds of Soi Twilight as he and Nuan used to call to collect me after my shifts. He could easily have been led to believe that being a go-go boy is about having fun and partying.

We both agreed to find alternative work, and planned to save up money to put a deposit on a modest house far away from the bar scene and red-light districts. Soi Patpong and Soi Twilight might feel like home to me, but they’re simply not suitable places in which to raise children.

After the attack, a few bar owners kindly sent small amounts of money to help with expenses. These men were never part of my drinking circle yet I consider them true friends for their kindness. They were always the ones warning me to curtail my spending and to watch my behaviour. I can’t thank them enough for the kindness they showed me.

This might not make sense to Westerners, but I believe that the terrible karma I committed in my past lives rendered me incapable of seeing the error of my ways in this one. We Thais say ‘karma has thrown a veil over my head’. Until I’ve paid for my former sins, I’m fated to stumble blindly on through the obstacle course of my present life. No amount of warning could lift my karmic veil and keep me from going off the rails.

Thais like all kinds of fortune-telling; be it palm-reading, tarot cards, horoscopes, or dream analysis. I’ve visited different fortune-tellers down through the years and all of them have confirmed that I’m shadowed by a karmic hex, and burdened by a large amount of karmic baggage.

My last reading prior to the attack was done by a man who had a table next to a charity foundation that is best known for their rescue work. I sometimes donated money to this foundation to make merit. The money is used to buy coffins for people who don’t have anyone to cover the expenses of a funeral. In most cases, the dead do have friends or relatives but for some reason these people don’t want to take responsibility for them. There are several such foundations and they employ ‘volunteers’ to race around in pick-up trucks, ensuring they are the first to arrive at the scene of an accident, murder, or some other type of tragedy. They get paid for every body that is taken either to a hospital, morgue, or to the foundation. On occasion, the jewellery and wallets of the injured or dead disappear en route. For this reason their activities are jokingly referred to as body-snatching. Since employees work on a commission basis, some rival foundations have been known to fight over bodies, especially during major disasters. Sometimes employees will ignore the rules of the road and actually cause accidents themselves in their haste to get to the scene of an accident.

You may wonder why I bother to donate to such operations. Well, in their defence, they are often willing to do some of the less desirable jobs like cleaning up after a road accident, jobs at which even the police baulk. These foundations also donate to prisoners annually and help to hospitalise the dangerous or mentally deranged among them; and these are just a few of the many other good deeds they perform.

Whenever I visited the foundation, I handed my donation over to the officer on duty and he issued a receipt which would be pasted on one of the empty coffins. Dozens of these coffins are lined up side by side, and there are gory pictures of all types of horrific accidents adorning the walls. Little did I know I’d soon come very close to filling one of these coffins.

It’s normal practice to have one’s fortune read immediately after merit making, so I obligingly visited the nearby fortune-teller. He asked for my date of birth and also for the exact time. He wrote the figures down and pored over them for a few moments, while carrying out some mental calculations. A shadow passed over his face.

‘This year will be a very bad year for you,’ he said.

He instructed me to go to a certain Chinese shrine and worship three specific gods otherwise a great tragedy would befall me. He also commented that I was unable to return to my place of birth for some reason. I admitted I was a former juvenile delinquent and had offended many people in my village. What followed was a tirade of ethical mumbo-jumbo, the essence of which was that I needed to learn how to control my temper and be more patient. Had he not issued such a self-righteous lecture I might have taken his ominous predictions more seriously.

There wasn’t really a need for me to visit fortune-tellers. All my life, the people closest to me were already warning that I was travelling along a self-destructive path. Even then I knew they spoke the truth but I was blinded by pride. Hell, even my own son rebuked me when I drank. If he was in a bad mood or was exceptionally unruly he’d dismiss my corrections, telling me that I was a bad example and therefore not worth listening to.

Having barely made it out of the hospital in one piece my perspective on life has been irrevocably altered. All deities, karma, and mortal beings aside, I’m finally coming to the conclusion that I am responsible for my own actions. I feel that if my life is to change for the better it’s up to me alone to steer it in the right direction. I can’t allow myself to obsess over the past, nor find scapegoats in the various people I’ve crossed paths with; neither my bad friends, nor my abusive teacher, nor my first
farang
client. What good will it do for me to point the finger at these ghosts? I may not be able to rewrite history, but I can change my attitude towards life now to secure a good future.

It’s clear that drink most certainly doesn’t suit me. Abstinence is only the beginning; I have a lot of work to do. I’ve been blindly blaming others for all my failings, waging war on a faceless adversary only to discover that the greatest adversary is none other than myself—I am my own worst enemy. It’s only now I’m ready to lay down my weapons and make peace with myself, while at the same time vanquishing the demons which have haunted me for so many years.

EPILOGUE

A year has passed since I last wrote, and I thought it was time to wrap up my thoughts. The reason I have waited till now is that I thought I still lacked a proper conclusion to my story. Now, at last, I believe I can provide one.

I’m back on the streets. This time it’s different though. I’m able to walk and am still in my right mind, remarkably enough. I can also talk, laugh and wheel and deal once more. However, I think the gods have short-circuited me since my accident: even if I wanted to, I simply couldn’t drink as much as I used to. My body gets tired and just won’t permit me; it’s as if the gods have made a divine pronouncement over my life saying,
mai owe laew
, that is ‘no more’. This, I reckon, is the payment that has been required of me for their good will in keeping me alive. But I’m even forbidden to drink coffee—they really do have a sense of humour I think. So I resort to eating sweets as a substitute for these forbidden luxuries. I suck and suck, as if to swallow all my cravings for the destruction I once poured so copiously down my throat. As I walk I hope that I might continue swallowing these yearnings in future. If I overstep the ordained bounds, I will further damage my brain, which surely would signal the end. I’ll actually become the vegetable the doctors had predicted I’d be. So, I obey the doctors, pray, suck my sweets and, most significantly, I do not drink.

Bar owners, bar boys and even the cops are amazed by my transformation; though it’s going to take time to prove to them that this is not an act. It’s the real deal this time. One policeman affectionately tapped me on the head the other day querying why I wasn’t drunk yet. He laughed incredulously when I smiled politely and informed him I wasn’t fond of the bottle anymore. He actually seemed visibly relieved—one less problem to have to deal with. Yes, indeed, it’s going to take some time for others to accept that I’m a different man; why it’s nearly impossible to believe it myself.

I have a new lease on life; a second chance, or perhaps it’s actually my third, fourth, or fifth—the point is, this time I’m willing to take it and keep it. My wife insists I’ve had a brain transplant and jokes that the doctors secretly changed my brain in the process of saving my life. Whatever happened, I’ve been saved and have a new way of thinking. My wife shakes her head and smiles; she even laughs and seems genuinely proud of me—it’s been a long time since I felt that from her. She commends me for being a good father and a real man, and she’s enjoying getting to know her new husband at last. She even reports that my extreme makeover is somewhat akin to having an affair with another man. The drunken unreliable one left home and a better model returned in his place.

The doctors didn’t want me to check out of hospital; they actually refused permission, but I insisted so they eventually conceded. We had to eat and I had to make a baht or two for my family; they were relying on me. Even though my head and a part of my face looked ugly and lopsided for the first few months—a side effect of the assault and operations—I just hid the worst deformities with a hat. On the day I returned to work, I shaved, dressed and put on my sunglasses to hide any other appearance of damage. Then I did what I had to do. I hit the streets.

Yes, I am a streetwalker, but one with a difference. Let me explain.

As I’ve already outlined, when things got bad in the go-go industry, I had to take to the streets to earn a living. I poured my English skills and sales abilities into being a ghost guide, and plied this sideline trade around the same areas I’d formerly worked in for years —this time in front of the stage instead of on it.

A ghost guide is a self-employed, non-official tour guide whom tourists are warned best to avoid. But let me tell you, if you come to Patpong, where are you going to find an official tour guide who will bring you to a place that doesn’t legally exist? And let’s say you did; would they know the business as I do? Could they guide you to a good bar, find you a good boy, bring you to the places that sell the best food, or even protect you from scams as I can? While I would warn against being exploited by the many touts who roam the streets looking for gullible tourists to scam, I am not a tout. I am a ghost guide! And in a place that does not exist, amongst men and women who do not sell their bodies. But just tell me what you need and, for a price, I’ll get it.

In the past, my short stints at ‘guiding’ didn’t work well. Who was going to trust a drunken obnoxious character to transport them through a labyrinth of red-light delights? I stumbled blindly around the streets, slurring my words, attempting to conduct business by hassling and haranguing would-be customers.

An epiphany of sorts came to me as I lay in my hospital bed shackled by fear, a fear of what my future entailed. Marvellously, a ray of hope illuminated my thoughts with questions I felt I could answer for a change. What if I was to once more be a guide, a non-drunken, respectable guide? Couldn’t I then support my family? Wouldn’t this be a somewhat suitable profession for a man my age? As if presented with a magical saw, I started to cut away my shackles one by one, and watched in delight as they seemed to drop from my withered limbs. As the weight fell, my convictions grew; and with that, so did my enthusiasm to get back into the ring in readiness to slug it out if need be. Yes, I had been knocked down many times, but I had never been counted out. I wasn’t out of the fight, so long as I could get to my feet and punch my way through to victory; and I would do this by cleaning myself up and becoming more presentable. I could win; I could live. I could earn enough to support the others that depended on me. With that vision, I packed my few belongs and said goodbye to the multitude of sad faces in that overcrowded ward of misery.

Admittedly, that gloomy ward provided some of the best schooling I’ve ever had. Lying in that bed allowed me to reflect on my wretched past, to see how checkered it is with huge monuments to failure; and this served to teach me that there were better paths to be sought. I secretly thanked God for tying me to a bed of pain and uncertainty. It was exactly what was needed to exact a transformation. I was so grateful heading out the swinging doors to whatever future awaited me.

It’s not been easy, but it’s been easier than I imagined. I don’t have to answer to anyone; I make money daily and I’m able to take days off whenever I wish.

Basically, the way ghost-guiding works is that I persuade five tourists to go to a bar that offers sex shows or the like. I tell them the bar charges 500 baht per drink and each person is required to buy at least one. In reality though, bars usually charge patrons 300 baht a drink which includes a cover charge for watching shows. Additional costs may be incurred by tourists if a performer talks to them and the tourist purchases them a drink. After we’re done with the bar for the evening, whatever I was able to skim on overcharge goes straight into my wallet.

Tourists who visit girl or boy bars these days are more savvy. They exchange information with each other on the Internet, so commission-making is a bit difficult. If I can’t con money from overcharged drink prices, at least I usually score 100 baht in commission per person if I bring them to a go-go bar in Soi Twilight. The managers of these venues give me a coupon with one signature per client which is redeemable at the end of the night. Several bars refuse to pay, claiming some of the clients are not new customers. Other bars are more than willing to pay though, no matter what the circumstances.

One oddity of the job is that I am fined 100 baht every month by the police for pestering tourists. This doesn’t mean I’m terrified of being arrested each month. It’s an unofficial arrangement whereby a police officer simply pays me a visit and the ‘fine’ is handed over without ado. To me, it’s a friendly business arrangement and we’re all happy. 100 baht is nothing compared to how much I can make daily. I’m harmless to them; therefore, we can co-exist contentedly.

Each ghost guide has his own territory, and on Silom Road alone there’s a seemingly endless amounts of them. My domain is Soi Twilight. When tourists want me to show them woman bars I do so; if they want to go to go-go boy, I only take them to the places that are straightforward about their commission policy. I don’t necessarily bring them to the bars where the best-looking boys or the most exciting shows are available, but I go to where I can make good deals for myself. If I need to work in someone else’s territory, I greet them with a
wai
and ask politely for permission to ‘invade’ their world. I show them respect, and in turn, they generally do the same to me.

I knew I could make a success of this line of work as I had connections with the majority of bar owners and business proprietors in the area. Although it’s taken time to convince them I was capable, their need for clients prompted them to eventually cooperate. I wasn’t initially confident in my ability to persuade would-be customers to go to the places I had a verbal agreement with. However I easily developed the skills I needed to gain the confidence of tourists. On my very first night at having a go as a sober ghost guide I fortunately did meet some customers. I took them to a show where they seemed to enjoy themselves and I made good commissions on the drinks, even on my own soft drinks. Every night thereafter, it has been the same story. Sometimes I even have three sets of customers in one evening. I dress well, eat properly, and my appearance is improving because at last I am happy and productive. After a night of work, I head home and hand over my well-earned cash to my beloved family. I then eat a home-cooked meal and afterwards, look over at my sleeping son with joy, before curling up with my wife and sleeping the sleep of the contented.

There are times when it’s a struggle for sure; I’d be lying if I said otherwise. However, I believe that if I remain sober and continue doing what I am doing, things will continue to improve.

I realise that the work I do isn’t exactly legal, or totally honest; but it’s safer for me and my family, and even for the customers, than any alternative. I might lie to make money from the overcharge, but I don’t really consider this a rip-off. I feel I give people a fair deal; after all, relatively speaking, they actually pay very little for the sex shows and for my services as a guide. There are even occasions when there is no sex involved. For example, I sometimes accompany tourists for beautiful seafood meals, or go see the local temples—who knows, maybe some day I’ll be able to qualify as a real tour guide.

Another thing I’m grateful for is that I don’t have to lie about my family anymore; I have a wife and a son and I can be proud of them, as they are of me.

All right, I understand that this may sound syrupy compared to my life of old; and some of you may have wanted me to go on further into the debauchery, but I no longer want it. I’ve shared what was needed in order to move on—and I thank you for wading through the horrors with me. A gentleman in an insane asylum, when questioned as to why he kept banging his head against the wall, replied that it felt good when he stopped. Unlike him, I no longer need to fluctuate between extremes of pleasure and pain to feel good—I’m done! I can finally say that what I now feel is genuine happiness, and not the kind that’s simulated by a head banging against a wall.

I carry deep within me a dream to retire one day in the countryside with my family where we can fish, plant rice, and live naturally; and there I can end my life where I really should have started it. First things first though, we will buy the modest house my wife and I discussed when I was in the hospital.

Finally, to you the reader, whoever you are, if you happen to come to Soi Patpong or Soi Twilight, don’t be afraid to look me up and see for yourself how I’m doing. You’ll recognise me as the short, dark-skinned fellow, 41 years of age and smiling brightly at you, probably saying, ‘Handsome man, where you from, would you like to see bar, club, show, or you want drink sir? I can help you!

‘Come with me! Oh Germany? I love Germans they are kind people, good heart! You make good time? Have good time with me! I am good guide!’