Follow Your Leader

It was in the late nineties, just after we’d moved back to Australia from France, and we were missing all the friends we had made in Provence. So much so that we arranged to meet a gang of them in Thailand for a holiday. We had it all planned. We’d take them up north to Chiang Mai to do some trekking. Joel and Cristel, Elizabeth (better known as Zaza), Claude and Brigitte, and Dominique – they all loved the outdoors and a good walk.

Jane spoke perfect French and very good Thai. I spoke very little French and very little Thai, just enough to get by, and my English was questionable. We thought it would be good to bring Jackie, my son, who was only eleven at the time, and he spoke French very well too. Our friends naturally spoke French and broken English. But Jane was the pivotal point here, as she could speak to us all in one language or another. Because my use of any language was not great, I tended to jump between all three. If I was speaking to a Thai person and I hit a wall in Thai, my brain would immediately jump to French, confusing whoever I was talking to, not to mention myself. I still do this when I am travelling. Recently I was in Mexico and I was speaking in broken Spanish, Thai, French and English all within one sentence, and all with a Scottish accent. And I wondered why they didn’t understand me.

Anyway, just as we were set to leave Australia to meet our friends for this fantastic trip, we got a call from Jane’s father, who was in Melbourne, recovering from a kidney transplant. We had recently gone to Thailand and accompanied him and his entourage to Melbourne for the operation. That journey had been quite a saga in itself, and if I tell you the story, you’ll see why we really needed a holiday.

Jane’s father, Khun Suvit, was a wealthy Thai businessman. He lived on a fantastic golf course in Bangkok called Navatanee and his house was bigger than the clubhouse. I was never sure what he did, but I knew he was well connected. At one time he owned a shipping line and he brokered major deals between the Thai government and all sorts of businessmen. Let’s just say he knew how to get things done. I had a lot of respect for Khun Suvit because he treated me with respect. He was always polite, warm and generous. In fact, he was generous with everyone. He loved his daughters and, like me, had a particular soft spot for his eldest daughter, Jane.

Jane’s father, Khun Suvit, with Mahalia in the mid-1980s

When he reached his sixties, his health declined and his kidneys began to fail. The time quickly came where he was on dialysis and was placed on a transplant waiting list. Then a donor became available and he decided he wanted the operation to be carried out by the best specialists in the world, who at that time were in Melbourne.

So it was decided that Khun Suvit would travel there to have the transplant and as I mentioned that we would go and escort him and his entourage from Bangkok to Melbourne. When I say entourage, I mean it in every sense of the word. There were about twenty of them, including nurses, doctors, other specialists, the donor, and Jane’s stepmother, Khun Chawee, who was one of the nicest people I’d ever met. Then there were the maids and a few cooks who travelled everywhere with them, as well as Khun Suvit’s driver, Piek. I’d known him since I first met Jane’s father. He was a tough guy, but always nice to us. I wouldn’t want to mess with him, though.

A few of Khun Suvit’s friends came along too, including a golf buddy – though there didn’t seem much likelihood of them playing golf – and another guy who caught my eye, who seemed to be a high-ranking military officer. He wore a massive white-gold ring with the design of some sort of temple on it, maybe Angkor Wat. It looked way too big to be a ring and more like it should have been the emblem on the bonnet of a luxury car. It had been given to him by a leading member of another Southeast Asian military force. I wasn’t sure why he was coming, but I did know he cooked one of Khun Suvit’s favourite dishes, so maybe that was it.

We all met at Khun Suvit’s house and travelled in convoy to Bangkok airport. Khun Suvit, his wife and selected friends travelled in First Class along with his most trusted doctor and a nurse. The rest of us were either in Business Class or Economy. We checked in about forty bags and I was tasked with keeping all the luggage tags. It seemed I was the tour manager. God help us all, I thought.

I had good reason for thinking that. I’ve worked with a few tour managers over the years and I know what they have to do. They spend days and days setting up and checking every detail of a band’s tour to make sure nothing goes wrong. Then they spend the rest of their time changing everything the singer wants to change because he’s had a big night or a fight with the other guys in the band.

‘I know it’s expensive, but I don’t want to travel with the band anymore. I just don’t like them. So I want you to book me my own plane.’

This sort of request would totally stress out the tour manager. ‘But do you know what it costs to get another plane?’ he would reply.

‘Do you know what it will cost to get a new singer or a new guitar player? Because if I have to travel with him, I might just kill him.’

This of course is just a fictional exchange to show you what could possibly go on between a band and their tour manager. I, for one, never fought with the other band members or the tour manager. I was always hard-working and easy to get along with. As sure as I am riding this camel.

Now back to the story. I had no idea what was in all those bags, but there were no issues on departure and we all settled down for the flight. Jane and I had arrived in Thailand only that morning and were having to fly back that same night with everyone else. So we were exhausted and couldn’t wait to get some sleep. We’d have to be sharp when we landed to get everyone safely through Australian customs – I knew the officials there would not be as easy-going as their Thai equivalents, who gave the impression that they worked for Jane’s dad.

Sleep was out of the question, though. Throughout the flight I was repeatedly called up to solve problems in the First Class area.

‘They want to take my bag off me for take-off, but this one never leaves my side,’ Jane’s stepmother said. I pleaded with the hostess to let her keep it and thankfully she agreed.

‘The food is cold. I’m not eating it,’ the doctor moaned.

I got him something hot.

‘I need chilli with this dish and, anyway, I ordered fish. Whole fish. Whole fish with big lips,’ Jane’s father complained.

I wasn’t sure if he wanted to eat it or dance with it.

Eventually they all relaxed a bit and I was only called back up every fifteen minutes or so. I guess tour managers never get any sleep. Not the ones I know, anyway.

As we arrived in Melbourne, I realised it was baking hot there and that the suit I’d worn to look the part for Jane’s father – pretty smart, if I may say so myself – might have been a mistake. And there was no time to change.

Instead of disembarking en masse, we were made to wait and then walk one by one past some kind of drug dog. Now I have to tell you if we’d had any drugs, I would have taken them all by now. But we hadn’t. So it wasn’t a big problem, but it did slow us down, and meant I immediately broke out in a sweat.

Being so tired and carrying so much responsibility on my shoulders, I went into hyper-drive and became manic. I walked about twenty kilometres an hour faster than everyone else in the party. I’d walk up to a door and hold it open, only to turn around and find that the others were still about a hundred metres behind me. I’d have to close it, walk back and then race to the front and hold the door open again. This happened over and over.

By the time we got to customs, I was soaked with sweat. I couldn’t keep track of everyone and I could hear the odd argument breaking out between one or two of our party and the customs officers, but miraculously we all made it through and into the baggage hall. I checked the luggage tags and everything was correct. How the fuck did that happen? I wondered.

Outside we herded most of the party into waiting limousines. Because there were more of us than we’d been advised, we had to send a few of them in taxis to the hotel. But it wasn’t a problem.

We were all staying at the Hilton Hotel, down the road from the MCG. On our arrival, the porters quickly took our bags and stacked them on trollies ready for delivery to our individual rooms and I collected all the keys. Jane and I then escorted Khun Suvit to his suite. As soon as we got there, Jane’s stepmother said, ‘Where’s Doctor ——?’ (I can’t remember his name now. Sorry, doctor.) And she looked at me as if I should have known.

But I didn’t have him on my list. He had to have been one of the late additions.

‘I don’t know where he is, but I’ll find him,’ I said as confidently as I could, given how many miles I’d travelled in the previous twenty-four hours. Meanwhile my suit was starting to look a little shabby.

‘How could you lose a doctor?’ Jane’s father asked, looking me up and down.

I excused myself, straightened my tie and went to look for him.

Jane followed me out. ‘You must find him, Jimmy, they’re going crazy in there. He’s a doctor!’

I was frazzled by then. I looked at Jane and said, ‘There were twenty-odd people, and I’m using the word “odd” carefully here. How do I know who’s a doctor and who’s not? Was he wearing a white coat? Did he have a stethoscope around his neck? No, I don’t think so. I don’t know him. I don’t know who’s who. So he could be anywhere.’

Jane stared at me. If she could have slapped me there and then, she would have. It’s true I was getting a little hysterical.

‘Settle down, Jimmy. Just see if you can find him.’ And she walked back into the suite, which, by the way, took up a whole floor. It occurred to me that the doctor might be in there somewhere, lost.

But when I went down to the foyer, there he was. He had just wandered off. I went back up to give them all the good news and arrived just as the bags were being delivered. Within seconds, Khun Chawee cried out, ‘Where is my small hand-luggage bag? All the bags are here but that one.’ Somehow the bag that was never to leave her side had not turned up.

‘I thought I’d be safe in the hotel, so I gave it to the porter to carry,’ she told me with a worried look on her face.

Jane took me aside and said to me quietly, ‘Jimmy, my father likes to use cash, not cards. And there was a lot of cash in that bag. A lot.’

‘How much is a lot?’ I asked, starting to feel unwell.

Jane shook her head. ‘I don’t know, but a lot. Better find it.’

I ran downstairs to the head porter and asked, ‘Were you given a small white hand-luggage bag? It didn’t make it up to the room.’

He looked at me and smiled as if nothing was wrong. ‘Don’t stress, mate. It’ll turn up.’

But I was at the end of my rope and if I wasn’t careful I might be hanged. I snapped back at him, ‘It fucking better, mate, or I will be visiting you again very soon and I won’t be as nice.’

In the meantime the whole party had come back downstairs to accompany Khun Suvit to the hospital.

‘Have you found the bag yet?’ Jane’s stepmother asked.

‘I think we know where it is,’ I lied, ‘so don’t worry. It will be here when we get back.’

We headed out and into the waiting cars. The hospital was only three or four kilometres up the road, so we were there in no time. As I jumped out of the car, I noticed that the temperature had risen even faster than my blood pressure and it was now about forty degrees.

After being checked in, Jane’s father demanded a better room. I understood where he was coming from. Private hospitals in Thailand are really good. You don’t get rooms, you get apartments with hot and cold running nurses. And food delivered when and as you want it. But we were in Australia, so we’d have to settle him down.

I was about to explain when I saw Jane looking at me. ‘Jimmy, why don’t you go out and sit in the waiting room. You look stressed.’

She was right, so I went out and took a seat. I hadn’t noticed before but we were in the head injuries section. I didn’t know why Jane’s father was there. Maybe because the rooms were better. Anyway, I was sitting quietly, trying to gather my thoughts, when a patient, who, judging by the bandages around his head and the bruising on his face, had experienced a major cranial trauma, took one look at me and said, ‘Geez, Barnesy, you don’t look so good, mate. Are you all right?’

Catching a glimpse of my reflection in the window, I realised he was right. I looked shocking.

‘I’m all right, mate. Big night.’

I headed to the bathroom, threw some water on my face and straightened myself up a bit before returning to Khun Suvit’s room. By then it was time to take Jane’s stepmother, one of the doctors, a nurse and one of her father’s friends back to the hotel. Jane would stay behind and settle her father.

I rounded them all up and herded them downstairs to hail a taxi. It was only when I was loading them into the cab that I realised we wouldn’t all fit. It had been a big day. I was left standing on the kerb.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I’ve told the driver where to go. I’ll follow you in another cab and meet you at the hotel.’

As the cab drove off, I suddenly remembered that I hadn’t given them any Australian dollars. I’d have to get there before them. I looked around for another cab but there was none in sight. And at eleven o’clock on a fiercely hot Saturday morning, it was going to be hard to find one. So I did the only thing I could think of. I ran. Fast. Dodging my way through the heavy traffic on Victoria Street.

At one point I looked up and saw Jane’s father’s friend sitting in the cab stuck in traffic, just as I ran by. He was looking straight at me. I kept running and arrived at the hotel thirty seconds before the cab. As it pulled up, I stepped forward and opened the door, looking by now like I’d just had a shower in my three-piece suit. Jane’s stepmother, the doctor, the nurse and the friend all studiously ignored me and walked into the hotel and towards the lift.

I followed after them slowly, thinking that at least now I really could have a shower. But just as I approached the lift, I saw Khun Suvit’s military pal standing outside the bar, waving at me. I walked over slowly.

‘Jimmy. Do you drink vodka, by any chance?’

He was smiling, so I thought ‘Why not?’ and followed him into the bar. On a table were two of the biggest vodkas I’d ever seen. He slid one over to me. It appeared I had made a friend. He downed his in one gulp and looked to me to do the same. Which I did.

‘Shall we have one more?’ he asked mischievously. I declined politely and walked out of the bar just as Jane walked into the hotel. Before I could open my mouth, she looked at me and said, ‘You smell like a homeless person. Go upstairs and shower.’

It was one of those days. I was walking towards the lift with my shoulders slumped, when suddenly the porter ran up to me, smiling. And carrying a small white piece of hand luggage.

There is a God, I thought.

I took the bag to Jane and she loved me again and the world seemed good once more. After that, the tour party all turned out to be very friendly and we had a lovely time with them all before flying back to Sydney. Jane’s father’s operation went well and when he got out of hospital he was sent to the hotel to recover and remain close by. And that’s when we were given the okay to go on holiday.

*

But then . . . We were packed and ready to go to the airport the next morning for our flight to Thailand when Jane received the call from her father. He was experiencing complications and wanted her to return to Melbourne.

Our French friends were already en route from France to Thailand. What would we do?

‘My dad needs me, Jimmy. You’ll just have to carry on with the trip and guide them around Thailand.’

I was stunned. ‘But, but, I don’t speak French,’ I said.

‘That’s okay,’ Jane replied as she repacked.

‘And they don’t speak great English,’ I moaned, swallowing hard and trying not to break down.

‘That’s okay too,’ Jane calmly said, folding her blouse into her suitcase.

‘And none of us speak Thai!’ I whimpered, with obvious alarm in my voice.

‘Calm down, Jimmy. Jackie speaks fluent French, you speak enough Thai to get by and they know a little English. It will all be all right. Trust me. Just go and have a great time.’

And with that we went to bed and Jane slept like a log and I lay and looked at the ceiling for most of the night.

Next day Jane left for Melbourne and Jackie and I set off for Thailand. I studied my French phrase book for most of the trip. It didn’t help.

We arrived in Bangkok and met up with our friends. Despite the communication issues, it was great to see them again. Cristel, a maths teacher, and Joel, an architect, were one of the first couples we’d met in France – in fact we rented their place for a while – and it was at sumptuous dinners at their house that we’d met the others. Claude was a jazz musician and had invited me to sing at many a jazz show in Aix-en-Provence. At first my jazz repertoire was very limited, but with a bit of coaching it wasn’t long before I had a set of songs that I could sing at any party. Claude’s wife, Brigitte, and Zaza were both French teachers, which initially put me off trying to talk to them in French – I thought they’d hate hearing me butcher their beautiful language. But eventually Brigitte said, ‘Jimmy, it is time you made an effort, so I won’t speak to you in English anymore.’ And she never did, leaving me to rely partly on sign language and mime. Dominique, or Doe as we all called her, was a dermatologist, and there was a good chance her services might come in handy in the jungles of Thailand. This little group of friends had taken us into their homes and hearts when we moved to France and have been part of our lives ever since.

We all checked into a smart hotel somewhere near Patpong Road. It’s a wild red-light area and we’d thought it might provide some entertainment for our friends on their first night in the country. But, as it happened, they were all too tired and needed to rest for the next day’s adventures. So Jackie and I went out to gather some provisions for our trip. I’d booked an overnight train to Chiang Mai, but I wasn’t sure what the food or the train would be like, so I wanted some extra supplies for our friends in case it was all really bad. I found a deli that sold fantastic French cheeses and baguettes and bought those along with some pâté de foie gras and, of course, some great French Bordeaux. Only the best for the gang.

Then I pulled Jackie aside and told him my plan. ‘We’ll put all our great French wine and food in a cooler bag with ice and, at the right moment, we’ll take it out and surprise them. So, mum’s the word, right?’

Jackie, having just returned from France, took everything literally. ‘Why is “Mum” the word? She’s not here.’ He was cute.

‘No, Jackie, it’s got nothing to do with Mum.’

He looked puzzled. ‘Is Mum meeting us on the train?’

I scratched my head. ‘Son, just forget I mentioned Mum. I’ll let you know when to break out the food.’

Jackie nodded. ‘So Mum and the food are a surprise,’ he said, smiling like he’d just got it.

‘Yeah, that’s right, son.’ I would explain later, though I knew he would be disappointed. He loves his mum.

Next day, after a little sightseeing around Bangkok, we arrived at the train station with our friends in tow. Jackie was my French interpreter and I did my best to speak some of the worst Thai ever heard.

The train wasn’t the most comfortable train I’d ever been on, but we were assured that later in the night the seats would convert into beds of some sort. At least I thought that’s what they’d said.

A young Thai porter walked through the train selling beer and snacks but nothing much else. Soon I could tell that the girls in particular were sick of beer. I gave Jackie the nod. He pulled the food and wine from under the seat and announced in French that the party had begun. I’m sure that for a second he also looked around for his mum.

I won’t try to transcribe any of the conversations that followed in French and Thai, so you’ll just have to imagine them. Suffice to say we all had a great time eating, drinking and singing as we travelled north.

Next morning, bleary-eyed and not particularly well rested, we arrived in Chiang Mai, where the tour company running the trek had booked us a hotel for one night. As soon as we got there, I could tell they were trying to get us accustomed to roughing it. Thank God Jane wasn’t there because she would not have stayed, and even I was by now used to five-star accommodation, so this place was a bit of a shock. It was maybe a one-star hotel and that star did not burn bright; in fact it was dead. Our French friends were happy, though. As long as there was an adventure ahead, they never complained. So we agreed to stay put. We explored Chiang Mai during the day and met for dinner early that evening. We had to get to sleep early, as we were leaving before sun-up to start the trek.

Come the morning, we were bundled into minibuses and driven out of town. After forty minutes or so, we reached what seemed to be the starting point of the trek. It must have been, because we were asked to leave the bus. Either that or this was a really shitty tour.

Three days of trekking had sounded like hard work to me, so I’d secretly booked elephants to carry us for the first few hours. Sure enough, within minutes of us arriving, we looked up to see four massive beasts coming over the hill, swaying as they walked slowly towards us and trumpeting as they came to a stop. I thought this had been a great idea and that everyone would be thrilled, but Zaza was not impressed. A beautiful soul, Zaza was not as much of an adventurer as the rest of the gang and the idea of riding on an elephant scared the shit out of her. As soon as we climbed aboard, she broke down and cried. It was clear she was not going to go along with us, and we could not leave her behind.

Fortunately I was sharing an elephant with Zaza and I’d brought a secret weapon to deal with just this sort of emergency. Before Zaza could climb off and start trying to talk us out of riding the elephants, I lit up a very strong joint and passed it to her, hoping it might loosen her spirit. Zaza was a bit of a hippy and within minutes she was calling the large pachyderm her best friend and stroking his head while whispering to him in French.

So Zaza was happy, we were happy and the elephant was happy too. Onward and up the mountain we went. Every time the elephants lurched and rolled, Zaza let out a girlish squeal. By now, all our friends were loving every moment of the trip and so was I.

The next section of the climb was quite steep and it was coming up to the hottest part of the day. An hour or so later, we reached the first stop and we all climbed off the elephants and bid our huge banana-eating friends goodbye. It was time to start trekking.

We walked along quietly, enjoying the breathtaking scenery as we gasped for air in the late-afternoon heat. It was hard work, but it was beautiful. Just as the sun was starting to go down, we walked into a small hill-tribe village.

‘This is where you will sleep tonight,’ our guide said to us as he pointed to a group of small huts that were raised off the ground. There was no running water unless you wanted to run and get it yourself, and there were no lights, beds or blankets. Luckily, the guide gave us sleeping bags – as we found out later, it gets very cold in the hills of northern Thailand.

There were a few other small groups of tourists staying in the same village and we all built a fire while our guide cooked us something simple but delicious to eat. By this point we were so hungry we could have eaten the elephants. We had a few drinks and sang songs from our home countries – French songs, Italian songs, Swedish songs and, of course, Australian songs. Following a bit of coaching, the guide even had us singing in Thai. Before long, we were all laughing and singing songs about elephants while trying our best to imitate them.

Next morning we left the camp and headed up into the mountains. The scenery was incredible. Massive trees and colourful mountain flowers everywhere. No matter where you looked, the view was spectacular. We walked on all day until we reached our next campsite. I don’t know if the guide had gone out of his way to find us a private spot we didn’t have to share, but we set up our tents next to a secluded waterfall in a beautiful little valley. It was perfect. As the sun set, we realised it was going to be even colder that night. A light mist washed across us every now and then from the waterfall as the wind swirled around the camp, but as the night grew darker it settled down and we all sat speechless around the campfire. There would be no singing tonight. We were all too tired. Our trusty guide whipped up something to eat and we all climbed into our sleeping bags. Silence soon enveloped the camp. Every so often, you heard the odd snore or groan from a weary traveller, but otherwise it was dead quiet.

In the middle of the night, I woke to Jackie’s voice. ‘Dad, I don’t feel good.’

I grabbed a torch and reached him just as he vomited all over himself and his sleeping bag. It was pitch dark and no one else woke up, so I got some water, cleaned him up and re-dressed him. Then I bundled him up into my sleeping bag. Soon he was fast asleep again, while I sat in the dark, freezing and wondering what to do. I took the torch and rummaged around the camp until I found an old blanket. I put on all my remaining clothes and curled up in a ball under the blanket and tried to stay warm.

‘Dad?’ Jackie’s voice again broke the silence of the cold, clear night. ‘Dad, I feel sick.’

This time I didn’t even manage to turn the torch on before I heard him vomiting. I unwrapped myself and found him crying, covered in what looked a lot like what we’d eaten the evening before. I carefully washed him and calmed him down, then dressed him in my remaining clothes and wrapped him in my blanket. He was asleep again in minutes. I was now down to my underwear, with no blanket, and freezing cold. Somehow, though, I survived the night and Jackie, thankfully, slept like a baby until morning.

As soon as the sun came up, I washed some of our clothes in the river and lay them on the rocks. By the time we’d eaten breakfast and broken camp, it was hot again and the clothes were dry. Jackie was too weak to walk, and too sick to let anyone else near him.

‘I want you to carry me, Dad,’ he moaned. Though he was only eleven or so, Jackie was already a big guy, so this was quite a prospect. The guide, who was much stronger than me, offered to help, but Jackie would not have a bar of it. It was me or no one.

So I borrowed a sarong and tied Jackie to my back and we walked for four hours to get out of the jungle. When we emerged, I was nearly dead. It was so hot and dry and I was completely worn out. Then, just down the track, I saw what looked like a power line. I walked towards it and found that it was a power line and that a smaller line ran off it at an angle towards the ground. And, as I got closer still, I saw that the smaller line led to a small shack that must have been a shop and just outside the shack the line connected to an old-style Coke machine, the type where you have to pull the bottle up and out of the slot.

I’d never been so happy to see a Coke machine in my life, and to this day it remains one of the greatest things I have ever seen.

The Coke was ice cold and I drank two bottles in as many minutes as we waited for a car to pick us up. And miraculously, right then, Jackie came good. Funny that.

It all turned out well. Jackie and I bonded like never before, and the French gang had a great time. Zaza was able to go home and tell her friends that she’d ridden an elephant through the jungles of Thailand.

Khun Suvit’s operation was successful and in no time he was back in Bangkok. He lived for another ten years or so, during which time we all got to see more of him and he got to know his grandchildren. He lived out his days in his house on that beautiful golf course in Bangkok, where, in his lounge room, he had a grand piano, drum kit and guitar amplifiers and held regular sessions with musicians. He loved to sing and he and I even went out to some of his favourite haunts from his younger days and sang old songs by Matt Monro and Frank Sinatra. He was a crooner and I wasn’t, but we still had a good time.