confinement inside the parked minibus, a new driver got in and they at last moved off into the traffic.
âBen,â Emma suddenly shrieked in alarm. âAre our packs on the bus?â
âI left them outside, but I didnât see them go up on the roof. I wasnât watching.â
âAsk the driver then. Weâll have to go back if theyâre still on the pavement.â
Maca and Chuck were in the front seat just behind the driver and at Emmaâs insistence, Ben poked Maca in the neck.
âCan you ask if they put our bags on the roof?â
Maca leaned forward and spoke to the driver against the loud Thai pop music filling the bus, then turned and shouted back to Ben.
âHim say, âUgh, many bag on top. You wait.â So youâll just have to wait, mate.â
âWeâre shafted if theyâve been stolen,â moaned Emma.
The minibus was now in heavy traffic, often gridlocked and then surging forward for brief sprints, the air conditioning unable to cope with the heat and humidity. Ben and Emma sat jammed in together, hungry and thirsty and overwhelmingly anxious. Emma had a feeling that the bus was going round in circles and not making any progress out of Bangkok to the east. It seemed to be negotiating complex one-way systems and taking elaborate rat-runs to avoid the worst blockages. When at last it pulled into the forecourt of a hotel, Ben jumped out to check the roof. Peering in through the door, he told Maca and Chuck the good news that the packs were there, safely stowed on top.
âChill out man ⦠cool it, cool it,â said Chuck.
âNo worries, mate,â said Maca. âThis is Thailand. Things look a bit hairy but it all works eventually. Thereâs not much theft despite us being the rich guys.â
âYeah, thatâs what I said to Emm,â said Ben.
Emma glared and cursed him silently.
The driver soon reappeared from the hotel lobby with two more passengers, a white-skinned woman of the Anglo-hockey stick type in a pale cotton frock, followed by a large Scandinavian neanderthal in jeans. They both climbed in and Emma found herself pressed hard against the manâs thigh. Smelling strongly of booze and radiating heat, he began to talk in broken English interspersed with guttural grunts.
âI feel so sick ⦠please I sit by the door. Last night I meet this German guy and we go drinking ⦠now hangover very bad. Driver, wait me please.â He got out of the minibus, walked slowly across the hotel forecourt and stood bending over a porcelain pot filled with lotus and lily plants. Emma looked on appalled.
âHeâs going to puke in the dragon pot!â she gasped.
âGross!â said Chuck.
But he did not spew up; instead, putting a finger to one nostril, he blew hard through his nose and directed a well-aimed gob of snot into the lilies.
âHoly shit,â said Chuck.
âNice one, mate!â said Maca admiringly.
The beast climbed back in beside Emma and continued talking in a relentless monologue. Emma would have done anything to get away as far as possible from his massive belly, stubbly receding chin and piggy eyes. It was as much as she and Ben could do to bring themselves to be civil and only their enforced proximity for the next few hours prevented Ben from being thoroughly rude. But contrary to all expectation he turned out to be one of the more engaging characters they had met so far, proving that travelling confounds first impressions and broadens the mind.
His name was Stig Ruud and he was from Norway, a long-distance truck driver and proud owner of a pink nineteen fifties convertible Chevrolet which, he proudly told them, comes out in the summer for a week or so when the retreating snows permit. Taking his winter holidays in Thailand, he freely admitted spending much of his time in bars, chatting to the girls but emphatically denied ever shagging them.
âWhat, never?â
âBen,â Emma suddenly shrieked in alarm. âAre our packs on the bus?â
âI left them outside, but I didnât see them go up on the roof. I wasnât watching.â
âAsk the driver then. Weâll have to go back if theyâre still on the pavement.â
Maca and Chuck were in the front seat just behind the driver and at Emmaâs insistence, Ben poked Maca in the neck.
âCan you ask if they put our bags on the roof?â
Maca leaned forward and spoke to the driver against the loud Thai pop music filling the bus, then turned and shouted back to Ben.
âHim say, âUgh, many bag on top. You wait.â So youâll just have to wait, mate.â
âWeâre shafted if theyâve been stolen,â moaned Emma.
The minibus was now in heavy traffic, often gridlocked and then surging forward for brief sprints, the air conditioning unable to cope with the heat and humidity. Ben and Emma sat jammed in together, hungry and thirsty and overwhelmingly anxious. Emma had a feeling that the bus was going round in circles and not making any progress out of Bangkok to the east. It seemed to be negotiating complex one-way systems and taking elaborate rat-runs to avoid the worst blockages. When at last it pulled into the forecourt of a hotel, Ben jumped out to check the roof. Peering in through the door, he told Maca and Chuck the good news that the packs were there, safely stowed on top.
âChill out man ⦠cool it, cool it,â said Chuck.
âNo worries, mate,â said Maca. âThis is Thailand. Things look a bit hairy but it all works eventually. Thereâs not much theft despite us being the rich guys.â
âYeah, thatâs what I said to Emm,â said Ben.
Emma glared and cursed him silently.
The driver soon reappeared from the hotel lobby with two more passengers, a white-skinned woman of the Anglo-hockey stick type in a pale cotton frock, followed by a large Scandinavian neanderthal in jeans. They both climbed in and Emma found herself pressed hard against the manâs thigh. Smelling strongly of booze and radiating heat, he began to talk in broken English interspersed with guttural grunts.
âI feel so sick ⦠please I sit by the door. Last night I meet this German guy and we go drinking ⦠now hangover very bad. Driver, wait me please.â He got out of the minibus, walked slowly across the hotel forecourt and stood bending over a porcelain pot filled with lotus and lily plants. Emma looked on appalled.
âHeâs going to puke in the dragon pot!â she gasped.
âGross!â said Chuck.
But he did not spew up; instead, putting a finger to one nostril, he blew hard through his nose and directed a well-aimed gob of snot into the lilies.
âHoly shit,â said Chuck.
âNice one, mate!â said Maca admiringly.
The beast climbed back in beside Emma and continued talking in a relentless monologue. Emma would have done anything to get away as far as possible from his massive belly, stubbly receding chin and piggy eyes. It was as much as she and Ben could do to bring themselves to be civil and only their enforced proximity for the next few hours prevented Ben from being thoroughly rude. But contrary to all expectation he turned out to be one of the more engaging characters they had met so far, proving that travelling confounds first impressions and broadens the mind.
His name was Stig Ruud and he was from Norway, a long-distance truck driver and proud owner of a pink nineteen fifties convertible Chevrolet which, he proudly told them, comes out in the summer for a week or so when the retreating snows permit. Taking his winter holidays in Thailand, he freely admitted spending much of his time in bars, chatting to the girls but emphatically denied ever shagging them.
âWhat, never?â
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