Bar Girl
Authors: David Thompson
Tags: #Asia, #David Thompson, #Bars, #Bar, #Life in Asia, #Thai girl, #Asian girls, #Bar Girl, #Siswan, #Pattaya, #Land of Smiles
Table of Contents
Bar Girl
E-book, 1st edition 2012
Text by
David Thompson
eISBN 978-616-222-133-0
Published by
www.booksmango.com
E-mail:
[email protected]
Text & cover page Copyright©
David Thompson
No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, stored or transmitted in any form without prior written permission from the publisher.
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Chapter 1
Life would change completely for Siswan on her twelfth birthday. She had enjoyed a wonderful day. Her family and friends had all turned up to celebrate and it seemed as though most of the village was in her front garden.
She wore the second hand, but pretty, yellow frock her mother had bought the previous day and her long black hair was tied back into a ponytail. She would have preferred to have worn the sandals with the flower design, but her mother had insisted she wear her black lace shoes with white ankle socks.
‘Your feet will get too dirty, Siswan,’ her mother told her, as she bent to tie the laces.
‘But my feet look too big now, Mama,’ she had argued, but to no avail. Siswan had learned from an early age not to argue for too long. Her mother would only tolerate so much and would end further discussion with a swishing stick. The long, thin canes that grew alongside the broken fence were always within easy reach and the swishing noise they made, as her mother used one across her legs or arms, had earned them their name.
Actually, her feet didn’t look too big at all. At just twelve years old, Siswan was a very well endowed young woman. Over the previous twelve months she had shot up in height and had started developing some of the feminine curves that, within another few years, would give her a body that men would desire and women envy.
Even though she played and worked in the heat of the sun, her skin remained a light coffee colour. Like honey.
She had started her periods just a few months before and, although they were light, she was glad she wasn’t having one on this special day. The uncomfortable pads her mother had shown her how to use would become sticky and smelly after just a few hours.
Despite the fact that she attended the local school, Siswan had learned most things from her mother. The school was ill equipped and, to be truthful, she didn’t go that often. Her mother usually needed her help in the fields or with the housework.
From her mother she had learned how to show respect to the monks who lived in the temple a few kilometres from their village. Every week she and her mother would visit to pray and wish for better luck in the future. The monks would look kindly enough upon her but they refrained from getting too close. A monk was never allowed to touch a female and, even when she once bumped into one accidentally, she had been scolded with the swishing stick when she got home.
It hadn’t really been her fault. She had only been ten at the time. She had run around the corner straight into the yellow robed figure. Her mother had told her to purchase some more incense sticks and, whilst she continued to prostrate herself at the alter, Siswan had raced outside with the energy and eagerness of a young child. The monk had reacted as though her touch was poisonous.
She had learned long ago how to deal with the big black scorpions that sometimes entered the small garden in front of her house, and she feared for a moment that some part of her body would need to be cut off in the same way she removed the scorpion’s sting from its tail. She ran back to her mother with tears streaming down her cheeks. Her mother had marched her home and used a swishing stick until it broke.
‘You cannot touch a monk, Siswan!’ she had shouted.
The cane had left dark red welts on her legs, arms and back that took weeks to fade away and Siswan was left in no doubt that what had happened had been her fault.
Her mother had also taught her to show respect to her father, and she would shrink away in fear if Papa even so much as looked as though he was going to lose his temper. She had seen his foul moods before and, whenever he came home smelling of the local whiskey, she and her brother would hide themselves away in their bedroom until they heard the snores of his sleep. They had both felt the strength of his blows.
On many of those occasions, when she was very young, she would climb into the same bed as her older brother, Bak, and they would lie still, holding one another. The sounds of their father shouting and hitting their mother could be easily heard through the thin walls of their small wooden house.
Sometimes, the sounds of crashing furniture or the cries of their mother, would make her cuddle tighter into her brother’s arms. She never understood why her father behaved the way he did, but she began to associate the smell of the whiskey with the cries of her mother.
Bak was almost three years older and, as he grew, he developed the same traits as his father; a foul temper and a complete lack of respect for his sister and mother.
‘You must remember your place, Siswan,’ her mother told her, after her brother had hit her.
‘But we used to be such good friends, Mama!’ she had replied, through her tears.
Her brother had slapped her across the face when he caught her looking at the comic books he kept beneath his bed. The books were only drawings of people without their clothes on and she didn’t think they were that important. She hadn’t thought the drawings that good either. They were just black and white sketches. Bubbles were drawn near the character’s faces and she had wanted to read what they were saying. Her brother had walked into the bedroom they still shared and hit her.
It wasn’t the slap that made her cry so much as the fact that her brother obviously no longer looked upon his little sister as a friend and playmate.
‘Why do men hurt us, Mama?’ she asked.
‘When they think we have done wrong, Siswan,’ her mother answered.
‘But what do we do that’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘Sometimes we don’t know. But the men are stronger and cleverer, so we must listen. Life is a test, Siswan. It is a harder test for women than it is for men, but we have to learn. We have to be good in this life so that we can go to heaven and not have to come here again.’
As Siswan grew, she learned that all men had to be respected. One of the villagers, who lived a short distance up the road, was a policeman and everyone respected him. He wore a dark brown uniform that was far too small for him because it stuck to his skin and didn’t hide his large belly. He also wore a gun on his belt and would threaten to shoot the young children of the village if they played too noisily when he wanted to sleep. Siswan and her friends stayed away from his house. He was angry all of the time. With or without whiskey.
When the first guests arrived, Siswan ran down the old wooden stairs to greet them. She was an excitable young girl, despite her strict upbringing, and needed very little encouragement to laugh or to smile.
Her auntie had arrived with her three children and they all gave wais to Siswan’s mother upon entering the home.
The house itself was perched on tall wooden posts that afforded it some protection from the monsoon floods and offered a shaded area below where the family would sit to eat or to work.
Her mother had taught her how to tie the bundles of sage that they grew in their small allotment. Each bundle would sell for a pittance, but Siswan and her mother would sit in the shade of the house and tie so many that the family earned enough to survive.
Her father worked in the town but never seemed to have any money of his own. He was always demanding more from her mother and would lose his temper if none were forthcoming.
Siswan sat on the old rattan mats and talked happily with her cousins who all exclaimed how pretty she looked in her new dress. No one mentioned that her black shoes made her feet look big so, in the end, Siswan decided that perhaps her mother had been right after all.
More and more guests filed into the small garden and each of them brought some small offering for the birthday meal. One dish, when it was uncovered, revealed roasted chicken and another, boiled pork. All manner of vegetables were placed in a neat arrangement on the bamboo table and piles of freshly boiled rice were laid out for everyone to enjoy.
Although the village was poor and could never afford extravagant birthday gifts, food was plentiful. If ever anyone in the village was hungry all they had to do was walk a few paces away from the road and they could have their pick of all manner of fruit and vegetables.
Food grew everywhere and a diet of rice could easily be supplemented with insects of every shape and size. Siswan’s brother would spend a long time digging up the root beetles he was so particularly fond of as an in-between-meal snack.
In the early evening, her father, together with some of his friends, came home from work and the women all busied themselves making sure the men-folk had places to sit and enough food to eat.
Siswan spent most of her time sitting and talking with her young cousins as the adults ate and drank. One, in particular, was her best friend and she and Ped would discuss the most intimate of subjects.
‘I started my periods last month,’ Ped exclaimed, with great delight.
‘Mine started ages ago,’ Siswan told her.
‘Yes, but you are older than me,’ Ped pointed out.
‘Only by a month. Anyway your bumps are bigger than mine,’ she laughed, and poked Ped’s developing breasts.
‘Yours are bigger,’ cried Ped, and reached over to grab Siswan.
The two girls playfully pretended to grab each other’s bumps, as they called them, until interrupted by Bak.
‘Neither of you have got boobs. Just little bee stings,’ he said, with disdain. At fifteen years old, Bak was already practising the manner his father and friends showed toward women and, laughing, pushed his sister hard so that she rolled backwards into Ped.
‘Leave us alone,’ Siswan said, as she sat back up.
‘Shut up little girl or I’ll hit you again,’ her brother threatened, as he walked off to join the older men.
‘He’s horrible,’ Ped said, quietly.
‘He never used to be,’ Siswan said.
She regretted the fact that her brother was turning into a man. They used to play so happily together down by the pond at the edge of the village. He would run around trying to catch fish by hand and she would laugh so much her sides hurt as he dove and splashed in the muddy waters.
After drying in the sun, they would wander into the cane fields to look for lizards and scorpions and Bak would be scared when she carefully picked up a scorpion by the tail to show him how easy it was. Things had been different between them when they were children.
Later, when all the guests had eaten their fill, Siswan was called to her father’s side. She was worried that perhaps she was in trouble again and gave him a long and low wai as she approached.
‘You aren’t in trouble, Mia,’ he laughed, as she came to him. She didn’t know why her father insisted on using the nickname ‘Mia’ when he spoke to her, but she was pleased he was in a good mood.
‘Here you are. This is for your first adult birthday,’ he told her, and handed her a small box wrapped in brown paper.
Inside was a silver chain with a small silver image of Buddha swinging loosely from it. She couldn’t believe her eyes as she looked at the small ornament. The image looked up at her with a smile on his face. He looked happy. This was the only birthday present she would receive but it was the best one she had ever known!
Her mother helped her, and showed her how the small clasp worked so that she could attach it around her neck.