ian the englishman is english, and speaks english.
better than i do. shit, better than WE ('murkins) do - a fact that i become aware of everytime i chat with anyone from that soggy little island system.

but,
i can't hear ian's english. ians english is being obscured by the english of another man, and the arabic of one more.

"WE HAVES SHOOSES! MANJOE, OR-ANJ! HERE NO BEERS! RAMADAN!!"

the irony of this last statement was not yet fully clear to me. the man screamed it to me, because the 3rd man, the arabic speaker, was singing his arabic into a microphone, which was attached to a primative looking keyboard, which fed a massive 5th rate stereo system.


--


now ive seen different permutations of this stereo setup before, from cuba to vietnam. while some parts may change, the constant element is an old 3 foot single black speaker with a large paper cone woofer(ripped, moldy). deficiencies in the actual quality of the sound reproduced are made up for by a relative increase in the quantity of the sound. (in me this creates deep, animal terror)

these black matte speaker boxes are shocktroops of globalization. they exist to amplify unbelievably abrasive/repetative local pop music and create a kind of "party!" environment. they achieve this magically, wherever they are placed - be it on top of an oil drum, over by the donkey, in the street, on whoevers car that is, etc.

stepping within the range of one of these fun-boxes puts you into party-fun-space - where anything can happen - and where all paths toward SEX begin. in thailand, i found myself in bars among sullen looking young thai men with trendy haircuts and silk shirts. they were sitting silently, enduring 150,000,000,000 decibals of pop coming from 3 speakers that took up about one fifth of the 10 seater bar. unable to even communicate with the bartender, they just sat there in the searing treble, looking satisfied to be in party-fun-space, yet unable to talk about it.
i drank my beer outside.


--


here tho, in what we -thought- was a back-alley bellydancing club of questionable reputation, a giant fat man with salt and pepper hair and moustache and a huge fuzzy sweater was singing into the system. tonight, there was no bellydancing.

but

there were women. with bellies.

i mean of course! this was party-fun-space!

"IAN!"
"WHAT?!"
"IAN WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS PLACE?"
"WHAT?"
"I DONT THINK THERES BELLYDANCING!"
"WHAT?? I CANT FUCKIN HEAR A WORD YOU ARE SAYING!"
"WHAT?"
"WHAT?"

a not unattractive woman wearing a green and yellow gown of unclear purpose brought us mango juices. she smiled at ian in the way that suggests other services.

"OH SHIT."
"WHAT?"
"WHAT?"
"WHAT?"

the place was empty, aside from us and the singer - who was now torturing us directly - and several robed women, who were milling about, occassionally looking towards us. off to the right was a door to a kitchen where dirty dishes piled high. to the left was a yellowing and dim staircase, ascending towards one of party-fun-space's possible outcomes. and behind us was the door.

"HELLO MEESTAR.."
"OHSHIT!"

the robed woman were clustered around behind ian who was inspecting some kind of sacraligously used Christmas ornamentations which wrapped themselves around the chipping walls of the small club. in one of the strangest and inexlicably disturbing acts of lewdness i have ever seen, fully clothed women of differing girth and attractivity reached out and apprehenisvely touched the locks on the back of ian's head. the touching was slow, tremulous, E.T. style

"MEESTAR.."

in a muslim country during ramadan, this was boot-nasty, and in the strangest way. my total sobriety, the fact that the woman was wearing several layers of clothing, and the disparity of the message and the intended message short-circuited something in me. i had been much less disturbed by women shooting razorblades from their vaginas in bangkok. (actually, that wasn't disturbing at all - that was totally awesome)

"MEESTAAR.."

for reasons i am still coping with, i became jealous that my own hairs didn't get. .. handled.

"IT'S RAMADAN IS IT?"
"WHAT? LETS FINISH OUR FUCKING JUICE!"
"WHAT? LETS FINISH OUR JUICE AND LEAVE!"
"WHAT?"
"WHAT?"
"WHAT?"


what?