Dying to Live

Chapter 18 - Pattaya Beach

The taxi ride took a bit under an hour, about twenty minutes less than I'd been expecting. Once outside the city limits, I don't think we kept within the speed limit for any part of the journey. If we did, it must have been by accident.

"Here Pattaya," said the driver as he skidded to a halt.

I thanked him with a generous tip and clambered out. The beach was spectacular; golden, flat and sprinkled with the most beautiful women I'd ever seen. According to my guide book, most of the girls were either prostitutes or local Thai girls looking for a European husband. Someone who would take them out of their poverty and whisk them off to a better life in the UK or France or Germany.

Dotted among the beauties were fat Europeans sprawled on hired sun loungers, their bodies Lego red, scorched by the baking far-eastern sun. An image of beached whales cooking in an enormous yellow frying pan floated through my mind.

To my right, the fattest, reddest man on the beach was being led away by two stunning Thai beauties. 'Play well, Lego Man, play well', I thought as I scoped out a place to sit.

I made my way to the sand and bagged myself a vacant lounger. I went through the new-arrival routine; unpacking my towel and spreading it over the sunbed, before lathering myself with suntan lotion so I was suitably sun-blocked. I wasn't planning to become a Lego-block colour, I wanted a tan, not a sizzle.

What had my guide book told me about Pattaya Beach?

'Go-go clubs, massage parlours and girlie bars occupy block after block of the central city, making Bangkok's red-light districts look small and provincial.'

And Hazel had sent me here on my own. Was she mad? Or maybe she didn't care about me anymore. That's the trouble with women, you never can be sure what they're thinking. I started to fret but a couple of passing Thai beauties soon took my mind off Hazel. Wow, this was the life, lying in the sun watching beautiful women. All I needed to create heaven on earth was a drink.

"Cold beers," shouted the beach trader. Was it a sign from above?

"Over here," I called, waving my arms in the air.

The bare-chested, Chinese man wandered over, his battered icebox swinging from a strap around his neck. Plastered with colourful stickers which had seen better days, it looked like something a teenager would take to a beach barbeque.

"Leochangsingha," he said as he took the lid off his box.

"One beer," I said in a voice which would clearly inform him that I didn't speak Thai.

"Leo-chang-singha," he repeated. I could sense an air of frustration in his voice. He had beers to sell and probably didn't want to spend his day giving language lessons to a westerner.

"Leo beer, Chang beer or Singha beer," he said in the tone which British tourists reserve for 'stupid' foreigners.

"Ah," I said, recognising the brands of beer, "one Singha, please."

We completed the transaction, which included a big tip so he'd keep an eye on my thirst-quenching needs. He smiled and moved on. I took a deep slug, this was now heaven on earth. A second swig spoiled my joy somewhat when I realised the cool beer was nearly all gone. I should have ordered two. I looked for my friendly barman but he was a few hundred metres down the beach, and walking in the wrong direction. Damn. I had just resigned myself to a period of drought, when another seller arrived at my shoulder.

"Leo-chang-singha."

"Two Shinghas, please."

Heaven had returned. I loved this place.