Doing it in Thai style
Hunter Davies ignores the dubious reputation – and massage parlours – to find a land of charm, beauty and impeccable manners
WHEN I let slip that I was going to Thailand, there was a lot of nudge-nudging and winkwinking. Oh, we know what you will be looking for, said all my male friends of a certain age. Whatever are you suggesting, I replied indignantly.
You know, they replied. You’ll be on the lookout for a Thai bride.
Poor Thailand. The whole world seems to snigger at its very name, convinced it only has one attraction for tourists. But I knew, without knowing it, that it could not possibly be true. It is a fairly big, relatively rich country, 95 per cent Buddhist, and with a population similar to that of the UK.
It can’t all be massage parlours or naked women playing bizarre games with ping- pong balls. A know-all friend told me about that, although under cross-examination he admitted he had never seen it.
No one truly believes the whole of Majorca is like Magaluf. Most people know that Ibiza Town is not like, er, Ibiza, or that Glasgow is not full of razor gangs, or that Soho is not all strip clubs. Yet places acquire images that get passed on.
It was a ten- hour flight from Heathrow to Bangkok on Thai Airways, a journey I was dreading, but it passed comfortably and quickly. (Coming back, it took 12 hours. Isn’t it weird how much the wind matters?) Then there was a second flight of one hour to Phuket. At last, I thought, I will find out how to pronounce Phuket.
I had got it all wrong anyyway. I never realised Phuket et is a province, some 60 miless long, a long island with a bridge connecting it to thee mainland. The dodgy, racy y tourist traps are in the south, centred around Patong. I was in the north, which was as green as the Lake District but with sl i ghtly hotter weather. I stayed in a resort called Trisara, which turned out to be the classiest, most attractive and tasteful resort I have ever visited.
The owners are a Thai family who have made their money in banking, so it’s not part of a large hotel group. Privately owned places usually manage to retain their personality and character, I find.
Trisara is on a large estate, on a hillside overlooking the sea. It’s a tropical paradise with trees and flowers, terraces and steps, and little lakes full of waterlilies. Walking down to the beach each day, I never seemed to see anyone. It was like having my own private estate. There are just 39 holiday villas dotted about, plus a further 30 that are privately owned by families fr from all over the world.
Each detached villa has its own pool – a proper pool in which you can swim, not one of those titchy ones about the size of my desk.
None of the properties is overlooked, so naturally I swam naked each morning and evening. Oh my goodness, I hope no one saw me. I don’t want to ruin the ever-sotasteful image of the real Phuket.
And it was so quiet, my dears. I’ve never been in a hotel in the tropics in which I could not hear, or even see, the air-conditioning.
THERE was no music in either of the restaurants or the vast reception areas. I do hate music in hotels. I want to sit peacefully and enjoy the furnishings, the art, decor, ornaments, plants, flowers and the views – and, of course, the lovely staff. There were so many – about 300 – constantly smiling and
bowing. They greet you with hands clasped, as if in prayer.
It took me a while to realise some subtle differences. When greeting an elderly gentleman, they have their hands at a slightly higher position, nearer their chin. I think I got that right. I did take quite a few snaps of them. Oh no, I hope they did not think I was looking for a Thai bride…
The food was amazing – very imaginative, not too hot or spicy and almost all of it organic, and much of it grown on their own farm. I visited the farm, on a separate estate covering 200 acres, with seven little lakes, where the fruit and vegetables are grown. I didn’t recognise e many of the e varieties. There e were also chicke ns a nd ducks roaming free.
Posh hotels the world over are obsessed by using g organic produce, e, pr o mi si n g that at their food is sennsitively sourced. It has taken over from state-of-theart spas, which all luxury hotels for the past ten years became convinced they had to have. But by visiting their farm, the lack of chemicals or pesticides was clear. So, jolly well done.
And yes, of course, they do have a luxury spa. It was rather wasted on me, I’m afraid. I find all spas the same: soppy music and pointless pummelling, although you do smell nice afterwards.
I did an outing to Phuket Old Town filled with colonial-style houses, temples, shops and, yes, the odd massage parlour. I stuffed myself with street food from stalls beside the largest temple, which was crowded with children from a nearby school. They were all stuffing their faces, like children out of school anywhere in the world.
I also did an expedition by boat up the coast, travelling to an area called Phang Nga Bay, which is a series of dramatic limestone rocky islets jutting out of the emeraldgreen sea. One is known as James Bond Island, as it featured in the 1974 movie The Man With The Golden Gun.
There were loads of tourists from other resorts on Phuket, mostly arriving in traditional Thai longboats, which are highly decorated and very pretty. And when the tourists landed, to traipse around the sites and visit the national park, there was no alcohol available and decent clothing had to be worn. I should think so, too.
After all, I now know that Thailand should really be known worldwide for its good taste, charming manners, impeccable behaviour, and lovely people.