The Plagues of Nightmarket

Last night I went to what's called a "night market."  It is what it sounds like--a bunch of shopping opportunities under tents after sunset.  A weighty aspect of the night market, however, which isn't stated in the name, is the biomass of the insect population it supports.  Spiraling clouds of them are everywhere, particularly around bright lights, which are everywhere.  While I was sitting at a small plastic table eating my pad Thai (which came covered by a thin layer of scrambled duck egg), I realized how strong a habit I have of idly leaving my mouth open.  The bugs reminded me several times, with their dry wriggling bodies around the walls of my throat.  They also reminded me how often I leave my eyes open, and that my hair, short though it is, is still long enough to entangle those tickly little bastards.  Later, in a clothing/sunglasses tent, while looking around at the cheap and unbelievably stylish t-shirts (most of them too ironic for their own good), a moth about the size of my eye opening flew into my eye opening, fluttering its dusty wings and leaving behind a film of moth powder.  It was the most violated I've felt since being here, and I had like three urinal massages at Rad that other night.

You know the feeling when bugs get down your shirt?  On the back of your neck?  In your ears?  There's no end to the places they can infiltrate because they've got nothing to lose.  But that's not quite true.  They do value their lives, which I remind myself every time I kill one to make the death more satisfying.  There are so many of them flying in every direction, however, that I can never be satisfied.  Only disgusted, and the odds of their dangerous little games are stacked heavily in favor of pushing me past sanity.  I can feel them for hours afterwards.

The Thai people have come up with an interesting way, not quite of handling these evolutionarily unstoppable annoyances, but perhaps of handling the emotions that result.  They deep fry the fuckers, impale them on skewers, and display their mass graveyards alongside ice cream and noodle soup carts.  They pile thousands of grasshoppers, roaches, maggots, beetles, flies, anything big enough to jam a bamboo spike through, under extra bright lights, bringing out the luster of their oily coffins and attracting their flying brethren to the grisly spectacle.

But this, everyone knows, will not teach the bugs a lesson.  There's really nothing to be done except wave your hands around your face and brush them all over your body as if battling hallucinations.  If you want the night market bargains, you have to pay for them.

Barks and Bitches

There are dogs pretty much all the fuck over.  And not like in Brooklyn where they have to be on leashes and are just out because their owners don't want shit in the closet.  Thai dogs live a double life, at once pets and homeless people, begging for food, shouting at strangers, and using everything as a toilet.  Some Thai dogs have "owners" and some don't, but it doesn't really matter.  When I walk down the street, one will follow behind me for fifty feet or so and then stop as another one takes over, keeping their conspiratorial eye out just in case I have some fistfuls of ham stashed somewhere.  I've seen gangs of dogs protecting their "territory" from outsider pooches, and at night, they all howl at each other, or with each other, either arguing or foiling the murderous plots of evil old women like in 101 Dalmatians.  I want to tell them that they're perpetuating a stereotype, but dogs are pretty stubborn.

Neuki (my Thai friend) has an eight month old, medium sized cocker spaniel/poodle that will lick anything that gets within licking distance.  While I was staying at Neuki's house, and she was at work during the day, the dog would follow me whenever I went to the fruit carts a few blocks away for breakfast in the morning (1 pm).  A few days ago, I decided to take an unfamiliar route, which brought us to a house with an open gate (many people leave their gates closed so that their dogs, usually of nicer breeds, won't hang out on the streets and get caught up in a life of crime).  As we reached the opening, out bounded a small poodle with its unselfconsciously high-pitched bitty nag of a bark.  I knew Micah (Neuki's dog) could knock this curly-haired rat right over, clamp down and rip out its needly vocal chords like spaghetti without much trouble.  And she (Micah) obviously agreed with me because she started barking back, causing the poodle to sidestep wimpily and shut its squeaker.  Well done, I thought, but before I could think anything else, a German Shepherd sauntered out behind its pussified sidekick, growling with the basso of a canine Barry White.  Then I noticed it had an udder.  Six or so whopping bitch tits hung from its chest like water balloons and were swinging so hard with each step that I thought they were going to fall off.  I shuddered and jumped backwards to avoid possibly getting hit with bursting mammary fluid.  Micah sprinted back toward Neuki's house and the twosome chased after her.  At that point, the poodle was growling as well, a phlegmy death cough which I imagine is what rabies sounds like.  Micah was easily faster than the two of them, though, the poodle with pretzels for legs and the shepherd weighed down by motherhood, so I wasn't worried.  I looked up at the clear sky and remembered why I was there in the first place: I needed breakfast.  Half a watermelon and half a pineapple, two coconuts, a small canteloupe, and three bottles of fresh-squeezed orange juice weren't going to buy themselves.

A pisser in Thailand

I've been here for a week now, and I haven't posted anything yet because I hadn't thought anything worth writing about.  Last night that all changed at a Thai urinal.  It went like this: I was out with Neuki (a Thai girl who is friends with the other PiAers here and whose house I'm currently crashing at) and her boyfriend Dtoang and his friend Bak.  We were at a crazy bar/multi-wild-club called Rad complex.  I think the "complex" part is because it has four separate rooms to get drunk in.  One's a strobe/heart attack dance hall, one's a concert venue/pool hall, one's a "coyote room," which means Thai women dancing in underwear, and I'm not sure what the other one is yet, but I'm sure it's quaint and charming.  The "Rad" part of the complex's name, however, is not what it first appears to be.  In America, "rad" is an abbreviation for "radical," a synonym of "extreme," which is youthful slang for fun/exciting, something everyone wants to have/be.  Here, "Rad" is the English transliteration of the Thai word for rhinoceros, which is slang for "slut" or, equivalently, "man slut."  What a coincidence.  And at the front door of the club is a metal statue of a rhinoceros in a suit standing with his hands one over the other at his crotch, like a secret service agent but a rhino, and without sunglasses.

But that's just the setting for the event I present.  Last night, as with four of the last seven nights, we (Neuki and I) were playing pool.  I had to go to the bathroom, which is something I'll admit I enjoy doing and do do at least several times a day.


As I walked through the door, marked "boys," there was a Thai man with long black rockstar hair standing at the door, holding a washcloth.  He lowered his head to me as I passed.  I assumed this meant he worked in the bathroom and would present the towel to me when I finished washing my hands, which meant I'd actually have to wash my hands this time.  Only slightly disappointed, I was still pretty cheerful because my pool stick was pretty straight that night.  I went up to a urinal, unzipped, and gave a little push with my stomach muscles.  There was no one else near me, so it came out immediately.  About five seconds into the stream, I looked to my left and saw the rockstar attendant walking toward me.  Naturally, at first I thought he had to pee himself and was walking to a neighboring urinal, but he was getting unnervingly close, walking slowly, as if he knew I couldn't escape.  I didn't want to offend him, as I was obviously a stupid American and didn't want to reinforce the fact, so I didn't move or say anything and then he was right behind me.  He draped the warm washcloth over my neck, and I turned, throwing my shoulder up and at him.  "What the...?" I said, to indicate that his crazy bullshit required some kind of explanation.

He put up his hands to me.  "It OK," he said, making squeezing motions.  "Mashaa.  It OK."  Embarrassed at my immature Western jumpiness, I turned back and tried to keep the flow flowing, as my bladder was pinching it back a little.  Let it happen, I thought to myself, I'm in freaking Thailand now.  At least see if he knows what he's doing.  I took a deep breath as his hands grabbed my shoulders.  Now, I know massages.  I know what an expert's hands do, and his had no rookie digits.  He found a knot instantly and worked it over like a uncooperative POW.


I almost forgot where I was as he kneaded the muscles from my lower back up to my neck, and my stream started straying leftward as my hands relaxed their grip on the old hose.  He grabbed my head and tilted it diagonally just before cracking each side.  I dribbled to a finish but didn't move until he knocked on my back three times to magically wake me up again.  Then he reached around and flushed for me.  What a guy!  "Kawp kun," I said, meaning thank you.  We walked to the sink, and, after I rinsed, he handed me the now cold washcloth, but I didn't blame him for it.  I'm in Thailand now, I repeated silently.  I was becoming part of a different world, and this was one less aspect of which I was ignorant.  Then he stood in front of the door, with his hands out and his head lowered.  "Oh shit," I said.  I had no idea how much to pay him, and the smallest I had was a 100 baht bill, which is a little more than three dollars, way too much for a twenty second neck rub and urinal flush.  "Uh," I stammered, "mai mii (don't have).  Uhh, shit.  I'll be right back?  Iik maa (again come), OK?"


"Oh," he said with a smile and a bow.  This is how it should be, I thought, shaking my shoulders out as I left.