October 2: Killers, Geckos and Dirty Linen

October
Wat Pah Chatanan


“Somebody told me that you had a boyfriend who looked a girlfriend that I had in February of last year.”

Or was it the other way round? discuss/

I’m loving this place but I miss home. Listening to familiar music helps to connect me. It Killers first album at the moment.

“Destiny is calling me. Open up my eager eyes.”

I went on my first Pindabah alms round with the monks the other day.

"The Buddha lived in the forest on nothing other than what he was offered," Antony explained to me, as we were leaving the monastery that morning. "He wore a robe to indicate to others that he had chosen a separate way of life and our custom of going on Pindabah every morning has grown from that. If it wasn't for the local people, none of the monasteries could sustain themselves."

At first, listening to my brother explain how things worked here, my reaction was cynical. Yeh, great Antony, I thought. You live here, pay nothing, earn nothing and what's more, you seem to do nothing in return. Nice one. Then I remembered what Amaro had said to me about everyone just wanting to be good and thought about Mae Li and the other laypeople I'd met. They were kind, loving people and this is what made their world tick.

Pindabah opened up my mind to all this stuff a bit more but, before we set off, it didn’t stop me cursing Antony at four-fifteen that morning when my alarm went off. This’d better be worth it, brother, I cursed.

My humour was sweetened when I caught sight of the little green gecko that had been in my room since I arrived. At first it scared me. Another creepy-crawlie that I didn’t know was friend or foe. I wasn't used to sharing my bedroom with small, lizardy reptile things. However, after a few days and learning that Gecko was completely harmless and emitted an endearing soft croak every now and then just to let me know he was still there, I got used to him and now he's become my room mate. He clings to the facing wall like a plastic toy with suction pads which stays stuck wherever you put it. I still giggle when Gecko decides to go for a vertical run up the wall, his small, delicate splayed feet sucking him in place. Off he shoots impatiently as if someone has flicked his tail and he can't wait to get away. He’s become my pet.

They don’t have cats in Thailand after all. Lots of stray dogs and geckos but no cats.

It was dark as I made my way timidly in the early hours through the forest paths to the Main Sala where I was due to meet Antony and some of the other monks. There were two alms rounds that left the monastery every morning, each to one of the nearby villages. We were to go on the longer one and were therefore setting off earlier. Antony was already in the Sala.

"Morning," he beamed in a whisper. "I wasn't sure if you'd make it."

"Charming,” I retorted, playfully. “ I seem to remember that this hour was nearer your bedtime than breakfast not so long ago."

It was true. The Antony I knew would rather have gone without sleep all night than get up at this at early hour. He was crap at getting up. You had to throw his coffee over him before he'd even move.

"I've changed," he said, smiling and without an ounce of defensiveness.

We were joined by four other monks. As far as I could make out in the dim light they were all westerners. They were all busy adjusting their robes and their bowls which they put in a sling carried over one shoulder. Some of the monks wore sandals, others, including Antony, had bare feet. None of them bothered to say “Hello” or offered a greeting so for the first ten minutes I just thought they were miserable buggers.

Eventually, after watching them get their robes ready in silence, Antony introduced one of them to me. He must have been in his late sixties and when he turned directly to me, I realised he wasn’t miserable at all and had a very warm, smiley face. He had soft grey stubble that was just beginning to creep through his hairline and he spoke softly with a deep, syrupy voice and an American accent. It turned out that he was the Abbot of Wat Pah Chatanan, the Boss Man.

"So you are Thanavaro's sister," he said and as he did so, his eyes, as well as his face, smiled. Does everyone smile here? "We are pleased you are here. How are you finding it?"

"A little strange," I responded with understatement, nervously.

"Only a little?" he asked, wryly cocking one invisible eyebrow. The other monks laughed and I realised he was joking. "I hope you are happy here and please, treat it as home. You are family now."

I could only smile back and nod my gratitude, intimidated by his status.

As we set off, the sun was just beginning to dawn, creating a golden glow through the trees. I followed the monks along the dust track leading to the village. Dawn happens quickly in Thailand. One moment it is dark, the next the sun has risen and before you is a spectacular, golden-edged, new day. The monks walked silently in single file, their golden robes echoing the amazing radiant tones which were beginning to reveal themselves in the daylight. Dark gold, sandy gold, shiny gold, soft gold. Ahead of us were lush, green trees which formed a bank of colour against the dry rice fields and masked the wooden structures which peeked out from the green and made up the village ahead. A stray dog began to follow us lazily as we made our way along the road and just as I was beginning to think that things really couldn't get any more beautiful, a rainbow emerged in the blue haze above us. We walked and gazed wordlessly and took in the last few moments of the dawn before entering the village.

One of the monks ahead of me turned. It was Amaro. I hadn't noticed him at the Sala and was surprised he hadn't greeted me before but I was learning not to take offence at something that may seem rude at home but, when you thought about it, wasn't really such a big deal.

He smiled at me, his boyish face happy in the sunshine.

"You see," he said, holding out an open hand as if offering me the day. "We've even arranged a rainbow for your first Pindabah." And he quietly turned back to focus on his walking.

Approaching the village, I saw that the street was lined with kneeling men, women and children at intervals along the side of the road. They each held something in front of them. As the monks approached, one by one, the person kneeling placed offerings in each monk’s bowl and then gave a wai, the traditional bowing that I’d learned to emulate. It was all so graceful, honest and humbling. I also gave a wai as I passed them and the response I got ranged from a gleeful grin to a bashful smile.

The whole ritual was carried out in silence. The people offered and the monks accepted. No thank you was uttered, no thank you was needed.

The village, a ramshackle cluster of wooden huts and corrugated iron thrown together, had clearly been awake for hours. We passed one lady dressed in a thin, scruffy blue sarong and a once-white blouse, who, with her children helping, was busy stripping and preparing bundles of pink spring onions that were laid out on the ground beside us. They were preparing their day’s produce for selling. Further down the street, a man was having his hair cut in a barber’s shop which consisted of a mirror and a chair placed in the street.

The higgledy-piggledy streets were so narrow they seemed to carve a path through the villagers' living rooms and every corner we turned children stared at me. A young tiny boy, who couldn’t have been more than two years old, was being held by his older, caring sister. Two brothers stopped mid-breakfast about to dip their donut-like biscuits into a bowl of hot soup, staring as I went past, mute and in awe. And they continued to stare like unmoving statues when I turned to look at them. It was only when I responded with an awkward, westernised wai that they broke their silence and burst into fits of giggles, feeling free to break their pose, as if the music had started again in their private game of musical statues.

"Hello, Miss," said another boy bravely as I passed him squatting with his friends under the floor boards at the side of a wooden house. He was subsequently chased and playfully swiped at by his friends when he received a "Hello" back from me.

Everywhere too, were scrawny baby chickens, running about between the legs of the children or scampering ahead of us and disappearing in a cloud of squawks and dust. I approached one lady who was kneeling, offering some rice from a bamboo steamer to the monks. She was unsmiling and her sun-drained face carried the mask of hard work and a hard life. My interpretation of her expression and demeanour was loathing. She hated me. Who do you think you are, you jumped up, pathetic, white western girl, coming here and invading my home like it is some kind of theme park? I was sure she thought I was trash. Then, as I passed, her face broke into the widest, loveliest, heart-felt smile I have ever seen in my life and she chuckled, unself-consciously as she offered me an orange. I hadn't expected to be offered anything and this woman's pleasure at giving something to me, moved me in a way I find hard to describe. She had nothing except a wooden hut built on stilts and a few bundles of leaves to sell to earn a living, yet she wanted to give an orange to me, the rich westerner, who could afford to buy more oranges than she'd ever see in her whole lifetime.

On the way back to the monastery, Antony waited for me and walked beside me.

"You know you can come again tomorrow," he said, upbeat and happy, the sun shining on the side of his smiling face.

I smiled with him, sharing a very a unique moment, both knowing that the four-fifteen wake-up call had been worth it.

"I’m not sure,” I replied, trying to put into words what it was that I was feeling that morning. “I want to keep this special, Antony,” "I don't want this to be routine. I can't ever repeat today and I don't ever want this to feel normal."

"Benedict, " he said, gravely, and I noticed him stop himself from reaching out and taking my hand. "I've been coming on Pindabah everyday for over four years and there are moments when it still moves me to tears."

I wanted to ask him about the town visits to get an idea what he did there. Seeing him the other morning had felt a bit eerie and I felt like teasing him about visiting a brothel or something and for not telling me the real reason why he’d come to Thailand. He couldn’t fool me. All this monk stuff. It was a scam, really wasn’t it? He’d just come here for the sex shows and to see the tricks with the ping-pong balls. I didn’t get to ask him, though. The moment was lost as Amaro joined us and wanted to know what I’d thought of my first alms round.

There was so much I could have said to him about how it had affected me, about how humble it had made me feel, about how insignificant my western life had begun to feel but, like Tikaro the other day, the only words I could find to described what was going on for me were,

“I don’t really know.”

I didn’t want to trivialise what I felt by using inadequate words.

When we arrived back at Chatanan, the place was heaving. Battered cars and pick-up trucks filled the driveway and what seemed like hundreds of men and women were busy in the kitchen or fetching and carrying buckets, boxes and flowers from the cars. There were extra orange robes around too and more Thai monks than usual. Scores of children were running around and the normally whispering atmosphere of Chatanan had been transformed into a loud, bustling, lively village.

"It's Kathina this weekend," explained Antony, as two young monks, who could only have been about ten or eleven, dashed past us, playing tag. "Every year we have a robe ceremony where new, hand-made cloth is offered to the monks for their robes. Each Wat does it on a different day and will have visitors from the other Wats. It's traditional and as you can see, it's party time."

It was indeed. More cars, crammed with laypeople, were arriving by the minute and the kitchen was buzzing. Tables were being laid along the path leading to the main Sala and a fire was being prepared beside the kitchen in the open air.

"That'll be for the tea which they make from wood bark. There'll be a pot on the boil all day. You'll have to try some," offered Antony, earnestly.

I wasn’t so sure.

"I'm going to be chanting at the ceremony tonight," he said. "Would you like to come?"

"Sounds like the best gig in town," I teased and Antony explained that he had to get ready for the meal and needed to leave.

"I need to practice my chanting today, so do you mind if we make our tea visit short today?"

"That'll be fine, honest," I reassured him, biting my initial reaction to complain about not seeing him enough.

He smiled that damned Buddhist smile and I was certain that there was something else he wanted to say but he couldn’t quite find the words so we stayed silent, surrounded by the organised mayhem that was Kathina.

"You'll have to start thinking about going to the River Kwai soon," he said.

“I beg your pardon?” I replied, frostily.

“The River Kwai. You’ll have to start thinking of going.”

“What do you mean I’ll have to start thinking about it? We’ll have to, Antony,” I reminded him, quickly. “We’ll have to start thinking about it,” and I noticed him hesitate slightly. “You’re coming with me, Antony,” I insisted.

He nodded, sheepishly, but didn’t answer and I thought of Uncle Erno, sat in his box, waiting unnoticed in the corner of my kuti.

"But not for a while, eh?” I added, trying to lighten things. “We can make the arrangements later. I'm enjoying spending time here with you."

And I was. Yes, it was weird. Yes, they were odd but I knew I'd never get a chance to experience this again, and anyway, it beat shivering my bones off in an English winter or drinking the night away yet again on a Saturday night down at the King’s Arms.

Antony smiled warmly in the way only a brother can and I again experienced the pang of missing out on a hug. He left and I headed for the kitchen to see if I could help. As I entered, the now familiar warm smell of chilli and coriander swept over from the cooking area where a melee of people were stirring enormous pans of curry and steaming bucket-loads of rice. On the floor before me there must have been fifty women crouched over bowl upon bowl and tray upon tray of different foods. The colours and the aromas were intoxicating. Heaps of shiny red apples, mountains of rice sweets wrapped in bright green, banana leaves, piles of ripe, yellow bananas, pink melon, luminous pineapple, crispy cakes, pastries, white bread sandwiches, peanut cookies, sesame toffee, cartons of milk, boiled eggs and enormous clumps of sticky rice which were being collected and taken away to be re-steamed. It was overwhelming.

Christopher came whizzing past in his usual, dizzy manner.

"Hello, Miss. You like here? You eat good food today? Good Thai food?"

I beamed back and nodded.

I like Christopher, even if I only ever get a fleeting glimpse of him before he dashes off to what always seems to be another important, urgent job.

He grinned at me, bowed and dashed off.

No one let me do anything. I kept getting ushered to the nearby table and chair every time I made an attempt to help. I was a guest, and they wanted to show me how well the Isaan treated its guests. The white-haired lady who had chatted to me on my first morning here, came up to me, still chatting away as usual. I wished I knew her name but we hadn’t got that far. She had such a mischievous, cheeky face, like a cheeky kid really, wrapped up in an old woman’s wrinkles and grey hair. I was convinced she was telling me some joke or saying something rude that the others wouldn’t appreciate. I wish I could understand her! I laughed with her, teased her back as she tugged at my western clothes and she waved over here, over there, pointed at me and hugged my arm before shuffling off to assist with the washing up.

The thing that strikes me most about watching all these rituals unfold is how simple they are. The locals give food, the monks eat, the locals then eat and they have a bit of a chant to mark it. Similarly the setting is very simple too. It’s a few huts thrown together amongst a few trees. The dawn breaks, the sun shines, the sun sets, the monastery goes back to sleep. And all the people in the monastery seemed to concentrate on, is being a good person.

It isn’t what I’m used to. A religion that seems to work.

I’ve already learned loads. I’ve learned that the daily morning ritual of sweeping the labyrinth of footpaths was not only to make the place look tidy but helps to spot snakes and scorpions before you step on them. So, the people sweep.

I’ve learned that fetching and carrying the water from the deep well located in the forest is a luxury few Thais have in this area. So, they fetch.

I’ve learned that the insects I so detested on my first night and which instilled such fear in me, have become my companions on lonely nights and that the scream of the forest as dusk descends is only the insects' nightly call to remind you that all is well in the world and that life is ticking over as usual. The forest looks after you and befriends you, asking for nothing more in return, than to be respected.

The first night I heard the insects' scream I thought it was a car alarm going off. It was that loud. I couldn't believe a few insects hiding in the trees could create such a din. On the edge of the forest you can hear the scream as you approach. It’s like a mad, whirling frenzy of crazed witches and after only a few days, you're so used to it that you have to concentrate to even hear it.

The other big thing I’ve learned is that I could go for this long without lager. I haven’t had anything to drink since I’ve arrived in Thailand and funny thing is, I haven’t even missed it. I don’t think Antony would appreciate it if I asked him to join me for a pint in downtown Ubon one night. Somehow, I don’t think it’s his thing anymore. He told me that alcohol isn’t even allowed in the monastery but I’d really fancy a drink, one night at least. I’ve had the occasional cigarette, usually on my own, sat in my kuti in the dark with the red glow of the cigarette end keeping me company, watching the pale grey smoke drifting up and out of the window towards the bright, clear moon, slowly, disappearing into nothing.

On the way back after the meal, a group of children were playing amongst the parked cars. There were about twenty of them playing on an open-aired truck that doubled up as a people-carrier. They were clambering on top and swinging from the frame which held the luggage on the roof. As soon as I was spotted, they fell silent and watched me. A small girl giggled but all of them stood still in their tracks or sat motionless. Self-consciously, I nodded towards them and said,

"Hello."

No answer, just tiny elbows dug into a neighbour's tiny ribs and more tiny giggles. One boy was clinging, horizontally, from the frame up on the roof at the back of truck. He was balancing by pushing his canvas-shoed feet against the back strip of iron and his outstretched arms against the frame at the sides. The poor kid's strength was giving out but still, he dare not move. You could see him straining not to fall, his young face distorted by the effort. Silence and stares prevailed as I walked on by and the boy's pre-pubescent muscles finally gave out. He yelped as his body dropped vertically onto the children below who laughed at their young playmate who tumbled and disappeared behind them.

When the laughter subsided, they all turned to me, and silence fell again.

I was also concerned that the poor kid had hurt himself. Then his tiny grinning face bobbed up from behind the shoulders of the other children.

"HELLO MISS!!" he yelled at me and they all collapsed into hysterics, their silence finally replaced by the relieving sound of children's high-pitched, playful chatter. The kid who had fallen was still shouting at me as I walked away through the trees.

"HELLO MISS! I LOVE YOU!!"

I love you too.


Later the same night

At eight o'clock this evening, I watched the robe-presentation. The room was full with monks sat in the centre and easily over a hundred Thais around the outside. I hadn't realised that Antony wasn’t just chanting, he was presenting the robe and was the focus of all the attention. Listening to him chant, I could see why he must have been nervous. He was chanting in ancient Pali with another monk, just the two of them in perfect duet. Most of the crowd listening probably knew the chant backwards and, knowing Antony, he would have been bricking it beforehand, not wanting to let anyone down by getting it wrong.

God, it's weird watching him do all this sort of thing. My brother, the monk.

I arrived a little late to the ceremony so the other people who were watching ushered me forward so I could get a better view. They must have known that it was my brother who was doing the chanting. The Sala was lit by candles and incense was burning. I could also smell the flowers that the women had been preparing that morning and were now placed in tall golden vases around the room. Some were placed at the foot of the Buddha statue. The Abbot was next to Buddha.

Antony was in the centre of the group of monks and he half-smiled at me, sheepishly, when he noticed I’d arrived. His chanting was wonderful, an hypnotic nasal two-tone song, performed calmly with love and grace and sounding like a far-away call from a beckoning, un-visited place. He still looks so strange in his robes, shaven head and bare feet. Haven’t got used to it yet. Not sure I ever will. And he looks so thin. Fair do’s, he's bound to lose weight out here but still, he does look scrawny.

*****


October
Guest Villa, Wat Pah Chatanan,

Since last writing I’ve moved house. Instead of my little, one roomed kuti, I now have the run of the very palatial, very ex-pat. guest villa. Two stories high, about a five-minute walk from the main part of Chatanan, it has, wait for it, two bedrooms, each with their own bathroom, a shower in each bathroom with hot water and a sit down loo - not one of those holes in the floor I've had to get used to lately - a kitchen with a fridge-freezer, a normal sink - not just a hole in the floor again - and a stove, albeit more of a Bunsen-burner than a top-of-the-range Aga.

Downstairs consists of one large room with a tiled floor and, as ever, it is open to the air apart from mosquito screens which act as serene, transparent walls. You can hear, see and smell the forest from in here and you can feel the breeze as it gently whistles through the wire mesh. It is as if you are sitting in the forest. Upstairs has polished wooden floors and a shrine at the far end of the landing which looks out over the forest through the screens.

I’m in a palace.

The villa itself is about the size of large, family house and it felt way too grand for me as I approached it for the first time through the forest, its white structure looming up through the green of the trees. Antony and Amaro were with me helping to carry my bags from my kuti. The house sat on an immaculately kept, green lawn which was bordered by an array of colourful plants and there was even an attendant caretaker to look after me.

“He lives with his wife down there,” said Antony pointing to a tiny, scruffy hut at the end of the garden path that led outside the gate.

I was shocked. Their whole house was the size of my old kuti and was propped up on wooden sticks, had a grass roof and consisted of two rooms separated by a sheet. There were no walls, no mosquito screens, no bathroom, no fridge-freezer, no cooker and they shared their verandah not with a statue of Buddha but with a water buffalo, a few chickens, thousands of mosquitoes and probably the odd scorpion or snake.

What a contrast to my new home.

I missed my kuti at first, the new place was so big and to begin with I thought I wouldn’t like it but it took all of thirty minutes for me to get used to this new level of luxury. I brought Gecko with me in a match box and he settled in nicely in the upstairs en-suite bathroom. I chose the bedroom on the left. Might try the one on the right another night.

After the boys had left and as I was sorting out my stuff, I heard someone call gently from the garden in Thai. I looked down through the shutters which protected the bedrooms from the harsh sunlight and saw a Thai woman shuffling down the path. She was still calling out and, from above, I saw her familiar, flower-print sarong, Wellington boots and old straw hat. It was Mae Li. Yeh! And it turned out that she was the caretaker's wife and would be my neighbour during my stay here.

"Sawat di kha," she bowed, grinning away at me as I met her downstairs in the living room. "My house,” she said in English, pointing proudly to her hut at the bottom of the path.

I greeted her with a beaming smile as she let herself in and she followed me upstairs to help me unpack, peering quizzically at my clothes and belongings as she did. She showed me round the house but when I offered her a cup of tea to say thank you, she wouldn’t accept, screwing her face up into a wrinkly frown and waving a stern index finger at me. No, she didn’t take tea, thank you. She kept hugging my arm like the white-haired old lady from the monastery kitchen and it felt lovely to have a friendly, tactile person to spend my time with.

When my brother arrived again later, with Tikaro, I was taken aback when Mae Li immediately knelt down on the floor and offered a wai to each of them. She changed from the grinning, huggy woman I knew to one who was incredibly formal and deferential. Clearly the presence of the monks took priority over everything else. She stayed kneeling, saying nothing while they each arranged their robes in silence and sat down at the coffee table in the middle of the room. It was only once they were settled that she shuffled backwards on her knees towards the door, bowing as she went and saying something quietly in Thai.

"She says she is very happy that you are staying here," Tikaro translated, loosely.

Me? I love her to bits, but you can forget that bowing crap.

*****

Guest Villa
Wat Pah Chatanan


Mae Li helped me with my washing this morning. I gathered my stuff together, dirty clothes, the washing powder I’d bought in Ubon, a bowl I’d taken from the kitchen and took it all outside to the tap on the lawn. It was fiercely hot already so I wore my Yankee baseball cap and had covered my arms and legs with sun cream. It seemed OK to wear a T-shirt and shorts round at the guest house, there was no one around to offend and I think Mae Li enjoyed having this snow white westerner around.

“You Farang,” she’d told me the other day, stroking my white arms and then, with trademark grin, placed her own alongside to show how pale my skin was next to hers.

“Farang,” she repeated.

“Farang,” I nodded back.

Mae Li giggled infectiously when I tried to speak Thai, her gappy mouth making her look like a small child who’d just begun to lose her milk teeth. Then, with no warning, she whacked me on the bum with her hand and laughed.

“Big Farang!” she grinned madly, her eyes bulging for a moment. “Big Farang!”

She might as well have called me a big, fat, white, lump of lard.

As I filled my washing bowl from the tap and felt the cool water splash against my big, fat, white legs, I glanced up at the harsh sun and I figured I’d sooner be tipping this bowl of water over my head, never mind over my washing. Mae Li shuffled over in her wellies and showed me where she kept her bar of soap.

"This good," she told me, pointing at the half-used bar and taking away the box of powder I had brought, shaking her head as she did. She brought an extra tin bowl, filled it and mine with water and began scrubbing at some of my clothes, every inch hand-cleaned until it gleamed in the bright sunshine. Then each garment was plunged into the second bowl to be rinsed, while the first bowl was emptied and filled again with clear, crisp clean water and my clothes were then taken and plunged into that bowl, rinsing away the suds, eliminating the dirt. Then she started the whole process again, giving everything a second wash.

It was a bonding experience for me and Mae Li. The steady routine and rhythm of washing and rinsing, the splash of the fresh, clean water on my bare feet and the silence within which she and I worked together was almost meditative. I watched how she washed and followed the process, the sun beating down through the trees and the fresh, green grass tickling my toes. My big, fat, white, Farang toes.

Working our way through my load, we came across my dirty knickers, next in line for a wash and scrub. As much as I loved Mae Li, I couldn't possibly let anyone other than myself wash my dirty knickers and I picked them out of the heap and began washing. Mae Li began to chatter at me in Thai, shaking her head as she did and then in her broken English said,

"No good, see?"

And she took my dirty knickers from me, added some soap and began scrubbing. Scrub, scrub on the cotton gusset, scrub on front and back and plunge into clean water, then scrub, scrub on the cotton gusset again just for good measure. Now we'd really bonded. I didn't know anyone in the world who could wash my dirty knickers like that.

"Beautiful," she beamed as she picked up a pair of my now clean best Marks and Spencer white, cottons. "Beautiful," and she held a pair of them up to her chest, closing her eyes and cuddling them like a small child cuddles a new soft toy. For Mae Li, one hundred percent cotton was a rare treat.

"You go," she said, suddenly. "You go."

And she gestured with her arm over towards the fields, flicking her head and her hand up towards the sky. What was this? Was she stealing my knickers? Surely not. I thought we were getting on so well.

"You go," she said again, the arm waving towards the fields in an arc. Then I realised that Mae Li was trying to say something else.

"Me," she said, tapping her chest. "Me," waving her arm in the reverse direction and holding up the knickers.

Translation: You go home on an aeroplane and when you do, you send me some beautiful white cotton Marks and Spencer knickers just like these.

"Size 'L'," she informed me helpfully and grinned and twinkled like there was no tomorrow.

“Of course I will,” I replied. And meant it.

Airing my dirty linen in public is something I only ever want to do in Thailand and only ever with Mae Li.