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on coral (125FF at Vieux Campeur), a wash bag containing medicines considered essential by the Guide du Routard, a JVC HRD-9600 MS video camera with batteries and spare tapes, and two American bestsellers that I'd bought pretty much at random at the airport.
    The Nouvelles Frontieres coach was parked about a hundred metres further on. Inside the powerful vehicle -a 64-seat Mercedes M-800 - the air-conditioning was turned up full; it felt like stepping into a freezer. I settled myself in the middle of the coach, on the left by a window. I could vaguely make out a dozen other passengers, amongst them my neighbour from the plane. No one came to sit beside me. I had clearly missed my first opportunity to integrate into the group; I was also well on my way to catching a nasty cold.
    It wasn't light yet, but on the six-lane motorway which led to downtown Bangkok, the traffic was already heavy. We drove past buildings alternately of glass and steel with, occasionally, a massive concrete structure reminiscent of Soviet architecture: the head offices of banks, chain hotels, electronics companies - for the most part Japanese. Past the junction at Chatuchak, the motorway rose above a series of ring roads circling the heart of the city. Between the floodlit buildings, we began to be able to distinguish groups of small, slate-roofed houses in the middle of wasteland. Neon-lit stalls offered soup and rice; you could see the tinplate pots steaming. The coach slowed slightly to take the New Phetchaburi Road exit. There was a moment when we saw an interchange of the most phantasmagoric shape, its asphalt spirals seemingly suspended in the heavens, lit by banks of airport floodlights; then, after following a long curve, the coach joined the motorway again.
    The Bangkok Palace Hotel is part of a chain along the lines of Mercure, sharing similar values as to catering and quality of service; this much I discovered from a brochure I picked up in the lobby while waiting for the situation to unfold. It was just after six in the morning - midnight in Paris I thought, for no reason - but activities were already well under way, the breakfast room had just opened. I sat down on a bench; I was dazed, my ears were still buzzing violently and my stomach was beginning to hurt. From the way they were waiting, I was able to identify some of the group members. There were two girls of about twenty-five, pretty much bimbos — not bad-looking, all things considered — who cast a contemptuous eye over everyone. On the other hand, a couple of retirees - he could have been called spirited, she looked a bit more miserable - were looking around in wonderment at the interior decor of the hotel, a lot of gilding, mirrors and chandeliers. In the first hours in the life of a group, one generally observes only phatic sociability, characterised by the use of standard phrases and by limited emotional connection. According to Edmunds and White1, the establishment of micro-groups can only be detected after the first excursion, sometimes after the first communal meal.
    I started, on the point of passing out, lit a cigarette to rally my forces. The sleeping pills really were too strong, they were making me ill, but the ones I used to take couldn't get me to sleep any more; there was no obvious solution. The OAPs were slowly circling round each other. I got the feeling that the man was a bit full of himself; as he was waiting for someone specific with whom to exchange a smile, he turned an incipient smile on the world. They had to have been a couple of small shopkeepers in a previous life, that was the only explanation. Gradually, the members of the group made their way to the guide as their names were called, took their keys and went up to their rooms — in a word, they dispersed. It was possible, the guide announced in a resonant voice, for us to take breakfast now if we wished; otherwise we could relax in our rooms; it was entirely up to us. Whatever we decided, we were to