The Beach

'One time I got punched doing the Nigger Lover,' Sammy said, as he began to roll another joint. 'Knocked flat on my fuckin' back.'

I wasn't at all surprised. The act involved Sammy starting violent arguments with total strangers, insisting that because there's a country in Africa called Niger, all people from Niger were niggers –regardless of whether they were black or white.

'Aren't they called Nigerians?' I asked, bristling slightly, despite knowing I was being suckered.

Sammy shook his head. 'That's what everyone says, but I don't think so. Think about it. Nigeria is right below Niger. They border each other, so if they were both called Nigerians it would cause chaos.'

'Well, I still doubt they're called niggers.'

'Oh sure. Me too. I only say it to make a point… Fuck knows what the point is, but…' He drew on the joint and passed it on. 'It's like my grandad taught me. He was a colonel in the US Marines. Sammy, he'd say, the ends always justify the means. And you know what, Richard? He was right.'

I was about to disagree, but I realized he was winding me up again. Instead I replied, 'You can't make an omelette without breaking some eggs.'

Sammy smiled and turned to look at the sea.

'That's the boy, ' I thought I heard him say.

Lightning silhouetted the line of palm trees on the beach into a line of claws with pencil arms. The lizard scuttled out of my hand, startled by the flash.

'That's the kid.'

I frowned. 'Sorry? What was that?'

He turned back, also frowning, but with the smile still not faded from his lips. 'What was what?'

'Didn't you just say something?'

'Nope.'

I looked at Zeph. 'Didn't you hear him say something?'

Zeph shrugged. 'I was watching the lightning.'

'Oh.'

Just the dope talking, I guessed.

The rain continued as night fell. Etienne and Francoise stayed in their hut, and Zeph, Sammy and I stayed on the porch until we were too stoned to do anything but sit in silence, passing the odd comment between us if there was an impressive roll of thunder.

An hour or two after dark a tiny Thai woman came over to our porch from the restaurant, almost hidden under a giant beach parasol. She looked at the dope paraphernalia strewn about us with a wan smile, then handed Zeph a spare key to their room. I took that as my cue to crawl into bed. As I said good night, Sammy croaked, 'Hey, nice meeting you. Catch you tomorrow, dude.'

He seemed to say it without a trace of irony. I couldn't work out whether it was a continuation of his surfer joke or whether the grass had regressed his Harvard mind. It seemed too complicated to ask, so I said, 'Sure,' and shut the door behind me.

At around three in the morning I woke up for a short while, dry-mouthed, still high – and listened. I could hear cicadas, and waves sucking down the beach. The storm had blown itself out.

Spaced Invaders

The next morning the sky was still clouded over. As I walked out on to the porch, scattered with rain-soaked joint butts, I had the bizarre sensation that I was back in England. There was a slight chill in the air and I could smell wet earth and leaves. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I padded over the cool sand to Etienne and Francoise's hut. There was no answer, so I tried the restaurant and found them eating breakfast. I ordered a mango salad, thinking an exotic taste might compensate for the feeling of being at home, and sat down with them.

'Who did you meet last night?' said Etienne, as I pulled up a chair. 'We saw you talking outside your room.'

'We watched you from our window,' Francoise added.

I pulled out a cigarette to kill time before breakfast arrived. 'I met a couple of Americans. Zeph and Sammy.'

Francoise nodded. 'Did you tell them about our beach?'

'No.' I lit up. 'I didn't.'

'You shouldn't tell people about our beach.'

'I didn't tell them.'

'It should be a secret.'

I exhaled strongly. 'And that's why I didn't tell them, Francoise.'

Etienne interrupted. 'She was worried you might have…' The sentence trailed off into a nervous smile.

'It didn't even cross my mind,' I replied irritably, and stubbed out my cigarette hard.

It tasted like shit.

When the mango salad arrived I made an effort to relax. I told them about how the Americans had fooled me with their surfer act last night. Francoise thought the story was extremely funny. Her laughter partially defused the tension and we began making plans for the day ahead.

We decided that we had to hire a boat. The normal tour agencies wouldn't do because they'd be too organized, and we doubted we'd be able to slip away from their supervision. Instead we would need to find a fisherman who was unaware of or unconcerned about the rules on tourists in the marine park.

After breakfast we split up to improve our chances. I went north, towards Ko Mat Lang, and the other two went south, aiming for a small town we'd passed on the jeep ride. Our rendezvous was in three hours' time, back at our huts.

The sun came out as I set off down Chaweng, but it did little to salvage my mood. Flies buzzed around my head, smelling the sweat, and the walking became increasingly laborious as last night's rain dried off the sand.

I began counting the guest-houses I passed along the shore line. After twenty minutes I'd counted seventeen, and they were still showing no signs of thinning out. If anything, the palm trees were more cluttered with Ray-Bans and concrete patios than before.

In 1984 I was in my sitting room, playing on my Atari, and listened to the babysitter talk about Ko Samui. As I mopped the screen clear of space invaders, names and places stuck in my head.

Pattaya was a hell-hole. Chiang Mai was rainy and cold. Ko Samui was hot and beautiful. Ko Samui was where she had stayed with her boyfriend for five months, hanging out on the beach and doing strange things she was both reluctant and keen to talk about.

A-levels out of the way, my friends and I scattered ourselves around the globe. The next August we started coming back, and I learnt that my babysitter's paradise was yesterday's news. Ko Pha-Ngan, the next island along, was Thailand's new Mecca.

A few years later, as I checked my passport and confirmed my flight to Bangkok, a friend telephoned with advice. 'Give Ko Pha-Ngan a miss, Rich,' she said. 'Hat Rin's a long way past its sell-by date. They sell printed flyers for the full-moon parties. Ko Tao. That's where it's at.'

After an hour of walking I gave up trying to find a fisherman. The only Thais I met were selling gemstones and baseball caps. By the time I got back to my beach hut I was exhausted, sunburnt, and pissed off. I went straight to the restaurant and bought a packet of cigarettes. Then I chain-smoked in the shade of a palm tree, looking out for Etienne and Francoise, hoping they'd had better luck.

TV Heaven

Thais, or South-East Asians in general, make eerily convincing transvestites. Their slight builds and smooth faces are a recipe for success.

I saw a particularly stunning transvestite as I waited under the palm tree. His silicone breasts were perfectly formed and he had hips to die for. The only thing to betray his gender was his gold lame dress – a bit too showy to be worn by a Thai girl on a stroll down Chaweng.

He was carrying a backgammon set under his arm, and as he slunk past he asked if I wanted to play a game.

'No thanks,' I replied with neurotic haste.

'Why?' he wanted to know. 'I think maybe you afrai' I win.'

I nodded.

'OK. Maybe you wan' play in bed?' He tugged at the long slit up the side of his dress, revealing fabulous legs. 'Maybe in bed I le' you win…'