I’m in the pristine grounds of Nai Lert Park Hotel, close to the embassies of Wireless Road, miles from Patpong or Nana or any other of Bangkok’s fleshpots.

Note, those places are replete with stories of bar girls waving phalluses around in club doorways before the start of business to bring good fortune, a successful session.

Here it is Sunday afternoon. The gardens are quite famed botanical gardens. Young students take notes. Families photograph each other. A group of nuns take a constitutional amid the beautiful orchids. Scantily clad bathers laze by and in the pool. All a rather bizarre combination.

But nothing prepares you for the strange sight tucked behind the service entrance to the hotel, and next to a car park.

Here is something like a mushroom field of phalluses or lingams, spreading out under the branches of a ficus tree. There are lingams of all sizes, some upto several feet in length. Some are made of wood, some stone. In their midst is the Mae Tuptim Shrine, signified by a spirit house about which are offerings of fresh food and drink, all presided over by a plastic model or two of a Thai traditional dancer.

I’ve never seen anybody at the shrine, but certainly the offerings always appear to be newly placed. It is suggested that particularly women come here to pray for pregnancy.

For me being surrounded by phalluses is its own peculiar hell, for reasons I’m largely at a loss to explain. My only guess is that I’m offended by the redness of all about me.

Certainly, that the phalluses are mostly red has been a talking point. Thereagain, their presence at all has been a talking point, as has the whole question of who Mae Tuptim was. There’s also the matter of the relationship between Mae Tuptim and the phalluses.

Less of a question is how the Mae Tuptim Shrine came into being. It was likely built by Nai Lert as protection for his new hotel. Certainly there is a large concentration of shrines in another area of Bangkok, Rajaprasong, built by shop and hotel owners to protect their enterprises and bring well-being. These include Bangkok’s most famous shrine, the Erawan Shrine, associated with the hotel of the same name.

The peculiarity of all these shrines, in a Buddhist land, is that they are shrines to Hindu deities. Thereagain, animist elements are also in the mix for good measure.

Mae Tuptim shrine, or worship at it, embodies a similar multiplicity of strands. That said, of course, motives come down to the individual worshipper. In the face of dozen upon dozen lingams about the shrine, the obvious thought, “fertility”, may well be the truth for most worshippers.

There is a simple folklorist story supporting this that a woman came to the shrine wishing to become pregnant. She prayed and her wish was granted. To celebrate the birth of her child she returned to the shrine with an offering of a lingam. As they say, “the rest is history”, as others emulated her.

Equally, still keeping things simple, it isn’t such a jump from the idea of fertility to general good fortune.

The trouble is that for the Mae Tuptim shrine lingams and association with fertility may equally come out of Thai animist traditions.

The belief here is in spirits. These spirits may be appeased to create good. More specifically procedures are available through which the spirits will do your bidding.

The bright red of most lingams at Mae Tuptim Shrine has alternately been associated with pomegranate juice or menstrual blood.

The association with pomegranate juice sees Tuptim as a corruption of Taptim, Thai for pomegranate. The relationship with menstrual blood relies upon the Tantric belief that the most powerful time for sexual intercourse is during menstruation.

There is plenty of room for thought here, including what of the prominent virginal white lingam?

Whatever, remember that, having taxed your brain and camera, maybe improved your fertility or fortune, there is the beautiful orchid collection to see. Also, the Mai Lert Park does the meanest fruit juice cocktail!

Mark Azavedo

It’s late evening. The storms had caused plane delays. I’ve one Saigon address – reputedly the one affordable Saigon address. They’re full.

But I’ve one ace card as well, and I play it. “Ah, Mr Derek’s friend”. Miss Joan rolls her eyes from side to side and sucks in her cheeks in a great display of thought.

My room is a vast apartment, but I don’t enjoy it for long. Knock, Knock. “Miss Joan say you need eat”. I follow obediently downstairs – not quite sure what to expect.

I’m ushered onto a moped parked in reception. And so it was that my first sights of this traffic-packed, moped-ruled city were from the back of a moped in the middle of the night.

Our problem was that we were running across the the flow in Saigon’s unlit, rutted streets. Mr Derek was not my best friend for those few minutes. Any physiotherapist – or maybe psychotherapist – would have been.

Old friendships renewed, though, when I crossed the same roads on foot – friendship with Mr Derek, friendship with God. Though round here there seemed little difference.

Meantime, I enjoyed my meal in the recommended restaurant – My Mouse. Yes, it is not an auspicious name. All the expected thoughts ran through my head. “Are they proud they only have one?”

Ultimately, I settled on a comforting thought. Throughout South-East Asia people love cartoon characters – particularly cuddly, furry, rodenty ones. For sure this was just a mis-translation of Mighty Mouse. An appropriate logo was in preparation, and its sister restaurant, Rollin Rat, was just around the corner.

Several days passed without intervention from Mr Derek. So I spent them doing the things you do in Saigon – not much. Take in the markets, take in China Town, chat with the old cyclo boys, gawp at the Floating Hotel brought from the Barrier Reef.

Then Madam Lai arrived. “A friend of Mr Derek. You will come with me to Vung Tau”

I had the feeling nobody had ever argued with this woman – particularly her ex-husband. He just left. I did too – but with her.

Which is how I met Miss Lai. You see, Miss Lai is Madam Lai’s younger, unmarried, sister. The one inside the vast party dress – from which I gather, we’re supposed to party.

But, then again, I didn’t want to party tonight – probably because I’m tired from travelling. We could spend a day on the beach together tomorrow. Or, we could go for a country walk. Or, take a ride around the sights. Or, take a walk around town. Or ……..

I dislike so many things. She said I was boring. I agreed I am boring, ever so boring. But there she was at 9am the next morning, moped ready to rev.

She was certainly taking hospitality to Mr Derek’s friend to extremes. Just as her sister had when she insisted on coming with me in the taxi to Vung Tau. Or when her other sister had finally found me that room upon my arrival.

I leave Vung Tau alone. I’m unable to confirm whether ear lobes really are such a big deal with Vietnamese. Or whether mine really are such a deal in the lexicon of ear lobes.

In Hanoi, Mrs Wen introduces me to Mr Jim, an Oz Cathay pilot. He’s in a happy mood today. It’s his first day with a room. He’s been sleeping rough in reception for a few days.

Jim and I hang out. In particular, we hang out in the piano bar, which is where he and Derek hang out. But, then again, everyone hangs out there. It’s the place for good conversation – and piano.

Mr Wen keeps up a constant barrage of politically incorrect jokes about boat people. The US Missing in Action Team tell us all about their work and travels – often difficult in Laos, never so in Vietnam. But ultimately, they get drunk.

In the meantime, girls from the university play amazing piano. And the young bar girls stare. Occasionally they touch – fascinated by westerners, particularly Mr Jim.

Those slightly reticent smiles, stolen touches and glances are a far cry from the South, where some country women pinched me all over, covering me in bruises.

But, alas, it was time to leave Hanoi. Mrs Wen offered me some business cards. I said Derek had already given me plenty.

“You know Mr Derek?” The room price sank. I was given a t-shirt.

by Mark Azavedo    Originally published in Traveller Magazine