On occasions in Thailand I have heard words that are remarkably similar to others spoken in an entirely different language. For example, the word farang can be heard in several Asian countries, most notably Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos. It means ‘foreigner’, derived from the word ‘French’. Interestingly, Thailand is one of the few Southeast Asian countries not colonised by Europeans but the locals found it easier to categorise all Europeans as ‘French’ or farang.

When dining out my wife and I tend to look for restaurants that are not occupied predominantly by farangs. We prefer to eat genuine Thai food.

A restaurant known as Khang Khao (meaning ‘by the mountains’) is recommended to us. It seats 150 people, is always well patronised and we have noted the lack of farangs.

The cuisine is genuine Thai and is delicious. One minor issue, a translation of the menu is required.

Some examples: ‘Omelette drunk’ (it probably wobbles); ‘Fermented sphere machine’ (from Star Wars?); ‘Fermented message in chicker’ (more Star Wars?); ‘Spicy three-frame’; ‘Guava embracing Laos’; ‘Tofu machine deliverer’; ‘Stir eight immortals’ (definitely out of Star Wars); ‘Fish rock garden’; ‘Fried chicken with basil forest’ (eat a forest?).

There is a national park in southern Thailand called Khang Nam Khao, meaning ‘river by the mountains’. Seriously, when I read the menu the restaurant Khang Khao nearly became Khang Nam Khao! I nearly wet my pants laughing.

If you visit Hua Hin be sure to add this restaurant to your essential diners.

***

A police motorcycle…not for rent!

One of my real joys in visiting Hua Hin is the opportunity to hire a motorcycle and explore the hinterland.

Having encountered a police roadblock and passport check several years ago I was well prepared. Driving the main highway I noticed traffic slowing ahead. Motorcyclists were being ushered by police into a narrow strip. I confidently pulled into the lane for a document inspection.

“Driver’s licence!” announced a junior officer. I suspect he was a junior because medals did not adorn his uniform and his lapel did not carry stripes like other officers.

I was well prepared. Smugly, I handed over my International Driver’s Licence and said, “I also have my Australian Licence and passport if you would like to see them.”

“No!” he barked. “Just driver’s licence. No need for passport!”

He opened the document, glanced at the photograph, glanced at me and back at the photograph. He circled the motorcycle. Another look at the document, the photograph and me. Nothing had changed.

“Open,” he said pointing at the bike’s seat. I pressed various buttons to lift the seat but to no avail. Junior joined in and pressed the same buttons. Nothing happened. But he was a determined young man and after fiddling with the ignition key and pressing more buttons the seat lifted.

Gleefully he pointed at a small plastic-encased document screwed to the underside of the seat and announced, “Not licenced!”

“What do you mean, ‘not licenced’?”

“Licence says February. Now August.” A gotcha moment, he was clearly happy.

I looked at the document but had no idea what was typed thereon. I responded, “I don’t understand Thai. I have hired this motorcycle. If it is unlicensed I shall return it and hire another. Not my fault.”

“You pay 500 baht (about A$20) and you go.”

“I’m not paying,” I told Junior. “I shall return the bike immediately.” As I made this statement I reached for my licence but he pulled back. No intention of handing it over.

“Okay. I shall take the bike back and make another arrangement.”

“You pay 500 baht. I’m going to lunch.”

“You stay right here,” I said more firmly, almost a growl. “I will be back in ten minutes.”

Before departing I memorised the number on the side of Junior’s helmet lest he does go to lunch with my licence. 6108.

I hurried back to the hire shop riding an apparently unlicensed motorcycle, although that didn’t seem to bother Junior. The hirer was very apologetic. He quickly found the current papers. Ten minutes later I had returned to the roadblock.

Junior had forgotten his hunger. He had a queue of motorcyclists in line. I watched as he waved my licence before directing riders to another officer for the collection of funds.

After using my licence as a ‘teaching aid’ and possibly having decided his boss had enough to buy lunch (joking, of course) Junior found me. We went through the same process of lifting the seat. He retrieved the licence, squatted and held it near the rear licence plate. Junior looked at the document, looked at the plate, back at the document, and again the plate. He then opened my licence, inspected the photograph, looked at me and back at the photograph.

Eventually satisfied with the documents, although appearing a little disgruntled, junior handed the licence to me and with an air of resignation pointed down the road, sighed and yelled, “Go!”

I saw Junior twice in the following week. The first time was near the night market. I spotted Junior blowing his whistle and waving traffic through the crosswalk that nobody took any notice of anyway. To be certain it was he I moseyed up to him and there it was – 6108.

“Junior!” I exclaimed. He turned to look at me (obviously that was his name). “Good to see you my friend,” I greeted him.

“Remember me?”

“Yes, yes. The licence,” he replied, still trying to direct traffic.

“This is Junior,” I yelled to my wife. “The officer who stopped me recently!”

I observed Junior’s colleagues gazing in our direction. Junior was trying to extricate himself from the exchange as he turned back towards the road but I wasn’t giving up that easily. I grasped his non-waving hand and shook it firmly.

On the next occasion I saw Junior I was driving another motorcycle past numerous restaurants. I saw several police officers leaving the restaurant after a long Friday afternoon lunch. Had the traffic not been quite so heavy I would have stopped for a re-union.

Instead I decided to take note of the restaurant and remember it for another day. No farangs. Obviously good Thai food. Good enough for the traffic police to use their hard-earned baht good enough for me.

Gordon d’Venables has been, inter alia, a teacher, soldier, farmhand, lawyer and businessman. As a lawyer he travelled extensively for international clients. His letters from various times and places around the globe (PNG, England, Ireland, France, USA, Saudi Arabia, Serbia, Iran and others) refer to some of his experiences. Gordon’s recently published book, The Medusa Image, can be obtained from Pegasus at www.pegasuspublishers.com, ISBN: 9781784658939 www.amazon.com.au or https://www.amazon.com/Medusa-Image-Gordon-DVenables/dp/1784658936

GORDON D’VENABLES: Letters.

GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from USA, pre-Soviet Union Breakup.

GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from Belgrade.

GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from Iran.

GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from India.

GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from Saudi Arabia.

GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from Vietnam.

GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from Germany.

GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from London.

GORDON D’VENABLES: Second Letter From London.

GORDON D’VENABLES: Second Letter From Iran.

GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from Moscow.

GORDON D’VENABLES: Second Letter from Moscow.

GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from St Petersburg.

GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from Ireland.