Gay Boy Thailand

Pinoy

My little universe around the hotel includes a restaurant where a couple of sissy boys work. In Thailand I would have called them ladyboys-in-training. They say hello to me when I walk past.

Yesterday one of them was sitting on a bench outside the restaurant, smoking a cigarette. I sat down next to her.

It turned out she was Filippino. The other one was Filippino too. In Tagalog ladyboys are called bakla. The most talkative of them bought me a drink - a can of Sprite. We sat down at a restaurant table on the pavement. Various other people joined the party. They were all Filippinos.

- Wow, it is like Little Manila here, I said.
- No no, said the bakla. - This is not like Manila. Manila is a beautiful city.
- I had a plan of visiting Manila last year but people warned me it was dangerous, I said.
- It is not dangerous in Manila, said the bakla. - You should go. You will not be bored. Everyone can speak English.
- Really?
- Only Mindanao is dangeorus. Abu Sayaf. They want to kidnap you.

Some girls sat down at the table next to us. They said something to the bakla.
- Sorry if this is a personal question, said the bakla. - But the girls want to know if you are married?
- Yes. I have a wife in Bangkok.
The girls left.
Two other girls came. They sat in front of me and turned their heads and smiled.
- The girls say you have beautiful eyes, said the bakla.

These were veiled Muslim girls around 20. They seemed to expect that I would convert to Islam to marry them, and go to a doctor to get the snip. The things people do for love.

The bakla had been in Malaysia for two years and spoke Malay fluently. She had picked it up, she said. She also spoke Tagalog and English.
- I have only high school, said the bakla. - You know. Money problems.

The bakla was chain-smoking cigarettes.
- I drink a lot too, she volunteered.
- You smoke, drink and what else? I asked.
- Ha ha ha! I know what you mean. No comment.

The balka was full of gossip. She knew everyone in the street, where they lived and what their families were like.

The ready-for-marriage girls were replaced by kids. First two, then more and more. Some left and new ones came. It was midnight but the street was full of children.

A character as taken out of a Charles Dickens novel appeared. He was dirty and drunk and had only one leg. He supported himself on a stick while walking. He came over to my table.
- This one is my son, said the one-legged man and nodded towards one of the kids. - He is very bad and stupid.
The kid ran from one end of the table to the other, seeking protection as the father made a swing for him with his walking stick.
- Very stupid boy! said the man.

The bakla was pleasant and funny to talk to, but I still felt uneasy. What was she thinking? She seemed to hold back something. In the course of the conversation she slipped information which indicated she knew all about me. But nobody brought up the gay thing.

- One ringit, said the kids.
- Don’t give them too much, said the bakla.
- I don’t have enough one ringt notes for all anyway, I said.
- I will change for you, said the bakla.
I gave her 50 ringit.
- 50 ringit! screamed the kids at the sight of the money.
- Not for you, said the bakla.
She came back with change.
- Give them only one ringit each, said the bakla.
- They want to play games? I asked. - The Internet cafe is closed already.
- There is another place, said the bakla. - It is open 24 hours. Games only. No net.
I put five one ringit notes into five eager small hands. The kids didn’t say thank you. They just ran away.

The bakla put her chair back under the talble and stood up. The audience was over. As nice as she had been I still had the feeling something was wrong.

Only the next morning did I realise what she had waited for. She gave me one Sprite. She and her bakla buddy had hoped I would buy them Tiger beer in return. If I had done that we could have sat there all night, or as long as I was paying.

—

Wrong nombor. When some local person calls my new Malaysian phone number I know they got it wrong. I haven’t given my number to anyone local yet and I only get calls from Thailand.

Ring ring.
Female voice speaking Malay: blah blah blah?
Me: Wrong number.
Female voice, switching to English: Why do you say it is the wrong number just because you don’t know me?
Me: I am orang puthi (”man white”)
Female: What?
Me: Orang puthi.
Female: Orang puthi! Where are you from?
Me: Farangland.
Female: A foreigner!

Then she hanged up.

It was a step up from the Thai approach to calling the wrong number, which is to argue with me in Thai and say the number is correct and why can’t Somchai come to the phone? They all but accuse me of keeping Somchai, the rightful owner of the phone, from talking to them.