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than I was. I glanced at the video screen, which was showing the flight path. We had probably passed Chechnya, whether or not we had flown over it; the exterior temperature was -53°C, altitude 10,143 meters, local time 00:27. Another screen replaced the first, and now we were flying directly over Afghanistan. Through the window, you could see nothing but pitch black, of course. In any case the Taliban were probably all in bed stewing in their own filth. "Goodnight, Talibans. good night. . . sweet dreams," I whispered before swallowing a second sleeping pill.

4

    The plane landed at Don Muang airport at about 5 a.m. I woke with some difficulty. The man on my left had already stood up and was waiting impatiently in the queue to disembark. I quickly lost sight of him in the corridor leading to the arrivals hall. My legs were like cotton wool, my mouth felt furry, and my ears were filled with a violent drone.
    No sooner had I stepped through the automatic doors than the heat enveloped me like a mouth. It must have been at least 35°C. The heat in Bangkok has something particular about it, in that it is somehow greasy , probably on account of the pollution. After any long period outdoors, you're always surprised to find that you're not covered with a fine film of industrial residue. It took me about thirty seconds to adjust my breathing. I was trying not to fall too far behind the guide, a Thai woman whom I hadn't taken much notice of, except that she seemed reserved and well-educated —but a lot of Thai women give that impression. My backpack was cutting into my shoulders; it was a Lowe Pro Himalaya Trekking, the most expensive one I could find at Vieux Campeur, and it was guaranteed for life. It was an impressive object, steel gray with snap clasps, special Velcro fastenings —the company had a patent pending— and zippers that would work at temperatures of-65°C. Its contents were sadly limited: some shorts and T-shirts, swimming trunks, special shoes that allowed you to walk on coral (125 francs at Vieux Campeur), a firstaid kit containing medicines considered essential by the Guide du Roulard , a JVC HRD-9600 MS video camera with batteries and spare tapes, and two American best-sellers that I'd bought pretty much at random at the airport.
    The Nouvelles Frontières bus was parked about a hundred meters further on. Inside the powerful vehicle —a sixty-four-seat Mercedes M-800 —with the air conditioning turned up full blast, it felt like a freezer. I settled myself in the middle of the bus, on the left by a window. I could vaguely make out a dozen other passengers, among them my neighbor 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 highway that led to downtown Bangkok, the traffic was already heavy. We drove past buildings alternately of glass and steel, structures occasionally separated by hulking concrete, nearly Soviet monoliths. The head offices of banks, chain hotels, electronics companies —for the most part Japanese. Past the junction at Chatuchak, the highway rose above a series of beltways 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 bus 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 bus joined the highway 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 learned from a brochure I picked up in the lobby while waiting for the