A sneakpeek of Chapter 1 of my South-East Asian Travels

When the taxi pulled up to Khaosan Road a little before noon, I immediately checked in to a hotel, broke free from my clunky backpack and fell backwards, waking up to a dark sky on a stiff mattress. I walked outside, secured a seat at the first outdoor café and ordered a cup of coffee and one Thai beer. I was impressed with the coffee and curious how another beer would taste. While the waitress brought over another beer, I noticed five bright-colored Barak Obama T-shirts undulating in the soft breeze, two of which, were obscured by another idle traveler. When I aimed my camera in his direction, he scooted to the side.

“Not that you’re not terrifically handsome” I said. Those were my first words to come out of my mouth that were not directly related to a formal transaction since I left India. While the waitress returned with the beer, he prepared to respond, to which he finally did, with an invitation to join him. With alacrity, I rearranged my chair and offered my company. He had a voluble tongue about his recent trip to Cambodia, his ten years spent in England and his long overdue return home, to Australia with his fiancé. He was adamant we drank more before we ate, ‘eating was cheating’ he enjoyed repeating. His fiancé, Beth, joined us, and urged us to revisit the topic of Cambodia. Etching on a napkin, the couple devised a ten-step manual how to reach the Cambodian border entirely hassle free. The detailed instructions were precise: how to detect a con-artist, a tourist trap, and what phrases to assert at the border. I inscribed the steps into the front cover of my Paul Theroux novel, Dark Star Safari. I felt I was being led on a treasure hunt and I liked that, so I insisted Cambodia would be next. James and Beth were satisfied and we continued on, our moods proving more expansive by each beer.

The road now was swirling with travelers. James and Beth saw it wise to resign for the night, leaving me with a sufficient buzz and a flappy mouth. I moseyed on across the street, taking a seat by two pretty women. They were rattling off in Spanish, but their table joined with a larger party, all of whom had the earmarks of an American with the exception of one man. At first, the associations of all those seated were unknowable. The one Indian man with the three Americans acknowledged my curiosity despite the sonorous Spanish that divided us. He lofted several platitudes over the banter until I pulled closer. Causing an interruption, I projected my introduction so all could hear, including the gabby Spaniards. All eyes were on me as I delivered my story: though I could go no further once I broached New Delhi—the Indian man asking me where exactly. And of course, the right response was Golf Links, his childhood home, also the same neighborhood my sister lives and I had stayed. The happenstance filled him with tremendous garrulity that he, with the support of the table, revealed the peculiar circumstances of why he and they were together.

In addition to Golf Links, the man from India and I shared one more thing in common. At that table, we had both met his daughter—for the first time. 20 years had passed since his American girl friend had urged him to run along, to pursue his dream to be a hot-air balloon captain, and to be anything but a father in their daughter’s life. So he did, his daughter and he eerily explained. He never bemoaned about his abandonment, nor paid much attention to it. He seemed a product of his profession, someone who had unhitched early in order to float through life. The illegitimate Katie, a senior at the University of California Irvine, located her errant father on Facebook a few months before. She notified him that she was a student abroad in Bangkok—if he ever passed through, they should meet for a meal.

And here they were, she sat before him, I sat beside, their first conversation. Both so stoical, devoid of grudge or melodrama, they spoke as perfect strangers. I was disbelieving of the arrangement, certain they were merely exploiting my ignorance. Still, to my amazement, the details of the affair poured in without inconsistency. I appreciated the story. It was a pleasant vacation from the blame-games and bitterness of a broken home.

Passing midnight, the yawns were too difficult to hide. The Spaniards retired to their cigarettes, father and daughter made plans to spend the next day together, and I stood up, as to bow, and wished everyone a good night. Entering the street, I was nearly washed up by the flowing current of interesting people, but I resisted, crossing over to my squalid hotel. Entering my room, leaving the light off, I undressed in the glow of a city still awake.