Perpetual good or bad luck is something that seems to follow some people you meet on the traveler or expat circuit. It is not something all or even many possess, but a few seem to just be gifted or cursed with it.
Bernard was not a lucky man. Maybe not as unlucky as British Steve, but unlucky nevertheless. Nearly everything he did turned to disaster. Now some will say that luck – good or bad is something you make for yourself. And in Bernard’s case this may be true to some extent. Maybe it was his criminality that had an effect on this; maybe it was his belief in how smart he was that had an effect. It was true that Bernard thought he was smarter than most, and that he could always get one over on others. It was not, however, a trait that sprang to mind when others thought of Bernard whoever those others were. But one thing all would agree on, was that Bernard was unlucky.
It is almost two years now, and I suppose it is time to record the actual true events before they fade or my memory decides to exclude such things that don’t fit with preconceived and taught ideas typical of someone raised in the rational and heartless late 60’s and 70’s. It also seems fitting as I sit once more, where I did that day, on the raised dot mypai with a pencil and cheap paper notebook feeling the breeze from the small green fan as the heat of the summer rises once more past body temperature.
Gerry had issues; Gerry was haunted. Neither were going to ever go away. What actually caused the issues or haunting would never ever be known by anyone except Gerry. It is the natural way of some things.
Manchester Andy, now there is someone to remember from the Cowboy days. He had an art degree, two in fact. He was also a real practicing artist producing paintings and sculptures at a prodigious rate. The styles of these were quite conservative and maybe not to everyone’s taste. Not being an artist, I am far too ignorant to know what label or labels to use to name his art, but all in all it wasn’t bad in my opinion.
Andy came to Thailand after finishing his Master’s degree and if I remember correctly a well paying job not connected with art in the United Kingdom. He arrived in Bangkok. with a fresh tourist visa in hand, an expensive backpack and a nice set of clothes. Andy had plans to do the usual “break from life” tour of Asia – Thailand, Philippines, Indonesia, India and Nepal. He actually had no plans after that but intended to head back to the UK and do something with his art. He had made a lot of money from his well paying job, which had been added to buy sale of his artworks and a small inheritance from a distant relative. Andy was set.
Sometimes, though, fate has this way of interfering in the best laid plans and creating a new and different destiny for us.
It was around seven or eight years ago that I first noticed him, this aging man. Quite exactly how old he was, was hard to tell as he had the start of a curved back and looked constantly at the floor with his bewhiskered jowls hanging from each side of his mouth. His hair was white or silver, but not in a distinguished looking way, but more in a mop of short but unkempt hair hanging over his head and flopping down onto his forehead as he shuffled forward with his brown scuffed sandals around his brown feet and his blue fisherman pants swaying with movement and breeze. His arched back inside his plaid long-sleeved shirt was letting out a little perspiration as he lugged the wide basket containing his collection of about thirty boiled eggs. He manoeuvred from table to table along the stretch of seawall at Laem Than where the young people sat and drank and chatted trying to sell an egg or two or three at each table for the drinkers to snack on. Occasionally he was even successful in getting someone to buy three eggs in a little plastic bag with a small sachet of sauce as he manoeuvred surprisingly rapidly between the jovial groups.
The sky was darkening by the minute as the clouds turned from white to light grey to a darker shade, to charcoal and now indeed black with a rapidity rarely seen. A wind had suddenly sprung up. Starting as a light breeze with a vague hint of coolness. Then gradually becoming a more noticeable breath of cool on face and exposed skin. A stronger blast. And now strengthening as its power is rediscovered, moving the branches on the trees surrounding the village and sending out a siren of rustles and creaking wood as it further strengthens and trees start to sway and bend. The sound of a branch falling through the foliage to the fine red dry dirt on the ground breaks the whistles of wind now flowing through not only every open space but finding every gap between massed trees, the smattering of houses on the dirt red packed mud road, that they were built along. The red dirt from under the trees, the road and even the rice farmland down the end of the pike now becoming airborne and coating the floors of the rude wooden houses on stilts, passing into the communal areas and under the houses where the farm tools were now coated in red. Visibility falling as the black darkness seemed to descend around all. With the rise of the wind, now a crescendo of whistles, crashing boughs, falling tools and pieces of slamming houses. The air now filled not only with dust in the air but pieces of tree, house, tile and detritus. Doors not fastened blown closed and open, crashing in rhyme to the beat of the wind.
Nim was a family man. Like many poor farmers in the villages of rural Thailand he held strong beliefs. All he lived for were his wife, daughters, nephews and any other member of the extended family. Not a wealthy man and one who was blighted by every farming venture he tried turning to dust in his hands, but one who surrounded by family remained happy and upbeat.
Now a few years ago it just so happened that Nim’s latest venture into a new piece of farming machinery, or was it a new crop had gone disastrously and predictably wrong resulting in another pressing debt that needed to be paid off. It wasn’t a time of year when work was plentiful in Uttaradit, so being illiterate the only option was a trip to one of the building sites of central Thailand for months of daily toil until enough was saved to cover the lost farm investment. Leaving the family would be hard but having the family land repossessed would only leave them landless and forced to leave the village, so there was no option. Tum, Nim’s friend, recommended a site in Rayong in the industrial east of the country where they could both go.
It has been some time since I went back to the Banglamphu area. It was the place I first stayed decades ago when I came to Thailand. Things change.
Back in the day, Khao San was lined with mostly shop house guest houses renting rooms for less than a pound a night. There were a few higher up the market such as the Chart (now a run down looking dingy place to eat and drink, the Marco Polo, which has long since gone and the hotel. Now Khao San is lined with mid-range “hostels” and “guest houses” that look like something from a theme park dedicated to “travellers”, but with every mod-con you would want and of course at a price to match it. Things change.
Back in the day, there was no internet. You had to make international calls from a phone in a shop or post office or send letters. Now there is little need even from the ubiquitously offered wifi. Everyone has a data plan on the array of phones and tablets they carry. I wonder if somehow the romance of travelling has been lost, but I am probably just a relic from an age gone by. And things change.
Back in the day, the alleys running parallel to Khao San Road itself held the most run down and sketchiest of hang-outs, guest houses and characters both local and foreign. Now they are in a market beyond what the original Khao San was itself, or are vast building sites awaiting the next five or six storey building. Things change.
Back in the day, the small local school near Tanao on Khao San Road was surrounded by market stalls selling pirate brand name gear or tape cassettes and within meters of bars. Now the school is surrounded by market stalls selling pirate brand name gear, DVD dance mixes and within meters of bars. Things change but not everything.
Back in the day, there was a beautiful old wooden house on Khao San. Now I find myself sitting in the garden of the house with my wife drinking a single bottle of beer watching the guests of what is now a guest house come and go. Things change.
