Gay Boy Thailand

9

- Where is grandmother, I asked the boy.
- Go work.
- What does she do?
- Not know.
- How old is she?
- 69.
- And grandfather?
- 75.
- What is the dog’s name?
- Dog.
- That’s easy to remember.

The grandfather gave me fruit from the garden.
- Aroy. Tastes good, I said.
- It is hot today, said the grandfather. He was shirtless and had what looked like a large fly swapper he used to slap himself on the back with. I guessed that had a cooling effect.
- Very hot, I said.

This was the limit of my conversation with the grandfather. He spoke no English and neither did anyone else in the village.

The boy came out of the house with a small photo album. There were pictures of him when he had ordained as a monk at age fourteen. He looked funny with a shaved head. The boy had spent four weeks in the temple. But in another picture from around the same time he was wearing makeup and holding a colourful umbrella against the sun. He was with two girls. This was from Rayong, where he had been on a school trip.

I asked to see the house. It was a typical village house, with the foundation and the wall that faced the road made of concrete painted white. The rest of the house was made of unpainted wood. They had electricity and tap water, and the “facilities” was a small house in a corner of the garden. They had a fridge and a twelve inch television set. The beds were mats on the floor.

- Where are the fields? I asked.
- Not here. The boy explained that the land they owned was quite far from the village. Sometimes the grandfather slept in the fields and didn’t come back for a week.

I liked the grandfather. He seemed to have a pleasant personality. When I told the boy this he looked happy. Grandfather have good heart, the boy agreed.

The boy was restless as the bus back to town might come soon. There was only one bus in the afternoon and none in the evening, and we had to catch it. The village had no tuk-tuks or other public transport. I wai’ed the grandfather goodbye and we walked the fifty meters to the bus stop. It was a square set of benches with a roof over them, similar to the hut outside the grandfather’s house but bigger and newer.

- When will the bus be here?
- Not know.
- Can you ask someone?
- They not know.

I rested on my back while the boy was busy greeting and chatting to people that passed by. Some walked, some shouted out the window of a well-worn pickup truck and many drove motorbikes. There were many young men of my friend’s age. Some of them worked in a car garage across the road and waved and made noises when they saw us. People were friendly and all of them asked about this foreigner that the boy had brought home.

Next to the garage was a small shop. They had bottled water and the only pay phone in the neighbourhood. I bought a water bottle and hurried back across the road in case the bus came. But there was no need for haste. After an hour no bus had arrived. After two hours still no bus. I became hopeful when I heard diesel engines but it was trucks with farm workers going home.

- Maybe you can ask someone who owns a pickup truck to take us back to the town, I said.
- Can not.
- I will pay them.
- No need.
- Are you sure this bus will come?
- Sure.

After three hours a bus came. It had open windows and looked ancient. It was the oldest and nosiest bus I had been in. A husband and wife team ran the bus, the man driving and the woman selling tickets.

By now it was nearly sunset. The warm light reflected from water in ponds and fields. The landscape was greener than it had been under the harsh midday sun. This is a beautiful place, I thought. I felt I knew the boy better now that I had seen his home.

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