Gecko on the Wall

JANUARY WAS A FUN month for people watchers. From the ringing in of the new year until the wringing out of a post Burns night hangover, it was a hoot of a month.

With 2005 just hours old, I drove into town, bought a newspaper and went in search of breakfast. Scanning the menu at an eaterie I had never before patronized, I deliberated over whether to order the "strangled egg" or the "beef steak with frech flies". Dismissing mental pictures of the chef throttling baby fowl, I ordered the eggs. I asked the young waitress whether I could have some grilled bacon with my eggs and she told me that she would have to ask the cook who, she said was "in the chicken". Now I appreciate that Thailand has fairly liberal views on sexual proclivities, but this was stretching tolerance to the limit. However, my smiling waitress returned with the good news that I could indeed have some "Baygone".

I'd never before seen that brand of roach killer in Chiang Mai shops; maybe it's sold only to the catering trade. My repast, when it came, was excellent, and while munching away, I indulged in some people watching.

He took a window seat and cast nervous glances out of the restaurant window to the street beyond. Ronnie Biggs? No. Biggsie's still in jail. Anyway, this guy had less hair than the great train robber. He was visibly startled when the waitress offered him a menu, waving her away with a "Just coffee and toast". Definitely not Ronnie Biggs; this guy was American. Then the waitress said, "Café ron?" My heart missed a beat. My God it is Biggsie, and he must be a regular in here, she knows him by name! I slid out of my seat, never taking my eyes from the man in the corner, and left a hundred baht note next to the cash register. With the cries of "Kop khun ma krap", from a delighted waitress, I stepped into the street and made off at a smart pace. I rushed home to call "The Sun" with my exclusive, and allowed images of new cars to enter my subconscious.

The newspaper's foreign editor came on the telephone, "How can I help you?" he asked. "I've just seen the great train robber, Ronnie Biggs, in a Chiang Mai restaurant", I panted into the mouthpiece. There was silence on the line as though the man on the other end had covered his mouthpiece to speak to someone. Then he came back on and asked, "Ronnie Biggs,eh. Who was he with, mate, Elvis?"

"I don't understand", I said. "Ronnie Biggs, the last time we checked, which was Monday, is still banged up in the hospital wing of Belmarsh prison, squire. He's 75 years old, has suffered a series of heart attacks and strokes and is, to all intents and purposes, ga ga, my old son. Happy New Year", and the line went dead.

It was an honest mistake.

Later in the month I was a guest at a Burns Night supper, which was held outdoors at a local sports club. Under the canopy of a giant rain tree, we eagerly awaited the meal as my host plied me with great tumblers full of an amber fluid that had a strange, and almost instantaneous effect. I heard a cat screaming in pain and saw that it was being held by a man who kept squeezing its body under his arm, as he blew into a tube connected to the poor animal's mouth. Other men, dressed in pleated frocks, moved between the tables uttering indistinct remarks to one another in a foreign tongue. Were these the famous hill tribe people I had heard of, living in Chiang Mai?

I was about to ask my host when waitresses appeared, carrying trays of haggis, neeps and tatties. My wife asked me whether I preferred a wing or a leg. Never before having sampled this rare beast, I indicated that I would be pleased with either cut. Looking down at my plate I could see that my haggis had exploded on impact with something solid; for all the world it looked like mince. However, on sampling my first forkful, I discovered the unique texture and flavour of a Scottish haggis, and became an instant convert to the dish. As we continued to wash down our haggis, or is it haggi, with copious amounts of the amber fluid, an unbutchered sample of the animal appeared on a silver salver at the top table. One of the frocked tribesmen, who had clearly enjoyed more than a modicum of the amber liquid, produced a dagger and proceeded to stab the animal where it lay. To tribal cries of "Jings, cravens, michtie me and help ma Boab", the crowd burst into applause, spurring the gentleman with the dagger to slash with even more fury into the defenceless animal.

I began to notice that mosquitoes were landing on his bare legs, and falling lifeless to the ground after a few seconds. I resolved to ask him later for the brand name of the repellant he was using.

The chap with the cat under his arm resumed his torture of the beast unchallenged, and some ladies left the tables, not as I had suspected to remonstrate with him, but to dance around him as he squeezed that cat ever tighter and blew into the tube attached to its mouth.

I looked up into the branches of the giant rain tree and awoke the next morning in my bed.

It must have been the potatoes.