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Deep And Meaningless Ponderings

  • Written by Bobias
  • June 9th, 2006
  • 5 min read


Black Pagoda Patpong Bangkok

By Bobias4

There is nothing like sitting in your favourite bar on Bangla Road on a Sunday morning quietly contemplating whether it would be a good thing to marry Jip, that most lovely of all barmaids and buy a bar or would she turn Thai and change? While I had these thoughts, Geordie the Yorkshire Yobbo had the floor as usual but since nobody in the bar understood him, no one was really paying attention to the mindless verbal dribble he was spouting. I might add whatever English he spoke it was definitely not what was spoken by Betty Windsor when she was making her Christmas address.

Jock, whose grasp of the English language was just as bad I thought had just finished his beer which left his mouth idle so he joined in, "no yer bluidy Yorky git yer no ken what I mean at all. If yer open yer bluidy ears mon and listen with yer bluidy brain I'll say it again. Way back in the days of World War Two the Pacific Islanders used to see the DC3s come in to land full of stores and beer for the Yank soldiers and Marines. Many's the time they stood there watching all these goodies being unloaded and wonder what was out there in the world below the horizon."

Engrossed by this Sven the black haired Swede had to ask what Jock was getting at and when would he get there? I think out of all of us he spoke the closest thing to English because he was hard to understand at times.

"I'm talking about the bluidy cargo cult yer thick heathen. The natives decided they would worship these strange and wondrous silver birds that roared in from the sky and laid such wondrous eggs. So they built idols of the airplanes and made models of the things they wanted floating in their porridge bowls."

"All that is very intelligent to know Jock but what in name has the cargo cult got to do with Thailand," I asked being a razor sharp brained Aussie always eager to fill that brain with mindless trivia.

"Did yer Dad ever look at you then yer Mam and say to her a good f**k wasted dear yer bluidy convict's git? The bluidy Thai's think the world ends at their borders and the rest of it is composed of ATM's that have assumed the shape of humans where money grows on trees like the leaves. Now we all know there are many different kinds of money like English pounds, Dollars, Euros or even God forbid Kroner but to the Thais this is okay as there are many different trees so there are leaves. As long as the Exchange accepts it it's okay."

"So when me Dad was fighting in Burma the bloody natives thought he was a God? Do yer mean Jock they only want our money?" Geordie asked struck by a streak of brilliance that left us awestruck and Sven muttering something about walking blindfolded across Bangla Road making more sense than some of the verbal dribble he heard here.

"Yes Geord mate," I patted him consolingly on the shoulder, "that's why the Nips didn't hang around here too long in WW2 when they occupied Thailand. They never bought their money so the locals told them to f**k off and come back with their wallets.
Now that the Nips are back with their money they're welcome."

"Then why do they make it so bloody hard for farangs to live here?" Sven asked.

"Because yer bluidy git if we stay here and marry a Thai woman, buy a bar we're not bringing bluidy money in are we," the Scot was really upset now," can yer no listen with yer brains? How can they have their breakfast porridge if there's no porridge coming into the house?"

"So Jock, that's why the expats have to do the visa run every three months to refill their wallets from ATM land?" I asked.

"Yes laddie so yer see in spite of being a developing country they are like the Pacific Islanders they still think in terms of the Cargo Cult. If they don't leave the country how can they bring wondrous tree leaves back in?"

"But Jock how come they have this forty nine percent thing when we want to buy a business and have to put the money in the J. Arthur Rank in our wife's name? Wouldn't it make more sense if they let us invest a hundred percent?" I asked again. "That way instead of half a bushel of tree leaves they'd get a full bushel." There was a pause here for a moment or two as Sven choking on his beer had sprayed the bar with beer at the thought of anything Thais did making sense.

"O ye poor wee laddie." I hate Jock when he's patronising. "Canna ye no see they know your putting up the full basket of leaves? This way thet get the full amount but only have to give yer forty nine percent back if ye leave. The bluidy lawyers get the rest of the stake so it means the country is making a quid on the deal plus every time yer do a visa run yer spending money on the laddie organising it and the government stamping yer passport."

"So the chances of getting a permanent visa are pretty slim then?" I as you can see never knew when to shut my great yap.

"Why would they want to kill the Golden Goose by giving you that for? Gentleman and Geordie I rest my case," he bowed.

Sven looked at us pulled out a handkerchief folded it long ways then shook his head reaching up to ring the bell. "Jock, you've sprouted a lot of garbage in your time but you made bloody sense in a Irish sort of way. Now can we get back to the World Cup?"



Stickman's thoughts:

What a thrilling bar that sounds like…