Thai Trail 3 - Sticky Rice and Mango

Bangkok, I knew about it of course, yet couldn't have imagined. Full of aging white men strutting along golden beauties. On the sky train, the gaze stops on the back of their legs: his fat, hairy calf, angry red and sweaty. Her delicate, brown foot chained by sandal strap and thin anklets. Naked young leg, trembling slightly into the scant cover of a miniskirt.

I force myself to look away. I don't want to see his wide face, the bulging eyes, the satisfied grin on those oily lips. I have no desire to gag over greying facial hair, turkey neck, flaccid jowls. Beer belly, beer breath.

Hmmm, I looked back. Yes, took in the whole horror, gagged. Oh, those porky fingers with yellow nails snaking around the tawny marble of the girl's upper arm.

A bit like fresh mango and sticky rice.



(... of which we had a taste at a food stall, in the evening. Overnight, Kira got violently ill. She prawled the house wrapped in a sheet, I followed her around thinking 'yep, part of life, part of Bangkok': finally fell into shallow sleep, with dreams of naked dolls writhing in vats of sticky rice, gagging as they sank.)