To Tessa

Here is a village in a house under a warm African sun. Its rooms hum with swinging see-saw sounds and the beat of a hammer. Here smells and tastes escape from under lids of saucepans and pots. At night it's where the crickets play tiny violins to weave a fine tapestry of ghostly threads amongst a croaking chorus of frogs. It settles softly as a fairy blanket and watches your dreams until it's silenced by a slumbering dawn awakened by cheerful greetings amongst fluttering feathers.

Strips of venison biltong hang at the top of a thatched tower. Down below is a workshop where pipes are hammered on anvils and transformed as fluted goblets. A partially constructed copper-welded space-ship is at one side. It's here where three-legged sliced tree trunk stools are made. There's a nook to the left on the way out where necklaces and bracelets and rings are fashioned for any fantasy of feminine beauty. A wisp of wood-smoke strays in through an open kitchen door where smoked sausages hang as savory ornaments. Two doorways access a double volume L-shaped hall with dining on the left. A wall is draped somewhat disconcertingly with African and medieval weapons. It faces a lawn, hemmed on the right by tall mulberry trees, rolling down to a trampoline. Behind it is the domain of the donkey who ate the spaghetti. The wisp twists across a place where a family sits, snacks, reads and sleeps in company. It drifts over the ledges of walk-through windows, over a courtyard surrounding a pool and spirals up and away over the trees.

Here's a glossy red setter. I can't yet remember his name. He's with us. Mara is about three and I'm about two years older than Philip and Becky is somewhere in between. In a way we're like moths in a spiral around a flame. Tami and Mattias are with us. We're children trying to figure out what's going on. None of us moves except Mattias. He's drowning. An explosion of spray knocks us out of our daze. Here, with the fierce eyes of a lioness, is the fully dressed submerged yet elegant form of a beautiful woman. She's holding Mattias in her arms. Who knows where she's come from? I have a fleeting image of her flying out through one of those walk-in windows. She says nothing and takes him away with her. There's nothing she needs to say. She's hammered a vivid impression into malleable minds.

Oh and in case this isn't in your memory, her name is Tessa. She's one of those beings from a utilitarian realm somewhere between divinity and the carefree world of prepubescent children. She comes and goes as gracefully as a flame weaving a spiral of overlapping patterns from mother to child to neighbour. She joins our world as a child and floats above it as a mother, or else she's queen of the castle in a nearby harbour when things get rocky or lonely. The king is the big stocky figure of Michael the sculptor with his huge bushy eyebrows. Heirs to the throne are two princesses and a prince.

Mara, alternately naked or in a hand-me-down oversized T-shirt, wanders around in her own little world under a halo of blond hair. Becky at the time is a 'girl' fully fledged. She has little interest in what we are up to. Girls have other interests, a puzzle without a solution, a challenge which us boys were destined to encounter, but not yet. And then there's Philip.

"I need a belt!" It's him peering into the tent from outside. He's a quick waker. He's ten years old and it's very early in the morning. Barks are coming out of the throats of a score of wild baboons. They're on a ledge right above us, about twenty feet up. They don't sound happy with the sight of alien invaders, not in this place, the jewel of their territory. Each bark is a verbal missile, hurled with the aim of driving us away, and perhaps also a warning of worse surely to follow if we choose to remain. Once I'm also out of the tent they look a lot more scary than they sound.

"What for?" I ask with stomach like cold fist clenching. I think David Parry is here and perhaps John too.

"They're scared of a belt. They think it's a snake."

Who knows where he got that info from? I give Philip my belt uncomfortably aware that he is the youngest and smallest of us. He turns around and steps forward to face the most ferocious, the alpha male, stares into his eyes and then whirls the belt like a whip above his head. The baboons retreat and remain at a safe distance, well out of the slinging range of a snake. We're looking at Philip with some awe. The lion cub - like mother like son.

It's school holiday time and we have enough mealie-meal and sardines to last for ten days and on the trees are plenty of soft-skinned berries with the taste and texture of lychees except their flesh is a translucent pink. Here we can live free and often unclothed like wild animals exploring a wild wordless nature revelling in our senses with warm sun on skin. Nothing is man-made, no-one else is up here on the back slopes of the Magaliesberg, not a house in sight from the summit patrolled by black eagles to the horizon 30 miles distant.

One evening Philip takes me down to a pool, where we had washed pots and dishes, to show me a moonlight ballet. We sit silently watching the black lines of two long and slender snakes who weave a languid spell on a stage the colour of pearl. It's here in youth and nature where what is seen most easily coincides with what is felt.

It's the morning of the ninth day. I'm at the top of the canyon watching a couple of baboons in a tree on the other side. They're unusually raucous and acrobatic, shaking branches as if they're marooned sailors trying to get the attention of a passing ship. I glance behind me. The rest of the troop are silently slinking downstream behind my back and well within snake slinging range. It's a premeditated diversion. In the distance I can see what may be the cause of their departure. A long line of people, some carrying things balanced on their heads.

As they get closer I recognise the figures of you and Michael with some friends and their children, and what turns out to be a line of young porters hired to carry his cooking equipment. It's a three hour hike up and over the steep face of the mountain. Here's where our experiences meet in the same time and place. So I need say no more except that Hungarian goulash and bacon frying smells even more delicious to those who have eaten nothing but sardines and pap and berries for more than a week.

It was some time after that when you and Michael started to build a new home in Broederstroom. Philip spent time exploring the surrounding caves. He took me once to a cave which had never been entered and gave me an experience which few people have ever had. In torch-light it was a small chamber of clear crystal ferns amongst delicate stalactites and mites, each was coated with a sparkling frost which cannot survive human breath for more than a few minutes. Thereafter the magic is gone. Perhaps everything which is breathed on for too long or looked at too often loses at least some of its magic.

The rhythm of days and weeks and years drives a spiral taking all of us ever further away from where we started. The good queen of the castle left and the nearby harbour no longer offered shelter, but many threads of the past remain intact and were still to weave in with those of the future and may still yet. I was 22 when I decided to leave for Cape Town. Part of the reason has a thread in your thatched village/home but that's another story. It was the third and last time I ever entered the actual house in Broederstroom. I didn't come to say goodbye to Becky Mara or Philip. They weren't there, only you were. It was the last time I looked into your eyes, but I still see you in those times when I'm derided by people whose opinions are not their own. It's then when I need the memory of someone who understands freedom and the art of living. It's then when I can smile and say thank you Tessa.

What's in a fern?

I was looking at a fern and now I'm falling beneath shifting remnants, white footprints on a blue sky, a trail of moments in the giddy swirl of a cloud. They're all part of a story from another time ready now to be matched in this breath with a goddess I once saw. I saw her on the side of the road to Inverness where you turn left to head for the Isle of Skye. I saw her face from a bus window after she'd hailed the driver. She was perfectly proportioned and naturally elegant in movement. Tall as me. Her chestnut hair was a prism of copper light as she stepped up into the passage between seats. I was quick to look down. A girl like that is besieged by stares. I had no right to throw yet another at her. She walked past me looking for an empty seat other than the one next to me. I knew there were many and that the air which softly pressed between us would be the last part of a tragically short experience of her presence. A tap on my shoulder made me look into the curious green eyes of a fox. I insisted she take the window seat so as to see her and countryside at the same time. Her skin is flawless white all the way down from above full eyebrows to the upper swells of her breasts and her face... No magic mirror could ever tell any queen she looked more beautiful. Snow White had stepped out of a fairy tale and was sitting next to me and yes; she's a goddess but she's also a fox.

I figured her for 20 years old. She was a 2nd year student at a London University, on holiday and working at the only lodge on North Uist. I was on a walk-about after a short but taxing contract in Edinburgh. That's how I earned my living then. I was a fox for hire to those for whom all else had failed. I was paid to mend broken promises. We saw each other with a curiosity focused on what may happen next. It's a game like chess but with an aim of adventure and we were not to be opponents. We were to be conspirators, agile partners balanced between two breaths on a stepping stone in a mountain stream. A breath at a time. The next may be another or the same but in a different place and it must be near. A footprint stays still on the ground but nothing else does when we step above its gravity. For a moment we step beyond it into another moment to balance briefly in that before the next. We can move in a swirl of moments, some breathless, which may lead anywhere we let them take us.

In a formal beginning she speaks an immaculate English accent. We breathe through moments and turn between them as her voice becomes edged by a Scottish lilt. At times later she slips into Gaelic of the Outer Hebrides, sometimes with an amusingly apologetic translation and there's a time when the words not needed have fallen away.

People I've known longest are often those I know least. It's easier to meet an awake fox in a stranger than it is to find one in an old friend. Perceptions atrophy as worn and faded patterns of moments in a time past at a place where innocense was then found and is now lost. She leans back against the window, her head against it to face me. I see a subtle stress of caution give way to a faint tension of anticipation. Some sounds are lost and others are found. Textures fade from the picture's edges becoming no more than charcoal lines of a scene in a bus on paper. Sound and motion transform into the whispering glide of a Rolls Royce Silver Ghost. At centre stage is an exquisite woman reclined on a shifting horizon of the Cuillins and eyes with the wildness of a fox. We tell each other secrets only strangers may know. We speak without preconceptions or preconcieved opinions until words go but voices remain like notes of a flute in a song which is as much of wordless thought as it is of sound. Her eyes are concentric zones of deep sea green threaded with emerald and amethyst and in them I see supple arms of imagination poised to engage with mine. They reach and entwine in rhythms of a dance. She moves nimbly with me when I guide and leads when she notices what I don't. A momentum grows until I slip and fall to find her falling with me a smile peeking out at me showing me how to fly. She takes me across a bay to a pebbled shore on the isle of Raasay where the otters play and up over heather and higher still on a stairway of lochs reflecting a blue veined far away sky. We swoop down from the top of Dun Caan toward the crater's lake transformed into the dragons who must live there. We gracefully alight on a black beach frosted by diamonds. A delighted smile shapes her mouth to match the sparkle of her eyes. A Gaelic exclamation trips off her tongue and I need no translation. She pulls me back up into the air and across a bay to be swung by wild winds which howl in orbits around the ancient giant sentinal of stone. She calls it Storr. We glide through the skirts of Skye, the clustered pleats of veiled air with as many as three seasons between, and beyond them across an isolation of open sea until her island appears at a cold and misty edge of the world. It's fringed by scores of glistening lochs set in a lacework of heather and peat. We land softly and look into each other's eyes without speaking. It's an eternal moment beyond the measures of age and time. I step out of a bus and stand on a pavement in Portree waving goodbye as the goddess leaves for where we already have been. I stand here ten years later reminded that I can still see her now just as clearly within a wild fern.

Women of Tahrir Square

(updated 28 Feb 2011)

Mona Seif - 1 Feb 2011

"We can't go. We've lost a lot of people and we've lost them for a cause. The cause is that we want Maburak to be out!" she gasped for breath. "We can't just— We owe it to them to stick it to the end. We have many injured people. It will be very hard to move them," almost sobbing, "and we know, everyone in the square knows that if we decided to give in now they will hunt us down, one by one! We've been through this. We know it!"

Mona Seif was being interviewed by Al-Jazeerah on her mobile phone. Though almost hysterical with fear and outrage she was fighting. Her weapon was her voice firing words combining the power of passion with the clear accuracy of a sniper.

"They are shooting. There are people, some of the thugs with rifles on the bridge and they shot at our demonstrators. Every couple of minutes you find the ambulance coming, carrying wounded and every now and then you find them carrying someone dead. People were just praying over one...like, the latest of our dead protesters. He was shot right through the head. I had two friends watching this happen... I just don't understand..."

Pro-dictator supporters had attacked pro-democracy protesters. A cavalry charge of men wielding whips on horses and camels followed by a phalanx of thugs with clubs had streamed into the centre of the square. The protesters retreated in shock. They had been peaceful. There were women and children amongst them. The men had no weapons but they fought back. They fought to defend each other. It was a fight between principle and power, between motives of love and of hate.

"... The ambulances are constantly here but I don't understand. The army is right where all the confrontation is happening. They can stop this. They can stop the bloodshed. Why do we have to lose people? Why is this torture getting repeated over and over again and nobody's stopping it?"

A global television audience had watched a street battle with a reluctant detachment, not knowing which side was which. First the group from the left would advance, attacking with stones, and the right would retreat. Then those on the right would advance and the ones on the left would retreat. The eye transmits to the mind but it is the ear which is the entrance to a heart. Mona's voice pierced millions.

"We are not leaving this place till Mubarak leaves. So there are only two options for the whole world to do: Either they speak to Mubarak and his regime and you lose thousands of people in this square and it does not definitely become the celebration square it becomes massacre square or whatever you want to call it or, they put an end to Mubarak and give these people, the remaining people here, a chance at living a good life."

The protesters were fighting back, driving the thugs back. They were recapturing the street while she was capturing the world. Perhaps she sensed it as it seemed that a tone of reassurance mingled with the passion of her voice.

"The middle of the square is really safe... A lot of people are here and it's safe, like you can go and sleep there and nothing will happen but this is happening because we have a lot of people sacrificing their life at the front line next to the museum. A lot of them are teenage kids and and very few of them are older than 25 and they are really in a fighting spirit, in a resilient spirit and it's very astonishing but it really is sad, because you know that we can avoid this and they don't have to waste their lives over this and you see them going and marching to it very bravely."

The interviewer had a final question. She asked Mona whether she was reassured by a statement made by Hillary Clinton that she was shocked by what was happening in Tahrir Square.

"This is the same Hilary Clinton who a week ago was assuring the world that Mubarak and his country is stable so, no it isn't reassuring. What would be assuring for me is to hear that Mubarak is about to give an urgent speach to his people now and say he is leaving."

The world's condemnation, which followed, shamed the army into separating the two sides. The pro-dictator crowds mysteriously disappeared.

An interview with Wael Ghonim aired on internal Egyptian TV , convinced the majority of undecided locals to join the protest. The protest grew until it was irresistable.

When everyone expected Mubarak to stand down he remained defiant. Mona was one of the first to expand the protest beyond Tahrir Square, going to the parliament. Later others protested at the state broadcasting centre.

Eventually protesters gathered at the presidential palace.

Nadia El-Awady - 11 Feb 2011

Nadia describes herself as a "mother, journalist, wander/traveler, diver, climber, and skeptic of everything I've learned to-date."

• Crowd at pres palace seems upper middle class and posh. Less feisty than tahrir lot.
• Pres palace is PERFECT for protesting. There's a Costa cafe just down the street. Tahrir on other hand was deprived.
• Protesters in front of pres palace just standing around socializing. This is what I get for protesting with upper middle class.
• Not a single chant at pres palace. Posh upper middle clas tires easily. We NEED tahrir lot here!
• Advice from a protester (me): never protest with the rich crowd.

Mona and Mahmoud Salem AKA @Sandmonkey (He deserves much more than this brief mention) promised to send some "real protesters" and within minutes at least 10 000 left Tahrir Square to keep Nadia company.

• Proper protesters arrive at pres palace! NOW we can have some fun!
• HUGE cheers for the REAL protesters! Time to party!

We all know what happened next.

• Do y'all think it's all right to add "toppled a dictator" to my CV? Shows I can work in teams, I'm a perfectionist, and get the job done.

The women of Tahrir Square have given a unique charm to the ugly business of revolution. It hasn't really been replicated in the other uprisings in the Middle-East. It's largely for that reason I believe the Egyptian revolution is probably the only one with the possibility for a happy outcome. The probability is small. The odds are heavily stacked against good people like Mona and Nadia.

Though the activists have achieved something which was previously considered impossible, they haven't yet managed to do much more than wipe some of the facade off an essentially military regime. In fact the military are currently the greatest beneficiary of the revolution. Mona, particularly continues to fight with incredible passion and persistence without losing any of her charm. The more effective she becomes, the more of a thorn in the side of power, the more dangerous her situation becomes.

Mona Seif - 25 Feb 2011

• Yaaay tents are back in tahrir square. (http://yfrog.com/h7tlvypuj)
• The army kidnapped Tamer sa'Id going into the ppl's assembly building coz they were blocking the way & he insisted we've the right to pass.
• Army officer talking in an extremely rude manner, insisting we leave now.
• He is out but he is beaten up.
• By kasr el 3ini st infront of parliament. Small group of ppl isolated inside the street by the army, I'm with the group standing outside.
• A guy next to me telling his friend "Of course the army isn't on our side but we still have to say that" :D
• WTF is wrong wt the Military today? Why can't they let ppl protest peacefully?
• Just received a testimony of a protester who was detained last week. Beating up, electrocution, and special sexual harassment of 2 girls.
• I am still trying to get a testimony from one of the girls who was also with them then will post it.
• Number is dramatically decreasing by the parliament and military police encircling the protesters.
• Military police prevented my mother passage to demo and encircled her.
• This is not good. They are completely & tightly circled by military police. I can't get to them.
• @ImmaculateEdits She is, she is a fighter :)
• Military police removing the tents in Tahrir square now.
• They threatened wt arresting ppl, ppl r leaving,I insisted I won't leave wt out my family, I think I will be left alone.
• Screw them! Screw the military wt all its members! Screw them 4 not tolerating ppl peacefully protesting!
• Military police detained @Sarahcarr @nickalexandra and someone else on a side street. So far they're ok.
• My mother defeated the military police and they let her pass to the demo.
• My mom is awesome! She made them let me in.
• Wow mama complained that one military guy pushed her, they send a big shot military guy to apologize to her.
• They are dispersing ppl wt violence from Tahrir square, ppl r being chased by military police.
• @cairowire @liamstack @Sarahcarr tahrir square has been completely evacuated.
• Military police r threatening us now, they have orders to evacuate, ppl should either leave or risk getting detained.
• They snatched 2 of us.
• They released the detained, and the big shot army guy is apologizing and hugging him!!!!
• The army is now asking ppl to leave, 1st nicely, then now angrily in the mic.
• Here we go again, they r pissed and they encircled us again.
• Beating and electric tasers , we've been evacuated.
• kidnapped another we insisted we won't leave wtout him, young officer was abusive then a bigger 1 came & shouted at them to get boy.
• We are safe, they released the boy, he was badly beaten up, his face was bleeding.
• We saw them kidnapping one on the side and kicking the crap out of him,we'd scream & say they r beating him they say no they aren't.
• Some protesters are injured and on the street, @RamyRaoof and other there sent out for medical help for them.
• Reminder:Protesters were out 2day becoz Shafik's Cabinet & emergency law still exist, statesecurity r back, detainees weren't relased.
• One of the detainees who was just released say they r detaining a lot of ppl. All are beaten up badly.
• The army were extremely hostile,constantly threatening us wt detention but they refrained coz we had an old woman wt us AKA My mother.
• They threatened to take my mom as well, only an older officer intervened & told him not to touch her.
• @Elazul @Trackerinblue I don't know the difference. They were like black rods, & their sound itself was scary enough
• Thats what they used RT @saversaver25 http://bit.ly/h2O8Lj that's a stun baton. similar concept 2 tasers & cattle prods.human torture device
• I translated the brief testimony of detention & torture of last week http://tinyurl.com/633z2w4.

Mona's twitter link is http://twitter.com/monasosh. Follow her. She will inspire you. One day she may need your help. Her blog is http://ma3t.blogspot.com. Her interview is on youtube http://www.youtube.com/v/LSBJwsjakcg. If there are others like her please let me know.

• I am extremely exhausted,though it hurts me to think of abandoning twitter for the rest of the day, I have to :) watch me disappear 1 2 3...

Update - 27 Feb 2011

Testimony for Detaining Amr Abdallah elBehairy Early Saturday 26/2/2011

Eye Witness : Dr.Laila Mostafa Soueif –Cairo University Professor , Pure Mathematics

Id : 25605018800105

I was in the sit-in on Kasr elAini St, when it was dispersed forcibly by police and military elements. As we were leaving , military elements abducted Amr Abdallah elBehairy , 33 yrs, from Kafr elZayat, Gharbia. They ruthlessly beat him up without obvious reason hurting him in the face we were all about to leave. But then , I objected to this practice and my friends and I refused to leave without Amr. A high rank officer calmed us down and ordered a lower rank to bring Amr , his face was severely injured. We all walked away together on Kasr elAini St., Shadi elGazaly was with us,Takadom elKhatib , assistant professor in Mansoura University and a member of March 9 movement , my daughter Mona Ahmed Seif elIslam , my son Alaa Ahmed Seif elIslam , his wife Manal Bahy elDin Hassan and Ahmed Abdallah , a relative of Amr's, he was helping Amr to walk.

As we walked along, a private car stopped, two young men (whom I didn't catch their names) offered help. We asked them to drive Amr and Abdallah. Shadi and Takadom left to take Shadi's car. My family and I passed on foot to Garden City streets. A few minutes later, Takadom called me and told me that military officials stopped them once more. We rushed back to Kasr elAini St. to find all six of them arrested , including the two young men who offered to give Amr a lift. At 4:30 am , Takadom called me , I learnt that Shadi and him were released , but the other four were still detained for allegedly having a gun in the car ( then military said that amr was possessing a sound pistol)

On Saturday 26/2/2011, at 2:00 pm, after reading the military statement #23, where they declared they will release all detainees of that morning, I called Ahmed Abdallah who told me that both young men , who were in the car were released , however he had no news about Amr.

I affirm that Amr had no weapon in his possession , other wise military officials would not have released him in the first place. Obviously , he is detained so that fabricated charges would pressed on him to cover for his injuries inflicted by military officials. My daughter, Mona, Shadi and Takadom photographed Amr's injuries and it was clear that we will report the crime.

I talked to other released detainees , they said that Amr was savagely beaten up and electrified.

Eye Witness : Dr.Laila Mostafa Soueif –Cairo University Professor , Pure Mathematics.

A smile to the sad

Cynicism: "An inclination to believe that people are motivated purely by self-interest."

Not quite the definition I had expected. It must be the "purely" word which clouds the cynic in misery. I scratched my head. I couldn't think of anything I was doing not motivated purely by self-interest. I must have slipped. It demanded a think.

What exactly is self-interest?

Easy enough to answer - a curiosity and concern for oneself.

What is the outer limit of self-interest?

Not so easy - possessions, family, friends, lovers,... their perceptions of me (not sure if or where that fits in).

What is non-self-interest?

Is that a trick question?

Okay. What is an example of a personal motive which is not within self-interest?

Too convoluted, try again.

Is it possible that a personal motive can be outside of self-interest?

Make it simple.

Can a real person really have an unselfish motive?

The Lady: Aung San Suu Kyi. Her motive was to gain freedom from fear for the people of Burma. She saw it as a duty to them and to her father. It may have been personal but it wasn't selfish.

Uh-oh, duty is looking at me.

Duty: "A moral obligation or responsibility."

Yikes!

Moral: "Concerned with the principles of right and wrong behaviour" and not the same as legal or illegal behaviour.

I stopped writing. It was past midnight after all. I hoped to see things a little more clearly in the morning.

Cynicism has a sense of blindness to me, a limited vision, smoke-tinted spectacles, self-defeat, a melancholy prison. Duty was unexpectedly emerging as a key to escape. Wasn't there an alternative? Couldn't the duty thing be plan B?

Duties had always been imposed on me by those who new better. As a youngest child that meant everybody. With a determination which matched recrimination; I had avoided any duty I could. By nature I had an aversion to the adoption of values I hadn't worked out for myself.

While I had a rare weakness for the subject it was probably best to remain with it and explore a little further. If I could choose my own duty it may not be so bad. It was worth a thought. A personal, yet unselfish moral obligation: What could it be?

'Unselfish' implies giving rather than taking. "Be giving," that's one of the grave precepts. It couldn't really be money. I was poor in that respect. What little I did give had only a fraction of consequence to the receiver. What I did have was the inclination and the time, limited as it always is, to attempt writing as an art.

That reminded me; I wanted to describe Loi Kroh Road after noon, the two halves, one crowded in dim though comfortable shade, the other a wilderness in the full fairytale colour of direct sunlight, too hot. That impression, though, is best left to the visual artist; the painter and photographer.

The writer draws for the abstract senses, those that let the blind man see, the deaf man hear and the numb man feel; those that give the old man youth, the young man wisdom and, perhaps, even a smile to the sad.

That was a duty I could attempt. If I could succeed would be another story.

The old falang monkey and the phi song nang

I saw the shock on Mook's face as I hit her, as her knees buckled I was swinging my arms around her, trying to prevent her slamming into the pavement, succeeding I thought, then lifting her back to her feet, sensing alarm from bystanders, feeling her dismay.

"I'm sorry," I was saying, "I'm so sorry. You walk fast. I was running to catch you. I must've tripped," I swivelled to look for what had tripped me, a parody, I hadn't tripped at all. She had heard the rapidly pounding footsteps and moved quickly aside, directly into my path. It hadn't been her fault. Stupid adolescent old man. I tried to skip the situation, "Are you going for a pizza?"

She pointed to a pharmacy. "No. I'm going there," no expression neither in her face nor her eyes. I had no choice but to dismiss myself, to wai in submissive apology, to turn around and to walk away in a blizzard of embarrassment. If I had looked back I may have seen the blood on her knees. I struggled for equilibrium, trying to discern my emotional position and direction. I had spiralled into an orbit with her at its centre. The writing of 'Secrets Of Loi Kroh Road' had got me to think of her more than I otherwise would have. It directed a discovery of details; a love of singing, a delicious half-giggle half-chuckle, a creative instinct - she too wrote. She showed me a notebook and let me glance over a few pages; charmingly naïve prose, all written in English. I queried the absent content - the balance. Where was the anguish and despondency? "I only write sweet thoughts," was the answer. I had taken her (together with a workmate) out for pizzas. I saw it as a step beyond a mere commercial relationship. At work she was triumphant, when twisting my back, if she could get it to click.

"Have you ever broken your customers' backs?"

"No," she had laughed, "only their hearts."

She claimed not to have a boyfriend but that was implausible to my heart and rigorously irrelevant to my reason. If I was much younger I would not have had immediate cause to twist my motive to a purpose different than the conquest of her heart.

The short story got a good reception and I had given her a copy on my way to the old city. I was proud of it. I was sure she would be flattered, Thai women seem to be suckers for flattery, and then, when returning on the evening of the same day, like an over-familiar besotted old fool I had knocked her down.

I stayed away a few days more than usual, hoping the time would fade her memory and, with the realization of how I perceived her, that she would forgive me. And so it happened that the cashier intercepted me. Mook would be finished in fifteen minutes if I cared to wait.

She emerged with minimal greeting. "I have to eat," she said and bought herself a noodle soup from a pavement vendor. "What kind of massage do you want?" she asked upon her return.

"I'd quite like an oil massage," I said timidly, "but you decide. Whatever you feel like doing."

"Up to you."

"No. This time it's up to you," I insisted.

"Okay, foot massage."

I was wearing long trousers. I did mention that it may be a little uncomfortable. She didn't think so, and that's how I ended up with tightly rolled jeans choking much of the blood supply to my feet.

"Did you like my story?"

She looked at me apparently puzzled.

"The one I gave you," I said with what may have been a note of dismay.

"I've been too busy to read," she snapped, "We've been cleaning as well." They had been expanding their shop, breaking down walls into the adjoining one. I closed my eyes to concentrate on the movements of her fingers on the soles of my feet. They opened again to the sight of an elderly American with a jovial face and the body of a balloon. He was escorted to a sofa by three beaming masseuses and presented with his after-massage tea. The girls crowded around him as he sprayed 100 baht tips in all directions, including to the cashier. "What about mine?" Mook pleaded, my feet all but forgotten.

"You weren't in the massage," the fat old American said dismissively. "How much for a joob-joob?"

"100 000 baht," she laughed.

He stayed for a long time it seemed. Mook joined the conversation between him and her work-mates, continuing my massage mostly by reflex. I slipped into a semi-conciousness occasionally opening my eyes to imbibe Mook's features in profile, yet again surveying the disquieting aspect of her beauty as it flickered across her cheek. It was at night when her image seemed most veiled by the sheen of external beauty. I was searching beyond the borders of occular vision but, not too far. I ignored a slanted sidelong glance and the words "I have a plastic heart." I was more comfortable outside of the conversation. It was banal and dominated by the fat old american. I pretended to keep my eyes closed.

A meek young man emerged from a massage with Fon, a new masseuse. Her features; her nose and eyebrows were straighter than Mook's, less oriental. I had remembered thinking she was as pretty as Mook when first I saw her. She had less self-confidence and consequently more sensitivity. I wondered what it would be like to get a massage from her. She stood at a sofa next to her customer while he drank his tea but, her eyes kept on meeting mine with a hint of concern. I was grateful. It would have been a lonely experience without her. I gave Mook a 100 baht tip, and regretted it immediately. She hadn't deserved it. I had done it merely to 'compete' with the fat old American.

It got me to thinking how life seems to come at me in waves, each arising from interest or excitement, many falling into confusion and pain. Nothing ends happily ever after. It just ends with nothing much more than backwash. Perhaps the ideal is to remain suspended at the crest of illusion for as long as possible and then, somehow, to exit decisively before descending into the gloomy trough of reality, the dwelling of most comfort to the cynic. I prefer to inhabit the brighter amplitudes when I can.

I recalled the sight of the bar-girls; the innocence in their eyes as they gazed up at those chanting monks, a clue as to how they endured. Innocence has been described as the filling of an empty glass, a sense of heightened reception. To regain it is to empty the glass. Was that what those monks had been doing for them? It reminded me of a moment (recounted in 'Drifting away') when I feared that to drop the weight of all my emotional baggage would mean the loss of my identity or even of my sanity. But could it, at least in part, be an enlightenment? The Zen Buddhist perspective views enlightenment and innocence as similar, maybe even the same. Though it was a late afternoon, my thoughts inspired me to ride up Doi Sutep and to visit the temple of Wat Phrathat.

It's about the height of 20 storeys from the base of a straight flight of stairs, lined all the way by the huge glittering bodies of two seven-headed snakes. The Naga (snakes) are revered as protectors of the Buddha. I walked up against an exodus of camera-wielding sight-seers, relieved we were heading in opposite directions. I was taken by the beauty of the place, and the variety and individuality of 'worship'. I witnessed a candle-lighting ceremony where seven monks actively participated. On completion, one of them turned to look at me with a twinkle in his eye, and an implied invitation to follow him to the bot. (It's the most sacred area of the temple reserved exclusively for monks. I didn't know that at the time though.)

I knew little of Buddhism so was cautious. I remained outside and noticed Thai lay-men did the same. It was clearly a ceremony meant exclusively for monks. Many small groups of falangs however, mostly over-weight and sweaty (despite having come up via the funicular), felt no qualms and continuously entered the bot to flash their cameras at the monks and themselves, heaving around in various grinning poses, oblivious to their own arrogance. I was one of them. They were of my own race. I was too embarrassed to remain.

I went to the old city, to a roof-top bar where the food is good and cheap. The festival of Yi Peng was imminent. I watched as some early sky-lanterns rose from the streets. It's said that when they float off into the air; they take your bad luck with them. I noticed a young good-looking Canadian, a regular customer. I felt a little envious. If only I had come to Thailand when I was his age. I shook myself, I had no excuse for envy. There was so much to learn, so much to enjoy.

Mook intercepted me on my way home, as friendly and charming as she had been before I'd knocked her down. She quizzed me about the first three times she'd tricked me. I remembered the names of her substitutes, and the circumstances, and she accepted my recollection. She made no further comment. I couldn't guess what she was thinking. She prided herself in never showing her true emotions. She asked me to take her to Burger King. I had vowed never to go to a falang-style fast-food outlet, over-priced and bland, but the Thais love them, it's crazy. Again, one of her friends was chaperone. Thais don't have a tradition of chaperones but I didn't mind. If I were to go alone with her it would have the appearance of her being a hooker. Why else would a girl as young and beautiful as her be accompanying someone like me? I walked a few paces behind the two of them to further lessen the appearance. It let me observe how other men perceived her. To me she seemed timeless in traditional clothes and the silver earings and her long black hair knotted around a silver hair-pin. Perhaps it was the silver which suggested an aura of ancient moonlight. The falangs gave her lingering looks but the Thai stall-holders surprised me. They were mesmerised, staring at her with an awed desire tinged with a semblance, it seemed, of fear. It's one of those things one notices but doesn't contemplate until some time has passed. She showed me the scab on her knee, still almost an inch across after more than a week.

She had once told me that she prayed to Buddha for two hours per day in the years before she started working. Thais follow the Theravada ('doctrine of the elders') Buddhism. It was established in the first century after the Buddha's death and is the only one of the original forms to survive. It seems to be based on paradox - whatever we believe to be reality is not real but merely a personal conception of it ("up to you") and, that opposites are alike ("same same"). There are the 'Three Treasures' of:

1. Buddha: The ideal or highest spiritual potential.
2. Dharma: The teachings of the Buddha.
3. Sangha: The community of those who have attained enlightenment.

There are various precepts (rules of behaviour) depending on how ambitiously one follows the teachings. These are from the 'grave precepts':

1. Affirm life
2. Be giving
3. Honour the body
4. Manifest truth
5. Proceed clearly
6. See the perfection
7. Realize self and other as one
8. Actualize harmony
9. Experience the intimacy of things

To become a Buddha is possible. Apparently, all one need do is fully realise the grave precepts and another 48 secondary precepts. I'm not that ambitious but, I did return to Wat Phrathat after sunset on a Saturday evening, hoping for some kind of subliminal revelation - an awakening of an inner faculty - a way to alter or to escape from the downside of cycles and the gravitation of orbits... Something like that.

The restaurants at the summit had closed. I sat at one of their tables on the outer edge of the northern side of the temple perimeter. The sound of monks chanting filtered clearly through the walls. I could hear many more voices than on my previous visit, some special occasion. I tried to get a feel for the rhythm. The words were evenly paced, monosylabic, the chant continuous, no discernable pause for breath. the timbre was medium with rhythmic dips to a deeper tone sometimes once, sometimes twice or three times every eight or so words. It sounded almost like the beat of drums. I didn't understand the words and I had been digging around on the Internet, so my mind wandered.

My thoughts drifted around those little shrines on the pavements of Loi Kroh Road and into the ancient pre-Buddhist realm of mythology and spirit worship. The spirits are called phi. Every family has a guardian phi which brings bad luck if neglected. So I guess the shops in Loi Kroh Road must have a similar, though less familial phi. Oddly enough, there was no shrine where Mook worked. I had dug a little deeper and came across a phi song nang, spawned by the death of a woman before marriage. It appears as a very beautiful woman, and at night it hunts for handsome men to prey upon. It lures the man to a secluded place with hints of sexual favors. Once alone, it attacks him, draining him of his blood. Thai men have been known to wear nail polish and nighties to bed, hoping to trick phi song nangs into believing them to be women. Back in the 1980s in Thailand, a phi song nang was blamed for the spread of a mystery disease which killed some 230 migrant workers. It was called Sudden Unexplained Nocturnal Death Syndrome. Those who claimed to be survivors described a sudden fear come over them as they slept and, upon waking, feeling a strange presence and an increasing pressure on their chest. They were unable to move or scream.

I had looked in a mirror with relief. My body is firm for my age. I move as easily as I did in my twenties. I do stretch exercises every morning and almost always walk up the nine floors to my room. My eyes have pigments of grey, green and blue with one or the other dominating in different lights, but I've lost most of my hair, except in those places where I shouldn't have any. There's a looseness to my cheeks and I have the beginnings of a turkey neck. Whenever I introduce myself to Thai women as a 'falang ling ghe' (old foreign monkey) it usually sets them off on fits of giggles, probably because I'm saying what they are thinking. If phi song nangs only go for handsome men then I was reasonably safe.

Chimes from a line of lucky bells brought me back to my surroundings. I ambled to the eastern edge where a crimson bougainvillea framed a view of the city below. Various pagodas housed priceless collections of drums, bells, statues, and intricately carved wooden frescoes. It could have been a museum but it was no sterile collection of artefacts, no protective glass panels, no signs, no warnings, no prohibitions.... I took off my sandals to enter a pavillion walled by enormous dish-shaped bells all facing inwards. When some were struck the frequency was so low as to resonate in my skeleton but to be virtually inaudible. The bells responded differently to each person, amplifying their touch, leaving a clear impression of their age and character without my knowing what they looked like, or whether they were man or woman. I left the one set of reverberations for another. They drew me up a broad flight of stairs to the inner temple. The chants were getting louder to my ears as I approached and then entered with bare feet through the southern edge of the western wall.

The temple is of white marble, a square with the perimeter roofed over statues of the Buddha and the walls painted with scenes from his life. At the centre is the gold-leaf stupa; luminous with the effect of concealed floodlights. It towers into the sky, easily visible from the far side of the city beyond the Ping river and thousands of feet below. Against the southern wall; a mixed congregation of about 50 lay-people, monks and nuns faced an equal number of chanting monks. In fact they were beating drums, but so subtly it seemed the drums were chanting too. I circled north and then east passing a young couple elegantly dressed in traditional clothing and kneeling in front of a jade Buddha. Behind them a few superstitious women rattled a box of sticks wrapped in paper. When one falls out the number written on the paper is the key to a page in a chest which tells them their fortune. In an alcove, set in the eastern wall a monk was giving councel to a lay-man. I was then within a few metres of the chanting monks, the sound at its loudest, and I relaxed into the Tai Chi posture for standing meditation, emptying my mind to let the rhythm flow freely past any preconceptions of my consciousness, but it wasn't doing anything for me that hadn't already been done. I headed back to the western wall to leave an offering at the Buddha statue for the day of my birth. The Friday Buddha stands in contemplation with his hands crossed over his chest; the right above the left. The hand posture symbolises his first sermon. Having left some cash in the bowl I stepped back to view the stupa with a strange sense of inversion, as though I was looking down from the temple to the sky. The moon seemed tethered to the golden stupa like a giant disk of raw white silk, as if it was a ghostly vessel floating on a deep blue sea. An electrical current coursed through me. An intense emotional desire tightened across my chest. It had nothing to do with Buddha. I was in the wrong place.

As I left I was looked at with yet another knowing twinkle of an eye; a blue eye, a narrow face, a wisp of blonde hair, her white robes revealing a slender figure; a Buddhist nun.

My rented scooter was the only one remaining at the base of the temple steps. It was raining. The road was 15 kilometres of slippery mountain pass winding steeply down through the night shadows of a jungle. I had broken a rib in two places just six months earlier on a scooter at a bend on a wet road. I had to concentrate. Once I reached the outer city limits the sensation which triggered my departure was all but forgotten and, I was to discover at my own inconvenience that most of the roads into the centre had been cordoned off. Of course, the full moon, I had forgotten all about Loi Krathong; the annual sacrifice to the river spirits, the three-days of festivities and carnival. It was only by luck that I found a way through to my condo.

Showered and shaved, I headed up Loi Kroh Road to the old city. I saw Mook through the window. She was massaging the feet of the fat old American. She made frenzied gesticulations at me to return. Her eyes flashed with an unusual gleam of hunger. The cashier came out. "Mook only start now. Come back one hour."

"Okay," I looked up at the wall clock, "I'll come back at nine," and gave Mook a confirming wave with a surge of the current which had moved me from the temple. Those of her work-mates who weren't busy were making loi krathongs using bread-sized slices from the trunk of a banana tree as a base which they wrapped with banana leaves into the shape of lotus flowers. They were selling them with the candles, incense and flowers which, together with a few coins, makes the traditional offering to the river spirits. I intended to buy one or two, if Mook would join me, on my return. I was ravenous by the time I got to my favourite roof-top bar.

I ordered Pad Thai Moo noodles with pork and a beer, lit a cigarette and wondered about what seemed to have become an amplified sensitivity; both sensual and emotional. I've had similar episodes, but never really thought about them at the time. Usually they had accompanied an obsession; a falling in love or, an inspiration which had seemed to offer unlimited opportunity. Was it one of those or was it neither? This time there wasn't the same rosy haze of euphoria. This time there was an unusual clarity. This time I had little fear, if any, of delusion and despite my preoccupation with the phi, no concern for the fragility of fantasy.

My food arrived as two plump english-women sat down at the bar counter next to me, the only two chairs available. They effortlessly ignored me. Falang women are unable to detect men over the age of forty. Fortunately I smoke, so my appetite wasn't much diminished by the invisible cloud of perfume which ruthlessly condensed on all nostrils within a two-metre radius. I had almost finished my meal when, to my surprise, one of them addressed me.

"No offence," she said; "after all I am 35, but do you know where the young men are?"

"None taken," I laughed. "There is a Canadian. You would like him but, he doesn't seem to be here tonight. Your best bet is to head to the north-east of the old city. That's where all the hostels are. Any other time I could have taken you there but, I have to meet a young woman in less than ten minutes from now."

Back on Loi Kroh Road I bought two big khom lois (sky lanterns), about 1.5 metres high and half a metre in diameter. They're made from the same kind of paper that chinese paper lamp-shades are made from. The base is a circle of wire with four spokes. I tucked them under my arm and headed down for my appointment with Mook. I would pay for a massage but instead of having one I would take her down to the river. We could launch the khom lois, wave farewell to bad luck, float loi krathongs and please the river spirits. I was almost skipping with excitement when I arrived. She had finished her massage of the fat old American and was sitting next to him.

"Look," I crowed, "I've got us a pair of big khom lois. Let's go down to the river." She seemed more than a little hesitant. "Don't worry. You won't lose any money. I'll pay for a massage, even if it takes us more than an hour."

"I can't," she said.

"Why not?"

"I have a customer waiting," she gestured behind her at the doors to the oil-massage rooms.

I don't recollect exactly what went through my mind. I don't remember saying anything. She may have read my eyes.

"No, not later either. I'm booked up for the whole night."

I felt someone's hand on my arm.

"Come," it was Fon, "I can do it with you, if you like."

She wouldn't come down to the river with me though; apparently Mook would consider it too personal.

"She isn't my girlfriend," I needed to remind myself, "She won't mind."

"I know, but you don't understand. These girls can be funny about some things."

"Is it okay for you to give me an oil massage then?"

"Yes, that's okay. It's her fault. She was supposed to give you one."

Using thin wire, we each tied a ring of wax, about the same size as a ring doughnut, to the base of the sky lanterns where the spokes intersect. Then we set fire to the wax, waiting until the heat inflated the lanterns before releasing them. Mine lifted smoothly but Fon let hers go too soon and I had to sprint across the street to catch it before it got entangled in electrical cables. I owed her. It would not have been fair if her bad luck remained. I needed a smoke. I asked Fon if she minded waiting. I knew she was heavily in demand but she was fine about it. My defences were up. Was she being a little too kind? I stubbed it after a few drags and followed her. The room had four raised massage beds, when in use a curtain is drawn for privacy. No curtains were drawn. We were the only ones there.

"Where is Mook?" I asked as nonchalantly as I could, "Has she gone to her customer's house?"

"No she's in the other room. Have you never been there?"

"No. What's the difference?"

"In that one the beds are on the floor. I can take you next time."

Her massage was a good one, perhaps a little more sensual and intimate than Mook's had been, but my mind was elsewhere. It was responding to a challenge, one I had anticipated and prepared for, a sub-conscious effort of discipline; a release and a letting go, the first real test.

When I emerged for my cup of tea I recognised another of the customers; the young Canadian. He was leaving. Mook was talking to the cashier, frequently glancing back at me with a guilty grin. The Canadian was waiting out on the pavement. Mook disappeared into one of the back rooms. I sipped at my tea and remembered Fon saying that she had to leave me; another customer was waiting. I was waiting but what was the point? I knew what I would see.

I left and walked up the road, thirty paces, then turned and retraced a few. What for? I turned again. No. She at least should know that I knew. I headed slowly back and, with ten paces to go, she came out the door smiling brightly at the Canadian, her handbag slung over her shoulder. She saw me and I smiled at her as I walked past then crossed the road beyond. I turned and watched her follow him, a few yards behind, she may have hesitated. I haven't seen him since, but that would be called circumstantial evidence, even if his corpse were to be found. It would be a coincidence only in the context of this story.

I was smiling because I was smiling. I could feel life stirring and flowing past me like the wind through my hair (if I had any). I could sense a clearing of the passage of perception from my senses to my mind. I was seeing more shape in the shadows. It brought a tingle to my fingers and a shiver to my spine. I was exposed to an intense sensitivity of colour, flavour and scent and, perhaps also to the the progeny of fear and hope. I had passed the first test. I had taken a small step into innocence, into the source of creative power.

"I think, therefore I am." A painter transforms figments to a canvas. From a fresh perspective of space and time, a writer makes history anew. A city exists only as a vision before the houses, streets and alleys become a material reality. In their shadows and behind their doors is much which is unknown, whether it be covered by indifference or disguised by design. The spirits of Loi Kroh road may only roam within the innocent confines of our minds, but what cannot exist in the mind cannot exist anywhere in any way which has a meaning to us.

I had crafted the extra dimension of Mook's beauty as an external and transient spiritual essence which could release her once I had passed the summit of illusion. The beauty which cloaked Mook is the spirit of Loi Kroh Road. The spirit of Loi Kroh Road is my heart.

Secrets of Loi Kroh Road

The events in the story are true. The interpretation/perspective is subjective. The places are disguised. The incident with the Norwegian was in the old city - not in Loi Kroh Road. Mook is not her real name. She doesn't wear red sandals.

Secrets of Loi Kroh Road

I ignored a warning from a man who knew Loi Kroh Road better than I do. He wrote a book about it. His name is Alan Solomon and the book is called "The Mango Tree Café, Loi Kroh Road". This (in italics) is, more or less, what he wrote:

'Loi Kroh' means 'wash your bad luck away'. For many this has been the case, but most who have entered Loi Kroh Road found this interpretation to hold the reverse effect, particularly for the spiritually naïve. The story goes that when King Mengrai the Great founded the city of Chiang Mai in the year 1296, the superstitions of the East entered the city and lay in wait in the shadows of Loi Kroh Road where today, it is told, they still wait patiently.

If you do not know the street yet, but wish to feel its magic touch, take the walk but be warned: do so at your own peril. For if you feel the strong allure to enter it, be aware. It is a temptress that offers a stretch of broken tarmac, street dogs, cooked squid, street kids and girlie bars which possess strange mystic powers, and if you can conjure just a little of the ability to see the Sight or hear messages from beyond, you will never be the same again. This street named Loi Kroh Road leads men to rejoice and give thanks, or to destruction and confusion. Whatever may happen, visitors to Loi Kroh Road will never escape the fate it has in store for them. Take the risk and walk the street, or stay as far away as possible.

I stayed away. I stayed away for more than a month, and then, one afternoon, I took the walk. It was a disappointment, particularly after such a dramatic warning. I ditched my fear and walked again - nothing. Was there something I was missing?

I walk Loi Kroh almost every day now, often twice a day. I'm addicted. If I don't feel like making my own breakfast I walk it in the morning. It sleeps until late. Only the bars serving breakfast are open. The pavements are bare, the vendors, artists and craftsmen who furnish them are doing whatever they do when not on the street. The bars and massage parlours are being cleaned. The occasional call of "Massaaage" at that time of the morning is more a reflex of habit than an invitation. On the bridge over the canal a seemingly frail, toothless and ancient bicycle rickshaw driver always greets me with a delight which leaves a grin on my face. Somewhere along the street, I'm not telling you where, is a massage parlour, a respectable one; no erotic extras offered or provided. That's a disappointment to many, as the masseuses are the prettiest on the street. I tend to glance at the sandals in the doorway. Is there a bright red floral pair? The clue of their absence is seldom needed as at least one of the girls will rush out and say "Mook sleeping.", or "Mook busy." or "Mook not here yet." She usually is there in the early morning though, busy cleaning, then we wave at each other as I walk by or, if near the door, she comes out to greet me.

Loi Kroh Road is the red light district of Chiang Mai yet it's unlike any other I've been in. It's ruled by women. There is no pressure other than the sing-song calls of "Massaaage" and happy shouts of "Welcome" from the bar-girls. There are no bouncers, no pimps, no drugs and no theft. Motor-cyclists leave their helmets on the handlebars returning hours later, or even the next morning, without loss. There is no sense of sleaze, not to me anyway.

It's in the mornings when the Thai women garland their shrines. The women, not the men, often kneel and pray beneath them at random times of the day. They hold smouldering joss-sticks between their hands and seem oblivious of passers-by. I remember seeing a group of monks walking down Loi Kroh Road. Pay-for-play bar-girls and masseuses rushed out onto the pavement to kneel before them, the palms of their hands pressed in prayer. The monks chanted their blessings while the women gazed up at them with eyes of an innocence I've previously only associated with children.

I don't have the background to understand much of what I have witnessed on this street. The fabled superstitions and spirits of the East came with the women of the ancient Lanna Kingdom. It's the women who sustain them, and that's why they are still here, still waiting in the shadows, still as powerful and mysterious as they have always been, and it's only the women who know them. It is their secret. That's the way I see it.

A small bar/restaurant at the top of the street used to serve a superb English breakfast. Perhaps they still do. Unfortunately the lovely waitress/chef left when it was sold to the new owner. I haven't returned for another breakfast since. It's my form of protest. If the eye-candy leaves, so too will I. One evening I entered; thinking it was her I saw behind the counter. It wasn't but that's how I met Bayo; a friendly waitress with an unusually good command of English. So a few nights later I visited again, hoping to learn a little more of what goes on inside those pretty Thai heads.

Each of the three round wicker tables next to the pavement was occupied. Only one man was sitting at the largest. I asked and received his permission to sit at it. I asked Bayo for a Chang (local beer) and offered her a drink. She poured herself an orange juice and charged me for a cocktail, pocketing the difference. It obliged her to join me socially for as long as it took me to finish my drink. That's how it works in Chiang Mai. The company of a good waitress here is often better than that of a good date anywhere else.

Bayo sat on a chair between me and the other man. He was from Luxembourg; casually and fashionably dressed, perhaps a few years older than me, but fit and good-looking and with all his hair - Henry I think his name was. He was fuming, though initially he hid it well. His anger became more apparent after a couple of terse phone-calls from his girlfriend, his ex-girlfriend he insisted. He unburdened himself. She told him too many lies, is what he said. That intrigued me. Thai women are consummate liars according to the expat discussion forums. I watched Bayo's expressions from the corner of my eye while Henry told us of money that he had given to help with medical expenses for her mother. Then his girlfriend had sent him photographs of herself. She'd used the funds for cosmetic surgery.

She, the villain, meanwhile, was trying to find him, occasionally annoying him with another phone-call. He told us of a few more examples. Bayo offered sympathy but she didn't appear to see anything wrong with the girlfriend's actions. She often glanced at me with an expression which is as close to winking as one can get without actually doing it. Thais don't wink as far as I know. Perhaps she felt that Henry benefited more from his girl's improved looks than he would have from her mother's good health. She kept her own counsel though. It's a Buddhist thing; "Up to you," is the response you're likely to get when asking a Thai for advice, or "same same" when asking their opinion. When the infamous girlfriend appeared I did have to suppress a wolf-whistle. "Give me keys," she demanded grimly. Henry tossed them to her and she absconded with his motorbike, her young son riding pillion while he, all the more furious, was left behind to walk home.

Bayo is pretty with a neat figure and long slender legs. She wears very short mini-skirts. I tell you this because it is relevant to what happened next. She was dolled up with make-up and false eyelashes. She called it her cabaret look and claimed to wear modest outfits when not at work. She did ask me if it looked stupid. Of course I said no. Her job is to lure customers into the restaurant and to make them feel welcome. She does it vivaciously and well. That's why I was there, and the two men at the next table. One was Norwegian and had arrived in Thailand that same afternoon. It was only after Henry left that I noticed them though I registered little more than their presence.

"I think he is big man in his country," said Bayo about the Norwegian after serving them. I sent her off to get us another drink while I observed him. He noticed and briefly came over to introduce himself, friendly enough but there was an edge to his voice which hinted at antagonism. It didn't bother me and I remember little of what he said. I wasn't really interested, not until I realised that he was 'competing' with me for Bayo's attention. All he needed to do was to buy her a drink but he didn't know that.

He called Bayo over and told her that should she Google his name next time she was on the Internet; she would discover that he was famous and celebrated, even in New York. She stood at their table for a short while and then excused herself to come back and sit with me. A few minutes later he called her over again, this time showing her photographs of his chalet in Switzerland, and again she returned to me. Perhaps he noticed my amusement. I had consciously kept a straight face, but I'm no poker player. Perhaps my eyes betrayed me. Perhaps he considered me to be the obstacle to his conquest. He stalked over to my table.

"I'm a dangerous man," he said.

I leaned back and relaxed as I've been trained to do when confronting danger (it helps to deflect the energy of the first blow) and looked into his eyes. I've learned how to find the inner-rage in a man's eyes. This Norwegian had no more in him than a puffed up poodle.

"Are you threatening me?" I smiled.

"I am in the CIA. I can have you eliminated in 50 minutes," he snarled.

I picked up my almost empty glass and looked at it. "Well, I had planned to leave after this drink, but I don't want to rush you so I'll stay for another hour." I looked at my wrist. I'd left my watch at home. "Bayo, can you go inside and check what the time is, and while you're there please get us another drink."

A flower seller with a large bag of flowers diverted my attention and I patiently refused her persistent offers while the Norwegian returned to his table. I was thinking of how vulnerable I had been when I first walked Loi Kroh Road. It had seemed an insult to decline the sensual offerings from some of the loveliest women in the world. Whenever I accepted; in a setting conducive to intimacy I would learn intimate details of her life. I would know her name and she mine and it would be so much harder to reject her offer the next time I walked by. Then I would meet another. I was being sucked into a whirling cycle and it was spinning me dry. That's when I first saw Mook.

"No no it's too much!" Bayo's protest interrupted my reverie. The Norwegian had bought the delighted flower-seller's entire stock and was presenting it to Bayo. He insisted and she had little option but to carry them inside.

Mook's face defies my description. I've examined it many times with a determination to describe her features, yet each time I try, something mysteriously blanks my memory. Her father was Chinese. Her mother is Lanna. She has the almond eyes of the Lanna and the Chinese genes extend the slanting shadows further at the corners of her eyes. When working she wears big silver earrings of a simple design. Her hair is usually knotted around a large elaborately wrought silver hair-pin. When she loosens it, it flows fine, heavy and liquid like mercury. It reflects the illuminated paintings of Buddha and tigers which line the pavement. It flashes gold and red; synchronised to the lights of passing cars. Her beauty has a weird aura, as though it has been transported through a curtain of time, as though it has a separate independent existence, as though it is eternal. She wears it lightly, almost as a garment. She acknowledges and enjoys it but it doesn't define her. Once her hair reaches her buttocks (it may take another month); she will cut it off, braid it and gratefully offer it as a gift to Buddha, as she has always done.

Bayo was back at my table and the Norwegian, having realised that I had no romantic interest in her, was making frequent forays to kiss her hand and to whisper in her ear. It seemed to me that he was not doing himself any favours, while I slipped further into reverie.

With that surreal beauty; an offer of a massage from Mook is never refused and, having accepted her offer, the trapped customer is presented with a lesser (though still pretty and no less capable) substitute. It happened to me three times in a row. Eventually I told her that I would accept none other than her, neither at her shop nor at any other. She was delighted and that's how I was saved from my downward spiral. Somehow it seemed that the whole street knew, almost instantly, and most offers became simple greetings.

"I'm sorry," Bayo was speaking to me after another Norwegian hand-kissing ear whisper; "I can't stay here any longer."

A minute later a different waitress placed a bill on the Norwegian's table.

"What!" he shouted. "I don't want the bill. I want another drink... Okay I'm going to buy the bar! Where's the owner? I'll give him five million baht right now!" He marched inside, "and if I own the bar I own you," that must have been aimed at Bayo, "and you will have to do what I ask!" He stormed back out in less than a minute, once more to sit at his table, his brawny companion doing nothing other than to look apologetic.

I don't normally interfere in a foreign country but this was clearly an exception. I saw the surprise when I faced him eyeball to eyeball. After ten years of Tai Chi, I can move swiftly and smoothly without that initial lurch which alerts the opponent. "Thais are very polite and courteous people," I said quietly "but you need to tone it down right now." He didn't argue. By the time I got back to my seat he was lurching across the road, a glass still in his hand. On reaching the pavement he gave me a final malevolent look and disappeared into the shadows. A short cry of protest swivelled my head like a spectator at a tennis match. The flowers had been dumped on the table. A lynch-party of enraged Thais was being hastily pacified by the Norwegian's companion as he held up a couple of 100 baht notes with outstretched arms; recompense for the departed glass. The sense of aggression quickly abated into a round of excited Thai chatter and a few yells at the departed falangs. I couldn't follow any of it.

"We thought you were going to get into a fight," explained Bayo brightly, a pretty Thai smile back on her face.

"No. No, that was never going to happen," I didn't want the reputation of a brawler. I never have been. Calm returned and then I remembered I had a date - sort of; from a brief encounter with Mook on my way to visit Bayo.

She had emerged from a side-door wearing jeans and a T-shirt, not the traditional Thai baggy trousers and cotton top. She wasn't wearing make-up. I like her that way; then she seems merely human. "Bai nai? Where you going?" she had asked. It's a standard Thai greeting, almost a rhetorical question but I answered anyway, taking the opportunity to study her face, while the unearthly veil of beauty seemed to have temporarily lifted. Her face is not perfect. Her teeth protrude slightly but I like that. It gives a subtly pouting character to her mouth. Her face is not round yet it is a collection of curves; her eyebrows, her nose, her eyelids, her lips, her chin... Her skin is silky and flawless, neither a blemish nor a wrinkle. "Come back later," she said and I smiled and nodded at an invitation I could not refuse. "I'll wait for you," she called as I walked away, struck by the way her eyes had wandered over my face; same as mine had done. "Same same," a sing-song voice echoed through my mind.

I headed across the street into the same shadows where the Norwegian and his henchman were last seen. I wasn't concerned. The odds of my being 'eliminated' were remote; anyway longevity is no longer on my list of priorities. I have lived long enough if needs be. He had no leverage on me. There was no way he could harm me. I dismissed him from my mind as I headed for my rendezvous. Yes, I had better things to ponder; things like what kind of massage I would ask her for... I liked the idea of a Thai massage, and the thought of her wrestling my body till the joints clicked, and all tension was gone.

I saw the commotion from a distance. Mook's workmates were clustered around her. She still wasn't in her working clothes. She was still wearing jeans. Her hair was loose and mussed up like a wild black cloud swirling around her face and shoulders. There was blood on her T-shirt. I was only a few yards away when I saw the jagged gash which stretched from her nose to her ear. A heart-shaped bruise smudged her other cheek. She saw me coming and flashed a ravishing smile.

"We all going to Halloween party," she embraced her work-mates with a gesture. She stopped smiling and looked at me closely; "You scare me." The adrenalin had not yet drained from my veins. "Tonight I only give foot massage." The smile returned to her face "Follow me."

We entered a room with reclining chairs, about six of them; all but one occupied. I could see by the way the occupants gazed at Mook that she had tricked them, in the same way that she had first tricked me. She filled a basin with warm water and squeezed lime and dropped herbs into it. She knelt before me and bathed my feet. The rest of us stared at her as if in a trance, even her work-mates, and I began to understand.

It was the ancient spirits of the East. It was they who clung to her in a wispy cloak of divine beauty, and I understood why she was so unaffected by it. It didn't define her. She knew that. It defined them. That beauty which defies my description isn't hers, it is theirs.

I had learned one of the secrets of Loy Kroh Road.

Mook looked up into my eyes and chuckled.

Twice blessed

Lawan's parents were to have their house blessed. I was lucky enough to be invited. Their house is in Lamphun province, in a small village 100km south of Chiang Mai. It's a traditional teak one on stilts in a beautiful rural setting surrounded by rice paddies, orchards and a series of miniature mountains, their edges blurred by the trees of the jungle. Not many rooms, but all large; a kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, a big open-plan living area which had been cleared for the ceremony, and an open-air balcony with a table long enough to seat a score of diners.

The living area was criss-crossed by a suspended matrix of white cotton thread. At each intersection was a carefully coiled length which would descend to touch the head of every guest when the ceremony started. All threads connected to the top of a decorated tripod which was in front of two mattresses in the furthest corner.

Five monks arrived and were greeted with very deep wais (A wai is the Thai greeting which includes a bow while pressing hands together to bring them up to one's forehead). The Thai women do it very gracefully, taking a step back and bending their knees at the same time - similar to a curtsy and bow combined. A wai should always be returned, though Buddhist monks are not normally expected to. They are representatives of the Buddha and constitute the highest class in society. Even the king should wai them first when meeting in ceremony.

They sat on the mattresses in lotus positions. Everyone dropped to their knees and bent their backs, as it is considered disrespectful to have one's head higher than that of a monk. I went down on my knees but, as I was twice the size of anyone else, I didn't attempt to be lower. Lawan and her parents settled under the tripod after persistently inviting me to be the one under it. I declined more persistently. It was too much of an honour, besides there would not have been space for anyone else under it with me.

Incense and 180 candles were lit. We were each handed a posy of jasmine to hold between our palms. I touched the petals to my nose, breathing the fragrance. The monks passed on a message suggesting that I sit as I please as I may not be used to kneeling, but I was determined not to have special treatment. The most senior of them, perhaps the abbot, tied a chord of soft white cotton to the tripod and unravelled it so that it ran through each one of the monks' hands. They chanted for half an hour, the two seniors without assistance, the other three chanted while reading from pages which appeared to be made from bamboo, each one different in content and length. As each completed reading, his chant merged with those of the others' until the last of them finished his script. Once the chanting ended the abbot dipped a branch into holy water, looked me in the eyes for a moment with a humorous twinkle of reassurement, and tossed the drops over us. I was urged to approach him and he broke the chord from the tripod and blessed me with a different chant while he tied the cord in a bracelet around my left wrist, then restrained me as I turned away, to do a similar blessing for the right. Thereafter the others approached and received blessings. It's much the same as taking communion in a Christian church (something I've never done, not having been confirmed). It seemed I was given special treatment as not many were blessed on both wrists.

At the end of the blessing the monks were presented a simple banquet of rice, vegetables and fruit.The rest of us went out onto the balcony to a much more varied and spicy set of dishes. They included prawns, pickled octopus, various curries with sweet jellies as fire-extinguishers, bunches of what appeared to be herbs where the leaves were plucked and chewed, giving an astounding array of flavours. My favourite was thin slices of raw water-buffalo in a delicious salty marinade.

My offer to help with cleaning up was rejected with much amusement by the women, and mock-outrage by the men. So Kikie, Marco and I went for a walk up the road to look at the rice-paddies. It was Kikie who explained much of what was going on in the ceremony. Marco is besotted with her. I understood why. She is very pretty with a neat figure, quite glamorous and sophisticated - so it was a surprise when she described herself as a jungle-girl and within a few paces showed us the leaf of a plant which, when the stem is broken and blown upon, produces soap bubbles which float like thistles through the air, and a leaf to cure bad breath, and another where the sap can be used as a bandage, immediately producing a plastic-like film. She rubbed a leaf from a teak tree to show how it exudes a red dye, daubing it playfully onto her cheeks as war-paint. I asked her if she had grown up in the jungle and she said no, in a city. It may have been Bangkok. I can't remember exactly. She had been a Buddhist nun for a year. She had worked as a tour guide for seven years, and before that? She left school and her home at the age of 14 when Her father had died.

"Ah, To make money," I had confirmed prematurely.

"No," she said speaking for the first time without a smile, "To live."