The Backpacker by John Harris Page A

check for mail at the Poste Restante and discovered that there was a postcard from Thailand waiting for me. It was compelling:
    Dear John,
    Beaches, girls, parties and much
    much more. It’s unbelievable! Fuck
    India! Get out here right away!!
    P.S. I’ll soon be a millionaire!!!
    And it was signed, Sir William George Garthrick Jenner of Thailand .
    Dudley explained that ‘Rick’ was probably an abbreviation of Garth rick , and when I checked the picture on the front and saw that it showed Hat Rin beach on the island of Koh Pha-Ngan, I agreed that it must have been sent by him.
    I double-checked the handwriting with the note he’d left me in Goa and it was confirmed: I would cancel my flight home.

CHAPTER FOUR
    SIR RICK
    ONE
    Paddy-fields, paddy-fields and more bloody paddy-fields: that’s all I could see as I cleared the Bay of Bengal on the way to Bangkok. Flooded land that reflected the early evening sky beautifully; each waterlogged paddy a mirror separated from the next by a thin embankment, so that from the air it looked like one huge stained-glass window.
    When I touched down in Bangkok I pondered the difference between air and land travel. Having seen those paddy-fields from the air and expected a city of bamboo houses built along picturesque canals, I thought I’d stepped out of the airport into some kind of time warp. Concrete, concrete and more bloody concrete.
    After numerous cups of coffee and a packet of cigarettes in the tiny airport café, I plucked up the courage to venture out into the now dark, humid car park, and stood at the bus stop. I closed my eyes and imagined I was waiting for a canal-boat taxi to ferry me into town.
    â€˜You going downtown, man?’
    I snapped my eyes open and turned around, for some reason shocked to hear English being spoken. A young man with a backpack and an acoustic guitar strapped on top was standing inches away from me. ‘Yeah,’ I said, stepping back.
    He turned around, gave an ear-splitting whistle, and then cupped both hands around his mouth to shout. ‘Hey, Sooze, over here! It’s this bus stop, babe!’
    A girl came jogging over, finishing in a little two-footed jump to land beside us. The man did one loud clap and turned back to me. ‘This here’s Suzy-Sue. Hey, you British?’
    â€˜English,’ I said, wondering why Americans always refer to the nation and not the country, ‘yeah.’
    â€˜There you go, Sooze, one o’ your lot. Told you we’d find someone who knew this place.’
    Knew the place! I’d only just stepped off the plane and they thought I was someone they could trust! Before I could explain, he pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered them to me, along with his hand to shake: cigarettes first, then hand. ‘Dave,’ he said.
    â€˜John,’ I took a cigarette. ‘Thanks.’
    â€˜Hey, John, what’s up? You look a leetle glum.’
    â€˜Do I?’ I was genuinely surprised to hear it at first, but then remembered that I wasn’t waiting for a canal taxi. ‘Yeah, I suppose I do really. Just came from India and–’
    â€˜India? Whoo-ee!’ He did a three-sixty degree spin and came to a stop, his cigarette poised in one hand, zippo in the other. He lit up and said, ‘India? That’s fuckin’ Wild West country over there. I had a friend once, went to India,’ he moved close to me, shaking his head, ‘never returned!’ He looked over his shoulder quickly as though about to spill a secret. ‘They found him two years later living in a fuckin’ cave! Living off snakes and rats and shit. Man, I tell ya,’ he lit the zippo and held it above his head like the Statue of Liberty, ‘count me outta that crap. Yes siree.’ Suzy was standing behind him making a clap-trap movement with her hand, indicating that he talked too much.
    The bus pulled up a few minutes later, sparing me from further