Paying for Pink

Brother, the pink ain't never free. You pay from your wallet. You pay from your heart. No matter the where, there ain't no free pink.

I stayed in Ao Nang. The pinks were many: I have a Filipina wife, who is now in the Philippines.

At the hotel one day there was an Aberdeen lass at the swimming pool. When she spread her legs under water, I caught a short sight of red tufts around her pink, and my thoughts obsessed, and I was deep in Scottish pink one morning.

She returned to UK to resume studies. The passion diminished with distance from the pink. A recent phone call from my mom in Hove, England, however, has brought worry to me regarding this Aberdeen pink.

Have I mentioned my Filipina wife is in the Philippines. I am on my way to her. Have I mentioned my wife is no longer taking my calls.

My grey matter is disgusted with myself. How could I have hurt my wife? Have I mentioned she is the sweetest thing on earth. Woe is me, as Willie has written.

I have stayed past sane in Ao Nang. LOS is a honey pot. But pink has its price.

No more job back in the states. I overstayed.

Still, LOS may only be my excuse from a Western existence in the states that has turned brown. Brothers, it is true, as the majority of Stickmates have stated: UK and America have added so much chorine to the pool one can't float freely: add to the
mess the sad state of the economy for the average bloke, and stay in LOS seems retreat. But facts are facts, and as I am near broke, Thai paradise has no holding area.

Why isn't my wife answering my calls?

Of course I know why.

Also, as told in an earlier submission, I further dove and waded in Thai pink with a bargirl with that black silken hair hanging down to tight light brown ass. This lady took her pay for pink in cash.

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Krabi airport is modern and clean and we take off and the forest green scenes from my window are serene and bright and there are some empty spaces until the view of mass urban, and soon there is BKK. At the new airport in Bangkok I board
a Philippines flight to Manila. There are screaming babies and tight spaces and the cabin air smells of body odour.

Anyone interested in the Philippines should read Caveman's description. I agree with absolutely everything the man says. His writing is right on brilliant in its truth of this country.

The airport in Manila is old. Crowded. (There was a new airport built and was never used due to a dispute with some German company or something like that.) Getting your luggage takes forever as Filipinos collect their big boxes they have
brought back to their families. The greatest gifts are the canned corned beef and spam. Can you believe this? These are considered the valued food?

Anyway, as I'm waiting for my luggage, I phone my mom who has left messages for me to call. She says Aberdeen has dropped by the house in Hove. Aberdeen apologised for being impolite, but she just happened to be in town and could not
resist paying a visit to the mother of her good friend she had met in Ao Nang. (That's me).

What! Is she mad? What the fug is she doing?

Of course, my mother invited her in and the sherry flowed. My mother just had to show her pictures I had painted from long ago. Pictures from my dad, a painter far more successful than I had ever been, were taken down long ago, after their
divorce. My dad had a pink problem. He now lives in a place called San Morino with a rich pink.

Like father like son, is a song I have forever tried not to play. I remember the first time he took me to the states when I was around fifteen. Waiting to board at Heathrow he was talking to a blond lady of curves. She looked swell and smelled
of the sweetest perfume. In flight I remember my dad going to the loo and it seemed forever. When he returned and sat down he smelled of her perfume, and of pink.

Anyway, I finally got outside the airport and got a cab that would take me a couple hours to my wife's small village in Rizal province. I negotiated with the driver. 2500 pesos (about 42 pesos to the dollar). Cheap.

Manila is one of the ugliest cities I have ever been in. Squatters and open pits of garbage and millions of people just standing around; so many children in rags. (By the way, as an aside. Speaking of Caveman, he had written of meeting Freddie
Roach, trainer of Mannie Pacquiao, "an up and commer boxer." Actually, Caveman… old dude, Manny Pacquiao is probably the greatest fighter on the planet. And Freddie Roach, who used to be a boxer himself, is considered the top trainer
in the world. Did you know he is suffering from Parkinsons disease?)

The crowded streets of Manila gave way to a single highway cluttered with jeepneys (small buses) and small motorcycles with side cars holding passengers that Caveman talks about. I'll always remember passing a stranded jeepney with a
picture of Jesus painted on the side.

Religion is extremely important to these people. They don't understand its doctrines, nor care to, but they all talk the mantra, and do the ritual. "It's a blessing" from God when things go right. When I give money to
my wife's family, it's a blessing. Hey, give me a little thanks. too.

There is no general health care like Thailand has. People die from refusal of hospitals to care for them if people have no money. In the provinces, just about all the hospitals are owned by individual doctors.

The towns contain motley shacks, in the main. But there are always modern houses that stand out among the general squalor. These are built from funds from relatives overseas. This is a country where the major export is its people.

I finally get to the family home of my wife. Her brothers and sisters come out and greet me. They want to make me food and the brothers offer me smokes and beer.

"Where is E…..", I ask.

No one says anything.

Finally, one of my sister-in-laws tells me she will not see me. She has tampo, and no one will tell me where she is.

If I am ever to be in her pink again I will have to pay in many ways.

What the hell. I give one of my brother laws 40 dollars worth of pesos to go get some beer. When they come back with a couple cases of San Miguel we go out back and we get our drunk on. The yard is full of open holes where mosquitoes birth
and thrive and now draw blood from my drunken bod.

It begins to rain. The men are smoking and the plumes surround. I can smell the gas fumes from the road out front.

I see inside the house. The women are watching me. Drunken Kano. Jobless. Adulter. Failure as an artist. Come many miles to reconcile with wifey who is hiding somewhere in this village.

I take a drink from another bottle as friends of my brother in laws join us.

There are smiles all around.

I am now surrounded by smiles. That is, as long as the beer lasts.