My Chiang Mai

Where did I watch the Grand Prix? One of those that a Brit did NOT win for once? Oh yes, it was at The Olde Bell in Loi Kroh. There I was, drowning my sorrows at the bar for Jensen and his soft tyres, wondering where this back-marker Aussie had sprung from, when this serious little man clambered on to the next bar stool.

“You look just like I feel, Davey boy!” he sighed quietly.

Hate it when he calls me ‘Davey’ like that. Makes me feel like I should be down the pit with a little light on my head. But you can’t really criticise a man in his position. Well, the rest of the world does, all the time. But I just feel sorry for the little bleeder.

“Banky!” I exclaimed (for it was he!). “What the hell are you doing in town?” I clapped him on the back just as he was about to sip a large Chang. Could have been a major indiscretion, that, but the glass didn’t hit his teeth and landlord Pedr was quick with a dry cloth.

“Whoops, sorry Banky” sez I, full of remorse. “My bill, please, for the Secretary General of the United Nations here”, for indeed, Ban-Ki Moon (to be formal) it was.

“Shhhhhhhh!” hissed Banky, looking furtively around him. But happily for us both it was free buffet night at the Bell, and all other snouts were firmly in the trough.

“I’m not supposed to be here at all. I’m meant to be over the border, negotiating the release of Miss Suki Yacki. But those damn generals won’t let me in!”

“Er, well, maybe you’re asking for the wrong prisoner” I ventured gently. “They mess up all the spellings y’know, just like the Thais. You have to say it – now watch my lips – Ow Sang Soo Chee.”

“Oh yes, I know”, he replied rather irritably, biting very hard into one of his favourite American ‘Kettlechip’ crisps. “My people take care of all that nonsense. No, all those uniforms in the jungle know who I want to see alright, but at this rate I’ll have to take swimming lessons to get to her.”

“Hmmm, I wouldn’t do that Banky,” I frowned into my Singha. “You’ll find yourself banged up in the same cell if you do. So, er, why Chiang Mai?”

Banky gave one of those nervous twitches of the shoulder as he glanced around again for any flapping ears. Lowering his voice so much that even Pedr had to adjust the leek in his lapel to hear, he murmured:

“You must know about those brave lads who smuggle Bibles over the border into Burm, er, Myanmar?”

I nodded conspiratorially.

“Welllll” said Banky, looking more nervous than I’ve ever seen him, “I’m due in with the next load. Tomorrow night.”

I took a deep breath, another of Banky’s Kettlechips, and whistled quietly through one of the gaps in my teeth. Just like I’ve seen real journalists do on the films.

‘Where are you going over then?” I ventured, hoping to heaven I could remember this vital world scoop in the morning.

“There’s a very small boat, taking the box over the Mekong River late tomorrow night from a place in Thailand called Chiang Khong” sez he.

It was my turn to look around furtively.

“Hmmm. Is your master geographic planner at the UN an American, by any chance Banky?” I queried.

“Ha. You’re a damn good journalist. How did you know that?” sez he, momentarily relaxing and grinning right at me.

“Just a wild guess my ole mate. Because THAT little boat takes you straight into Laos. Wrong Nation….. and not at all United” I added, maybe unwisely. “What YOU need is the bigger boat from Chang Saen that takes you UP river to bloody Burma, Banky.”

Well, if a small man from Korea could have crushed an almost full glass of Chang in a one handed spasm, Banky would have done it there and then. Pissed off? Understatement of the year and it’s only August.

He just sat, staring straight ahead, shaking his head slowly, before downing the beer in one.

Ever the sensitive and discreet professional, Pedr re-filled the glass immediately without even glancing at us.

After many minutes silence, almost like a funeral, Banky sighed deeply.

“No-one wants to talk to me, Davey” he said, his voice trembling a little now. “Only my staff, and all they can do is slow it all down or cock it all up.” He turned on his stool to face me.

“I couldn’t get into that dirty little African country to talk to Mugabe, no-one in South America wants to know, and I even hear that some new face in the White House wants us out of the US…..! No more Kettlechips, Michelob and decent bagels for me. I can see it coming!”

I like the man. He then made a massive, albeit disastrous effort to cheer himself up. “But look, Davey, enough about me, what about you? Where did we last meet in this crazy world?”

I really, really wished he hadn’t asked that, I really did. Fleetstreetingly, I almost told a lie and said something like: “On the beach at Sihanoukville” (I mean, that lot even let in Garry Glitter, get me?). But no, honest to the end, I had to remind him, even if it broke his heart.

“It was in the immigration queue, we were in the same line, remember?” I said, taking a deep breath. “I was there to cover a conference and you were, er, going home……..”

I let my voice trail off on purpose, like they do in the movies. It gives effect and encourages the other party to come up with the REALLY bad news. His eyes glazed as he seemed to suddenly stare far away at a large photo of Max Boyce on the far wall.

“Ah yes,” he said, “how could I forget? That was the last time I tried to get back into Korea………”

Wherever you are, Banky, I wish you well. The George Hotel, just next to Huddersfield railway station, is really nice at this time of year, y’know.

Humorous? Hopefully. Fictitious? For surely!

David Hardcastle