Returning to the village on the way back from his regular morning cycle ride, Alfie Mynn had a strange feeling, as he turned off the canal road and pedalled leisurely through the village. When his stomach started churning for no apparent reason, it was usually a sign of something untoward brewing. Eight in the morning is not early, especially in the small farming communities of Thailand. Most folk were up by five-thirty, before the sun rose. But today was Sunday, and workers were not rushing to work in the nearby factories. Even so, the more than usual quiet was eerie.
It took an unusual occurrence to disrupt the tranquillity of the picturesque landscape and peaceful communities of North Thailand’s villages. Alfie was past middle-age, but he was fit, because every day he walked across the farms and along the river bank, or he pedalled through the adjoining villages on his way to the golf club. On weekdays he waved to the school kids as they played around the shelter in the centre of the village. They waited there for the bus to pick them up and take them to a nearby village. The old school in the temple grounds, they used to attend, was closed last month, so they had to go to the one across the main highway. It wasn’t far, about four kilometres, and they had fun on the bus before the more serious matter of school began.
The two old ladies who waved and shouted to Alfie as he rode by earlier were still busy at the food stall in the adjoining village. Thais do that without subtlety or a hint of shyness. They begged him to stop and eat the food they cooked early and sold on the roadside. Trade was good, so it didn’t bother them that he rode on, at the same time waving back at them. People didn’t cook for themselves if they worked outside the village. They were up before sunrise, and it was easier to grab a takeaway khanom jin or kapow moo sab on their way to work. At twenty-five or thirty Baht, it was much cheaper too, and still the old ladies made good money from their efforts. Their husbands, who were working the family farm, never saw how busy the food stall was, and never saw the money their wives made. If they found out, sales of whiskey in the village would have gone through the roof.
Alfie pedalled up the incline out of the last village and onto the canal road, which took him to the Golf Club where he greeted the gateman in his usual cheery way.
“Sawasdee krupp.”
“Sawasdee krupp. Sabaidee mai krupp?” the gateman called back.
“Sabaidee, khob khun krupp.”
He parked his bike, stretched and breathed in the fresh morning air, before strolling along the path leading to the sixth tee. The morning sun broke through the trees which lined the fairway, and a foursome was just replacing the flag in the hole on the fifth green. Alfie stopped to greet them before turning his attention to the pretty young lady who ran the little drinks café. One of the staff from the clubhouse drove her there in a golf buggy, at the same time every morning to open up. Alfie bought a coke, and sat with her on the wall chatting, as the foursome tee’d off. When they had gone Alfie paid for his drink, said goodbye and walked back to the gatehouse.
It wasn’t far from home, about twelve kilometres round trip, but it was an invigorating ride with no hills and few inclines. Most days he did it in forty-five minutes. Occasionally he needed longer when his legs felt more like a creaky eighty-five-year old’s or he didn’t get such a good night’s sleep.