Bangkok’s Eastern Bus Terminal was a maze of ticket windows, shelters and numbered docking bays, where dozens of buses idled with engines rumbling, air noxious with the smell of diesel fuel and rotting fruit. Despite the diligent cleaning ladies whose grass brooms whisked away litter beneath the feet of thousands of travellers each day, a layer of grime covered every surface, a miasma of dirt hung in the air. Sad-eyed children holding paper cups wandered among the crowds gesturing for food, while their quicker-fingered compatriots filched unguarded purses and wallets. Poor families huddled around red, white and blue striped bags that contained cheap plastic goods, paid for with their life savings, which unscrupulous traders convinced them would sell for a huge profit in their village back home. Flustered tourists rushed from one dock to another in search of their departure point, anxiety mounting at each dead-end. It didn’t help that they kept asking people at random for help. Loath to disappoint, the Thais would rather give wrong directions than none at all.
