South-East Asian Fable - Meeting Thailand

Sout-East Asian Fable

It was a swelteringly unbearable winter in 1993.
I was serving in Cambodia as part of the Russian Military Observers Group with the UN.

About once a month, we were granted a 5-6 day leave, which most of the observers spent in Thailand. Not just because it was nearby, but also because a French military transport plane flew from Phnom Penh to Bangkok twice a day, ferrying the entire military crowd back and forth for free. The “Frenchie” made a stopover at the former American military base in U-Tapao, about 50 kilometers from Pattaya, the world-famous Thai resort.

Truth be told, Pattaya got old after a couple of visits. The tourist-packed town started to feel stale, so we ventured deeper into the unexplored corners of this wonderfully exotic country.

On one such leave, I managed to travel with my American colleague, a lieutenant colonel who remembered the U-Tapao base from the Vietnam War days. We rented a beach jeep with massive tires and headed to a small village south of Pattaya, where tourists were scarce.

My companion turned out to be a Thailand expert. He spoke Thai fluently and had once been married to a Thai woman. We spent our days racing to nearby islands, swimming to coral reefs, tearing through the sand in our unsinkable, roofless rental jeep, and gorging on Thai culinary masterpieces.
Soon, it was time for the American to head back to Cambodia. I still had a few days left, so we agreed I’d drop him off at the airport and return to finish my vacation.
By then, I’d gotten the hang of driving on the left side of the road. I no longer sent oncoming drivers into a panic by swerving my giant jeep between the right and left shoulders whenever stress made me forget where I was supposed to be. We reached the airfield without incident. He knew the route well, and I hoped I’d memorized it enough to get back to our village on my own.
I waved goodbye, he waved back from the plane’s ascending ramp, and I set off on my return journey. For a while, I drove confidently, recognizing landmarks like billboards I’d noted on the way: a glowing Sony sign, a big restaurant billboard, a palm grove, then a scenic curve in the road where the sea should appear… Or was it the next curve? No, wait—first the grove, then a bamboo village, and then the sea with fishing boats, nets drying in the hot, humid sea breeze… Nope. Wrong again.
I cruised along in my oversized jeep, tires humming on the scorching asphalt, but the scenery was no longer familiar. Using the sun as my guide, I figured if I kept going in this direction, I’d eventually hit the Gulf of Siam and could orient myself with road signs.
I pressed the gas and motored on with confidence.
The trees thinned out, giving way to gentle hills. The road was pristine, with fresh markings, but eerily empty. I drove about ten kilometers without seeing a single car when, around a bend, a barbed-wire fence appeared, and beyond it, unmistakably, a large military base.

I froze, despite the blazing sun, hot wind, and lack of a roof. Thailand in 1993 was a harsh military dictatorship. Just recently, the military in Bangkok had gunned down a demonstration of students and Buddhist monks, killing dozens. I had a Soviet diplomatic passport in my pocket—a perfect excuse for a Thai military tribunal, quick to judge and execute, to accuse me of spying on their facilities. And we’d heard plenty about the horrors of Thai prisons long before Nicole Kidman made them famous…

Military buildings stretched on endlessly: gates with fluttering Thai flags, hangars, parade grounds, barracks, and firing ranges. It was clear I’d stumbled into a restricted military zone. Turning back felt too risky, so I decided to push forward, hoping I’d eventually escape this maze and reach the sea. I was close. The bases ended, the road cut through flat sandy fields, and the sea couldn’t be far off.

Then I spotted three soldiers standing in the middle of the road.
My legs turned to jelly as one of them, clearly the leader, raised his hand decisively, ordering me to stop. They were in full combat gear, bristling with weapons, weighed down by massive backpacks. Sweat streamed down their faces, and the leader held a large tablet with a map marked in red pencil.
My mouth went dry. I racked my brain for a convincing lie to explain my presence in a military zone.

“Sir!” the leader addressed me in broken English, shifting his M16 from his back to his hands. “Where are you going?”
“Who, me?” I responded like a complete idiot. “To Pattaya.”
“Sir!” he said, less confidently, and I couldn’t understand why he was being so polite. “Could you…?” He hesitated, then continued, “Could you give us a ride?” He slung the M16 back over his shoulder.
They exchanged glances, and my heart sank even lower. Their faces showed doubt. “They’re debating whether to kill me now or let me suffer first,” I thought, already feeling the cold bite of handcuffs on my wrists.
The leader shifted his rifle back into his hands, visibly burdened by it after hours in the scorching sun. His two soldiers stared at me with a menacing Asian squint.

“No problem!” I blurted out in my best American accent, relief washing over me. I’d have driven them to Bangkok if they’d asked.
“We need to go here,” he said, shoving the tablet with the map under my nose.
“Where are we now?” I asked.
He pointed to a spot on the 1:50,000-scale military map. The sea wasn’t far, but I’d clearly gone off course, detouring about 30 kilometers from my intended route. The map was covered with topographic symbols—roads, unit numbers, and other markings I recognized from my topography classes at the Moscow Military School. A fleeting thought crossed my mind: now that I’d seen this, they’d have even more reason to kill me rather than let me go—I knew too much!
They clambered into my jeep, their rifles and gear clanging against the frame, and we drove on.

“How do I get to Pattaya?” I asked.
“It’s this way!” He shoved the tablet at me again.
We rolled cheerfully down the empty road when a lone vehicle finally appeared ahead. The soldiers tensed, trying to make themselves inconspicuous in my completely open jeep, until the leader shouted something over the engine and wind. They relaxed, even waving at the approaching vehicle—a military truck.
“Sir, where are you from?” the leader asked. I quickly slipped on my black sunglasses.

“US!” I replied, after a slight pause, hoping to sound convincing. The edge of my green Soviet passport peeked out of my chest pocket.
“USA! Cool!” He grinned. “Are you from the aircraft carrier?” Just then, the USS Nimitz was docked near Pattaya, its crew entertaining themselves on shore to the delight of local bar, hotel, and brothel owners.
“No!” I said cautiously, dodging a potential trap. “I’m a tourist. Just arrived.”
“What do you think of our country?”
“Oh!” I replied, aiming for my most American tone.
They got out about six kilometers later, shouldered their massive backpacks, and trudged off into the sweltering steppe.
Only then did I breathe a sigh of relief…

My meeting with Nicole Kidman at the “Bangkok Hilton” was officially canceled.