Low life
Thai break
Jeffrey Bernard
Ifelt very much at home again last Saturday to lose some money on the Lincoln Handicap and in the rain. But memories of Thailand linger and I wallow in them. On my last day in Bangkok I went to an amazing temple called Wat Po to have the authentic Thai massage, for this is where it is taught by wise old men and monks. It is a serene place. Doves fly around the gold- roofed temples and trainee monks wander silently in the gardens dressed in their orange robes and clutching their books of learning. They look very contemplative but they are far too young to be anywhere near a state of holiness and I suspected that they were, in fact, wondering what there was going to be for lunch. This is also the home of the great gold reclining Buddha. In the middle of this peace an old woman sells Coca-Cola from a fridge on wheels and from time to time a coach spews out tourists. A pity about that bit of it.
The girl who gave me my massage was surprisingly young and very pretty indeed but her fingers felt like steel. You wouldn't call a Thai massage a gentle affair of rubbing and stroking. The girl really hurt me quite a lot especially when she ground her knees into my spine and pulled me about so that nearly every bone in my limbs cracked. However, when I left Wat Po for much needed refreshments, I could actually feel my legs for the first time in months, so greedy surgeons at the Middle- sex Hospital can take their bloody eyes off them for a while longer.
Then, with more money left over than I had bargained for at that stage, I went to the Oriental Hotel to drink on the veran- dah and watch the boats go by. It was watching the boats from that verandah that made me decide to go up-river and have one last crab and king prawn lunch at Maharat. The restaurant there is easily recognisable as it is painted red inside and outside. It's next to the jetty, don't miss it if you ever find yourself in Bangkok.
The afternoon was spent lying beside the swimming pool of two new-found friends, Michael Neale, the boss of Reuters there, and his wife Jane. Richard West gave me an introduction to them and without them I am pretty sure that my trip would have been a disaster. They showed me all the right places to go and went out of their way to help me in everything. Without them I could have spent two weeks loitering fruit- lessly in the bars and clubs of Patpong Street. Japanese businessmen come all the way from Tokyo to avail themselves of the ladies in Patpong Street and a pretty depressing place it is, full of touts, pimps and neon signs. Windmill Street updated and I don't trust a man who has to pay for it. How the girls can lie beneath those enormous overfed Americans and Ger- mans almost defies belief.
The only really silly thing I did in Bangkok was to buy a white suit. I don't think I dare wear it. It isn't a 24-hour Indian-made job, it took a Thai tailor all of four days to make it. Even so that was remarkably quick. He was very toffee- nosed about Indian tailors but at the same time when he measured me up he said, `Can you come back for a fitting tomor- row?' My man in Berwick Street takes two weeks before the first fitting and then he spends an hour telling me Jewish jokes, his favourite one being the fact that he charges Norman Balon more than he does me. Mind you, Norman is about seven feet tall.
So, what next? I think it may be the Seychelles. I met some people at the Muthaiga Country Club last year who invited me to stay with them there at almost any time and I do like beaches even more than rivers. This time I shall not make the mistake of leaving the electric Monica behind. Bangkok taught me I can't live without her. Longhand on scraps of paper in a dim-lit bar then to find the local telex doesn't work is no holiday. That is strictly for the Hemingways of this world and I am a delicate sunburned flower, but a meat-eating one of course. And now for a Thai lunch in Frith Street. I want more reminders. Pity about the bill, though, in Soho. It should be about 75p.
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