“We don’t have much alternative,” Steven said. Gunn nodded her confirmation.
“You’ve got us over a barrel, you’re obviously smarter than the rest of us put together,” Steven shouted to Kronsky. “OK, let’s go and meet your friends.”
“Get in your wagon and follow me. My jeep’s just a few hundred yards ahead in the bush,” Kronsky said as he pointed his automatic towards a jungle path.
Gunn spoke in low tones as she and Steven got into their jeep. “I didn’t know you were in the Pioneer Corps. Your dossier says the SAS then secondment to the Australian Special Forces towards the end of the Vietnam War.”
“So you’ve read my military dossier? That’s supposed to be confidential. Is there anyone in Thailand who hasn’t read it yet?” Steven asked.
“Who are the Pioneer Corps?” Gunn asked.
“A joke. The latrine diggers of the British Army.”
“Crazy farang humour,” Gunn said, mainly to herself.
[*] Most nations had a tradition of racist jokes about other nationalities. Almost affectionate in nature, humour in these circumstances helped prevent conflict by bringing racial differences out into the open. By utilising the device of humour, other nations didn’t lose too much face. If they were bright enough, they concocted their own jokes in retaliation. Better to have a war of jokes. Although obstreperous in nature, a kind of dialogue was created. Perversely, such jokes were now against the law in much of the West - politically incorrect. Ironically, such perverse, politically correct reasoning encouraged cultural irritations to fester. Humour was a useful release in times of stress, but political correctness had removed this safety valve. Was it any coincidence that racial/ethnic conflict had increased in both East and West?
But it was impossible to prevent people making jokes in private about anything they wished. Proof was the British still had their little Irish witticisms; Americans their Polak funnies; Southern Vietnam jests about the Northern Vietnamese; and Thai people a huge menu of Lao jokes. Even the politically correct Swedes had Norwegian gags. How the Swedes managed to correlate such politically-incorrect humour with their politically correct approach to other social issues, verified that hypocrisy was rampant in the West. So it was all right to make jokes about Norwegians, but not against black people or women! But such legislation was passed when the Swedish prime minister was a woman. Do as I say, not what I do.
[**] The average IQ score in Thailand is just 90. The average IQ of the world’s prison population is 93. The average IQ in the West is 100. The maximum possible IQ score utilising the MENSA/Cattell scale, is 178. Thailand’s average IQ score is approximately half that.
The hidden Thai factor is that IQ tests predominately measure left-brain intellect (cognitive attributes such as maths and science), whereas Thai people have one of the highest right-brain (creative) intellects in the world. Perhaps that is why Thai scams are so imaginative? Either way, Western politicians, the IMF and World Bank are always fooled. Score: a series of own goals to Western administrations; billions of dollars to Thailand. No wonder Thai people and politicians in particular, always had smiles on their faces!
[***] Corruption within law enforcement and judicial systems in Thailand usually starts with the police, but court clerks and judges could also be bent. However, it was the police who predominately fixed things by failing to initiate charges if the appropriate amount of ‘tea money’ had been paid. Where a charge had been officially placed on record by a non-bent cop, other cops
- often the non-bent cop’s superior - could be persuaded to lose evidence. That or persuade witnesses to forget what they had seen if they wanted to retain their own freedom. Cases would then be thrown out of court for lack of evidence, or never reach court at all. In cases when charges were not dropped, the appropriate amount of tea money would ensure that bail was granted with the defendant’s passport ‘accidentally’ returned due to an ‘administrative error’. The accused then absconded, slipping across the border with an incredulous sigh of relief.
But don’t judge Thailand too harshly, as corruption within the law enforcement and judicial system in the USA is not exactly unknown. Best-selling author and practising lawyer Scott Turow, who worked within the American judicial system for a decade, uncovered massive evidence of corruption in high places. That included judges. In the UK, many incidents of bent cops have been exposed.
61
Nineteenth Nervous Breakdown
The dust from Kronsky’s vehicle made the journey into an ordeal for the jeep behind, as the small convoy drove in the direction of the war lord’s encampment.
With a sheer drop on one side of a steep mountain road, any error on the driver’s part would result in immediate transportation to the forest below.
“I don’t like this,” Rupert yelled over the whine of the engines as the all-terrain vehicles struggled to negotiate the seemingly vertical incline.
“Where is he taking us? The warlord and his compadres don’t know Kronsky’s plan so what if they decided to implement one of their own? Perhaps they’ll hold all of us to ransom. Western administrations won’t pay ransoms. Quite a few aid workers have been killed when no ransom was forthcoming. They used to do it all the time in Cambodia. Oh dear, why did I come.” Rupert’s nerve was well on the way to breakdown.
“I know the country well enough to get us out of here,” Gunn quietly said, trying to calm the ageing British queen. “But if they did decide to keep us captive, Steven knows how to get out of anything. That’s why you insisted he came along. Kronsky wants money from us and until he gets it, he’ll do everything in his power to make sure we stay in one piece.” Gunn did her best to reassure Rupert.
“She’s got more guts than Rupert,” Steven thought as he drove. “There is clearly more to this girl than a sweet face and a tight pussy.”
“It’ll be dark soon and the track will be even more dangerous. God, why did I come,” Rupert whined, Gunn’s words falling on deaf ears.
Snaking its way up and around a mini mountain, eventually the narrow road levelled out, and through the early evening mist a group of wooden buildings came into view.
62
Asian-Rambos
The hum of a generator providing power to a brightly lit outer perimeter, identified the warlord’s encampment. Reminiscent of a Japanese Second World War prison barracks - a main wooden building surrounded by smaller huts spaced out around a central square - the mix of bamboo and teak houses was home to a billion-dollar illegal drugs enterprise. Built on stilts to protect against flood and poisonous snakes, the innocuous appearance of the traditionally designed dwellings denied the wealth of those who lived inside.
The giveaway was the addition of panji pits surrounding the perimeter fence. Sharpened bamboo sticks hidden in trenches, disablement or an unusually painful death would be dealt to any invader who fell upon them.
“Thank God we’ve arrived in one piece,” Rupert exclaimed. “I never want to go up that hill again.”
Half a dozen Asian toughs stood around smoking. Smaller than the common or garden European thug, they were dressed in a mix of combat outfits and gaudy Oriental accessories. Overt signs of their masculinity, some proudly polished automatic weapons.
Amix of Laotian, Burmese, Vietnamese, Wa, Shan, Karen and Mong girls, plus a couple of light skinned Chiang Mai females, some flashily decked out in miniskirts and bright silk blouses, others in traditional hill tribe costume, hustled for attention.
A handful of barefoot children dressed in shorts and little else, the smaller ones nothing at all, played football. Kicking a bundle of rags tied up with coconut copra, the youngsters enjoyed themselves in the manner of kids since time began.
Smoke rising above the encampment and the smell and sound of food cooking in open pans, dogs barking and kids playing, confirmed that despite great wealth gained from their illegal trade, life went on as it always has done in rural areas of South East Asia. Apart from the possession of shiny, all-terrain fo
ur wheel drive vehicles and very loud stereos, keeping up with the Joneses played little part in a communal village environment.
Kronsky laid down the law as Steven and Gunn stepped out of their jeep. “Make your way to the main hut and keep to the story or you’re all dead. But only after I’ve taught her a few techniques in love making.” To emphasise the point, Kronsky brandished his gun to suggest that the barrel would be acting as a sex-aid.
Steven changed the subject.
“This looks like a photograph my uncle showed me from the Second World War. He was captured by the Japanese in Singapore. Ended up working on the Thai/Burmese railway. He was lucky to survive.”
“You know your stuff, Englishman,” Kronsky confirmed. “This was a Japanese prison camp. My associates liberated it at the end of the war. It was theirs in the first place.” Kronsky ushered his small party to the verandah of the main hut.
Like extras from a Filipino action-adventure movie, armed to the teeth with knives, rifles, pistols and ammunition bandoliers placed strategically around their bodies, three Asian Rambos nodded a greeting as the newcomers approached.
From inside the main hut the chief honcho appeared. Atough, gnarled-looking sixty-year-old with slant eyes, gold teeth stained with beetle nut juice and a beautiful fifteen-year-old hill tribe girl marking her man, the warlord greeted the newcomers with a low-key confidence born of absolute power in his small kingdom.
“Stanislav, you are back. Where have you been, visiting relatives?”
The guards laughed, picking up their cue even though most of them could not speak English.
“Just escorting some friends I want you to meet,” Kronsky replied. “Some British boys wanting to start up a distribution network of their own. They need fifty kilos.”
His Oriental instincts alert for treachery, the warlord ran his eyes over his new guests, searching for any incorrect twitch of the eye or hint of deceit.
“Have you seen the colour of their money?” The warlord’s question was aimed at Kronsky.
“They said they’d left it in Chiang Mai. Insurance in case your heroin aint up to scratch.”
“You mean your friends don’t trust us?”
Despite their ignorance of the language, again the guards laughed. But the warlord’s followers would have laughed in the right place at anything the main man said, expertly picking up clues regardless of whether they could understand the language or not. Such is the nature of followers everywhere.
Steven answered for himself. “Your own experience will advise it’s best to hold back one card. Ours is the money. We’ve got fifty thousand dollars back in Chiang Mai. It’s all yours in exchange for fifty kilos of high grade, uncut heroin.”
“What guarantee we have you return with money?” The warlord’s question was terse and to the point. “Maybe you some kind of government agent trying to close us down.” The warlord explored Steven’s face as he awaited a response.
Kronsky interrupted before Steven could reply. “He knows enough about South East Asia to be aware that we’ve got protection from important members of the police and government officials. Burmese, Laotian, Thai, they’re all on the take. Even if he was an informer, he knows it would be him who ended up in jail, not us. That or dead.”
“So he’s been in South East Asia before,” the warlord casually stated.
“Fighting in Nam, same as me. R and R in Thailand,” Kronsky replied.
The warlord stared at Steven. “But you said he was British. The British weren’t in Vietnam.”
Steven cut in. “Attached to a division of the Australian Special Forces. They had a couple of platoons in Nam.”
The warlord appeared satisfied.
“Australians speak funny. Hard to understand. Speak English but not like English or American man. Fight all time. Drink all time. Anything and everything. Mekong whisky. Singha beer. Rice wine. Fermented ling (monkey) crap. Australians major piss heads. I meet too many in past. Crazy people. Not give fuck about no one.”
Steven shrugged. The warlord had clearly met Australians before.
But the warlord had not completed his thesis on Australia, and continued to elaborate on his experiences with a race he obviously admired. “I remember Australian man during Vietnam War. Him called........”
The warlord searched what remained of his drug buggered brain, seeking the name of an Australian he’d met thirty years before, when he was just a small-time drug dealer selling shit to American and Australian troops on R and R.
“Reg Jackson. Remember now. Officer in Australian army when Vietnam War still on. Other soldiers hard and fit, but him supply officer take care of food, so sit around all day drinking like whale out of water long time. Looked like whale too. Poompooee macma (very fat). Make joke all time, that’s why remember. Him very funny man. Fart all time as well. Smell so bad make girlfriend faint. Two packs of Fosters every time he eat and eat five times each day because him poompooee and need much food. Very funny man. Joke, fart, eat, drink and fuck. That’s all he do. Australians know how to live for sure.”
Lavish in his praise of the Australian lifestyle as viewed from his own perspective, the warlord recalled his youth with a certain affection. But money called and he never took chances with that, so resumed his interrogation of Kronsky and his new friends.
“But not answer question. What guarantee you come back with money for horse (heroin)?”
Kronsky steered the conversation towards the plan he’d hatched on the way to the camp. “We’re going to keep a hostage. One of these two. The fag I think.”
The warlord stared at Gunn. “Why not keep girl? Have light skin. Light skin very good for me. Leave girl not fag. If farang not come back, both fuck her. Me in front, you up back. You swing both ways I think, so fuck toot (ass) no problem for you. I think Kronsky fuck anything. Dog, cat, buffalo, snake, boy, girl, pussy, shithole, old lady’s nose, hole in fucking ground.”
A guard translated and the whole camp fell about laughing.
“Fuck you,” Kronsky growled.
Having established his authority, the warlord directed the conversation away from downgrading Kronsky to the business at hand.
“What good farang katoi if handsome man not return?” The warlord was firm in his response.
Montgomery-Fairfax started to shake.
“Think about it,” Kronsky replied.” This guy won’t give a shit about his Thai whore, he can get another hundred simply by waving his money around. But his farang friend, his business associate, the one supplying the cash for the enterprise, he’ll care about getting him back in one piece. The fag stays. You already have Jittrah and as many others as your brown dick can handle. This one’s nothing but trouble. Half Western, doesn’t know her place.”
Kronsky tried to persuade the warlord to fit in with his plan, knowing the effeminate diplomat from Whitehall was the closest he would ever get to a guarantee of three hundred million dollars coming his way. That is, if the trio of Western governments Steven currently represented in the jungles of no-mans-land - Britain, Australia and the USA - were on the level and playing it straight. No one trusted anyone. Drug dealers, gangsters, politicians and government officials, least of all.
The warlord understood the logic of Kronsky’s plan even though he was unaware of the real reason behind it.
“OK, leave farang katoi behind,” he finally said, staring at Steven. “Have three days. Return by then or Kronsky take pleasure in cutting bits off ladyman’s body each day not come. Katoi friend end up minus everything. Kronsky very bad man. Fit in well around here.”
On servile autocue, the guards laughed at their leader’s remark.
Kronsky grabbed Rupert by the nuts, enjoying the role of bad guy in a scenario he had created for himself.
“If your friends aren’t back in three days, I’ll start by cutting off your pecker. The only way you’ll get a blow job then is if you find it on the garbage heap before the dogs do, and blow on it yourself. The day after, your nut
s. The pigs’ll love them. Pecker first day, nuts the next.”
“Don’t leave me, Steven,” Rupert cried. “Please don’t let them keep me here. I’ll give you anything if you’ll persuade them to keep the girl and take me to Chiang Mai instead.”
“Not his decision,” the warlord said. “You in my country now. Katoi do what I say.”
At a signal from the warlord, a young hill tribesman marched Montgomery-Fairfax towards a tiny hut adjacent to the main building. Cuffing him around the head before bundling him into the small prison, the youth confirmed that Rupert’s place in society was currently somewhere between less than nothing and nowhere at all. The ‘can I be the one that makes certain no one touches your bike’ assistant assistant, abused his authority in the same way as any other intellectually challenged jobsworth would do. Britain was not alone in this respect [*].
Business negotiations over, the warlord became surrealistically hospitable. “Too late to leave now. Dark soon. Time to eat and drink. You chase dragon? Best heroin in world. You want?”
Steven shook his head. “If we’re going to get back with your money in three days, I’ll have to keep my head clear for the drive. We have to make an early start in the morning.”
Accepting Steven’s explanation which left his face intact, the warlord ordered a woman who looked old enough to be his grandmother, to prepare a meal. “Eat,” he said, as he sat down at a long table.
The ancient woman and two young hill tribe girls brought bowls of food and placed them before the warlord. Jittrah, his ultra-young girlfriend, fussed over her ageing lover as he held court.
“Looks like we’re honoured guests for a few hours,” Steven quietly stated. “Fifty thousand bucks is a lot of cash for a couple of takeaways, though.”
Sleepless in Bangkok Page 19