One Night In Bangkok

"I don't seem to have enough eyes."
"This city has more than enough eyes for you tonight," she replied and
smiled her bashful smile that said, "I'm proud of you, being here with
me, bringing me here, Bangkok."
The permanent backdrop of petroleum and paraffin mixed with the tides
of the fried and the boiled. I have never regarded smell as a solid
until now.
"I take that back."
"What?"
"The thing about my eyes."
"How so?"
"All of my senses have been under-developed, my spectrum far too small.
This place has just ripped the lid off my box with a crow bar."
She smiled and something like, "Home is so sterile, but sometimes I
like that. I like loud and I like smelly, sweaty and hot, I like bright
and uncomfortable, but not all the time, not while I'm watching
TV."
She stopped to inspect a wok, piled high with fried insects. I watched
her face delighted by the possibility, repulsed by the thought. I'm not
as adventurous or should I say open minded as her, despite bringing her
here. There are no risks in her world, so she makes me buy us some
chicken from a street vendor using a barbecue set borrowed from Satan's
garden party.
"Everyone else eats it, and it's cheap."
The chilli sauce burns our lips so I kiss her since we have no napkins
to wipe our mouths.

We go to a boxing match, Mauy Thai, kicking and boxing. The smell of
men is intoxicating as she points out and I offer and apology but she
insists she wouldn't have missed this for anything in the world. The
high proportion of westerners in the crowd troubles us for no other
reason than the fact that they have no intention of making conversation
with us. This is their experience. To take away language, to not hear
your own language spat back at you, frustrates your ability to express.
Without expression, love is at risk.

How much do I risk my love in the time we are here?

M.A.Batchelor

March 2001. Rawae, Thailand.