Getaway - Part 2

As I attempt to regain my composure I notice that he was right about one thing; my room has got a fucking huge bed. It totally dominates the room. Unfortunately I have a dental appointment at four so a proper kip is out of the question. My watch tells me it’s knocking on for 11 and I still have to find my dentist.

I always spend a few minutes doing some explorative pottering when I first arrive in a hotel room. I find puts me in a good mood. 2,000 Baht per night for this place. Not bad at all, I reckon. I remove the silver plastic bag from my rucksack and walk towards the safe, which sits at the bottom of a wardrobe in the corner of the dimly lit but immaculately clean room. I can’t help myself from having another look inside. Just under 100 grand in gold-coloured fifty Euro bills. I dreamily notice that the bag is almost too big for the safe but with a bit of effort it eventually slips inside. I swing the door closed and punch my code into the number pad: *1916.

I’m starting to perk up but my stomach is a bit banjaxed. A day-and-a-half of Metallic flight food has left me in dire need of a proper meal so I take the decision to go find one. First things first though, I smell like a bastard. I was stuck beside a fat English bloke on my last flight. His eyeballs bulged, his lungs struggled to drag in air and he sweated like a pig on a spit for every inch of the journey. I’m convinced I can smell him on me. I can nearly taste the cunt.

I plod into the bathroom, noticing that the cleaners have placed a paper banner saying ‘sterilized’ across the toilet seat. It looks like a sash a Miss World contestant would wear across her chest, proclaiming her country of birth. Miss sterilized. I undress quickly and jump into the shower. I’m a bit over-aware of my nakedness – given that this hotel is evidently full of rampant mincers – but the cold water blasting into the back of my neck soon relegates my concerns. I’ve brought a bag full of ludicrously expensive toiletries with me but I’ve forgot to bring them into the bathroom. I use the hotel stuff. I don’t mind it. The smell of the cheap Thai soap reminds me of who I’m here to see.

Feeling suitably refreshed I hop out of the shower and wander towards the TV, absently drying my hair with one of the Sahara Hotel’s voluminous white towels. Clicking it on re-acquaints me with the fact that Thai television is fucking terrible. It really is. It can be summed-up as a choice between watching implausibly good-looking half-Thai soap opera stars pout at each other, or watching unfathomable, headache-inducing games show contestants squeal in delight at the prospect of winning a fucking blender. Thank fuck for BBC World Service. The presenter’s dreary, monotone voice serves as background noise while I burgle my bag for something to wear. Hot as fuck out. Shorts and a t-shirt.

When I’m back in the mirror-clad lift, alone, the first thing I notice is how white I look. My white mush stares at me from under a mop of blonde hair. I’ve only been surrounded by brown faces for a couple of hours but I had already adopted the idea that I had one too. Fuck it. It won’t stay that way for long. The lift dings and I’m back into the small, airy lobby. A mob of Arabs in matching white gowns saunter in, distracting the attention of both Manuel and the bint behind the counter, just in time for me to slip out without having to deal with either of them.

I step back outside and my senses are once again on the receiving end of a GBH from the environment I’ve submerged myself in. The noise of the traffic warden’s whistle screaming over the rumble of the trucks and the rattle of the tuk tuks is nearly deafening and the heat – that stinks of open sewers, exhaust fumes and street food – pushes down on me from above. The sights – alternately the most beautiful and the most sickening things you’ll ever see – are exhilarating. A tall, creepy farang pushes past me, his crushingly beautiful Thai girl in tow. Her face is set in what looks like self-loathing; probably caused by the shit she has to do for him for cash. There are three street kids – who obviously started the day with the intention of selling a few orchids – lying on the ground outside a 711 staring into space with the flowers at their feet. They’ve all got deep hack-mark scars up and down their bare legs. You really do feel every emotion in this city. Except boredom.

There’s a few dingy-looking open-air bars around the place but eating in them doesn’t appeal to me. The bang off the sewers is terrible so I’m not eating outside. Not until I’ve acclimatised a bit at least. I spot a big sports bar opposite my hotel in the Soi 5 labyrinth that looks promising; largely because its actually a building and as such is bound to have air-con. I skip across the road and up the steps leading to the doorway. The startling brightness outside throws the darkness inside into stark relief and it takes my eyes a second or two to adjust the point where I’m happy enough to walk in without fear of crashing into something. Like most Thai bars the place has far more staff than it needs and there’s a gang of girls sitting just inside the doorway, waiting for customers to fuss over. I’m sure they look hard at every male that comes through the door but I’d bet they look that bit harder at the stunningly white guys who are just off the plane. The place is huge, but practically empty so I shimmy past the girls and plonk down at a small table that sits at the foot of a huge TV. The World Cup is in full flight and there’s a series of match previews on.

As soon as my arse touches the seat one of the girls – a fairly good-looking but strikingly smiley girl of about twenty – arrives to take my order. Like her colleagues she’s wearing a white shirt and black skirt. The menu isn’t really necessary.

“Fish and chips and a beer Chang please,” I say, feeling a bit guilty about how I surely came across; as the type of plum who would travel half-way around the world only to surround himself by the shit he can get at home.

Truth is I love Thai food, but I’m still feeling a bit ropey and I don’t fancy breathing garlic and chilli – both omni-present in Thai dishes – all over the dentist I’m booked in to see. The waitress saunters off to the bar, giving me the chance to sneak a quick perve at her arse. I knew how nice it was going to be before I saw it. Thai girls’ arses don’t disappoint.. As soon as her back is turned another of the bar girls, who had obviously twigged that I was genuinely there on my own and not just waiting on someone, starts hovering at an increasingly short distance from my table. She’s wearing black and white like the rest of them but she has her own take on the restrictive dress code. Her crisp white short-sleeved shirt has most of the buttons opened at the front. She’s got a full figure for an Asian chick and her chest strains at its confines. Her black mini-skirt barely covers her arse and it’s practically painted on. She stops a few feet from my table and with an exaggerated yawn throws her head back and her hands in the air. When they flop back down to her sides she turns and flashes a cute, lingering smile at me, evidently pleased that her little mating ritual caught my attention. The girl who took my order returns suddenly, bangs my beer Chang onto my table and proceeds to spray the room with hard-done-by looks. I get it first, followed by her co-worker and finally the remaining girls still assembled near the doorway.

This country is one-of-a-kind. It’s Monday lunchtime, I’ve just walked into this place and I’m still haggard from my flights. The only time I opened my mouth was to order fish, chips and beer. Nonetheless there are two girls, of a calibre that would necessitate a bombardment of drinks and compliments in order to secure their attention had I been at home, who are on the verge of having a barney with each other over me. I take a deep swig from my bottle of Chang, replete with green Carlesberg holder, and laugh to myself. I’ve actually pulled it off.

To be continued.

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