Thai Girl (5 page)

‘Gotta keep an open mind,' said Maca cheerfully.

The tuk tuk quickly arrived at the ferry pier near Thammasat University where radical campaigners for democracy had been violently suppressed in the early seventies. Now the area was peaceful, a centre for trading in traditional medicines and Buddhist amulets, tiny Buddha images worn on a pendant round the neck. A row of small shops, their open fronts spilling goods onto the pavement, ran down to a square of well-restored shop-houses. People were shopping and eating and sitting in the cool of the evening under the frangipani trees whose richly-scented flowers were scattered on the ground.

‘I like this place,' said Maca. ‘It's just how old Bangkok should be preserved.'

They walked into the ferry terminus building, through stalls selling tourist trinkets and a profusion of fruit and cooked foods. The sun was falling and casting a soft glow from the west, the heat of the day beginning to moderate as they reached the pontoon to wait for the ferry.

Wider than the Thames in London, the Chao Phraya river was muddy and brown and, unlike the Thames, it was a busy thoroughfare. The slowest boats were trains of barges moving at a snail's pace behind a tug, the fastest the brightly coloured long-tailed boats, slim passenger craft carrying up to forty people. Their bows were dramatically flared upwards and hung with plastic flowers as offerings to the aquatic spirits, the engines high up behind the driver powering a long prop-shaft at the back.

From the pontoon Ben watched the long-tails screaming along the river like demented insects, kicking up sheets of spray. His ears were assailed by the noise of their engines, by the roar of traffic from the road, the scream of metal on metal as the pontoon lifted on the waves and the shriek of the boat-boys' whistles. The river was vibrant and alive. Nothing was quiet and inscrutable here.

‘Okay mate, this is ours, the Chao Phraya River Express,' said Maca, pointing to a long shark-like ferry coming down the river. It reversed into the jetty in a surge of foaming water as a deck-hand flicked a rope over a bollard, giving a brief moment for passengers to jump ashore. Ben and the others then joined the rush to get aboard and within seconds the powerful engine was again spewing fumes, pushing the boat fast through the murky water.

The three pleasure-seekers stood on the open deck at the stern, enjoying the scenery and the hot wind in their faces. Maca pointed out the sights to Ben; first the glittering spires of the Grand Palace and its temples, and then to the right the tall Khmer-style stupa of Wat Arun, the Temple of Dawn, backlit by the setting sun. On the left was Chinatown and on both sides, wharves and markets that would have been familiar in the days of Joseph Conrad more than a century earlier. Old wooden houses built on stilts over the water clung to the banks, their verandas crowded with pot plants and washing.

The river then took a sweep to the right, giving a clear view of the many tower blocks built when Thailand was booming in the late eighties and early nineties. There were offices, apartments and hotels, the most famous of which, the Oriental Hotel was set in leafy gardens on the edge of the water.

‘You wouldn't believe the luxury in those places,' said Maca. ‘Some of the top hotels are half empty, so some old bugger from the backside of Melbourne gets a luxury room thrown in with his package tour. He and his sheila are king and queen for the week and within spitting distance there's people living in slum conditions.'

‘But not all the Thais are that poor,' said Ben. ‘There seems to be money around.'

‘Yes, but it's the contrast that gets to me … it's so in-yer-face.'

They got off the boat beneath Saphan Taksin, a massive road bridge over the river, and walked up the ramp from the pontoon.

‘Look at that,' said Ben. ‘They're still completing the top floors of that block. Looks like flats … forty or fifty storeys at least.'

‘It's not a new development,' said Maca. ‘I guess work stopped when the economy collapsed in 1997 and now it's been abandoned. That's boom and bust for you.'

In contrast, their next form of transport, the Skytrain, looked a gleaming success story. They climbed a flight of steps to the ticket concourse and up to the elevated track where a train was waiting and sat down on the yellow plastic seats. The carriage was powerfully air-conditioned and Ben was able to breathe easily again, his sweaty skin and tee shirt rapidly drying out. All was spotlessly clean and starkly modern with straps and metal poles for standing passengers to hold onto.

‘Why's there no Thai girls dancing round those poles?' quipped Maca.

The view from the overhead railway was panoramic, the urban landscape of extravagant modern buildings relieved first by the greenery of Lumpini Park and then the manicured golf course and race track of the Royal Bangkok Sports Club. After changing trains at Siam Station, Ben sat high above the street as the marble facades of department stores, McDonald's outlets, green trees, Thai temples, expressways and traffic jams slipped smoothly past his window.

They got off at Nana Station and followed the stairway down to Sukhumvit Road where Ben was unable to ignore a woman on the steps begging with two tiny children, one of them crying lustily.

‘You'll see plenty more of those before we're home tonight,' said Maca as Ben dropped a coin into her bowl. ‘The Thais give to the poor to make merit for the next life, but you hear horror stories … like heavily drugged children being hired out to the beggar to boost their takings, and beggars being delivered in taxis to their pitch and handing over their earnings to their protectors. Same as with the bar girls, it's always the big guys who control the cash flow.'

They walked up Sukhumvit Road, past glittering office buildings and banks, world class hotels and shopping malls, all dedicated to the
farang
and the upper end of the tourist industry. This was the place to shop for curios, carvings and handicrafts, for silks and designer labels, fake watches and flick knives, for leather and live skin. It was just an anonymous tourist trap and Ben did not much like it.

He and Maca followed Chuck to an open-air bar down one of the
sois
where the Thai boxing had already started. The clientele were mainly older
farang
males of all shapes and sizes, in singlet or tee shirt, shapeless shorts and trainers. As always there were bar girls sitting waiting at empty tables or draped over the men whose wallets they hoped to infiltrate. Next to the bar through screens set up to deter freeloaders, Ben could just see a floodlit boxing ring.

‘Come inside sir … only 300 baht,' droned the tout. In the enclosure there were twenty or thirty tables with a mixture of Thai and foreign spectators watching the boxing. They paid to go in, took a table and ordered beers and food from a waitress in a very short skirt.

The fighting was brutal, the boxers wiry and thin, their sinewy bodies glistening in the heat and glare of the tropical night. They were barefooted, their ankles strapped up with white bindings and wore loose shiny shorts and boxing gloves. Heads down in combat, their gumshields gave them a ghastly grimace. They moved fast, showering blows on each other with their fists and more damagingly with their feet, knees and elbows. The feet were brought up in a scything action, belting the opponent in the kidneys. Often the fighters came together in a clinch, hammering each other with their knees before the referee broke them apart again. As a round ended, steel trays were brought into each corner to catch the water that was poured over their sweating bodies, the coaches screaming advice as they massaged bruised legs and arms. Soon another round began. It was rough stuff.

Ben wondered how the fighters could take such a pasting. They already looked exhausted and had a haunted look in their piggy little eyes. One of them was grotesquely ugly, battered beyond belief from a long career in the ring. His shorts were too big for him and in the middle of the fight he was making pathetic attempts to pull them up with his gloved hands. When at last both men went the distance, the referee held up the arm of the victor. There was little applause from the floor and nobody took much notice as the boxers came round the tables begging for tips.

‘I hate this bit,' said Ben. ‘These blokes do it for our benefit but they're hardly getting given anything. Do they fight only for tips?'

Chuck claimed to know how the sport operated in Thailand.

‘No man, they're usually paid for each bout,' he said. ‘The guys who fight on telly or at Lumpini and Ratchadamnoen have real money and status. But down the bottom end it's shit, and this is the bottom end … fighting outside a bar. At least if they know who's gonna win, they can fix it and not belt each other too hard.'

Ben could see two fit young boxers ready for the next bout.

‘These guys always do the ceremonial bit before the fight,' said Chuck. ‘See their headbands. They'll dance around in the ring to honour the spirits of
muay Thai before
getting stuck in.'

Studiously ignoring each other, the men began a slow ritual dance to the wailing oboe music and strident drumming, strutting like fighting cocks and kneeling and bowing down to the canvas. After a few minutes, they removed their headbands and made final adjustments to their kit. Then the bout started and the three friends watched several furious rounds before they were distracted by their food arriving. As they were arranging the dishes on the table, Ben realised that something had happened in the ring.

‘Damn, I missed it! One of them's down,' he said. The boxer was writhing on the canvas and being counted out. ‘What's going on, Chuck?'

‘Probably been kicked in the calf. You can take almost anything on the shin, but a good kick to the calf poleaxes you. That's it, he's finished.' For the man on the ground, his agony had only just begun. His seconds were with him and he was hauled to his corner, while Ben and the others concentrated on their curries and beers.

The next fight was between two small boys. Ben paid them little attention, though they were full of bile and energy, hitting each other for all they were worth. He noticed that while one was only in shorts, the other had a tee shirt on and hair pinned back with a grip. Then it suddenly dawned on him.

‘Blimey,' he said to Chuck in astonishment, ‘that one's a girl.'

‘No sweat,' said Chuck lazily. ‘She can take care of herself okay.'

‘But it's pretty vicious, isn't it? Fine maybe for adults if there's medics handy. But not with kids … and certainly not a girl.'

‘Yeah, but Ben, safety standards here aren't the same as in the States, and you gotta let'em make some bread. Anyway it's great sport.'

‘This isn't sport, Chuck! It's just to sell more beers,' insisted Ben.

‘Yeah, but the girl's the aggressive one,' said Chuck. ‘I'm more worried about the little guy.'

Ben was about to press his point when Maca broke in.

‘Kids isn't so bad, but it's boxing between bar girls that makes me puke,' he said. ‘Like at Lamai on Koh Samui there's lady-boxing every week and the bars all put up a girl to have their faces pushed in.'

‘Get real, man! Amateurs can't hurt each other,' said Chuck.

‘They sure can. It's like a street fight and they're often badly matched. One lovely girl I saw was the tiniest thing. The other one was bigger and hurt her bad.'

‘But they're all in it together,' said Chuck.

‘No mate, they're competitors every day of their lives. The big girl was mean, like she enjoyed smashing that beautiful face. The little'un was in a real distress after … showed me her split lip and the egg on her shin. Made me feel crook,' said Maca staring into his beer.

‘So the
farang
like to watch bar girls brawling then?' asked Ben incredulously.

‘Yes, they buy beers and bay like animals. The women are the worst.'

‘But the bar girls get a few baht for fighting,' said Chuck, ‘and it's gotta be voluntary.'

‘What's ever voluntary when you're a bar girl!' said Maca sharply. ‘At least when they're lying on their backs they're making some bloke happy and not hurting each other. No, mate, choice doesn't come into it.' There was passion in his voice.

They sat in silence as the next bout began. One of the contestants was a
farang
from Eastern Europe, an ox of a man, tall and muscle-bound. He was followed into the ring by his opponent, a tubby little Thai with the doleful face of an oriental dog.

‘This one's a foregone conclusion,' said Ben as the fight started. ‘That Thai bloke couldn't punch
the farang
in the face even if he stood on a box. He just can't reach.'

‘Yes, but the face isn't the only target,' said Chuck. ‘The Thai guy looks tough and the
farang's
slow … got no boxing skills at all.'

Chuck was right. In the third round, the foreigner ended up sitting on the floor with a look of utter surprise on his face. The referee counted him out and the Thai fighter was loudly cheered by the audience. But Ben did not applaud; he was not sure what to think of the backstreet
muay Thai
scene. He was certain Emma would have been appalled and he was glad she had stayed behind at the guesthouse that night.

‘Right then guys,' said Maca theatrically. ‘We've done booze, food and aggro, so now for the go-go bars.'

Ben again thought of Emma and wondered how he was going to explain away being out so late drinking with Maca and Chuck in the
sois
and bars of Sukhumvit. She was not going to like it.

5

Okay, that's enough kick boxing,' agreed Chuck. ‘So, where to next?'

‘Has to be Nana Plaza,' said Maca.

‘I went there with Emm,' said Ben. ‘She hated it.' He knew he was on dangerous ground if Emma found out he had been there again, but as Nana Plaza was only a few hundred yards away from the boxing ring, it was unavoidable. He would feel pretty stupid in front of the lads if he went home early just because the little woman disapproved.