It’s funny how we get ourselves into a rut. We move to a new place and, over the time it takes for the excitement to wane, try to turn our environment into the ‘same’. We end up buying our groceries from the same supermarket, drinking at the same bars, talking with the same people and generally ordering our lives so that each day seems like every other. Soon, many of our conversations begin with, “I always buy my meat here …” or “I always do” this or that, followed by some contrived excuse to justify the conformity.

Take getting a haircut, for instance. How many of us have our own special barber or hairdresser we visit exclusively because he or she does our hair ‘just right’? Hairdressers can achieve the status of doctors once customers reach the stage of not daring to allow anyone else to meddle with their precious locks. “Nobody but Antoine touches my hair!”

On the other hand, I chose my hairdresser because she was close to home and cheap. A middle age Thai lady, I have no idea about her standard of expertise because I’d go in for a haircut then, when I re-emerged, it was cut. Several young ladies around town who subsequently noticed my trimmed appearance would comment how handsome I looked so the assumption was my hairdresser had done a reasonable job.

Recently, I was beginning to look like Mick Jagger with a glandular disorder and it was time for a haircut to rectify at least part of the problem. Imagine my distress when I walked to my hairdresser only to notice the barber’s chair was missing, along with all the equipment and trimmings usually associated with a hairdressing salon. I’d either absent-mindedly walked into the wrong shophouse or something was terribly wrong.

Back outside I noticed the sign was still above the door. The store owner next door detected my concern and came to my aid by informing me the barber was closed because she had packed up her scissors and combs and headed to Bangkok where the clippings and pickings were better. Apparently my quarterly 50 baht visits were not enough to sustain her lavish lifestyle in suburban Pattaya.

Panic set in as I realized I’d need to find a new barber. I walked 30 metres along the soi to another hairdresser, poked my head through the door and asked the people lingering inside if I could get a haircut. The three katoeys looked at me like I was from Mars. I merely wanted a haircut; I was not asking them to perform rocket science. Still the answer was no. Never mind, I thought, how hard can it be to get a haircut in Pattaya? After 7-Elevens and laundries, hairdressing has got to be the most popular business.

Even so, two weeks later I was still long haired and long faced. The hairdressers I had approached were either too primitive, too expensive, only for women or simply not interested in me. Then one day I took a short cut home and stumbled upon a small salon in an out-of-the-way soi not far from where I live. Inside were two people; the female asleep on the ‘shampoo’ chair and the male asleep on the waiting couch. I woke them with my request and they rose slowly to their feet. The guy was of slight build, confused and overtly gay. His hair was dyed auburn, trimmed and spiked into pyramids to form a symmetric pattern over his entire scalp. He looked like a sunburned durian.

The female was young – I’d guess in her early twenties – and gorgeous in a ‘girl next door’ sense. Her short, floral frock barely disguised her curvaceous figure. She had a beautiful face and her unblemished skin shone like satin. I couldn’t take my eyes off her as she swept and adjusted the chair. Then she smiled and asked, “It OK I take care you?”

My first reaction was to think, why? What’s wrong with you? Are you only the apprentice? But I simply replied that it was fine. She and the katoey exchanged a few words and a laugh as I sat in the chair and she draped the cloth around my neck.

“I can make you sexy man,” she announced with a seductive giggle. Darling, you’d need a tower crane for the face lifts and an industrial pump with a 4-inch hose for the liposuction, so just do the best with what you have. I smiled at her via the mirror and replied something inane like, “That’ll be nice.”

Talking with her while she did the business, I discovered the katoey was her brother and they were from Isaan, one of my favorite places. The shop had not been open long and I was their first foreign customer. I could tell my angel was nervous by the way she gently stroked the back of my neck and ears while she clipped, sending Goosebumps down my arms each time. Taking advantage of the large mirror in front and the one on the wall behind, I had a full-length view of her so she could be as careful as necessary and take as long as she liked.

The katoey was the first to say it; that’s how I know the comment was sincere. “Now you very handsome man!” The goddess looked down proudly at her work while I grinned and stared into the mirror pretending it was my new hairstyle I was admiring. I would not have cared if she’d delivered me a Mohawk. She looked at me and smiled. The katoey looked at me and smiled, then at his sister and his smile vanished. He was probably thinking she was a rival for my attention. No, mate, there is no contest because, even if you weren’t a bloke, she’s a lay down misere!

The haircut was fine and the price was right. I’ve subsequently adjusted my ‘haircut’ budget from spending 50 baht every three months to spending 60 baht every two weeks, compensated by reducing the expenditure on non-essential items like food. I also purchased some ‘hair growth accelerator’ cream to massage into my scalp. It is too early to tell if it works on my head but the hairs on the palms of my hands have certainly grown. Any excuse for a return visit to my queen of the clippers.

If you are reading this and the paper is not wet, then you are either not in Pattaya or have found somewhere safe to hide. Yes, it’s Songkran, that gentle and solemn Thai ceremony heralding in the wet season and the Thai New Year in accordance with the Buddhist calendar. If events followed the same wet path as previous years, the activities in Pattaya began promptly on the 12th. The good news is it will all be over on the 19th.

Called the ‘water festival’, Songkran has turned into one week of sheer madness and the world’s biggest water fight. Many of Pattaya’s smarter residents take advantage of this time to leave for a week’s holiday. I know a group of guys who are heading to Cambodia for the duration. Yes, Cambodia also celebrates the Buddhist New Year with water, but not with the same enthusiasm as the inhabitants of Pattaya. For people who stay, it means being continually wet for seven days. Not just damp - totally soaking, dripping wet - so if you are here during this time, wear only light, casual, quick drying clothes at all times. It is fantastic fun but you must have a strong sense of humour and a strong tolerance for water.

It is also a time to take extra care on the roads. Each year throughout Thailand there are around 500 deaths and over 34,000 injuries in vehicle accidents during the Songkran festival. These accidents are directly attributed to a combination of alcohol and the throwing of water. Around 80% of the accidents involve motorcycles, so take the hint. If you are in Pattaya for Songkran, do everyone a favour and bring some common sense with you. Do not throw or fire a blast of water at anyone riding a motorcycle. The water can blind them for a few seconds and anything can happen.

On a more serious note, I have made it a rule only to spray water over Bar Hostesses, those street kids who for most of the year annoy me by trying to sell me chewing gum or cigarette lighters, people in wheelchairs and people taking anti-diarrhoea medication. As you can see, my strategy is to pick on those who are least able to fight back.
The last day of the festival, the 19th, is the craziest day of all and has to be seen to be believed. Most of the local Thai population participate and the fun begins from early morning.

The streets become awash with water and powder and traffic along the main thoroughfares comes to a standstill. Note that this is the only day that you are allowed to wet the local police officers. Foreign visitors should not do this! It would be a great risk to attract the attention or angst of any policeman by dousing him with water.
In the month prior to Songkran 2002, an interesting article appeared in the Bangkok Post declaring that, “Police have been banned from using water guns to shoot at passers-by during the Songkran celebration.”

Apparently, there were concerns a police officer might get confused and use his real firearm by mistake. It would be extremely worrying to think that the well-trained, well-disciplined elite Royal Thai police do not have the capacity to differentiate between a large, pink, plastic, Star Wars type water cannon and a small, heavy, metallic side-arm.
In order to curb the mayhem, the Pattaya Mail reported, “Pattaya police issued a strong warning to all residents and tourists celebrating the Songkran festival that anyone found using ice, dangerous items like home-made water guns from PVC pipes, dirty water, or powder of any kind will be fined 2,000 baht.

The warning stated that drunk and disorderly behaviour and any form of sexual harassment will also incur strong penalties and a hefty fine. Police ask that everyone respect the traditional values of Songkran and Thai culture.” This direction was to be lauded but largely fell upon deaf ears.

In case you don’t already know, the way to survive Songkran is to have a strong sense of humour, a strong tolerance for water and be prepared. If you must go out, take extra care on the streets and do not plan on catching baht buses anywhere. It is faster to walk. Unless you plan to join in the fun, go out only when necessary and when you do go out, dress in light, casual, quick drying clothing. Expect to get a total soaking so when you are hit with water, don’t get upset or angry. Don’t wear a wristwatch unless it is waterproof to sixty metres. Better still, don’t wear a watch.
Similarly, leave the mobile phone and non-waterproof camera at home. Put your cash and anything else you desperately need to take with you into re-sealable watertight plastic bags and, if you are a smoker, do the same with your cigarettes and lighter. In fact, use several plastic bags as the water always seems to penetrate the outer one.

Some other guys I know have remained in the country but headed bush in order to avoid Pattaya. If you’ve ventured up to your beloved’s village to celebrate the New Year, there is some advice I need to give you. For as much as you might like to bestow a New Year’s blessing on your mother-in-law by tipping a bucket of water over her head, the correct procedure is to pour a little water through her outstretched hands.

Further, should your beloved also want your blessing, the preferred method is to first fill the bucket with money and then pour that into her outstretched hands. Works every time.

In my distorted view of the world I’ve always pictured a tourist ‘Resort’ as a large foliage-studded, plantation-like collection of architecturally designed, serviced, luxury rooms located between the lake-sized, heated swimming pool and the cocktail bar. A ‘Resort’ to me meant total self-sufficiency, with the adventurous guest never needing to leave the security-patrolled grounds for anything, apart from adventure. Once again, I was mistaken. A good friend recently invited me to join him and his girlfriend on a fact-finding mission to Ko Chang for a couple of days. He was taking his car and, since neither my tee ruk nor I had ever been there before, accepting the invitation was a foregone conclusion.

Along the highway to Trat, the first turn-off to the coastal town of Laem Gnop is 46 kilometres past Chantaburi. From there it is a further 35 kilometres to Laem Gnop and the vehicular ferries servicing Ko Chang. The Center Point ferry is supposed to run hourly with the last one leaving at 7:00pm but, due to unforeseen delays, we found ourselves still looking for the pier at 7:10pm. Our backup plan, if we did miss the last boat, was to spend the night in Trat and catch one the next morning. As luck would have it, we reached the pier to discover the ferry was even later than we were so we joined the line of cars waiting to board.

The ticket price was a pleasant surprise. The return trip was 140 baht per person, the car was free and we were told we had one month to use the return portion of the ticket. Not a bad deal. Languishing at the tail end of a long line of vehicles, our concern was the boat would be full before we got our chance. When the ferry arrived we counted 31 cars streaming off. With only 24 cars ahead of us in the queue, that meant we made it with room to spare, eventually setting sail at 7:50pm.

The upper deck or, as we nautical types would say, upstairs, provided ample seating for passengers as well as a kiosk and plenty of life jackets (always a concern for me). The kiosk sold snacks and cold beer in small bottlers and cans for 30 baht. We were to discover this ferry journey was where cheapness ended and, once on the island, anything and everything costs a lot more than expected.

The 50-minute crossing was smooth and uneventful but, upon landing, our first task was to find accommodation, made easier because prior arrangements had been made through a friend of a friend of my darling who lived on the island. This friend booked us into a ‘resort’ and, through the miracle of cellular communication, guided us safely to it.

Our friend must have had some local clout because, for us, the rooms were discounted to 1,000 baht per night. The normal impost at this time of the year was 1,600 baht. Not an insignificant saving, but we were informed that because of this generosity we would not be entitled to the usual complimentary buffet breakfast. Not a problem. My tee ruk and I couldn’t eat 600 baht’s worth of buffet breakfast if we tried. Our rooms were very nice, modern and new - worth 1,000 baht but definitely not worth the 1,600 except perhaps during High Season.

Showered, powdered and relaxing on the bed, I began to peruse the free tourist brochure on Ko Chang I picked up from reception earlier. The excellent maps showed Thailand’s second largest island basically has only one road which hugs the coastline. The eastern section and the western road never meet up at the southern end so it is impossible to circumnavigate the island by vehicle.

The glossy brochure also contained many accommodation options and that’s when I noticed something strange. I have never seen so many ‘resorts’ in the one place before. It seemed that everything which once would have been called a camping ground, guesthouse, lodge, inn, hotel, villa, motel or bungalow is now a ‘Resort’. It was obvious the owners of Mosquito Hollow Short-time Hotel discovered they could charge more by renaming the place Mosquito Hollow Resort. Where we were staying could be called a ‘resort’ by my earlier definition, but I suspected poetic license was employed in the ‘resort’ descriptions of many other establishments.

The brochure, dated 2007, also gave directions to the island for people travelling from either Bangkok or Cambodia. I can’t comment on the accuracy of the information for those visitors from Bangkok, but some of the directions from Cambodia were misleading. For instance, on one page it stated the border crossing at Cham Yeam/Hat Lek closed at 9:00pm and on the following page it said 5:00pm.

Both are wrong. It closes at 8:00pm and has done so for some time. Borrowing a leaf out of an old Lonely Planet, the brochure told people travelling by boat from Sihanoukville to Koh Kong that “speedboats to the border operate from the ferry immigration stop before Koh Kong.” There is no ‘ferry immigration stop’ before reaching Koh Kong and there hasn’t been for at least four years to my knowledge. The only stop the ferry makes is at King Island, the half-way point of the trip, and anyone inadvertently getting off there will be stuck for twenty-four hours.

But the brochure also contained an interesting section on Ko Chang history. My mate is a history buff and part of the reason for our trip was to investigate the memorials to the ‘Ko Chang Naval Battle’ which took place between Vichy French naval forces and the Thai navy in January 1941. There is a memorial near Laem Ngop on the mainland and another on the island. Affording us the opportunity for some sightseeing, we had earlier made arrangement to investigate the one at the far southern point of the island after breakfast.

As the majestic sun rose once again to caress the earth with its photonic fingers of warmth, I was still asleep. In any case, staying on the western side of Ko Chang at White Sands Beach, the sunrise was obscured by the mountain backdrop behind our resort. At 9:00am I stirred the sleeping beauty beside me, knowing full well it would take her an hour to prepare for the day. She was “almost ready” by ten o’clock, so I phoned my mate to arrange to meet for breakfast. Half an hour later we drove to the central business district of White Sands Beach to review the available restaurants and select a likely candidate. Stopping at a place opposite the beach, the two ladies enjoyed their Thai food but, frankly, there are better and cheaper Western breakfasts available in Pattaya.

Nourishment ingested, we drove along the eastern coast road with the view to reaching the far southern tip of Ko Chang and the Naval Battle Memorial located at a place called Long Beach. The road was scenic and good, with the picturesque mountains to our right and the clear, azure ocean to our left doing justice to photos in the glossy brochures. Being on the one and only road, my mate and I agreed it would be impossible to get lost; all we had to do was follow it. Now, for readers unfamiliar with Ko Chang, there are only two intersections on the island, both of them along this particular road. We missed the first one.

By the time we realized our error we were on a road only wide enough for two small motorbikes and it took some maneuvering to turn around. The intersection at a place called Ban Chek Bae was clearly marked on our map but, in our defence, the signage on the ground left a lot to be desired.

On the correct road once again, there was only one more intersection to go. We missed that as well, a point we only became aware of once we reached a wat marking the end of the line. Our ladies took advantage of the situation by making devotions at the wat, possibly asking for divine intervention to deliver them from these two useless foreigners. But we were soon back on the right track and from that point on the trip got very interesting and exciting.

Hairpin bends and 45-degree climbs and descents gave the impression of being on a roller coaster. The scenery was magnificent but the road was not for the feint hearted.

From the comfort of our air-conditioned sedan, we took delight in watching over-fed tourists struggle with their underpowered motorbikes. A corpulent couple, both of whom individually weighed more than the bike, would prepare for an ascent by wiggling their ample derrieres more firmly into the already asphyxiated vinyl seat.

Then, allowing himself about a 100-metre run-up, driver Fred would crunch pedal to the metal in a flurry of high hopes and contempt for the laws of physics. Invariably, between a third and half way up the steep incline, the little-engine-that-couldn’t would give up the ghost in a splutter of ignominious defeat and Fred would be forced to issue an order to his beloved holding on for dear life. “Wilma, you’ll have to get off and walk!” Once relieved of almost half its heavy burden, the scooter would then carry Fred the rest of the way to the summit while a weary Wilma trudged the last metres in an irritable cloud of sweat.

Eventually, we reached an obstacle. Something the tourist guide failed to mention was the last 4km of this road is unsealed – guttered, potted, slippery, and powdery dirt – and not suitable for anything apart from four-wheel-drive vehicles and off-road motorbikes.

Wisely choosing not to risk taking the vehicle any further, but being so near; and yet so far; my mate decided to walk the rest of the way. That was not an option for our two delicate Thai flowers so I reluctantly volunteered to stay behind and protect the women. It was a tough job but somebody had to do it. More than an hour passed before my mate was back from up the country, very sorry that he went. He said the road conditions got worse, the memorial was a disappointment and he never wanted to go there again. Excellent.

We drove back into civilization for lunch followed by an investigation of the western side of the island. My overall impression was that Ko Chang is a beautiful place and Mother Nature has done a wonderful job but, as per usual, humans are doing their level best to stuff it up.

The eastern side and the interior is still relatively pristine but the western coastline is being rapidly over-developed. Resorts to the left of me, resorts to the right. It is also firmly on the Internet-Kao San Road backpacker circuit as evidenced by the number we spotted. Considering the cost of decent accommodation here, backpackers must stay in some real rat holes to conform to their ‘do Asia on a Nike string’ religion.

And transport must surely be a problem, even though most solved this by hiring motorcycles to get around. The brochure said helmets were compulsory but the law must not be seriously enforced. In a survey of about a hundred motorcyclists, I counted only two wearing helmets.
For non-bikers like myself, public transport would be an expensive last resort. White baht buses with their destination written on the side, cruise the roads and the evil double pricing for foreigners is endemic.

The fare structure seems to be based on a minimum of 20 baht for short trips during daylight. Early evening, the fare can go up to 50 baht while late at night it can be 100, assuming you can find a baht bus still operating. Those are the ‘Thai prices’ so, if you are a foreigner, double them!

That evening we ventured out and found some bars. The Ko Chang Entertainment Complex nearby reminded me of the Cupido Bar Complex which used to be on Soi Buakow. The place was well lit, nicely decorated, well staffed and devoid of customers. At White Sands Beach itself we found the Ko Chang version of Walking Street.

The name was handwritten in white paint on a piece of driftwood hanging above the entrance and the place bore no resemblance to its famous namesake in Pattaya. We voted against stopping for a drink, instead dragging our tired bodies back to the resort for some much needed rest.

Next morning on the way back to Pattaya we stopped at the other Naval Battle Memorial near Laem Ngop. The small museum contained many old photos and some memorabilia but all the explanations and descriptions were written in Thai. Outside the building we found one plaque, in English, near a statue to commemorate “the victory of the Thai navy over the French navy”. Define ‘victory’.

The author of the inscription, using poetic licence, diplomacy, tact, political correctness and general suck-upiness, has a different view of history to the internationally accepted account. According to my mate, the Thai navy lost three warships and 36 Thai seamen lost their lives during the short engagement, while the French suffered no casualties and no ships sunk.

Calling that a Thai victory is like saying World War II was a draw!

My good friend Stan has lived in Pattaya for a long time now. He currently rents a nice apartment which he shares with his girlfriend. I met her once; she is very pretty and appears to be a nice person. Stan agrees, but told me, candidly, she has one major fault. She is extremely jealous.

On the occasion I met her, I witnessed an example of her jealous streak. Stan and I had been drinking and chatting in a beer bar for some time when she turned up on her motorbike to take him home. This had been pre-arranged so he was expecting her. But Stan had just ordered another drink so, when she arrived, he asked if she wanted one herself before they left. She accepted the drink and all was pleasant as the three of us sat at the table.

Then I noticed her pick up his bin and go through each of the dockets. She was not concerned about the cost of the drinks nor the total amount of money he had spent; she was looking to see if he had bought any lady drinks. Stan said she did this often and, if she even suspected he purchased a drink for a Hostess, he would be subjected to the third degree.

He told me that, a month earlier, a photograph appeared in a local newspaper showing a farang sitting at a bar surrounded by several ladies. The farang was sitting side-on to the camera and it was difficult to discern his face, but Stan’s girlfriend was certain it was him. She confronted him with the photo and demanded to know what he was doing at that bar talking with all those girls.

Stan was completely innocent and tried to explain the farang in the photo was not him and he had never been in that bar in his life. It took many arguments before she finally let the matter drop.

But Stan’s patience with his girlfriend’s jealousy is wearing thin after a recent incident which could have easily resulted in tragedy. Stan met up with his mate for a night of bar hopping. By 1:00am they had just been to three bars in quick succession and Stan admits things were getting very hazy. His mate said he had had enough and was heading home.

Stan said he would finish his drink before going home as well.
Stan doesn’t recall leaving that bar. He is a spirit drinker and all he remembers is that the effects of the booze seemed to hit him very suddenly. He does remember being on a Baht Bus but everything else is a total blank. Stan woke up early next morning propped up against a tree at the far end of Jomtien Beach, without a clue how he got there. He tried to stand up but his body wouldn’t allow it.

His world was still spinning and he couldn’t believe he could still be that drunk so many hours after consuming his last drink. Then a sobering thought crossed his mind. “I’ve been rolled, for sure!” He felt in his pocket and, to his surprise, there was at least 500 baht in small notes remaining. A quick calculation of the amount he took out with him less the amount he figured he spent, meant the cash in his pocket was about right. He had not been robbed.

His next thought was to get home, so he reached for his mobile phone to call his girlfriend to come and pick him up. His phone was not there. A tirade of abuse was about to leave his mouth when he remembered he had not taken his phone out with him. The battery was flat so he left it at home on the recharger.

But he still had to get home. He gingerly staggered to his feet and began to stumble towards the road. He said he must have presented a pathetic sight and the only thing missing from the picture of a drunken derelict was a bottle of cheap gin in a brown paper bag. That’s when Stan first realized his condition was not due to the effects of alcohol. He was under the influence of something far more sinister. A passing motorcycle taxi stopped and Stan carefully sat on the back telling the driver where to go.

At the first set of traffic lights, the driver stopped and Stan fell off. He grazed his arm and hand on the road but was otherwise OK. The driver helped him back on the bike and continued the journey. Stan doesn’t remember whether his girlfriend greeted him with concern or abused him for being out all night when he staggered through the door. He went straight to bed and collapsed, not to wake until the following morning.

When he eventually came round, his girlfriend began with the questioning. She suspected he’d spent the night with another woman and Stan was in no mood for an interrogation. Telling her the truth – that he couldn’t remember anything – seemed to her to be just a lame excuse. Stan called his mate and asked him to come over.
His mate arrived and sat with Stan to try and piece together what had happened.

Stan made his girlfriend sit and listen in, hoping she would realize that it was not his fault. After some discussion and hypothesizing, the two friends came to the only conclusion which made any sense. Stan had been slipped a Mickey Finn.

Someone at one of the last three bars they visited must have put something in his drink. There was no way of knowing which bar it was because there was no way of telling how long the drug took to work. They guessed that an accomplice, possibly in the guise of a motorcycle taxi driver, was waiting outside to offer the semi-conscious Stan a ride home.

If he had accepted the offer, Stan would have been driven to a secluded spot and robbed of everything in his possession. Their plan came unstuck when Stan bypassed the accomplice and walked a considerable distance to get on a Baht Bus. Even though it was the wrong bus and heading to Jomtien, it was possibly what saved him.
By this time, his girlfriend needed no more convincing and expressed her sympathy by tending to his grazed arm.

Stan considers himself very lucky but said he wouldn’t mind knowing what medication it was they slipped into his drink. He joked that he has taken sleeping pills before when he has been on a long flight, but they weren’t nearly as good as this stuff.

The ten o’clock bus from Pattaya let us off at the On Nut skytrain station directly at midday. Getting off at what is currently the eastern end of the BTS line and catching the train is more comfortable and quicker than staying on the bus all the way to Ekamai. We were probably disembarking at Nana station just as the remaining bus passengers were getting off at Ekamai.

My good mate and American neighbour, Dan, needed to go to Bangkok for a couple of days and kindly asked if I’d like to join him. We had done this before and always had a great time so I jumped at the chance for a repeat dose. From Nana station we walked the short distance to Soi 5 and our hotel.

We were staying at a hotel situated in a small soi joining Soi 5 on the left opposite Gulliver’s Bar and Restaurant. Near the corner is a tattoo shop with a sign in window stating: “Keep Thailand Beautiful – Get Tattooed!!” I don’t think so. The short soi itself connects with Soi 3/1 near the Grace Hotel.

This area of Nana is known as the ‘Arab Quarter’ and you could be forgiven for thinking you had just arrived in downtown Riyadh. Most of the writing and signage is in Arabic and the restaurants are almost exclusively middle-eastern. With so many people around ‘of Middle Eastern appearance’ (as the Politically Correct press would say) when we dragged our white Caucasian butts up to reception at the Middle East Hotel, I was fully expecting the lady to ask if we were lost.

At 750 baht per night the rooms are overpriced, Spartan and the water pressure in the shower leaves a lot to be desired. However, they are air-conditioned, clean and comfortable; and for our purposes, convenient.

We checked into our rooms, showered, rested and freshened up before meeting in the foyer at 4:00pm for our first assignment. Outside once again, I noticed the wooden verandah attached to the hotel called the ‘Tea Terrace’. The sign on the wall read: “Serving Tea, Coffee & Soft Drink. NO SEAT for Order Not”.

Dan and I strolled up Soi 5 towards Sukhumvit but turned left into a small lane just before reaching that main road. This alleyway serves as an unofficial shortcut connecting Soi 5 with Soi 7.

The Beer Garden in Soi 7 is sometimes referred to as the German Beer Garden because it has a fully functioning German restaurant with plenty of lederhosen-filling food on offer. It is a large covered barn with plenty of bar space and bar stools as well as tables for dining. Beer Gardens are very popular in Australia but I get the feeling this one would break all attendance records if it could magically be transported there intact.

Bottled beer sells for around 65 baht but the drink prices are not the attraction. It is a freelancer bar where, from early afternoon until late, local ladies with time to kill sit and wait for a man of their dreams.
Dan and I had both been here many times before and always enjoyed the experience. In my case it was purely in the cause of research.

We found two spare seats, ordered our drinks and surveyed the scene. I must report some of the ladies sitting around drinking water or soda water were very beautiful. Most have regular jobs and only pop into the Beer Garden for a short time opportunity to meet a man from another country, learn about foreign cultures and improve their language skills. That’s what I was told and I have no reason to dispute it.

One thing I did notice was the ladies did not appear to be very thirsty. Whenever they moved to sit with a man and introduce themselves, they always brought their own drink with them. Rarely did I see a Bacardi Breezer or other such concoction languishing in front of a lady. Neither did a lady approach me holding her neck in such a way to indicate that buying an expensive drink for her was the only cure for her parched throat.

I was informed these ladies were not overly interested in a foreigner buying them a procession of drinks. Being conditioned by Pattaya, I found this attitude strange. Does Pattaya’s heat dehydrate females quicker? Does living in Bangkok make women less thirsty? It leads me to suspect the ladies of Pattaya are not so much interested in quenching their thirst as they are in the commission they receive on the drink purchase. I could be wrong.

The guy sitting two seats away from me was Australian. I heard his accent as he spoke with a lady who moved into the vacant seat the other side of him. It wasn’t long before this bloke, who I didn’t know and could never pick out of a line-up, found himself with another lady sitting on the stool between himself and me.

She turned out to be a friend (sister?) of his first companion and the three of them became involved in light-hearted conversation. Apparently, they all got along very well because within twenty minutes the threesome walked off hand-in-hand-in-hand to his hotel to view his stamp collection.

Or perhaps they were just adjourning to the local reading room to study up on ancient Siamese pottery.
At eight, Dan and I decided to go out for a light snack at one of the many Thai food stalls in the area before heading off to make his appointment at nine. He was meeting up with a Thai musician friend at a bar in Thong Lo where we could listen to some Rock ’n Roll music, have a few drinks and chill out. For me this would be something completely different.

Log Home dining complex is in the Thong Lo district of Bangkok on the right hand side of Thong Lo road, a couple of kilometers from Sukhumvit. It is a huge place built to resemble a Western log cabin.

The massive logs used for supports and those in the roof structure would cost a fortune at today’s prices, even if they were available. The Log Cabin bar within the complex is itself, huge, with elegant wood furnishings and a nightly live Thai band (and karaoke if absolutely necessary). When we arrived, the place looked deserted, with only a handful of other customers apart from us. I was informed later that it is often like this mid-week but on Friday and Saturday nights it is standing room only.

This is not a ‘hostess bar’ but a place for music lovers, specifically Rock ’n Roll music lovers. I must admit though, the three or four waitresses were very attractive. Dan likes waitresses and has been known, in the past, to spurn the advances of naked Go Go dancers in favour of the serving girl in jeans and sloppy t-shirt. On this occasion, the waitresses were not in sloppy t-shirts but dressed elegantly in sensual black.

I could tell Dan was impressed.

Dan’s Thai friend arrived and, on first glancing his dark sunglasses, black hair and dark clothing, I swear he looked like Roy Orbison. At 57 years of age, Somchai spoke English very well, having gained some of his education in both the UK and the US. As a music nut, I don’t think there would be one song written between 1960 and 1980 he didn’t know all the words to. He is a regular at this bar and, as every member of staff came over to say hello, I felt privileged to be in his company. It was like sitting in the Royal booth.

He is unashamedly Bangkokian. As he expressed on more than one occasion, “This is my town.” Through the course of the evening I also discovered he has a great sense of humour. At one point, the discussion turned to alcohol. I mentioned reading that Thailand had the highest per capita consumption of Chivas Regal whiskey in the world. He said it was not Chivas but Black Label for which Thais were renown. Be that as it may, he found it funny that Thai people love top of the range imported brands while foreigners coming to Thailand filled up on locally-produced Mekong or Sangsom.

I then observed his personal 750ml bottle of Johnny Walker sitting beside our table.

“But that’s not Black Label,” I pointed out.

“No, it’s only Red Label,” he laughed. “I drink anything that gets me drunk!”

Somchai went on to explain he was a frequent visitor to the clubs in the area, from Jazz to Rock ’n Roll venues, and was well known in them all. He wasn’t a paid member of any band but the management usually gave him free drinks whenever he sang.

Referring to the Log Cabin, he said they didn’t give him free drinks but allowed him to bring his own bottle from outside without paying any corkage charges. He then rolled his eyes towards the waitress pouring his drink.

“You watch,” he whispered. “She will pour a very small shot of whiskey in the glass and fill it up with soda water.” She did exactly that. “I may not get charged for the whiskey but they charge me for the soda water!” he laughed.

The 5-piece Thai band finished warming up and when they broke into their first sixties’ number the three of us clapped, slapped and sang along. Two songs later, Somchai made his way to the microphone. With the look of Roy Orbison, the actions of Jo Cocker and the voice of Louis Armstrong, he burst into a rendition of ‘Proud Mary’ with the boundless energy of an 18-year-old.

Several years his junior, if I had got up and sang with his enthusiasm I’d end up in hospital. And he was good. Very good. The band was also very good. Whenever the lead guitarist or rhythm guitarist sang backup or lead they got the songs word perfect, with none of the problems Thai people often have in pronouncing some English words. Their repertoire was amazing and they played everything from Led Zepplin to Peter Paul and Mary. I heard songs I haven’t heard since I was knee-high to a grasshopper.

The evening went wonderfully. We sat and listened, drank, laughed and chatted. A plate of spring rolls arrived and disappeared then, in no time at all, it was 1:00am. The three of us were the only customers left and the band closed up shop for a well-earned rest.

Unless I was mistaken, the staff were also ready to call it a night. Either that, or it is their routine for one waitress to hold the front door wide open while the others stand behind customers and yawn loudly. We took the hint. That was when true Thai hospitality came to the fore. We were Somchai’s guests and therefore he would not allow us to pay for anything. As he paid the bin he reiterated, “This is my town.”

Somchai said he was off to another late, late club for a nightcap so Dan and I thanked him sincerely for the great time before catching a taxi back to Nana. We got out near Soi 8 on the opposite side of Sukhumvit to our hotel thus saving the driver from performing a U-turn. Dan was in the mood to play some pool at a nearby bar while I was in the mood for sleep.

Before parting company, we both agreed an early start in the morning was not a good idea. We arranged to meet for lunch without checking out of the hotel because, as the song says – or should say – One Night in Bangkok is never enough.

The words from a Queen song go; “I’ve fallen in love for the first time / This time I know it’s for real.” Before using that as the theme for a great story, here’s a trivia question for you: Where was the late, great Freddie Mercury born?

Trevor was born in Surry, somewhere in the Land of the Great Unwashed. Late fifties, never been married and on his first trip to Thailand, it was the usual story. But Trevor had an advantage. His friend Mark, who convinced him to take a holiday in Thailand, had been running a bar in Pattaya for close to fifteen years. Mark provided detailed instructions on how to get to Pattaya from Bangkok airport and promised to show him the ropes while he was here. All seemed well.

The first hint that something was not quite right came when Trevor failed to show up on the day he was supposed to. Mark had no way to contact him and didn’t know where Trevor had disappeared to. It wasn’t until five days after his expected arrival that Trevor finally strolled into Mark’s bar.

“Where the bloody hell have you been?”

“I’ve been in Pattaya but I lost the piece of paper with your phone number and address. I’ve been asking around but no-one seems to know you.”

“Good!”

Trevor sat down, Mark bought him a beer and the two friends spent some time catching up. Trevor explained he had caught a taxi from the airport and, at the driver’s suggestion, was staying at a hotel in North Pattaya. He said it was fine and he was quite happy to stay there even though Mark had kept a room for him above the bar. When Mark asked what he had been doing for the last five days, Trevor smiled.

“Well, I’ve met this really wonderful girl,” he grinned. “On my first day here, would you believe, I was walking down one of the streets to the beach - number 6 it was - and saw her sitting outside a bar. We talked and got on famously. She told me she wanted to go with me and all about the ‘bar fine’ deal. She said she had only been working for two weeks and hated it, so I paid the money and took her for a meal, a movie and then back to the hotel.”

Mark was laughing loudly. “Welcome to Pattaya, mate. Within 24 hours you’ve managed to find Soi 6 and the girl of your dreams. Well done!”

“You can laugh, but she really is a nice lady. We’ve been together every night for the last five days and I want her to stay with me for the rest of the trip. Only problem is – and I talked with her about it today – I don’t want to keep paying that ‘bar fine’ every day. It really cheapens the relationship and …”

“Relationship?” Mark interrupted loudly, “What bloody relationship? Look, she’s a working girl and you’re a punter! What’s wrong with keeping things like that?”

Trevor ignored the question and continued with his train of thought. “I just told her I’d pay the total bar fine in one lump sum rather than hand over 800 baht every day.”

“800 baht? Are you nuts? We’re talking Soi 6 here and the maximum bar fine is 300 baht! Shit, for 800 baht you could bar fine the best showgirl in the best Go Go in Walking Street!”

“She told me that’s what her bar fine was.”

Mark shook his head. “Mate, she’s taking the piss!”

“The money doesn’t matter – it’s only a bit over eleven quid anyway.”
“There’s another rule you’ve broken; don’t compare prices with back home. This is Thailand and the economy is different. It’s blokes like you who keep forcing prices up here and pretty soon you’ll screw it up for all of us.”

Trevor took a long swig of his beer as Mark continued. “Honestly, the best thing for you to do is go and check out of the hotel now, move all your stuff here and not go back anywhere near Soi 6 again. Don’t call her or leave any message or forwarding address.” He paused for effect. “Please tell me you haven’t handed over the loot yet?”
“I gave her the 8,000 baht this morning.”

Mark shook his head. “That’s stupid, but it could be worse. You’ll just have to write that off because it will be cheaper in the long run. You haven’t given her any other money in advance, have you?”
Trevor hesitated and took a slow sip of his beer. The look on his face meant the answer was obvious.

“How much?” asked Mark with an expression resigned for the bad news.

“I know what you’re going to say, but this girl really is sincere.”

“How much?” Mark repeated.

“Twenty thousand baht.”

“Bloody hell! Did she see you coming or what?”

“No, but she really needed the money. If you had heard the problems she has at home you would have given it to her too.”

“Not a chance!”

“Anyway, as she said, it is not a lot of money for me.”

“Mate, don’t you realize you’ve just given her 2,000 baht a day plus another 500 she skimmed off the top of the ‘bar fine’. That bird has struck a gold mine.”

“You can’t comment because you haven’t met her.”

“Mate, I’ve met a thousand of her and it’s always the same crap.”

Mark looked incredulously at his friend. “Well,” he sighed, “the damage is done and you won’t get your money back so you are probably better off staying with her, I suppose. But under no circumstances give her any more money!”

Trevor fell silent, as if trying to avoid an awkward moment. Then, like a man facing the firing squad finally coming to terms with his fate, he spoke. “I told her I’d give her another 20,000 before I flew home.”
Mark could no longer conceal his disgust and, friend or no friend, his eyes filled with fury.

“You stupid git! You must have ‘I am a pratt’ written in Thai across your forehead! In five days you’ve managed to break every rule and fall for all the bullshit. If you have any male relatives, make sure they don’t come to Thailand. Just in case it’s genetic!” Mark stood up and went to the fridge for two more beers. He placed one in front of Trevor and began sipping on his own.

There was an awkward silence for a long time as Mark sat like a headmaster deciding what to do with an errant pupil, and Trevor not knowing what all the fuss was about.

Later in the evening, the two mates laughed and joked about old times. Trevor promised Mark he would always seek his advice in future. Mark promised he would not call him a ‘pratt’ any more. Their friendship would survive. Next morning, the sun rose in the east.

Five days later Trevor handed a tearful Lek 20,000 baht. Two hours later he boarded a plane to the UK.

Oh, and Freddie Mercury was born in Zanzibar.

I was told we were going to visit a lovely little beach not far from Pattaya. It was going to be a great afternoon of lazily sipping cold beverages, frolicking on the sand and picking up pebbles and throwing them into the sea. The evening was set aside for fine dining on fresh seafood straight from the ocean onto the plate (after being humanely killed and cooked). That’s what I was told.

I arrived at the appointed pickup point at the appointed time to meet my six fellow travellers. It was a surprise to see no wives or girlfriends among the group as I know Thai ladies love a day at the beach and fresh seafood is a Thai specialty. Always prepared, I had brought my swimming trunks, a beach towel, a small plastic bucket and spade, insect repellant, shark repellant, zinc cream for my nose and a camera to record the events of the day.

My friends laughed at me, but I explained that part of my dementia involved reliving childhood and some of my most enjoyable childhood experiences were the times I spent on the beach. That’s when I was informed we were heading to Ban Chang, a small town frequented by many golfers south of Pattaya towards Rayong.

Driving south and taking the Sattahip bypass, we arrived in Ban Chang in forty minutes. My keen sense of direction told me that since we were now heading east, the ocean was off to the right, so when the minivan driver turned left into Soi 25, I was confused. The conversation in the vehicle then made it clear why we were here and it had nothing to do with any beach. We were here to go to bars. My host pointed out the series of bars along the left hand side of the street, covering about a hundred metres from the first to the last. He said we should all meet back at the minivan at 10:00pm or whenever we got tired of it, whichever came first.

Before the group dispersed, I discretely covered my bucket and spade with the towel and protested that we had all just come from Pattaya – a place with bars coming out our ears - so why did we need to drive all this way just to go to more bars? The logic of my question did not compute with my friends. I felt like walking out to the highway and catching a bus back to Pattaya but, in the interest of research, I decided to stay.

We surveyed the first few places – The Camel Pub & Restaurant, Faces, Noot’s, Jigsaw – before opting to try McAllister’s Bar and Grill which offers a 180 baht lunch buffet up until 5:00pm. None of us were hungry but the food certainly looked good. Sad to read a notice on the wall stating that the owner, Don McAllister, succumbed to cancer on 11 November 2006. Reading the obituary, he seemed like a guy I would have enjoyed meeting.

The rest of the evening was spent bar hopping to places like The Where House, Kiwi, Rabbit, Rainbow, Sunshine, Good Luck, Papa’s, Nasa, Moonshine, Star, Harem, Anytime, Black Cat, Candy, The Bar and Offshore Sports Pub. For those interested in statistics, that makes a total of 21 bars. Beer ranged in price from 60 to 70 baht per bottle while lady drinks, so I was told, were around 85 baht. Although some very pretty ones could be found, the Bar Hostesses appeared, in general, to be the ‘B Team’ when compared with the ladies of Pattaya. These daughters of Isaan were, however, a friendly bunch and not pushy for drinks.

Having said that, I must have been wearing my ‘Throw me the ugly one’ t-shirt because in one particular bar – no names mentioned – I was set upon by what had to be the oldest Bar Hostess in Thailand.

I’m guessing her last boyfriend wrote his love letters with a quill pen. She gave me an excellent neck and shoulder massage and I gave her 40 baht to go outside and get something to eat. Immediately! All in all, by the end of the evening I’d had twenty-one neck-shoulder-back massages.

Apparently, there are four good golf courses near Ban Chang and, with the ink on their score sheets not yet dry, the ‘golfers’ arrived just before sunset. For many of the hackers this would be their chance to score their only ‘birdie’ of the day. I suspect these are the guys who, when asked by their wives or girlfriends back in Pattaya, “How you can play golf in dark?” simply answer, “Fluorescent balls.”
The trouble with rabid golfers, of course, is they talk about it. Incessantly.

Like the guy in the bar holding up a battered little white ball proclaiming that, “If it hadn’t been for five putts, this would have been a hole in one!” But this is true of all fanatics. I remember as a teenager my mates were all experts on cars. “What about the new HX3 B64 model with the double overhead cam fox tails and the 3.16 instead of the 3.2? Wow, that new carby design really gives it grunt!” That was the conversation I had to put up with, to which my only input would be, “Is it red?” Nowadays, several decades and thousands of kilometers away, I have to suffer golf, and that to me is as exciting as taking a gynaecology course by correspondence.
Golfing banter aside, it was an interesting evening.

I made a note for future reference that it wasn’t until the white ball slammers began trickling in that more girls seemed to arrive and the party atmosphere moved up a notch. My friends and I made the mistake of arriving too early in the afternoon and a better time to turn up would have been around five o’clock.

By 9:30pm we were all tired, emotional and ready for the return trip to Pattaya. As my companions fell asleep in the minivan, I concluded that it had all been fun but not something I’d want to do too often. As charming as they were, the reason to go there cannot just be for the bars.

Perhaps I need to take up golf.

Much has been written about foreign men coming to Southeast Asia and falling in love with local ladies. It is not difficult to understand how a mature age man could lose his heart to a young, attractive female. Neither is it difficult to predict the pitfalls to which such a mismatched relationship could be prone.

But it doesn’t do any good to dwell on the negatives. That little optimist inside all of us should be continually looking for the silver lining in every dark cloud. Apart from the obvious, I have learned there is an additional advantage to cohabitating with a young Thai lady.

When I first met her, I discovered my new girlfriend had only one friend in Pattaya; an old, unattractive, mean woman who took an instant dislike to me. Thankfully, her verbal poisoning of my girlfriend against me was short lived once she met some guy who whisked her away to Europe and out of our lives. I hope she’s happy, but good riddance. That left my darling with me as her only friend and, while this was fine for a while, I knew she missed the company of Thai friends her own age.

That’s when I introduced her to Ning, the very attractive girlfriend of one of my good mates. It is difficult to recall whether it was their first meeting or their second, but the two girls hit it off unbelievably quickly. Over the next few months they became more than like sisters; they became inseparable Siamese twins. Now, years later, they often spend three or four hours together then return home and talk for another four hours over the telephone. Thankfully, my darling has one of those telephone deals allowing her free calls between certain hours.

Then we moved house. Our new neighbour was a young, beautiful Thai lady whose farang ‘husband’ was absent for almost nine months of the year. Noy was lovely, with a friendly, bubbly personality to match. She was also lonely, but it didn’t take my tee ruk long to befriend her. Once Noy was introduced to Ning, the three girls became the best of friends, like three peas in a pod.

They weren’t from the same province but they had a lot in common. To begin with, they all had farang partners who allowed them plenty of latitude in how they spent their free time, even though for one it was simply by his absence. And they had a lot of free time since none of them were working.

When the inevitable happened and Noy broke up with her neglectful husband, she even stayed with us for a month while she worked out her options. Normally, I don’t appreciate long-term visitors in my home, but for Noy I made an exception. She began by sleeping in the spare bedroom then, for some reason, decided the hard, tiled lounge room floor was more comfortable or convenient.

I did actually suggest that the bed in the main bedroom was big enough for three people. Noy and my tee ruk laughed and joked about it, even teasing me by saying Noy could be my ‘mia noi’. Little did they know.

But Noy remained in the lounge, flopping around in her short shorts, her slinky nightdress or silk see-through pajamas. She showered with the bathroom door open, changed clothes in the lounge and slowly drove me crazy. It was a sad day indeed when she packed up all her belongings and left, saying she had found her own accommodation nearby. It was also inconvenient, because my girlfriend began spending a lot of time out with either Ning or Noy. That’s when I intervened by telling my tee ruk that I didn’t like her going out so often because I missed her too much. I carefully explained that her place was in the home, barefoot but definitely not pregnant. (Thank you to all those people who sent me cards and flowers.)

When I recovered, I graciously suggested she should entertain her charming friends at our home, adding they were all welcome to come over any time. She agreed that was a good idea and everything was well.

It so happens that Ning had a younger cousin or niece in Pattaya. When she first brought Nut around to my place I was speechless because the word ‘stunning’ doesn’t begin to describe her. Nut did not have a job either. Instead, a procession of suitors took care of her every fanciful need. Surprisingly, her two most recent boyfriends were Thai men, and I was relieved to learn Thai men can be just as silly as foreign men where beautiful women are concerned. Although Nut never did become a permanent member of their tight little group, from time to time she joined the others for meals, gossip and make-up sessions in my living room. These were the days or nights when I made a deliberate effort to stay home.

One such occasion a few weeks ago will be the theme for most of my pleasant dreams to come. My darling arrived home with all her friends in tow and I rushed out to greet them, trying desperately to conceal my excitement. A quick head count revealed there were five girls in total, not the usual four. My tee ruk had brought back a stray poo-ying. And not just any stray.

The new addition was introduced to me as Nit, but I don’t think I saw her face in those initial seconds because the micro mini she was wearing rested above the two most beautiful long legs on the planet. While the quintet made themselves comfortable in the lounge, I rushed into the bathroom to apply some aftershave.

I came out just as they were heading back out the front door and they didn’t hear my pathetic appeal: “Why? What did I do wrong? Please don’t go.”
As luck would have it, twenty minutes later they all returned, arms laden with plastic bags of food. I watched as they gathered plates, bowls, spoons and forks from my kitchen and spread out the feast over my floor. Here were five gorgeous ladies, only one of whom, being the girlfriend of my mate, was untouchable for moral reasons. Three were untouchable for personal emasculation concerns, but that didn’t stop me looking. Then, one of them invited me to join them.

It wouldn’t have mattered if I had just pigged out at a T-bone steak all-you-can-eat buffet and the girls were serving up boiled buffalo dung sandwiches, it was an invitation I could not refuse. It was an invitation from the Gods, or more correctly, the Goddesses.
Many thoughts raced through my mind as I sat cross-legged on that floor pretending to be interested in whatever they were talking about.

They must have wondered why I kept smiling as I thought back to ancient Persia and the harems kept by the kings of the time. I pictured my dinner companions all dressed like Barbara Eden in the sitcom I Dream of Jeannie, a television series which ran its course long before any of them were born.

I wanted to take a group photo to record the moment forever. Most importantly, I wanted to rush out to find a hardware store and buy a welder. If I could make it back home before they finished eating, I was going to seal all the exits.

There is a guy in Pattaya who I have known for almost a year now. He is more of an acquaintance than a friend and to conceal his identity I won’t mention his nationality. Or cricket.

The strange thing is, in all the time I have known him, I have never seen him without a backpack on his back. Whether he is walking around, riding his motorcycle, sitting at a bar or eating at a restaurant, his knapsack is always with him. Recently, my curiosity got the better of me and I made the mistake of asking him what he carried around in the bag. His mistake was that he told me. Your mistake is reading about it.

He unzipped the knapsack and removed the contents one item at a time. First, there was a bottle of drinking water. This was not unusual because, naturally, in the steaming desert that is Pattaya, dehydration is always a major concern. Liquid refreshment is so hard to find that many tourists can be seen wandering the sois carrying plastic bottles of water for emergencies.

Next to emerge was a heavy, silver metallic gadget. It was a Mexican copy of a Chinese imitation of a Swiss army knife and it had everything that, literally, opens and shuts. There were nail clippers, a nail file, two screw drivers, a bottle opener, can opener, cork screw, a metal saw or file and yes, even a knife. He said he had owned it for years and it was very handy indeed. I asked how often he had needed to use it, to which he replied he remembered exploiting the bottle opener a couple of times.

The next item was very interesting. It was a piece of coiled string. This was very important, he said, because you never know when you will need some string and when you do need it, there is never any around. How long is a piece of string? I didn’t want to know. But again I asked how often he had needed it. He said it was the original string and he had never required its services yet, but he was sure the day would come and, when it did, he would be ready.

Then he pulled out a small face towel and a sealed plastic bag containing a pad of folded toilet paper. These needed no explanation as I could fully understand their inclusion in his survival pack. What I didn’t understand was the small sewing kit with some needles, different coloured cotton and spare buttons. I’ve heard of ‘Be Prepared’ but this guy was the master of all scoutmasters. Either that or he would make a good wife. My own philosophy is; if a button falls off my shirt then that’s what it wanted. It was karma. Fly away! Be free!

He then produced his medical kit which, in retrospect, would be the envy of some Third World countries. Small plastic bottles of mosquito repellant, sunscreen, eye drops, antiseptic solution and tubes of itch cream, chaffing cream and dermatitis cream made up the bulk. Bandaids, plaster in assorted sizes, cotton wool, sterile bandages and a small pair of surgical scissors were kept separately.

Then came the pills, including enough Imodium to plug the hole in the Titanic plus some laxatives just in case he ever OD’d on the former. The rainbow box of pills came with an accompanying typed list, colour coded for efficiency, to explain the use of each tablet: white ones for headache/fever; red ones for travel sickness; yellow ones for indigestion; blue ones for an erection etc. God help him if he ever lost that list! I asked him if he did a lot of travelling through the bush or up country. “No,” he replied straight-laced, “I just hang around Pattaya.”

There was a sleeping mask, ear plugs (definitely see a use for those in this town) and a plastic inflatable pillow. With that, I could take no more and told him I got the picture. But he was not finished yet. There was a watertight folder containing his Thai driver’s license and a full colour, laminated photocopy of every page in his passport. On the cover of the folder was a letter to a doctor stating his blood type and that he was not allergic to any medication. Underneath was three names and telephone numbers, presumably his next of kin. Enough! Put it all back in the bag. I don’t want to see any more.

But I wasn’t getting off that easy. Still to come was a business card folder, a small address book, a notepad, pen and a pencil, a road map of Thailand, a map of Pattaya and a map of the tube stations in London. (No, I didn’t ask.) He finally upturned the bag and, falling to the table, was a key ring containing his spare set of keys (at least a dozen), a disposable cigarette lighter, a metal spoon, a whistle, a rudimentary compass and a 3-minute egg timer. He paused as if waiting for me to ask something but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. There are some things in this world best left unexplained.

As he carefully replaced each item in his knapsack, I remarked on how thorough I thought he had been, adding that, if ever I found myself lost in the middle of nowhere, I’d like him to be with me. While he was deciding whether that was a compliment or not, I succumbed to the urge to relate my own personal travel attitude. I like to travel light, I told him, and, in Pattaya, the lightest way to travel is to carry the one and only necessity. Money.

How much depends upon the anticipated duration of the excursion and just how much of a sexy man I want to be. A very sexy man? Three or four thousand baht. A desirable man? One or two thousand baht. Mildly amusing? A couple of hundred baht. Bordering on leprosy? A pocketful of coins.

We would love to hear from you. Your comment would be greatly appreciated.
Just use the form below and let us know what you think.

Please ad your name and location as well if you would.

Thanks