Two plane journeys followed by a hair-rising taxi ride, and I was thrust straight from the airport into the jangling foray of central Bangkok. If I was not already made conspicuous by my sun-starved appearance, I was not entirely successful in concealing an air of baffled disorientation guaranteed to expose foreigners for who they are.

Having never left Europe before, encountering this disparity of culture was new to me, and within a few days a confusing contradiction became apparent. As I frequented the bars and restaurants on Kho San Road, I observed not only males and females but an unfamiliar blurring between the two; what residents refer to as the third sex.

Like every naive traveller, I had studiously gorged on an array of guide books before my trip, so of course I was aware of the renowned prevalence of the transgender Thai kathoey. Yet it wasn’t before acquainting myself directly with Thailand’s culture that I began to understand the symbolic implications of uniting two of the most fundamental opposites.

Visually, I found these individuals captivating to look at; the quietly contained muscularity, smooth skin and delicate facial features exuding a unique beauty that carefully summarised a neat balance of male-female. I became infused with the conviction that being in command of such ambiguity must be enviably liberating. 

Jez, my boyfriend and travelling companion, was quick to observe the unobtrusive way that kathoey seemed to blend into the background. “There’s something androgynous about typical Thai physiognomy anyway”, he said, “but whether that’s just cultural ignorance or not, I dunno. The only obvious way you can tell they’re not female is their height”. I agreed, and immediately perceived a heroic power in the nobility of being tall, ambiguous and beautiful. 

Later that evening, we got talking to a young waitress called Kai Qui, who told us she had been taking female hormones since she was eighteen. “In Thailand, it is believed that transgendered genetic make-up is predetermined from birth” she said. “For me, I have always known. It is a theory supported by Buddhist philosophy.”

The level of acceptability was surprising. It was refreshing to find that the alternative theory of the third sex was so grounded in a nation’s culture and beliefs – totally in contrast to our fixed expectations of normality. She had breasts, and a long feminine hairstyle, yet she wore no make-up and was dressed as a man in a shirt and linen trousers with canvas shoes. 

As I got to know the city, I observed levels of androgyny at every point on the scale of male to female, from ultra high-maintenance femininity with make-up and high heels to the understated Kai Qui. Whether the intermediate look was intentional or purely indicative of the transitional phase, I didn’t know. Yet the relaxed continuum between being a man and being a woman was invigorating. Here there was no need for an instant transformation; no need to be either one or the other.

The true freedom and fluidity of sexuality of this place invaded and inflated my senses, making me question the exaggerated gender distinctions of the Western World. Us, whose sexual norms have reduced aspirations of sexual identity to an unrealistic Barbie and Ken stereotype. Us, whose pretence to sexual tolerance conveniently excludes the majority. 

At night I fit myself into the shape of Jez, and wonder how our two halves which now become one, could ever be separate. How if we wanted them to, our essences might mingle and conspire together to multiply in the creation of one, whole, new individual. Two halves make a whole. Opposites are meant to be united, nature knows. Light meets dark with the blurring of twilight and dawn, life becomes death, and with the same glorious indeterminacy; male becomes female here in Thailand. 

Are we ‘male’ and ‘female’ – or a bit of both? What do you think?