….slipped on the shoulder gravel and fell down out of sight.  I heard two shots.  And then I saw her again through the side window. She was standing up straight and calmly pumping more slugs into the windshield of the truck that had just rammed us.  Elapsed time: three seconds and she was back in the car”.

“Hit it!”

I stomped the accelerator and the old Pathfinder leaped. “What happened?”

“I slipped getting out but it was okay.  I fell on my stomach but then had a clear shot at their tires.  Hit them both.  When I jumped up, I saw the two guys sitting there. One had a  rifle. I thought a few shots into the cab might give us more time to get away.”

“You okay?”

“It made my day.”

And so goes a scene in the cheap B-flick kind of novel we are writing.  Of course the book careens from one Bruce Willis-like incident to the next Arnie-style fracas but the twist is that it’s two old people.  He’s 70 and she’s a close second.  But she has yoga.  It’s a buddy movie.

Sal won’t let me write in a sex scene.

“I could easily get you naked.  We’re running from some cops.  Fall in some water.  Get somewhere and have to strip down naked to get dry?  Piece of cake.”

“No.  No, no no!”

“OK, I stop at bra and panties.  I can make that work.”

“Say ‘bra and panties’ one more time and I am not writing anymore.  I swear.”

“Okay.  We surprise a woman by breaking into her house to get dry and she’s in bra and panties.  I could make her Asian or something for added interest?”

“That’s it!  We’re done here.  I quit.  No more editorial work for you, pig-face!”

“Pig-face?  Isn’t that a bit harsh for your co-author?”

“Look.  No sex.  No nudity, okay?  Just stop with the bra and panties crap.”

“Okay, fine.  We just kill and wound people.  Maybe blow up some cars.  Steal stuff.  That kind of thing.  But no sex.  No sex because why?  Because we’re British?”

“Exactly!  I was born in England and we don’t talk about sex.  Too rude.  But murder is perfectly fine.  We love talking about murder, don’t you know?  And the weather. We’ll talk about weather.  Make that work!”

“Cheap B action movies always have scantily clad women.  It’s de rigeur like a Klingon is to Star Trek.”

“Fine.  You can have a scantily clad Klingon.  Happy now?”

“Hmmmm…not bad.  The story needed a twist.  Let me think about that…..”

His name is Jack.  He’s 24.  Short.  Pleasant.  Looks and acts a bit like a Thai-version of Jack Black the comedian.  I like him.

Jack is the waiter at one of our local haunts.  He likes to practice his English with us because we talk more than do the Scandinavians.  “What do you think of the Scandinavians, Jack?”  “They don’t talk much. One or two words.  They do not use English.  We point to the menu mostly.”

Seems Jack is NOT Thai, tho.  He’s Burmese.  He prefers to use the term Burma for his country altho Myanmar does not offend him.  Myanmar is the name chosen by the ruling ethnic group that has been winning the civil war for over thirty years.  The civil war is more of a tribal war than a strictly political one altho, there is not much difference, I suppose.

Jack is a member of the Karen community.  That’s a tribe NOT part of the ruling ethnic group.  Jack’s people (and Jack, himself) are refugees now relocated in Thailand (since May, 1997).  He mostly grew up in the 6000 strong refugee camp named Tham Hin just ten kms from the border.  Semi-jungle-cum-swamp environment.  No resources.  The camp is off the road, water and electrical grids.  It’s cramped, primitive and isolated.  Plastic-roofed tent-like structures.  Almost a prison.

Sometime around 2005 the Thai government started to lift some of the restrictions on those so-housed.  Some of the inhabitants were allowed to work and Jack eventually did just that by securing a position as a waiter while hoping for a chance to emigrate to North America.  His chances are slim.

Too bad.  Jack’s alright.  Canada has taken just over 4000 Burmese refugees so far but Tham Hin is just one of many refugee camps and, sadly for Jack, one of the less visible or visited ones.  Canadian diplomats do not traipse into the jungle very often to conduct the critically important interviews on which ride the hopes and dreams of the Karen.

“Is Jack’s life hell?”

Not to him.  He’s optimistic.  He’s working.  He has a girlfriend.  His employer provides him housing in this resort area and he only has to go back to the camp to check in now and then.  He has a poor-Thai person’s future but it is better than a poor, refugee camp-inhabitant’s future.  Jack still has hope.

And he’s upbeat.  Great sense of humour.  Learning English as fast as he can slowed only by the monosyllabic Scandinavian customers he mostly serves.  At this rate, he’ll never get fluent but he can make himself understood so I’d give him a D+ linguistically. C is achievable given the circumstances. But he’s smart enough to do much better if he had teaching or even more English speakers.

He’s a Buddhist.  Most Burmese are.  Somehow that seems to translate into ‘good attitude’.  Like I said, Jack’s alright.

I do not have what it takes to be a good Buddhist.  Smiling too much hurts my face.  But I must admit, I have a great deal more than Jack does to be smiling about.  These adventures Sal and I have had over the oh-so-many decades are always interesting but even more, they are always re-affirming.  We have it great!

But, as far as accidents go, pouring water over your computer is one of the lesser ones available to us down here.  Old people can really SCREW UP down here.  SO MANY WAYS to choose from. This is the land of surprises and accidents. So far, we have have been lucky.  All of our surprises have been lucky or benign so far. Well, except for the keyboard drenching this morning.  That was interrupting.

Long story short: the wetted keyboard simply ran on and on placing ‘equal signs’ all in a row.  If you tried to type, the keys indicated ‘dead’ and the equal signs just went on and on.  Bummer.

So, we jumped on the scooter and presented at the local computer shop and – long story short – went home with a cheap ($15.00) Thai-based keyboard.  Well, it is QWERTY-based but every key has several Thai squiggles so it is confusing as hell.  I am still of the hunt and peck style.  I look at the keys.  Right now, I am looking at squiggles with English letters on the upper left side.  Weird.

= =+O=o=o=o=p=s=.=.=.=.=.=i=t=s= =b=a=c=k=.=.=.=.=.=.=

Last two days have been overcast, cooler, with light rain punctuated by the odd downpour.  It has been great!  Went out on the scooter and the roads were EMPTY!  Some stores shuttered up!  It was just light rain!  But activity had ground to a halt.

At the local restaurant last night, we pulled in just as two scooters passed by with both drivers and passengers clad in fully enveloping, thin, clear plastic jumpsuits.  Only their faces could get wet.  And, at the time, it was just misting.   They had the grim hardy look of tough adventurers on their damp faces.  Even when pouring, the rain was warm.

There was no adventure there.  There was no hardy.

The whole scene reminded me of Belize one winter when we were down there.  All the local guys working the docks were wearing ski jackets and toques.  It was 20+.  Sal and I were in light shorts and sandals.  “Hey, mon!  Why you be wearing the heavy clothing, mon?” 

“It be freezing me ears off, mon.  Winter bad here now.  Get yourself some clothes on before you die of cold, whitey!”

We all know that we humans can adapt.  I remember seeing native guys in jeans and sneakers up in Whitehorse on January 3rd a few years ago.  It was -40.  But doesn’t that strike you as extreme adjustment?  The Belizean was wearing more in his winter than the Yukon native in his and the temperature difference was 60 degrees C?

Anyway…it has rained here.  It was needed.  It was refreshing.  It was wonderful.  As I write this, it is cool and misty with a light breeze.  I like it.

More Thai villa news:  Sally’s current record is 2 and 2.  Two dead.  Two rescued.

Seems there are a lot of frogs in the area and they like the pool.  They go in at night.  But they do not know it is chlorinated and, over an evening of frolicking about, they get poisoned.  When poisoned, they lose their energy and sink to the bottom of the pool.  Sal’s first task every morning is to grab the pool-scoop and rescue any frogs.  So far, she has saved two and lost two. The first dead frog was a shock but she has hardened up lately.  This morning, “Eh…ya win some, ya lose some.” 

Heart of flint.

We have a gardener at the villa.  A Thai Muslim.  Nice guy.  Late thirties.  Very respectful, lots of bowing, smiling and hands held together when greeting us.  We, of course, reciprocate.  But our language skills are non-existent and so all communication is limited to the gestures and the odd bottle of coke offered.

It is hot.  Sal and I ‘dip’ in the pool maybe three or four times a day.  He is often here to witness a dip or two. Sal wears a modest one-piece bathing suit.  I wear a pair of boxers (two pairs on-the-go. One at a time) but, if the boxers are both wet and I need to ‘dip’, I simply go without.  I spare him any embarrassment by making sure he is not around at such times and I make the exposure short (in case of neighbours) but when a man’s gotta dip, a man’s gotta dip and I am au naturel at least once a day.

The point: by Muslim standards, we are not modest, if not blatantly gross.  In fact, by strict Muslim standards, we are immoral and maybe deserve a stone or two thrown our way.  We are naughty beyond the pale.  We are true infidels.

Our Muslim guy has to turn a blind eye, tho.  The whole development (30 homes) is occupied by Europeans (one Canadian) and the vast majority of them are Scandanavians.  Scandanavians, when old and wealthy, seem to pork up a bit and they, of course, invented nudity (but they managed to kill sexuality along the way so maybe it is a trade-off).  So, our Muslim guy is visually assaulted at almost every turn.  For him, this community is tantamount to daily sexual harassment.

He handles it well.

Our Muslim guy also wears a lot of clothes including a hat with a small towel sewn to it.  The towel keeps the sun from directly hitting the back of his neck and also allows him to cover his face from time to time.  Why?  No idea.  But, occasionally, I see him looking like the gardening bandit.  Most of the time, tho, I can see his face.  He wears long sleeve shirts, long pants and rubber boots all the live-long day.  All in brutal-heat.  30+.  I am melting and he is working in layers that I might adopt on a cold November day.

He works for approximately $12 – $15.00 a day (Tbht300-500).

I asked the ‘marm’ at the elephant park, after spotting a few hundred pineapples in tubs for the elephants, “J, I pay 35 bht for a pineapple in the supermarket, 20 bht for a pineapple at the market and, once, I paid15.  Surely you guys can’t afford to pay at that rate for the elephants?”

“I pay 20 baht for three pineapples and consider that Farang pricing.  Most of the pineapples for the elephants are free or very cheap.”

My guy raises a family on $12 – 15 a day.  I spend that on dinner.  My guy lives at 40C (he has to) and I am dying at anything over 25.  My ‘marm’ does half the work the gardener does wearing black t-shirts in the same blazing sun but only two or three times a week.  It seems I pay three times the rate that my more savvy marm pays but she pays at least double what my gardener pays.

The folks at poolside down at the Hua Hin Hilton pay easily five times what I pay.

Spending/earning discrepancies like that explain a lot about what I see in this tourist-oriented third world country.  Thai society is basically a pleasant one despite huge social strata differences but part of that is ameliorated by strata pricing.  The poor get less but they also pay less.

That is also true in Mexico but the discrepancies are less.

Minor aside #1 in the Scandia Soap Opera:  The Finns are fighting.  Seems there are Finns in the community and they are fighting about strata rules and procedures and policies and such.  Seems the Finns are really, really ticked that there is not 100% rule compliance all the time and, after working themselves up a lather, have put their units on the market.

Maybe the gardener’s tolerance attitude could rub off on them…?

Minor aside #2:  At one point with the ‘marm’, she told us of the Thai mental case next door to the elephant sanctuary.  “Seems, he is not all there! Sometimes he wanders around his property not wearing a thing!”  I shushed Sal before she said anything.  Marm and I already had some issues.

Sal wanted to see elephants.  She wanted to touch them, feed them, wash them and maybe ride one.  What can I say?  Sal has a bit of ‘tourist’ in her DNA.

Me?  Not so much.  I tend away from what I perceive as tourist-oriented fare but, to be fair, seeing elephants au naturel like we see whales or seal lions back home ain’t gonna happen.  Ya wanna see elephants?  You pretty much have to go to the elephant store.

Again, to be fair, Hutsadin is not quite an elephant retailer but, of course, the show and tell is pretty much tourist oriented.  The saving grace?  The elephants!  They are cool.  They are interesting.  They need Hutsadin and Hutsadin needs money to keep them and so it was all good in the end.

We got up early, hit the Hua Hin commuter traffic and blasted like bats out of hell towards the soi that was our destination.  The route takes you through the most dangerous intersection you could imagine.  Of course, we have been through that death-trap on several occasions, the latest time being last night (got lost again, ended up there).  But, I hate it.  Traffic in all directions.

On arriving at the confluence of way too many streams of traffic, I took the outside line, raced up between oncoming cars trying to turn against that flow and spotted my saviour.  The saviour was in the form of a big truck.  When THAT guy threw himself against the never-ending mix and flow to force his way through traffic, I intended to use him as a shield.

He was starting his  budge-in to the maelstrom before I got there.  So I accelerated.  Sally gripped my sides.  I heard a quiet shriek.  To her mind, I was simply going to drive into the side of the turning truck.

But, I did not.  Instead, I swung with it.  The bastard swung further than I thought he was going to so we got a bit close but, by then, I was back to a reasonable speed and simply manoeuvred around him.  We were through the turn but on the wrong side of traffic.  Problem: we were now driving the median line between the two opposing traffic lanes and needed to get back to curbside.  That exercise was a smidge scary but we did get through it and then headed out to the elephant sanctuary.

When we arrived I noticed that I had been gripping the scooter handle so tight that I couldn’t, at first, open my right hand to let go.  But, it came away soon enough.

The entrance is attractive in a heavy-Buddha-esque kinda way.  Which makes sense.  The patron of the sanctuary is a faithful (and wealthy) Buddhist who believes taking care of elephants in this life helps him evolve higher in the reincarnation chain and, instead of being a wealthy Thai in the next life, he may be granted the next highest standing as a Buddhist monk.

Bit of an odd juxtaposition that: a wealthy businessman aspiring to being a poor monk.

Elephants are pretty interesting and so are the white ex-pats who volunteer to attend to them.  The businessman pays a number of Thai people to be ‘staff’ but the Thais don’t understand or value the purpose of the project.  They do not share the enthusiasm and that shows up as their not coming to work, not doing the job, not always treating the animals right and NOT following policies, procedures and good elephant management practises.  The ‘whites’ are educated, have faith in medicines and KNOW what is good for the elephants while the Thais simply ‘do the job’ and not very well.

Result: a double complement of workforces.  With that, the work gets done.

Our volunteer was a hard, matron-like English woman who would be the type to make everyone shower in cold water and hike up mountains (in the dead of winter) to help build character.  But she loved the elephants and seemed to know a lot about them.  The first hour was an interesting talk.

But, by far, the best part was simply hanging out with the elephants.  There were six of them.  One male, five females.  And, in keeping with the times, our guide showed some disdain for the male.  Seems males go into ‘rut’ or ‘season’ and glands open on their necks and ooze some kind of musk.  She found that disgusting.  She then went on to say that, when the males were in this condition, the staff simply put them out in the field as much as possible so as to let them ‘work that out’

“Doesn’t a male kinda need a female partner to do that working it out thing?”

“Well, maybe, but he isn’t getting one!”  She snapped.

David’s elephantine alter-ego (Sadly, his (the elephant’s) ex-mahout allegedly cut off his tusks: worth $75,000 CAD–or priceless if you happen to be a male elephant.)

Yikes! I dunno . . . from then on, the male was my favourite and I gave him the most bananas.  And I pitied her poor husband.  Mind you, I might be identifying with them both somewhat too much . . .

One thing is for sure, I was on our ‘marm’ every time she disparaged males, the male elephant, musk, glands, men, me, puppy-dog tails or slugs and snails.  We had a ‘thing’ going on.

Sal said I was fine.  Polite and nice.

I am going to have to move on and get past this . . . 

Anyway, the elephants were all rescue animals.  One had once had an untreated broken leg that healed improperly.  Another had been severely maltreated and beaten.  Another was an orphan and didn’t get the right postnatal care, nor the proper teachings from a herd that they apparently need, and so on. And all this – plus their natural intelligence – formed their personalities.  Each was a character.  And each one was a very, very distinct personality from the others.  It wasn’t long before we were ‘relating’ to them on an individual basis.  It was pretty neat.

The male liked me.

How to serve an elephant a drink . . .

The whole thing is tourist priced and silly but the money goes to the elephants and some Thais workers so it is much easier to spend freely.  The volunteers are truly generous and not just in their volunteer time.  They do a lot.

They do a good job.

I should have been ranting by now.  So much wrong.  So little time.  I apologize for NOT ranting.  And I apologize FOR ranting.  It seemed only ravens and lady-boys were wanted for a while.  But some things need to be said:

ME, TOO! has gone nuts!  Way too far.  Condemnation without due process is not only evil in itself, cruel and unusual punishment and the very same crime of abuse of power it claims to be against, it is a complete abandonment of the justice system and a major violation of natural justice. Which makes this Me Too movement, perhaps, the third erratic step in a what might be the long-expected revolution. In other words: Me TOO may just be an indicator, a mad canary in the coal-mine.

Think about it: Trump is insane and represents all that is wrong (not right) with politics and the system. I think he represents all that is wrong with men, too but that is incidental and coincidental.  He may not be step one of a revolution but he might be the most noticeable step (worldwide). The guy violates the norms of the status quo (not in a good way).  Trump is kind of the anti-Christ.

Bitcoin is a surprising-but-necessary-for-revolution step ‘outside the institution of national currency’ as well.  That might be step two.  It has to rank as a significant internationally rebellious act at the very least.  All the international banks think so. Crypto-currency is the anti-currency.

And the aforementioned ‘Me Too’ is not just a reaction to harassment, it is a movement that steps way around the institution of law. Vengeful women are not even satisfied being ‘paid off’, the longstanding traditional compensation for sexual wrongdoing.  Now they are taking the money and still exacting life/career destroying revenge. Me Too is literally domestic terrorism, an indiscriminate guerilla action, and it takes no prisoners.  Me too is, at it’s root, anti-male.

One woman’s freedom fighter is another man’s terrorist.

There have been many more manifestations of change or ‘rule-breaking’, but much of that has been done within the albeit well-stretched envelope of the status quo.  The northern migration of southern economic refugees may eventually become part of the larger revolution (as many right-wingers contend and fear) but migration, in itself, is just a normal reaction to an unwelcoming environment.  Refugees and immigrants have been with us for centuries.  Migration is not, in itself, revolution.  But numbers will add weight to one.

Climate Change could conceivably be part of the revolution but our definition of revolution usually implies sentient reasoning.  Gaia may be real but, so far, there is no evidence of sentient reasoning. The planet may naturally revolt but, once again, that might be coincidental.  Climate change becomes the anti-life force?

My point:  Most revolutions do not come as expected.   Or when expected.  Most revolutions do not really have a well-reasoned end-game and, if they do, the planned revolutionary goal never happens.  There are too many forces in play for a planned and predictable outcome in a revolution. In other words, revolutions change the status quo in unexpected ways. Revolutions are messy and chaotic. We don’t know what we are doing when we start them.

But they still happen. 

Are there more signs?  Plenty.  Rushing blindly into AI (artificial intelligence) is as lemming-like an action as we could possibly undertake and yet we are doing it.  Is there a word for genocide-by-suicide?  Many scientists are afraid of there becoming such a word.  AI is, by definition, anti-human.

But probably the greatest indicator of revolution or pending revolution is the increased marginalization of millions of people and the increased military police build-up in response to the increased numbers of deplorables. It almost seems as if sides are being taken, allegiances forming, separation happening.  We are dividing into factions so that we can fight. 

Put another way?  If we build it, they will come.  And we seem to be building ourselves a lot of weapons and battlegrounds these days.

“Dave, why write about that when you are poolside in Thailand?”

Don’t know.  Hairs on the back of my neck keep rising…..trigger finger jittery….spidey sense fully awake….

….jus’ sayin’……..

“They just love burning stuff down here.”

Mike (the restauranteur) had answered the question: “Why is there so much smoke in the air?”

Thailand does not have good air quality.  Most of the time, it is rated ‘moderate’ as in ‘of moderate concern’ (think: a fully engaged house fire a few doors down).  You pretty much have to go way south to get to clear skies and low particulate counts.  It’s a smoky place. Where we are, the index is considered low/moderate.  But low/moderate in Thailand is ridiculous to ‘usual’ or ‘common’ in BC where I live.  If Beijing is 100 and Bangkok is 60, Hua Hin is 20 and our island has yet to register on the scale.

Today is a good day here and I would guess we have about three to five-mile visibility.  Last night Sal and I went back to the Passport and it was smoky ride there and back.  This morning, we awoke with irritated eyes.  No biggy.  A shower and a few eye drops and we were fine but it is NOT a healthy environment. I like Thailand for some odd reason but not nearly enough to live here for more than a month.  And, given my age, probably never again.

To be fair, the pollution is not so much industrial as it is agricultural.  Thais regularly burn their crop stubble after harvesting so as to ‘reinvigorate’ the soil much in the way that forest fires seem to accelerate re-growth once the fire is out. The smoke that is irritating us is organic in nature.  That makes it somewhat better.  But not good.

Plus, Mike is right.  The little ‘shops’ and markets have open fires, the houses along the sois and alleyways have ‘burn’ pits and it would be hard to go more than a kilometre without seeing someone burning something.  And it is not always organic when they do.  Like I said, Thailand is a smokey place.

Last night’s dinner was just as good as the first one.  Better, actually.  The first meal (Monday) we went for the ‘speciality’ and it was great.  Huge, but great.  Last night, we went ‘local’ (pink/red curried squids that were fabulous) and deep-fried spring rolls.  With more than enough food, Chang beer and a generous tip, the bill was C$12.00.  But, more to the point, delicious.  That Lek can cook!

“That’s a problem, actually.  We can’t get good staff.  We’ve tried three so-called chefs and none of them could do what Lek does even after instruction.  Even tho we tell them to do it a certain way, they revert to their own style as soon as we leave the kitchen.  It’s maddening.  How was your curry, by the way?”

“Fabulous!”

“Not too spicy?  Every night she (a new hire) makes it spicier.  Every night I have to go in and cut it back.”

“No.  It was perfect.”

Mike took his worried face and his hunched-over form to the front of the restaurant and greeted another couple named Heineken or Bjornson or something with a ‘sen’ at the end.  They grunted Mike a greeting in their Viking-esque, no-emotion-shown kind of way.  He came back to us.  I think Sal and I are like fireworks compared to his usual clientele.  We’re a laugh a minute.  OK, a laugh every twenty minutes but still better than all the Finns and Norwegians combined on a happy, boisterous night.  In fact, it turns out that Monday night (our first visit) was a happy and boisterous night of Scandanavian hijinks and glee.  Or so Mike said.  Apparently, he had to turn some couples away.

But we were there.  I didn’t see any hijinks.  I didn’t hear laughter.  I saw what looked like dead, fat, white people looking blank and not communicating.  The food was great but the atmosphere was closer to funereal than part-tay.  Still, maybe their humour is just really subtle, ya know?  Maybe we were the joke?

“Hah!  Hey, Ole’, did you see the expression on those two Canadians, eh?  Hilarious!”

Sal and I are writing.  It’s been hard.  But fun.  We are going for a cheap B action flick-type story about which we know very little.  But, what the hell, eh?  Blow up a few cars, shoot a few bad guys, crack some smart-alec remarks as you plummet over a cliff…….how can you go wrong?  It’s NOT rocket science.  We kept partially cool at the pool all day while grinding out the schlock and then headed out to dinner at the Passport.

Book progress?  Maybe 20,000 words but only three people have been killed and the heroes haven’t even been wounded yet.  Only one car down.  But not blown up.  Plenty of opportunities to act like Reacher or Willis still yet to come.

The Passport is a little cafe-style 20+ seat restaurant open to the street and buried deep within a labyrinth of sois and alleyways on the residential side of the highway to Hua Hin.  It’s where the locals live.  Lek and Mike own it.  They’re from Boston.

*

Well, Lek was originally from Thailand but, after raising their kids to teens in Boston, they abandoned the US rat race for the slower, quieter and somewhat more advantageous (financially) lifestyle of Thailand.  And they opened a restaurant.

*

“We never had a restaurant before.  Didn’t know how to do it but Lek can cook and that seemed like a good place to start.  Then we found a really great butcher who would make ‘cuts’ they way we asked and the rest is kind of history.  It is NOT history yet, not really, because we are still in our third year and learning as we go.”

25 Thai bahts to the Canadian dollar *

Mike is 60.  Lek is younger (50?) and the kids are still teens.  They are not likely to ever go back to the states.  “I have nothing for me, there.  I have no love for it.  This is good.”

David had the humongous pork chop *

Thailand is still foreign to Mike.  He doesn’t get ‘how they think’.  It’s frustrating for him but he’s managing.  He’s not allowed to work directly in his own restaurant either.  But, he does a bit.  He greets people (allowed).  He seats people (questionable) and he cleans tables and collects plates like a busboy now and then when it is busy (not allowed).  Thais have to be employed.  He can be an owner.  He can’t be a worker.  And, yes, the authorities check now and then and he was fined once already.

“Another local restaurant got jealous of our business and ratted me out.  It happens.” 

“Why write about ex-pats, Dave?  Gotta be a million stories like that!” 

And that is the answer to your question.  There are a million stories like that.  And I find that intriguing.  I am fascinated by the number of Scandinavians in our compound, for instance, and in the general area.  Seriously, this northern section of Hua Hin is well and truly represented by the Scandinavian cultures including Belgium and Denmark, Germany and other close-to-Scandanavia peoples. But most of them are simply residents.  They may own land (with a Thai) and they may have ‘interests’ here but they are mostly cafe society only.  They are NOT working throughout their day.  NOT in Thailand, anyway.

Maybe they are managing their portfolios.  Offshore accounts?  I don’t know.  But they emerge at night like giant white cows-in-t-shirts, hang out at a local restaurant and disappear again until the next night. Occasionally, we will see one down at the supermarket. They are mostly distant, incommunicado, unengaged with ‘other whites’ and certainly NOT with Thais.  This is not a friendly outgoing group as a rule.  But they are NOT unfriendly, either.  Just distant.  Could be me…..

Mike and Lek are different.  They are assimilating.  They are in the thick of it.  Their kids go to school and they have a home, investments and the restaurant.  Mike prefers driving his large motorcycle rather than his car because, “With the car, I am constantly afraid I am going to run over someone.”  Their life is now 100% Thai oriented.

“How was the food?”

Bloody marvellous.  Delicious.  Ample, fresh, tasty and cheap.  Mike and Lek bring ‘Merican portions to their menu along with Thai tastes and recipes.  Plus they have a few ‘Merican dishes like burgers and ribs.  A taste of home if you need one.  And, by local restaurant standards, the bill is minimal.  Of course, we can eat cheaper and almost as well going ‘local’ at the markets and cooking for ourselves but, for living the ‘high life’, this is very, very affordable.  Cheap, actually.  Cheap eats.  We’ll go back.  More than once.

This is NOT a great blog.  I know that.  But, one of my little pleasures in life is discovering small, local eateries where the menu is all done ‘fresh, from scratch, using non-processed foods and are somehow different.’  Getting to know the owner is even better.  The Passport is one of those discoveries.  The Passport is a true ‘find’ in every sense of the word.

In Campbell River, there is Miki’s Sesame Sushi, Ty’s Honey Lemon Grill and Baba Ganouj.  All great.  There are others, of course, but then the wallet comes into play, like the king of greasy spoons, The Ideal Cafe. Still great but getting pricey.   

It’s hard to beat The Dolphins for table-cloth and candlelight dining but a smidge difficult to afford it too often…that kind of thing.

And my latest favourite in North Vancouver, Mumbai Masala.  I’m a big fan.

Anyway, the list of ‘faves’ has now expanded to include The Passport in Hua Hin.  If you are ever in the neighbourhood, tell Mike I sent you.

* The photos are not ours — credit to Trip Advisor

Juanita, the masseuse, and I re-connected.  It was good.  I now have beeeeauuutiful feet.

She did the usual (well, once before) Thai massage where she basically just squeezes and massages me all over excepting a very small no-go zone.  But it’s a small zone.  I have discovered it is a three-part kind of thing.  She goes up one section of your body, and then a second time a bit harder, and then a third time harder yet.  Then, when that section is done, she does the next section in the same way.  It’s very relaxing and, by the time she is done, I am nodding off.

But this time, when she was done she made me sit up (her style is to ‘boss’ and ‘bark’ at her clients.  She thinks it’s cute and it is kinda in a weirdo, little, short person kind of way).   She soaked my feet in some goo.  Then she turned me on my stomach lying down on the bed.  Feet hanging over.  Then she smoothed on more goo of a different kind and then she began to treat my feet.  With a straight razor!

She scrubbed and worked and massaged and scaped and cut and, when it was all done (about 30 minutes) I had feet a model would be proud of.  When I got home I offered them up to Sal for a closer inspection.  “I’m impressed.  Nice feet!”

Yes, there was a bit of blood and yes, Juanita tried to gloss over that.  You know how massage therapists are, right?  Don’t like to admit they cut your foot.  She just smoothed on some goo and kept right on scaping and cutting.  It was nothing, really.

So, Friday afternoon was a nice spa day for me.  Then I came home, had a beer and dipped into the pool.  I love my remote island life. I really do.  More than I can say.    OTG for me.  I’m a convert to my way life. But…well….in January it loses a little of it’s appeal and by then my feet need some attention.  So, I dunno…. 

Anyway, after feeling all refreshed, we headed out on the town.  Kinda. 

Beach at Hua Hin

Hua Hin, ostensibly, is the generally recognized vacation destination in this part of Thailand but it is not really, not for us, anyway.  Firstly, Hua Hin is crowded, dense, lacking a relaxed, cafe-society-style street-scene’ but definitely presenting a real and busy working class ‘commercial scene’.  Good for a visit.  Maybe some shopping. But no lingering no sightseeing.

Downtown Hua Hin

Huan Hin is billed as a resort town but it is clearly more of a light industrial, commercial construction town that hasn’t spent much of that construction effort on itself.  Drab, utilitarian architecture mostly.   Things look a bit old (100 years) and dilapidated.  But it is the area hub.  It’s busy. Definitely tired and overworked.  Still, it was an adrenaline rush to go buzzing late afternoon into downtown Hua Hin on our scooter not having a clue and surrounded by other scooters and trucks going breakneck from intersection to intersection. Wahoo!

I can’t keep that kind of reckless disregard for life up for very long.  I start to get a little nervous if I am dodging traffic in a moving bunch while driving shoulder-to-shoulder with people using their cell phones at the same time. Normally such inattention to surroundings would indicate driver confidence to me but the truth is Thailand has the highest traffic accident and traffic fatality record in the world!  So, I like to focus intently on GETTING somewhere, park, take off my pathetic helmet and try to let the adrenaline levels drop a bit.  Plus, after half an hour, Sal’s fingers have managed to drive themselves partially into my rib cage.  We both need to wind down a bit.

So, I drove to the hub of the tourist section and we walked and drove around a bit.  Stopped at the Sheraton-Hilton and walked in like we owned the place.  Had to.  Only registered guests were allowed in and armed security patrolled every entrance.  Mind you, none of the guests were sporting ID bracelets, all were 60+ and, more importantly, all were whiter-than-white.  We looked like we belonged. Lots of English, Russian, Scandinavian and French spoken down at poolside where we plopped down for a bit to enjoy an expensive beer while overlooking the hoi polloi on the beach and at poolside.

Poolside at the Hilton

Attitude is everything: “Officially registered guests?  We don’ need no stinkin’ registration, man!  We white.  We fat.  We got on stupid shorts!  Can’t you see?” I even went to the front desk and had a lovely receptionist tell me how to get to the day market and give me a ‘guest’ map. Attitude, dude.

Then, it was back on the two-wheeler and heading back into the centre of town.  Found the day market.  But it had just closed.  Found out where the night market was but it wasn’t going to open for a few hours.  So, I got a haircut and Sal bought a wooden cow-bell.  Don’t ask.

Dinosaur Market

We wondered if we could find the previously, but accidentally, discovered market (locally referred to as the dinosaur market) described a blog or so ago, so off we went.  We found it just as it was opening and so we picked up another bag of goo (different goo this time) and headed off to search for our primary target, the Passport cafe.

The Passport cafe gets great write-ups and yet had proven elusive despite our wandering through myriad sois and alleys, roads and lanes, the last few days trying to find it.  But, we did eventually.  It was too early for dinner so we walked in for yet another beer.  Had to.  The temperature was around 30+ and, with no breeze, it was damn hot.

If you ever wondered how many groceries you could carry on a small scooter — a full pack on the passenger’s back, a full shopping bag between the driver’s legs and the overflow in the seat compartment.

Seems Lek is Thai and she and her white Bostonian husband had previously lived in Massachusetts raising two beautiful children when Mike decided that he had had enough of the rat race and they relocated back to Hua Hin (with the kids).  Never having owned or operated a restaurant, they opened The Passport.  Three years later, it is a big hit and they are doing gangbusters.  “If you come for dinner, make sure you call and reserve a pork chop if you want one.  That’s our signature dish and it always sells out.” 

And, we’ll go.  I’ll reserve a pork chop.  It will be fun.  But we’ll wait until after the weekend.  Seems Bangkokians come down to ‘party’ on the weekends and they can get a little crazy.  And crazy means their driving is even more dangerous.  Local tip: don’t drive at night no matter what but, if you do, do NOT drive on Friday night.  Friday night is alright for dying and Saturday night is not much better.