take them away."
"Does that happen?"
"Sure, and someone wins the lottery every day."
All of this was on my mind a week later when I had dinner
with Bobby Quinn and Sahli. Before Sahli crossed her
arms and left, I had asked Bobby what was wrong with the
girl in Bangkok. "Nothing, really. She is a wonderful girl. Do
anything for me, but it was dark in there, and I was nervous.
I don't know. She's a little chunky. Sometimes I kid her and
say I'll trade her in at 'Happy Days'—that's the name of the
massage parlor—but—"
"Could you do that?"
"Oh, yeah, but she gets all upset, says 'No! No! No!' She
doesn't want to go back. So"—there was a long pause—"besides,
she has a kid, and she doesn't want to go to Alaska."
"Go to Alaska? Did you ask her to?"
"We talked about it. I showed her my pictures." He produced
a battered envelope, twenty-four shots of bleak, treeless
landscape, his boat, his friends, the town, a buddy's cabin
that looked a little like a clubhouse adolescents might have
built, and some aerial views.
"Most of the women there have been around the block a
few times. Been around a few blocks. You can go to Anchorage
and get a woman. Go to Seattle. Sure would be nice to
have a woman out there."
"How about Sahli?"
"Yeah. She says she'll go."
"You asked her?"
"Yeah."
The next morning when I got into the front seat of the
old Nissan Cedric with the guide, Roger Hodges and his wife
Namor were already in the back. We were off for a day of
touring northern Thailand, flirting with the Golden Triangle,
visiting a Meo tribe village, watching a staged elephant show
high in the rugged teak forests, stopping at an experimental
orchid farm. There had been just enough rumors of guerrilla
ambushes and drug-war skirmishes in the area to add spice
if not real peril to our excursion.
Roger was a pleasant, circumspect Australian who folded
his long legs before him and sank deep in the seat. I had no
idea of his height until we got out sometime later. He and I
chatted while his wife, who was Thai, talked to the guide.
In the course of the conversation, I said that I did not
like Bangkok very much. Roger liked it. "Canberra," he said
by way of explanation, "is a city of bureaucrats. Quiet . . .
unexciting." He worked as a shipping clerk there. This was
his sixth trip to Thailand. On his first he met his wife. On
his third he married her. Now he had brought her back to
visit her family and friends. He himself was a great admirer
of Thailand, its people, its natural beauty, its culture, its history.
"Thailand has been here for two and a half thousand
years, and we in the West think we have culture. It is the land
of the free." (This is a title claimed by Thailand because, unlike
most of its neighbors, it was never colonized.) "I'll tell
you, if there was ever a war, I would want to be on Thailand's
side. The Thais never give up."
I was not entirely sure Roger knew what he was talking
about, but I liked him. He was a retiring, homely man in
his early thirties who didn't always know where to put his
hands, especially when I took a picture of his wife and him in
front of a little waterfall we had stopped to explore. Then she
was off with the guide, stepping from stone to stone headed
upstream.
Roger and I took off our shoes and cooled our feet. Yes,
she quite liked Canberra. There were other Thai girls there
she saw. She spoke some English; he spoke a little Thai. "But
it is a very difficult language. There are forty-seven letters, but
only one vowel. Then there are ten more letters that are used
only in ceremonial words. And there are no prepositions."
Namor cavorted on the rocks above, mugged for us, called
out in a screechy voice. She was cute, but not pretty. She still
wore the bright T-shirt and tight jeans that are the uniform
of the Thai girlfriend, but she had abandoned the high heels
in favor of more sensible sneakers.
"She is a very innocent creature," said Roger, watching her
bemused. "By that I mean without
"Does that happen?"
"Sure, and someone wins the lottery every day."
All of this was on my mind a week later when I had dinner
with Bobby Quinn and Sahli. Before Sahli crossed her
arms and left, I had asked Bobby what was wrong with the
girl in Bangkok. "Nothing, really. She is a wonderful girl. Do
anything for me, but it was dark in there, and I was nervous.
I don't know. She's a little chunky. Sometimes I kid her and
say I'll trade her in at 'Happy Days'—that's the name of the
massage parlor—but—"
"Could you do that?"
"Oh, yeah, but she gets all upset, says 'No! No! No!' She
doesn't want to go back. So"—there was a long pause—"besides,
she has a kid, and she doesn't want to go to Alaska."
"Go to Alaska? Did you ask her to?"
"We talked about it. I showed her my pictures." He produced
a battered envelope, twenty-four shots of bleak, treeless
landscape, his boat, his friends, the town, a buddy's cabin
that looked a little like a clubhouse adolescents might have
built, and some aerial views.
"Most of the women there have been around the block a
few times. Been around a few blocks. You can go to Anchorage
and get a woman. Go to Seattle. Sure would be nice to
have a woman out there."
"How about Sahli?"
"Yeah. She says she'll go."
"You asked her?"
"Yeah."
The next morning when I got into the front seat of the
old Nissan Cedric with the guide, Roger Hodges and his wife
Namor were already in the back. We were off for a day of
touring northern Thailand, flirting with the Golden Triangle,
visiting a Meo tribe village, watching a staged elephant show
high in the rugged teak forests, stopping at an experimental
orchid farm. There had been just enough rumors of guerrilla
ambushes and drug-war skirmishes in the area to add spice
if not real peril to our excursion.
Roger was a pleasant, circumspect Australian who folded
his long legs before him and sank deep in the seat. I had no
idea of his height until we got out sometime later. He and I
chatted while his wife, who was Thai, talked to the guide.
In the course of the conversation, I said that I did not
like Bangkok very much. Roger liked it. "Canberra," he said
by way of explanation, "is a city of bureaucrats. Quiet . . .
unexciting." He worked as a shipping clerk there. This was
his sixth trip to Thailand. On his first he met his wife. On
his third he married her. Now he had brought her back to
visit her family and friends. He himself was a great admirer
of Thailand, its people, its natural beauty, its culture, its history.
"Thailand has been here for two and a half thousand
years, and we in the West think we have culture. It is the land
of the free." (This is a title claimed by Thailand because, unlike
most of its neighbors, it was never colonized.) "I'll tell
you, if there was ever a war, I would want to be on Thailand's
side. The Thais never give up."
I was not entirely sure Roger knew what he was talking
about, but I liked him. He was a retiring, homely man in
his early thirties who didn't always know where to put his
hands, especially when I took a picture of his wife and him in
front of a little waterfall we had stopped to explore. Then she
was off with the guide, stepping from stone to stone headed
upstream.
Roger and I took off our shoes and cooled our feet. Yes,
she quite liked Canberra. There were other Thai girls there
she saw. She spoke some English; he spoke a little Thai. "But
it is a very difficult language. There are forty-seven letters, but
only one vowel. Then there are ten more letters that are used
only in ceremonial words. And there are no prepositions."
Namor cavorted on the rocks above, mugged for us, called
out in a screechy voice. She was cute, but not pretty. She still
wore the bright T-shirt and tight jeans that are the uniform
of the Thai girlfriend, but she had abandoned the high heels
in favor of more sensible sneakers.
"She is a very innocent creature," said Roger, watching her
bemused. "By that I mean without
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