All the characters in Sumbar on Sumbeach are fictional, though many of
their germinations lie in my memory of people I’ve met while travelling
outside Australia.
When one travels alone, one meets and listens to
many more strangers, than if one is travelling with a companion or
spouse. Strangers, who over an evening drink or a shared bus trip, one
on one, will tell their tales, experiences, biases and confidences. For
me, the surprising thing has been how many of these stories have stayed
with me.
The story I gave Billy Mackie – overstaying his visa – was
told to me by an Englishman in southern Thailand, who was obsessed with a
Thai prostitute. In 1996 we shared a beer in a cheap hotel, where he
extolled the beauty of an aged Thai ‘working woman’, whose beauty,
sadly, had long left her, though he couldn’t see it. The hotel was in a
town near the Malaysian border – a fact all the more poignant, because
he’d never taken the simple train trip into Malaysia and back, to renew
his visa.
That year, I’d flown from Sydney to Singapore and took
local buses, trains and a hire car up the peninsula through Malaysia and
Southern Thailand to Hua Hin, where after twenty-one days I met my
wife, who flew in from Australia. At the time I had a desire to
understand ‘how Asia works’. This is the journey I gave to Werner,
though as each draft emerged, Werner’s journey to Sumbeach has been
pared back.
I’ve located the fictional seaside village of
Sumbeckarnawan (Sumbeach) south of Hua Hin. For those who know the area,
they will know that no such place exists, as down there, there are
modern houses and upmarket hotels built right to the sand, with a small
headland on which stands a large golden Buddha.
I’ve been to Hua Hin
many, many times since the early 1990’s, and it has been the model for
many of the physical descriptions I’ve given Sumbeach. I’ve seen it grow
from its sleepiness, to the bustling activity of today.
I don’t
play golf; however, I’ve heard many golfing stories, the most risqué of
which I’ve given to Donald Randalson Jnr and Suzy-Q. Their aftermath is
fictional.
In Hua Hin, I’ve always been warmly welcomed at ‘Bernie’s’
– the model for ‘Terry’s’ – and yes, the ex-pat golfers do meet there.
The real Bernie is not the fictitious Terry, nor vice versa – though
they are both gentlemen. On my last visit to Hua Hin, Bernie’s bar was
no longer there. I fear he may have left us.
In 2000, at Athens
airport, I was on a transfer coach from the plane to the terminal, when I
found myself jammed next to the most beautiful blonde woman I had ever
seen. She had a dark haired younger woman (daughter?) with her. We must
have spoken, because I remember this gorgeous blonde’s accent being
South African. This fleeting encounter, experienced while hanging on
desperately to the overhead straps, as the bus hurtled around painted
lines and down painted lane ways on the tarmac, has stayed with me
forever. I have made the two of them the basis for Amelia and Olivia.
I have never met anyone resembling Police Captain Choniburshakanari.
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