I sometimes eat dinner at the restaurant at the corner of Naresdamri Road. In addition to providing a passable pizza, it was a pleasant place to take in the passing scene. Running past the Hilton and restaurants catering to tourists, Naresdamri Road is the main tourist drag and it is always bustling in the early evening as night falls and the sunbathers go looking for their evening meal. The restaurant has a thoroughly European ambiance with its red-checkered table cloths and chianti bottles on the wall. The only suggestion that one was in Thailand was the Thai staff. The restaurant was packed with patrons, virtually all of them European. It was the height of the tourist season.
As I watch from my perch at one of the restaurant’s outdoor tables, I can see dozens of European tourists ambling down Naresdamri Road. I listen to the voices trying to discern their nationalities – German, for the most part, but also some unfamiliar tongues. Danish？ Finnish? Most tourists in Hua Hin are from northern Europe. They are mostly middle-aged couples, the men wearing shorts and flowered shirts and sandals, the women in shorts and halter tops. Hua Hin tends to attract older visitors since it is quieter and more laid back than some of the flashier tourist spots such as Pattaya and Phuket.
They amble down the narrow road inspecting the shops, selling beach clothes or (probably fake) handbags or Nepali tailor shops. A couple stops in front of one restaurant, and the man runs his finger down the outdoor menu. “Ach, weinerschnitzl”, he says. I’m not sure if this denotes delight in finding one of his favorite hometown dishes in Thailand or simply relief that he can eat something other than nam tok moo this evening.
Motor vehicles share the narrow passage with pedi cabs, tuk tuks and motorbikes. A gigantic double-decker tour bus creeps slowly through the throng to the Hilton, seeming to suck all of the space out of the road. A sound truck passes by advertising Thai boxing matches – “fight night the real thing”. A steady hum of conversation and laughter emanates from the Blue Elephant outdoor bar down the road against the cries of “welcome” directed at tourists from women sitting outside the massage parlors, hoping to entice them for a foot massage.
Street hawkers pass by thrusting their wares in your face – cheap watches, cigarette lighters disguised as derringer pistols, pirated DVDs. Every now and then one hears the lilting whistle of the bamboo flute peddler. A whole platoon of Akha hawkers patrols the far side of the street, distinct in their black trousers with red trim and magnificent headdresses rising from their heads like conical towers with row upon row of silver coins and red and white buttons. They sell hats, stacked one on the other and other baubles, all the time incessantly stroking the ribbed back of a wooden frog which sounds amazingly like the real thing. The Akha are a minority tribe that lives mainly in the mountains in northern Thailand. One can’t help but wonder how they made their way so far south or how they feel about living in this low land beach resort, not speaking either Thai or English. How they must pine for the coolness of their northern home.
At the entrance to Soi Bintaban stand three lady boys, resplendent in their beautiful sequined gowns, their bodies shapely and their faces and eyes heavily made up. Peacock feather sprout from their headdresses. They are without doubt the chicest looking “women” in Hua Hin. They hand out flyers to passing tourists advertising the next show at their club, the Blue Angel Cabaret, which is just around the corner. “We’re the best show in Hua Hin”, the flyer reads. Well, maybe. But for me the best show in town is simply watching the nightly parade along Naresdamri Road.