From My Notebooks In 1976: Leaving Kata

[I forgot to mention that a few weeks ago I dinged my scooter (and myself) doing a silly thing on a hill in the village. We met a concrete wall, at very slow speed. It was enough to loosen the left mirror, scratch the screen, and hit a nerve somewhere in my left hip. I was persuaded, against my will, to get an X-ray. The nurse asked how it happened. Then she asked how old I was. I told her and she flew into a temper. What was I doing, at my age, riding a bike? I said, against the evidence, that it went very well – “Ca marche tres bien, merci.”

The X-ray produced nothing. The nerve pain has gone. I’m fine, but the mirror is still all over the place, because I couldn’t figure out how to fix it. On Thursday I was invited to lunch by three bikers – Paul, Paul and Pete.

Paula and Paul are two Brits who live on the other side of France. Peter Clark is my friendly neighbourhood Kiwi mechanic who said it will be easy to fix the mirror, next Thursday. So everything, as usual, has worked out fine. Just thought you’d like to know.]

Adrienne’s House, Kata Beach, 17th June 1976

During my first two days I continued shaky and depressed, constipated, tired. On the third day I suddenly felt solid and ‘whole’ again. I know what it’s like to feel whole. Before this my separate parts were not working together, and I felt very vulnerable.

On Monday went to A’s shop at the resort. Saw a silver thimble with set stones that seemed good for Jo. Then became intoxicated by a set of bronze cutlery in a case with bronze handles.

Spent part of Tuesday wondering about it but felt that I would buy it. On Wednesday A & A left on a bus for Bangkok, with some trepidation when one of the regular buses was stopped by bandits and robbed. Paid for the cutlery. Saw them off. Alice gave directions for Nepal. Brought car back. The other two went out. I drank a bottle of beer and had a period of euphoria, considering my novel.

It also came to me that my proper position is to do and say only what I think is right and true, and if there is any part for me to play in the lives of others, then the call must come from them. Futile or destructive to plan participation.

Interesting, says Alice, how the way people travel reveals so much about them.

Here in Phuket an insect whistles in the heat continuously, like a kettle boiling in Ladbroke Gardens.

The English Hippy coming down the trail [in Nepal.] So pale, then he sees a bit of colour on his skin. “You’ve got hepatitis,” says his friend. “Really! I thought I was getting a tan at last.”

The world is kind to those who know how to be kind to themselves.

On my last afternoon walked up the hill behind the house and over the brow to look down on another smaller bay and green water breaking on the long gently inclining beach like lace ruffles on a silk shirt. Passed a small hut at the top where some young boys and a dog were busy. On the way back the eldest boy called “You.” (A very short oo sound) and the smaller ones now clustered in the doorway chorused after him. He held a green mango and proffered it with both hands before him in a supplicating attitude, pushing it towards me in a series of short thrusts. I walked up to accept it (wondering what I could do with it) when one of the other boys call out “One Baht.” That stopped me and my smile must have changed to surprise. “No, no,” he called, with real consternation, apparently overwhelmed by what he had done. I took the mango. It was the first, and probably my last chance to accept an unsolicited gift. Tomorrow, I’m afraid, there will be no free mangoes in Thailand. The Thais have been renowned for centuries by their spontaneous small acts of giving.

Friday 18th June

From Kata. Rose at 7. Packed. Ate eggs and coffee. House has been a bit desolate since the A’s left. Sorry it’s over, but glad to leave. Lost way slightly into town. A soggy-looking sky promises – and delivers rain. Lose my rain jacket at the Esso station. Ride back 12 miles to get it – but gone. A car driver picked it up before the Esso man could get it. Then I saw the green car pass me later in opposite direction. Missed both the sights I’d planned to visit but may have seen the cave outside Phang Nga.

Many small groups of rubber trees along roadside with latex mats hanging on wooden rails outside houses. Huts, rather. Nothing much in Krabi. Go on to Trang.

Enthusiastic schoolboys send me to hotel. Go walking in town. Buy umbrella, 53 baht. Find eating house. Fried chicken noodles with fat shrimps– 15 baht. Beer, 20. Coffee,4. When bill comes, noodles reduced to 10, beer to 17, coffee to 2, cigs and matches,7. Amazing spontaneous deductions. What to make of it? Very cheered. Go to bed at 7pm. Much too early, but tired. Woke up in night to write this. Two people are honking – not snoring.

Saturday 19th June

Up at 7. Coffee. Dim sum with meat filling., some tasty little rolls of prawn & dough, and sweet fried dough. The day seems to start well. Then I notice an unusual slackness about the tank bag. [The bike was parked inside the hotel for security.]

Scarcely able to believe my suspicion, but it’s horribly true. The camera has gone. That awful hostile emptiness where something should be is echoed by the hollow in my stomach. From the first moment I know it’s gone for good. Why even mention it? Why not just wheel the bike out into the sun with a satisfied smile, and leave.

But I have to go through the performance. Gradually the smiling faces around me change to more suitable expressions as they come to believe that I’m serious in my pantomime. The manager comes. He calls his staff one by one and upbraids them for failing to notice the thief. He knows better than I that it’s just a ritual. Then finally he comes to me and expresses his distress in the most ritualistic and, to me, amazing gesture of all. Body bowed forward, face raised up to mine, hands together in prayer, a strange smile with the corners of the mouth drawn down, lips tight across the teeth, nodding, “Sorry, sorry.”

Twice he does it. I’m so impressed that later, trying to keep the picture clearer in my mind, I can almost justify the loss of the camera by the experience. If only I could. In my distress my arithmetic goes to pieces and I’m confused by the currency which is a low denomination anyway. I insist that the camera is worth 100,000 baht. Afterwards I wonder whether I left anyone pondering what kind of camera it was that was worth $5000.

But there’s no denying it. I have been finally stripped of all my heroic, swashbuckler’s aura and reduced to the common tourist that I am. All tourists have their cameras stolen in Thailand. Well, I haven’t met one yet who hasn’t. And I’ve thoroughly joined that sorry legion of trippers. First the jacket. Then the camera.

Riding on, my mind turns the matter over and over, looking for its significance. An unusual number of near misses – two dogs and a kid goat come within inches of my front wheel. A lorry drives me into a patch of wet, newly laid tar and stones – the bike feels unstable again on slow corners. I feel the need to muster up more strength and resolution than my low reserves can provide. Care, patience, good humour.

I’m passing blind through the countryside. No excitement, no interest. A pity. I thought I’d recovered it with my health. It must come back again. I still have the other camera. Only one to look after now. And the important lenses I still have. Will the ST stand as insurance? Who did I have that conversation with? Was it Mike Randall? And if the camera – what about the tape recorder? [I lost it in Ethiopia.]

Must remember the use of motorcycles in Thailand. Three or four people sandwiched on a small Honda is quite common. It’s rare to see one person alone. Here’s a complete family. Three adults, a baby on the back and another one stuck between them somewhere. And not going slowly. No helmets. And girls driving. Saw one girl fall off the back. She spun and tumbled in the air. Seemed to be all right though.

[Next week: Down ‘Smack Alley.’]