The afternoon rains have ended leaving the air briefly free of smog and allowing that distinctive Thai perfume, frangipani with a faint note of sewage, to waft over the shiny streets. It’s the early evening. I hail a tuk-tuk, a 3-wheel motorcycle taxi, and hop aboard. My young driver has an entrepreneurial smile as his turns around.
“So….you want girl?”
“No.”
“I see.”
Long pause, eyebrows slowly raised. “You want boy!”
“Uh, no.”
Longer pause. Sound of engine sputtering at idle. “You want ladyboy?”
“No.”
“I got cheap cigarettes…Johnnie Walker...”
“No thanks.”
Voice lowered. “You want ganja?”
“No.”
“Coke?”
“No”
“Ya baa (methamphetamine tablets)?”
“Nope.”
A whisper now. “Heroin?”
“No.”
Voice raised back to normal. “I can take you to cockfight. You can gamble!”
“I’ll pass.”
Just a little bit irritated now. “So, farang, what you want?”
“Prik noo,” I respond. “Those little mouse shit peppers. I want some good, spicy dinner.”
As we tear through the streets to the restaurant, blasting through puddles, I’m left wondering- aside from various shades of illegality, what do these offers have in common? What is it, exactly, that makes a vice?