

### The Great Lottery Pay-off

by

Gerry Skoyles

Copyright 2014 Gerry Skoyles

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Author's Note

Names of all people appearing in this true story have been changed, except my own. A few locations and place names have also been changed to respect the right to privacy.

PREFACE

The title of this book, The Great Lottery Pay-off, takes on a broader meaning after the original tale ended. A new epilogue adds a surprising conclusion to the story. Without giving too much away, I'll just use a well-worn cliché. _What goes around comes around._ Read the ultimate ending when you reach the epilogue.

Gerry Skoyles 5th August 2018
CHAPTER 1

In my seventh decade with seven divorces on the scoreboard, reflecting on recent years unveiled a startling mix of fortune. In many respects, life began at sixty when it hurled me into a labyrinth of intriguing encounters and beguiling twists of fate, an enlightening adventure into far flung corners of the world. Upheavals and disillusionment finally compelled me to seek a more enticing way of life. Daunting and sometimes virtually impossible challenges were eventually overcome and I remained passionately determined to pursue my new found dream. With no way back, the probability of dreams turning into nightmares mattered little. Discovering just how hugely popular lotteries were in one distant land revealed astonishing facts about how far some people would go in order to become rich.

Due to a family connection, I was introduced to a senior Buddhist monk, the abbot of a famous sacred sanctuary in Thailand. Totally against ethical and moral principles of Buddhism, he gambled on lotteries and became a millionaire. That monks attitude and behaviour resulted in my life being changed dramatically. There was no financial gain for me whatsoever; instead I found myself having to negotiate around additional obstacles he'd created. Frequently lyrics from a much loved song drifted through my thoughts, To dream the impossible dream.

That incident attracted worldwide media attention after revelations appeared in at least two of Thailand's leading English language newspapers. The Bangkok Post printed a front page story and photograph. The Nation went to great lengths in an editorial, adding its opinion with, _'Lotto monk' has become the rule not an exception_. Their opening was followed by, _R_ eading a front-page story on a monk hounded by "extortionists" after he won the first prize of the government lottery, one can't help but wonder how many Buddhist principles have been violated in this single real-life tale. The abbot of a well-known temple in Chonburi, who won more than Bt50 million in prize money, may not bother to find out, however. He has been busy talking to the police and the press, deploring how his amazing stroke of luck drew so many "bad people" into his life.

Further into its article, The Nation added, _. . . was not even asked the questions he should have been asked. And if the questions have been asked, they have not been asked loud enough. He featured in press stories more like a victim, which he would have been, without the saffron robe._

It wasn't about winning or losing, it was about always seeing the funny side of each and every predicament which unfailingly led me to never give up. It became evident that number seven played an important role along the way. Unscheduled, often weird events provided an opportunity to explore exotic places off beaten tracks and uncover startling goings-on. It added an appreciable element of spice to what was supposed to have been a final fling.

* * *

In 2005 I was living alone with retirement not far away and an unhealthy bank balance. I could see only a gloomy picture. A furnished cottage with an estuary view on North Devon's beautiful coast failed to bring a feeling of well-being. The English way of life no longer appealed. I had lived at more addresses than I could remember, both at home and abroad, since leaving Cambridgeshire forty-odd years earlier. Rare communications reached me from a handful of folk who managed to keep track, including three grown-up children and a sister.

Travelling days started in the 60's with an overland journey to India in a beaten-up camper-van, followed by one of the last passenger ships plying between Southampton and Australia taking me to a new life down under in the 70's. Sales and marketing in subsequent decades brought about frequent jaunts around Europe, culminating in yet another fresh challenge . . . redundancy. I ended up selling holiday club memberships, a new name being used by timeshare companies following bad press about the concept. It was little different, but sounded more appealing.

Having spent a few years at holiday resorts and hotels in Europe, an offer to work back in Devon proved irresistible. The cottage was close to a timeshare resort where it was possible to make a reasonably honest living.

* * *

Work colleague, Rob, chatted about his holidays. "I tell yer, mate, Thailand is the place to go. Cheap golf, and full of lovely girls. Bangkok is okay but a bit smoggy. Pattaya is much better these days for sun and women. I met this gorgeous creature there who wanted to come home with me, but the missus wouldn't have been too happy."

"She left you a week after you got back anyway," I quipped.

"Yeah, well, playing golf wore me out."

An idea of heading east and meeting some lovely Thai ladies began germinating. Maybe I would find a special one. British regulations such as having sufficient financial resources in order to bring a Thai citizen into the country didn't put me off. A good deal of cash would be required regularly for the lady to send home to her family but that was something that could be handled later. Obtaining a visa would be difficult but not impossible. Regardless of result, it was a challenge to relish.

I booked a holiday in Pattaya for two weeks in September 2005, deciding to use a hotel recommended by Rob. Its name, Up All Night Inn, should have been a warning. Nice girls are to be found in shops, offices and restaurants throughout The Land of Smiles . . . according to websites specialising in such matters.

* * *

The Thai hotel proprietor, a man about forty years old, wearing a dazzling Hawaiian-style silk shirt and black trousers, beamed broadly when we met as arranged at Don Muang airport, on Bangkok's outskirts. "You are Mister Jelly, yes?"

" _Gerry_ ... Gerry Skoyles."

"My name Kiet. You come to see temples and beaches or meet lovely girls?"

"Bit of each."

Kiet struggled to fit my bag in his ageing saloon car's boot, hampered by a large gas cylinder. "I change to gas because cheap."

The cylinder appeared to have been fitted extremely amateurishly and certainly was far from secure. A huge jerking movement sent us on our way; fortunately the cylinder remained connected. "Gas sometimes no good," Kiet explained. "Smell funny." Thankfully we had a smooth ride and made good speed towards Pattaya. I listened while my genial host and chauffeur chatted endlessly during a two hour drive. His name meant 'honourable'. I hoped we wouldn't get blown to smithereens by bad gas.

"I not only offer special car service from airport, but also have lovely ladies waiting to greet you at hotel. I think you will like," he said proudly.

An image I had in mind of a small, family run hotel just off the seafront changed dramatically. Threatening dark clouds began to roll across the sky and rain drops spattered on windows.

Kiet informed, "September can be wet sometimes . . . but never mind, not much."

_He_ might not have minded, but _I_ did. Then rain lashed down, lightening flashed and thunder rolled. The road became a surging brown river. Kiet's car juddered alarmingly, suggesting a puncture.

"Doesn't seem right," I said rather stupidly.

"Tyre go flat. It's okay." Kiet pulled up off the carriageway. "We wait until not wet, then I fix." Half an hour later, having delivered his life story, he fitted a spare wheel.

"New airport open next year." Kiet pointed to the new _Suvarnabhumi_ international airport clearly well under construction as we passed.

I said, "According to reports, it should already be open. Your prime minister slept in a tent there last year, hoping to encourage workers to speed things up."

"Ah yes, Thaksin Shinawatra do strange things sometimes."

"Prime ministers everywhere do strange things most of the time."

* * *

On a huge archway over the road, a brightly decorated notice read, _Pattaya, the Extreme City_. That seemed a fair description after reading some history of the place. Situated about one hundred and thirty kilometres south-east of Bangkok, Pattaya was home to a hundred thousand people. It used to be a small fishing village in the 1960's, until American serviceman began arriving during the Vietnam War for rest and recuperation, transforming it into a popular beach resort. Each year it welcomed more than four million visitors, many of them older men looking for female company.

We crawled along the seafront during late afternoon, the road chocked with _songthaews;_ converted pick-up trucks with shiny steel roofs and uncomfortable bench seats.

Kiet explained, "In Pattaya, s _ongthaews_ are nicknamed baht buses, because only ten baht to go anywhere in city."

"That's very cheap." I watched as six intoxicated revellers, crammed on the tailboard of one contraption, let go their grips on a handrail to wave at girls on the beach. When the driver accelerated hard, they all fell off and landed on the road in an untidy heap. Taxicabs vied for business, honking at pedestrians. _Tuk-tuks,_ colourful, sputtering, three-wheeled motorcycle taxis, nipped in and out of tight spaces. Motorbikes, some with four or five passengers clinging on, roared along the centre of the road. As sunshine broke through clouds, tanned western men, many accompanied by bikini-clad young Thai girls, went in search of beach sun-loungers. Food vendors did brisk trade from rickety old carts under shady palm trees at the kerbside.

On opening the car window to release gas fumes, delicious aromas of spicy food drifted in. "That smells good. Hot with chillies." I sniffed.

Kiet told me, "Very good seafood as well. Fresh every day."

Endless rows of open-fronted bars were each furnished differently. Some had plastic tables and chairs with Coca-Cola sunshades, wicker and bamboo garden sets were available at others. A few provided traditional Thai wooden benches at tables hewn from tree-trunks. Choosing which type of chair to sit on was difficult. They all looked inviting. Each establishment belted out golden oldies and advertised exactly the same prices as each other. Groups of western men patronised them all, moving from one bar to another, receiving undivided attention from girls all looking much alike. Lottery ticket sellers wandered around with their wooden trays displaying latest get-rich-quick numbers.

"I read somewhere there are three thousand bars in town."

"Maybe. Nobody know for sure. We are at hotel now." Kiet pulled up outside a three-storey building on the seafront, accessed by a few well-worn steps. Several pretty Thai girls with flowing black hair and flashing white teeth laughed and waved from a long balcony.

One of them, wearing a scarlet top and displaying a considerable amount of cleavage, with skimpy shorts and stiletto-heeled shoes, rushed down steps and insisted on carrying my bag. "I Malee. Come, I take you room."

"Thanks, but I fancy a beer first."

"No problem. Boss fix drink, I show you room. Okay?"

Dragging my bag, she headed through a small lounge to the first of several dimly lit flights of concrete stairs. I followed, full of misgivings. At the top of the first flight, jet lag set in. At the top of the second flight my knees shook with a mixture of fear and exhaustion. It seemed highly unlikely a dream girl would be found at the Up All Night Inn.

"This your room, Sir." Malee unlocked room number seven and the door creaked open. We stepped into a small bedroom with flimsy curtains half drawn across a grimy window. I peered through one foggy pane to discover I had a view of the rear of a fish restaurant. The backyard was lined with overflowing garbage bins. Not a welcoming sight. Through the bathroom doorway I spotted an ancient shower cubicle with a single dripping tap.

"No hot water?" I checked.

"No need because room velly hot."

The double bed looked clean. Malee heaved my bag onto it, sat and bounced around. "Very good, yes?"

"No doubt. Now, I really need that beer." Unsure about tipping her, I hastily retreated, cursing Rob for suggesting that place.

The lounge bar buzzed with life. Malee sat at an untidy small table behind the bar and busied herself sorting wads of bills. Four girls, sitting on stools in front of the bar, turned towards me with dazzling smiles, giggled and _waid_ , palms pressed together beneath their chins. " _Sawadee kha,_ " they chorused in unison.

" _Sawadee kap._ " I returned their greeting.

They hastily made room for me at the bar, pulling out a stool.

Kiet appeared. "Ah, Jelly. What you drink? Heineken?"

"What's a good Thai lager?"

"Many falangs like Singha."

Aware that falang was the Thai pronunciation of farang . . . foreigner, I nodded and Kiet opened a bottle, shoved it in a cooler and plonked it on the bar.

Those first sips of local brew tasted like heaven but maybe the sensation was enhanced by thoughtful rubbing on my aching thighs by one girl, an expert shoulder massage by another, and a manicure by a third. The forth suggested it would be good luck if I rang a bell.

"What bell?" I asked innocently.

The lass leapt up and tugged a rope attached to a huge bell hanging over the bar. It must have been extremely heavy, judging by the thickness of a chain that secured it to the ceiling. A deafening clanging brought cheers and applause from everyone present. Three dozen or so stood on their chairs and whistled.

"Oooh! Thank you, Jelly." All four girls dashed behind the bar and started fixing various drinks for a rowdy throng waving empty glasses. Lethal-looking concoctions they mixed for themselves looked rather ominous . . . and expensive.

Malee carefully jotted down prices of drinks as they were served and presented the bill in a little pot known as a check bin. I shoved it to one side and took a huge swig from a fresh bottle of Singha.

Kiet produced a large glass full of brown liquid. "Sangsom. Thai rum. Very good for happy time." He fished my bill from the bin and scribbled another set of digits. "No need pay now. It go on your account."

Friendly girls ushered me, somewhat full of beer and rum, to a bamboo sofa on the balcony. As daylight dwindled, the narrow soi, a side street, filled with pedestrians and motorbikes. When unaccompanied men walked by, some with huge beer bellies and flowing beards, the girls called out, "Hello sexy man! Where you go?"

Not wishing to be outdone, I waited for groups of female tourists to pass and hailed them with, "Hello sexy ladies! Where you go?" That brought stares of amazement from everyone within earshot.

Malee joined us. "How you know about hotel?"

"My friend, Rob, said it was very good."

"Rob? Er, English Rob who come little time before? Play golf."

"That's him."

"Oooh! Ladies like Rob velly much. I show you pictures." Malee wiggled off towards a cupboard near her table.

The reason they kept pictures of my work colleague became apparent when Malee returned with a fistful of snaps. She spread them on a table in front of our group.

"Oh my God! Never." I shook my head in disbelief. Images of an ageing Rob wearing only a shiny red posing pouch instantly prompted mirth. "Look at that . . . what a sight! What was he doing half way up that pillar?"

"Trying to use it as a go-go pole. He very drunk," Malee chuckled. "He say he dance for ladies in England."

"At his age? What a horrible thought. He's older than me."

* * *

Paracetamol, indigestion tablets and black coffee late next morning helped me to recover.

Malee, working at her table, pulled a cheeky face. "Ooh! Not velly good, Jelly?"

"How do you know? I can't remember going to bed."

"Three girls take you to room."

"Eh? Are you sure?"

"They say you had big problem."

Outside in steaming humidity and blazing sunshine, I realised nobody else wore long trousers, socks nor shoes. Hitting an ATM and buying some cool clothing made sense. I walked unsteadily along the soi, found a cash machine, withdrew a thick wad of Thai baht notes and set off for Mike Shopping Mall. Scores of female assistants in the department store looked stunning in smart uniforms. After buying an assortment of shorts, T-shirts and sandals I launched the search for a nice Thai lady. There was no shortage of smiles and most enjoyed a quick chat in passing . . . things like 'Where you come from?' and 'You like Thailand?' Somehow I couldn't quite see how one started a conversation along the lines of enquiring if they happened to be interested in having a farang partner. Even suggesting a date didn't fit in. If it was hard in a shop, it'd be tougher to walk into offices and start chatting-up staff. Maybe those websites had it wrong after all . . . or perhaps I misinterpreted the meaning of, 'Nice girls are to be found in shops.'

* * *

I felt convinced there must be some good girls in bars, and only had eleven days to clinch a deal. With close observation of bar girls' personalities during night-time bar crawls, the search had narrowed to those who were less loud, more modestly dressed and apparently new to the industry. Narrow _sois_ , identified only by numbers, led to numerous bar complexes off the seafront. Dozens of oblong and circular bars, lined with stools, were crammed under one roof. Flashing neon signs and disco lights dazzled. Occasionally a nasty stench wafted from drain covers, but the girls' overpowering cheap perfume negated the problem. Competition was strong, so each bar strove to play its music more loudly than ones around them. Applying make-up at every opportunity must have been obligatory for the girls. Holding plastic mirrors and placing ornate cosmetic boxes close by, they dabbed away. Enterprising bar owners encouraged their prettiest staff to dance on bar tops to attract punters. Other girls played Connect 4, constantly beating flabbergasted _farangs_ who paid their debts in cash or drinks. When police on the lookout for illegal gambling showed up, cash was hastily swept away. Happy Hour lasted many hours. Lack of sufficient toilet facilities caused some concern; a building hidden away from the activity had a woman attendant who required five baht upfront.

Thai girls always seemed to be eating, trooping off to buy weird-looking morsels from street barrow vendors. Quick-fried insects were popular, especially juicy beetles, crickets and grasshoppers. Wood worms also ranked high.

On passing a bar named Dynamite Lil's, a group of beauties called to me. "Hey! Sexy man. Why you no come drink here?" One girl remained better behaved, smiling at me demurely. Maybe just a year or so older than the others, she looked great in a denim skirt and colourful top. I made a beeline for her. The other girls swapped seats to make room next to the quiet one.

"Hi! I'm Gerry. What's your name?"

"Tola."

"Wow! Lovely name. Any special meaning?"

Before Tola could answer, another lady interrupted. "What you want mister? Beer?"

"Singha please, and something for Tola."

Tola stroked my hand. "Thank you. They do special lady drink for me."

"So what does your name mean?"

"Very hard say in English." She pulled a well thumbed small dictionary from her shoulder bag and flicked through its pages. "Ah! It say I prosper."

"Oh well, that's very good. Prosper. Do well. Make money maybe?"

"I hope so. Where you come from, Jelly?"

" _Gerry_ , not Jelly. You try."

"Jee-ree. Je-re."

"Very good! I come from England."

"Oh England. I want go England one day."

It seemed I was on to something. "Really? Well I never."

Drinks arrived along with a bin containing the bill. I passed a special concoction to Tola, raised my bottle and whooped, "Cheers!"

" _Chokdee kha_ ," responded Tola.

"What does _chokdee_ mean?"

"Same cheers."

"So, how long have you worked here?"

"Not long. I used to be schoolteacher but money no good."

"Really? Oh well." That sounded a bit odd. Teacher to bar girl. "Why England?"

"My sister marry man from Germany. She live there now. Not far England."

"You like English men?"

Tola rested a hand on my knee. "Yes. Englishmen have good heart."

I thought a good bank balance may have had something to do with it but dismissed the theory instantly. That girl seemed lovely. "Actually, I was wondering if we could get to know each other better, perhaps? Then again, me being a lot older than you . . ."

"Thai ladies like older men. I'm thirty, not young any more."

"Well that still makes me twice your age."

"No problem. I want know you better." She squeezed my hand tightly.

A rather portly young lady arrived at our side and beamed. " _Sawadee kha_."

" _Sawadee kap_."

Tola explained, "This my sister, Kwan. She takes care me."

It was easy to understand why she was able to take care. I wouldn't choose to pick a fight with such a hefty opponent. I wondered if the other sister was slim like Tola because there wasn't any likeness in that pair's facial features.

Kwan pulled up a stool and sat close. "You like Tola? She velly good lady." She beckoned to staff serving behind the bar and ordered herself a gin and tonic. "Thank you for drink, but now I go see customer." She upped and left.

"But . . . but . . ." I sighed. Moments later another bill landed in my bin.

The music changed to a popular number, _Take Me To Your Heart_.

Tola clapped her hands in glee. "This my favourite song." She swayed and sang some lyrics, gazing into my eyes.

Completely hooked, I moved closer, slipping an arm round her waist. "I'd really like to spend some time with you . . . like the next ten days. What do you think?"

She stared in disbelief. "Ten days? You sure?"

I nodded.

"Well, yes, thank you. You wanna go somewhere now?"

"Er, not _right_ now. Let's chat for a while."

An hour later Tola said, "I go my room collect clothes. Wait here. Sister look after you."

I watched in a daze as she hopped on a motor scooter, waved and whizzed off.

Kwan reappeared with an empty glass and sat next to me. "I happy for you both. She like you a lot. Good heart." After ordering another gin and tonic, she explained the procedure. "Now you must pay bar fine for Tola. _Mamasan_ bring it now."

"Mama who?"

" _Mamasan_. Boss lady who look after girls."

"How much?"

"Three hundred baht."

About four pounds. "How much should I give Tola?"

Kwan shrugged. "Up to you. One thousand baht each day is okay. And you come back bar everyday to pay bar fine."

An estimated cost of one hundred and ninety-five pounds over ten days seemed a reasonable amount to discover if this was going to result in having a new full-time partner. When both bar fine and bill for Kwan's drink had been dropped in my bin, I asked her, "How do I settle this lot?"

"Hold bin up and shout check bin _kap_."

With pot held high I yelled, "Check bin _kap_!"

After making payment . . . and adding a generous tip, there was little doubt I'd grossly underestimated the budget.

Tola returned with a holdall, dropped it to the floor and gave me a big cuddle. "You check bin, honey?"

"Oh yeah, I checked it."

A lottery ticket seller sidled up and dumped her tray of tempting numbers on the bar. With a toothless grin she said, " _Falang_ lucky tonight."

"Tomorrow lucky numbers come up," Tola said enthusiastically.

"How much?"

"One hundred baht."

"Oh, well." I pulled my wallet again. "Let's have four. You choose."

"I dream number seven lucky for you."

"Make that seven."

With arms around each other's waists, we walked back to the hotel. Tola got a few stares from girls but Kiet welcomed us warmly.

Over an unnecessary nightcap, Tola pulled a CD from her handbag. "It has _Take Me To Your Heart_. You think maybe Kiet play for us?"

With romantic words of the song blasting away, we bid everyone goodnight and climbed the stairs.

* * *

Late next morning, carefully stepping or jumping over broken paving stones, I clung on to Tola's hand as she marched briskly to her favourite seafront restaurant. The mouthwatering smell of sizzling bacon and pungent spice whetted my appetite as we walked into a top class brasserie. The large, air-conditioned dining area was crammed with Thai girls and their _farang_ partners. Many couples tasted each other's choice of food, either pulling disapproving faces or nodding enthusiastically. Sausage dipped in fiery chilli sauce brought gasps of amazement. Noodles and jam on toast got the thumbs down, as did fermented fish sauce over bacon.

"Now that's a _proper_ all-day breakfast," I said in anticipation.

After dining, Tola announced, "We go Dynamite Lil's later. Lottery winning numbers today. Maybe we lucky."

"That'd be nice."

"You want book tickets for shows?" Tola asked.

"Why not?"

She suggested top shows and showed the way to a ticket agent. I booked several, along with day trips to a tiger zoo, crocodile show, and botanical garden.

To escape fierce mid afternoon sun, we took a siesta back at the hotel then headed for Dynamite Lil's, ready to listen to the lottery results on a radio at four o'clock. A group of ladies gathered round the portable, clutching their tickets.

Tola spread her four tickets on the bar as numbers where announced. "Oh! Wow! Yes! We win, we win! Darling we win!"

"Never. The jackpot?"

"Not jackpot but something. I tell you lucky number seven."

A woman pushed a food cart past.

"Oh, _som tam_! You want some?" Tola rushed out to stop the woman and cart.

"What is it?" I asked cautiously, catching up.

"Papaya salad."

"Okay, sounds good."

The dish of green papaya, chillies, tomatoes, bean-sprouts and green beans, marinated in a strong fishy sauce looked fine . . . until the cook threw in some whole tiny black crabs. She tossed the mixture into a wooden mortar and gave it a good pounding with a pestle.

"Er, those little crabs look funny," I ventured.

Tola tucked into her meal. "They come from water in rice fields, not sea. Lovely."

I nibbled bravely, avoiding crunchy mini crabs.

After paying three day's bar fines to _Mamasan,_ we headed for an office to collect our lottery winnings. The so-called office turned out to be a table in a convenience store. "How much?" I gasped as some banknotes exchanged hands.

"Six thousand baht," Tola blurted triumphantly.

Eighty-five pounds. "Well done!" I tried not to indicate that the jackpot may have been more exciting. "What shall we do with it?"

"Darling, do you think I could buy a notebook?"

Thinking something to scribble on wasn't too extravagant, I nodded agreement. "Sure, why do you only want a notebook?"

"It help me learn more English."

In Mike Shopping Mall I discovered that her notebook was a pocket-size electronic language translator.

Of various attractions visited, a crocodile show was the most extraordinary. In an arena packed with Thais and tourists, a bare-chested man calmly rode on the back of a huge specimen while other vicious-looking creatures prowled around, seemingly hungry. The trainer taunted them, tickled them and generally upset them, resulting in a menacing gnashing of teeth. As a finale, the suicidal human stuck his head in the biggest but most docile crocodile's jaws.

"What you think? He brave man," Tola offered.

"Oh, he's certainly something, that's for sure."

An elephant show nearby proved more colourful. A herd of magnificent mammals, half in Manchester United red, the others in Chelsea blue football outfits, took penalty shots using a giant football. The goal post was unintentionally demolished more often than goals were scored. Thai soccer fans cheered with delight.

* * *

After one week in the Up All Night, we checked out and upgraded to the Easterly Inn Hotel, situated in _soi_ _7_. Although in a noisy area it was good value.

During our days and nights together, Tola painted vivid pictures of her life. Home was a hut on a rice farm in Isaan. The vast area in the North-East covered sixty-two thousand square miles, which made it slightly larger than England and Wales together. Twenty-one million people lived there. An exceptionally hot, dry climate made Isaan the poorest region in Thailand. The Mekong River formed the border with Laos, to the south lay the border with Cambodia.

Tola revealed, "When thirteen years old, I walk four kilometres everyday after school to carry water from well. Then lucky to go university for learn how be teacher."

"Where did you teach?"

"At first school . . . you say, primary, I think . . . not far home."

"Why did you stop being a teacher?"

"Because I want find falang husband . . . same as sister do. She find husband when she work bar Phuket."

Our romance blossomed steadily. With only a few days remaining before my return to England, we agreed to start making wedding plans. Of primary importance was the purchase of an engagement ring. This was to be of twenty-two carat Thai gold and to include matching necklace and bracelet. That dealt with, we decided the wedding should take place in about three months, therefore I needed to book a flight back to Thailand just prior to Christmas, which proved to be somewhat expensive. It was essential for the _sin sot_ , or dowry, to be agreed in advance, being a tradition of considerable significance at a Thai wedding.

"I don't know how much," Tola said. "My sister talk to you."

During a meeting in our bedroom at the Easterly Inn, Kwan insisted that half a million baht was the minimum for a lady not previously married. Seven thousand pounds seemed a bit high but I went along with it. The agreement was to make payment into Tola's parent's account when I returned to Thailand in advance of the ceremony.

"Er, don't you think you should tell your parents about me, and that you're getting married?" I asked, somewhat dazed by the accelerating pace of everything.

"No problem. I phone Papa yesterday. He said bit quick but up to me," Tola explained.

Kwan suggested, "Good idea if we have each other's phone numbers." We stored them in our mobiles. Buddhist ceremony arrangements would be made by Tola's family. My next adventure was to start the lengthy process of compiling all relevant documents which should allow my new wife entry to the UK. An additional expense was incurred by promising to send Tola money each month to pay for a course at an English language school.
CHAPTER 2

In October, back home in North Devon, I put a map of Thailand on the wall, stuck a marker pin in it against Tola's home village named Ban Koha, and placed photos of us around the pin. My kitchen table became a work station scattered with downloaded forms about marrying in Thailand and applying for a spouse visa. We chatted daily, using cheap international phone cards.

Often she called in the early hours. "Hello darling. What time in England?"

Brain befuddled on being awakened from deep sleep, my reply became a stock phrase. "Oh, about five in the morning." Sometimes music, laughter, giggling and snatches of conversation in English indicated Dynamite Lil was doing roaring lunchtime business. During one such call I asked, "Where are you, honey?"

"With sister Kwan in bar. I just finish English school. Thank you for money, Jelly."

I felt uncomfortable knowing she'd chosen to remain at Dynamite Lil's . . . especially with the promise of money each month from me. I was relieved to know that at least she used it to attend English language classes.

Passing days were marked off in my diary and remaining days to when we would be together again were highlighted. I had a considerable need to somehow try and boost income. The National Lottery played on-line made it easy to buy a couple of tickets each week. Given that Tola had won eighty-five pounds, a bigger win would have been useful, so I based my numbers on multiples of seven. An air of doom and gloom prevailed at the timeshare resort. News of impending staff cuts and rumours of a takeover made everyone edgy.

Redundancy came my way during November. The implications cast an air of uncertainty over the future, but I resolved to carry on and say nothing about it to Tola. Proof of income in the form of an employer's letter happened to be vital if a spouse visa was to be forthcoming. Luckily my boss provided a document just before employment was officially terminated, and bank statements would prove ongoing income from commission payments at least for a while.

I bought a Thai cookbook, Buddha statuette, incense sticks and a _Welcome To Your New Home_ card, leaving them in a prominent position to surprise my bride when she walked through the cottage doorway. On the 18th December I returned to Thailand.

* * *

Tola, who'd quit Dynamite Lil's to stay with yet another sister in Bangkok, met me at the airport. We travelled by taxi to Pattaya and marvelled at the profusion of sparkling Christmas decorations. Room rates at the Easterly Inn Hotel reflected high season prices and there were few vacancies. A sign, prominently displayed near the lift, stated, _No Durians In Rooms_.

"That's bad for Durians. Where _is_ Duria?" I enquired.

Tola seemed to think it was a joke. "Durian lovely fruit but smell very bad."

A woman, waiting for the elevator, took a chunk of fruit from a plastic bag and ate a piece. It stank beyond description.

"That durian," Tola whispered just before the female with banned substance entered the lift.

Christmas day in a popular restaurant included roast turkey and all the trimmings. Later, we popped into a live music venue to find dozens of male tourists, wearing Santa hats, enthusiastically adding rude words to well known Christmas carols. Bar girls in red velvet mini-dresses, white garters and red stiletto-heeled shoes danced around playfully.

"Why don't we go to Dynamite Lil's and say hello to everyone?" I asked.

Tola seemed defensive. "I don't want to be seen around there now. It's different when a girl leaves." That sounded odd but not worth pursuing.

We headed for Walking Street, one of the city's most famous thoroughfares, often described as the most exciting street in the universe. It ran parallel to the coast from Beach Road to Bali Hai Pier. After dark, when a pedestrian only zone, thousands of tourists filled the brilliantly-lit road that boasted the best of everything related to adult entertainment. Enjoying a beer while lounging comfortably in a padded chair outside a bar, a whole new world unfolded before my eyes. Across the road, a Caucasian young lady in skimpy bra and G-string danced in a glass cage above a go-go bar advertising European dancers. Groups of young Thai women, dressed to kill in outrageously seductive clothing, ate, laughed and chatted as they mingled with tourists.

"Many ladyboys," Tola said, pointing out ladyboys as they paraded back and forth, most of them looking every bit as attractive as Thai women in the throng.

"Amazing, absolutely amazing. How can you tell they are ladyboys?"

"Sometimes by their . . . what you call this?" She touched her throat.

"Oh, Adam's apple."

"Yes, and big hands and feet."

"Right."

A very tall and portly person stood out in the crowd. "So, how about that really big . . .?"

"He not ladyboy. He a man wearing ladies' clothes. In Pattaya long time and make people laugh. He not mind."

"Ah! A drag queen. Wow! I can see that now. He sure looks different."

" _What_ queen?" Tola asked curiously.

"Drag queen. Female impersonator. Very popular show in England."

* * *

Peaceful slumber the next night was suddenly shattered when Tola shook me urgently. "Darling, wake up. There's big fight next room."

I sprang out of bed and cautiously opened the door a fraction. A naked, short and skinny white man was pushing the drag queen we'd seen in Walking Street towards the lift.

The female impersonator roared, "But you must pay me. Not my problem you no want fun."

The skinny chap whimpered, "Please go! I didn't know you were a man."

I closed the door and collapsed with laughter on the bed. "Hee hee hee! Ha ha ha! He only picked up that drag queen."

Tola was already fast asleep.

* * *

Immediately after Christmas we visited a bridal wear shop where a gown that had been made especially for Tola awaited.

"You like it, darling?" Tola asked, inspecting a beautiful garment of pink silk and matching lace.

"Oh, very much so, it's delightful." I really appreciated Tola's gesture in saving me the expense . . . until a smiling assistant presented me with a bill for eleven thousand baht. A dress of that quality would have cost considerably more than one hundred and fifty pounds back home.

The Buddhist wedding ceremony had been fixed for New Year's Eve at yet another sister's house in the home village of Ban Koha. A two day stay in Bangkok was necessary before a second wedding gown could be collected. This was achieved by spending a couple of nights at yet another sister's house.

"Why two dresses, honey?"

"Always have two for Thai wedding. One for morning ceremony, and one for party at night. You not see evening gown until after we marry," Tola informed me.

I hoped I wouldn't see the bill at _any_ time.

Twenty-two carat gold wedding rings along with bracelet and necklace for Tola were our final purchase. With seven thousand pounds _sin sot_ safely deposited into the chosen bank account, we climbed into a pick-up truck driven by one of Tola's brothers, a Royal Thai Police officer. The vehicle strained under the load of luggage and seven family members crammed into the back.

Surprisingly, the policeman still managed to achieve speeds of over one hundred and forty-five kilometres an hour. By way of introduction, he said, " My name Narupong. You come Isaan before?"

"Never, but it sounds interesting."

"Now is good time because cool season. Get very hot by April."

I asked, "Does it rain much?"

Narupong laughed. "Oh yes, big rain summer time . . . May to October, but not every day."

Eight hours later with another three to go, a loud screeching and grinding of metal parts caused a delay of six hours while waiting for fresh wheel bearings to arrive and be fitted at a ramshackle repair shop. Totally unconcerned, my future relatives passed time eating and sleeping.

Paddy fields stretched to the horizon; some looked parched while others benefited from irrigation channels. Occasional clusters of trees provided shade, in which little raised huts with thatched roofs were used as shelters by rice farmers. A chugging noise made me turn and look along the road. A mini tractor, consisting of a small diesel engine mounted on two wheels, with a wooden trailer in tow, was being steered by a man seated on the trailer, using two long metal handlebars. He wore a chequered-pattern _sarong_ , and waved a wide-brimmed straw hat on passing.

Narupong waved back. "We call machines like that Iron Buffalo, because they do same job as animals. Not many farmers use water buffalo now, but still keep some because they good for making manure."

"So they fix a plough on the back? That's clever," I said, gazing at water buffalo roaming the farmland.

"Yes, sometimes two rice harvests each year . . . if enough water."

After what seemed a very long seventeen hours since leaving Bangkok, an end to travelling appeared to be in sight. But not so . . . a long detour was made to cram into the back yet another three family members.

The large two-storey family house, built with concrete blocks, had a tiled roof and glazed windows with fold-back shutters. It occupied a central position along Ban Koha's hard-surfaced _soi,_ which boasted electric lighting.

"Tola, I thought you said home was a hut on the farm," I murmured sleepily.

"This for all the family to borrow. Mama and Papa still live on farm."

Hopes of slipping up to an allocated bedroom faded when a small crowd at the front of the house started cheering and applauding. Glasses of rice whiskey were freely available.

"Don't forget to _wai_ and say _Sawadee_ ," Tola prompted.

Stifling yawns, I heaved my cramped body from the vehicle, bravely attempted to smile, _waid_ politely and repeated _Sawadee kap_ several times. Welcome rice whiskey burned as it went down.

Eventually we made our way to the front entrance and stepped into a huge room with a concrete floor. Ancient glass-fronted cabinets displayed vivid silk fabrics and handmade cushions. This room was dimly lit, but I could see it was furnished with a large rectangular table and an assortment of wood and wicker chairs. An array of framed family photos adorned the walls. I immediately spotted one of Tola in a university gown, clutching a certificate.

"Oh, that's you. Very nice picture."

"That was graduation day. This my other sister." Tola pointed at a photo of an older woman in similar attire. "She also teacher now for many years in Thailand. She lucky have good Thai husband."

I wondered just exactly how many sisters existed, but was too tired to ask, and acknowledged with a mere nod. An adjoining Thai-style kitchen was fitted with ceramic tiled work surfaces and louvred-door cupboards. A shelved steel unit housed a double burner gas stove, and beside it stood an old stone sink with just one tap. The fridge was past its sell-by date. Discovering a combined bathroom and toilet nearby, I heaved a sigh of relief that at least a western style flush toilet had been fitted. Showering was possible only by using cold water from large clay pots, assuming one was able to make efficient use of a few accompanying plastic saucepans.

Back in the main room, Tola was waiting at the foot of a steep flight of stairs, with treads so small, they were clearly not designed for foreigners with big feet. "Take care. Steps not very good," she warned. A single handrail made mounting the stairs even more precarious and proved painful. After grazing each shin several times, I resorted to tackling them sideways, gripping the single handrail with both hands. A man I'd yet to be introduced to followed patiently, carrying our bags with ease. Rows of double and single wardrobes were lined-up on a landing. Four slatted wood doors set in a timber frame led to bedrooms. Flimsy wood panels, stopping short of roof rafters, partitioned the rooms. Lack of soundproofing prompted me to whisper, "Have to be careful what you get up to in here."

Our bedroom contained a giant bed with rock-hard mattress but pretty coverings. Bending to sooth grazed shins, I discovered knotholes and gaps in floorboards made perfect spy-holes to observe activity and eavesdrop on anything interesting going on below. I hung up a new suit, bought specially for the wedding, in a wardrobe.

Tola looked at it. "Why you bring that?"

"To get married in."

"I arrange proper clothes for you. We go for you to try in morning."

* * *

At daybreak, Narupong drove us to a small town nearby and waited outside a tailoring shop while I tried on a beige silk tunic with mandarin collar. It was available to hire, but had been made to fit someone considerably shorter than me. The sleeves extended to somewhere just below my elbows, and the trousers only reached my shins. The sash was smart.

"Cannot make longer. No time. _Falang_ too tall," the male shopkeeper declared.

"It look okay," Tola said. "You'll be sitting on floor most of time. Man want money now. You pay to hire for two days. One thousand five hundred baht."

"Right." I handed over the rough equivalent to twenty pounds, considering asking if I could part exchange my unworn suit.

At a filling station on the way back, Tola explained, "You give brother one thousand baht for diesel."

Wondering how we'd used so much fuel in only a few kilometres, I made the payment and asked, rather sarcastically, "Does your fuel tank leak?"

Choosing not to understand, Narupong drove on.

Sitting in shade outside the house, several old women busied themselves making special wedding ceremony decorations. Hand woven bases of palm leaves and bamboo held artistic floral arrangements. Each woman added an individual touch, meticulously positioning every item.

Tola's parents arrived. Both were very elderly and neither spoke any English. After the traditional exchange of greetings, Mama indicated for me to follow her into the big room. She opened a cabinet, took out a Scottish tartan _sarong_ and solemnly presented it to me.

Tola walked up. "Mama worry she not make it big enough. You try please."

I stepped into it and started wrapping folds around my waist. It went round nearly three times but I pretended not to notice it was far too big. "Perfect. Thank you."

Later, wearing only my new _sarong_ , I set off to take a shower. Having fought a way through a crowd of women sitting on the kitchen floor, preparing food, the sarong suddenly slipped down to my ankles. Fortunately it only took a moment to dash into the bathroom.

* * *

Before daybreak on New Year's Eve, our wedding day, I was rudely awakened by shouting, banging and the noise of heavy furniture being dragged across a concrete floor. Leaning out of bed to peer through a knothole, I realised the room below was being prepared for the ceremony due to commence within a couple of hours. It didn't take a gang of men long to empty the room and lay patterned raffia mats.

The wedding ceremony commenced at six-thirty. About three hundred people had turned up; some sitting on floors in the crammed house, others peering through open windows and doorways. Sitting cross-legged on cushions against a wall, a line of monks in saffron robes chanted merrily.

"Why seven monks?" I asked Tola, who looked stunning in the pink gown, her hair and make-up professionally attended to.

"For good luck."

Behind the monks, large multicoloured lettering cut from polystyrene and pinned to a royal blue drape hanging on the wall, read _Good Luck_ _Tola & Gerry 31st December 2005._

Feeling ridiculous in the ill-fitting outfit, I whispered, "I haven't seen Kwan."

"She not come," Tola confirmed.

"Not here? Your own sister?"

"She not real sister. Just good friend. Boyfriend from Australia come see she."

"Not real sister? But . . ." I wanted to ask why Kwan had so much say about the seven thousand pounds _sin sot_ but decided against.

"You remembered to put five hundred baht in envelopes for monks?"

I squeezed seven envelopes in my pocket. "All ready." Thinking that these monks did very well by way of monetary gifts, I followed Tola to a central front row position, facing the monks. Unable to sit on the floor due to painful knee joints, a three-legged milking stool solved the problem.

Helpers placed ornate bowls, piled high with food, before the monks and everyone watched reverently as they devoured as much as they could, scooping it into their mouths with fingers. Fully nourished, the head monk partially unwound a ball of string and passed the end to the next monk, who passed it along the line. Holding the length with both hands, the seven monks chanted rhythmically. Head monk picked up a microphone and led the congregation in responses. His voice boomed from loudspeakers inside and outside. Copying Tola, I bowed my head and _waid_ , palms pressed together beneath my nose, and maintained that pose throughout forty minutes of interactive chanting.

A nudge in the ribs from Tola confirmed it was time to deliver the envelopes containing cash. I crawled on my knees along the line, placing an envelope in front of each monk. On reaching the leader, he took great delight in holding a brief but intimate conversation with me in English, unfortunately forgetting to switch off his microphone.

"Well, Mister Jelly, today you are very lucky man with a beautiful new wife." His voice echoed loudly around the neighbourhood. "You have other wives to take care or not?"

"No, not at the moment," I replied nervously.

Returning on all fours to the milking stool, I wondered what happened next. The head monk stood up and a junior monk handed over an ornate bowl of sacred water. With water bowl in one hand, a little stick with a water-retaining leafy head in the other, the boss monk walked over to where I sat with Tola and proceeded to drench us by dipping his gadget into water and shaking it over our heads. Then three more monks with sticks and bowls circulated among onlookers and gave them all a good soaking.

A stampede broke out as tons of rice, noodles, fish, chicken and pork arrived for the guests. Remains of the monks' breakfast were reverently gathered up by helpers and distributed to wedding guests, who were already tucking into freshly served food. I selected a few nibbles from the huge choice and nodded appreciatively. It brought back memories of a village in India during 1969. The difference being, a hole in the ground, fuelled by cow dung on that occasion, cooked an awesome chicken curry, including a few feathers and entrails.

The monks eventually filed out and departed in vehicles driven by loyal supporters. Tola changed into an exquisite gold silk gown, a sparkling tiara adorning her hair. Sitting on comfortable chairs, we greeted the village headman, a fervent Buddhist, dressed in white shirt and baggy white trousers. He blew into a microphone before delivering a twenty minute speech, interspersed with ripples of polite applause. He announced how generous the groom had been with a five hundred thousand baht _sin sot_. Deafening applause broke out when he confirmed the lucky bride would soon be winging her way for a new life in England. That made a knot tighten in my stomach. I'd yet to tell my wife about not having a job any more. Confessing on our wedding day while surrounded by a loyal family, especially a burly policeman brother-in-law, didn't seem the right time or place. Cameras flashed as I draped the new gold necklace around my bride's neck, slipped on her ring and fastened the bracelet. Tola managed to force the gold band on my correct finger, which still bore indentations from previous tokens of betrothal. Another hour went by while both of us held an arm out to have bits of cotton tied around our wrists. At least a hundred guests took part, and by the time they'd finished stopping my blood circulating I felt quite giddy, my arm resembling a temporary splint on a fractured drainpipe. No doubt the man who hired out wedding outfits had taken into account the need to be able to flash a bit more than a wrist when fixing the tunic's arm length. Posing for photos was fun. We felt like King and Queen in our extraordinary outfits . . . especially as Tola wore a tiara and I sported an impressive sash across the tunic.

Night-time celebrations took place outside the house and dozens of uninvited village dwellers gatecrashed a disco and karaoke, taking advantage of free beer and rice whiskey. The road was blocked by drunken revellers singing and dancing the night away as Thai pop music reverberated around the locality.

Next morning we travelled with close family to a well-known temple about thirty kilometres distant. Once again in her golden wedding gown and tiara, Tola performed a classical Thai dance, barefoot in front of a Buddha image. Her accomplished graceful movements attracted dozens of worshippers, who applauded and took photos as the new bride scattered rose petals, from a silver bowl, over the ground.

* * *

Back in Bangkok, Tola realised she'd left vital documents in the village, so we travelled by bus, collected them, and began journeying back the same day. After recovering from the marathon road trip, I realised that she had indeed been a schoolteacher. Some of the required documents included certificates of qualification and photos of her in university gown on graduation day. We presented my Affirmation of Freedom to Marry document at the British Embassy, and visited government departments and translators offices. An hour before closing time, we arrived at the nearest _amphur_ office, equivalent to a town hall, to legally get married. In a matter of minutes, certificates were issued and the new Mrs Skoyles wondered if there was still time that day to get her passport.

Next morning, armed with required documents, we revisited the British Embassy and started the process of applying for Tola's visa. Due to a backlog of applicants, she was told it'd be three weeks before an interview could be granted.

During the waiting period I tested and retested Tola on some most commonly asked questions at the Embassy interview; things like 'Why do you want to go to England?' 'What is your husband's mother's maiden name?' 'What is your husband's date of birth?' 'What is the name of your husband's employer?'

At the appointed time, I handed Tola a spiral bound dossier I'd spent weeks compiling in England, wished her good luck and sat nervously in the waiting room.

She emerged triumphantly. "Yes! I get visa, darling! I get visa!"

Outside, touts offered agency services. One shady-looking character came up and tried, "Velly good price get visa for lady. You want help?"

I smiled. "Too late mate. Did it myself."

Some unlucky girls sobbed on their _farang's_ shoulders, surrounded by helpful touts. Perhaps I should have considered becoming an agent.

Back in our Bangkok hotel, Tola asked, "When we go England, darling?"

"Ah. Let's have a drink and think about it." The day of reckoning had arrived. In a quiet corner of the lounge I took a deep breath. "It's like this, honey. One or two things happened before I left England. Er, I don't happen to have a job at the moment."

It took a while for it to sink in. Then my wife asked, "What that mean?"

"It means we can't both go to England."

Tola stared, disbelieving. "Not go England? No understand."

"Listen. Here's an idea. Why don't we stay in Thailand for a while? I could get a job in Pattaya."

"You? Work in Pattaya? What do?"

"Sell timeshare. Holidays for _farangs_. I know someone who could fix it up."

* * *

After accepting an offer to work in a timeshare office in Pattaya, work permit and business visa arranged, I contacted the house letting agents in Devon. They noted there'd been an unexpected change in circumstances, resulting in not renewing the tenancy. My sister, who lived in a nearby town, took it all in her stride when I phoned. She offered to help clear out personal belongings, liaising with both agent and former work colleagues. Within a week, goods and chattels had been removed, house key returned to agents. My car was collected and put up for sale. My only possessions now fitted in a suitcase. Appropriate British government departments received notice confirming non-residency in the UK. A combination of online facilities and airmail finalised all obligations, including income tax and National Insurance.

We moved into a small apartment off the seafront, a short walk to my workplace in Pattaya. It took a while to get used to trying to sell holiday club membership to mainly single guys in Pattaya for fun. Most punters had been lured to the sales department by teams of touts on pavements, and others prowling round on motorbikes. Others attended after receiving a telephone invitation at their hotels. The hook was a scratch-card offering valuable prizes in return for ninety minutes of their time, and free transport to and from the presentation. Every card revealed a free one week holiday. Many prospects turned up hungover and accompanied by their current Thai girlfriend . . . sometimes two or three girlfriends. I was trained to persuade young ladies to sit away from the presentation by watching TV or reading magazines. This helped overcome the possibility of an unsuccessful sale resulting from the girl preferring her guy kept his money to spend on her. Often, hilarious scenes of arguing couples and hostile men feeling conned when the ninety minutes turned to several hours brightened days.

In February, Tola and I agreed it would make sense to save money by moving to a low-rent suburban house. Most team-mates rode rented motorbikes, but I preferred four wheels on such dangerous roads, no doubt due to memories of coming to grief a couple of times as a teenager. Hitting the back of a bus, full of former schoolmates on an icy road, and leaping off when a bolt of lightning struck the petrol tank put me off that mode of transport.

"My sister's husband know good place Bangkok to buy car," Tola said.

Concerned about dwindling cash reserves, I told her, "It'll have be a cheapish one."

We took a bus to Bangkok then taxied to a second-hand car yard. Most vehicles on sale were nearly new four-wheel drive pick-ups, impossibly expensive. Then I spotted a clean-looking, ten year old Seat automatic four-door saloon for about three and a half thousand pounds, way above English prices but the only one within budget. A limited guarantee offered in Thai language excluded almost everything. To avoid complicated paperwork we registered it in Tola's name.

Shortly after driving out of Bangkok, the air-conditioning broke down.

"Why you not buy Isuzu or Toyota? Much better when need fixing," Tola chided.

"Because they . . . . Oh never mind," I grumbled.
CHAPTER 3

As weeks went by Tola became restless. After I'd driven to work each morning, she took a motorcycle taxi to town and looked up old friends. At the end of my working day I had a few drinks with mates. One evening following drinks, the Seat stubbornly refused to reverse in a tight parking space. The automatic transmission only worked in forward gears, with the engine roaring in low ratio. So, well and truly blocked in, I left it. Back at the bar again I phoned Tola to explain my need to wait until traffic had thinned before the car could be moved. She saw it from a different angle.

Early in April, Tola started making plans for us to drive up to her home village to celebrate an event called _Songkran_ , Thai New Year, with the family. _Songkran_ translated to 'the passing of'' and marked the beginning of the solar calendar on 13th April. For some, it was a period of reflection, a time to show huge respect to family elders. For most, it was a perfect excuse to get merry, take to the streets and throw tons of water at anything that moved. It stemmed from a tradition based on the period between rice harvesting and planting time when farmers had to wait for rains to arrive before planting their crops. It was the driest time of year and stored water was in short supply. To mark the New Year, a tiny amount of water was used to symbolically cleanse elders' hands and feet. Over the years the custom developed until it became an orgy of water throwing using anything available, such as buckets, hose-pipes and water cannons.

Our journey north was to be made via central Bangkok to collect sister-in-law, her husband and young daughter. The car had been running well since I'd spent a fortune on repairs. It was even possible to coax the gearbox to work spasmodically in reverse. Unfortunately, a day before scheduled departure, the rear suspension collapsed.

We hired a car for a week and set off on time. After a few kilometres, traffic ground to a halt, all roads leading to Bangkok and the north were jammed solid by buses, trucks and cars conveying folk home to see their families. Well after midnight we arrived at sister-in-law's house, collected passengers and luggage and set off again. Traffic chaos worsened by the minute. Scores of broken-down trucks with steaming radiators littered the highway. Unperturbed groups took advantage of the delay to picnic on the roadside in pitch blackness. By daybreak we'd covered less than a hundred kilometres. By nightfall, with driving shared between sister-in-law's husband and myself, we arrived exhausted in Ban Koha.

At dawn, laughing, screaming and the sound of splashing water announced _Songkran_ , the day when madness ruled. Peeping through a window, I watched in amazement as adults and kids threw buckets of water at anything that moved. Water from hose-pipes blasted passing motorcyclists, cars, trucks and pedestrians. Pick-ups carrying huge barrels of water had complete families on board to retaliate using plastic water cannons, hoses and pistols. Some were kitted out with backpacks dispensing high-pressure water coloured pink. Their faces had been daubed with powder, and an assortment of coloured powder was shaken over soaked revellers.

"How long does this go on for?" I asked Tola.

"Only two days up here. All week in Bangkok and Pattaya."

Five youngsters on one motor-scooter, without a crash helmet in sight, suddenly came to grief when concentrated jets of water knocked their machine over, spilling riders over the road. Fortunately there were no serious injuries.

"How many people get killed playing this game?"

"Oh, quite a lot every year," Tola said casually. "Brother take us out in pick-up soon to have fun with everybody."

Wearing only shorts, I joined about eight adults and children standing in the back of Narupong's pick-up. Tola preferred to take shelter in the cab. I filled a bucket with water from a huge clay pot and threw it over a group of youngsters at the roadside. They returned the gesture by opening fire with their weapons. One child ran up and emptied a tin of talcum powder over me. My on-board team fought the attackers off with blasts from powerful imitation firearms. The game continued as we moved slowly around the village.

Three days later, at the same time as millions of others, we set off home. Along the route, abandoned wrecked vehicles littered the countryside. At a service area, a headline on an English-language newspaper announced, _343 dead, 4199 injured in first days of holiday._

* * *

To comply with the terms of business visas, it was necessary to exit and re-enter Thailand every ninety days. Such trips were called visa runs. Towards the end of April, I booked a seat on one of many minibuses operating the service to a border with Cambodia, just two and a half-hours from Pattaya. A fifteen minute pit stop allowed engines to cool down during a hair-raising race against the clock.

Staff from the minibus company handled formalities while passengers walked around a strip of broken fencing that designated the border with Cambodia. A somewhat jaded casino, busy with mainly Thai day-trippers taking advantage of an opportunity to gamble, which was illegal in their own country, seemed strangely out of place. There were no signs whatsoever of recovery from years of conflict in this remote and dusty corner of the country. A row of open-fronted shops sold duty-frees and cheap Viagra. Beggars squatted with palms outstretched, while kids selling cheap souvenirs followed westerners determinedly.

To impede the return of the Khmer Rouge in the 80's, tens of thousands of Cambodians were forcibly conscripted to assist in constructing a barrier minefield along the entire seven hundred and fifty kilometre length of the Cambodia-Thai border. Starting in 1991, the Halo Trust cleared over twenty thousand acres of contaminated land, destroyed over two hundred thousand landmines, one hundred thousand items of large calibre ammunition and an estimated one and a half million bullets. That task still remained uncompleted. On the trip back to Pattaya, thoughts turned to my overland journey in the 60's, when Afghanistan was a safe and friendly country to traverse.

* * *

In 1968, Afghanistan was well known as a hotspot for hashish on the famous Hippie Trail. With three English companions in a beaten-up camper van, I headed for India. Although not hippies ourselves, we made many new hippie friends, especially those we came across at a western-style café in the centre of Kabul. We swapped stories about vehicles that had never made it all the way, and stories of those that never completed the return trip. It was, after all, a journey of over six thousand miles in each direction, taking in high mountain passes, scorching deserts, and very rough and sometimes non-existent roads. VW campers and other less popular types parked at the kerbside made an amusing sight with psychedelic paintings covering the bodywork. A few unroadworthy vans displayed For Sale signs.

Our reason for going to India aroused curiosity. We'd been engaged as voluntary workers providing food and shelter for homeless children in the slums of Bombay, also medical care, teaching and field work in desert areas.

"Right on, man," one traveller remarked. "So, yer seem all organised. Who's in charge of the trip?"

Elizabeth handled the question. "I'm Elizabeth, responsible for medical care and acting as home correspondent." She nodded to the other female in our team. "That's Judy, who does the cooking. Gerry looks after the van's mechanical needs and David is navigator."

The girls were forced to miss our subsequent visit to the Kabul café. Shortly before setting out on our return from India in 1969, Elizabeth contracted typhoid fever. An Indian hill station called Nainital in the foothills of the outer Himalayas proved to be an ideal place for convalescence. Situated _at seven thousand feet in a valley containing a large pear-shaped lake, the cool climate and crystal clear air aided her recovery. While she recuperated, the rest of us explored the region, soaking up breath-taking views of snow-covered mountain peaks and deep, green valleys. On learning that Elizabeth wouldn't_ _be well enough to even contemplate the over_ _land journey, it was agreed to sell our camper van._ _As this could be accomplished only in Afghanistan due to legalities relating to vehicle documentation, the girls left immediately for Karachi by bus and train._ _David and I journeyed to Kabul, hoping to sell the camper._

A Khyber Pass incident delayed our arrival in Kabul. _From towering rocks a sniper opened fire but apparently simply giving a warning for reasons unknown to David and I. A few bullets smacked into the ground just ahead. When it appeared safe, we advanced tentatively._

The faithful old camper raised twelve hundred dollars from two American guys at the café. They intended to use it to carry film-making equipment up into the Hindu Kush mountains. David and I travelled by public transport through the Khyber Pass and on to Karachi, where we joined the girls and _sailed together on a passenger liner bound for Italy via Africa._

* * *

Back in the Pattaya office, selling to single men became increasingly difficult. Many chaps, purporting to be single, panicked at the thought of explaining to wives at home why they were now members of an exclusive holiday club. An opportunity arose in May 2006 to move to Phuket where I would be selling only to couples and families. There was a huge range of furnished houses available to rent for peanuts in coastal areas of the island. Many Thais had made a mass exodus following the 2004 tsunami, bringing about that situation. I had already secured a tenancy agreement.

Tola agreed but expressed concern. "Phuket still not good since tsunami. Many Thai people scared to go."

"But that was more than a year ago," I reassured her.

Despite fitting new rear shock absorbers and giving extensive attention to other suspension components, the Seat looked dangerously close to the ground when overloaded. The one thousand kilometre route to Phuket was north to Bangkok then south down the other side of the Gulf of Thailand. Halfway to Bangkok, a detour along an unsurfaced road due to roadworks didn't bode well. Giant potholes, extending across the width of the road, stretched into the distance, impossible to navigate around. I manoeuvred extremely gingerly. Creaking and groaning from the back of the car intensified with every sickening thud into a crater. Then it grounded, rear bumper ripped off, one tyre shredded. Impatient lorry drivers honked loudly as they swerved around.

" _Don't_ remind me that Isuzu and Toyota are better," I warned Tola fiercely as we started unloading everything. An almost bald tyre on the spare wheel didn't look too promising but I jacked up the vehicle and fitted it. Somehow we managed to redistribute the weight of heavier items, some of them onto the floor of the front passenger compartment, other bits stacked to the roof on the back seat. I grossly overinflated both rear tyres with a foot pump, achieving a few millimetres extra clearance. The bumper, tied on with string, rattled a bit. By travelling at a snail's pace, we managed to rejoin the main highway without further incident, then progressed cautiously, not exceeding forty kilometres an hour. Apart from minor road-scraping on humpback bridges, it appeared possible to make it. By nightfall we'd covered half the distance and stayed in a hotel overnight.

* * *

A short bridge connecting Phuket to the mainland came as a surprise. Thinking the island was much further out in the Andaman Sea, I said quizzically, "That sign said Phuket."

" _Is_ Phuket. We here," Tola confirmed.

"Oh. I must be tired."

Our new home just off the beach in Kamala, an area devastated by the tsunami, seemed perfect; nicely furnished, spacious and in a quiet location. Visualising the horror of killer waves, I felt reasonably secure in the knowledge that the house was raised on stilts. Familiarising ourselves with the area, we came upon a new primary school hastily erected by the Army to replace one wiped out by the disaster. Tears welled in my eyes while reading the long list of victim's names on a nearby monument. The immaculate stone and marble memorial stood on land that apparently had been donated by owners of an adjoining hotel.

A tortuous hill on a coast road with an accident black spot had to be negotiated twice each working day. It took twenty minutes to reach my office in Patong. The best known and rowdiest beach resort on the island was still recovering from the 2004 tsunami. Annual tourist arrivals had dropped to less than two million, but thankfully had climbed towards the four million mark again.

After settling in our new house, Tola told me she needed a motorbike to get around while I was at work. "Honda best for big hill," she explained.

"Might as well buy one," I said. "No point in renting long term." Next day she became the owner of a brand new sparkling red Honda Wave 125cc, paid for in cash. It served an unexpected double purpose almost immediately because the car's automatic gearbox finally died on the big hill. A tow-truck driver dumped the Seat behind his garage and awaited instructions. Still reluctant to ride on a motorbike, I clung fearfully behind Tola as she transported me to and from work.

A month later, my wife announced she had to go home for a while because father was ill.

"How long for?" I asked.

"Not sure. But telephone you, okay?" She packed and travelled by _tuk-tuk_ to the bus station.

Fortunately I managed to find a work colleague with a car who offered lifts.

* * *

Days turned into to weeks. In July, sleeping at night became difficult. In my hours of wakefulness I began recalling a number of events that cast doubt on Tola's motives. Background sounds in her telephone calls suggested she was outside; voices were distant, dogs yapped, traffic droned. On occasions music and muffled chatter could be heard. If she was looking after father either in hospital or at home such background noises didn't make sense. Often she took ages to answer my calls, or phoned back later.

Needing to make another visa run, I decided on Burma, also referred to by various nations as Myanmar. Every passenger on the minibus was seeking a visa renewal. A tiresome journey to the border at Raynong lasted over three hours.

A longtail boat crossed to Kawthoung, sometimes called Victoria Point, its name in British colonial days. As the ancient boat headed towards Burma's southernmost town, most passengers got soaked by spray as the bows cut through rolling swells. Two stops were made at checkpoints. Both were little more than covered wooden platforms just above water level. Uniformed staff at the first checkpoint were mainly looking-out for illegal immigrants, and waved our skipper through without hesitation. The second platform was a customs office where officials apparently accepted the boatman's word that he only carried foreigners making visa runs. Forty minutes later we disembarked at a pier close to an immigration office. A distinct feeling of unease prevailed.

The country's international isolation had deepened that year because the authoritarian military government continued to restrict basic rights and freedom, and waged brutal counterinsurgency operations against ethnic minorities. The democratic movement inside the country remained suppressed, and Daw Aung San Suu Kyi, who was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1991 for her defiance of military rule, remained in detention despite continuing international calls for her release after eleven years under house arrest. In solitary confinement, she was allowed to meet only a few of her actual visitors. Most newspapers and all telephone calls were prohibited, along with other means of correspondence.

The regime had recently relocated key ministries and their public servants to a purpose-built new city, Nay Pyi Taw, deep in the interior. That year saw the displacement of three thousand villagers, and the destruction of their homes and food resources by a large-scale military offensive in the northern Karen state. Vast numbers were summarily executed and survivors used as forced labour to support the operation. The Thai government restricted the number of refugees entering Thailand, although more than two thousand civilians fleeing the fighting were permitted in established camps. A small refugee camp was ordered to move back into Burma in April 2006 by Thai authorities, although that order was subsequently rescinded. Without any means of accounting for numbers, Burmese refugees in Thailand were thought to number around two thousand at that time.

We were escorted to the Burmese immigration office and patiently began to queue. After a couple of hours we all returned safely to Thailand.

* * *

With July drawing to a close, Tola phoned late one night. "Hi. I fly to Phuket tomorrow. Can you come airport?"

"Sure, I'll borrow my mate's car. What time?"

"Afternoon, about three."

"Right, see you tomorrow. Is everything okay? How's father?"

"I tell you tomorrow."

Tola looked anxious when we met at the airport. "Hello Jelly. How are you?"

"Oh, okay I guess. And you?"

"I talk in car. Can we go now?"

Once moving, I said, "So, what's been happening?"

After a long silence she quietly said, "Something important happen. Better wait until we get to house, then I tell you."

Neither of us spoke for a while. I said grimly, "Sounds like bad news."

A snake slithered across the road in front of us. Tola muttered, "That mean good luck."

"For who?"

"Maybe you have big lottery win."

I drove Tola to the house, carried in her suitcase and told her, "I have to take the car back and walk home. See you shortly."

Feeling absolutely certain that the next episode was going to be unpleasant, I popped into a 7-Eleven and bought a large bottle of Sangsom. Tola watched a glass of rum disappear in a single swallow.

"Sorry, but have to tell you I didn't go home. Father not ill," she admitted.

I poured another drink, took a deep breath and sat. "I worked that out weeks ago. The phone calls. I knew you weren't in the village or a hospital."

She slowly sank into a chair. "Yes. I . . . I stay Bangkok."

"Where?"

"A little time with sister, then . . ."

"Go on."

"Then . . . then Alan come see me. He holiday in Bangkok."

I stood up. "Alan. I see."

"He also English. We met in Dynamite Lil bar before you come Pattaya last year. He like me and say he come back but not come. Then I meet you."

I paced the room. "But he found you in Bangkok. Just like that. Ha! Don't tell me you weren't in touch beforehand. Telephone? Email? Yes?"

She gazed at the floor and nodded. "Sorry."

" _Sorry?_ Oh sure." Anger wasn't going to solve anything. "So this Alan wants you back. No doubt he's luckier than me and can take you to England."

"Yes, but not now. Later."

"It would _have_ to be later. You happen to be married to me and having my surname in your passport makes things difficult for Alan."

"It better we divorce. I want to give back all _sin sot_ money but family keep most in bank. They not understand why you not take me England. I can give you hundred thousand baht and motorbike."

"A hundred thousand baht? Not Alan's money by any chance?"

" No. Sister in village give some your _sin sot_ back."

A couple of days later, motorbike and car registrations were transferred to my name. With the bike chained to a pillar under the house, Tola handed over keys to both bike and chain, plus a packet containing one hundred thousand baht. A _tuk-tuk_ took us and Tola's baggage to the _amphur_ office, where the driver agreed to wait before conveying Tola to the bus station.

We grabbed two passers-by to witness our signatures of mutual consent to divorce in front of the registrar. Tola handed over the fee, about five pounds, and we were presented with the relevant certificates within minutes.

Outside, a lottery ticket seller hurried towards us. "Lucky numbers for happy couple?"

"Not just now," I snapped.

Tola hesitated for a moment, looking straight into my eyes.

I shrugged. "So. That's that."

My ex-wife kissed me on the lips, turned and walked back to the waiting _tuk-tuk_.

After stuffing the divorce paper in my trouser pocket I set off to search for transport home. Our marriage had lasted seven months. Ironically, the seven thousand pounds _sin sot_ equated to a thousand pounds for each month of betrothal.

* * *

Having decided to sell the motorbike, I waited after work for a chap to collect it, only to find that the bike wasn't there. Just the unlocked chain remained. A note lying under the padlock, written in English, stated, _Tola say I can borrow little time. Phone if problem. Kwan._ It had to be read twice before sinking in. Kwan? On Phuket? Relieved to still have her number, I called but didn't get an answer. The prospective buyer cancelled the deal and departed.

An hour later Kwan called. "Jelly, it's Kwan. You want something?"

"Are you joking?" I roared. "Where's my motorbike? What are you doing around here anyway?"

"I come Phuket with boyfriend . . . you know, James from Australia. He work with you at timeshare office."

"What? I don't believe it. I had no idea he was your boyfriend. Anyway, get my bike back here at once! Do you understand?"

A girl unknown to me delivered the motorbike during late evening and quickly disappeared into a waiting car. Next day it sold for half the purchase price. Two days later I accepted fifty thousand baht for the Seat car, a fraction of the overall amount paid to buy and maintain it.

Life was hard following Tola's departure. Having to work in close proximity to James, now identified as Kwan's boyfriend, didn't help; especially when he told me they were moving into a house next door to me. Slipping into deep depression, I asked a pharmacist for something to help, and bought antidepressants without questions being asked. They helped and life went on, albeit somewhat hazily. I hardly noticed a state of panic on the island when an Indonesian earthquake was expected to trigger Phuket's early warning system during August. On 19th September news broke of a military coup. While tanks controlled the streets of Bangkok, little changed on Phuket. The only notable thing I remembered was the same prime minister who slept in a tent at Suvarnabhumi airport had been ousted. But I did wonder if tanks might have flattened his tent if he had chosen to go back.

By the end of the month I'd had enough so quit both house and job. With only one bag of belongings, I returned to Pattaya. On landing at Bangkok's new airport, slight confusion about which gate our flight should head for resulted in stopping at the wrong one. The captain made an announcement, apologising for the delay and explaining that he'd been misdirected as a result of staff being confused by the layout of the new airport. We had to wait for a towing tractor to pull us back. On-board power was reduced and consequently cabin temperature became unbearably hot.

An elderly American couple sitting opposite started squabbling. The woman shrieked, "Jeez! I could've _walked_ here quicker."

"Well you ain't Jesus, and that wasn't the Sea of Galilee. Stop bitching or get out," her husband retorted.

Extremely ruffled, the lady smacked her partner over his head with an in-flight magazine and pushed the button for attendant service . . . at precisely the same moment that the captain began walking down the aisle, again apologising for the inconvenience. She grabbed him. "Ah! Young man, kindly go and tell the captain this simply isn't good enough."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, madam," the pilot said politely.

"Why in heaven's name not?"

"I _am_ the captain."

After an hour on the ground, equivalent to the time just spent in flight, we finally arrived at the correct gate.
CHAPTER 4

A cheap twelfth-floor apartment in a Pattaya condotel became home, just a few steps from my office. The company had moved to less expensive premises above a go-go bar. Around four o'clock every afternoon a DJ downstairs started playing music as loudly as possible to entice passers-by into a girlie show. Soundproofing hadn't been considered a necessity. As more men arrived, catcalls and cheering augmented the music.

Our sales director, Hugh, seldom to be found in a good mood, sat behind his desk and covered his ears. "I've had enough!" he ranted. "I'll get my own back on those idiots, just you wait." He got up and walked across the room to where metal plates with sturdy nuts and bolts secured tops of go-go poles, which extended from the bar ceiling below to our floor. Hugh knelt down and inspected the nuts. "Somebody get a big adjustable spanner. We'll have a bit of fun when we've finished work."

At closing time, Hugh bestowed the honour of being nut remover to a newcomer in our team. "Give us five minutes to get a round in down there, then just undo one pole, lock up and get out quick."

"I'll miss the fun," groaned the disappointed trainee.

Our team of eight trooped into the go-go bar, ordered drinks and sat at tables near a stage. All six poles were in use, topless girls with absolutely no sense of rhythm gyrated clumsily, shinning up and down chromium poles.

"I hope we clobber _that_ one," Hugh said gleefully, pointing at an overweight lass having trouble climbing up. Unfortunately, it was the pretty girl next to her who came a cropper. As she demonstrated her ability to swing around upside down a horrible creaking sound spelled disaster. The pole started toppling and the girl screamed. She slithered halfway down, somersaulted and landed on her backside just as her pole swayed to an unbelievably useless angle. She wasn't hurt. Amid roars of laughter the shaken girl burst into tears and dashed towards changing rooms.

Hugh punched the air victoriously. "Yes, that's my baby!"

The saboteur arrived, breathless. "Did it work?"

Next morning, the club owner paid Hugh a visit upstairs. "So what happened?" The Thai chap inspected holes in a metal plate and picked up scattered nuts.

"Don't ask me," Hugh said. "Must be vibration. Somebody didn't make a good job when they fixed it. Better keep the noise down, yes?"

The routine of dealing with single guys and their Thai girlfriends became a drudgery. I wondered if those girls disliked their job but needed money as much as I did. With no wife to rush home to, after-work habits changed. I stopped taking antidepressants and drank more alcohol. When happy hour ended at a nearby local it became routine to stick with a group of fellow workers on bar crawls. Lacking ability to consume vast amounts of alcohol, I often slipped away alone to explore a labyrinth of go-go bars and establishments between _soi_ 6 and Walking Street. It didn't take long to locate those offering value for money and the best girls in town. Being surrounded by dazzling damsels helped dispel a feeling of betrayal and rejection. I reckoned it cost less to be entertained by stunning girls than propping up a bar all night.

Occasionally I met some interesting men to chat with. One, named Andon, about my age, who hailed from Macedonia, had quite a story to tell. "Do you remember the nineteen sixty-three Skopje earthquake?" Andon asked, picking up his beer.

"Indeed, I drove through that area in sixty-eight."

"My family home was in Skopje. Then the quake destroyed our house, killing everyone inside except me. Eighty percent of the city was flattened, over a thousand dead and more than two hundred thousand homeless."

"Of course your country was Yugoslavia in those days," I said, recalling memories of the Yugoslavian stage of the 60's overland journey. "I was driving a camper-van on the way to India with some friends in the autumn of sixty-eight. I remember colours on trees, and a young woman bent double with a basket of apples on her back."

"Ah yes, I remember those days too." Andon sighed.

"We didn't go into Skopje, but somewhere in that area the road came to sudden end. A huge, deep crater blocked the way."

"Probably from the earthquake," Andon suggested.

"We wondered that, but it was five years after."

"Many roads were left like that for a long time. What happened?"

"After a while, we decided to drive through the crater . . . we hadn't got four-wheel drive. The van kinda slithered down, crashed over boulders and clawed up the other side."

"Wow! Any damage?"

"Oh yeah, a broken leaf spring on the rear suspension. We managed to drive miles before finding a little workshop. The owner cleverly made a new one from a length of steel."

A number of drinking places in Pattaya provided an escape from the mass of girlie bars. A unique venue called Crazy Dave's specialised in showing every episode of the British classic TV sitcom, Only Fools and Horses, on several TV screens. English proprietor, Dave, had a system that played the lot non-stop day and night. I became a regular on Saturday mornings, enjoying well-known antics of Del Boy and Rodney over a great value full English breakfast and a beer. Some guys must have spent most of their lives in there because they knew every joke word for word and spoiled the show by loudly shouting in advance of punchlines.

One customer, a middle-aged chap with an east London accent told me, "I've worked out a timetable so I can shoot off for a quick drink somewhere else but be back in time for my favourite bit . . . where Del Boy falls through the open bar hatch."

"That's incredible. Do you actually act that part as well?" I asked.

"I have done a few times, but falling flat on my face gets painful." He picked up his glass of whisky. "Cheers!"

I never witnessed his astonishing act, even though I visited Crazy Dave's at varying times.

* * *

By the end of 2006 I'd turned down several attractive propositions involving long-term financial commitment to ladies in Pattaya, choosing to enjoy brief encounters instead. I'd also become accustomed to walking with head down, looking out for broken paving stones that regularly caused tourists to suffer fractured limbs. An unremitting stench wafting from drain covers went largely unnoticed. Nomad Nick, from Scotland, who'd recently joined our sales team, broke a leg after tripping over a loose chunk of concrete on a path. We affectionately renamed him Nick the Stick while he hobbled on crutches. His temporary disability worked wonders in gaining free admission to go-go bars, and caring dancers sat on Nick's lap without charging for the privilege, sympathising with him about his unfortunate accident. He responded extremely well.

The first months of 2007 passed without major change, and unbelievably quickly it was S _ongkran_ again. Pattaya turned into a massive, water-swamped playground on the 13th April. Before venturing out it was essential to wear as little clothing as possible and wrap valuables in plastic. The ritual of dispensing vast amounts of water for a week served as a reminder of how differently excess water affected my life in India nearly forty years earlier.

* * *

Operating from a first floor flat at headquarters in Byculla, a neighbourhood in south Bombay, one of my duties was to meet other volunteer workers at the airport and transport them to base. A late arrival due to weather conditions required a midnight journey in a Land Rover through a torrential monsoon downpour. Walking to the vehicle along a narrow street always presented distressing situations. That night, the usual stench brought about by hundreds of destitute people using the broken pavement as home and toilet was overpowering. Flood water and sewerage, spouting from drains, spewed over the pavement, drenching entire families, orphaned children and elderly cripples. Rats scavenged among pavement dwellers, crawling over rag-clad bodies, scratching through matted hair. I paused to press a few rupees into outstretched palms, and drop off some food packets. One regular, a bearded old man with only one leg, and a crutch, wasn't in his usual position against the wall. He'd succumbed to conditions and helpers respectfully laid out his body where he'd died.

As I neared the airport, children waved from their homes in stacks of concrete sewer pipes.

* * *

During May, I decided it was time to have a break from Thailand, and accepted an offer to work in Bali. The night before leaving, while enjoying a last bottle of Singha in a beer garden, a familiar voice on the phone startled me.

"Hello? Jelly?"

"Good God! Tola! I thought you were in England," I gasped and looked around, expecting to see her sitting at another table.

"No. It not work out. Alan change mind."

"Visa problem?"

"No, he still have wife England."

"Well, well. Where are you?"

"On farm in village."

"Well I'm off to Bali in the morning."

"Bali lovely. I can come with you."

"Sorry, but I don't think so."

My new employer funded the flight to Denpasar on Bali, during which a stopover at Singapore's impressive Changi airport allowed time to explore charming orchid, sunflower and cactus gardens. While admiring a koi pond, I overheard that Japanese carp were often cooked and served on special occasions, but not those in the airport. Eventually emerging into Bali's tropical monsoon climate, I felt at ease with the pleasant temperature of around thirty degrees Celsius. By luck, I'd arrived at the commencement of dry season. A taxi conveyed me to the Ida hotel in Kuta, where my new company had arranged free ongoing accommodation in a fantastic Balinese-style bungalow. I tossed my bag onto a monster four-poster bed before inspecting the most unusual and welcoming private bathroom I'd ever seen. It was outdoors, open to the sky, surrounded by high decorative rock walls. Tropical plants flourished in small pebble flower beds separating each of the up-to-date facilities.

Refreshingly showered and clad in swim shorts, I strolled lazily through landscaped gardens and slid into an enticing swimming pool which included the added luxury of a jacuzzi. A masseuse expertly pummelled a guest lying on a padded table at the poolside. Staff in the nearby bar and restaurant greeted me warmly in good English. Another perk at my disposal, the company funded meals too. Feeling hungry, I ordered two of Bali's top national dishes, _nasi goreng_ and _satay_. A couple of bottles of Bintang, the island's staple lager, satisfyingly rounded off my first day. Perusing a tourist leaflet, I discovered eighty-five percent of over three million inhabitants of the smallest province in Indonesia adhered to the principles of Balinese Hinduism.

The next morning, with a day to spare before starting work, I booked a bus tour of some popular landmarks. A smouldering volcano rose from lush fields. Quaint villages and white sandy beaches were explored on foot. Colourful reefs peeped skywards from below the shimmering blue sea.

Kuta was great for beaches and night-life but unfortunately a long way from the office, so I used taxis to and fro each day. Beating cab metres that ticked up by the minute was like playing Russian roulette in such congested streets. Agreeing to let drivers use alleged short cuts invariably took longer. Colleagues used motorbikes and therefore made much shorter journeys at a fraction of the cost. But I refused to budge on anti-bike policy.

Evening strolls from the hotel to Legian Street, a vibrant thoroughfare of shops, bars and nightclubs became a regular source of relaxation. On the site of the original Paddy's bar, a magnificent memorial for two hundred and two victims of the 2002 Bali bombings was constantly surrounded by tourists silently paying respects. Bars were uncannily quiet until midnight approached. After visiting a variety of drinking places, it became evident that Indonesian females, available for company, didn't operate like Thailand's bar girls. Instead of being employed as hostesses, they visited bars and clubs to mingle with customers independently, sometimes singly, sometimes in groups. I enjoyed getting to know a few who spoke good English. Often referred to as _kupu kupu malams_ , meaning Night Butterflies, most were happy to spend extensive hours dancing, drinking and chatting, in the hope, no doubt, that their hospitality would result in receiving money from a client before the end of each night.

On leaving a shop en route to the hotel late one night I slipped my wallet into a trouser pocket. A woman on a motorbike seemed to be watching from across the street. I walked on.

In a dark, narrow lane leading to the hotel, the female motorcyclist drew up alongside. "Hey mister! You want good lady?"

"Why? Do you know one? Only joking, not now, thanks."

She moved closer, placing an arm round me. "You sure?"

"Sure. Now go away."

She went away . . . quickly. Then I realised what had happened. No wallet. Turning and shouting after the thief just brought a wave and a laugh as she rode on. The island seemed to be losing its charm. Fortunately, passport and bank cards were locked in a safe, but the loss of a sizeable bundle of notes hurt both pocket and pride.

* * *

To renew a permit in order to to continue working on Bali, it was necessary to fly to Singapore for a couple of days. Two Thai girls, from Isaan, working in the office with their _farang_ partners, begged me to bring back some _Pla Ra_ , fermented fish with the most appalling putrid smell.

"Where on earth can I get that in Singapore?" I asked reluctantly.

"From Little Thailand," one chirped.

"Where's that?"

"In Golden Mile Complex," the other said.

"Right. No problem." I visualised problems if I had to open my bag at customs on my return though.

Singapore seemed somewhat like being back in the UK. The former colonial outpost of Britain had become one of the world's most prosperous places with glittering skyscrapers, a thriving port and efficient road networks. Most of its people lived in public housing tower blocks and enjoyed one of the world's highest standards of living. The country comprised a main island which was linked by a causeway and a bridge to the southern tip of Malaysia, and included around fifty smaller islands. More than seventy-five percent of five million residents were Chinese; Malays and Indians made up much of the remainder. It had been forecast that before the mid twenty-first century half the population would be foreign workers.

Golden Mile Complex with its food centre was only a short walk from my hotel. Completed in 1973, the multi-storey building, also known as Little Thailand, contained over four hundred shops with contrasting flamboyant artistic designs, all brightly illuminated. Authentic Thai food, probably the best in Singapore, was inexpensive in restaurants and at food stalls. Familiar aromas from spicy food made my mouth water. Thai workers queued to buy their favourite dishes. They also snapped up bargain CD's, DVD's and clothing. Many travel agencies specialised in economic bus tickets to Malaysia for connections to The Land of Smiles.

Still uneasy about buying the dreaded fermented fish, I plucked up courage, walked to a food vendor and enquired, "Do you have any _Pla Ra_?"

The Thai chap said, "How much you want?"

"No idea. It's for two ladies on Bali. Is it safe to take on an aeroplane?"

"Of course, I put one kilo in special parcel just for you." He scooped a few ladles of stinking, rotten fish into plastic bags, sealed them with elastic bands, and wrapped them in flimsy paper.

Gingerly carrying my dubious squidgy purchase, I headed for a table outside a restaurant. With the parcel safely on a chair close by, I studied the menu. Skipping fish choices, Thai green chicken curry fitted the bill. A group of Thai musicians, featuring a good-looking female vocalist provided first class entertainment.

Returning to Bali next day, sweat broke out on my brow at Denpasar airport as I wondered if sniffer dogs were employed to smell-out rotten fish. A sign warned, _Welcome to Indonesia. Death Penalty for Drug Traffickers!_ Surely stinking fish wasn't in that category? The delicacy slipped through safely and eventually made both girls very happy.

Some weeks later, I added Gita to my list of friendly local girls. Her striking beauty, shiny hair and brilliant white teeth immediately caused palpitations. We dated regularly and things seemed to be on the up. Her stories of unclaimed wealth and entitlement to ownership of a thriving restaurant on Bali seemed very promising. Then another guy from work stepped in, hoping too for a slice of forthcoming wealth. Gita found it hard to resist rides in his flash car or turn down offers to dine in the most elegant places. I did feel bitter and angry . . . until news broke that she'd done a runner with his new car and was never seen on Bali again.

By September I was missing Thailand and negotiated a job on the holiday island, Koh Samui. A contact found a small house which sounded delightful; reasonable rent, on a hill with panoramic sea views and only a short motorbike journey to the prestigious resort where I'd be working. My only battle before deciding was the motorbike issue. I knew a little about Koh Samui, enough to realise that without at least a smallish automatic motor-scooter it'd be almost impossible to get around. Although renowned for its treacherous potholes and high accident rate, I gritted my teeth and resolved to get to grips with motorbikes.

* * *

On landing, it was apparent why Koh Samui airport had earned its reputation as the most beautiful airport in the world. Owned by Bangkok Airways, it opened in 1989 and immediately scooped an Environment Impact Assessment Award for its use of locally produced palm leaves and natural, open-air cooling system. Designed to look and feel like a tropical resort, the low-rise development boasted thatched roofs and palm-tree pillars. Wooden and rattan walls in an open-air layout blended with its coconut plantation surroundings. Free transport from the gates was available in little open-sided buses with back-to-back seating under fringed canopies. Cleverly decorated with designs including blue ocean waves and assorted fish, the unusual vehicles were extremely popular. Even the car-park was bedecked with pots of flowering plants and shrubs.

My Thai landlords, a lovely couple who spoke excellent English, met me with their minibus and drove to the house in Bangrak, just minutes away. I wasn't disappointed. Although the uphill track was seriously steep and twisting, the view across Bangrak ferry pier to open sea with palm-fringed shores was truly dramatic. By law, no building could be higher than the top of a palm tree. Quite which tree was used as the marker remained a mystery, but certainly it worked. Scattered in hills and along coasts, hotels, resorts and private dwellings were all low-rise. Promoters had accurately described it as a paradise of white sandy beaches, coral reefs and coconut trees. It was little wonder that Thailand's second . . . some statisticians claimed third . . . largest island after Phuket, with a population of about sixty-three thousand, attracted one and a half million tourists each year.

A rented Honda Click automatic scooter had been delivered to the house so I timidly started off down hill. On the first bend I froze, running straight towards a truck coming up. Miraculously the driver swerved and I yanked on the handlebar. At the junction with a main road, panic set in again and prevented me from making use of brakes. I shot across the road and came to a halt against a shop wall, miraculously remaining upright. After a while I got the feel for it, sailing along a coast road at a steady fifteen kilometres an hour. Before reaching the busy ring road, riding had become almost second nature, so speeds shot up to forty kilometres an hour. Blasting of horns from passing vehicles as I swerved along wasn't off putting. Household requirements purchased from Tesco Lotus were draped over the handlebar, stacked between my feet and roped on the passenger pillion. I confidently set off for home. Negotiating the hill up to the house proved somewhat of a challenge . . . mainly because steering was hampered by goods dangling from the hand-grips. Then I spotted a crash-helmet conveniently hanging on a hook below the speedometer.

Learning procedures at the sales office attached to a popular resort at Choeng Mon beach _went smoothly. My employers issued a new business visa which made leaving the country every ninety days unnecessary. Instead, a quick trip to an immigration office in Nathon, on the other side of Samui, made life much easier. October heralded the start of wet season so business was quiet. A waterproof cape came in handy when riding the scooter. One day a torrential thunderstorm struck, roads quickly flooded to a depth sufficient to dismount any unsuspecting rider finding himself in a hidden pothole. Halfway home, I came across a severely flooded section littered with stranded cars and bikes. I waited until another biker, with a plastic bag on his head, ventured into the depths, then followed, carefully zigzagging in his wake. The machine ahead lurched, stalled and its rider fell off. As I dismounted, murky water lapped round my legs and the engine spluttered and died. Gingerly feeling around for cavernous holes underfoot, I pushed the scooter to shallows at the far end._

_Rain lashed down for three days. Roads to Choeng Mon were impassible so the sales operation was closed down pending weather improvement. A rustic bar and restaurant called Catcandoo at the bottom of the hill from my house became a favourite venue. Riding down by bike was easier than riding up after a few jugs of draught_ _Chang_ _lager. Along Bangrak's main road, a few bars boasted attractive hostesses. After chatting-up a young lady in Papa Joe's, and drinking far more than was good for me, the helpful hostess offered to ride the bike home with me clinging on behind. I forgot to warn her about a mixture of rocks and potholes immediately outside the house. She slammed into a boulder, the bike toppled over and my right leg was pinned to the ground by the hot exhaust. Firstly I smelt sizzling skin, then it hurt like hell._

_Unharmed, the girl asked, "You okay?"_

_" Not really. Give me a hand up."_

_She tried to tug the bike off, failed, and it dropped on me again. On another attempt she almost pulled it clear but I must have been pushing it the wrong way, resulting in another searing pain shooting through the leg. Eventually she helped me hobble indoors._

_Next morning a clinic nurse dressed three severe burns on my right shin. "How did you manage to get three?"_

_" The bike kept falling on me," I said lamely. Motorbike burns collected on the island were known as Samui Tattoos. I owned three._

_A notoriously dangerous short cut linked Bangrak to the ring road, close to major shopping complexes. Its official name was_ _Soi Ting Tong_ _, which roughly translated meant Crazy Street. Locals called it the Ghost Road for a few reasons. The narrow, unlit, unsurfaced road, overhung with coconut palms, had claimed a number of lives over the years after heavy coconuts fell on passing bareheaded motorcyclists. In the wet season, huge, hidden potholes dispatched riders into the depths. Halfway along, a popular karaoke bar tempted music lovers to risk their lives getting there. Three girls from a Bangrak bar, given a night off due to lack of trade, invited me to go with them to the Karaoke joint._

_" But it's suicide, going down there in this weather," I gasped._

_" No problem, we know how. You follow," one girl said._

_The three jumped on one scooter and I mounted the lethal little leg-burning machine, hoping that mud wouldn't infect my dressed wounds._

_I was spattered with muck from the spinning rear wheel of the girls' scooter on arriving at a busy music scene so dashed to cloakrooms and cleaned up._

_In reception, an amiable Thai chap asked, "Table, booth or private room, sir?"_

_" Private room," the girls told him._

_It appeared I might have stumbled upon a secret house of ill repute, but I relaxed on seeing families, couples and groups enjoying karaoke at tables and in booths. What went on in private rooms was about to be revealed. A bartender unlocked a door and ushered us in. Armchairs, sofas, drinks tables and a private karaoke machine awaited._

_" You wanna order drinks now, sir?" the man asked._

_My new chums quickly brought the party to life and tunelessly tackled Thai pop songs. A knock on the door heralded the arrival of drinks. The bartender indicated a switch and said, "Ring bell for more drink."_

_Overall, it was a pleasant evening. I even managed to find a couple of Elvis and Sinatra numbers to decimate. The only other non-Thai song available was Frankie Valli and The Four Season's_ _Sherry,_ _but matching the falsetto voice proved impossible. It reminded me of seeing the group live in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, when a passenger liner called there during a voyage from Australia to Southampton in 1974._

_* * *_

_Lindsay, an Aussie girlfriend travelling with me in 1974, adored Frankie Valli, so on discovering he was appearing at a music venue in Fort Lauderdale, we went in search of the place. Surprisingly, there wasn't an entrance fee or need for seat reservations; it was a matter of buying a couple of drinks and finding somewhere to sit. Luckily we secured chairs immediately in front of the stage._

_" Do you think he'll sing_ _Sherry?_ _" Lindsay shouted excitedly, gazing in awe at her idol as he took a breather._

_Frankie Valli heard her request. "Lady, just for you, here's_ _Sherry._ _What's your name?"_

_" Lindsay!"_

_" Okay, Lindsay, this is for you." The star deliberately sang_ _Lindsay_ _instead of_ _Sherry_ _._
_CHAPTER 5_

_Tourist numbers on Koh Samui increased during November 2007, and new girls arrived in some bars. Despite a resolution to consider bars as most definitely not good places to find a long-term partner, stories about grabbing an inexperienced lady and whisking here away before she got involved in the industry aroused my curiosity. Most younger girls headed for Bangkok or Pattaya, so to find some very attractive women who'd chosen Koh Samui came as a pleasant surprise. In Sloaney's Bar, two new arrivals sat together. One, ultra slim with very pale complexion, dressed in jeans and a modest top, seemed nervous as I headed towards her. "Hello! I'm Gerry. May I join you?"_

_She smiled. "Yes. My name Ann, this my friend, Pim. We start work together."_

_" Hi Pim, nice to meet you." After settling on a stool next to them, I turned to concentrate on the other girl. "Nice to meet you, Ann. Where do you come from?"_

_" Isaan. You know?"_

_" Oh yeah, I've been there before. Long way. What did you do before . . . you know, what work did you do?"_

_" Me work factory Bangkok, but husband leave when baby come. Very hard. Baby now with . . . how you say? Grand-mama and Grand-papa."_

_Thai men deserted their wives after becoming fathers on a regular basis, sometimes prompted by financial pressure, but more commonly by fancying fresh lovers who were not mothers. The practice of having a_ _Mia Noi_ _, a Little Wife, was tolerated in the kingdom. Often seen as a status symbol, additional ladies were popularly referred to as second minor wives. Despite a child support law being in force, mothers were literally left holding the baby._

_" How old is baby?"_

_" Two boys. Baby only one year. Other is, er . . ." She counted on her fingers. "Six."_

_" Does the father pay anything to support his children?"_

_Ann shook her head. "He not have any money. Me old woman now. Thirty-one years old."_

_I laughed. "But you're a young lady! Guess how old I am."_

_She looked at me quizzically. "Fifty years?"_

_" I wish! Sixty years more like it."_

_" No look old. You young man."_

_* * *_

_I went to Sloaney's every evening for about a week, where I became better acquainted with Ann. Contradicting regular styles of yet more new arrivals, Ann remained modest in her dress and consumption of alcohol; one Bacardi Breezer for a whole evening._

_" I not like this," she declared, putting down a bottle. Make me sick but boss make money."_

_" Do you have many brothers and sisters?" I asked._

_" Only one brother. Very poor family. Mama has many brothers and sisters. Papa has small rice farm but no money."_

_Money, or more to the point, lack of it was the prominent topic of conversation for most girls from Isaan. Embellishments such as sick buffalo and sick father were added. Admitting that ownership of an iron buffalo had superseded sick live buffalo would have lessened the 'poor me' effect. Many_ _farangs_ _with money to burn fell for such sob stories, happily handing over cash. I waited for a similar ploy but it wasn't forthcoming._

_Ann continued quietly, "Mama work fish company Hong Kong long time. Papa work in Bahrain." She proudly pulled crumpled photos from her handbag. "This Mama in Hong Kong. This Papa Bahrain. Chai, my brother, go somewhere in desert . . . forget where."_

_I looked at pictures taken at well-known landmarks. "What about you?"_

_" I take care Grand-mama. She very old. Dead now. Then I go work Taiwan for two years."_

_" What did you do?"_

_" Factory . . . make clothes. This me Taiwan." She produced another photo._

_" Do your parents know you are working in a bar?"_

_" Mama know. She understand. But Papa not know. It make him angry."_

"Come and live with me," I suggested impulsively.

"Me? Live with you?"

"Why not?"

She was stunned. "You sure?"

"Sure."

Ann quit Sloaney's and moved in, just before the bar owner disappeared and it abruptly closed.

* * *

Life together was harmonious and undemanding. Ann happily kept the house in order, ensured I had clean office clothes and cooked healthy meals. She gratefully accepted a small amount of money each week to send to Mama as a donation towards the costs of school clothes and books for the eldest son, and to care for baby. I rented a second scooter to make life easier for Ann to get down town. We had a small group of friends consisting of folk from my workplace and girls who Ann knew from Sloaney's. Catcandoo bar became our regular.

As many hours were spent on the small patio it seemed wise to invest in a sunshade of some sort. A striped multicoloured commercial monster, as seen in street markets, appealed. It needed a hefty iron base in which to stand on tiles. A welder made one to order and Ann got it home, balanced on the back of the scooter. The weighty shade and pole followed later by truck.

On erecting our shade it became apparent I'd been too ambitious. It was wider than the patio and its base was inadequate to keep the towering object stable. "Right, we need rocks on the base and some rope to secure the top to something."

"Don't forget big wind come up here," Ann offered.

"No problem. We'll make a proper rockery round the base."

With coloured guy ropes attached to eyelets in the plastic shade and tied to wooden roof beams, our new addition looked splendidly safe. Visible from the main road, and to arriving ferry passengers at Bangrak pier, it made lightweight domestic canvas shades at other hillside homes appear insignificant.

As we approached home following our beach afternoon, a sudden storm arose with gale-force winds, and our elaborate centrepiece was nowhere to be seen.

"I told you big wind up there," Ann said.

"It's probably just fallen over."

It took a while to salvage the sunshade. Straightening spokes and stitching torn eyelets was something Ann handled masterfully in good time for a weekend party with loads of friends. We decided against buying a modern barbecue because a couple of Thai handmade clay pots encased in metal buckets with handles were fine. We needed more than two to cater for an unexpectedly large turnout.

"I'll go and get another one," announced Mad Micky, a zany young Englishman who worked at the resort. He roared off on his customised motorbike.

Minutes later he was back, wearing an imitation leather flying helmet and goggles. A glowing, smoking bucket of charcoal sat in a wire basket attached to his bike's handlebars. "Here, grab this!" Micky shouted. "It's getting hot."

"Where on earth did you get it?" I asked, grabbing a heap of cloths to put round the handle.

"Oh, some old codgers round the corner looked like they'd finished cooking, so I borrowed it."

On its way to the patio, the red hot bucket disintegrated. Burning charcoal scattered over tinder-dry grass. Swiftly, party guests efficiently extinguished leaping flames with a hosepipe and bowls of water. Mad Micky went in search of a replacement cooking bucket.

* * *

"Honey, tomorrow is _Loy Katrong_. We can go please?" Ann reminded me towards the end of November.

"Sure, it's usually a great night."

The notable celebration, also called the Festival of Lights, was held annually on the evening of full moon in the twelfth lunar month, normally November. Simple yet picturesque events were held nationwide along coasts, lakes and rivers. An air of mystery hung over its origins, but it provided opportunity to clear out bad luck, begin anew and send Buddha some love. Young couples used it as a most romantic way to express their feelings for each other.

"I think it best at temple near Choeng Mon," Ann suggested.

The next evening, we set off on a short motorbike ride in the light of a full moon. I'd learned Loy literally meant to float, while kratrong referred to lotus-shaped receptacles that were designed to float. Ann, riding pillion, carried two kratrongs she'd painstakingly created earlier from banana leaves and supple pieces of tree trunk. The size of fruit bowls, they contained dainty flowers, incense sticks and a candle.

We walked through carefully manicured grounds at the temple. Hundreds of people lined a curving lake. Many gathered on ornamental wooden footbridges to watch participants happily place coins on their kratrongs for good luck before lighting incense sticks and candles. Stooping, they placed their remarkable little objects on the water and gently pushed them off, ensuring they actually floated away. The lake glowed, reflecting light from a mass of shimmering candles. Brilliant Chinese lanterns added spectacular effect as they gracefully sailed across the sky.

Carrying our home-made offerings to the lakeside, I asked Ann, "Where do you fancy doing it?"

"Over there, near tree."

Under a tree overhanging water, we lit each other's candles and sticks.

Ann said, "You must wish for something good."

"Done it." I smiled and kissed her.

"Me too, darling. Me too."

Kneeling on the grass, we set our kratrongs afloat.

During days that followed, I encouraged Ann to improve her English, sending her to language school for a basic course. She did well, benefiting from a little home coaching.

The night before her exams she said, " I worry I not pass."

"Yes you will, wait and see."

After the test she met me in Catcandoo, smiling broadly and waving a certificate. "I pass! Look!"

Christmas Day was celebrated on a beach where an English friend, Ian, lived in a simple hut with his Thai girlfriend.

"Okay, come and grab some bangers and mash!" Ian proudly started dishing up dollops of creamy mashed potato, plump pork sausages and baked beans.

A Thai girl looked alarmed. "Ooh! It look funny. I never eat bangers before. You sure not go bang?"

"Probably, but fine if you don't smoke at the same time." Ian handed her a plate piled high with strange goodies. Other unsure Thais joined the queue, downing alcoholic drinks quickly to steady their nerves. The sight of groups of locals squatting on sand, tentatively poking pork sausages with forks was amusing. Some cautiously nibbled the ends, pulling strange faces. An unpleasant memory fleeted across my mind. In India in 1969, eating unwashed cauliflower resulted in being confined to my bed. On one of my frequent bathroom trips, my dramatic weight loss must have been observed, for as I lay prone for yet another day, I overheard, "Shush! Don't you know there's someone dying in there?" I immediately resolved to prove them wrong. A few days later, strength returned and work continued.

When the sausage and mash had gone, traditional Christmas pudding was substituted by sticky rice and fruit wrapped in palm leaves. Somebody wired up a laptop to loudspeakers and a mixture of western hits and golden oldies echoed along the beach.

* * *

On the way to work one morning, a large fuel tanker lost control in front of me. It collided with an electricity pylon, swerved and carried on. The pylon crashed to the ground, mangling high-voltage cables, missing me by a metre. Blue sparks crackled, smoke billowed and I did a hasty U-turn. Half of Samui was without electricity for most of the day.

Feeling shaky back at home, I described the incident to Ann.

She gasped and clung to me. "Darling, why you not take care?" As an afterthought, she added, "That why electric no good today. Cannot cook."

"We'll go and eat at the market," I said brightly. "Seems that end of town still has power. I need to pull some money from the bank machine while we're there."

The ATM had gone, along with much of the bank's frontage. A huge pile of rubble littered the road. "What on earth happened?" I asked a stall-holder.

"Oh, big bus hit it," he said nonchalantly, without glancing up from his cooking pots.

A crowd had gathered at the scene beyond a police cordon. Nevertheless, some onlookers, including children, seemed to be considering a bit of looting.

Intriguingly shaped rocks the other side of the island attracted huge numbers of tourists. We too decided to take a look at _Hin Ta Hin Yai,_ meaning Grandma and Grandpa. A local story tells of an old couple whose ship was wrecked in the bay. Their remains were washed ashore to create the rocks.

"Good heavens! Just look at that." Reaching for my camera, I took shots of a massive rock shaped like an erect penis.

Ann pointed. "That other one is Grandma."

"Here, take one of me in front of her." Handing over the camera, I posed near an incredible likeness of a female pelvic region.

* * *

_Songkran_ holiday period was forthcoming and thoughts about bringing Ann's boys to the seaside seemed worthy of consideration.

"Ooh yes! They love that. Thank you. Never go to beach before," Ann gushed excitedly.

We agreed to travel up to Isaan for a couple of days to meet family, returning to Samui with boys and grand-mama. The relevant ferry timetable revealed some amusing details: The ferry fleet has more than 10 ferries, these ferries are clean and safe, and also have captain and crews to service customers. Happy in the knowledge that there would actually be a captain and crew on board, despite offers of undisclosed services, we confidently bought tickets and after an hour or so remaining gently afloat, disembarked safely.

A local bus conveyed us to Surat Thani railway station for a train to Bangkok. After checking into sleeping berths, we enjoyed remaining hours of daylight in the buffet coach, soaking up panoramic views of forest covered limestone peaks, rubber and pineapple plantations, lofty coconut palms, and here and there the sparkling sea. As daylight faded, we traversed a somewhat flat and barren region.

Ten hours later we reached Bangkok and refreshed in good time for another lengthy train journey of eleven hours to Udon Thani, a major commercial centre in Isaan. We sped through another area of flat land producing chiefly rice. Ultimately a three hour bus ride followed by a trip in a _songthaew_ brought two days of constant travelling to its conclusion. A glance at a local map revealed we were a mere eighty miles from the home of my ex-wife Tola at Nansabon. We could have taken a quick flight but seeing a variety of Thailand's countryside was surprisingly absorbing and enlightening, and very much cheaper.

Ann's home was a dilapidated wooden shack on stilts with a leaking rusty tin roof. The toilet, a hole in the ground inside a rat-infested shed, contained a large water pot for showering. Chickens, ducks, dogs and cats roamed around other homesteads which lined dusty, bare earth _sois._ Buffalo and cows were tethered on unused land and at the roadside. Underneath houses, fighting cocks in bamboo cages perched passively and pigs grunted contentedly. A few householders kept cattle in pens beneath living quarters. It wasn't difficult to imagine the smell drifting upwards through floorboards.

Ann and I slept on a hard ancient mattress beneath an equally ancient mosquito net. The two boys and their grandparents curled up on blankets and raffia mats spread over a wooden floor. Geckos chirped and clicked all night. Next door, in the early hours, a drunken neighbour picked a fight with his wife.

I shot upright. "What the . . .? Why is she shouting at him so loudly?"

Ann yawned. "She deaf," she murmured.

Sleep came hard after that. Shortly, roosters started _cock_ _-a-doodle-dooing_ in pitch blackness. A visit to the fearsome outside toilet was a necessity. Grabbing a torch, I crept downstairs, picked a way over rubble and spiky weeds, dragged open the rotting wooden door and prepared to use the hole in the ground. Something rustled by my feet. Instinctively, for the second time in a day that hadn't yet started, I shot upright, kicking at a suspect piece of timber. A scorpion popped out, advancing threateningly. With thumping heart, memories of an incident in Turkey during the 1968 expedition flooded back.

* * *

Early autumn morning sun reflected on the distant snow covered flanks of Mount Ararat in eastern Turkey. I dug a hole in the ground with a collapsible spade, a discreet distance from the road and out of view of companions in our camping wagon. Sitting gazing at the peak of Ararat, more than five thousand metres above sea level, sparked a thought about how Noah's Ark could have been dumped there by a great flood. A scorpion emerged from freshly-dug sandy loam, just as a horseman rode up. Even his horse seemed amused at the sight of a foreigner trying to run with pants around ankles.

Back at the van, Elizabeth reached for a first aid kit. "Stung in the tail by a sting in another tail. Really!"

* * *

Having escaped unharmed from the Thai toilet, I began socialising with some of Ann's family. One year old Benz smiled at me while Ann cuddled him. Six year old Niran was delighted to be reunited with his mother. He eagerly showed off his new swimming shorts and sandals before stuffing them in his half-packed holiday bag.

Having been told it was not disrespectful for me to address Ann's mother as Mama, I _waid_ and said, " _Sawadee kap_ , Mama."

" _Sawadee kha._ " She was in her late fifties, a bit overweight and wearing a sarong of brilliant hues.

Her husband, thin and small-framed, also greeted me politely.

"How are you, Papa?" I enquired.

"Yes, it hot," he replied.

"Papa not hear very well," Ann explained.

Later, Mama and Papa swung in hammocks suspended under the house while Ann pulled a rope on a smaller hammock, rocking Benz to sleep.

From my unstable plastic chair I looked around and enquired, "How old is the house?"

Ann said something in Thai to Mama, and translated her reply. "Mama say house many years old. Her brothers and sisters all have homes and land in _soi_."

"So it's not Papa's house?"

Ann shook her head. "No, Papa have farm but house is Mama's. It no good now. Rain come in roof."

I got up and slowly walked around underneath the house, running a hand over rotting wooden stilts. "This could be made into a nice new house."

"Many people make new house under old one and then have two homes, but they lucky. This is only small house," Ann said.

"It'd be big enough for us and the boys. We may need somewhere to live soon. Don't forget I finish work next year. I won't be able to stay down south. It's too expensive."

"You mean you could make new house here?"

"That depends. If you think it's a good idea, why not speak to Mama?"

After debating with Mama, Ann told me, "Mama think maybe good idea. She knows a man who can tell us how much money it cost."

Foreigners couldn't legally own land in Thailand, therefore it was commonly decided to build homes on their Thai partners' land. Some contributed vast sums of money for wives to purchase land, others paid to modernise existing property. Either way, it was a huge gamble and lacked any security for the financial backer.

Later that day, a man clutching notebook and pencil arrived. He paced out the floor area, estimated the height and made a rough sketch. He walked across the _soi_ , thus able to see up to the roof, shook his head and made some notes. In collaboration with Ann, Mama and me he mapped out a proposed interior design to include lounge, two bedrooms, bathroom and kitchen. The idea was to separate old from new by providing access to the upper floor where Mama and Papa would live via external stairs. In a few days he'd have a firm price for us.

"Tell the man it won't be yet, I just want some ideas," I explained.

Ann confirmed, "He say later okay. Price not change."

That sounded too good to be true, but things were done differently around there.

"When my eucalyptus trees ready for cutting, I have good money too," Ann said.

"Eucalyptus? What's that for?"

"To make paper. Government make sure every farmer get good money from paper mills."

I'd previously researched information about Isaan. Rice accounted for about sixty percent of cultivated land. Almost three quarters of Isaan residents were said to be in debt, and the majority still earned less than the regional minimum wage which was equivalent to about two pounds fifty a day. An average of two million economic refugees left the area every year, most of them heading for Bangkok, where north-easterners made up the majority of the capital's lowest-paid workforce. A large number of young men escaped poverty by becoming Muay Thai, or kick-boxers. Children and elderly parents remained in villages, increasingly dependent upon money sent back every month from the metropolis. Some migrant families returned for a month or two during most years to help with rice planting and harvesting.

* * *

The journey back to Koh Samui, using the same route, wasn't without drama. Awaiting our delayed train on Udon Thani's platform, a young man, stretching out on a bench, died in front of us. Crowds gathered round to look, but no one actually did anything. Eventually, police and an ambulance crew arrived, took photos of the corpse from various angles, discussed what to do for ten minutes or so then decided to throw a sheet over the unfortunate deceased. The body was still on the bench when we boarded the train. Dozing in a top sleeping berth, I dreamed of Indian railways in the 60's.

* * *

Rail travel in India during 1969 never failed to bring surprises. Of the ten thousand steam engines, one thousand diesel and a few hundred electric trains only a few arrived or departed on time. At Bombay's Victoria Terminus, constructed in 1887 to commemorate Queen Victoria's Golden Jubilee, a perspiring mass of would-be passengers patiently waited on platforms or slept for hours in dust at the feet of crowds. Sufficient time to admire a mixture of Gothic and Mughal design in the building, and being lucky enough to ride in the recently introduced Rajdhani Express compensated for an exasperating delay. Then we discovered nobody had even heard of the shiny modern train, capable of speeds up to eighty-seven miles an hour. Instead, we boarded a steam-hauled relic and sat squashed on wooden benches between betel leaf chewers. Obviously it was usual to spit out masticated remains of the delicacy through train windows. That explained how fading coachwork below dirty windows had become elaborately decorated with red contemporary art. Toothless grins of welcome from passengers sitting opposite looked grotesque, due to betel dye staining their lips and dribbling down chins.

Signs in English at strategic points along sections of electrified track warned, _It is dangerous to ride on top of carriages. Offenders risk prosecution or electrocution._ Disregarding such warnings, every carriage rooftop was overcrowded. Passengers were determined not to wait for following trains. It seemed electrocution came third in the cause of deaths. Earlier, on 4th February 1969, passengers riding on top of a train were swept off by girders of a bridge near Madras, resulting in thirty-two dead and fifty injured. Just a few days prior to our journey, eighty-five were killed and one hundred and thirty injured when a freight train crashed into a stationary passenger train at Jaipur.

* * *

My recollections melted away somewhere between Bangkok and Surat Thani in the middle of the night. Then an uncanny silence prevailed. The train wasn't moving. A steward walked up and down corridors, announcing the locomotive had blown up and a replacement wouldn't reach us for some hours.

After belatedly arriving at Koh Samui, we all squeezed into my one-bedroomed house, with Mama and boys sleeping on the lounge floor. Niran and Benz had a great time at the seaside, making sand castles and splashing in warm blue water seated in inflatable tubes. Niran experienced a thrilling ride on a jet ski while Benz decided throwing fistfuls of sand over everybody was better fun. Two pals from the resort sales office joined us one afternoon and provided more toys and beach goods for the boys.

Both Mama and children wanted to see Big Buddha, situated on a small rocky island reached by a causeway. We climbed a long staircase constructed in a striking dragon design, to the golden Buddha statue which reached a height of twelve metres. Built in 1972, it remained one of Samui's most popular attractions. Visible from a distance of several kilometres, it was frequently the first and last landmark viewed from the air.

Returning to the base of the statue, Niran explored stalls selling cheap toys while Mama browsed in shops offering Buddhist mementos.

Once I was back at work each day, Ann headed for the beach on her scooter with Niran, Mama and Benz on the back. A week later Mama and boys went home to Isaan.

A fixed price of six hundred thousand baht for making the house was welcome news. A one-off eight thousand pounds seemed attractive by comparison to paying out for ongoing rent elsewhere. However, that sort of money wouldn't be available until an assurance policy matured on retirement the following year. I decided to make an immediate start by paying for sixty lorryloads of rubble, a new roof on the old house, and to have it moved back and raised on concrete pillars.

Always willing to help, Ann tried to raise money by working as a street canvasser with a team operating for the resort. She persevered determinedly for several weeks but couldn't cope with language barriers encountered with foreign international tourists.

* * *

Sweeping changes at work resulted in a reduction in income. I contacted another company in Phuket and was offered a potentially well paid position. In October we hired a pick-up truck and driver to transport our accumulated household goods to Phuket. We climbed onto the back seat and our driver headed for the ferry terminal. A sudden downpour soaked the cargo before we managed to fix a tarpaulin over it. Quite why that man had so much faith in weather forecasts remained a mystery.

Our new one-bedroomed house, in a cul-de-sac a long way from the beach, although rented as furnished, lacked a kitchen, necessitating the purchase of a table, double-burner gas stove, bottled gas and a cabinet. A rented scooter was used for work transport as well as for domestic trips. Ann rode the bike to my office along a road that passed close to where I used to live with Tola in Kamala.

On the first trip, pointing from the pillion, I said, "See that big house over there, honey? That's where me and Tola lived."

"Nice. You miss it?"

"No, not at all."

"You miss Tola?"

"You must be joking."

"Good. Make me happy."

* * *

Needing a new annual visa, I set off by minibus for a two day stay in Malaysia, the closest country handling business visas. The route took in a politically troubled area near the border where a long-running insurgency frequently brought separatist violence. The death toll at the time of the 2006 coup was one thousand four hundred. When I travelled there, it had reached more than two and a half thousand. For some unknown reason, a change of vehicle was required in a town called Hat Yai, frequently a target for terrorists.

Our driver pulled up in a backstreet, announcing, "You walk to new bus. Just round corner."

Along with other passengers, I grabbed my bag and started walking. A backfiring truck made us duck for cover then quicken the pace.

I arrived safely at a cheap but comfortable hotel on Penang Island, the fourth-largest island in Malaysia, which had a harmonious multi-racial populace and a fascinating fusion of east and west. Connected to the mainland by the Penang bridge, the island embraced modernity while retaining its own traditions and old world charm. It was named Prince of Wales Island on 12th August 1786 when occupied by the British East India Company, in honour of the birthday of the Prince of Wales, later King George IV. The capital, George Town, was named after the reigning King George III. Thanks to well-preserved heritage buildings, it became a UNESCO World Cultural Heritage Site on 7th July 2008, and was officially recognized as having a unique architectural and cultural townscape without parallel anywhere in East and Southeast Asia.

Long regarded as the food capital of Malaysia, Penang enticed visitors with its beautiful coastlines and scrumptious cuisines. Famed authentic Indian, Chinese and a multitude of other dishes were available at street corners everywhere at very low cost. A few plump rats scurrying along open, smelly drains in front of endless food stools were not a deterrent as I tucked into an excellent Indian curry.

Having decided to add a touch of class, coffee at The Eastern & Oriental Hotel would probably have made a pleasant change. On arrival at the impressive establishment, known for well over a century simply as The E&O to generations of travellers, the grand elegance from the British colonial era suggested expensive coffee. I borrowed a magazine instead, sank into a sumptuous armchair and read about a time in history when the island was known as The Magical Island, and The Pearl Of the Orient. Glancing round the lounge, it was easy to imagine rubbing shoulders with distinguished visitors who had stayed there over the years: Noel Coward, Rudyard Kipling, Charlie Chaplin and Michael Jackson.
CHAPTER 6

The global financial crisis hit hard late in 2008. Tourism on Phuket slumped dramatically, and those who managed to buy a short break had little cash to spare. Just a few weeks before Christmas I was out of work, but fortunately my visa would cover another year without a need to be in employment.

Fed up with news about recessions on BBC World, I switched the TV off in our house on Christmas Eve, sat on the sofa with Ann and cuddled her. "Well, what do we do?"

"You not go back England?" she said fearfully, clinging to me.

I shook my head. "No, no way. What to? No home there, no job, no money."

"We could go village. Room upstairs and roof not leak now."

"Mmm. I suppose we could manage until my money comes from England." A little nest egg was due in May the next year. At that time I would qualify for the British State Retirement Pension. Concern intensified as exchange rates for British currency slumped alarmingly. On arriving in Thailand exactly three years earlier, the rate was seventy-two baht to the pound and had fallen to forty-five. The fixed price of eight thousand pounds to make the new house had already become thirteen thousand in real terms. To make matters worse, the value of my nest egg, an endowment policy, my only surviving investment, had shrunk to no more than the total value of premiums paid over many years; about twenty thousand pounds.

Christmas Day 2008 was spent packing our belongings. Ann phoned a man who operated a pick-up truck carrier service between Phuket and Isaan. The scooter was returned to its owners. Just before New Year, with our possessions already heading north, we set off by bus for Nansabon.

* * *

Dreading months of sharing a hole-in-the-ground toilet with rats and scorpions, and having to use a tub of cold water for bathing, I paid to have a room with flush toilet and electric shower installed upstairs. A weird construction made from concrete blocks on stilts, butted-up to the end of the wooden house, was completed in just over a week. Having looked forward for some time to the luxury of taking a hot shower, seconds before pushing the switch I spotted a green earth cable dangling loosely halfway down a wall. I grabbed a towel, rushed outside and shouted, "Shit! Who fitted that shower?"

Mama looked up from weaving silk on her loom and shrugged.

Ann rushed up the steps with Benz on her shoulders. "What happen?"

"I just nearly got cremated, that's all. That shower's lethal. No earth."

"Man who fix never see shower before. He not know what to do with spare wire," Ann admitted.

Communication with the outside world was vital. I bought a notebook and had an unreliable broadband service connected from a telephone cable pole across the _soi_. An engineer looped wiring along rafters, nailed it to walls and fixed a socket exactly where I didn't want it. After purchasing an extension lead, a workstation was established. Temperatures exceeded forty degrees Celsius under the new aluminium roof. Orange dust billowed through the verandah, settled on everything and choked the computer, causing it to overheat. Three fans failed to improve things, bus succeeded in filling the laptop with dust. One afternoon a bolt of lightning struck an electricity transformer close to the phone cable and a power surge put the computer out of action. I returned it to the dealer who sent it to a factory in Bangkok. Two weeks later it arrived by post at home, fully operational, and, surprisingly, free of charge under the terms of guarantee. I started to write a novel in which the hero experienced an altogether different adventure in the Land of Smiles.

Local villagers were polite and greeted me warmly each time I strolled around Nansabon. Scores of older women sat in or under their houses at ancient looms, click-clacking away. Brilliant, richly coloured silk would be used to make traditional clothing for village festivals, and to be worn for special religious ceremonies. They showed me how silk threads were tied to resist dye before being treated, and proudly pointed-out skeins of silk drying on clotheslines. A hue of colourful dyes filled large, hand painted, decorative clay pots. One woman, who spoke a little English, talked about the process of rearing silk worms and harvesting their silk. This incredibly labour intensive job needed about three thousand cocoons for just a metre of woven fabric. Silk weaving was an important cottage industry in some villages, and contributed significantly to the economy. The main production centre was in Surin, a large town in southern Isaan.

Several shops, all selling similar basic household goods, somehow survived. Some had a few tables and chairs outside which became meeting points for locals to while away the time. Word quickly spread that the _falang_ hadn't got much money, so nobody expected invitations to lavish parties. I did occasionally provide a few beers and rough, potent rice whisky to enjoy with neighbours.

Ann needed a motorbike to get to market; Papa's thirty-five year old model had all but disintegrated. I gave her five thousand baht for a deposit and contracted to pay fifteen hundred baht each month. For the initial adventure, Benz sat up front with his mother, who was steering, and I settled on the pillion, confident there wouldn't be another accident while a female was in charge. Looking at the road ahead, a schoolgirl on a push-bike, carelessly zigzagging along, caused me to yell, "Watch out for that bike!" The cyclist suddenly swerved in our path. Ann lost control as she tried to avoid a collision. Skidding on rough gravel at the roadside, the machine toppled over and we all fell off. Luckily, the hot exhaust didn't come into contact with exposed skin. I was relieved to find I was the only person injured, sustaining cuts and bruises on a leg and arm. As locals patched me up, the girl cyclist burst into tears and peddled off. The only damage to the scooter was slight scratching on a tiny area of paint that could be polished. Back in Nansabon, a doctor gave me an injection and dressed the wounds. That evening, the girl who caused the accident visited our home with her parents and offered apologies. On noticing my bandaged limbs, they all looked truly remorseful. Motorbiking while wearing no more than shorts, sandals and T-shirt did seem a bit crazy.

One afternoon, a group of drunken men gathered under a neighbouring house. Viewing from our verandah, I cringed when two fighting cocks were taken from bamboo cages to have small metal knives or spurs fitted to their feet with string and tape. Betting commenced when crumpled banknotes were tossed on a table. The roosters were placed in a small arena made from wire mesh, and immediately started fighting bitterly, flapping and jumping around, clawing away ferociously. I felt nauseated but continued to watch. At the end of rounds, owners carried their cocks to relevant corners, where they cleaned and tended wounds. Smoke from a bucket of hot coals was blown over the suffering creatures, apparently to help wounds heal. Betting appeared to continue without much control even during rounds. When one cock escaped from its opponent, it was forced back to fight by being poked with a broom. After it retreated a second time, the match was over. Both fighters survived, almost certainly to perform again legally at large stadiums in towns where stakes would be higher.

* * *

Hours before daylight one morning in March, Ann accompanied me on a visa run to Laos, some one hundred and fifty kilometres distant. A neighbour, on the way to sell goods at a local fresh produce market, provided a lift on the first stage in her _tuk-tuk_. Lacking road tax and driving licence, she took us along narrow, rutted back _sois_ , throwing up clouds of choking orange dust before reaching a modern dual carriageway. Between our feet, freshly caught plump frogs hopped around inside a wire cage.

"They'll make a nice breakfast . . . if you like that sort of thing," I remarked. Piles of ant eggs on bits of palm leaves looked appetising as well.

After alighting on the highway, an ageing single-decker express bus, steam hissing from its engine compartment at the rear, arrived extremely late on its way to the bus station in the next city. We missed the service to Mukdahan, a border town near Laos, by several minutes.

A car driver, seeing our plight, offered a lift for one hundred baht to catch up with the bus. We jumped in the stylish bright pink saloon and sped away. After a considerable time, with kilometres mounting up, the bus wasn't in sight.

"He go more quickly. I just charge you two hundred baht," our man said casually. That was more than return bus fares. Fortunately the bus came into view moments later and the car overtook it before braking hard, causing havoc on a crowded road. With much light-flashing and horn-honking, the bus stopped. We paid our car driver and hopped on to the speedy bone-shaker with wooden floorboards and seats designed to be sat upon only briefly. The driver's wife paced up and down, issuing hand-written tickets.

In Mukdahan, beside the Mekong River, restaurants served Thai, Lao and, due to Vietnam being only a couple of hundred kilometres away,Vietnamese food. We struggled to find seats on what was known as an international coach, a left-hand drive, Laos registered, large modern shuttle bus crammed with Thais keen to spend money at a casino across the border. Similar buses, provided by Thailand, shared the service. A gleaming white concrete bridge, opened in 2007, stretched for sixteen hundred metres across the Mekong River. Just twelve metres wide, it provided space for two traffic lanes. Supports and spans were constructed on shore, then moved out onto pylons in the river by crane. On 22nd July 2005, a crane suddenly snapped, dropping a span into the river, instantly killing the Japanese chief engineer. Several other workers died, swept away by strong currents. Traffic flow switched from left to right a short distance onto the bridge to comply with Laos traffic laws. A well-designed Thai immigration building spanned both carriageways and officers quickly processed paperwork. The longest river in Southeast Asia, and twelfth longest in the world, flowed below on its two thousand seven hundred mile journey. Colourful pleasure craft, fishing boats, and rolling hills on both sides, covered with lush vegetation, presented a memorable scene.

Laos immigration at the other end of the bridge, although modern, didn't quite match standards of quality and efficiency experienced on leaving Thailand. The new casino and hotel, a gaudy monstrosity in blue, gold and white was strangely named Savan Vegas. Our trip terminated in Savannakhet town, where quiet streets were lined with crumbling yet picturesque buildings of French colonial design, built over a hundred years earlier during its heyday as a French trading post. Wandering along thoroughfares shaded by tall trees, my thoughts turned to the incredible suffering endured by the people of that nation.

Between 1964 and 1973, Vietnam War years, the U.S. dropped more than two million tons of bombs on Laos, during five hundred and eighty thousand missions . . . equal to a planeload every eight minutes, twenty-four hours a day, for nine years. It made Laos the most heavily bombed country per capita in history. Up to a third of them didn't explode. Over twenty thousand people had been killed or injured in the country since attacks ceased. More bombs were dropped on Laos than the combined total during three recent wars in Iraq.

Back home late that evening, we were aware that more reliable travel arrangements could make the three-monthly pilgrimage less tiring.

* * *

One night during _Songkran_ a travelling _Morlam_ _show attracted vast audiences from far and wide to the village temple grounds._ _Mor lam_ _meant expert song, or expert singer. Typically featuring a theme of unrequited love, it also reflected the difficulties of life in rural Isaan and Laos, leavened with wry humour. In its heartland, performances were an essential part of festivals and ceremonies, while the music had gained a high profile outside its native regions thanks to the spread of migrant workers, for whom it remained an important cultural link with home._

_A huge grassed area quickly filled with several thousand people of all ages, many extremely elderly folk being helped along by family members. Babes in arms accounted for a goodly number, along with schoolchildren. Nearly everyone had circular rice boxes woven from bamboo hanging from the shoulders. Lurking in the background, gangs of rowdy youths drank alcohol and smoked incessantly. Hundreds of motorbikes were parked in untidy clusters, making it impossible to remove an individual machine from behind a heap. The spectators' area was quickly covered with raffia mats and cushions on which to sit or squat in groups. A large black police van arrived and parked in a strategic position for clear observation. Dozens of armed and uniformed officers spilled out the back to take up patrol duties. Around the perimeter, stall-holders sold hot food, snacks, ice-cream and soft drinks. Queues formed at a peppering of alcoholic drink stalls. With considerable difficulty, I found an unsafe looking chair, but nevertheless grabbed it and followed Ann to where other family members occupied their bit of space close to the activities._

_High at the back of a giant stage, accessed only by climbing scaffolding, about twenty casually-dressed musicians played rhythmic melodies. Picked out by white spotlights, a traditional instrument, called a_ _khene_ _, sounded similar to a harmonica. The free-reed mouth organ, made of bamboo and around four feet long, held vertically like a saxophone, was played by blowing into a wooden chamber. When tiny finger holes were covered, sixteen reeds sprang into action. Modern instruments included electric guitars, trumpets, trombones, a keyboard and an impressive drum kit. Noise from giant speakers on both sides of the stage, stacked almost as high as the scaffold, was deafening. Extraordinarily loud levels of base boost vibrated mercilessly._

_Suddenly, a blaze of light revealed several dozen dancing girls, in mini-outfits of rainbow hues and complemented by white knee boots. They pranced around with as much grace as charging rhinos. Fixed smiles highlighted perfectly white teeth. Hilariously, under miniskirts, very modest shorts satisfied the need to maintain a rural tradition of being respectably attired._

_Leaning towards Ann, I shouted above the noise, "Bit different from what you see down south. I'm going to get a beer. Would you like anything?"_

_" Just Coke, please, and ice-creams for the boys."_

_Weaving a way through the heaving throng to the catering area, a thought occurred that it might be difficult to carry drinks and ice-creams single-handed. The solution became obvious on discovering all drinks were served in plastic bags secured by elastic bands . . . a sensible safety measure no doubt. With both beer and Coke bags gripped between teeth, the rest was easy. A minor setback occurred when melting ice-cream dropped on the heads of seated concert-goers, sparking a few impolite gestures. Drinking bagged liquid proved to be difficult, even through straws._

_A handsome compère, in black sequinned suit, took centre stage, clutching a radio mike and clipboard. His speech droned on for ages but met with rapturous applause from the audience who seemed to have enjoyed it. A female singer captured the hearts of many men with a handful of tuneful numbers before gratefully receiving bunches of flowers, garlands and banknotes from lines of appreciative fans. Not to be outdone, a couple of heavily made-up men with glittering headgear, silk blouses, and tights on the style of ballerinas that accentuated knobbly knees, performed tuneless laments, and managed to pull sad faces._

_The scheduled non-stop entertainment was temporarily suspended in the early hours after drunken hooligans run amok, some firing guns in the air, others taking pot-shots at overhead electric lights, succeeding in shattering a few. A charge by scores of armed police, who had waited patiently for the expected violence, resulted in several arrests. After prisoners had been locked in the black van, order was finally restored and the show resumed as planned until daylight. Although engrossed by the spectacle, I found it difficult to stay awake when men in drag and women portraying men acted hours of so-called comedy that revolved around unfaithful partners and trivial domestic incidents. Maybe the language barrier didn't help because everyone else lapped it up._

* * *

The Department for Work and Pensions in the UK confirmed a pension of one hundred and thirty-five pounds a week from the first week in May, my sixty-fifth birthday. They pointed out there wouldn't be any annual inflation increases payable in Thailand. A birthday cake with candles made a pleasant surprise, and the family sang _Happy Birthday_. Not long afterwards, proceeds from the policy arrived at my bank. Fully understanding the need for strict budgeting, Ann always showed appreciation on being given housekeeping money with a respectful _wai_.

With twenty thousand pounds available, work began on the new house. The man in charge ordered bags of concrete, steel rods, truckloads of rubble, sand, gravel and concrete blocks. Ann helped out, spreading rubble with a small spade. A team of five or six put steel rods in very shallow footings before pouring in concrete mixed by hand in a battered tin trough. Single skin block walls went up rapidly and soon the house started taking shape. Sometimes the builders didn't show for days, taking time off to go to a never ending flow of funerals and weddings, always good for free food and drink.

Papa managed to keep his vintage motorbike running, but features like wing mirrors and good tyres no longer existed. Crash helmets and insurance were considered unnecessary. One day he rode along the _soi_ with a two-wheeled trailer in tow. I watched, horrified, when he braked but failed to look behind before turning into the house driveway. Another speeding motorbike, about to overtake, slammed into Papa. He sprawled on the ground, unconscious, blood flowing from a head injury, one leg at a crazy angle. A wheel from his upturned trailer spun along the _soi_. The young man on the other bike got up uninjured. Screams erupted and we rushed to Papa. Ann knelt beside him, crying hysterically. Mama brought sheets and blankets. Someone called an ambulance, but before it arrived, neighbours loaded Papa into the back of a pick-up and rushed him to hospital thirty kilometres away, Ann and Mama riding with him.

Papa's head injury hadn't caused long-term damage but his leg was a mess. He spent two months in hospital undergoing operations which included fixing fractures with pins and screws. Under a government scheme, Thai nationals received free hospital treatment but X-rays in certain circumstances were excluded. Papa's X-rays had to be paid for. The other person involved didn't have insurance but wasn't liable. His parents went to visit Papa in hospital, apologised for their son's involvement and made a small contribution towards X-ray costs. I paid the rest because nobody else could.

Eventually, ceramic tiled floors were laid in the new house, suspended ceilings went up, doors and windows arrived. With electric and plumbing installation complete, walls were skimmed and painted. Towards the year's end I went over budget with kitchen appliances and furniture. We moved in on New Year's Day 2010. Niran excitedly carted his clothing and toys from the old house into his new bedroom, adorned the walls with posters and invited his chums to look at his new home. I presented Ann with a bunch of red roses to celebrate. She thanked me with a good luck card, a new wristwatch and a huge kiss. We invited a few friends and neighbours to a small party in the evening.

* * *

On 11th January 2010, we married in Bangkok, going through similar procedures as I had done with Tola four years earlier. Now qualifying for regular extensions of stay based on marriage, it was essential to keep at least four hundred thousand baht in the bank to comply with regulations.

The important Buddhist ceremony had to be delayed due to cash-flow problems. I applied for wife benefit to top up my pension. Many weeks later, after sending in reams of paperwork and our Thai language wedding certificate, my pension increased to one hundred and eighty pounds a week. Back payments came in handy.

Agreeing that we didn't have sufficient income, Ann came up with an idea. "My friend, Pim, says she need partner in restaurant."

"Pim? Oh! Pim from Koh Samui. Where's the restaurant?"

"On Koh Tao. She live there now with _falang_ boyfriend."

Feeling cautious, I ventured, "Are you sure it's nothing to do with her boyfriend?"

"No problem. Boyfriend nothing to do with business. He more interested in diving, but helps out sometimes. He makes menus and things on computer."

"Interesting, How much money do you think we'll need?"

She shrugged. "Don't know. Only little business. Pim say up to us. Pay later. We can talk."

"So do you think we'll make some money?"

"Maybe. I think so."

"We need to find out more about the place first."

I discovered Koh Tao was a speck of an island in the western area of the Gulf of Thailand, not far from Koh Samui. It was named Turtle Island by its first settlers, after the island's turtle-like geographic shape. Coincidentally, it was an important breeding ground for Hawksbill and Green turtles. Covering an area of twenty-one square kilometres, its population was only just over a thousand. The economy relied almost entirely on tourism, mainly scuba divers . . . especially young backpackers looking for cheap certification. It had been claimed that slightly older visitors with families favoured the place as well, but most of those happened to be former dive fanatics fancying inexpensive nostalgia. More recent reports confirmed ongoing development. Approaching two hundred mainly bungalow-style resorts offered accommodation with free Wi-Fi, and fifty bars or clubs reputedly did thriving business.

During May, with sufficient clothes packed for an indefinite length of stay on Koh Tao, we set off. Day one of the journey took us along a familiar rail route to the coastal town of Chumphon, four hundred and sixty kilometres south of Bangkok.

Pim, who'd spent hours shopping in town, met us at the railway station late at night. "S _awadee kha_. Good to see you again. Tonight we stay near here because no ferry until tomorrow."

It needed two _tuk-tuks_ to get us and the luggage to a budget hotel. Perspiring heavily, I hauled our king-size suitcase up four flights of stairs.

Back in the lobby, Pim explained, "Sorry your room long way, but nothing else. My room on ground floor, but very tiny."

"It's okay. Where will we be staying on the island?"

"At my boyfriend house for little time. He not there because go home England to see family."

While searching for somewhere to eat I got a strong impression that this was no more than a dull place existing purely to service the ferry terminal for nearby islands.

Over breakfast next morning, Pim announced, "We have all day to do shopping, boat not go until tonight."

"Why don't we go earlier?" I asked. "There are plenty of boats."

"Night ferry better because cheap."

Exhausted by a day-long wait, it was a blow to discover the night ferry was a rusty old cargo boat. Manoeuvring our monster bag was all but impossible. I tripped over chains, banged against oil drums and sank ankle deep in some glutinous mass while attempting to reach sleeping quarters. "Where?" I dared to ask on seeing some scruffy mats and pillows scattered over the floor inside.

"Anywhere, help yourself," invited Pim.

It was probably the worse night I'd ever had. Wind increased to storm force, the vessel pitched and rolled, cargo broke loose and smashed around on decks outside. Through it all, passengers ate, drank and chatted endlessly. I curled up, arms wrapped around head, longing to be back in the 70's, sailing calm waters of the Panama Canal.

* * *

Quitting a new life in Australia in 1974, Aussie girlfriend Lindsay joined me on a voyage from Fremantle to Southampton. Sailing via Sydney and crossing the Pacific to take in paradise islands like Fiji was magical. Navigating the Panama Canal proved an unforgettable highlight. Passengers lined decks on Australis, a Greek liner, to witness the awesome sight of the ship passing through three sets of locks on fifty miles of waterway. At Miraflores locks, elderly Australian twin sisters, standing next to us, eagerly leaned over the rail, dangling bunches of carrots they'd scrounged from a steward.

"Look at those old dears," Lindsay whispered. "Why bring carrots on deck?"

"They're probably still hungover from last nights party, bless them." A locomotive running on a track parallel to the lock side helped to pull the ship. "Those donkey engines have some power," I mused.

One of the twins complained loudly. "Where are the donkeys? I want to feed the donkeys."

Her sister said, "That's modernisation for you. Perhaps the little animals died. Oh well, we'd better give these carrots back before they add them to our bill."

* * *

My Panama dreaming abruptly stopped, replaced by a crew member's voice announcing our arrival at Koh Tao.

"You okay, darling?" Ann asked.

One of Pim's friends met us at the jetty with a pick-up. We travelled a short distance before pulling up in a _soi_ bursting with shops and restaurants.

"This my restaurant," Pim announced, pointing at a tiny square of concrete outside a narrow building with a serving hatch and door. Three grubby plastic tables and a few chairs were stored against a wall. It seemed clear why her boyfriend chose not to invest in it.

I stared. "Really? I see." All around, Thai, English, French, Italian and American establishments were doing brisk breakfast trade with customers fresh off ferries. "Why are you closed?"

"My food same as the rest. I need something different so customers come."

Any prospect of joining a prosperous business began fading. We stayed at Pim's home two days, during which a decision was made not to pursue the venture. Ann and I moved to a cheap beach bungalow for a few days. Unpredictable electricity and water supplies on Koh Tao presented a challenge. Locally generated power couldn't match demand, resulting in regular failure. Many businesses and homes had portable generators as backups. Water rationing varied according to rainfall levels, and different areas were cut off for up to half a day on a rota basis.

While showering after nightfall, water and electricity supplies failed simultaneously. I called out, " Hey! Stop messing about. I've got soap in my eyes."

Ann called back, "Not me. You want a candle?"

After wiping off surplus soap in the dark, and stumbling into clothes, we set off to explore local night-life where electricity was still available. In a street thronging with tourists, a building had been converted into a ladyboy show bar, something I didn't expect to find in such a laid-back location.

"Fancy taking a look?" I asked.

"Yes, it could be good."

An entrance fee included two drinks served in an area where a huge tree grew through the roof. "I wonder what happens when it rains?" As soon as I said it, the answer became clear. Huge umbrellas were strategically placed below the hole in the ceiling. A stage was only big enough for three or four people. Consequently a troupe of awesomely beautiful ladyboys had to take turns to provide rollicking entertainment. Their costumes prompted gasps of amazement from a packed house. Dance numbers, mimed songs, jokes in English and Thai slapstick lasted for two hours.

A second show with new routines and costumes was available to book at patrons' tables. "Do you want to stay?" I asked.

"No, not tonight. How about tomorrow?" Ann said with enthusiasm.

At the end of the week we checked out and waited for a truck to transport us and our luggage to a pier from where comfortable ferries sped to the mainland.

The vehicle driver approached us. "You have to go to main road. Can't bring car here. Follow please."

Dragging our burdensome baggage half a mile added the crowning touch to a non-productive excursion. Turning to Pim, who helped by carrying some small bags, I said, "Well, thanks anyway. Maybe some other time."

We arrived home worse off in the pocket, but considerably enlightened by an unintentional holiday.
CHAPTER 7

I continued to write the novel, which culminated in an American publisher issuing a signed contract. October saw 'Pursuit to Paradise', written under my pen name Mark Damaroyd, on sale as an e-book. Highly imaginative events on a fictitious Thai island involving love triangles, revenge, blackmail and erotic movie-making, to say nothing of a semblance to my life, were portrayed. Although the book met with favourable reviews, it clearly revealed that I was unlikely to become a wealthy author. Financial affairs took a surprise turn for the worse when a letter was waved in front of me by an anxious looking Ann.

"Problem?" I asked.

She sighed. "Papa lose farm."

"Lose farm? Where'd it go?" The attempt at humour failed.

"Papa borrowed money from government to buy cows. Then nobody want Thailand milk so no money to pay loan. If he not pay something every month, they take land from him."

"That means your brother's house as well?"

"Everything. Land, eucalyptus trees, Brother home."

"Well, the best I can manage is five thousand baht a month."

Not long after monthly payments commenced, another serious financial blow struck. Eucalyptus growing projects became worthless when Thailand's paper making industry ground to a halt. Although aware of plans to reduce paper production, that large number of mill closures resulting in widespread economic disaster came as quite a surprise.

Putting on a brave face I told Ann, "There are millions of eucalyptus trees growing wild in Australia. Those cuddly koalas eat the leaves. Maybe Papa should import some koalas." That evoked memories of my time down-under.

* * *

A new life in Western Australia was about to be unveiled. 1971 brought a voyage across the seas from Southampton to Fremantle. Sales reps' jobs in Perth were easy to come by, initially for a leading American cigarette manufacturer. Prior to the interview, being a non-smoker and having no idea which brands were sold by that company, a corner shop proprietor not only provided relevant information, but sold to me a packet of twenty strong cigarettes plus a box of matches. Puffing and coughing throughout the interview resulted in being appointed and ending up a smoker.

A relatively large territory around Perth extended four hundred kilometres north and south along the coast road. Inland was Kalgoorlie, considerably further distant, but with a male dominated population of gold miners, and a street of licensed brothels. Excellent trading results were anticipated in that isolated town. Launching of a new brand included extensive TV advertising, roadside hoardings and a special kit for reps, including a drill to fix signs outside shops. Generous sized boots of company cars were reinforced with steel plate linings and loaded with hundreds of cartons of cigarettes. Sturdy bull bars, known as roo bars, protected the fronts of each liveried fleet vehicle. Those were necessary because it was likely that at dawn or dusk kangaroos could inadvertently leap across the road.

Setting off northwards to Geraldton, my first port of call on the campaign, I spotted cute koalas munching happily in eucalyptus trees. I confidently marched through swinging bar doors into a prospective customer's hostelry, a truly one-horse establishment. Regulars who were copiously quenching their thirsts, listened with curiosity emblazoned on their faces as serious sales patter streamed forth.

"This is just what you've been waiting for," I announced exultantly, holding up a packet of the new release. "You've seen them on telly, and can't wait to try one."

"Listen, yer _whinging pom, we ain't got no telly up here, only steam radio, so yer know what to do with them new smokes," bellowed the owner._

_On returning to Perth, the entire stock sat safely ensconced in the boot._

* * *

Accepting the fact that a eucalyptus plantation wasn't going to solve a financial crisis, life went on normally in Nansabon. That was until a long history of throat problems eventually necessitated surgery to remove Ann's thyroid gland. A surgeon made arrangements for her to occupy a local hospital's private room. Having travelled back and forth visiting for five days by _songthaew_ a successful outcome had materialised and I happily settled the bill with great relief.

On 5th April 2011, we held a belated Buddhist wedding ceremony at home. Ann chose a simple but pretty dress. Generous amounts of festive foods and several hours of background music created a pleasant atmosphere. Seven monks attended from local temples. But Mama's brother, a senior monk from down south, didn't put in an appearance. Curious about his absence, I questioned Ann, "Your Uncle Monk . . . what's his proper name?"

"Most people call him _Phra Kru_ Supakit."

"That's a bit of a mouthful. I can remember Supakit all right." It conjured up memories of assembling model aircraft from kits. "Why hasn't he come?"

"I don't know. Mama not say. Maybe long way."

"But people from his temple come here every year."

"I know."

With growing curiosity I pressed Ann. "I don't see your brother Chai, or his wife either."

She sighed. "Sometimes my family very strange."

Very occasionally Mama had visited her brother Supakit, travelling by bus to his temple in Chonburi province south of Bangkok. Quite soon after her August visit, she announced she was shortly off to see him again. That frequency was unusual to say the least. Clearly she was more excited about visiting than in the past. On returning she started spending money on herself; items that had previously been unaffordable like new clothes, special food and numerous pieces of Buddhist memorabilia.

The mystery deepened when Chai went off to work in Chonburi to drive full-time for the abbot.

* * *

During the first week of January 2012, while hunched over my computer, Ann made an amazing announcement. "I have some news, darling."

I looked up. "Go on."

"My Uncle, monk from Chonburi. He win big money on lottery."

I stared at her in disbelief. Supakit surely couldn't have done that. "What? How much?"

"Fifty-four million baht."

"Oh come on. Never."

"True, he win all that."

"But that's well over a million pounds in England." When it eventually sank in, I said, "A monk shouldn't be doing lotteries anyway. Especially an abbot."

"We must not tell anybody because many people not like and want to kill him."

"But you can't keep something like that quiet. So _that's_ why Chai is working for him. Like a bodyguard."

"Uncle is buying new car for family. I go with Mama and man to look tomorrow. We get Isuzu pick-up."

A quick online search revealed articles about _Phra Kru_ Supakit winning a lottery in September 2011. The Bangkok Post, a leading English-language newspaper carried a front page photo and lengthy story. An abbreviated version read, _A senior monk has called for help from the_ **media** _, saying he won a total of 54 million baht in the lottery and has since been_ **constantly** _harassed, blackmailed even, by lottery sellers demanding a_ **share** _of the winnings. The abbot told reporters that a group of lottery sellers continually harassed him and demanded he share some of the money with them. The 60-year-old said he_ **eventually** _had to_ **leave** _his temple and stay at a lawyer's home. It has been arranged to take the abbot to a temple in Bangkok where he will stay for the time being for his own safety, and will take legal action against the people who tried to_ **exploit** _him._

_The abbot explained, "Because I'm a monk, I didn't want this to_ **spread** _out since it's not appropriate for monks to play the lottery. The man who sold the winning tickets found out about my new_ **fortune** _. He came to the temple and_ **pressed** _me to give two million baht in exchange for him not telling anyone about the secret. I agreed to give the two million baht to the man, who later brought in a banker to help_ **transfer** _the money into his_ **account** _. I also had to pay 300,000 baht to the banker for his service. I've decided to_ **file a complaint** _now because I can't take it any more and the_ **issue** _is getting out of hand. I'm a senior monk who was going to be_ **promoted** _in the area, but because of these people the district chief invited me in for questioning. It is_ **suspected** _that a group of people including_ **state officials** _were behind the blackmail."_

I showed Ann the story. "It's been public knowledge since last year."

She was clearly surprised that I'd bothered to find out, and said flatly, "I don't want to look at that."

* * *

A few days later, a gleaming silver coloured Isuzu 4x4 pick-up was delivered. I happened to be the only person in the household available to drive because Chai worked away from home.

"I thought Uncle want my name on papers, but he say no. Car belong to Mama," Ann gabbled.

Still stunned by the emerging revelations, I asked, "Why did he choose Mama? He has other sisters and brothers."

"Because Mama take care Grand-mama long time. Other family not take care."

With Mama giving instructions from the front passenger seat, we pulled up at a shop specialising in car window stickers. A member of staff made up a windscreen sun strip with lettering which, translated to English, contained the words, _Power Of The Monk_. That was all quite bizarre. The slow pace of life to which I'd grown accustomed was changing with great rapidity. Sun strip affixed, our next stop was a camping shop.

Ann explained, "Mama want you to drive her to Uncle's temple soon. We stay for about one week so you need something to sleep on."

Having looked around at length, Mama chose a lightweight one-man tent and some bedding. She opened her new purse to pay, revealing a thick wad of bank notes.

"I'm not camping," I said adamantly.

"Not camping. For mosquitoes. We sleep inside temple," Ann explained.

On 17th January, after over-loading the Isuzu with gifts of rice, fish, meat, vegetables and temple trinkets, we set off at four o'clock in the morning. Benz, who had recently started infant school, was excused lessons by his teacher and came with us. Mama chose front seat in her new pride and joy, wanting Benz to stand on her lap so he could see through the window.

"Sorry, but he'll have to go in the back for safety," I insisted.

She grumbled something in Thai and transferred Benz to Ann. We stopped every couple of hours for brief comfort breaks and then waited ages while Mama went shopping. Other stops were made so Mama could change places with Ann. At a road division near Korat city, I chose to use a ring road.

Ann said, "Mama say wrong. Should go that way, same bus go."

I swerved across lanes and exited for the city. "But that's because buses go to pick people up at bus stations." Being stuck in the fume-choked city centre in no way detracted from a sense of adventure. After getting hopelessly lost time and time again as a result of Mama knowing better, a quiet, rutted road finally led us to the isolated temple. Our journey had lasted nineteen hours but should have only taken ten. Famed monk Supakit came outside to greet us . . . at least apparently to greet every one of us. Instead, he completely ignored me and chatted for ages with his sister while I waited patiently with Ann, who had Benz dozing on her shoulder.

Our sleeping accommodation was on the floor of a filthy, seldom-used outbuilding. Ann found a broom and swept out the worst of the mess before we could put up the tent. Mama unpacked her bags, rolled out a mat and went to sleep. I inspected the bathroom, from where a terrible stench emitted. A concrete trough for showering contained water, decorated with dead flies and moths. Mosquitoes dive-bombed a squat toilet. Lizards stalked over a cobweb-choked ceiling. Cockroaches gathered in armies on the concrete floor.

* * *

The chiming of a gong at five o'clock next morning awoke everyone within earshot, followed half an hour later by a gathering in the temple opposite our room for prayers said by saffron-robed monks.

Chai approached me. "Car key." He held his hand out for it. Apparently he needed to transport the monks on their daily alms rounds.

While Ann and Mama helped other women prepare mounds of food in a dirty dilapidated kitchen, Benz accompanied me in exploring extensive temple grounds. Scores of stray dogs, many with terrible injuries, some with obvious disease, limped around on barren, dusty ground. Chickens and roosters pecked and scratched aimlessly. A house raised on stilts where the abbot lived sheltered by tropical trees was undergoing extension work. A luxurious silver coloured Isuzu people carrier gleamed in a locked wire enclosure nearby. We climbed steps to the house and took a look around. Very expensive furniture was displayed across the verandah. An open door revealed a recently completed bathroom with a toilet that flushed and a western style shower. A door which probably led to further rooms was secured with a hefty padlock. On hearing approaching vehicles, I hastily ushered Benz outside. The monks had returned in a convoy of trucks and willing helpers promptly appeared from nowhere to carry begging bowls and accessories into the kitchen. At seven o'clock, the gong sounded again heralding breakfast. Chanting concluded mealtime and the daily task of sweeping up leaves commenced. A very well-fed Supakit made a beeline for his house, ignoring me, but other monks approached me, offering greetings, and chattering away merrily. Half a dozen lottery ticket sellers arrived on motorbikes. They idled away time as they sat under shady trees by arranging and re-arranging tickets in their trays.

Ann and Mama walked towards me, Ann explaining, "We go to meet Uncle now, ready?" She led us up to the house.

Chai took up position on the top step, clearly having been appointed to be on guard duty. He glared at my camera bag and ordered sternly "No pictures."

The abbot said something to Chai, who related it loudly to the lottery sellers assembled below. They filed in, sat cross-legged in front of millionaire monk and opened their trays. With much deliberation, their customer chose whole batches of tickets from each of the vendors, handing over a large amount of money in return. Observing what was going on from the back of the verandah, I felt numb and totally sickened. After sifting through his wads of tickets, this deceitful punter handed Mama and my wife merely one ticket each. They _waid_ respectfully as the bundle disappeared inside his saffron robe. When Supakit stood and turned to unlock the door to his private apartment, I noticed an obviously fresh scar on the back of his neck.

Moving close to Ann, I whispered, "How did Uncle get that scar on his neck?"

"A man try to kill him," she told me.

Just as we were leaving, a middle-aged Thai couple, both dressed in white, arrived in an ancient saloon car, parked and walked towards us. They obviously knew Mama and engaged her in conversation.

"Who are they?" I asked my wife.

"Good friends Uncle. Help him win lottery. They work for temples, bringing good luck."

"Really. That's nice," I said drily. The couple headed towards me. "What do I call them?"

"We call him _Khun_ Gan. She is _Khun_ Noon."

As _Khun_ was a polite way of addressing male and females as Mr or Mrs, I assumed it showed great respect. _Khun_ Gan, a stocky fellow, waved a short rod which had a polished metal knob on one end, very closely to my face. "This very lucky for _falang_ ," he assured me, tapping the rod with his chubby hands.

_Khun_ Noon said something to Ann, who translated it. "She say her husband very clever man. Know everything."

"No doubt," I agreed. Several heavy gold rings adorned fingers on both of the clever man's hands.

Gan looked at our new Isuzu and said something to Ann, who explained, "They borrow car to go Chiang Mai and bring special person back. Their car no good."

I handed Gan the key, wondering how long they'd take to complete the two thousand kilometres round trip.

"You take picture me please," _Khun_ Gan said, opening the driver's door and posing proudly.

I took a picture.

"One more. Wait minute." Gan stood with legs astride, brandishing his rod that had special powers.

_Khun_ Noon solemnly presented me with a business card advertising amazing services offered by her husband.

* * *

A new temple under construction on site, mainly funded by donations from the public, had reached an important stage. It involved securing large curving ornaments resembling serpents and beaks of birds in place. Getting a number of heavy pieces up to the roof would have been an easy operation if handled by a modern crane. Instead, an ancient block and tackle system powered by a gasoline engine stood by. A special ceremony was held one evening for the occasion. Numerous monks from surrounding temples turned up, as did government representatives plus a huge crowd of onlookers.

_Khun_ Gan and his wife arrived back from Chiang Mai just in time to introduce the special person they'd set out to collect two days earlier. A well-heeled lady gracefully stepped from our Isuzu, waving and beaming at the crowd before being presented to dignitaries by Noon and Gan. I had no idea who she was and indeed, I never found out. She seemed to be quite important because she joined other special guests seated under a canopy, eagerly awaiting the moment when an ornament would rise to the temple roof.

At a point a safe distance from the machinery, I watched proceedings with Chai, and said, "That rope doesn't look strong enough for all that weight."

Chai shrugged. "No money for proper crane. It'll be okay."

Realising it was impossible to figure out how Thais think, I could only wonder why some of the abbot's wealth seemed not to have augmented suitable funding.

Rows of chairs were laid out, running under ropes that would carry that dangerously heavy object. Floodlights picked out two barefooted construction workers balancing precariously on loose ridge tiles. Next to them, a monk stood by; for last rites maybe. With all seats taken and a formal speech eloquently delivered, machine operatives attempted to start the engine, swinging a starting-handle in vain. Someone arrived with a can of gasoline and coaxed some life out of the relic, acrid black smoke and sharp backfires bursting promisingly. Eventually it started.

A sacred ornament rose slowly from its purpose-built platform and began journeying skywards. Three quarters of the way up, the weight-bearing rope began to smoulder as it passed through pulleys. With a groan it broke and the bird-beak missile hurtled down to earth. Those in its path dived for safety as it whizzed overhead, smashed the platform to smithereens and broke into several pieces on hitting solid ground. Supakit strolled over, surveyed the damage, shrugged and walked off. I couldn't help wondering if that little disaster was a sign from the spirit world of disapproval of the abbot's wealth.

The ceremony was re-staged next day in front of a reduced number of spectators. As a safety measure, sufficient space was left between rows of chairs in the anticipated trajectory area in case things went wrong again. A new steel cable hoisted a replacement monster safely to its new home.

* * *

Next evening, the abbot called a special meeting for close family only in a temple annex. _Khun_ Gan would be providing light entertainment demonstrating his remarkable powers.

"I think I'll give that a miss," I informed Ann.

"Oh, but you should come. I think you like."

"Hmm. If you insist, but I need a drink first. Back soon."

I walked briskly to a small general store on the roadside opposite the temple, sat at an outside table and ordered a bottle of lager. Not looking forward to spending an evening being entertained by _Khun_ Gan, I drank quickly and ordered another.

A stylish saloon car pulled into the shop's parking area and a local wearing a business suit alighted. He smiled at me and said in perfect English, "Good evening, where are you from?"

After an exchange of pleasantries, including discovering each other's names, Decha insisted on buying beer for both of us and sat at my table.

"So why are you staying at that temple?" my new friend asked.

Decha listened with keen interest to my brief explanation.

"I know about that monk. Many people are very shocked and angry. Some want to kill him." Decha turned and pointed to a poster hoarding at the temple entrance. A giant portrait of the abbot dominated other items on the board. "Look at his eyes. They are cold and dark. You understand?"

I nodded.

Decha continued, "I used to take my family to this temple every week. But not any more. Anyway, I wish you luck, Gerry."

* * *

Arriving at the temple annex just in time, I joined those sitting in a semicircle on the floor, facing Supakit, _Khun_ Gan and Noon. Gan apparently put himself into a trance, rocking back and forth, cross-legged. His wife placed a carton of soya milk in his hand. He Sipped through a straw while incoherently babbling in a baby's voice as milk dribbled down his chin. That opening act did little to stimulate interest.

_Khun_ Noon, acting as compère, described what was supposed to happen as onlookers waited for something to actually happen. Very little did. Noon passed on messages she picked up from the foolish babbling; someone will come into money. Somebody else's buffalo will have a baby. Yet another person will get married.

As boredom increased, a man sitting beside me fell asleep, flopping forward head-first onto the floor. I tried to pull him upright, grinning spontaneously to the unamused abbot. Two hours later, a show-stopping finale consisted of _Khun_ Gan, now recovered from baby mode, and Supakit asking each other questions and laughing at their own answers. When it finally ended, those still awake in the audience showed appreciation with applause before paying homage to the VIPs and Buddha by bowing low as they _waid_. Benz, who'd been fast asleep on Ann's lap throughout, woke up and wanted to know if they were going to play games now. On realising he'd missed some good fun, he burst into tears. Riveting stuff.

After sleeping in our squalid room for eight nights, I looked forward to going home early in the morning and taking advantage of driving in daylight. Packing everything in the pick-up didn't take long and by six o'clock we were ready to leave. Then the abbot wanted to say goodbye in his house, so I waited around impatiently until ten thirty.

Chai tapped on the window as we were about to drive off, and handed me a hefty hatchet with blade honed to razor sharpness. "To take care. Many bad people know you go to see Uncle Monk. Keep under seat . . . always," he said seriously.

I vowed to ditch it at the earliest opportunity.

Ann told me, "Mama want you to toot-toot three times for good luck."

I toot-tooted three times, not wishing to miss an opportunity for a bit of luck. Not far up the road, Mama, in the front seat, tried to phone her brother but her mobile's battery was flat. She pulled a two-pin mains charger out and started searching for somewhere to plug it in.

"Tell Mama it doesn't fit, for God's sake! She'll have us off the road in a minute." I sighed.

Ann explained, and consequently Mama decided she wanted to stop at the next 7-Eleven to buy a car charger. After she'd bought a charger, she decided to explore surrounding gift shops. At the next service area I was instructed to pull up and refuel because it was cheaper at that site. An effort by police to cut road accidents included using huge roadside posters pointing out dangers of drinking alcohol while driving. Sitting in front of one such poster, a group of Thai motorists swigged beer and rice whisky. Back In 1972, another sales job in Australia involved alcohol.

* * *

Located on the banks of the Swan River in Perth, the only brewery in Western Australia in the 70's prospered. Even though retail outlets could only buy from that source, a sales force covered the state, handing out beer mats, issuing tap tops, checking cellars and socialising over a few beers with staff on each call. Becoming a brewery representative after a short career selling cigarettes seemed logical. Once again, extensive driving outside the city in an impressive car was part of a day's work. Contacting stewards at various sports club's bars occupied half of each day. Steadily drinking draught beer in a variety of glass sizes from breakfast until lunchtime led to driving while intoxicated to hotels and bars in the afternoons. Often, seeing double resulted in missed turnings, swerving all over the road and ending up on the wrong side. Just how getting home was achieved remained a mystery.

After a couple of months, feeling it was too early to die in a head-on collision or from liver failure, I resigned, and had to explain my decision to the chairman himself.

Knocking on his office door was a challenge. "Come!" His voice sounded intimidating.

Inside an elaborate wood panelled suite, the chairman sat behind an antique mahogany desk with green leather top. "So, you wanna quit, boy. Is that correct?"

I stood to attention. "Well, er, if you don't mind, Sir."

"No one has ever left this brewery since it was founded."

"I know, Sir. They all died from accidents or alcoholism."
CHAPTER 8

Having use of a car, purchasing Chang, Thailand's strongest but popularly priced lager in bulk from Makro once a month saved a little bit of my pocket money. Supakit cleared Papa's outstanding land debt, which meant I could stop paying five thousand baht a month in that direction. But that same amount was redirected to pay for diesel on the occasions Ann and I expected to be able to borrow Mama's pick-up.

Not happy at driving on a UK licence, I booked a driving test in town. With Ann providing support, proceedings started at eight-thirty one morning by filling out forms. While waiting for the exam to begin, I tested my knowledge of the highway code on an electronic machine.

"Oh dear, I don't think I've got anywhere near enough right."

"You do okay on proper test," Ann reassured me.

Actual testing started at one end of the waiting room, in full view of scores of spectators anticipating some fun when things went wrong. The first step involved standing in front of mock-up traffic lights.

The examiner explained, "You shout out colour when lights come on."

"Got it. Go." The top light, strangely, was familiar. "Red!" I yelled.

"Next."

The amber light appeared. "Yellow!"

"Very good. One more."

"Green!"

Thinking it must get harder, I sat on a chair and inspected a brake pedal and accelerator fixed to a wooden block placed on the floor.

My qualified examiner pointed at two unlit lamps. "When green light, push accelerator. When change to red, brake quickly."

Mentally prepared, the green light came on and I hit the gas. On a red light I tried to stamp on the brake, but the wooden mounting block slipped, I missed, a sandal came off and landed in the lap of an onlooker. The stopwatch reached thirty seconds, the onlooker tossed my shoe back and Ann nervously covered her mouth.

"It okay," said the observant tester. "One more go."

After shuffling the chair to give me better control, I nodded. That time I stopped the imaginary car in a split second. Then I was handed a rope, rather like horse reins, the ends of which were attached to white sticks in an open-fronted box some metres away. One stick was at the back of the box, the other in front.

"See two white pegs in box?" the expert asked. "You pull rope to line up together in centre."

I steered my pegs into a perfect line.

Instead of attending a two hour video presentation on road safety, in Thai language with other would-be licence holders, I was handed a copy of the highway code in Thai and English to study. At two thirty we all trooped into an examination room. Giant computers, resembling fruit machines, picked winners and losers answering in total thirty-five questions each with three possible answers. A supervisor kindly set my machine to English language. I knew about twenty answers, but needed thirty-two correct to pass. It seemed wise to hit the middle button for all the others and just rely on luck. On checking my score, staff confirmed I'd passed that stage. The final part of the test was at four o'clock on a circuit resembling a go-kart track. I drove the pick-up on, did a stop at a kerb, drove through a row of cones and reversed, moved on in first gear a few metres to a parking bay, reversed in and drove out without knocking down cones. An hour later, I was the proud holder of a five year Thai driving licence.

* * *

Papa, still having to take care of his repaired leg, insisted on helping erect sunshade netting over our front flower garden. He cut, trimmed and sank bamboo poles into soil before neatly spreading netting over the frame. As he packed away his tools, Mama appeared, arms flapping, head shaking. Apparently she told her husband he'd have to move his new sunshade because space was needed for millionaire abbot to build a base for a new spirit house. Papa dutifully started to climb a stepladder so as to be able to oblige, when he slipped, twisted his bad leg and spent another lengthy period hobbling on crutches. Most of the flowers that Ann had lovingly cared for disappeared to make room for a ceramic tiled concrete plinth.

Throughout Thailand, miniature houses stood next to homes, businesses, hotels, and even high-rise office buildings. Those small structures were called spirit houses, dwelling places where respect was shown for invisible helpful spirits. Some said they were for spirits such as guardian angels that lived in the land. Others believed spirits owned the land and should have been given a better place to live. People believed they should care for them because they brought protection, granted wishes and carried good luck and good health. In exchange, the spirits received shelter, food and gifts.

Mama chose the biggest, most expensive spirit house available, along with a smaller one, both trimmed with gold. Even more money was spent on essential decorations, garlands and effigies. The heavy component parts were delivered by lorry and a team of men stacked them in our porch. Several male neighbours joined us to do the assembling. When all was ready, yet another special ceremony was arranged. Supakit, driven by Chai, turned up in his immaculate people carrier. _Khun_ Gan and _Khun_ Noon arrived in a brand new top-of-the-range Isuzu pick-up.

"Wow! How long have they had _that_?" I asked Ann.

"Uncle Monk buy for them," she said.

Probably coincidently, Mama's Isuzu was finished in a metallic silver colour, as were the others. "Three cars all the same colour," I remarked.

"Soon there will be four cars. But Uncle's young brother waiting for red colour," Ann revealed. "Uncle think good idea to put numbers one to four on back of cars."

"Might as well go for the lot. Why not paint Monkmobile on the doors?" My suggestion wasn't fully understood.

The ritual commenced when family members placed bowls of savoury food, fruit and bottles of soft drinks, along with straws, on matching tables in front of the spirit houses as offerings. Bundles of incense sticks and candles were lit, their sweet smell intended to attract the attention of spirits. With a solemn wai, each participant silently sought favours and good luck, promising to return a gift if wishes were granted.

_Khun_ Gan and his wife threaded a ball of string from a pinnacle on the tallest spirit house through an upstairs window where it was clutched tightly by the abbot. Gan and Noon chanted endlessly by his side. Supakit remained inside while the couple in white chose a shady spot under a tree, tied a few ribbons to plants, scrounged offerings for the spirits from anyone around and laid them out. A packet of cigarettes, half a bottle of rice whisky, a baby's nappy, a toothbrush, and a flapping fresh fish formed the centrepiece of an unusual exhibition. Supakit, probably dozing in his chair upstairs, missed all the fun. Next day, after half the female population of the village had cooked and served an amazing array of dishes for their honoured guests, the four travellers set off on the long journey back to Chonburi.

Towards the end of 2012, a slight notion I'd had for a while, about life at home not being quite as easygoing as it had been before the moneyed monk had taken control, escalated and became a major concern. Some family members and neighbours, who hadn't been near the house since my arrival, began to visit Mama upstairs frequently. They were obviously being very careful not to come too close to my living area. It became standard practice to be called upon at short notice to drive Mama around to see her friends, go shopping in markets or visit sick relatives in hospitals. Sometimes I waited for hours to take her home, passing the time reading or listening to music. She rarely had anything to say to me, not even a thank you; different from the early days. In addition to ploughing practically all my pension money into supporting that family, the cost of cleaning the car on a regular basis drained resources even more.

Only a few weeks after leaving, Supakit and his entourage returned, using both cars.

"What's the occasion this time?" I asked Ann.

"Uncle buy farmland for Mama. He need to look."

"And why have _Khun_ Gan and wife come?"

"For good luck. _Khun_ Gan use his rod to check if land okay."

Over a few days, about four hundred rai, or six hundred and forty thousand square meters, was purchased at various locations. While the visitors were out each day, our kitchen, which had been kept spotless by Ann, quickly turned into a messy, flyblown den crammed with women squatting on the floor preparing food. A range of pots and containers, some holding scraps, others fresh food, turned black as swarms of flies settled on them. Having cautiously picked my way through the mayhem to make coffee, the pungent smell of fish sauce greeted me on opening the fridge door.

* * *

A trip to Chiang Mai, planned at the end of April, promised a bit of excitement. In an attempt to regain respect, the abbot had purchased some land on a mountain top behind the city. A new temple to be constructed there would provide a permanent memorial to the generous benefactor. Spin-offs from his donation would also make it possible for him to set up a business such as a coffee and gift shop, or maybe a restaurant to enhance his income. He'd indicated a preference for Ann to run his operation on a share basis so long as she repaid any set up costs. He'd already reserved an option to buy a modern house halfway up the mountain which would be available for family to use.

At four in the morning, a time favoured by Mama, we bundled our two sleepy boys into the pick-up and set off with a multitude of gifts and foodstuffs under a tarpaulin.

The route beyond Isaan, running north-west, wound through spectacular mountains and lush green valleys. It seemed a matter of following directions from point to point . . . until a signpost with two arms pointed to the same town both ways.

"Ah! Which way do you think?" I knew it was a silly question.

"I think left, road look better," Ann suggested.

"I agree."

Mama actually used a few English words. "No. No good. Go there." She indicated right.

Having made a right turn, an already narrow road quickly became a bumpy, dusty track heading frighteningly steeply up into a range of mountains.

An hour later I pulled up at a spot affording spectacular views downwards. "Pass me the map."

Ann, who'd been poring over a road atlas, sighed and handed it over. "I don't know."

The Thai map only showed one road. A speck of dust ahead grew to a ball as it bore down on us, revealing a battered truck with a cargo of fat, live pigs. The driver pulled up alongside and opened his cab window. A conversation in Thai between Ann and the trucker ensued while I watched in awe as pigs dispensed generous amounts of steaming urine which gushed from holes in the vehicle and ran downhill.

"He say we keep going. Road come to same place as other one," Ann confirmed.

Engaging four-wheel drive, we pressed ahead, clouds skimming overhead before enveloping everything in fog, making air-conditioning unnecessary. Unfenced hairpin bends skirted giddy drops to rocky outcrops far below. We paused at the summit, got out and savoured cool, fresh air.

"Does it snow up here?" Niran wanted to know.

Benz toddled towards the precipice, but was grabbed in time by Ann.

The road zigzagged down the other side, disappearing into a vast, hazy, plain. Two hours later we joined the correct road, a new, fast dual carriageway.

"Tell Mama," I said huffily, "The sign over there says it's only thirty kilometres back to where we went the wrong way."

Scheduled to meet the two-car monk team, who were travelling from Chonburi, at a roadside market within a couple of hours, a phone call indicated we'd still be at the rendezvous before them. Eventually we found a roadside parking place outside the market and waited. Hours went by and phone calls confirmed an unexpected delay had occurred. _Khun_ Gan, wishing to sell his old, unwanted car had planned to drive it to a dealer en route and collect a bit of cash. His new gift from Supakit had been left on the dealer's forecourt, awaiting the changeover.

"So where are they?" I enquired as the sun went down.

" _Khun_ Gan's old car broke down. They come soon."

After travelling sixteen hours, with at least another five hours of driving left, I settled back in the seat and tried to get some sleep. Niran and Benz slept soundly on top of the tarpaulin. Approaching eleven o'clock, the Chonburi delegation arrived. After shopping for knick-knacks and food, our three-car convoy set off in moonlight for the mountains of Chiang Mai. Before daybreak, the route became a treacherous mountain pass. Headlights picked out two men trying to push a small saloon car up an impossible gradient. Despite tiredness, I recalled having a problem getting the camper-van up the Elburz mountains in Iran, forty-four years earlier.

* * *

In contrast to the warmth of Tehran in October 1968, it grew steadily colder, even with the heater on, as we climbed into the Elburz mountains, skirting the Caspian Sea in Northern Iran. Mount Damavand, the country's highest peak at nearly six thousand metres, was already covered with snow. Travelling in darkness, we drove up a steep pass and the temperature plummeted. The Commer camper-van's engine struggled then stalled.

Behind the wheel, I coaxed life back into an elderly petrol motor but even first gear proved too much. "Well. Any ideas?"

"You're supposed to be the mechanic," David said.

My knowledge of vehicle maintenance was almost zero; a workshop manual and some tools in a box under a seat looked unfamiliar. "And you're supposed to be the navigator."

"While you two think about it, let's have something to eat." Judy rummaged in a food tin and found chocolate.

Elizabeth came up with an idea. "Do you remember the film, Ice Cold in Alex, where they reverse an ambulance up a sand dune?"

"What a brilliant idea!" I thought about that. "Reverse gear should be low enough ratio to do it. Is there somewhere to turn round?"

David put on a coat and produced a torch. "There's a pull-in back there." He got out and waved directions by battery light. There wasn't much room for mistakes as the vehicle ran back. After successfully turning, reverse gear was put to the test. It worked, and the ascent backwards in the moonlight commenced. David walked ahead, the beam from his torch indicating a sheer drop on one side. Ages later, at the summit, an easy turn and effortless descent quickly reached level ground the other side of the mountain. Exhausted, we camped until daybreak. Gunfire, shouting and loud banging on the sides of the van woke us when local traders weren't impressed by having their road to a market blocked.

"Who's getting out to explain?" Judy asked.

* * *

Reminiscing came to an end when the small saloon car was manoeuvred off the road by its Thai passengers, enabling us to pass. At sunrise, we arrived on the site of the new Chiang Mai temple.

Ann told me, "Uncle Monk thought you never drive up mountain safely. He think maybe have accident because not know how."

"Well, he got it wrong." At about eight thousand feet, we were just short of the height of Thailand's highest mountain, Doi Inthanon, only a short distance away.

Our accommodation was in a half-completed double-storey building with a roof but still awaiting doors and windows. Electricity came from a noisy industrial generator, but only for a short time each day when the builders decided to work or make food. The one-man tent wasn't essential as mosquitoes were a rarity at that altitude and in such a climate. I did sleep in it, though, imagining it gave some privacy from family groups sleeping all around. The abbot stayed in a house occupied by a senior monk from an adjacent temple. _Khun_ Gan and Noon enjoyed privacy in their rented home a little farther up the mountain.

A spectacular early morning thunderstorm delayed a mountain top ceremony. A cutting with a gradient of one in three, only negotiable by four-wheel drive vehicles, disgorged tons of mud which spewed over a large area, blocking access to the peak. Teams of workers and monks worked frenziedly with shovels and spades to open a route. By reversing far enough before making a charge, four or five pick-ups managed to take tables, chairs, Buddha images and ornaments to the sacred ground. Many determined worshippers in best clothes, attempting to climb barefoot, got splattered with mud from spinning wheels. Some got stuck and had to be rescued by returning trucks. Our Isuzu looked like a field ambulance full of victims in a swamp. With dignitaries safely in position, speeches of gratitude to the abbot preceded contributions being made to the spirits. Ann reverently offered an unopened block of vintage cheddar cheese that I'd managed to find in a supermarket. I wondered if it could be retrieved later . . . after it had matured enough to be classified as being the finest.

On the journey home, we pulled up behind leading vehicles halfway down the mountain.

"Uncle go to look at new house," my wife explained.

Supakit walked up to a smart bungalow, took a cursory look and got back in his car.

Some hours later, well on our way, Mama took a phone call and went into hysterics, babbling uncontrollably.

"What's that all about?" I shouted to Ann.

"Uncle. He win lottery again! Really!"

"You must be joking. How much?"

"Don't know for sure. Big money . . . but not as much as before. He choose tickets from our car numbers."

I followed the other vehicles into a service area where Supakit received congratulations from everyone. Some special delicacies and soft drinks were purchased from 7-Eleven to celebrate the monk's continuing good fortune.

* * *

At rice harvest and planting time I drove labourers to paddy fields, collected fertiliser and transported rice to mills. Ann and I managed to get a little benefit from the vehicle once a month to do our own shopping in the city. A plan to take our boys on holiday didn't materialise because of Mama's need for the car. When a travelling elephant show visited the village, we treated both boys to an evening of excitement; small compensation for missing out on a holiday. Just one big, old elephant performed in an area surrounded by green plastic sheeting. Two bare light bulbs illuminated the display. Villagers of all ages sat spellbound on the ground while three brave schoolchildren, including Niran, prostrated themselves in front of the animal. Stepping expertly over the youngsters, the elephant paused and gently placed a foot on Niran's buttocks. Better entertainment happened after the show ended. The clever mammal helped its owner take down sheeting and supporting poles. All in all, not bad value for less than thirty pence per person.

Once in a while something unusual happened on the _soi_ running in front of the house. When it rained hard, surplus water flowed from a river into the road. Groups of villagers lined each side, waiting for fish to come flapping along the flooded byway. Many delicious meals were scooped with bare hands from the temporary waterway. Elephants always caused excitement when they strolled by, their owners offering rides, elephant food and souvenirs at affordable prices. An impromptu spectacular occurred one morning. A new refuse collection vehicle, moving slowly along while men emptied bins in the back, wasn't spotted in time by a youth riding a motorbike with one hand on the handle bars as he used a mobile phone. Unable to stop, the bike collided with the truck, and the rider shot head-first onto smelly garbage inside. The bike's front wheel looked beyond repair, but its rider climbed out unscathed, although covered in household waste.

Chai brought Supakit to stay upstairs in our house frequently. One day I was asked to follow his people carrier to a motorbike shop in town, where Chai's teenage son chose a new machine. With bike on board the pick-up, another stop was made to allow Uncle to buy a new computer for the lad. I then delivered all new acquisitions to Chai's family home on Papa's farm. On another occasion, the abbot was greeted warmly by the headmaster of the lucky pupil's school when he called in to make a donation to improve school facilities. I didn't recall the monk at any time helping Ann or her boys. Then I learned about Supakit scrapping plans to involve my wife in a business, at the same time he had decided not to go ahead with the mountainside house purchase.

I stared in amazement one day when two police cars with flashing lights and blaring sirens escorted both the abbot and Chai, in the people carrier, to our home. A plain-clothes policeman alighted from a special police car, a large Mercedes, and adjusted a handgun in his holster. A woman holding a girl toddler climbed from the back set. Three uniformed officers, weapons round their waists, jumped out of a standard police car. Supakit headed for the house upstairs while others unloaded luggage from the vehicles.

"What on earth is going on?" I asked Ann.

"Uncle has police protection. Not safe for him anywhere."

I watched as the plain-clothes officer opened the door of my home and took his bags inside. The woman and toddler followed.

"I see, we have guests staying with us. He looks like the boss. Who's the lady with the baby?"

Ann told me, "His wife. He very high in police. Colonel, I think. His name Kamol. Good friend of Uncle. They stay about one week."

"Where is Colonel Kamol and party going to sleep?"

"Kamol family in Niran and Benz's room. Boys go stay upstairs with Mama and Papa."

"And what about the other three?"

"Maybe they sleep on sofa and floor in front of television."

"No sign of _Khun_ Gan and wife, I see."

"They not friends any more. Big problem with Uncle and many people. They must stay away or somebody kill them."

"Surely his magic rod would protect him."

As days went by it became clear that life at home wouldn't be the same again. Apart from Ann and the boys trying to maintain some degree of normality, the rest of the family and police took control of both upstairs and downstairs homes. Obviously I'd become a _farang_ no longer relied on for financial support, a person who simply occupied space in mother-in-law's house. The fact that the family had virtually nothing materially before I arrived had been disregarded. Having to queue to use the bathroom and wait patiently until the kitchen had been vacated became a nightmare. Not being able to choose TV programmes, and having trouble in finding somewhere to sit made things worse.

Similar visits lasting a few days to a few weeks continued at regular intervals. Colonel Kamol's wife didn't wake up until ten or eleven o'clock every morning, so her toddler was farmed out to anyone willing to babysit. Ann was expected to wash and iron everybody's clothing while Supakit, Chai and police protection team went off on sightseeing trips, apparently connected to some sort of business or duty. The youngest policeman brought his new girlfriend, a college student he met locally, back to the house. He borrowed Kamol's Mercedes to drive her home, sometimes returning the next day. Lottery fever still gripped everybody. Numerous piles of tickets were spread out and checked. Wanting more, Nansabon's illegal lottery, offering small cash winnings, gained unexpected revenue from the police.
CHAPTER 9

Early in January 2013, convinced life as it was couldn't last much longer, my wife told me about a very important event coming up. I didn't fully grasp the details or logic behind it, but it involved driving to a location in Bangkok where the abbot was hiding out, surrounded by his police guard. There was to be a meticulously organised publicity stunt lasting several days, designed to draw attention from the media and public. The dedicated monk needed to be recognised as a devout, sincere and generous person. That, I thought, was one hell of a task for anybody to take on, and deserved a medal for even trying.

Day one of the operation started with a long convoy of vehicles, all monk supporters, making a high-speed dash along motorways and byways of Bangkok to _Ayutthaya. Kamol, wearing a uniform for a change, coordinated the spectacle, giving instructions to teams in about twelve police cars and drivers of seventy civilian vehicles. Thankfully, Mama chose to ride in the abbot's people carrier, making it easier for me to concentrate on being a good racing driver. A policeman moved down the row, lined up on a slip road outside a motorway service area, outlining requirements to civilian drivers. I opened the window, listened and nodded, clinging to every word but understanding only a few._

_The officer finished babbling, stooped and looked in, seeming surprised at finding a_ _farang_ _behind the wheel. "Oh! You_ _falang_ _. Never mind. Okay, put on flashing indicators and main headlights. Stay very close to car in front. No gaps, understand?"_

_" No gaps?"_

_" No gaps. Like this." He held his hands inches apart._

_" Right," I said, reckoning an almighty collision loomed ahead._

_" And no stopping for anything. No worry about red lights, police take care. Okay?"_

_" Got it." I closed the window and cracked my knuckles._

_Flanked by police cars with screaming sirens, flashing lights and roof-mounted loudspeakers, the race began. With no regard for speeding traffic bearing down on us, we shot across carriageways into the fast lane. Kamol defiantly parked his Mercedes broadside across the motorway until every car in the convoy had caught up. I cringed at the sound of screeching brakes and honking horns as bewildered drivers swerved in all directions to avoid a pile up. I glanced at the speedometer, wondering if one hundred and ninety kilometres an hour was as far as the clock would go. Every few seconds someone ahead braked, red warning lights triggering a chain reaction resulting in the closest tailgating imaginable. The route involved negotiating narrow access lanes between toll booths at speed. The attendants stared in amazement as we whizzed through, toll free. A few hesitant drivers misjudged the width, sending orange traffic cones soaring skywards. At intersections, police cars forced exiting vehicles to stop, allowing us to overtake and screech round bends. Leaving the motorways, we hurtled through Bangkok's centre, its congested streets presenting a major challenge for the escorting police. Ear-splitting warnings over loudspeakers and frantic siren blasts sent motorbikes wobbling to kerbs and pedestrians scampering for their lives. Somehow we weaved through the chaos and gained the main road to Ayutthaya._

_While the abbot was attending a special ceremony, during which he was promoted to a very senior position, we, as part of a small privileged group, followed Kamol along a footpath to a riverside pier and boarded a privately-hired longboat. We sailed to an impressive floating restaurant for a sumptuous luncheon, re-boarded the vessel and viewed famous Ayutthaya temples along the waterways. I felt honoured to be included due to my humble position as acting family chauffeur, but guessed they wanted a well-fed, alert driver for the next hair-raising stage of the road race._

_The promoted monk spent an unplanned extra thee hours mingling with senior officials and agreeing to photo sessions featuring his new ornate tapestries and symbols of rank. Way behind schedule, the convoy headed for the Chonburi temple. With police clearing motorway traffic, less than two hours later we parked in the temple grounds. An expected crowd wasn't there. I didn't know if that was because of the late arrival or as a protest against certain goings-on. A faithful few served noodles and Coke before filing into the temple to admire Supakit's new status trophies. Half an hour later, we were on the way back to Bangkok._

_Still unable to comprehend what was going on, a memory about a long-forgotten honour bestowed on each member of the 60's Cambridge to India overland journey prompted a wry smile._

_* * *_

_On the steps outside Cambridge guildhall in October 1969, the mayor made a speech about the expedition and announced to the media we were now freemen of the city of Cambridge._

_" What does that mean?" I whispered to David._

_" It means we can drive sheep through the city streets, or something like that."_

_" Great, where can we get some sheep?" I spotted Mother at the front of a small crowd and walked over to greet her._

_" Well, Son, I never expected you to even get through France. You've lost a lot of weight," she said._

_" Nothing a good mutton stew won't put right."_

_Thankfully, driving sheep and eating mutton stew didn't materialise._

_* * *_

_On its next visit to our home in Isaan, the abbot's car sported a red flashing light on the roof, police transfers on the doors and several special concessionary passes on the windscreen. Kamol's Mercedes lacked a rear bumper._

_" What happened to the back of the car, Ann?"_

_She told me, "Someone crash into him on motorway."_

_" That doesn't surprise me."_

_A team of workers erected party tents alongside the house, tables and chairs were delivered and a huge sound system arrived with all the latest disco apparatus. Our kitchen, which had become totally unhygienic and almost ruined, no longer had enough space for catering needs. An outdoor kitchen was hastily added, consisting of cold water taps, barbecues, huge water containers, giant plastic washing-up bowls, piles of commercial-size pots and pans and ice chests. Next day, crowds filled the party tents as well as our home, and spilled into the_ _soi_ _. More police cars arrived, escorting a shiny black official government car. Two government representatives wearing white shirts, official ties, black blazers and trousers clambered out. Police officers dutifully hovered around them and began unloading meticulously gift-wrapped and ribboned boxes and parcels. Then bundles of new saffron robes, bundles of thick, glossy hard-backed books and even more bundles of cushions appeared. Supakit graciously agreed to walk a few steps to greet the new arrivals and made some gesture, indicating acceptance of the gifts before they were taken upstairs. Dozens of monks from surrounding temples arrived in mainly ageing vehicles owned and driven by volunteers. When all guests, police and monks had filed upstairs, only invited close family members followed; I was uninvited so remained outside with the masses. A ceremony involving much chanting and endless speeches was relayed from above by loudspeakers. At the conclusion, visiting monks filed out, carrying gifts presented by the abbot and were quickly whisked away in a convoy. Formalities over, Supakit remained alone in the upper house and a party got into full swing on our porch as onlookers watched from the tents. Colonel Kamol demonstrated his vocal capabilities by commandeering a radio-microphone for most of the night-long disco. His police team, enjoying plentiful amounts of proper malt whisky and various other expensive spirits, joined in enthusiastically. As I sipped my cheap rice whisky, a thought crossed my mind that any form of protection they were paid to constantly supply had been forgotten. Any intruders could have easily reached the monk as he slept upstairs in the darkened house that didn't even have a door._

_* * *_

_Not many days after party debris had been cleared, I wondered how long it would be before the visitors reappeared. Bulldozers and earthmoving equipment arrived instead, and set about ripping up trees and filling ground at the back of our house. I called out, "Ann! Where are you? What's all this about?"_

_Ann appeared, carrying bundles of laundry. "Uncle Monk own land. He make new house."_

_" Oh no!" I groaned. "I can't handle much more of this. They've taken over our lives completely."_

_Ann remained silent for a while, then breathed, "I know you not happy any more. I sorry too but can do nothing." Tears welled in her eyes. She clung to me. "I worry, darling. What do you want to do?"_

_I sighed. "What_ _can_ _I do? This was my home . . . I know it's Mama's property, but things were so good before all this happened. I used all my money to make it nice for everybody, now I'm stuck. I don't know what to do."_

_For several days, hundreds of tipper trucks dumped load after load of rubble and soil over cleared ground until it was a small hill. I watched as earthmoving equipment spread even more rubble around our house and along the drive, bringing it to the same level as the abbot's ground._

_" He obviously has plans to make it a family plot," I said grimly as I watched with my wife._

_Supakit and police protection squad arrived, Kamol, his wife and child commandeered my home. Two more officers lounged in front of the television, idly whiling away the days playing cards, doing the lottery and dining on their choice of food. Father-in-law, having no say in the matter, pottered about, attending to little things like carrying a chair to the building site, where Supakit sat for hours, proudly watching work going on around him._

_The crunch came when I couldn't find anywhere to sit; even my computer had been taken over._

_I looked at Colonel Kamol, sprawled on the sofa, and snapped, "This place is just like a hotel!"_

_He stared at me angrily. "You think so? Okay." He stormed out, dashed upstairs to complain about my behaviour to Supakit, returned in a temper, ordered his wife to pack their bags and instructed his junior officers to do likewise. He strapped his gun holster on, checked the weapon and stared at me menacingly. I stared back._

_Feeling less threatened outside, I retreated to the porch and sat on a plastic chair. The abbot, making a point, stormed through my home, wrenched open the lounge doors and emerged on the porch, pointing at me threateningly. He snapped something in Thai, which inferred the_ _farang_ _was out of order._

_Mama and Chai joined in, pointing and shaking their heads._

_Chai shouted, "You bad man! Very bad man!"_

_Mama nodded. "Bad!"_

_The colonel, flanked by his officers, added, " This is Thailand!You only_ _falang_ _! Different here!"_

_To make their point, cars were loaded and driven off the premises, ending up at other family member's homes on either side. Neighbours watched as Supakit walked haughtily to his brother's house next door, conversed with the older man, and turned to stare back at me, gesticulating wildly. I knew it was over. I had to get out. It wasn't safe to hang around too long. But I couldn't just leave immediately. I needed time to think._

_That night the house was quiet because the abbot and supporters refused to stay while I was around. They slept elsewhere, choosing suitable lodgings with family members in the village who had plenty of spare room. I discussed the situation with Ann long into the night._

_" We can go away, somewhere where they not know," my wife suggested._

_" It wouldn't work. I can't afford to pay big rent down south."_

_By daybreak, after shedding many tears, we decided the best option was for me to return to England._

_" I can't stay here in village, no good for me," Ann sobbed. "When you go I try find work somewhere. Very hard when my age. Everybody want really young people. Maybe I go to Koh Tao and see if Pim can help find work."_

_" Let me show you how to open an email account," I suggested. "That way we'll be able to stay in touch." I helped set up an account, and she quickly learned how to use it._

_Later that day Ann washed and ironed my clothes. "Not very good for cold in England. We find warm clothes in the city." She packed my suitcase._

_We took a_ _songthaew_ _to the main road and a bus to town. After checking in at a hotel, the search began for warm clothes. The only topcoats available were second-hand but good quality._

_" They okay, I take home to clean and bring back," Ann said. "Now you need . . . how you say? Jumpers and trousers."_

_During three days at the hotel we tried to be brave, but were emotionally drained. I telephoned the only Buddhist monk I knew who had become a true family friend, a genuinely caring man with perfect English who offered words of comfort to us both, and said he was shocked by what had happened. He was about to leave for a new life in a temple in America, dismayed by so much corruption in his own country. His decision reminded me of the Asia to Africa stage of a voyage in the 60's._

_* * *_

_After selling the camper-van in Afghanistan in 1969, Elizabeth, David, Judy and I travelled by public transport to Karachi, Pakistan. A passenger liner, Victoria, plied between there and Italy via South Africa. With tickets to Venice, an amazing period at sea unfolded. Many south Asian passengers were intending to settle in Kenya or South Africa, expecting a better life. First port of call was Mombasa, where two pairs of giant aluminium elephant tusks crossed the dual carriageway. They were commissioned in the 1950's, apparently to commemorate a visit by members of the British Royal Family. They also formed a huge, curving letter 'M' for Mombasa. Time allowed for a mini safari in Tsavo_ _National Park, Kenya's largest and one of the largest in the world. We spotted antelopes, hippos, elephants, buffalo, lions, leopards, zebras and birds. A massive rhino decided to charge our truck, causing panic when the driver stalled the engine. With seconds to spare, the vehicle lurched forward and the great beast missed by inches._

_The sight of gangways for whites only on arrival at Durban was a stark reminder of apartheid in South Africa. Notices stating,_ _Whites Only_ _, were everywhere, including public benches. Approaching Cape Town, Table Mountain dominated the skyline, its flat top free of cloud and crystal clear in brilliant sunshine. Although not much over a thousand metres high, it was understandable why the panorama from the top had been described as one of the most epic views in Africa._

_After rounding the Cape of Good Hope the ship sailed up the west coast of Africa, slipped past the Rock of Gibraltar into the Mediterranean and on to Venice. An England-bound train transported us to the White Cliffs of Dover._

_* * *_

_My suitcase, stuffed with clean-smelling quilted coats, almost burst at the seams. The only other item of luggage was my laptop. My bank issued a replacement debit card, activated for international use. Money kept in the account to qualify for visa extensions now had another purpose. We bought a large suitcase for Ann to use when she left home._

_" You have this one, darling. I take your small one," she offered._

_" It's okay, you'll need it more than me." I booked a domestic flight to Bangkok and a one-way ticket from Bangkok to Heathrow._

_Before I flew from the local airport, Ann went to collect Benz. We sat on a bench in the tiny airport for an hour. Benz, knowing something was wrong but not really understanding, cuddled up to us. The flight was called. I waited until the last possible moment, picked Benz up, hugged him, cuddled Ann and we kissed goodbye._

_Benz asked, "Why Papa go?"_

_Tears flooding down her cheeks, his mother said, "Papa have to go England. Maybe he come back one day."_

_I turned on my way to the departure gate, tried to smile bravely and waved goodbye._

_* * *_

_The aircraft landed at Don Muang Airport, close to the centre of Bangkok. My Heathrow flight from Suvarnabhumi wasn't until the next day, so rather than spend a night in an expensive airport hotel, I opted for a budget hotel in Bangkok's Khaosan Road, with a frequent and inexpensive airport bus service._

_On arrival at the hotel, I phoned Ann. "Hi darling, I'm at the hotel now."_

_" You okay? I miss you too much."_

_" I guess so. I'll ring before I get on the plane tomorrow. Love you. Take care." Neither of us could manage any more words. I emailed my sister in Devon, confirming I'd be back next day. She replied, confirming an offer to stay with her temporarily until I found somewhere to live. Next, an email to my eldest son resulted in him insisting on driving me to Devon from Heathrow. Finally, I booked a hotel room for the next night in a town not far from my sister's home._

_Stretched out on the bed, sleeping was impossible as memories flashed through my mind. Five and a half years together, never a cross word. The only issue had been insufficient money, but we knew we could have overcome that. What were the chances of having a monk in the family who wins a fortune but forces his niece and her husband to part? I reckoned one chance in millions. A thought about the sun-strip on the window of the new Isuzu,_ _Power of the Monk_ _, brought a feeling of being discarded in a great lottery pay-off._

_Giving up on sleep, I went out and wandered aimlessly among the crowds enjoying the night-life. Thinking one last bottle of Singha, the first beer I tasted on arrival in Thailand at Christmas 2005, made sense; I found a seat at a table outside a bar and ordered a bottle._

_At one o'clock in the afternoon, Sunday 17th March 2013, the aircraft lifted off. I gazed from the window as Thailand faded away._

_* * *_

_On arrival at Heathrow I pulled on an extremely thick coat and dragged my bag to the arrivals hall. I felt completely mentally and physically exhausted. My son waved as I spotted him. We embraced. It was an emotional few moments. Outside, the night was frosty and I shivered. We chatted briefly during the car journey to Devon before sleep overtook me. Arriving at the hotel in the early hours, we enjoyed a couple of drinks and a chat before my son had to return home and go to work._

_I was disorientated next morning. Everything was unfamiliar; the extreme cold, high prices and English language everywhere. My sister met me at the hotel and we travelled by bus to her home a few miles distant. Her small flat was only suitable for a temporary stay. Several stressful days followed as I dealt with formalities relating to my unexpected return to the UK. A doctor prescribed medication for anxiety and depression and arranged for me to have thorough health checks. The hunt for somewhere to live began._

_Two weeks after arriving in England I booked into a backpackers hostel in south Devon. The probability of finding a permanent home seemed remote because I didn't have a British bank account, references or any recent credit history. I had a bad nightmare one night in my bunk in the dormitory. Some unrecognisable force was attacking me, so I defended myself, arms flailing, legs kicking. A loud crash woke me up. I'd sent my computer and various articles flying, to land scattered over the floor. The duty hostel manager, who also slept in the dormitory, walked in immediately after the disturbance. He switched on the light and looked around. "Oh, looks like a bomb's dropped, Gerry," he said, picking his way through the debris._

_" Think I was dreaming." I crawled around, recovering items. The laptop hadn't suffered any damage . . . rather, the impact cleaned out a lot of accumulated orange dust from the Thai village._

_Seven weeks later, in May, I moved into an extremely comfortable flat in a sheltered housing scheme. The superb view from my lounge window included rolling green hills, a river flowing to the nearby sea, a railway line, and aircraft criss-crossing the sky._

_In email exchanges, I learned that Ann had travelled to Koh Tao shortly after my departure, spent a few days with Pim, and managed to get a job in a ticket agency with free accommodation._

_* * *_

_By the end of September I realised it was possible to save enough to pay for trips to see my wife in Thailand once or twice each year. Rather than email the good news, I bought a cheap phone card and called her. "Ann? Is that you? It's Gerry."_

_" Gerry! Oh, you call me. Wow!" She broke down in tears._

_I cried with her, hardly managing to get any words out. After a long time I managed, "Darling, I have some good news. I think I can come back to Thailand next year for a holiday."_

_" You come see me? Really?" She sobbed again._

_" We'll talk again later, honey. I miss you so much."_

_" I miss you all the time."_

_Ann was allowed to use her employer's laptop, learned how to Skype, and sent me an email with her Skype name. I made a video call. Seeing my wife for the first time in over six months was wonderful. We chatted for ages, exchanging news and talking about my holiday plans._

_Early in October, I booked and paid for a month-long holiday due to start mid February 2014 on Koh Samui, the island where Ann and I first met in 2007. A frequent ferry service operated between Koh Tao and Koh Samui. Ann's employer readily agreed to allow her to take four weeks holiday and arrangements seemed the best possible under prevailing circumstances. The question of whether a long-distance relationship could be maintained had yet to be answered, the main reason I chose to restrict the first visit to one month._

_During our regular Skype video calls, we whiled away time by counting down the days remaining until our reunion. Ann had recently bought a tablet, and took great delight in introducing me to her friends and sending images of her workplace and the street outside. She also showed me two hats, knitted by friends, all ready for me to bring back to wear in England's cold climate. In addition to using video, Ann sent me many messages, all of them with several romantic smilies attached._

* * *

_As Christmas approached, I began to notice a change in my wife's attitude. As well as working in the ticket agency, she also helped her employer at his restaurant until late at night. She sent a message via Skype, explaining that she wouldn't be able to chat live very often due to work load. It seemed she didn't even have time to add any smilies to the message. When she eventually answered one of my calls it was obvious something was wrong. She looked apprehensive and gabbled about how busy she was, making it hard to find time to talk with me. That was strange because her tablet camera revealed an empty shop . . . apart from her boss relaxing in a chair, feet up on his desk as he watched TV._

_" Are you sure everything is okay?" I asked, completely unnecessarily._

_She sighed, breaking eye contact. "I just very busy and always tired. I tired all my life and now don't care about life. Sometimes when finish work I go parties with friends, or if very tired I go back to room and sleep. I can take care myself now . . . not same before."_

_I took a deep breath. "So. Are you saying you don't want me any more?"_

_She found it very hard to look at me. "Not sure. I need time to think. Sorry, but my life different now. I have to go take care customer, okay?"_

_The call was terminated and I gazed at the panoramic view from my lounge window. After taking several minutes to ponder Ann's words, I wondered if the fact that she hadn't taken any medication following an operation to remove her thyroid gland had any bearing on her apparent lack of interest in life and exceptional tiredness. As a last resort, I checked what symptoms generally resulted from lack of treatment to balance hormones following a complete_ **thyroidectomy. I discovered Ann had just confirmed suffering from those symptoms . . . more than two years after the operation. I immediately sent her a Skype message, expressing my concern and urging her to see a doctor. I didn't receive a reply.**

_At three o'clock in the morning on 23rd December,_ _I awoke with a phenomenal feeling of foreboding. Further sleep was impossible so I dressed, made coffee and sat at my computer. It was shortly after ten o'clock in Thailand and Ann was online at Skype. She'd sent me a message that read,_ _I OK. No need take medicine or see doctor._ _In response, I made a video call but as it wasn't answered I sent a message asking her to confirm her decision to end our relationship. She declined to respond._

_On Christmas morning I received a Skype message from Ann._ _If I say for sure we finish, will you still come holiday Koh Samui? I want to know because need paper about our marrying._ _It amounted to Ann not wanting to spend time with me on Koh Samui, but hoped I'd take my copy of the marriage certificate and agree to a quickie divorce while on holiday. Although not the first Christmas I'd spent alone, Christmas Day 2013 topped the list as being the most bizarre. My wife's decision to choose that day to announce the end of our relationship confirmed why her country was called Amazing Thailand. An even more popular description, Land of Smiles, didn't quite ring true as Christmas joy spread around the world that day._

_Refunds due after cancelling the holiday were quickly credited to my account. On a wet and windy New Year's Day, I began to contemplate a 2014 adventure. It wasn't long before number seven raised its head again when 'G', the seventh letter of the alphabet cropped up: early summer in Greece, then winter in Goa._

_EPILOGUE_

_News broke during April that the millionaire monk's luck had run out. It was alleged that his police protection squad got their hands on his remaining wealth before abandoning him. I heard that mother-in-law had to scrounge money from a sister just to buy food. To top it all, reports suggested she'd acquired a loan worth thousands of pounds secured on the house I'd paid for._

_Several months later_ _Colonel Kamol was arrested, charged with a variety of crimes. It turned out Kamol wasn't a police officer. He was a hardened criminal, posing as a police colonel. His uniforms, gun and phone were all stolen police property. Even his car with flashing police lights was stolen. National newspapers carried photos of these exhibits during Kamol's trial. He was photographed being led away handcuffed to begin his jail sentence._

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About the author

Gerry Skoyles is a former globetrotter, still living life on the edge. Travelling days started in the 60's with an overland journey to India in a beaten-up camper-van. One of the last passenger ships plying between Southampton and Australia took him to a new life down under in the 70's. His first novel, Pursuit to Paradise, set in Thailand, was published in 2010 when writing as Mark Damaroyd. A novella, inspired by visits to Polynesia, Dicing with Diamonds, followed. After several turbulent years in South East Asia, a memoir, The Great Lottery Pay-off, was completed in 2014. The latest work, The Goa Connection, is now available.

Discover other titles by Gerry Skoyles

The Goa Connection

Dicing With Diamonds

_Connect with me_

http://www.scorchingtropical.blogspot.com

https://www.facebook.com/scorchingtropicaltales

