Today is a day of wonderful people beginning their journeys.

My cousin is flying from London to take over as head chef, and help me open our new cafe venture. In what couldn’t be a starker contrast, Joe and Egger’s oldest son sets off today to join us from Burma.

Joe just got the call to say everything is confirmed, the people traffickers are paid, and he should be crossing the border, crammed in the back of an illegal van, to make his way across Thailand to us.

Wishing them both God’s speed.

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1. Swimming From Burma
2. Joe and Egger get a photo from Burma

Today is kids day.  All the kids in Thailand are puffed-up-proud of themselves on this; their own shiny day.

Mail, Pha Ngan and Mai come around, a raggle taggle procession of differently sized stompy feet. Proud in their proper baseball shoes, rather than customary dirty barefoot. Raucous on this the day no grown up can tell them no.

They each clutch a prize from the festivities in the main town, Pha ngan a cheap wind up car, Mai a ruler and pencil and Mail an already grubby doll.  That they feel special, important and feted is written loud on their faces and warms my heart to see.

Pha Ngan, this troubled boy, on the brink of almost certainly delinquent teenage years, who runs and steals, is chased and beaten and neglected in equal measure. Who has the most infinite tenderness and sweetness with Clear Sky that is truly beautiful to behold.  I know his path is set for trouble, his lack of love and care has written it so, and the trouble path is oh-so-dangerous for boys in this oh-so-wild of places.

I pray that somewhere in himself he has courage and drags up his strength in the face of adversity and clings onto his sweetness through it all, to find the love of a kind woman, and the comfort of a loving family.

Mai my little intrepid boy-man, the cutie pie who will melt a million hearts, whom tourists want to grab and hug at every opportunity, who loves baked beans. Who is a sensitive soul and cries easily in the face of other boys’ cruelty as he learns in his five-year-old world what it takes to be a man.

And E mail, my beautiful bouncing butterball baby girl.  A little sunbeam, who makes us roar with laughter and brings brightness to even the shabbiness of happenings.  Whose valiant heart is always happy, despite the persistent sickness that plagues her, the chronic asthma and the ongoing hospitalizations.  With her grubby little legs, permanently dripping nose, and wild unkempt hair she powers through life with enthusiasm that knows no bounds.

Nong mail, kids day

Undaunted she throws herself at everyone she meets with the same open heart, asking only love in return.  When I first met her she was a tiny, fat little thing, rolls of chubbiness, perfect cherub mouth and wide wondering eyes.  Unfortunately she was also scared of farang and would scream her head off if I even looked at her.

The first time she let me take her out to the beach I fell in love, and knew that we would have a special relationship this little ball of merriment and I.  When she took her first steps it was into my hands, and I thought I would burst with excitement and pride as she tottered towards me, arms aloft, trusting entirely.  What big responsibility to witness her evolution from that squidgy powdered baby ball to this fabulous gorgeous girl who stands before me, or rather runs, jumps, kicks, and dances, before me.

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Today we went to a wedding. All of Shrimp’s family arrived last night in pick-up trucks for the festivities, a home town boy made good, one of the massive extended Songkhla family is marrying a local island girl.

Shrimp’s family can’t believe their luck with one of their family members marrying so well. The night before, the boy came to say hi, he is such a sweet kid, the face of a child, and a beautiful generous nature. I wished him good luck and he thanked me, I think he himself cannot believe his good fortune, as he drove away in a brand new SUV.

Early Birds Catch Wedding Worms…..

There are three things you can say unequivocally about Thai weddings: they are early, long and loud. This one kicks off at nine am, the lucky number in Thailand – we make our way over to the next beach and begin the procession which is a raggle-taggle affair of appalling drummers shipped in for the occasion, all the family in their varying degrees of finery and drunkenness despite the early hour.

We made our way through the village, a collection of about fifty people, proudly stomping and banging, and singing accompanying the groom to his destination. As we passed each house everyone came out to wish him well and smile at the wedding party.
I as the only farang attracted some attention from the out-of-towners, some of whom have probably never seen one of my species before, I was photographed and feted, smiling as radiantly as I could muster without copious amounts of tea and porridge inside me.

Drunken Revelry at 9am….

As we made our way past one group of shacks a woman I recognized as the village drunk came out, bleary-eyed and disheveled, and realizing she was in the presence of a procession jumped on board and began to dance beautifully at the head of our gang.
Thai culture being what it is, no one blinked twice at this, everyone delighted in this woman’s good feeling and joy at the occasion. When I compare this to England it makes me laugh at the thought of a random drunk in their pajamas dancing ahead of the bride into the church.

Bang, Bang, Bang

We made our way onto the main street, drawn by our siren call of bongos and shouty electric Thai piano- as we did so, people opened fire. Quite literally: started firing guns into the air around us in celebration. A royal gun salute this was not, as I watched in horror more and more people reached into their waistbands and began to discharge rounds into the air.
I looked at Shrimp in horror, he looked back at me shrugging apologetically – his look spoke volumes – “I’m sorry, what can I say, my family, country people, don’t know any better, far be it for me to say anything, I am Thai, respect my elders, know my place.”

As one family member, who’d been hitting the lao khao rather hard waved his gun at the ground, pulling the trigger in a puzzled fashion as to why it wouldn’t fire, two metres from my daughter, I decided enough was enough and snatching her jumped out of line and ran for the safety of a nearby building, where I stayed until Shrimp came and got me an hour later, promising that all the shooting was over – it was time for the Buddhist ceremony.

This was conducted in the privacy of the house while everyone else sat outside under the obligatory marquee roasting alive on the ubiquitous plastic garden chairs. Clear Sky was hot and bothered and nearly choked to death on a large piece of duck someone had shoved in her mouth.

We decided to rejoin the festivities later, but before saying our goodbyes we made our way into the house to pay respect to the bride and groom. Shrimp’s nephew was pale, both from powder and trepidation, he mopped his brow with a hanky and looked shell shocked. The bride is pretty, in a Bangkok-nose-job sort of way.

Her heavily made up face and liberal gold drippings fail to register any expression at all – it’s the brides I pity, they’re up from five am doing makeup and preparing, and then spend the whole day sweltering in their war paint, meeting and greeting people in order of a strict social hierarchy, until they collapse after nearly twenty four hours awake, to be molested by the young fella who is now their hubby and probably doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing. All this without a drink or a fag, good god!

I hope she is good to him, I hope she sits on the bed before him, the Thai traditional way of showing who will be the boss in the marriage, he’s such a sweet boy.

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Three years later, a prayer for those still there…….

Three years ago today a young boy, my friend, lost his life in the skies above Afghanistan, fighting for our freedom.

Three years tick-tock tick-tock. Time marches on and surprises us only with its lack of care for those who want to hang on a minute, wait a sec. Can it really be three long years since that bright, fresh-faced, joyful young man, being the best that he could be, sacrificed his life in freedom’s name?

Three years since that funereal day, noble childish faces bearing the boy to his final rest. Strength, pride, resilience, writ large as they laid their friend down, some on their way back to the battle at first light. Flashes of pink below tear-wretched faces, tokens of remembrance from those who knew his joie de vivre and his big pink heart.

And those boys left behind, men now I suppose, still battling the elements, the enemy, an enigma, in that wild and barren land. Long years away from love and tenderness scratching lines of hardness on their youthful skin. I hope they can find a way to heal, to love, to experience life again, despite what they have seen, and to live joyfully in their friend’s name.

And with time’s relentless marching, three years more, and three times three will pass for sure. More lives come to pass, and pass on by the minute, and war torn lands take their greedy share indeed.

But some things stand for time eternal. Love. Pride. Remembrance of you.

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I came down yesterday morning to find Shrimp, Crab and Golf all a twitter, two of golf’s teenage pals who had left with their family had returned, shacked up at the Karaoke cum brothel and begun what is sure to be an illustrious career of selling sex.

This was shocking and twitter-inducing to the assembled gossipers because of their age, of only sixteen and their previous friendship with golf. Shrimp was I-told-you-so-ing with grave authority: he had warned Crab months ago against Golf playing with the older girl, her nail varnish, lip gloss and cheeky smile clearly spelled trouble. And here he was proved right. Happy at having saved his niece from an almost inevitable descent into prostitution and drugs, he got on with his chores for the day.

I am confused to say the least. Everybody seems to be frowning and tut-tutting, heaping shame upon the two girls. Yet the girl’s mother was also a bar girl until she took up with Shrimp’s brother in law, at which point everyone decided to forget that fact, as it was better for Shrimp’s neice and nephew that they got a new mother (the old one ran off with a salesman, she was also first cousin of the husband she left).

Now when her daughter joins the profession she learned at her mother’s knee, she is shunned and reviled. It’s not really fair is it? Particularly as Shrimp’s other sister-in-law-cum-pimp runs the karaoke in question. Here the fickle Thai pragmatism-cum-hypocrisy comes into play: it’s okay for sister-in-law to run the Karaoke, it’s okay for Crab to frequent the karaoke and enjoy singing and giving sister-in-law her money, it’s okay for the girl’s mother to have been a prostitute, the only person who is heaped with disapproval is the poor child who has been raised in this environment, shown this example, and made use of the only skills she is aware she might possess.

When she left last year she was a bright, bubbly, trendy looking teenager, with a cheeky smile and a twinkle in her eye. She always greeted me in the street with a friendly hello, and she and Golf were inseparable BFFs for a while, always hanging out on the moped, chewing gum and talking ten to a dozen into their phones.

Today I see the girl strolling down the road. She has the disheveled appearance of someone who has been up all night, and the defensive strut of a girl who is trying to pretend she doesn’t give a dam what the world thinks of her. As she passes her former pals they don’t say a word, afraid perhaps of the dark acts they have been told she has been performing. She feels the air heavy with their judgment and snarls something at them in Thai. They studiously ignore her; her alienation complete.

As I pass her I see her face flicker with recognition, normally she would have called out a boisterous Nataleeee. Now she hesitates searching my face, preparing herself for the rejection that she will surely find writ large upon it. I give her a big smile and a bright hello and relief flashes across her face before she gives me a guarded smile.

Before she had the air of a child bouncing into life with gusto, now something world-weary and hard lurks behind her eyes. From now onwards she will always carry this with her and her life will be shaped accordingly to her new attitude of calculated self-preservation.

I really feel nothing but sadness for this girl, I hope that she can at least find a farang man with some money to make her life comfortable, that she does not succumb to the brutal merry-go-round of yabba-fuelled late nights and abuse at the hands of cheap perverts in the seedy alleys of patpong. Hope she has the nous to keep herself healthy and alive.

This horny thorny issue of prostitution raises its ugly head fairly frequently in Thailand. On a global stage it is perhaps the top bill this country is renowned for. This beautiful nation is utterly synonymous with the seedy underbelly of the world’s oldest profession.

In reality there is of course good reason for this stereotype, like many sterotypes it is based on fact. Here prostitution is an accepted part of life, a necessary evil, part of human nature. It is treated with a fairly honest and pragmatic approach, rather than with the kid gloved delicacy or (denial) of the west.

The sexpat phenomenon I will examine in more detail later, which is an entirely different kettle of fish. But in terms of Thai culture, prostitution is as commonplace as affairs, adultery and divorce are in ours. It is pretty much accepted that men have needs that they naturally desire to fulfill and that is only to be expected.

I think there are possibly two explanations for this acceptance: one an innate pragmatism, two an acceptance of the non-sexuality of the role of mother, my friend P would add a third reason: that Thai men are the most virile on earth.

It’s not surprising that a shattered young mother would find herself too exhausted for sex, many a western mother could certainly sympathise. And in Thailand the man is expected to turn to a prostitute for his fulfillment. Add to that the belief that you cannot have sex with your wife when she is pregnant, and then consider that some women are pregnant, nursing, or childbearing for over a decade. Factor in the respect for motherhood, the role of matriarch, and the absolute respect for their own mothers that is absolutely concrete in this culture of familial strength and you have a heady concoction for sure.

So men use prostitutes. Wives aren’t delighted but it’s okay as it relieves them from the drudgery of their sexual duty and the possibility, god forbid, of more children. But the openness of Thai culture doesn’t stop there, the nuances of the sexual partnerships continue on into realms western men can only dream of.

There are names for all the roles that women play in a man’s life, whether as prostitute, or literally translated “woman sell sex”, or the slightly sweeter “woman have good service”. Gig, a girl that you see regularly outside your marriage, like a mistress, and finally the mier noi, or small wife, whom you literally support as a second wife.

Of these, the mier noi is certainly the most feared by mier luang, “major wives”, as she is given a status second only to herself, including usually a house, children and a chunk of whatever riches the wealthy man is able to provide. Women in these scenarios cannot really kick up a fuss with their husbands, he being the person holding the omnipotent purse strings, so they often declare war on each other and each other’s offspring.

Stories abound of miers one and two attacking and even murdering each other. It’s not uncommon for wives to be sisters, even occasionally a mother and her daughter from a previous marriage. Which goes a long way to explain the explosive popularity of the soap opera as a genre in Thailand.

On the other side of the mier noi controversy, an English friend of ours relates this tale of an English friend who married a thai woman. After her third, difficult, and dangerous pregnancy the wife informed the husband that she’d had enough, of the sex, the pregnancies, the lot. It was, she informed him, time for him to take a mier noi, they could afford it after all, and she would gladly be relieved of this side of her wifely duties. Her appalled, and utterly devoted husband didn’t take this pronouncement too well and it created a fair bit of strife in the marriage. But it is a funny anecdote that accurately describes the commonplace nature of these arrangements.

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What a glorious day today was. I awoke to the smell of warm air and the glow of sunlight for the first time in days.

What a difference the sun makes! I have been valiantly washing everything we own since we got back due to above mentioned smells, today for the first time things felt clean and crispy dry – the smell of clean laundry and sun-baked linen was everywhere around me, and what a welcome relief.

We spent the day as usual, madly trying to catch up on all the damage and refurbishment after the monsoon. But despite all the cement piled around, the buzz of saws, wood dust and hard slog, today the world is a beautiful place to be.

She is literally bopping her little socks off along with the highly dubious tune – and all this without the aid of a TV. Priceless. At the end of the day we have very little money, every week is a struggle to keep our heads above water in the most basic of ways, but we are raising our daughter in beauty and nature and with the love and adoration of both her fully present parents and the help, care and support of an entire village. When it is tough, and other aspects make me weep with exhaustion or worry, I can hold on to this strength.

Nong mail also arrived back from her holidays today, and what a sight for sore eyes is this little angel. No longer a baby, she is fast becoming a wondrous girl-child, quieter, a little more cautious perhaps than in her boisterous, romping babyhood, but with the same gorgeous humour and character present in her eyes.

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My partner’s name is shrimp. His brothers and sisters are variously named for two kinds of crab and a crayfish. My shrimp insists that he is a tiger shrimp, the biggest variety, and I won’t beg to differ.

In fact the only sibling not named for a crustacean is simply called sister and she married a man called fish, so I guess the saltwater is just destined to flow through the family tree. We live on a small tropical island in the gulf of Thailand, where we have made our home, with our baby girl, Clear Sky and most of my partner’s extended family.

When I first came to Thailand backpacking at the ripe old age of nineteen, I fell in love immediately, with the sparkling ocean, the majestic palms and the spotless white beach and most of all with the spectacularly beautiful people. I had found my idyll, my personal paradise.

Now that the years have rolled by and I have made this place my permanent home the love affair with this beautiful land has continued to bloom, but like any relationship has ripened with age and experience, so my love for it is a little more battle-scarred and my understanding is much deeper, although I will never comprehend the full complexities of this vibrant culture.

I will always be grateful that we start our day with a walk on the beach and a swim in the sparkling ocean, that we have mangoes and rambutans, and mangosteens piled up around us according to season, that my daughter will be raised by a village full of people and learn respect for elders, to share all that she has, and the principles of jai yen (calm heart) as an intrinsic part of her upbringing.

I am less enamoured with the lack of decent healthcare, the chronic pollution problems and widespread use of chemicals that afflict the country, and I will never learn to reconcile the beautiful face of Thailand with the diabolical treatment of Burmese people which is endemic in this culture.

Thailand is a land of many complexities, with two sides: one so beautiful it can take your breath away and the other with a quiet, darkly violent pulse barely visible under the mask of jai yen.

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