The Baiyoke Sky Tower Hotel, Bangkok. The highest hotel in South-East Asia.
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I had a bit of a situation on Wednesday night. I was supposed to meet my good friend Hao at 8 p.m. somewhere near his home in South-East Bangkok. As he had moved to another home, I didn’t know his exact address. He said he now lived somewhere in a pink coloured 4 story apartment building in a residential area off Sathurpradit Road. The plan was that I would call him at 8 p.m., the moment I arrived somewhere on the main road from which he would collect me. So after a two hour journey from my home outside Pattaya south-east of Bangkok by public transportation, a half hour journey on the sky train and an hour long journey in a taxi to Saturpradit Road, I called him. Some Thai person answered his mobile phone and didn’t speak any English. In my best Thai I tried to asked the guy who he was and what my friend’s mobile phone was doing in his hand. Was my friend near him?
And then he hung up. So I called again. Someone else answered in broken English, explaining to me that my friend had forgotten his phone.
Where was the phone?
Don Mueng.
Don Mueng is in the north of Bangkok, about a two-hour drive. I started to get a little verklempt. How on earth was I going to meet up with my friend? It was 9.30 p.m., an hour and a half after I was supposed to show up somewhere on that long avenue.
So I hoped my friend was smart enough to call his own number, leave some instructions as to where we could meet near his home. I guess I am the only practical person in this part of the world. I called his number again, but there was no answer. I called again, and then I started hearing a beep, indication that my battery was running low. Five minutes later, it went dead.
A few Jesus fucking Christ’s issued from my mouth. I was sweaty, tired, anxious, pissed off, and in need of a toilet-break. No cafés in the area though, it was all residential.
I took a deep breath and decided to go into a side street. I arrived in a typical Bangkokian residential area with a mix of middle-class and working class people. At this time, most people were still out on the street.
It occurred to me that most of them had never seen a white person before, so after wandering through this labyrinth of wooden bungalows and concrete apartment blocks, people started to ask me where I was going.
“I am trying to find my friend who must live in this area.”
The area was about half a square mile. More people became curious.
“My friend is a Chinese. He is 1.83 and good-looking. He’s a college professor. Do you know him?”
Go to Manhatten and ask somewhere on Broadway if they can help you out with such information.
One guy asked me about his address.
“I don’t know. He lives on the top floor of an apartment building with 4 floors. The building is pink. That’s all I know.”
I looked around me. Lots of pink coloured concrete in this area.
“Teacher you said. Does he have a lot of Philipino friends?”
“I think so. Yes, he has a lot of Philipino colleagues. Do you know my friend?”
“No. But there are a lot of Philipino teachers in this area as there is a large college further down the avenue.”
A policeman showed up. “What are you looking for?”
“My friend’s house. It’s pink. He’s a Chinese man, 25 years old, 1.83, he wears a school uniform and he has many Philipino friends.”
“Madam, there are a lot of Chinese in this area.”
“I know. I can see.”
The policeman took me to a shop, run by an Indian who had a Philipino friend. By now, a group of about 20 children and a grandmother, and a curious woman my age followed me in my wake. The Indian wasn’t able to help, but the old lady suddenly said: “Does your friend have a bruised face?”
“Yes, he was in a major accident and he is recovering from facial injuries.”
“I know him. He always walks through my alley in his school uniform. I don’t know where he lives, but I can take you to my street.”
So I followed her to her street where the lady asked around. There was a girl who knew Chen Hao. “He lives in a pink building, right?” ”Yes, I saw a picture of his building on Facebook.”
“The girl took me to a pink building a few hundred metres deeper into the labyrinth, followed by the policeman, the Indian, twenty, children, a boy in a wheelchair, a woman my age, and a grandmother. I passed some small factories, a rubbish dump, some shops, some new middle-class buildings, two wooden bungalows that were burned down to the ground not so long ago, more little grocery shops, some food stalls, more people, and finally there was a orange building and a pink and white building. The pink and white building I recognized from the picture. “Yes, this must be it.”
However, the building’s main door was locked. So I yelled, “CHEN HAO,” and hoped he was at home and able to hear me. No answer. A lady with a key suddenly showed up. She opened the door and took me to the top floor. There were five doors. All doors were closed. Nobody was at home. One apartment had the lights on, but there were six pairs of female shoes in front of the door. One door had a Chinese good luck sign on it. The lights were off. This must be Chen Hao’s home. I could almost smell him. However, he wasn’t at home.
The lady with the key, guided me downstairs, as by now I was really tired and upset and I had made an alternative plan. I would take a taxi, leave, and go home.
However, a little voice inside me said: You really want to see Chen Hao, and he is somehow looking for you on the big avenue. I decided to stay put and sit in front of the door until he returned home after an unsuccessful search.
Thirty minutes later, a Philipino man showed up whom I recognized as one of Chen Hao’s colleagues. He recognized me to. He lived on the top floor of the pink and white building and offered me to wait for Hao in his room.
I used the toilet, drank half a bottle of water as the outside temperature and pollution had gotten to me, and sat down on a mat. I sighed.
“I don’t know where Hao is, but he normally goes to an internet café down the street every evening. He normally returns at around 11.”
“We were supposed to meet at 8, so I think he’s not in an internet cafe.”
His phone rang. “It’s for you. It’s Chen Hao.”
“Hi, Hao, it’s Pantau. Where are you? Don Mueng? Yeah I know. You forgot your phone. What the hell were you doing in Don Meung? Okay. Well, see you in an hour then.”
An hour and a half later, we had dinner. We were both upset with each other. I was upset, because this whole situation didn’t make me happy, and he was upset that I took the situation so seriously.
After dinner, I realised that my friend lived a life-style comparable to mine in India. He didn’t have a bed, but a bamboo mat on the floor in a room as large as my bathroom. He did have running water in the back and something that looked like a shower and a toilet.
After a refreshing shower, a one-hour talk and a big hug we fell asleep at 1 a.m. He was supposed to get up at 6, as classes started at 8.
The next day, after a few appointments, I was able to find his home by myself. We spent the entire evening talking, even in the internet café that we visited to check our emails. I couldn’t sleep on the bamboo mat last night. I guess I was no longer used to Indian living conditions.
I returned to my home near Pattaya an hour ago. I had taken some pictures of Hao and I and some pictures and video of the Bangkok Sky train. However, I wanted to delete one bad picture, but accidentally pressed the button: DELETE ALL. So all my photos and videos are gone. I guess I was a little too tired to operate my camera well.
Hao
I am a woman with many faces, perhaps because my birth sign is Gemini. Between sunrise and sunset, I dress as a nun or yogini, and at night I can be quite the opposite of what a nun is supposed to be. Yet I always hold on to my 168 Buddhist vows that I took years ago in the Tsuglakhang or Dailai Lama Temple, no matter what I do.
My most recent attempt at painting bamboo.
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