Thai Fantasy #3

Paolo had recommended I try one of the open-front restaurants across from the hotel. I'd been a little unsure about them, but I was in a mood to believe anything he told me, so off I went. The one he'd suggested had two bright blue wading pools out front, full of live crayfish and prawns, all sizes and colours. Behind them a huge display of fish, fresh and bright-eyed on a rapidly melting bed of ice. I barely have time to register this before I am taken to a small table. The place is busy, mostly families, most of them European men with local wives and assorted children. the women are attentive to their men, piling food on their plates, making sure everything is right. We might call it submissive, but the men have surrendered to this some time ago, they are hooked, they look like they cannot believe they are so lucky. They all look content, that life is good.
There are one or two tables with small groups of European men and their local companions. The men in their 60's, overweight and very red from too much sun, the girls - they are young - probably from one of the go-go bars. They are noisy tables,, the men seeming to want to draw attention to the fact they can still get young, attractive women. No-one is fooled, sadly we all know how money talks. One table has two Europeans, they look like father and son, but I doubt it somehow. Their companions are two young Thai men. They are quiet, enjoying the meal, seeming to enjoy the company, laughing a lot, all four attentive to the rest of the group, relaxed. I decide I like that table. Not so the table for two next to me, thirty-ish blonde, a big man, strongly if heavily built, deep tan, with a tiny, very young looking local boy. He is probably legal age, although he doesn't look it, but he has a stunned rabbit look in his eyes, and no wonder. He is subjected to a constant barrage of complaints and orders from his companion, most of which he seems not to understand.
Its like a crash-course in the sex-scene in tourist Thailand.
I have two waiters for my table, one to take my order, while the other sets the table, fork and spoon and a little tray of condiments. The order goes to an ancient Thai lady seated imperiously at a raised desk in the back corner of the restaurant. She is dressed impeccably, layers of rich silk, long, perfectly manicured nails, iron-grey hair curled and waved and piled in a high bun, and heavy, heavy make-up. She never smiles, she is all concentration, nothing misses her glance while receipts are moved around, figures jotted down, tea is drunk,money received and change issued, orders barked out to the kitchen. A glance sends waiters scurrying. She is cool, in control, it is her domain. I guess the staff are all her family - about five generations from the look of it.

I order tiger prawns - Paulo's recommendation - and a beer. The beer arrives, local, Singha gold, not a heavy beer but a full flavoured, slightly bitter, hoppy ale. I like it. The prawns arrive, looking and smelling superb. Two of them, enormous, simply barbecued on a bed of lemongrass, the pale yellowy green lemongrass contrasting with the bright pink shells banded with brown stripes, the flesh pure white. The taste is incredible, what prawns should be all about, the subtle undertaste of the lemongrass lifting it somewhere I never thought such a simple dish could go. It literally takes me away from my surroundings, the conversatons and interactions of all the other tables simply disappear and I am in some sort of food heaven.

The prawns are finished, and I drift back to reality. One of the mixed family tables has been replaced with a local family, three generations, enjoying themselves enormously. The kids are allowed to roam free, but for once it is not annoying. They are not noisy, they're not running or disturbing anyone, and they are under constant subtle watch. A word brings them back to the table to eat more, or be spoken to, or have a face and hands wiped. There is a lot of love and care at that table. One of the kids stops by my table and stands looking up at me curiously out of huge brown eyes. One of the women at the table looks quizzicly at me - I smile, it's OK, and I get a shy smile in return. The kid sees my smile, and his face splits into a huge grin. He starts to turn away, remembers his manners, turns back, palms together raised to his forehead and a small bow, then he's off, laughing. He's about three years old.
One of the waiters returns, a different one again, looks like as school kid and probably is. I ask for coffee, and he leaves a small plastic package on my table. It is covered in red Thai writing, and contains something white. I'm not quite sure what it is. Suddenly I hear a loud popping noise from the Thai family table and I look over. The woman who smiled before is looking at me, holding an identical plastic packet in one hand. Still looking at me she hits the packet into the palm of her other hand, it pops open, and she takes out what I now see is a hand-towel. She smiles again and turns back to her family. Grateful, I follow her lead. The towel is icy cold, pleasantly perfumed, very refreshing. I'm getting to like this place.

The coffee is good, well, good for Asia. Certainly better than the over-stewed mess the hotel offers. It actually comes with real, fresh milk. Now that's a pleasant surprise. So is the bill, about AUD6.00 for the lot. As I'm leaving I get smiles not just from the Thai lady at the family table, but from the whole family, and the three-year old is standing at the front, looking into the wading pools. He points to one of them, smiling, and I stand for a moment watching with him. Briefly, ever so briefly, he leans against me, giggling at the crayfish, then he's off again, something else has caught his attention.

I head off into the night, happy and optimistic. I do like this place.

Thai Fantasy #2

The waves outside my window are lapping gently against the rocks, and I hope I can make it into the morning just as gently. I'm not wake enough to know how all those drinks with Mama-san last night are affecting me. I'm not sure I want to open my eyes yet, let alone think of getting out of bed. But there's some sort of awareness forming, an awful feeling I'm meant to be doing something. Then it hits, I'm booked for a tour out to the islands. Have I overslept, and am I going to be in any condition to go? I haven't even figured out if I have a hangover, but the hotel would have called me if the bus was there yet. I force my eyes open, fortunately the room is dim and so far my brain just feels sleepy. I'm facing the wrong way to see the clock, but it is easier to roll over than expected, and the relief at seeing I still have an hour to go before I leave is almost as great as the slowly dawning realisaton that I do not have a hang-over. I can't figure how I've avoided that.
A quick shower, throw on shorts and a clean t-shirt, grab the camera and down for breakfast. I'm awake enough to remember I didn't disgrace myself the night before. In fact I managed to beat a dignified if hasty retreat as soon as the shower-show ended. Something reminded me to leave a tip for the boys as well as for Mama-san. I was vaguely aware as I left that the dancing boys were getting down off the platform. I was still the only customer.
A handsome face and a flashing smile showed me to a table, poured my coffee and pointed out the various buffets. Only one other guest in there, Italian I'd guess from the clothes and the olive skin, cute - very cute. Is it the tropical heat, the island magic, or just my mood that is making me see almost every man as attractive. I can check him out more freely as I put my breakfast together from the buffet, and he is worth checking out. Good looking, black hair, big, dark eyes, fit. Choice. But its way too early in the day for thoughts like this.
I head out to the foyer to wait for the bus, which arrives a few minutes later. Except its not a bus, not even a mini-bus. It's a car. The driver, a pink-jacketed, gold-toothed middle aged Thai opens the front door for me, and promptly disappears into the foyer. He emerges again a few moments later with the Italian from breakfast, who is ushered into the back seat of the car. Barely time to exchange a brief nod and doors are closed, the motor revs, and we take off.
Half an hour later I find myself in the middle of a Thai long-tail boat. We picked up our guide along the way, twenty-something, razor sharp cheekbones, sporting an impeccably pressed if twenty years out of date cream safari suit, and spouting an amusingly idisyncratic turn of phrase. Non-stop. We chug slowly away from the rough pier, weaving our way through dozens of long-tail boats, only the colour and pattern of their awnings to tell them apart. Down a maze of narrow water-ways between baanks of magroves. Grey water, muddy foliage and grey, looming skies. Not an impressive start.
Suddenly the water opens before us, a huge expanse of vivid turquoise, pierced by sheer sided shards of limestone towering a hundred feet or more. An unreal landscape that truly takes the breath away. We go right through one, a narrow cave, dark and eerily quiet. Most of the outcrops are partially covered in emerald jungle, we can see ladders on some of them - they collect swallow's nests for birds nest soup, but no gatherers, its out of season.
Our destination is disappointing. They call it James Bond Island, part of "Man With A Golden Gun" was filmed here. It is one of the few outcrops that is readily accessible, there is a small beach between two rocky masses, but it is crowded with stalls selling the worst kind of cheap souvenirs, and far too many tourists, lining up to have their photo taken in front of the cave that was "blown up" in the film.
Moving on was a relief, and the Italian and I have finally exchanged a few words. His name is Paulo, from Milan. He is sweet and gentle and funny, and missing his girlfriend - of course.
We have lunch at a stilt village, a Muslim enclave in a very Buddhist country. The village is entirely on stilts over the water. The small parcel of land it is attached to is taken up by a very green mosque. With some dismay I realise lunch is sea-food, freshly and locally caught. Dismay only as I have just seen the sewerage system in the village is straight down into the water.
With that curious love of juxtaposition the Thais seem to have, on the way back we visit a cashew factory. Woman with their hands bound in plastic-wrap to protect their skin from the burning oils in the outer casings, which look like greasy dung, remove the nuts which look like tiny pink brains covered in vivid red veins. The process looks disgusting, the end product is delicious.
Back at the hotel I decide on a swim and some sunbathing. I am just getting comfortable on a sun-lounge when Paulo appears, and sits down next to me. He is decidely chatty now. He strips down to his trunks and I can only think how lucky that far-off girlfriend is. He is lean and well defined, a dusting of hair on his chest, as much at ease in his near-nakedness as he was sprawled in the back seat of the car. And he is funny, genuinely funny. We talk for ages, lying side by side in the sun , temptingly if almost uncomfortably close. And of course untouchable.
Eventually I decide I need to go for a nap before dinner. We promise to exchange e-mail addresses before we leave, and I head up to my room, determined that something is going to happen tonight.