Bangkok Farmer (Missing The Isaan)

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a farmer's lament in the middle of Bangkok

I’m a Thai farmer. Only problem is I live in the middle of Bangkok. Only other problem is I live in the Bangkok Hilton. And that is THE Bangkok Hilton. Only other problem is my daughter gives me viagra every day.

      I miss the buffaloes. I miss the tussocky Isaan countryside. A good plate of tom yam gop* was one of my favourites. Ants eggs were delicious. Fried lice not rice were also great. I miss the burning harsh whiskeys.

      It’s OK in the Bangkok Hilton but as I say problematic.

      My daughter who loves me to bits comes home at four in the morning. At nine she orders beefburgers, hamburgers, French fries and colas. It’s a hard life being an Isaan farmer in the Hilton.

      When will it end? I’m in prison here, and not even my language is my own. Look at how I’m speaking. Like a toffee-nosed farang**.

      As for viagra and her selected friends, well, you know, I’m sick and tired of it all. “Overdose?” did I hear you say. Yes I’ve thought of that. Twenty-five viagra and then a nice, short heart-attack, the wat***, the cremation, and the Isaan buffaloes bellowing their grief from Udon to Nakhon to Saraburi and on to this damned, wretched, five-star hotel.

*frog soup

**contemptuous but always-present name for a foreigner

***temple

 

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