TRAVEL FEATURE - THAILAND
JEREMY TORR
LICENCE TO ...
T here I was , at the side of the road under a massive underpass , bang in the middle of sweaty , gritty , buzzing , throbbing , and humid Bangkok … I was foreign , a bit lost , uncomfortably sticky in my bike gear , and looking at a pistol packing motorcycle cop who was holding my driving licence in his trigger-finger hand .
The noise of a constant stream of heavy trucks overhead meant we both had to shout .
“ You made an offence . You have to pay fine ,” he demanded .
“ But all the other bikes are going that way — I was just following !” I replied .
I ’ d recently arrived in Thailand from Cambodia , where I had made the acquaintance of several men in uniform who , I suspected , were generally a bit pissed off that I had a better bike than they did . Several demanded a sit on my gleaming , multi-cylinder , border-hopping Yamaha Fazer as a change from their single cylinder , battered , smoky , officially issued poop-bombs .
I acquiesced , every time . You don ’ t argue with a Glock .
I ’ d ridden up to Bangkok from Cambodia , through the amusingly perverted Sri Racha . Sri Racha had the region ’ s most famous night market , complete with nuns , schoolgirls , army majorettes , and nurses lounging invitingly on every corner . I was told that groups of Korean and Japanese salarymen loved visiting the town .
I assume it wasn ’ t because of the nice beaches , although some of those were staggeringly beautiful , replete with palm trees , talc-like sand and with barely another tourist in sight as the blue waters of the Bay of Thailand lapped over my hot and swollen feet . But I had an appointment , not with a nurse or drum-majorette , in Bangkok and
TRAVERSE 83