the driver took the hint.
After half an hour they left the motorway and powered along a four-lane concrete road flanked by rice fields and coconut-palm plantations. The farmland was dotted with factories, smoking chimney stacks, industrial units and container-storage yards. Most buildings flew the Thai flag, a red stripe top and bottom, with a blue one on a white background in the middle. There were huge billboards on scaffolding in some of the fields, advertising hospitals, condominium developments and cars. It wasn’t pretty countryside. The ubiquitous palm trees were easy enough on the eye but it was clear that the land was a commodity to be built on and exploited. There was litter everywhere – plastic bags, chunks of blown tyres, discarded packaging materials.
Pattaya was a low-rise sprawl of shops, markets and billboards, the skyline strewn with sagging electricity wires strung between rough concrete pylons. The most modern buildings were banks, petrol stations and car showrooms. For the first time since he’d left the airport he saw Westerners, usually bare-chested, driving small motorcycles, sometimes with Thai girls riding pillion.
The biggest building was a white concrete tower topped with a cross in red, white and blue, and a large sign identifying it as Bangkok Hospital, Pattaya. They pulled up at red traffic-lights. In the central reservation there was a large circular photograph of the King of Thailand, a kindly-looking man with spectacles and an SLR camera with a long lens around his neck. The light turned green and the Mercedes made a right turn down a road lined with furniture shops, open-air restaurants and low-rise hotels and spas. There were more Westerners, shopping, eating and strolling around in swim suits and T-shirts. The city was starting to look more like a holiday resort, with gift shops, art shops and Indian-tailor shops promising made-to-measure suits in twenty-four hours for less than a hundred dollars.
They drove past the Dusit Thani Resort and ahead was the sea. They reached the beach road and turned left. It was a one-way street, a narrow strip of sand covered with deck-chairs and umbrellas on the right, and on the left, bars, restaurants and shops with swimming rings and inflatable dolphins blowing in the breeze. Most of the signs were in English and Thai, but Shepherd saw plenty of Russian and Arabic, too. Strung across the street, thai flags were interspersed with yellow pennants. The driver pointed down a street to their left. ‘Hotel there but cannot go,’ he said. ‘One way.’
Shepherd saw a no-entry sign and the driver continued along the beach road and turned into the next side road. It was lined with bars, with names like Club Nevada, Lion Bar, Kittens Bar, and Hot and Cold A-go-go. In the middle, the Pattaya post office was decorated in the colours of the national flag. At the end of the street they turned left again, then made another left so that they were heading the right way down the one-way street. It was just after six o’clock when the car pulled up in front of the hotel and the sky was darkening. Night seemed to come quickly, as if a dimmer switch was being turned down.
The hotel was an uninspiring cube with a line of small trees in pots at the front. A uniformed bellboy took Shepherd’s suitcase from the boot of the car and followed him inside. The lobby was functional but the four young women at the reception desk beamed at him. He gave them his John Westlake American Express card and signed for a week’s stay. The bellboy took him up to the seventh floor and showed him into a suite with a sea view, and Shepherd tipped him with a red hundred-baht note. He put his hands together as if in prayer and bowed, so Shepherd knew he’d over-tipped. The man left, closing the door behind him.
Shepherd stood at the window. There were dozens of boats in the water, and to the left of the bay two huge floating restaurants bedecked with white lights. The sky was grey now
After half an hour they left the motorway and powered along a four-lane concrete road flanked by rice fields and coconut-palm plantations. The farmland was dotted with factories, smoking chimney stacks, industrial units and container-storage yards. Most buildings flew the Thai flag, a red stripe top and bottom, with a blue one on a white background in the middle. There were huge billboards on scaffolding in some of the fields, advertising hospitals, condominium developments and cars. It wasn’t pretty countryside. The ubiquitous palm trees were easy enough on the eye but it was clear that the land was a commodity to be built on and exploited. There was litter everywhere – plastic bags, chunks of blown tyres, discarded packaging materials.
Pattaya was a low-rise sprawl of shops, markets and billboards, the skyline strewn with sagging electricity wires strung between rough concrete pylons. The most modern buildings were banks, petrol stations and car showrooms. For the first time since he’d left the airport he saw Westerners, usually bare-chested, driving small motorcycles, sometimes with Thai girls riding pillion.
The biggest building was a white concrete tower topped with a cross in red, white and blue, and a large sign identifying it as Bangkok Hospital, Pattaya. They pulled up at red traffic-lights. In the central reservation there was a large circular photograph of the King of Thailand, a kindly-looking man with spectacles and an SLR camera with a long lens around his neck. The light turned green and the Mercedes made a right turn down a road lined with furniture shops, open-air restaurants and low-rise hotels and spas. There were more Westerners, shopping, eating and strolling around in swim suits and T-shirts. The city was starting to look more like a holiday resort, with gift shops, art shops and Indian-tailor shops promising made-to-measure suits in twenty-four hours for less than a hundred dollars.
They drove past the Dusit Thani Resort and ahead was the sea. They reached the beach road and turned left. It was a one-way street, a narrow strip of sand covered with deck-chairs and umbrellas on the right, and on the left, bars, restaurants and shops with swimming rings and inflatable dolphins blowing in the breeze. Most of the signs were in English and Thai, but Shepherd saw plenty of Russian and Arabic, too. Strung across the street, thai flags were interspersed with yellow pennants. The driver pointed down a street to their left. ‘Hotel there but cannot go,’ he said. ‘One way.’
Shepherd saw a no-entry sign and the driver continued along the beach road and turned into the next side road. It was lined with bars, with names like Club Nevada, Lion Bar, Kittens Bar, and Hot and Cold A-go-go. In the middle, the Pattaya post office was decorated in the colours of the national flag. At the end of the street they turned left again, then made another left so that they were heading the right way down the one-way street. It was just after six o’clock when the car pulled up in front of the hotel and the sky was darkening. Night seemed to come quickly, as if a dimmer switch was being turned down.
The hotel was an uninspiring cube with a line of small trees in pots at the front. A uniformed bellboy took Shepherd’s suitcase from the boot of the car and followed him inside. The lobby was functional but the four young women at the reception desk beamed at him. He gave them his John Westlake American Express card and signed for a week’s stay. The bellboy took him up to the seventh floor and showed him into a suite with a sea view, and Shepherd tipped him with a red hundred-baht note. He put his hands together as if in prayer and bowed, so Shepherd knew he’d over-tipped. The man left, closing the door behind him.
Shepherd stood at the window. There were dozens of boats in the water, and to the left of the bay two huge floating restaurants bedecked with white lights. The sky was grey now
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