I won’t be a clear-cut process, though. It’s not all about figures. We’ve all seen street markets thrive in the shadow of monster malls, which leads me to think that capitalism in Thailand is less ruthless and more community-oriented. Massage girls are not hookers per se, but they are somewhat part of the industry. I’ve met four or five and they all seemed pretty laid back. They can always take a break, or make a phone call and hop on a bus. They have contacts here and there. Bangkok means money and also big city troubles. One of these girls told me that the capital is for the more extrovert kind. “Bitch” was her English word of choice. Farang are a rare sight upcountry. Outside campus, days or even weeks can go by without any western face crossing my path. We aren’t any worse than the Thais, I suppose, but we have none of that community-oriented gentleness that Thailand is famed for and thus we are far more intimidating. This girl is not at all intimidated. She’s only here for the night. Tomorrow she’s going back home, she’s got work and family across the Laotian border. She’s Lao, it turns out. She doesn’t look it. She’s fair-skinned and tall and voluptuous —I was thinking Chiang Mai or a mixed ethnic background that is attractive no matter where you’re coming from. She checks my directorial debut and provides commentary. She then produces her phone and shows me a picture of a house on fire in Vientiane, a very dramatic scene. I know the place. It’s next to that busy bar on the roof, the one overlooking the market and the Mekong. She says it’s next to her house too. Her family must be doing well with all the Thai money she brings. Then she says, half-jokingly as they do, come with me tomorrow.