Matt Owens Rees

Part 2: Derek lands at Bangkok International Airport.

“Wake up, sir. We’re serving breakfast”.

The smiling flight attendant helped me lower the tray and placed a plate of bacon and eggs in front of me. She wore a long silk dress in traditional Thai style.

All the cabin crew looked immaculate, and the female staff were—well, let’s just say they weren’t hired for their ability to go unnoticed. They were drop-dead gorgeous.

I glanced out of the window. Thailand. My first glimpse.
Since accepting Toy’s invitation, I’d spent hours online reading everything I could about the country and its culture.

I was hooked. Addicted, even. But was I only seeing the glossy side of Thailand?

There were plenty of cautionary tales. Stories of money-hungry Asian women luring supposedly rich Western men with promises of love, only to move on once the cash dried up.

The narrative was familiar: Thai women hopping from one foreigner to the next, treating each as a walking ATM—until the card was declined.

Then it was goodbye love, goodbye money, goodbye farang.

Forums and books like Private Dancer by Stephen Leather were full of these accounts. Some were clearly exaggerated, but others rang true.

I looked around the cabin. Several foreign men sat alone. I wondered how many of them might end up heartbroken and broke. Would I be one of them?

Were Toy and Kanya after a sugar daddy? I didn’t think so. I was convinced they weren’t.

The aircraft began its descent. I felt a flutter of nerves. I’d given Toy my full flight details—she’d promised to meet me in Chiangmai, on the second leg of my journey from Bangkok to Chiangmai.

After touchdown in Bangkok, I stretched my legs through the concourse and headed for the restroom. The mirror didn’t lie.

Uncombed hair, unshaven face, crumpled clothes. Derek, you look like a man who’s been dragged through a Parisian sewer backwards.

I’d sent Toy a carefully chosen photo of myself. Now I doubted she’d recognise me. I’d brought cheeses from the UK—Camembert and Stilton—in my hand luggage.

Blaming my body odour on them was a stretch. I doubted Toy would be fooled.

Visiting the Duty Free

With just over an hour before my flight to Chiangmai, I needed a quick fix. I couldn’t do much about my appearance, but perhaps a visit to the duty-free perfume counters might help. I sampled everything.

In my haste, I hadn’t realised I’d been holding my cabin bag in my right hand the entire time. Only my left side had received the barrage of aftershave.

On arriving at Chiangmai, we were bussed out to a smaller plane. We walked the last hundred yards. I was still sweating. The Thai passengers didn’t seem to mind.

Inside the air-conditioned cabin, I sipped orange juice and tried not to fall asleep. Jet lag was creeping in.

My mind started racing. Would Toy be there? Would I recognise her? Would she recognise me? Would we understand each other? I spoke almost no Thai, and her English was passable at best.

Would she like me? Would I like her? Possibly not, judging by the mirror back in Bangkok. And what about the bouquet of fragrances wafting from my left side?

After landing, I passed through Immigration without a problem and walked toward the Customs post.

They waved me through—perhaps because I looked like a sweaty, dishevelled English tramp who’d just emerged from a sewer, depending on which side you stood.

I approached the frosted glass doors leading to the arrivals concourse.

Was Toy giving me some hints

Toy had booked a hotel near her school and the airport. Was that a hint I could retreat if things went south? I had the hotel name in my wallet. If she didn’t show, I could explore Chiangmai alone—or book a return flight.

But she wasn’t there. No sign of Toy or Kanya. Most of the waiting crowd were Thai, but no mother-daughter duo stood out.

Maybe she’d been delayed? I couldn’t call her—my Thai mobile was giving me strange messages in Thai but not connecting to her number.

I decided to wait an hour. If she didn’t appear, I’d reassess. Sitting alone in the arrivals hall, I felt heartbroken and confused.

What did I really know about this woman who used an English nickname instead of her Thai name? Things were starting to look suspicious?

Her family lived near the Burmese border. Was she really Thai? Was Tasanee even a Thai name? Had she really worked on a neighbour’s rice farm, cared for water buffalo, and made rice sweets to fund her education?

That’s what she’d told me. Had I been played? Was she genuinely interested in friendship—or had she got cold feet?
One hour passed. I was close to tears.

A young lad approached.

“Can I help you, sir?”
“Not really. I’ve been waiting for someone for over an hour and she’s not turned up.”

“Did you come off the Bangkok flight?”
“Yes.”

“She’s probably waiting at Domestic Arrivals. Happens all the time. People don’t realise that passengers with checked-through luggage from abroad are directed to International Arrivals.”

Dragging my case through to the Domestic concourse, I heard a buzz of voices. I walked slowly toward the crowd holding name boards. They had their backs to me, watching the domestic door. I was coming from the wrong direction.

Then I saw them. Two slim Thai women with flowing black hair. Toy had sent photos and detailed descriptions—height, weight, everything. She was meticulous.

Nervously, I approached, tapped one on the shoulder, and said, “Hello, Toy. Surprise, surprise.”

They turned and held up their name card. My name wasn’t on it. I’d made a mistake. I apologised.

Then I heard it.
“Dee rick, Dee rick.”
I turned and saw her. The woman who had captivated me online.