Readers' Submissions

An Ode To Calibra

  • Written by Anonymous
  • October 17th, 2005
  • 6 min read


Black Pagoda Patpong Bangkok

Looking out over the passing heads and semi rejoicing at the fact that half a dozen Chulalongkorn hotties will soon be boarding the same bus as you, you try to slowly get things into some logical kind of order. Of all days Sunday is the day in which feeling good should and does come naturally. The day in which the pattern of your life doesn't seem to follow the continual or be it ritual pleasantries with the female members of staff, the day in which it isn't necessary to stand to attention while one of the larger pupils in your dreaded grade six class beats that beat that you are all to a customed to hearing, the day in which THE MAN way over in the building you so wish could be more accessible, can be acutely assessed, the day in which your lunch can and will be of your choice, and of your choice only (cash flow permitting), the day in which. . . . your starting to get the idea?

You wake with the usual weekend change over and the temperature is nearing the minus range. It's the weekend "fxxx the electric bill". 15 baht a unit can be trouble if used a little to fruitfully and you of late cannot be accused of being too excessive. Your head hurts and it should, the last you remember was trying all so hard to get the taxi driver to get you home, the cheapest way. . -Rial saaii tii sewen cup om, luggaaaa dong bai, na let! , nah that's not right , err, rial kwaa tii non cup, ah nah that's all wrong, err tii nee gra dai I'll walk.

On paying the small fare of 68 big ones you stumble backwards upon your arse cracking your weary bonce on the near by curb, this raising quite a giggle and late night comedy show for the stand of mota cycle cabbies on the road opposite, you drag your silly frame back up and stumble of down the dark road ahead. On checking your watch it shows a blurred 12 something and you feel somewhat refreshed and sobered at the thought that the night is still young.

Continuing on through your moobarn, occasionally scuffing your toes you come a cross a haunt that somewhat resembles a shack with tempting neon lights. On approaching this shed/karaoke den you are aware that this will be the first time you have plucked up the courage to enter one of these establishments alone, aware that it was in one of these holes that you so entertained the locals with your classic LOSO impression, actually hitting the right notes and singing the only bit in Thai that you know perfectly! You grab the only remaining seat available and order yourself up large sing. The place has one of those huge monster, coin slot, TV screened karaoke machines in it and from what you can make out, the tunes coming from are Pleng chi-wit.

A sense of sadness fills your bones as the singer sings of love lost and nothing gained. Where could she be now? What would she be doing? Who would she laying next to? And how often would she be thinking of me? What pointless questions these are to ask, as the chance of finding any of this out was nil. She's gone! It was all about the money it really was.

On seeing this sad creature alone in this shed, Fon shifts from her usual seated position and approaches cautiously. It was not that long ago Fon could be spotted amongst the higher paid whores at Thermae, time had served her looks well but financially she was in ruins. She knew that in this establishment she held the best, quite possibly the only chance in being able to make contact with this stranger as her passable English skills were the only spoken between any of the girls working here.

I'm Fon she greets you in a sweet tone.

"Pom chua Gavin you reply", using your honed Thai whore skills to the max. The rest of the conversation is saturated with the usual and you have nothing in which to fear. She adores you and who wouldn't?

An hour at least must have passed and from where that bottle of 100 pipers came from is anyone's guess. You get the bill. Its an unreasonable 1,200 and you should, but you know you won't argue this, you still aren't all that to sure of your whereabouts but with the liquor taking control you can easily make it back to your room. Fon grabs her tart's sleepover bag and the half drunk whisky, takes your hand and leads you out the door. She easily gets the information from you as to the location of your pad and laughs as she realises she has been there before and kind of expected more from the look of you.

It's a 2 minute windy ride on the back of a mota cyc taxi, masterfully weaving through the moobaan whilst Fon and the driver speak at a speed you will never be close to understanding.

On entering the Diamond Apartment block Fon gets the ride. The weather beaten security guard looks up from his seat and gives you the usual vacant glance, it was only on Thursday you had had young Season in studying privates after school, "Farang teachers these days" he thinks to himself, "glad I never went to school".

You're on the fourth floor, and can easily find your room, you have been in this state many times and you will be many times more. Fon gets your keys from you as its beginning to take a little too long for your to open the door.

Your room is in quite a state, last week's cotton shirts are strewn everywhere, ashtrays overflowing, bed sheets half on the bed and the neon light only highlights this more. The last time you had half heartedly bothered to clean was before little Season came for privates and all you did was literally stuff all your sad belongings out onto the 4 by 4 balcony, expertly shoving your crap behind the dated air-con unit. All in all Fon doesn't care too much about the mess, she was expecting more but she soon realised what kind of 29 year old you were when you mentioned where you resided.

Stepping out onto the balcony you inhale that hot, sticky air, there is little view to admire here and little success to feel. There is little to report about the next 30 fumbling minutes. Before you know it you go into that cosy spin off kind of sleep, Fon has wrapped herself up in your artificial sheets and is dreaming of pastures new. You awake, there is light coming from the tiny window, it's unsociably cold as you turn to capture the beauty that is Fon in the sharp light of morn.

"Sunday" you say to yourself, a day in which feeling good doesn't always come naturally. . . . PLEASE TAKE ALL THIS AS FACTUAL , IT ISN'T REALLY ME HONEST GUV.

Stickman's thoughts:

Probably pretty darn accurate for those poorly paid teachers who are here for the women.