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of their engines, by the roar of traffic from the road, the scream of metal on metal as the pontoon lifted on the waves and the shriek of the boat-boys’ whistles. The river was vibrant and alive. Nothing was quiet and inscrutable here.
    â€˜Okay mate, this is ours, the Chao Phraya River Express,’ said Maca, pointing to a long shark-like ferry coming down the river. It reversed into the jetty in a surge of foaming water as a deck-hand flicked a rope over a bollard, giving a brief moment for passengers to jump ashore. Ben and the others then joined the rush to get aboard and within seconds the powerful engine was again spewing fumes, pushing the boat fast through the murky water.
    The three pleasure-seekers stood on the open deck at the stern, enjoying the scenery and the hot wind in their faces. Maca pointed out the sights to Ben; first the glittering spires of the Grand Palace and its temples, and then to the right the tall Khmer-style stupa of Wat Arun, the Temple of Dawn, backlit by the setting sun. On the left was Chinatown and on both sides, wharves and markets that would have been familiar in the days of Joseph Conrad more than a century earlier. Old wooden houses built on stilts over the water clung to the banks, their verandas crowded with pot plants and washing.
    The river then took a sweep to the right, giving a clear view of the many tower blocks built when Thailand was booming in the late eighties and early nineties. There were offices, apartments and hotels, the most famous of which, the Oriental Hotel was set in leafy gardens on the edge of the water.
    â€˜You wouldn’t believe the luxury in those places,’ said Maca. ‘Some of the top hotels are half empty, so some old bugger from the backside of Melbourne gets a luxury room thrown in with his package tour. He and his sheila are king and queen for the week and within spitting distance there’s people living in slum conditions.’
    â€˜But not all the Thais are that poor,’ said Ben. ‘There seems to be money around.’
    â€˜Yes, but it’s the contrast that gets to me … it’s so in-yer-face.’
    They got off the boat beneath Saphan Taksin, a massive road bridge over the river, and walked up the ramp from the pontoon.
    â€˜Look at that,’ said Ben. ‘They’re still completing the top floors of that block. Looks like flats … forty or fifty storeys at least.’
    â€˜It’s not a new development,’ said Maca. ‘I guess work stopped when the economy collapsed in 1997 and now it’s been abandoned. That’s boom and bust for you.’
    In contrast, their next form of transport, the Skytrain, looked a gleaming success story. They climbed a flight of steps to the ticket concourse and up to the elevated track where a train was waiting and sat down on the yellow plastic seats. The carriage was powerfully air-conditioned and Ben was able to breathe easily again, his sweaty skin and tee shirt rapidly drying out. All was spotlessly clean and starkly modern with straps and metal poles for standing passengers to hold onto.
    â€˜Why’s there no Thai girls dancing round those poles?’ quipped Maca.
    The view from the overhead railway was panoramic, the urban landscape of extravagant modern buildings relieved first by the greenery of Lumpini Park and then the manicured golf course and race track of the Royal Bangkok Sports Club. After changing trains at Siam Station, Ben sat high above the street as the marble facades of department stores, McDonald’s outlets, green trees, Thai temples, expressways and traffic jams slipped smoothly past his window.
    They got off at Nana Station and followed the stairway down to Sukhumvit Road where Ben was unable to ignore a woman on the steps begging with two tiny children, one of them crying lustily.
    â€˜You’ll see plenty more of those before we’re home tonight,’ said Maca as Ben dropped a coin into her bowl.