The Stories They Want To Believe

They believed what they wanted to believe. It was always thus. You'll be bashed if you ask the wrong person where a gay bar is, the waiter warned, offering himself up at the same time.

The next day a moto cie driver pointed to a nearby soi when he asked the same question in a neighbouring town, then offered himself up for 500 baht. 

Five hundred baht and my wallet, he thought, declining the offer.

The UK and Australian embassies had joined with the Thai government in warning against tourist scams scarring the reputation of the holiday resorts.

Although there was little visual correlation, the scenes on Phuket and Ko Samui, where he had gone after becoming tired of Bangkok and the endless grimy pursuit of his pursuers, the howling of the mob, the derision of the common man, demonstrating, if nothing else, how utterly corrupt, vindictive, dishonest and unprincipled were those who sought to ridicule him.

Without conscience, without taste, without scruple, sometimes he could think of no way out but retreat.

But retreat to where?

What doesn't kill us makes us stronger, went the old saying, and thus it had proved to be. 

They had proved they could manipulate public opinion, as if that was a difficult achievement. They had proved that truth mattered not one jot to them. They had proved they were prepared to ridicule and malign anyone who got in their way. Anyone who objected to being robbed, cheated, maligned. Their lies were endless, these scumbags. Let them lie, he had always thought, they only expose themselves. But there were times when he wondered how far they would take it.

Will they kill him? one of the voices asked.

If they can, another answered.

The exposure for all to see of the corrupt liaisons between the bar owners and the police had been exposed for all to see; or those who cared to look.

But that didn't mean he had won any fans, or protection. All that did was leave him well out on a limb; with only the occasional friend to provide a bridge to safety.

Same as it ever was, same as it ever was, water flowing underground, he repeated to his friend Ross, quoting the words from Talking Heads. Remember that song? he asked.

Yes, Ross replied. It's the same all over the world. People don't like gays. You're in a minority. There just aren't many services for people like you. Why can't you just get off with a girl, like everybody else?

I don't know, he shrugged.

It was Christmas Day, 2012. He had lived more than 40 years longer than he had ever expected to do. And if the longevity gene in his family had been passed to him, would live a damn sight longer yet.

He watched the girls dancing on the bar come stage; scene after scene. They outnumbered customers a dozen to one.

The tourists hadn't come this year; despite all the industry's optimistic forecasts. 

While the Red Shirts had bashed a hole in the tourist industry in 2010 there were other factors at play, poor economies in Europe and America, Thailand's increasingly tatty reputation for tourist scams and an AIDS infested sex industry. Six hundred thousand Thais had already died. Another 400,000 were infected, according to the latest official statistics. If they had died of anything else, if it was anybody other than sex workers, largely derived from the urban and rural poor, who were dying, there would have been a national outcry and massive government programs in place. As it was, the latest statistics were just another news story in the blizzard of information that had become everybody's life.

One brief moment, one brief glance in a crowded bar, had changed not just his life but a number of others.

And here amidst the lost, bruised for sure, it was obvious they had done more damage to themselves than they could ever do to him. A single individual, an agent of change, had only so much power. But tendrils reached everywhere. They had no idea who or what they were dealing with. False trails lay everywhere. Yes, he had been damaged, but so had they. 

Leave him alone, the official pleaded, leave him alone to get his life back together. 

Chalaht mak, very clever, no good for Thailand, Mon Thai, the voices said, the derision wavering into puzzlement.

You do it to everyone, rob, cheat, steal, lie, this is what you call, in your conscience free zone, tahm nahm, work. 

Open yourself up to the world; and the world judges you according to its own values. Not yours. A double cross is a double cross. The honor amongst thieves that operates in the West does not operate in Thailand for one simple reason. You are a falang, or farang, the pronunciation varying across the country. You will never be Thai. You will never fit in. They don't want you to fit in. They laugh at their own treachery, don't believe a word they say. And laugh at the suckers who fall their lies. 

It was what it was, he shrugged, and kept on walking.