(Picture 1 - Despite appearances and living in poverty-stricken Issan province, baby John is actually a New Yorker (on his father's side) and quite rich. Richer than me. I didn't drop him on purpose. Honest)
Seated here as I am in the al fresco kitchen of my sweet heart's parent's rustic abode, whilst said darling conjures some new inexplicable and unidentifiable Thai concoction with which to enflame, invigorate and assault my taste buds, it is easy to forget where I was six months ago. Or even six days ago, for that matter.
Actually, I can remember the latter very well; duck-walking into a wiener pig pen, knee-deep in porcine effluent and quickly finding myself surrounded by an inquisitive - not to mention hungry - horde of pink bacon bags. It wasn't supposed to work out this way...
(Picture 2 - Ma Khamphan, Meaw's mum. She can't read or write, she chews narcotic leaves she gets from the hill tribes, all day, and she's just one super lady. She also kept trying to force-feed me)
...but that, as they - whoever they are - say, is another story. One that I may find myself writing if my time here permits, or I get bored once I return from Issan, the Land that the Internet forgot.
For now, though, I can tell you about the home of the girl who, by all accounts, is the love of my admittedly short life, warts and all. Proverbially speaking, of course. Pretty girls don't have warts. They have stretch marks and calloused hands from working the rice fields and farang muscle knots. But I digress.
(Picture 3 - Pa Khamphan and the other little man in Meaw's life, Jakri. Or Lampheung. I'm not actually sure. I think it's both. Also, I got the distinct impression that neither of them liked me very much. Actually, Jakri told me as much. After eating all my chocolate. And breaking my camera.)
I arrived in Chiang Mai for the second time in as many months with a smile on my face, or at least the best approximation I could muster upon my exhausted face. My wallet was considerably lighter than when I left England, or indeed Thailand the first time. Alas, no bank account survives first contact with the enemy, I mean, a new girlfriend. That would be what they say, again. Clever chaps.
Don't mistake my tone for discontent or resentment at my financial situation, least of all to be directed at Meaw, for I surely do love her and - for some inexplicable reason beyond the realm of sense or reason - she loves me too, despite my relative poverty. I truly am crazy about her.
Having said that, her devotion to providing for her son and parents can sometimes border on zealotry. Indeed, there are times when my cynical nature and low self-esteem force me to ask the inevitable question that all homely fellows must ask: " What does this gorgeous woman really see in me?"
(Picture 5 - Bringing in the rice harvest. Yeah, I'm wearing a straw hat. Big whoop, wanna fight about it?!)
Despite this, though, she knows full well that I am not a rich man and yet still here I am, spending the week in the home of her beloved parents, making her breathlessly happy each night and hearing her cook my dinner with a smile on my face, with a smile on her face. Where is a daisy when you need one?
Anyway, I digress on the darker thoughts of mine that have little bearing on my experiences thus far in what I am only vaguely sure is in the South East of Thailand. Frankly, I would not be able to find myself on a map at this point. It's an hour or so from the Cambodian border but beyond that my ignorance is plump, juicy and fresh as a winter piglet. Not that it truly matters. I like it here. I could live here. Perhaps I will, one day.
(Picture 6 - The post harvest piss up. Thai style. It's tradition. Also, I paid for the booze, so there as much merriment and comraderie! Huzzah!)
It also occurs to me, as I see Meaw's mother and aunt staring quizically at me, from across the courtyard, as so many people here are want to dp with almost unashamed constancy, that I am a stranger in a strange land, the original Martian, the ubiquitous farang.
(Picture 7 - Guys, I swear it's not lipstick. I just got real purdy lips!)
(Picture 8 - It's ok to wear a silk scarf, if you're a hard-drinking, denim clad brusier like Tot. Apparently.)(Picture 9 - My, this glass is small! Thankfully, Rhung (in green with the righteous hair) the one-time Buddhist monk was on hand to keep it topped.
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