..and I'm home earlier than usual because I have a cat.
You see, pets aren't allowed in my apartment block, and I happen to be living in the apartment that has the only manhole to get up into the roof, which is where all the wiring are.
So after the estate agents called me requesting access into the apartment, I raced home as fast as I could.
But, thanks to my girlfriend's mum, she got here before I did and hid our cat in our bedroom. Crisis averted.
Anyways, I'm here now, at home, with the cat hidden in the bedroom while electricians walk in and out of the apartment leaving me with nothing else better to do, so, to pass the time, let me tell you a story of a young boy who walked the streets of Bangkok on his own.
The year was 1995.
Home was this building deep in the catacombs of Bangkok.
This building had a lot of 'live in' staff.
It housed a factory, a factory with machines that produced clothes.
Most staff members lived in little rooms tucked in corners throughout the factory.
Those that didn't have rooms just camped out on the floors of the factory. Most used industrial stock rolls of fabric as blankets and pillows.
Yes, I lived in one of these.
I believe they are called sweat shops from a western point of view, but for us, it was more like boarding school.
I was always rushing home so I didn't miss dinner time at the factory.
Most nights I was late because I went to school on the other side of Bangkok, and the fact that the traffic in Bangkok doesn't allow cars to go faster than 50 kilometers an hour at the best of times meant that I was always going to be late home, regardless.
Because of this, I had to hit the streets myself to find dinner, with a handful of cash to buy a meal and a pocket knife for protection.
I was eleven.
To make my life a bit easier, I would make friends with the street vendors, the shopkeepers, the local kids and the stray dogs. Even the shady characters in the dark alley ways recognized who I was,
'the neighborhood kid';
not poor enough for the slums, but not rich enough to have his own bed, yes, I shared a bed, ..but at least I had one.
No one gave me trouble.
Through their eyes, I was one of them. Struggling, but not crying about it.
Suffering, but smiling through it.
We'd look out for each other because we were all we had.
Being selfish wasn't an option if you wanted to survive here.
I would walk through lanes where illegal activity were conducted; hustlers, alcoholics and dealers of certain products.
The ice cream vendor was even in on it, whom at night had a side business in the gambling industry, conveniently embedded in his cart. I would put a punt or two just for kicks if I passed him on the streets.
I never won any money, but he always gave me a free popsicle so I didn't leave empty handed.
That night, I was deep in the slums bringing food for my friend who didn't have any dinner to eat.
For that night, no one had to go to sleep hungry, and no one had to feel like they were in it alone.
When I came home, the owner of the factory had already locked down the building, but one of the metal doors was still open.
He was waiting there for me to return, and he wasn't pleased that he had to wait.
Needless to say, he had put the fear of god in me afterwards for breaking curfew.
But, at least I went to bed knowing my friend had something to eat.
As I reminisce, I am reminded that:
In the poorest of places resides the most generous of people.
..and that my childhood was full of valuable lessons, in which I'm slowly understanding now.
(The above photo is me with my friends. I'm the one on the far left getting down on the shot. Nothing has changed much lol)
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