Matt Owens Rees

Beyond the Bamboo Curtain

It seemed like longer, but Toy and I had been together for only nine days. Were we going too fast? Was I going too fast? Did I know enough about her after such a short time?

Much of what I’d gleaned about Thailand had come from internet forums and from Richard’s blunt—but possibly factual—observations.

It was early days for me to start thinking for myself. I was anyway captivated by Toy.

In two days’ time I would be boarding a plane back to England. I was going to find it hard to leave her after such an enjoyable time together. Was this going to be just a holiday romance?

A fling soon to be forgotten? I hoped not.

Was it fair on Toy for us to get so involved when I had yet to sort out the sale of the house in England? Without that sale, I would not be able to return to Thailand or to Toy.

That was going to be difficult for me to come to terms with. I believed she felt the same. I definitely hoped so.

I had become drunk on the national culture, the sun, the food, and the people. Toy had shown so much love and care towards me. I had been so heartless in my first days to doubt her.

I was facing a reality check. Would I see her again once this holiday was over? I wanted time to stop and think. I needed to sort my life out—and I wanted that life to include Toy.

It all depended on the house sale. I couldn’t get away from that. I’m not sure Toy saw the problem as clearly as I did.

To distract myself from the emotions I was feeling, I suggested paying a visit to Mali’s half-built home and spent some time at Pakpao’s house warming.

There were so many of her friends there that it became more of a farewell bash for me than anything else. It took my mind off my real thoughts.

Perhaps I was mistaking typical Thai friendliness and thinking too much that I was the centre of attention.

Thais make farangs feel important at weddings and funerals. It does not take anything away from the actual event itself.

On my last day, there was a distinct silence. Neither of us were acknowledging that the day of my leaving had arrived.

To reassure Toy, I handed her some summer clothes, saying I wouldn’t need them in England’s cold climate—but I would need them when I returned.

Looking into her eyes, I could see that this small gesture comforted her. It may also have signalled that she knew she had me hooked.

Without saying a word to each other, we sat quietly as we journeyed to the airport. After checking in my luggage, we made our way to the departure lounge hand in hand.

Kanya and two of her friends were waiting to see me off. It was a nice thought—and meant that Toy wouldn’t be alone on leaving the airport.

I am not very good at leave-taking so I quickly kissed Toy and assured her that I would return. I did not know whether she believed me or not. Were my words empty of meaning?

On later reflection, I think her female intuition would have told her
that what Kanya had referred to as “a new husband for yourself and a father for me” was becoming true.

Toy, Kanya, and her friends gave me the traditional wai and I walked briskly through the gate to departures.

With just one quick glance over my shoulder and a wave to the lady I knew I was going to miss dearly, I walked out of their view.

Was I also walking out of their lives? I admitted to myself that the home sale, my health, my relationship with my son, and the state of my finances had to be considered.

If my health deteriorated, I would not be able to stay in my job at the bank. Could I then afford to emigrate? Could I leave my son?

I cannot put it in plain words to you, but I felt that Toy was convinced we would eventually be together.

In less than twenty minutes, I was high over the Thai countryside, and in just over two hours, I was on my connecting flight back to London and an uncertain future.

I recalled over and over again the little things that Toy had done to make my trip so enjoyable and relaxing.

Setting the air conditioning vents in the car in my direction, the laundering of my clothes, making sure I was always in the shade, ensuring my glass was full of water at all times, and much more.

I slept during most of the flight and my dreams were of Toy and Thailand.

After a stressful trek through Heathrow airport, and an uncomfortable journey across the London underground, I eventually boarded the train for Sussex.

On arriving home, I opened the door to my room and fell exhausted into an armchair. Ignoring the mail that was waiting for me.

I made myself a cup of tea and sent a text to Toy to say I had got home safely.

I could not help thinking about my journey from London to the South Coast and comparing it to my time in Thailand.

My first day exploring the sois around my hotel, stumbling and tripping over the brightly painted umbrellas of the street vendors, and the smiles and laughter from those around me.

The exasperation and commotion at Heathrow was a vivid contrast. No smiles, no helpful responses if you were lost or needed help.

There seemed to be lots of people complaining but getting nowhere; very different from the Thai people’s more carefree and helpful attitude of mind.

It is true that I had returned to the UK totally refreshed, relaxed and more confident, but the nagging question was why did I feel so different?

When comparing the western way and the Thai way my first impressions were that Thais appear to have a more stress free life style and take day-to-day events less seriously than we do.

Was this different outlook on life having such an influence on me?

I was due to see my doctor a few days after returning from abroad. After examining me, he seemed pleased that the medications he had given me had worked so well.

He said I seemed much less tense, more relaxed than he had ever seen me before. Yes, he was pleased that the medication he had prescribed had been so successful.

Medications, medications. What medications? I tried to hold back a smile. I had not taken one single tablet during my whole time in Thailand with Toy.

I had had no need of his prescriptions. I had returned to the UK with the same number of pills that I had packed in my case when I left.

He was about to sign me off as fit to return to work, when he suggested he take my pulse and listen to my chest.

All was not well and he suggested I take an ECG to check out my heart. I left the surgery with an appointment card to see a specialist at the first available opportunity.

I was in daily contact with Toy but wondered whether I should tell her of this new development or not?

There was still no news on the house sale.

I recalled over and over again the little things that Toy had done to make my trip so enjoyable and relaxing.

Setting the air conditioning vents in the car in my direction. Laundering my clothes. Making sure I was always in the shade.

Ensuring my glass was full of water at all times. And much more.
I slept during most of the flight, and my dreams were of Toy and Thailand.

When comparing the Western way and the Thai way, my first impressions were that Thais appear to have a more stress-free lifestyle and take day-to-day events less seriously than we do.

Was this different outlook on life having such an influence on me?

It was not long before I met my ex-wife in the garden. She came at me with an outburst of very coarse language.

I took a lesson from the Thais. I smiled and walked away. From now on, I was going to avoid conflict.

I was due to see my doctor a few days after returning from abroad. After examining me, he seemed pleased that the medications he had given me had worked so well.

He said I seemed much less tense, more relaxed than he had ever seen me before. Yes, he was pleased that the medication he had prescribed had been so successful.

There was still no news on the house sale.

Between Smiles and Silence
A Cultural Reflection from Derek’s Journey

In the West, we speak plainly. We confront problems, seek solutions, and value transparency.

But lately, even that’s changing. Restraint is creeping in—not from tradition, but from fatigue. From not wanting to get involved.

In Thailand, restraint is the norm. Avoid conflict. Do not confront.

A restraint that I adopted when my ex-wife burst into her rude and obnoxious swearing fit. I smiled and walked away.

A Thai smile doesn’t always mean happiness. It can mask discomfort, sadness, even anger. But showing emotion—especially negative emotion—is rarely done. Silence speaks louder.

I didn’t know this at first. I arrived in Thailand with Western instincts—questioning, analysing, trying to make sense of things aloud.

Toy, my quiet companion in those early days, didn’t explain the temple rites. She didn’t push back when I doubted her.

She showed care in quiet ways—a glass of water placed without a word, a shaded seat offered before I asked, a freshly laundered shirt folded with care.

I chose not to tell Toy about my heart concerns. Not to hide anything, but out of grengjai—an instinct to protect her from worry she couldn’t ease.

My doctor saw the change. Less tension. More calm. A man who hadn’t touched his medication in nine days.

Was it the climate? The food? The company?

Or was it the culture itself—one that values emotional control, quiet gestures, and the preservation of harmony instead of airing the truth?

In Thailand, emotional intelligence isn’t measured by what you say.
It’s measured by what you choose not to say.

And without realising it, I had begun to speak Thai.

Not through language. But through silence.