The blonde tourist took her picture

before she walked towards my tuktuk,

pink-cheeked from the heat

and pressed colour. 
Filipina, she confirmed.

That was all it took to charge her 300 baht less.
First, I’d have to take her to the silver shop.

She thought it was a fine idea.

(It was compulsory to the deal.)

Three temples should make her happy.
I took her to the holy white marble,

what was once the highest holy point

in Bangkok, then a sacred enclave

where she would get (enough of) peace.
I waited for her in parking spaces

while she surveyed the artefacts of

my religion. They may not deliver her

from clichés of momentary relief.
Nothing memorable can be said

in English, though I wanted to tell her

that Manila was probably

not too different from my city. 
I went on being a driver

as she gave and withdrew smiles from

the traffic, an attraction of my daily travels.

Khob khun kha. Kamusta. Sawasdee. Salamat.
I could sense similarities in our tongues,

unnecessary trivia.

                                 But she could mean something else.