I see white people

My Berlin friends Jan and Angelika are retiring to the coastal town of Hua Hin, about 100 miles south of Bangkok, so I decide to check it out on my way to visit Justin. My taxi driver to the Bangkok train station offers to drive me there for a mere 2,000 THB, roughly seventy bucks American. I decline with thanks, opting for the 44 THB train ride. Thirty-five baht to the dollar, so do the math.

The inside of a third-class Thai train looks like every old school bus you ever rode as a kid. It was delightful: the windows down, the countryside, Thai families, vendors walking up and down the train selling fruit bundles and chicken satay. Gaping at the shanty houses built right up against the tracks, shanties with late-model pickups parked out front (back?) Five hours later – after stopping at every town and village along the way – we arrive in Hua Hin.

I am crestfallen.

Does an expat enclave HAVE to look like a foreign occupation? O.k., maybe a few English signs here and there to help newbies get their bearings. But this shoreline area of pubs, pizza joints, Italian restaurants, etc., seems designed for the same people who like big-ass RVs: not just all the comforts of home, but home itself. And you come here why, exactly?

Right off the train I am approached by John, a polite, rotund Dutchman who is recruiting guests for his small hotel. His brochure looks good, the price is right, the wi-fi is free, and Germanic proprietors have a good reputation, generally. Having not so much as a map or destination, John provides me with both.

The jury is still out on John’s place. This was my $35-per-night room (breakfast included). King-size temper-pedic bed, large TV, air-con and fan – a decent value. But John exudes the con-man vibe and soon is working the upsell for his other occupation, travel agent. He patiently extols the comfort and speed of the luxury bus tour he would arrange for me. And then I get the sad smile and head-shake of disappointment at my dumb-stupid insistence on continuing by rail. Blah-blah this bad thing, blah-blah that bad thing. More sad smile, more head-shake. So back I go to the train, the terrible, terrible train.

---

South to Chumphon my seat-mate is Lee, an affable 60-year-old chef who just got laid off from the Hua Hin Hilton and is striking out to seek his fortune in Krabi. Bald, handlebar moustache – picture Indy’s German pugilist foe who goes into the propeller blades in “Raiders” and you’ve got Lee. He’s kicked around Thailand for years with his chef’s knives and other tools he carries in his refrigerator-size backpack. We chat all the way down to Chumphon, where he guides me to a reputable tourist service/guest house. I book a ride to Koh Tao and an $8 dollar room. The last I see Lee, he is nursing a Singha at the bar and chatting up the server. Lee is my fantasy role model!