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Thailand 2004

Thailand 2004: Day Four

Barry Price
2006-02-22 12:49:50

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reading. It’s things like this that make me realise just how far from home we are. Remember, this is a middle-class area.

We go back to Martin’s so that he can catch up on work, then we go for another swim in the pool. Then later that evening we go to the night bazaar at Suan Lum to meet Martin’s friend Nang - another beautiful Thai girl. She finds the “Gay” story highly amusing. I’m never going to hear the end of it. The night bazaar is great - a huge variety of market stalls, bars and food stalls, centred on a wide seating area facing a stage on which a Thai band play terrible covers of Western pop songs.

You haven’t heard bad covers until you’ve heard “I will survive” sung in an overpowering Thai accent by someone who very obviously doesn’t understand the words. The musicians, especially the drummer, are very accomplished, but the singing is awful.

After a hearty dinner of spring rolls, beef kebabs, and a dessert of mango and sticky rice, Martin, Nang and I get a taxi to the centre of the red light district, and somehow manage to find the one genuine traditional massage parlour, in the haystack of seedy “massage parlours”. Apparently, it’s time for a foot massage.

The three of us are sat in a row, on very comfy chairs. We each have a Thai woman wash our feet, and we lie back and relax as our aches and troubles are soothed away.

Well, that was the idea. Nang seems to be enjoying herself, but Martin and I are evidently a little more ticklish than the locals. This is torture. The masseuses laugh at the stupid Englishmen. Firstly I try clenching my fists, whilst outwardly smiling, in order to disguise my discomfort. Martin prefers the technique of flapping his arms, whilst keeping his mouth clamped shut.

Yes, it’s turned into a “last man to laugh wins” competition. The masseuses tell Nang that most people find massage relaxing. We appear to be paying them to torture us. Martin and I are unable to join in the conversation, paralysed as we are by the ostensibly well-meaning but clearly evil tickling women.

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