If the rainy season is not the best time to arrive at any place near the equator, to
arrive at Ban Dung during the height of the rains is the epitome of insanity. In the
middle of a colossal downpour, a battered Land Rover made its way, through the liquid mud
of the road until it sputtered to a halt in front of the house. The driver and passenger
got out of the car and unloaded the passenger’s luggage. The two suitcases and briefcase
posed no problems but the cardboard box had absorbed all the humidity in the air during
the long trip from Bangkok and now, under assault from the torrential rain, it threatened
to end its existence right there, on the footsteps of its destination. Between both men
however they managed to carry it into the house before its walls dissolved into pulp,
spilling its contents inside the house rather than on the mud outside. The Land Rover
sloshed its way back while the passenger picked up the contents of the box, mostly liquor
and kitchen utensils, depositing them on the nearest table.
The passenger, a man in his late thirties or early forties took stock of his
surroundings. Like many of the houses in this part of the country, it consisted of a
square platform, on short stilts that kept it raised above the ground, or mud in this
case. Its roof, he was happy to note, was thatched palm fronds which absorbed the noise of
the rain, rather than aluminum sheets that would magnify it until into an artillery
barrage. Under the roof, a wide veranda surrounded the rooms, which opened out on it
rather than into an inner corridor. There were two bedrooms, a living room or office,
judging by the bookcases that lined its two solid walls, and a dining room. The small
bathroom, tucked away between the bedrooms contained a lavatory, sink and cold water
shower stall. A refrigerator sat by the bathroom with a large freezer beside it. Several
bottles of mineral water and Singha beer had been thoughtfully left inside for him.
Cooking, as was usual in Thailand, was done outside, under an aluminum roofed shed in the
patio. He looked at the charcoal stove in the shed and groaned.
‘I need a maid’ he thought.
Even though the temperature was warm, even hot, he shivered in his soaked clothes.
He took both suitcases into one of the rooms, and changed into dry shorts and a white
T-shirt. He took a bottle of scotch, found a glass inside one of the cabinets in the
living room and ice in the refrigerator. Before he poured the scotch, he picked a beer,
opened it and drained it in two or three gulps. He exhaled with pleasure and then belched
loudly, twice. Pouring a rather large shot of liquor, he sat in the living room, watching
the rain.
“This is why they do the interviews in the dry season” he mused aloud.
He woke up, startled by the silence. The rain had stopped. It was daylight. He
slipped out from under the mosquito net and groaned. His head hurt. He needed coffee.
Unfortunately, the one thing he could not find was a coffee maker. He opened all the
cabinets in the living room where the half empty bottle of Johnnie Walker explained his
headache, and found a kettle, blackened by soot, and a tea pot, but no coffee maker. He
groaned again. Two aspirins and a shower later, still bleary eyed, he made his way
outside. A small Toyota Rav 4 made its way up the road towards his house. He recognized
the driver.
“Hi John,” he greeted the newcomer.
“Need a lift?”
The driver was a man of about the same age, with the brown color that white people
who have lived in the tropics a long time acquire, sort of like a pig roast that stayed
too long in the oven waiting for the guests to arrive. Paul sat on the passenger seat of
the small four wheel drive.
“I thought you might need this,” John handed him a travel mug filled with coffee.
Clutching it with both hands, as a drowning man grasping a life ring, Paul drank
the hot liquid, his eyes closed.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
John dropped Paul at the mining company’s office where he worked.
“Come for dinner tonight,” John offered.
“Nonsense!” John replied to his friend’s objections, “You don’t even have any food
in the house, nor anyone to cook for you, and don’t tell me you know how to work that
charcoal stove.”
“OK. I leave at five thirty.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
The monsoon rains started on schedule at four and at five thirty, just at the same
time the small Rav4 arrived at the door of the mining company. Paul dashed to get into the
car but could not avoid getting soaked by the warm rain. The ride to his friend’s house
was uneventful and they soon ran from the car into the covered veranda that surrounded
John’s house. Like Paul’s, this house had the open plan that was so common in the region,
with three rooms and a library in the center, and the living and dining areas spread
around on the veranda. The kitchen area was outside the house, in a shack that was
slightly more substantial than Paul’s but essentially the same. They both got soaked again
by the pouring rain before they could reach the protection of the veranda.
Two stunning young women stood on the veranda and bowed ceremoniously to receive
them.
“Paul: these are Mai and Bai,” Paul said pointing to the two women. Mai appeared to
be the oldest and Bai the youngest although they both had the ageless appearance so common
in the Orient.
“I can’t pronounce their names,” Paul commented while heading to his bedroom, “so
that’s what I call them. Follow Bai to the other bedroom and get some dry clothes on.”
Paul followed the giggling girl to one of the bedrooms where she handed him a
towel. While he dried his head she produced a pair of khaki shorts and a shirt.
Unfortunately she showed no interest whatsoever in leaving the room so he could change.
When he removed his wet shirt, the girl wrapped the towel around his body and rubbed him
down until he was dry. As soon as she finished, she began to unbutton his shorts despite
his efforts to squirm out of her reach. All the time, she babbled something unintelligible
in her own language and giggled when the older man could not understand a word she said.
“I know you speak English,” Paul said, frustrated. “Please leave my shorts alone.”
She replied with fluent gibberish and succeeded in unbuttoning his pants and
pulling them down.
He grabbed for the towel and his wet boxers at the same time. He was able to keep
his boxers on, but only for a while, as the young girl continued rubbing him dry. He
managed to hide behind the towel while she offered him the pair of dry shorts, although he
thought that she did get more than a gander at the erection that had, somehow, appeared
between his legs and was only partially contained by the thick canvas of the jungle
shorts. Finally, without further affronts to his dignity, he put his shirt on and made
good his escape. Bai picked up his pants, shirt and boxers and, still yapping gibberish,
took them away.
There was no one in the living section, so Paul sat down to wait. Bai arrived a few
moments later and brought him a beer. While he relished it, the young woman opened a
closet, pulled out a bottle of Gin and made him a perfect Gin and tonic. Then, in perfect
English, she excused herself.
He picked up the International Herald Tribune and entertained himself by reading
the news while waiting for his friend.
The smell of charcoal and wet earth wafted through the veranda as the rain began to
slack.
“We should wait until it stops raining before we eat,” John said, entering the
living.
Mai followed bringing him a cold beer. She also prepared a gin and tonic for him
before leaving.
They both watched the rain dwindle down to a drizzle. The sound of frogs and the
buzzing of insects surrounded them. John opened a cedar box, took out a small cigar and
offered one to Paul.
“You, a doctor, smoke?” Paul asked taking one.
“Only cigars,” he exhaled a thick cloud of aromatic smoke, “I like it, and it keeps
the mosquitoes away.”
As if on cue, Bai returned bearing two mosquito coils that she placed strategically
around the two men. Sweet smelling smoke wafted from the lit ends of the green spirals.
She lit citronella torches around the veranda and left.
The two women soon returned bearing trays of food which they arranged on a low
table near the two men. They served fragrant white rice on china bowls and scooped
generous helpings of stew on top for both men, leaving the bowls, silverware and two
frozen steins of beer near them.
“Go ahead and dine Mai, don’t wait for us.”
The two women served themselves and, taking their bowls, silverware, and a glass of
beer apiece, they retired to a corner of the veranda, within earshot in case they were
needed, and began eating the succulent food.
After a few moments, John said:
“You need to buy yourself a girl.”
Paul choked, spraying a cloud of gin and tonic on the waxed teak floor. The girls
laughed covering their faces with their hands.
“I’m serious; you need someone to take care of your house, to cook for you, and so
on.”
“I know that,” Paul answered, “I shall hire a maid as soon as I can find one.”
They began to eat the spicy fish stew flavored with coconuts and nam prik.
“Good luck trying that,” John said between mouthfuls.
“Hmm? What do you mean?”
“I mean that the women don’t generally work outside of the fields, and having
babies; that’s what I mean.”
Paul gestured with his head at the two women sitting cross legged at the edge of
the veranda, “You did not seem to have much of a problem finding help.”
“That’s because I bought them.”
Paul managed not to choke on his curry this time. The women continued eating their
dinner but he suspected they were playing close attention to their conversation. For one
thing, unlike women everywhere in the world, these two were eating in silence.
John pushed his empty bowl away and Paul did the same. Mai brought them a cold
mango sherbet which cooled and refreshed their palates after the spicy stew.
“I don’t understand.”
Both women cleared the table, poured glasses of scotch and lit cigars for the men
before removing themselves to the farthest visible corner of the veranda where they sat
and conversed in their own language, their musical voices providing a human counter tone
to the forest’s cacophony of frogs, insects and night flying birds.
John took a long sip of his drink and explained:
“What do you know of the missing girls of Asia?” he asked rhetorically.
Paul shook his head.
“There are about two million missing women in Asia, perhaps more.”
Paul shook his head again, wondering where this was leading to and what it had to
do with ‘buying’ a girl, “I don’t understand.”
“In theory, there are just about as many baby boys as baby girls born, in any given
population. In Asia, boys are preferred very much over girls, to the extent that in China
and in India too, girl pregnancies are much more likely to be aborted than a pregnancy
carrying a male.”
Paul sucked on his cigar.
“In India, it is actually illegal for a doctor to tell a mother the sex of her
unborn child, because so many girl pregnancies were being terminated.”
“OK,” Paul still was unclear what this was about.
“More boys than girls are born; unwanted girls are sold by their parents as soon as
they can get rid of them, all over Asia,” John continued, “to strangers, for use as maids,
or for the sex trade; when they are not murdered outright.”
Paul began to understand.
“In this part of Asia, the opposite happens. More girls are born than boys,” John
exhaled another cloud of gray smoke, “As soon as a man has one or two boys, all his wives
produce girls, one a year, for each wife.”
“They abort the boys?”
“Sometimes; they may also have some traditional medicine to help the women conceive
girls. At least I see many more female pregnancies on ultrasound than male ones.”
“As soon as the girls come of age, they sell them. It is the main cottage industry
in this place,” John concluded.
“So you bought these two?”
“Yep.”
“What happens when you leave?”
The girls, perhaps realizing they were talking about them, had crept closer to the
two men.
“You can take them with you, sell them, or even leave them behind; someone will
pick them up.”
| 
