FUKIT and PATONG BEACH

We caught a ‘plane from Kuala Lumpar to Fuckit, and, because of the time difference, arrived an hour before we left. Once on Fukit, it was a 20km taxi ride to Patong Beach, where the show was to be held. I’d been told it was the Songkra Water Festival as well, celebrating the Thai new year. I expected to see boats decked out in flowers or something. Wrong. Thailand gets a week off, and they spend the WHOLE week throwing buckets of water at you. Everyone is soaked to the skin, and even the cops don’t escape. However, their guns are in polythene bags in their holsters. Everywhere, there are 45 gallon barrels of water, and every so often they’re topped up by tankers. Virtually everyone carries a water pistol, and they soak you and cover you with flour, shake your hand and wish you a happy new year. It took us over 3 hours to get the last 2 miles to the hotel, and we couldn’t wind down the taxi’s tinted windows to get any pictures. After all the travelling, we were getting pissed off.
I took an instant dislike to Patong beach. It’s horribly touristy, and everywhere there are fat bald retired Englishmen with beautiful young Thai girls, who will “Love you long time”.

I’d booked the Patong Beach Lodge Hotel on the web, and the pictures looked superb, with its sumptuous swimming pool and nice rooms. Plus, according to the map, it was real close to the “Big Bike Peace” show. And at £9 a night including breakfast for individual suites, pretty cheap too, so when the taxi turned into a dingy sidestreet, and pulled up at some old gates, my heart sunk, so much so I nearly asked our driver to take us back to the airport, except that I couldn’t, because no-one in Thailand speaks English apart from the hundreds of fat bald pensioners. The hotel next to ours rented rooms by the hour. Reluctantly, and well knackered, we got out and entered the gate. I was amazed. It really was as good as the pictures!

After an hour’s rest, we ventured out, money wrapped in polythene bags. Within 100 yards we were soaked and covered in flour, and had huge shit-eating grins on our mugs. We went to look for the show. It was a good 120 degrees in the shade, and I’d been right about our hotel….it was 10 minutes walk away. We got there, and it was deserted. Big gulp. Had I fucked up? We went back later in the afternoon, and there were a few bikes there, and they were outrageous. We started taking piccys and filming, not realising that, because of the heat, the 4-day show is held at night. When we returned that night, the place was heaving. There were thousands there, and bikes were arriving in huge convoys, nearly all chops. Unfortunately, there was no sign of Atan, who we were supposed to meet.
After a couple of days with no sign of him, I’m starting to get worried. We’re supposed to be going around Thailand with him as our guide. During our Emails over the last year, I’d realised he was so laid back he was horizontal, and his writing was erratic, sometimes being perfect English, and others being complete gobbledegook. I suspected his English was pretty limited and that someone was writing for him. I was to be proved correct. His girlfriend was writing using his name, and he could hardly speak English or Thai. Bloody hell, this was going to be some trip!
In desperation, we found an internet caff and sent him an Email, saying, basically, “Where the fuck are you, you tosser”? That night, we went back to the show. I was wearing a “T” Shirt he’d sent me, in the vain hope he’d recognise it amongst the thousands there. Then Myles spotted a bike we’d not seen before. It had no rear hub, and the artwork screamed out “Atan”. Actually, it did more than that, because, airbrushed across it was his name. He was no-where in sight. We finally met later that night, when he saw the shirt, sprinted over and jumped on my back, all hair and grinning white teeth. It was as if we were brothers. At last, the feeling of doom and gloom was lifted.
In Thailand, the chop scene has been huge for 25 years. There are hundreds of backpatch clubs. Seems they used to all fight each other all the time, like we used to. One man decided to put a stop to it, hence the “Big Bike Peace” show. Everyone met up, and they decided on a “No War” policy, a phrase we were to hear many times. We were to meet this guy later on our journey.
During the show, there were loads of temporary outside bars. We ended up at Fat Mama’s, and it became our local. The girls that ran it took a liking to us, possibly because we weren’t trying to get in their knickers like all the other Europeans and Yanks. We really were there for the bikes. When you order a drink in Thailand, there’s a jug next to you. They write down what you’ve had on a piece of paper and put it in. They add them all up and you pay when you leave. Each time an ex-pat with pretty young girl came and sat down, they put our tickets in his jug. I met up with a lad who I’d built a frame for in England, and we ended up partying for the duration. At one point, we were sat at the bar with two blokes I knew from the UK, a Canadian who was so pissed he collapsed at the bar, some Germans, and a Swedish guy called Magnus, who had been drinking with the Canadian. He was so pissed I got Myles to stand behind him ready to catch him if he fell over. Amazingly, he didn’t. We looked at our watches. Bloody hell….it was 6am and we were at the only bar still open. The girls had all stayed up for us. For some weird reason, me and Myles were remarkably sober, which is more than could be said for the Thai lads. Anyone that thinks Thai’s don’t party are slightly wrong. They were shitfaced. Every half hour someone would be doing wheelies or burnouts. But by now the site was deserted, each club leaving in convoy, pissed as farts. The atmosphere had been magic. No trouble. No war. Dozens of different clubs partying together. You could even buy “T” Shirts from them with their patches on!!!
I’d really begun to take a liking to the Thai people. I didn’t like Patong Beach because it’s the archetypal tourist trap, but I must admit that me and Myles had a paddle in the South China Sea. They’re honest and gentle, but I hated the Sugar Daddies who had to come over here to buy a woman because no Englishwoman would touch them with a bargepole!
Next morning, we were to meet up with Atan and the owner of the hubless bike he’s built, as they were going to give us a lift to Bangkok. I wanted to fly, but Atan said it wouldn’t take long, as it was only 1200km away. If I’d done my maths, I’d have realised that’s 750 miles, and that’s just to the outskirts of possibly the maddest city in the world!