Chinese Thai man writing my name in Mandarin on Yaowarat Road in Chinatown, Bangkok.A friend asked me whether I ever felt like going back to the Netherlands.
“You mean, whether I would want to live there again? The answer is no.”
I explained to him that I am no longer a westerner who can live in the West. Nor have I become an Asian, but I do call Asia my home. When I think of home, I first think of Bangkok. Every night, when I am in Bangkok, I stand on my balcony high up in the air, about 5 miles away from the skyscrapers of downtown Bangkok, and look at the skyline. “I have Bangkok at my feet,” I often hear my inner voice tell me.
I live atop of a concrete mountain. And when I think of mountains, I think of the Himalayas, because for seven years I called a tiny room with a tiny balcony atop one of those mountains my home. When I think of home, I think of Varkala Beach. Especially that little palm leave rooftop hut atop the cliff that stood behind the home-annex-shop of my best Tibetan friends; a couple and their children. For months now I feel homesick. But do I feel homesick to the Himalayas, the way I lived my life among the Tibetans; people I hold so close to my heart? Or do I even think of Varkala in the south of India? I am homesick to India and yet I am in high spirits as I am working on a book and whenever I am working on a book, I feel content. My stories are my home. I never think of the Netherlands as home. I wonder why.
“You mean, whether I would want to live there again? The answer is no.”
I explained to him that I am no longer a westerner who can live in the West. Nor have I become an Asian, but I do call Asia my home. When I think of home, I first think of Bangkok. Every night, when I am in Bangkok, I stand on my balcony high up in the air, about 5 miles away from the skyscrapers of downtown Bangkok, and look at the skyline. “I have Bangkok at my feet,” I often hear my inner voice tell me.
I live atop of a concrete mountain. And when I think of mountains, I think of the Himalayas, because for seven years I called a tiny room with a tiny balcony atop one of those mountains my home. When I think of home, I think of Varkala Beach. Especially that little palm leave rooftop hut atop the cliff that stood behind the home-annex-shop of my best Tibetan friends; a couple and their children. For months now I feel homesick. But do I feel homesick to the Himalayas, the way I lived my life among the Tibetans; people I hold so close to my heart? Or do I even think of Varkala in the south of India? I am homesick to India and yet I am in high spirits as I am working on a book and whenever I am working on a book, I feel content. My stories are my home. I never think of the Netherlands as home. I wonder why.
“You want to go out with us tonight?”
“Like, for a beer and maybe a show or something?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, get in the car then.”
While driving to the city centre, I told my friend about my gadget. I have a gadget thing attached to this weblog so I can see how many people are actually interested in reading my stuff. 50 percent of my dear readers are Americans, 49 percent are people from Thailand, probably expats, and 1 percent is made up of people from 39 other countries, including India. Only 1 person from the Netherlands visited this site once and never returned. I think they don’t read English in Holland!
I appreciate the people from Hong Kong, Taiwan and Singapore who keep coming back. Zero people from Mainland China, as everything with my name attached to it gets banned in China.
So later tonight, I was drinking beer with some friends. We visited a club and one friend asked me: “Did the Tibetans get upset when you moved to Thailand and started hanging out with Chinese men and even started writing a book about a Chinese love story?”
“No, Tibetans are okay with everything I do.” I answered. “My western readers were more confused, some upset. They think I need to live in the backyard of the Dalai Lama to be a good Free Tibet activist and they don’t like it when I make out with the Chinese. I inspired many people to become Tibet-activists. And those people don’t understand that I don’t hate Chinese. I can be pro-Free Tibet without being anti-China. I have mentioned that last sentence so many times, it has become my logo.”
I put my beer down and observed the line-up of 15 young men in their underwear and number tags getting off the stage. “I think the show is going to start soon. Do you guys have any questions about Buddhism? Celibacy, abstinence, something?” I turned my face back to the stage that was right in front of me. Five guys started their life-sex-gay-orgy performance.
“You know, I finished writing the first chapter of my new book,” I said, while observing the show. “It is very difficult to write a first chapter. That is why I started with chapter 9. But last night I wrote chapter 1 and I hope it’s good. I need to send it to a few people. That one guy on the left has a nice butt. Jesus fucking Christ hanging on the cross, but if I had a penis right now, I would stick it in that butt big time. What was I saying? O my book. O actually I have something new to tell. In two weeks I am flying to Phuket Island to visit my friend Sanguan who's a surgeon. He is about to return from a spiritual retreat. He’s been a monk these past six weeks and he’s anxious to talk to me about his experiences in the monastery. He likes to talk to me about monastic life. I think because I was a nun and yogi in India and still dress as a yogini during the day. So I am going to spend a week with him in his operating room, the only place where we can really talk for 8 hours straight. He’s quite a busy man and he has a family.”
There was no response from my friends.
“I am going to ask him if he can re-create a penis for me.”
Now everybody was looking at me.
“Like, for a beer and maybe a show or something?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, get in the car then.”
While driving to the city centre, I told my friend about my gadget. I have a gadget thing attached to this weblog so I can see how many people are actually interested in reading my stuff. 50 percent of my dear readers are Americans, 49 percent are people from Thailand, probably expats, and 1 percent is made up of people from 39 other countries, including India. Only 1 person from the Netherlands visited this site once and never returned. I think they don’t read English in Holland!
I appreciate the people from Hong Kong, Taiwan and Singapore who keep coming back. Zero people from Mainland China, as everything with my name attached to it gets banned in China.
So later tonight, I was drinking beer with some friends. We visited a club and one friend asked me: “Did the Tibetans get upset when you moved to Thailand and started hanging out with Chinese men and even started writing a book about a Chinese love story?”
“No, Tibetans are okay with everything I do.” I answered. “My western readers were more confused, some upset. They think I need to live in the backyard of the Dalai Lama to be a good Free Tibet activist and they don’t like it when I make out with the Chinese. I inspired many people to become Tibet-activists. And those people don’t understand that I don’t hate Chinese. I can be pro-Free Tibet without being anti-China. I have mentioned that last sentence so many times, it has become my logo.”
I put my beer down and observed the line-up of 15 young men in their underwear and number tags getting off the stage. “I think the show is going to start soon. Do you guys have any questions about Buddhism? Celibacy, abstinence, something?” I turned my face back to the stage that was right in front of me. Five guys started their life-sex-gay-orgy performance.
“You know, I finished writing the first chapter of my new book,” I said, while observing the show. “It is very difficult to write a first chapter. That is why I started with chapter 9. But last night I wrote chapter 1 and I hope it’s good. I need to send it to a few people. That one guy on the left has a nice butt. Jesus fucking Christ hanging on the cross, but if I had a penis right now, I would stick it in that butt big time. What was I saying? O my book. O actually I have something new to tell. In two weeks I am flying to Phuket Island to visit my friend Sanguan who's a surgeon. He is about to return from a spiritual retreat. He’s been a monk these past six weeks and he’s anxious to talk to me about his experiences in the monastery. He likes to talk to me about monastic life. I think because I was a nun and yogi in India and still dress as a yogini during the day. So I am going to spend a week with him in his operating room, the only place where we can really talk for 8 hours straight. He’s quite a busy man and he has a family.”
There was no response from my friends.
“I am going to ask him if he can re-create a penis for me.”
Now everybody was looking at me.
“Just kidding. As long as I have this pussy, I can have plenty of penises.”
I continued watching the show. “I am not into male whores. After 15 or 20 or so I didn’t enjoy it any more. Do you guys think they are actually going to come on stage this time? I mean, they all seem horny. I cannot believe that some of those guys actually have their penises injected with silicon to make them look thicker. Look at that one on the right. Doesn’t look natural. Bad silicon job really. Poor boys. Can you imagine that when they’re fifty their penises have all rotten away by silicon. How would they explain that to their lovers?”
“They won’t have lovers at that age. They go and live with their mothers and cry at night alone in bed.”
I nodded. “You know, I don’t think I have anything to complain about. How many housewives my age get to drink beer with a bunch of queer people like you guys in a Thai gay-gogo-club and actually see a group of handsome young men having sex with each other right in front of my face for the price of a beer.”
“Can you please shut the fuck up, bitch! They’re about to come,” one friend said to me.
“How do you know?”
“The DJ changed the music to Give It 2 Me, by Madonna.”
“O, so that is the signal that the boys need to come?” I lifted my beer glass. “Cheers.”
“They won’t have lovers at that age. They go and live with their mothers and cry at night alone in bed.”
I nodded. “You know, I don’t think I have anything to complain about. How many housewives my age get to drink beer with a bunch of queer people like you guys in a Thai gay-gogo-club and actually see a group of handsome young men having sex with each other right in front of my face for the price of a beer.”
“Can you please shut the fuck up, bitch! They’re about to come,” one friend said to me.
“How do you know?”
“The DJ changed the music to Give It 2 Me, by Madonna.”
“O, so that is the signal that the boys need to come?” I lifted my beer glass. “Cheers.”
And then the boys came.
Two hours later I am laying on my bed with a cigarette, feeling a little tipsy, and typing this story. Will it spice up the number of returning visitors?
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...well, it might increase Thai tourism!
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