It's 2.30 on a Friday afternoon and I am sitting at a pavement cafe overlooking Patong Beach in Phuket. My laptop lies open in front of me, but for the past hour I have been idly watching people stroll by. Most are tourists, all sunburnt and wide-eyed, their tropical shirts and bright sarongs identifying them as first-timers.
Occasionally, an expat resident will saunter past, the deep tan and faded beachwear the hallmarks of a long spell in paradise. Thai workers scurry back to their shops and offices after a late lunch, while others wait in the shade with an armful of trinkets, languidly eyeing the passing parade for customers. A newspaper seller saunters up to my table and slaps down a copy of the Bangkok Post. I'm a regular, a foreigner with a thirst for news. Old habits die hard.
As I scan the front page and assess the stories and pictures, I think of home. Right now it is 9.30am in South Africa. At the Sunday Times office in Biermann Avenue, Rosebank, editors and section heads will be rushing into the conference room for one of the most important meetings of the week. In the next hour or so, they will decide the shape of this week’s paper - which reports and photographs are destined for the front page, which will lead the other pages and those that will be cut down to small stories.
I can picture the editorial meeting in my mind, the editor seated at the head of the table, the news editor at his side. For five years I occupied one of these hotseats – doing my best to juggle competing news reports and compile the best edition possible. With a roomful of hardened and opinionated reporters and editors, the potential for heated debate was ever-present. Difficult choices had to be made. Should we lead with a corruption scandal in the Cape Town Municipality? Yes, there’s too much about Gauteng in the paper, says the news editor. No, argues the sports editor, the big football game in Soweto this weekend is crucial to our World Cup chances and it must go on page one. The business editor chimes in: Use a picture of the football – our interview with Tito Mboweni is dynamite.
One by one the contenders stake their claim – the investigation unit’s probe into a government official, an exclusive interview with Nelson Mandela about Aids, the uplifting tale of a woman’s battle to rescue her daughter from a religious cult in Germany. The editor has the final say, but everyone gets a chance to speak. There may be tears, insults and recriminations, but by the end of the meeting that week’s Sunday Times would be taking shape.
I wonder what the paper will look like this week. Will their carefully-laid plans come unstuck at the last minute when an earthquake shatters lives across the globe or a local celebrity is carjacked? Perhaps a photographer will come up with a sensational picture that results in the entire front page having to be redone from scratch. I remember how we, as junior reporters, used to criticize the decisions taken by the editors of the day. Influenced heavily by how well are own stories were being used, we grumbled long and hard about how fuddy-duddy and backward-thinking they were. Not to mention racist, sexist and elitist. Sometimes they did get it wrong, but years later I realized what it took to keep three million readers entertained and informed every Sunday.
I remember my first day on the newspaper. Uneasily trussed up in a tie and jacket, I arrived at the newspaper's offices in Main Street, Johannesburg, to take up a vacation job as part of my university training. I was taken to meet the managing editor, Joe Sutton, who then introduced me to editor Tertius Myburgh with the words: "Here's the young Old Dalian." I soon learnt that the ed had not only attended the same school as me, Dale College in King William's Town, but had also grown up in the same town, Komga, a small farming hamlet near the Kei River in the Eastern Cape. The managing editor was another old Dalian.
While my old school tie got me the eye of the editor, it did little to ease my passage with the news editor, Hans Strydom. He had graduated from the school of hard knocks and wasn't about to make any concessions for this well-connected tubby know-it-all. With his black and grey beard, he was a fiercesome sight. Regularly a roar would emanate from his corner office: "Malherbe, come here, NOW!"
I have a book of cuttings that documents my first writing successes, but I recall that my days were spent hovering between terror and relief. The Sunday Times was a tough training ground. Either you performed or you got out. Fresh from university, the world inside 171 Main Street seemed slightly crazed. The stories from those days are legend – typewriters being flung from third-floor windows, steamy affairs in lift shafts and locked offices, “on the spot” sports reports being filed from the pub around the corner, a printing press strike set off by a drug squad raid and endless dramas about “police spies” in the office and the latest censorship laws.
Our newsroom was on the same floor as the Rand Daily Mail's and one of our missions was to ensure that we beat the "Mail" on every single story. The pressure was intense. In the beginning I wrote about lost dogs and car accidents for the Times Metro section, but I managed to get one or two stories in the "main paper" by the end of my two-month stint. And, more importantly, I was offered a full-time job when I graduated.
A year later, I began working as a full-time reporter, embarking on a rollercoaster ride that would culminate in my appointment as managing editor 15 years later. Looking back now, I realise just how many people took me under their wings as I rose up through the ranks. There were the photographers like Andrzej Sawa and Horace Potter who pointed me in the right direction when my story went off track or I bungled an interview. There were colleagues who would spend a few minutes telling me how to put my story together, but shrug off any suggestions that they had helped me.
There were also those who found me places to live, lent me money to buy my first suit and gave me a nudge when my spirits were flagging. They let me scour their contact books, sewed on my buttons and, most importantly, covered up my many faux pas in and out of the office. Later, editors like Ken Owen and Mike Robertson, offered the greatest vote of confidence by simply saying; “Do what you think is best. I will support you.”
My first career leap came at the tender age of 23 when I was promoted to bureau chief of the Eastern Cape office of the Sunday Times. In reality, this was only a one-man show in Port Elizabeth, but it gave me an office of my own and a company car. I excelled back on home turf. I was able to drive all over the province looking for the incredible tales and characters that make this part of the country so unique.
For example, a couple I met in a bar of a Port Alfred hotel told me about a lovely, romantic holiday farm that I should visit. “Its fabulous,” they assured me, “But when you arrive, cover up the little holes in the ceiling of your bedroom and bathroom and you won’t be disturbed.” I listened incredulously as they explained that there were peepholes in the ceiling above all the double beds and the baths in this country hotel. “All the regulars know about them, it’s not a problem if you cover them up.”
A day later, a photographer and I checked into the hotel and discovered that not only did the peepholes exist, but an elaborate walkway had been constructed in the ceiling for the “peeper” to get to all the holes. That Sunday the country was treated to the story of the “honeymoon hideaway with peepholes”. It was a great tale.
Another of my stories made international news. We discovered that a famous British “supergrass’’ was living in Port Elizabeth. Once a member of the London underworld, he was cleared of all charges and given a new identity for blowing the whistle on his colleagues and testifying against them. Under the name Arnold Nugent (new gent?) he was living it up as the owner of one of the city’s top nightclub.
We were doing the story along with the British newspaper, the News of the World, so I was instructed to confront him on the Friday night. My photographer was terrified, so he stayed in the background and snapped away as I made my way to the bar of the nightclub. At first, the man denied the story. When I started listing my evidence against him, he turned nasty and threatened me. I hot-footed it back to the office. We had our picture and our story. I slept uneasily until the story was safely on the front page of the paper.
On the Sunday I received a call at the home of a friend where I had been staying. It was him: “Please come to the club. I want to talk to you.” As the one who had exposed him, it was a strange feeling being escorted into the club past all the waiting reporters. Mr. Nugent apologized for threatening me, congratulated me on the story and said he was going into hiding as some of his former underworld mates were on their way from Britain. We shook hands and I left. A few weeks later, I received a postcard from him, just to let me know that he was fine. What a strange world!
If my experiences in Port Elizabeth were exciting, I was heading for even greater times. After a stint back in Johannesburg, mostly spent hounding the mysterious Italian millionaire Marino Chiavelli, I was offered the position of London correspondent. An Eastern Cape boy at heart, I was overwhelmed by the broad canvas of journalism in London. I shared my office with a dozen other South African journalists, all representing publications back home.
My job was primarily to keep track of world news and provide an international perspective for the newspaper. But this was also the time of Charles and Diana’s very public marriage woes, recorded in amazing detail by the British tabloid press. This Royal war of words – along with Michael Jackson’s plastic surgery exploits – ensured that I could always find a spot on page one of the paper.
My most memorable assignment during my two-year stint in London was when I was sent to Warsaw, Poland, to find out more about Janus Waluz, the rightwinger who was arrested for murdering South African Communist Party supreme Chris Hani. Hani’s assassination was a huge story, even in Britain, and I was terrified of failing. On arrival in Poland I found a translator and tracked down Waluz’s wife to a small glass factory. She seemed totally perplexed by her husband’s arrest, as he had not discussed politics with her. She had lived with him in Pretoria, but found the weather too hot.
I persuaded her to take me to their home – a shabby one-room flat in a rundown building. I could not believe she had given up a four-bedroom house with a pool in sunny South Africa for this. She seemed happy to have someone to talk to about it all – and she agreed to let me borrow a selection of photographs from the family album. Having got there before any other reporter, I had my scoop and the Sunday Times came out tops again.
Handling big stories is what the Sunday Times does best. And there were many momentuous events during my time on the paper. I returned to South Africa to take over as news editor just prior to the first democratic election in 1994, an event that would be difficult to surpass in our lifetime. The editor at the time, Ken Owen, had one of the sharpest minds around, excelling in his analysis of the constitutional negotiations that led to the election. He realized the enormity of the event, and our coverage was a massive undertaking. This was history in the making – and we treated it as such.
Then there were the sensational events that begged massive coverage, such as the release of Nelson Mandela, the death of Princess Diana and winning the Rugby World Cup. On these types of stories, the Sunday Times is virtually unbeatable. When Diana died in the early hours of a Sunday morning, the newspaper had already been printed. But most of the staff trooped back to the office and a special edition hit the streets by midday. Di is dead, screamed the headline.
There were great achievements, but things were not perfect all of the time. During the early 1980’s, the political direction of the newspaper came under heavy criticism, There was heavy censorship and pressure from the government, but I joined many of the staff in feeling that we did not do enough to fight back. Too often, we failed to expose government propaganda for what it was.
On one occasion, the staff wrote a petition to the editor after one of our former colleagues, Marion Sparg, received harsh treatment in the Sunday Times. She had left the country to join the African National Congress after planting a bomb in a police station. When she was arrested, the paper carried a photograph of her in leg irons on the front page along with a report which depicted her as a sad, pathetic figure. We knew this not to be true.
Another former staffer who went into exile, Muff Anderson, was also a victim of a “smear” report in our paper, which enraged staff. If this was happening to people we knew well, we realized that much of the information being fed to the newspaper by the authorities was more than suspect.
The political direction of the newspaper changed under the editorship of Ken Owen and much of its credibility was restored. This was taken further by the next two editors, Brian Pottinger and Mike Robertson, who had both served as political reporters in their day. An American-style accuracy test was implemented, which ensured that reporters verified every fact in their reports against a checklist. The theory was that if any detail was incorrect, even if it was a street number or the colour of someone’s tie, it threw doubt on the entire report.
I served as managing editor under Mike Robertson and together we fought hard to ensure that we the paper and its staff remained above reproach. A no-gift policy was enforced. Any “freebies” or gifts delivered to the Sunday Times were auctioned for charity. Reporters were urged to pay for all lunches and drinks with contacts. It became even more important after our investigations unit started cracking big stories. We could not afford a lapse anywhere.
As I sit back and recall the long hours we spent planning and scheming of ways to improve the paper, I realize that the sun is about to set on Phuket. All along the beachfront, the neon lights are switching on. As the last of the swimmers paddle in the dusk, the bargirls arrive for another night of partying. Later, from my bedroom, I will listen to the disco beat from the nightclub across the road as I catch the late-night news on TV. This is my new world. But, for the past few hours, my mind has been in South Africa. I have been back at my desk at the Sunday Times. It seems a million miles away now. I think the passage of a few years and and distance has given me a much clearer perspective of what the newspaper meant to me.
I remember the stories, but it is the people that kindle the brightest memories. I think of the ever-jovial office secretary, Sandra Hattingh, who joined the paper on the same day as me and still sends me birthday wishes and jokes from the newsroom. I think of the allies who lifted me up when times got tough, editor Mike Robertson, who never doubted me; Clifford Fram, who could always see the bigger picture, and Hoosen Kolia, who had been on the paper longer than anyone and could always say: “Don’t worry, it’s happened before.”
I think of the great reporters I worked with, those who taught me and those I taught. How could I forget the bustling, unstoppable Jocelyn Maker with her battle cry; “Go for it!” or Charmain Naidoo, who could befriend interviewees in an instant. I think of Lesley Mofokeng, who agreed to wear a ridiculous “Lucky Lottery” costume for weeks on end to launch of our successful lottery campaign. I smile when I think of Doc Bikitsha, who never seemed to leave the building, and Gwen Gill, who is as close as anyone can get to being irreplaceable. And I fondly think of the late photographer Joe Sefale, who chose to take me with him as his partner when he was the only outsider invited to Nelson Mandela’s private family birthday party.
It’s now 7pm in Thailand, 2pm in South Africa. The newsroom will be chaotic now, as everyone rushes to meet the early deadlines. The Sunday Times is being born again.
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This article was written for the special edition commemorating the 100th birthday of the Sunday Times newspaper
Apparently, the number of pilgrims this year has been limited by the Saudi authorities, a difficult thing to do bearing in mind that it is the aim of all Muslims to get to Mecca at least once in their lifetime. How they do it is place a limit on the number of visitors from any one country, based on the number of Muslims living in that country. As a result, the biggest contingent comes from Indonesia.
I wonder how she is coping. Do they get Thai food there? Is it very hot? Do they have to walk everywhere or is there transport for the elderly? There has been no word from her and the family will only discover how it went when she arrives back home in a week or so. I am sure that I would feel out of my depth in such an enormous crowd, so I can only imagine what it has been like for her.
I spoke to But today and I asked him if the family was worried about her getting lost or feeling lonely. "No," he said emphatically, " She has tour guide."
As the sun sets on the beach on Wednesday, 100,000 candles will be lit on Patong Beach to remember those who died in the tsunami three years ago. For two hours, the bars will turn down their music, the vendors will lay down their wares and the people will silently honour those who died.
This week relatives of those who died have been arriving in Phuket for the commemoration services. Judging by previous years, the services will be sombre and sad. At Patong Beach, 108 Buddhist monks will lead a service on the beach at 10am, the time the tsunami struck. This will be followed by the candle lighting ceremony in the evening.
For many of the hundreds of thousands of holidaymakers in Phuket this high season, it will be the first time they are confronted with the reality of that traumatic day. Looking at the packed beaches and the tranquil sea every day, it seems almost inconceivable that it could have happened. But it did - and it should provide a reminder that one's life can be taken away in a moment. Let's hope it is a wake-up call to all of us that we should always live life to the full. It doesn't last forever.
You haven't lived until you have rested your weary body on a sandy beach in Thailand for a coconut oil body massage. Believe me, it is the experience of a lifetime. Could there be anything better? You lie on a thin foam mattress in the shade, looking out over the beach while all your aches and pains slowly dissipate. As you idly watch yachts bobbing in the bay and the small waves lapping on the sand, you discover what heaven feels like.
The lady I chanced upon was one of a group of three operating on one corner of Patong Beach. All of them were uncharacteristically plump - which is what drew me to them in the first place. I couldn't imagine any of the tiny Thai ladies struggling to batter my enormous frame into shape. As they massaged away, the three of them chatted away. At intervals, their friends arrived to chat and pick up on the news of the day, helping themselves to dishes of rice and chicken of which the ladies appeared to have an endless supply.
A beach massage is one of the attractions that sets Thailand's glorious beaches apart from competitors. Here there's much more to going to the beach in Phuket than just settling down to a day in the sun. It's a total experience and one that I ached for when I leave these shores and head elsewhere.
For this service there is a flat fee of 100 baht per day (about R22). For the rest of the day, he will be your loyal servant. If you want a drink, he will fetch it. Feel like something to eat? He'll get it, even running off to KFC or McDonalds down the road if that tickles your taste buds. A newspaper? No problem. He'll keep an eye on your possessions and you pay your bill at the end of the day. So civilised, so safe, so fabulous.
As I scan the front page and assess the stories and pictures, I think of home. Right now it is 9.30am in South Africa. At the Sunday Times office in Biermann Avenue, Rosebank, editors and section heads will be rushing into the conference room for one of the most important meetings of the week. In the next hour or so, they will decide the shape of this week’s paper - which reports and photographs are destined for the front page, which will lead the other pages and those that will be cut down to small stories.
You certainly can't accuse the military-led Thai government of pandering to the tourist industry when it comes to the upcoming national election. The high season runs from November through to April, but the peak, peak season is between December 15 and January 5. So, when do you think they scheduled the election? December 23, that's when. At the absolute height of the season, when Thailand shows off all its finery to millions of tourists.
Now, no-one minds that the Thai people exercise their democratic right, even if it means that many of the workers in the tourist industry will have to take off a day or two to return to their home villages and towns. No, the real worry is that any election in Thailand is accompanied by a ban on the selling of alcohol, the beverage that fuels the country's highly-prized nightlife.
A booze ban on election day would be quite understandable, but it's not that simple. The ban will stretch across two whole weekends. The first dry days will be 14, 15 and 16 December, which are the voting days for those who registered to cast their ballots early. The ban is expected to run from 6pm Friday 14th until midnight at Sunday 16th.
How to avoid tourist traps and get the most out of a trip to Bangkok
When it comes to charm, hospitality and genuine friendliness, there's no-one to touch these gentle-natured people. They just keep smiling and expect you to do the same. You won't know which of the 13 types of smile they are giving you and it doesn't really matter. The bottom line is they love tourists (and their dollars) and are genuinely happy to see you. Forget any preconceptions you have, they will worm their way into your heart and keep you coming back for more. This is part of the reason why Thailand's tourism outperforms its neighbours and has one of the highest rate of return visitors in the world.
But let me answer my question: "What should I do in Bangkok?" From its steamy streets and smoke-belching buses to its golden temples and flashy go-go dancers, the Thai capital heaves with a unique character that can be totally addictive. However, the real answer to the question lies in what you want from your visit. As with other big cities, you will discover the city you want to find.
If you want to see the historical sights and follow the tourist trail, you will head for the Grand Palace with its priceless emerald buddha, the sparkling Temple of Dawn, Wat Po with its reclining buddha and the world's largest teak building, the Vimanmek Museum. You will go on a cruise down the Chao Praya River, past spectacular five-star hotels, temples, university and markets. You may even be tempted into visiting a crocodile farm or taking a ride on an elephant.
The song "One Night in Bangkok" immortalised the saucy side of the city, with its gogo clubs and sordid strip shows. It still exists, but is heavily outnumbered by the many nightclubs and bars that are packed with the city residents every night. The Thais love a party and don't mind you joining in. However, you'll be surprised to discover that Bangkok's nightspots are not open till dawn. Since a crackdown on vice a year or two back the official closing time is 1am. Of course, locals and expats party on at the many karoake clubs and bars that stay open illegally, but the places you will be offered as a tourist are not recommended.
If you do want a peak at the seamier side of Bangkok, take an organised nightlife tour (with a group, not a private tour guide) and you will be herded from one spot to another. You'll get a general picture. If you want to go alone, avoid the notorious Patpong where the upper-floor bars offer promises of extraordinary acts but only deliver overpriced drinks and strong-arm tactics. Rather opt for Soi Cowboy off Sukhumvit Road or the nearby Nana Plaza, where the atmosphere is more friendly. You'll probably be surprised by the number of Western couples and sightseers having an innocently good time.
But what ultimately defines Bangkok are not its well-publicised attractions, but the hidden spots and overwhelming contrasts the city delivers. This is a city where you can follow in the footsteps of Noel Coward and have English afternoon tea at the famous Oriental Hotel or dine at a very popular restaurant named Condoms and Cabbages, where you get a condom instead of an after-dinner mint. (The restaurant was started by an Aids activist doctor to encourage the use of condoms). This is also a city where you can watch a monk on his alms round at 5am receiving a traditional wai greeting from a gogo girl on her way home. No-one would consider this extraordinary.
It is a city of so many contrasts that you are bound to feel quite dizzy on your first visit. But, once you settle down and let its charming exuberance wash over you, you will be hooked for life. Bangkok is not a one-visit city. Get hooked and you will always come back for more.
1. Stay in a good hotel. No other thing will have a greater influence on the enjoyment of Bangkok. Your hotel is not just a place to sleep. It's your refuge from the head and humidity, an escape from the crowded streets with their pungent aromas and your own space away from the pushy taxi drivers and pesky street vendors. On my first trip, I was booked into a crummy backstreet hotel with musty, dusty rooms and faulty air-conditioning and I couldn't leave Bangkok quickly enough. When booking a trip, remember that most packages use the cheapest hotels to make the price as appealing as possible. Upgrade the hotel - for as little as R100 a night you could end up in splendid accommodation. The best areas are around Silom-Sathorn, Sukhumvit Road and, of course, along the Chao Praya River.
2. Avoid tuk-tuks. These noisy, little motorbike 'taxi cars' have become a symbol of Bangkok. They are appealing and you will want to have your picture taken in one. But don't consider them for anything than a short, fun trip and always agree the price in advance. Tuk-tuk drivers are the city's leading rip-off merchants and the scourge of the tourism industry. They will overcharge you, take you to fake jewellery stores, dump you outside tailor shops, shortchange you - in fact, they will do anything to get their hands on tourist dollars. Not all are dishonest, but there are enough out there to avoid them altogether. The metered taxis, the skytrain and the metro are a much better bet.
3. A massage is not always a massage. Make sure you enjoy some of the cheapest massages on the planet. Nothing beats a foot massage after a day out tramping the streets or a body massage to give you a new spring in your step. However, some massage parlours specialise in additional services. (Yes, sex). The easiest way to tell the difference is the same way the tax authorities do - if you are asked choose your masseur, then the chances are that more than a body rub is on offer. Wherever you go, a foot or Thai body massage will be safe - an "oil massage" can be the code for extras.
4. Haggle your socks off. In street markets and tourist stores where the items are not marked with prices, you are expected to bargain. The general rule is that the real price is 25-30% of the given price. These markets, with their fake Rolex watches, dubious Louis Vuitton luggage and superb Thai handicrafts, are great fun, but you may not get value for money. Your nationality is an important factor - that's why the seller's first question is "Where you come from?" Resist the temptation to say America or England ("Oooh, you have big money"). Stick with South Africa. They'll be puzzled or already know that our currency is no great shakes. But don't get too 'hit up' about the prices - decide what it is worth to you and don't go any higher. Someone will always have paid less (and more) than you. 
5. Eat on the street. Get rid of your inhibitions and eat where the people of Bangkok do - at the street stalls. All over the city, you will find food carts and makeshift stalls selling everything from grilled chicken and noodle soup to prawn salad and Thai sweets. Check which stalls are the busiest and head there. Pull up a little plastic stool and taste the local delicacies. A phrase yu may need is ‘mai pet’ (as in ‘my pet’), which means “not too spicy”. The food is cheap - usually from 20-40 baht (R4-R8). Don't be surprised if your drink is served in a plastic bag, just hold the bag in one hand and sip through the straw.
6. Honour the Royal Family. Don't even think of making a joke or criticising the King or the Queen. It's best not to comment or ask questions, as anything that could be construed as unfavourable will be frowned upon. The Royal Family are idolised by the Thais and this respect is shown to all images of them, whether on the shrine-like displays across the city or the banknotes. In the same vein, don't show disrespect to Buddha or monks in this heavily-Buddhist country.
7. Dine in the sky. Two of Bangkok's top restaurants are situated on the top of skyscraper buildings, giving diners an amazing view of the city. These are not tourist traps, most guests are wealthy Bangkok residents and expats who know the classiest spots in town. Located on the 63rd floor of The Dome at State Tower, Sirocco is the world’s highest al fresco restaurant with a bar which hangs out over the edge of the building. Local bigwigs recently paid 30,000 dollars each for a charity dinner here. It'll cost you far less, but the splendid view will be the same. An alternative is Vertigo on the 61st floor of the Banyan Tree Hotel. Sip a traditional 'Mai Thai' cocktail and dine on two of the house specialities - grilled oysters with parmesan cheese and grilled scallops with hazelnut and coriander butter.
8. Cross the Bridge. If you want to take a trip out of town, the one to go for takes you to Kanchanaburi, about two hours drive from Bangkok. It is a pretty town and you'll get to see the countryside but the main reason for heading this way is the 'Bridge over the River Kwai', the start of the infamous World War II Death Railway to Burma (Myanmar). Immortalized in the famous movie and novel, about 16,000 prisoners of war and 100,000 Asians died during the construction. You can walk across the bridge and check out the museum, but the biggest treat is to catch the small tourist train which takes you across the bridge and back again for only 20 baht (R4.)
9. A lady is not always a lady. Thailand has an extraordinary number of ladyboys and transvestites (known as katoey in Thai). In many cases, you will not be able to tell the difference between the real and the fake. Don't bother to look for an Adam's Apple - those are surgically removed. If the 'girl' you meet seems extraordinarily feminine or looks like a supermodel or film star, beware. The real Thai girls are mostly very modest and sweet and do not "strut their stuff". Katoeys are widely accepted in Thai society and nearly every soapie or game show on TV will feature one.
10. Go to Bed for a night out. In a city overflowing with nightlife options, Bed Supperclub is a veteran. But this amazing club, with white leather beds that stretches the length of the venue, is still top of the heap. Meet interesting Asians, expats and visitors as you lounge, dine or dance on the ‘bed’. However, this is not the place to wear your latest ‘fake’ designer gear – regulars here know the difference.
At my suggestion, my Thai friend Tanit, who owns a guesthouse in Patong, put up a Christmas tree on his patio. It's really beautiful, with little angels and twinkling lights and has become a real attraction with tourists posing next to it for photographs and coo-ing: "Can you believe it? A Christmas tree here in Thailand..." It has certainly been good for business.
And, yes, we all know that someone will bring up the story about how Alfred got caught kissing the neighbour's wife at the Bathurst show in 1984... But there is a wonderful feeling of knowing that you are loved and appreciated. We may all be terribly different and squabble like mad, but we are all part of the family and we can count on each other to be there when it really counts. It is that unwavering acceptance that makes it really, really special.
Ever heard the horror tales of how they used to treat wounds in the old days with leeches? I remember hearing about some adventurers, perhaps in the Amazon jungle, who had applied these bloodsuckers to their injuries to heal them. Sounds awful.
I am not joking. The wound-healing maggots are produced in a laboratory and are described as 'surgically sterile'. The number of maggots used depends on the severity of the wound, a small cut on the finger will only warrant 5 or six of the creepy crawlies, while a severe injury to your leg that could lead to bone infection may demand 500-600 of them.
Come the end of April, the last chartered jet will take off from Phuket Airport packed with fake Gucci bags and silver chopsticks and we will have our lovely island to ourselves again. It will take a while for the prices to settle down, but soon everyone will forget what a 100 Euro note looks like and the free drinks will start coming out again. Long live Phuket!
