Want to be murdered in the Isaan? Travel to Thailand immediately!
“Investigation : Bar girl and the expat : a killing foretold”
A couple of years before our appearance, Dad had left an article on the breakfast table which said article had been given to him. The gist of it was that bar girls are just waiting to get their Thai lovers to bludgeon to death their hapless farang-partners, and the preferred setting for these murders is good, old Isaan. The article which had appeared in a Sunday quality, which my sister (bless her cotton socks) just happened to subscribe to, went even further in its predictions. Most violent farang deaths were just waiting to happen and our folly was remarkable, that any fool marrying an Isaan lady was old, semi-senile, and just presenting his little brain for the cudgel. The article was flounced out with glitter and university-degree English style, and strutted its stuff with statistics from the British Embassy in Bangkok, quotes from supercilious, wary and frightened foreigners in areas like Korat and Buriram, ageist comments on male travellers, sops, dupes, dudes, the normal stuff. The two journalists who had researched and written this worthy script scored tops for condescension and detachment, and no doubt made more money on their article than an Isaan family makes in a week or a month. Their names suggested that good, old Celtic blood and dour weather were coursing their veins and that “Proud Maisie” was still “in the woods, / Walking so early” (which of course she is). Further and foremost these literati in the line of Jimmy and Jock* (I imagine), collaborating significantly, possibly penned the article in London, and attended a party or two while the writing was in progress, at which said party they may have behaved in a way suspiciously similar to the way one or two of the guys I regularly meet in Pattaya a go gos behave. Who knows where the deadly sins pop up? I don’t think London’s clean air and four-to-six-figure monthly salaries have exterminated them all, and journalists (like doctors, judges, solicitors, et al) are not immune to a bit of hanky-panky, not to mention footsy-tootsy. Lusty gropes have yet to study geography and until that day arrives, they appear not to confine themselves to the buffalo-wastes of the Isaan or the exuberant a go go near Soi Diana.That article which revolutionised progressive thought on sex-tourism and the Isaan, which made my sister happy and my father concerned, also had the happy outcome to seal my contentment, too. It gave me a pretext every so often to write to my sister, telling her I have yet to be bludgeoned to death in the Isaan. There are no grizzlies there to devour my remains, only the placid water buffaloes and their feathery egrets.It would appear the grizzlies are all in the United Kingdom and swiping at anything old, in trousers, and desperately expatting. Like all superior people, my sister never stoops to answer. A mere “no comment”, yet again. Proud people don’t always get over their pride except proud Maisie. She certainly got over hers. None the less, “Investigation : Bar girl and the expat : a killing foretold” took its place in Dad’s unhumble abode as a quality-paper prayer to caution all hell-bent-on-destruction expats.
(adapted from “Sexy Thai Bar Girls And Me”)
*two Scottish dudes who provoked the narrator in an earlier chapter