Closer to the city the expressway is blocked with commuters – cars and trucks are back to back and the congestion is cemented. We are stuck in the middle of the famed Bangkok traffic. We sigh in frustration, wondering just how much of our patience will be tested in the next few weeks. We hope that by living in Sathorn we will avoid traffic, opting instead to walk everywhere we can and to master the skytrain route, which is packed and busy at all times but will beat this experience.
We arrive at the Ascott Serviced Apartments in the middle of Sathorn, Bangkok’s exclusive suburb and enclave for foreign embassies. We have deliberately chosen an apartment close to the Australian Embassy.
Close by is the Chong Nonsi skytrain station and in the surrounding area are the Singaporean Embassy, Chao Phraya River and the Bangkok International Hospital – where we initially planned for our baby to be delivered, until the hospital fell under the junta’s spell and refused to deliver surrogate babies. It is disappointing because we could have walked across the street to the hospital. As it is, we will have to travel in a cab for more than an hour to the new hospital in the district of Sanam Poa.
Not far from Sathorn is Silom, another upmarket area, where the famous Patpong Road is crowded with tourists who come for the night markets that sell fake copies of designer bags, watches and anything popular. The bargaining is an art to master, especially when dealing with dodgy stall holders who won’t hesitate to screw a white male tourist on price. In Patpong, the most debauched district in Bangkok, you can watch sleazy lady boy and ping pong shows. The streets are packed with lady boys, who can be spotted a mile away, usually in skimpy outfits – tight glitter hotpants that they wear so snug. The bikini tops vanish into their small petite bodies and the patent vinyl coloured heels that we call “hooker shoes” leave me wondering about the real gender. I must say, the outfits are quite fabulously trashy – it’s the Pretty Woman Julia Roberts’ look.
“You want sex, blow job, massage, happy ending,” I hear discreet whispers of loitering touts on the busy Patpong Road.
The backstreets are populated by pimps and male gigolos distributing flyers for the perverted ping pong shows. They lure and coerce curious tourists to watch the show loathed by feminists or anyone with some respect for the female gender. The live shows are so degrading I can only consider it an insult to women. But the pimps won’t take no for an answer, and trap you into coming with them. Before you know it, you are pushed, shuffled and led into a crowded, seedy back alley. From afar, you see the neon sign, visible and more prominent as you come closer: “Pussy Show” it reads in fluoro pink letters.
Inside the badly lit room of the grotty, smoky bar, female hostesses parade naked on podiums under bright lights. The stench of stale beer and cigarettes is so pungent I feel sick. In full view, an unrespectable sight I will say, women on stage perform ridiculous, vulgar stunts, not with their whole bodies like trapeze artists decently do. With their genitals, they shoot darts at balloons, open bottle caps, smoke cigarettes and blatantly drink Coke with a straw. The wild antics shock viewers further when they boldly excrete razor blades from their genitalia. The view is sick-making, the shock factor huge. It can make you not able to look at a vagina in the same light ever again.
On the last trip, we saw one such show. We cringed so badly, not believing our eyes, not sure whether this was a comedy. The ultimate disgust came when one of the dancers opened a Coke bottle with her private part, making the liquid cola explode into the air and land on Rebecca and me. The entire contents splashed on our faces and clothes. We weren’t impressed. Rebecca stomped furiously out of the hideous bar, leaving us to follow.
“Disgusting, just awful. Why would you bring me into this place?” she vented at me, vowing never to step foot again in the horrendous venue.
With Patpong, the suburb of debauchery, under our noses, Sathorn is much nicer and not spoiled by massage parlours and go-go dancing ping pong performers. It is the capital of Bangkok’s business and commercial districts. The skytrain terminal is a five-minute walk from the apartment.
The Australian Embassy is a ten-minute walk on the same side of the street. It is enormous. From the street you can see its lush tropical setting of ponds and gardens, and its prominent, impressive exterior makes it look like the set of a James Bond movie.
Our accommodation, a modern ’90s building, is located between Soi (“street” in Thai) 9 and 11 on South Sathorn Street. The proximity to the Australian Embassy and the state-of-the-art gym drew me to it immediately.
“It will allow us to maintain sanity, exercise when we can,” I said to Jayson after searching extensively on the internet. Nothing else came close to Ascott’s price and location. Besides the gym it has a day spa, beauty salon and even a 24-hour on-call doctor service. I love the big outdoor swimming pool with yellow cabanas. We will bring our son here if we need a quick swim or a meal.
“What else do we need?” I asked Jayson.
“The truth is we are in unfamiliar territory,” he replied. “In Sydney, we have friends and family around. If surrogacy was regulated and available at home, there would be no need for offshore alternatives and putting up with living overseas with a newborn.”
The thought of the luxurious Ascott did offer us some consolation for being far from home, but silently we wished we were in Sydney, at our Elizabeth Bay apartment, and that our son’s birth was taking place at a nearby hospital.
After a two-hour drive in traffic, we arrive, exiting like superstars from the black Mercedes in aviator Ray Bans. Our senses are greeted by a towering twenty-foot tall Christmas tree, carols playing in the background and female receptionists wearing tacky Santa outfits, unsuited to the image of the five-star luxury accommodation.
“They look cheap, like costume shop stuff,” I whisper to Jayson, but in the spirit of Christmas we tell them they look cute. We are given keys to a fourteenth floor apartment and realise in the lifts there is no thirteenth floor; again with this number thirteen.
Inside the moderately tasteful apartment, we unpack, change and make our way to Baan Khanitha, our favourite restaurant from the last trip. There we savour every Thai dish imaginable, in palate heaven – our last Christmas alone together, without our families or Ballina in sight. Guess Christmas will never be the same again. Soon Christmas will be mornings with our son in bed and presents he can’t wait to open. I can’t wait for the three of us together next year.
29
Phyathai Hospital
DECEMBER 29
We make arrangements to meet Kay and Porn at Phyathai 2 Hospital, a private hospital in the Phaya Thai district.
Since the drama with Thai authorities, surrogate mothers and agents have moved to Phyathai 2 (ironic, the number 2), which is known to be the most tolerant hospital in Bangkok. But many intended parents have mixed feelings about the services.
“Getting test results was slow,” warn several of our peers. We have been fortunate with Kay sending us timely reports, and today we are to meet our new doctor, Dr Nitwat.
“He is a very kind man with a good heart. Many doctors are afraid of doing surrogate babies but Dr Nitwat, he is not afraid,” Kay tells me.
We leave early, not wanting to be late, because it is the first time we have travelled to the district. We manage a good run to the hospital and go to the nearby coffee shop, order a coffee and wait for Kay and Porn. Kay arrives in trackpants, running shoes and a loose fitting casual blouse. We hug, exchange kisses and she promises to show us around. Late last night on a piece of paper I scribbled out a list of questions for her. As usual, the busy bee has a mission to accomplish, and is clicking away at her large screen Samsung smartphone.
“You are special case, celebrities, so I protect your image,” she says, during our conversation. Her discretion is not for us alone but also for herself. She does not want a tabloid exposing her role.
“How is Porn?” I ask.
“Yes, very good, everything really good, no problems.”
“W
hat about Dr Pisit?”
“Dr Pisit all clear,” Kay says. He has been acquitted of all charges pertaining to Shigeta, apparently on the grounds that his clinic did not supply the trafficker with any surrogate mothers. Dr Pisit did the IVF only and the authorities considered it justifiable for his clinic to have engaged in the treatments.
“Dr Pisit has opened a new clinic, called iBaby. He has many rich Chinese patients now, for IVF only,” she says of Pisit’s new enterprise.
In order to meet the junta’s new requirements, iBaby is unable to involve itself in any surrogacy arrangements, limiting its services to IVF for heterosexual couples only. According to Kay, the procedures must be altruistic in nature, and the surrogate mother must be a member of the married couple’s family.
“Dr Pisit cannot help gay couples, singles or anyone not married by law,” she confirms.
I ask Kay if she can take us to visit him after the baby arrives. Jayson and I would personally like to thank him. Kay agrees.
“Now we have very little business, we cannot take any new clients,” she tells us of her business plight. “I attended the medical seminar for the board of Thai hospitals. Agents like me, we no longer can do surrogacy. If I am involved, the couple must be married for at least two years with no child.” This rules out all of Kay’s current clients, a high percentage of them gay couples.
“The locals can’t afford my services and no need for me to arrange for them, they speak the same language,” she cries in frustration. “My international clients come to Thailand so they can use Thai surrogates. Here, it is easier to get a surrogate than in your own country. The medical care here is very good,” she says. After ten years in business with her older sister Nina, they are considering their options.
“What is next for you?” I ask.
“Don’t know, but we are looking into Cambodia. I moved some new cases there but it is very difficult, especially since the country hasn’t developed; very few hospitals and only one clinic do this kind of medicine.” She thinks it is premature to bank on this because high standards of healthcare may be hard to find.
“But at least it is easy to find surrogate mothers there, because people are very poor in Cambodia,” she tells me.
Kay is considering Nepal as a contingency. But the issues are identical to Cambodia; its weak infrastructure makes surrogacy unknown territory.
“One Indian doctor from Mumbai, an embryologist like Dr Pisit, has opened a small clinic in Kathmandu but many people come to see her and she is unable to keep up with patients from all over the world.
“In two years, when Kathmandu takes over from Thailand like Thailand did from India, the government will act and close down surrogacy again,” she predicts.
As it happened, Nepal outlawed surrogacy in August 2015. Richard, Paul and their newborn were caught in the turmoil. Cambodia followed suit in early 2016. No Asian country wants any affiliation with surrogacy. There is no pride in this work.
“Has the crackdown in Thailand encouraged illegal operators?” I ask Kay.
“Yes, this is happening, some under-the-table arrangements.” But she is unsure if intended parents of the calibre of her clients would want arrangements conducted in this fashion.
“It’s a big risk and one that can cost them their baby,” she says. “But there’s many ways to skin a cat.” She tells me about male parents, gay ones, marrying their surrogates and divorcing them when their baby is born. We joked of doing the same not too long ago.
“You see very few doctors in Thailand now do IVF with a ‘no ask, don’t know’ attitude but who knows? For big money, some will.” But the big money arrangement defeats the original intention for conducting the procedure in Thailand.
“Australian Embassy is very good, not like Spanish or Israeli Embassy.” Kay tells us the story of one of her clients, a Spanish citizen stuck in Thailand now for over three months, with no sign of being able to take their baby home.
“Everyday he calls the embassy and there’s so much paperwork,” she says. “The embassy play games, always asking for further information – they do not want baby to go home.” There is also her Israeli client whose embassy is refusing his child citizenship. Israel is also in the midst of a surrogacy crackdown, and won’t allow surrogate babies to return home and refuses to process the applications.
“My client is a big-time Israeli lawyer, he looks for loopholes to find cracks in the system that will allow his child a passport,” she says and stories pour out about the plight of several other unfortunate couples, making us realise we aren’t in this alone.
All this talk about surrogacy has started to depress me. Kay is sad and distant because her livelihood is at stake. We change the subject.
“Tell us about the delivery process in the hospital, how do we act?” I ask.
“Porn will be admitted to the hospital the night before, on Sunday the fourth of January. She is fasting, no food and drink until next morning. At eight am they take her to the delivery room for C-section. Only one of you can enter the operating room, the other must wait outside.” She looks at us, wanting to know who intends to be present.
“I want Aaron to go,” Jayson answers quickly, a kind and sacrificial gesture on his part.
“The C-section takes ten to fifteen minutes, and after delivery the nurse will bring him outside to meet Jayson. Then he goes to the nursery, level four. Doctor will check, clean, and for next twenty-four hours you cannot touch him, only look at him through the glass window.”
After the 24-hour period, we can feed, touch, cuddle and bond with him twice daily, at 10am and at 6pm. We have to travel twice daily to Phyathai in peak-hour traffic for the four days he is in hospital.
“So Porn and he won’t be in the same room?”
“No, Porn is in a separate room and cared for by the hospital’s medical team. She has no access to your baby,” she replies.
Maybe it is Porn’s way of detaching herself from our child.
“No need to pretend anymore, doctors and nurses here all know it’s your baby,” Kay says about camouflaging truths at the private hospital. Our baby is one of many surrogate babies they deliver daily.
We do a grand tour of the hospital, starting from the third floor waiting and operating rooms. Kay points out where Jayson and she will wait and the direction I will head on the day. It is like a dress rehearsal of some sort. A friendly staff nurse on duty at the counter greets Kay and nods at us. Kay confirms the staff are very understanding people – unbothered about our sexuality and won’t discriminate in any way.
On the fourth floor, a glass window separates us from the nursery – a clinical, bright and sparse space. It is clean, white, like every single surface has been bleached and is completely free of germs. Inside lie babies of all kinds, about thirty of them, some in incubators, the rest in clear plastic beds, each tagged with names while nurses feed some of them. There is a regimented system in place – it’s like a baby factory, and the nurses are fully on the go. Several of the babies at the front have just been delivered, so the most eager parents can have a front-row view for the next twenty-four hours.
“Your son will be here for the four days after his birth and this is where you come to see him every day,” Kay says.
Here, mothercraft nurses will teach us how to feed and care for him during the two daily sessions. I see a baby staring intently at a nurse while she holds his fragile head to feed. We watch in silence, marvelling at the newborns, how adorable they are. We leave the nursery to make way to the outpatient department to meet Porn.
It is our second meeting and though we have maintained a relationship with her, we have only met once before – when we signed the agreement nine months ago. “Time flies.” Before long, the heavily pregnant Porn arrives with a young boy, about ten years old – her son, I assume. She is dressed in a blue cotton smock and a navy cardigan. She carries a small plastic bag filled with medical records and personal belongings. The young boy next to her looks sheepish and ha
ppily escorts her to the waiting room. Jayson and I rise at the sight of her. She looks happy to see us and we hug, kissing her on both cheeks. She smiles awkwardly, her feelings lost in translation.
“This is Jonas, my son. He studies English at school and wants to practise the language,” she says in Thai to Kay, who translates.
When the boy heard we were Australian, he insisted on escorting his mother so he could translate our conversations. He is a cute little fellow, with thick, spiky jet-black hair and glasses with giant round frames in red. We motion for her to sit and start to make small talk, which the young boy translates for us. Kay seems relieved she is not translating today. Porn and Jonas sit between Jayson and me, and Kay is sitting behind us.
“How are you feeling, Porn? You look very well and we are very pleased to see you,” I start by saying. She smiles awkwardly again, as if to say she is touched by the kindness of the salutations.
“I am well. I hope you don’t mind that I bring my son. He wanted to meet you both,” she responds.
“Oh, no problems at all. He is very cute – a smart kid, I’m sure. Probably does well in school too,” Jayson adds in. Jonas smiles at the praise.
“How has the pregnancy been for you, been OK?” I ask.
“It has been smooth and I have had very little problem, hardly any morning sickness,” she replies.
“That’s wonderful to hear. You must be excited to deliver, not too long now.”
“Yes, I am excited but also worried. Both my children were normal deliveries and this is the first C-section. It worries me.”
“Really? Why are you worried? The C-section, from what I hear, is easier, faster and safer; there are hardly any complications for both of you.”
“I know but the big room, big lights with people around me, cutting me open while I am still awake make me nervous.”
“You won’t be awake; I promise you will be fine.”
“He kicks a lot, your son. He moves too much, very active. Were you like this when you were a baby?”
Designer Baby Page 24
