This year, of course, Christmas celebrations were almost a non-event because of two lots of bar closures due to the Thai general election. I’m guessing bar owners must have been livid, having to shut up shop with the town finally full of cashed-up punters. According to the Bangkok Post of 15 December, “The ban is to prevent canvassers from entertaining voters at drinking sprees before they go off to cast their votes.”

If that is the case, I can’t personally see why the bars should not be able to reopen immediately after the polling stations close. But … ours is not to reason why.

Because of deadlines for submitting this article, I can’t report on how successful or otherwise the Christmas period in Pattaya was this year so I’ll have to recount a story from a previous year. The following is an edited extract from the hilarious book A Fool’s Diary, scribed by yours truly, describing a full year of expat living in Pattaya. Pathetic free plug or not, let me relate a tale from the ghost of Christmas past.

’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the sois,
All the creatures were stirring, including katoeys;
The piglets were hung o’er the spits with care,
In hopes that the punters soon would be there;
The Hostesses were resplendent, all dressed in red,
While visions of sugar-daddies danced through their head …

My apologies to Clement Clarke Moore for that desecration of his splendid poem. All that aside, Christmas Eve convinced me this is not a good time of year for the pig population of Thailand. Every bar worthy of the name put on a party, the centrepiece of which was most often a very unhappy pig roasting over a spit.

The punters were out in force; their numbers only matched by the mass of coloured balloons tied to everything resembling a fixture. And the girls? The Bar Hostesses may not fully understand the significance of Christmas in its traditional sense, but that didn’t dampen their enthusiasm. Red ‘Santa’ caps and short red skirts were the fashion of the moment and ‘Melly Kitmart’ replaced their usual greeting of ‘Hello Sexy Man’.

By midnight, the explosion of popping balloons meant the long night was drawing to a close. I had been sitting at a beer bar talking with my long-time friend, Nok, having a great time drinking and playing games. But that all came to an abrupt end when one of her old ‘customers’ turned up on his motorbike. She rushed out to greet him then quickly returned to the mamasan with the cash for her bar fine. As she retrieved her handbag she gave me a smile and a conciliatory, “Sorry, I have to go,” knowing full well I would understand. Now sitting unattended, I could only watch as she slipped out into the night.

… She sprang on his bike, to her friends gave a whistle,
And away they both flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ’ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

The following afternoon I awoke with a mission in mind. The good thing about Christmas Day in Thailand is all the shops are open, affording me the opportunity to make some post-last-minute purchases. Over the past week the department stores have been crowded with conscientious farang doing their Christmas shopping in the traditional way. I prefer to shop after the event to avoid the crowds and take advantage of the many heavily-discounted bargains available.
This year I only had to buy one thoughtful gift for my long-suffering tee ruk.

I had already assured my beloved that I’ve learned my lesson from last year when my gift of a 1,000 baht phonecard was received less enthusiastically than expected. I tried to explain it was a practical gift, something she could utilize every day but, apparently, it was not ‘lo-man-tic’ enough. I was given the impression the only thing less appreciated would have been if I’d paid her parking tickets.

So this year I had to come up with something romantic, or at least clever. I thought of calling my mate Robbie for advice but then remembered the debacle over the birthday present he gave his own girlfriend. (He had his bum waxed.) No, I had to buy something big, wrappable and expensive-looking. In the past, before wrapping any non-convertible gift, I would spend a little time removing the price tag. I didn’t want the recipient to know how much I paid (or didn’t pay) because ‘it is the thought that counts’.

In Pattaya however, the female recipients of my rare gifts often survey the item as if looking for the price tag. And when they don’t find one, they come straight out and ask me how much it cost. To Westerners this behaviour is rude, but to Thais it is perfectly acceptable. I’m used to it now and have devised a cunning plan. I have a set of my own blank price tags and can set my printer to print out any amount I want on the small labels. For instance, say I purchase a gift for 300 baht, I remove that tag and replace it with one reading 1,300 baht before wrapping the item. When she receives it and checks the price, the lady merely thinks I was stupid for paying too much rather than being the Cheap Charlie that I am. Works every time.

So what did I finally get for my beloved primary care giver that year? A 26,000 baht DVD player, a 12,000 baht Breville toaster oven, a 10,000 baht steam and dry iron plus a 6,000 baht non-stick wok. Needless to say she was speechless, but the hospital staff were very nice and the doctor’s fine stitch work did not even leave a scar. No chance of a repeat of that this year, even though I was surely tempted by the automatic washing machine.

On that note and while I am still in one piece, I’ll wish you all a Happy New Year.

“But sweetheart, we have a nice kitchen and you’ve been cooking delicious meals for me for the past year,” I countered. Not so, apparently. She said most of the time she would simply sneak the prepared food in while I wasn’t looking, store it in that part of the fridge not reserved for beer and merely heat it up when I was ready to eat. She always made sure to mess up a lot of pots and pans and fill the sink with dirty dishes to give the illusion she had been slaving away over a hot wok.

I told her that was impossible because all Thai girls are taught to cook from a young age by their mothers. She agreed this is generally true but, in her case, from the age she could walk she went to live with her father and missed out on her mother’s teaching during her informative years. Just my luck, I thought, to find the only female in Thailand who can’t cook! It did explain why her family kept weekly telephone checks on her once we moved in together.

I thought they were concerned that I was treating her well when, in fact, it was to see if I had found out yet and thrown her out. Of course, I’m not that type of person and would never do that. Now that I had found out the truth I simply scolded her for deceiving me, cut her monthly allowance and confined her to barracks for a few weeks. Nothing drastic.
The relevance of this will become apparent once I explain I have a neighbour, Dan, whose Thai wife can cook. In fact she is an excellent cook whether it be Thai or Western food.

Along with a couple of other farang friends, Dan and I often sit out front of our local store in the evening to take in the twilight with a few cold refreshments. It is all very pleasant, but for Dan it also coincides with his dinner time and therein lies the problem. We would all be sitting, chatting and sipping when, from his home a short distance away, his wife would emerge carrying – or should I say balancing – plates. She would bring them out to her husband and place them before him. Sometimes they would contain pork chops, gravy, vegetables and a piping hot cob of corn, sometimes fried chicken drowning in her ‘special recipe’ barbeque sauce with mashed potato, peas, fresh bread (pre-buttered) or sometimes it was a large bowl of her delicious stir fried Thai chicken or pork with vegetables and rice.

You can imagine how the rest of us feel as we watch this unfolding before our very eyes. I don’t think there is an English profanity left in the dictionary we haven’t used to describe him as he eats his aromatic meals in front of us. Once his meal is finished, his dutiful wife reappears and removes the plates to his gratitude and satisfaction. In his defence, so he says, he could eat his dinner at home but then he would miss out on our riveting conversation. Instead of sitting in front of the television he prefers to sit with us and eat … and gain massive face while doing so.

Naturally, I could not allow this brazen attempt at big-face-up-man-ship to go unanswered so, in the privacy of our living room, I approached my darling. “Do you see what they’ve been doing, showing you up like that? All the neighbours are talking and you are losing face by not taking care of your husband in the same way. Are you going to let them get away with it?” I demanded.

“Where is the remote?”

It was thus left for me to hatch a cunning plan. Two days later I went grocery shopping on my own, returned home just before lunchtime and got to work in the kitchen. When everything was done I carefully explained the strategy to my tee ruk who responded with the Thai words meaning ‘clinically insane’. Nevertheless, it was too late to turn back now and I was certain my revenge would be sweet.

That evening, Dan and I joined our little group as usual and when I felt the time was right I sent my tee ruk the pre-arranged signal via my mobile phone. A few minutes later, she emerged from our home at the head of a procession of three local children she had coerced into helping with the dramatic effect. Each was carrying a silver tray – the type used for making offerings to Buddha – laden with food.

The first contained a plate of sliced roast lamb, peas, carrots, sprouts and a large potato cooked in its jacket; the second held the cutlery, salt, pepper, mint sauce and crusty bread rolls with saucer of butter; on the third rested a bowl containing a large piece of hot apple pie drowning in steaming custard, while on the last tray was the piece de resistance; a bottle of Australian red wine, a corkscrew and one crystal wine glass. As the farce progressed and the procession found its way to our table, I felt the only thing more theatrical would have been if Wagner’s Flight of the Valkyries had been playing in the background.

The laughter and jeers from my mates said it all and the Thai witnesses thought it was fantastic. My tee ruk thought I was crazy but even she eventually saw the funny side. Since that day I have tried to organise it again but my darling informed me, in no uncertain terms, that a repeat performance would not happen in this lifetime. Apparently, carrying a heavy tray was too much of a strain. Never mind. Had we kept up appearances?

Oh yes.
Was it worth it?
Oh yes.

The book takes us through a year of expat living in Pattaya, culminating with the New Year celebrations.
“New Year’s Eve has arrived, proving once again that time flies when you’re having fun. I take a moment to ponder the year that has been; the experiences I’ve had, the people I’ve met and my personal life, in order to gauge my success or otherwise. Considering our current world is being run by lunatics, I am happy to be here in fantasyland watching, at a safe distance, the machinations of the world’s brain-dead political masters behaving as if they were a pile of dung beetles fighting over a morsel of dung.

What about adhering to the resolutions and promises I made myself just twelve months ago? Well, I am still in good health but my finances have been sorely depleted. Paraphrasing a well-known Biblical expression, ‘It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven’. If that is indeed true – and there is no evidence to dispute it – then I have a BIG chance of making it through those Pearly Gates. At least, if I am excluded, the reason won’t be for failing some heavenly means test.

That brings me to the people I’ve met in Pattaya over the past twelve months, most of whom could be described as living either on the edge of reality, the fringe of legality or the brink of morality. Some seem to have been on a mission to relieve themselves of worldly possessions well before undertaking that final journey. After all, what is the good of having money if you don’t spend it? A problem arises because none of us are really sure when our ascension to celestial paradise will occur, and, although it may be a lot of fun, living a hedonistic lifestyle every day could, in fact, reduce our life expectancy. Wine, women and good food may take their toll on the heart and arteries. Most of the guys I know find it difficult to strike a balance. We (yes, I include myself) have trouble leading a lifestyle which is less likely to result in premature heart failure, a stroke or cirrhosis of the liver.

But I think and analyse too much. Perhaps the best way to enjoy life is either by being as dumb as a doorknob or the wisest of the street-wise. I’ve met some guys who are so stupid it is a wonder they ever survived to adulthood. They are so gullible they believe everything they see, hear and read. And you know what? Their world is rosy and they have a wonderful time. They will enter a bar, meet a girl who professes her deep and undying love for them, give her a wad of money to help with her family’s ‘problem’ and leave happy, believing the girl really did fall in love with them after only five minutes. They sleep like babies.

I’ve met other guys who are so clever they out-con the con artists, out-lie the liars and out-smart the smarties. They get the better of anyone who tries to get the better of them and, they too, have a great time. They will go into a bar, meet a girl, profess undying love for her and promise her the world. Once she thinks they are the greatest thing since McDonalds introduced McSomDtum to the menu, they take her for a (free) ride. They too, sleep like babies.

Then, there are the rest of us – the walking mediocrity. Stuck between the optimist and the pessimist, we know too much to be truly happy in fantasyland but too little to survive in a pool of sharks. We are the ones with a B-minus average in the classroom of life. The fool sees everything as white. The wise man sees everything as black. All we see is grey. Unlike the doorknob, we know better than to believe everything we see or hear and we won’t accept everything at face value. We don’t know enough to reject everything we see and hear and are perpetually wondering whether, this time, it may actually be true. This time it really may be the ‘best price’ or maybe this time she really does love me. We are stuck in a world of uncertainty. Maybe she is; maybe she isn’t. Maybe it’s true; maybe it’s not. And we don’t sleep.

In Pattaya, the danger of being the eternal fool is that you will eventually run out of money and a penniless fool is as welcome in this town as a fart in a spacesuit. Rich fools we love, poor fools we send packing. The danger with being eternally wise is that you will eventually become too cynical. When the opportunity of a lifetime does present itself you will reject it simply because it sounds too good to be true and you are too smart to fall for that one. Sometimes we can be too clever for our own good.

So where do we draw the line? Many foreign men in Pattaya enter relationships with a level of trust higher than it should be. Others fear entering a relationship because they are certain they will be cheated or it will cost them too much money. Like a fool, I think most people are basically honest but like a cynic, I don’t trust any of them. That is my humble end-of-year advice to those of us who want to enjoy this town without being burned. But then, I’m too smart to be totally stupid and too stupid to be totally smart. Stuck in the middle again.

6:00pm: As the sun began to set on a dying year for the last time, I made myself ready to go out into town for a night cavorting at the innumerable parties being prepared. The love of my life doesn’t like crowds, the noisy parties and fireworks so opted to stay home. She informed me she wanted me home before midnight for kao dao. I told her I didn’t understand, so she repeated the words slowly, then once again loudly. That did not work so she left me to work it out for myself.

Thirty minutes or so of checking through my library of Thai-English dictionaries resulted in kao either meaning ‘enter’, ‘him’, ‘her’, ‘rice’ or ‘white’, and dao meaning either ‘star’ or ‘turtle’. Trying all the permutations and combinations, the only ones making any sense were ‘turtle and rice’, ‘white turtle’ or ‘white star’. I couldn’t work out whether I was supposed to eat it, play with it or worship it.

Seeing my confusion, my darling eventually provided some further, somewhat crucial, information. She said they were English words, not Thai. While mentally assessing the need to confess there are many English words I don’t understand as well, she explained that, as midnight approached, she wanted me home beside her for the ‘kao dao’ [count down], and illustrated her point:

“Ten … nine … eight …seven …”

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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 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.