You take the trip down to Pattaya, the beachfront resort town just southeast of Bangkok. The streets are crowded with bikini-clad tourists, and the beaches are full of umbrellas and beer coolers. As in Bangkok, there are numerous clubs and bars, but the atmosphere is relaxed. In some ways, Pattaya is the sort of place that time forgot, and the music coming from the beach bars proves it: lazy, good-time surfer rock over a hundred years old blended with Euphoria and other classic ‘50s rockers. Everyone knows the words and sings along.
The fuzz use a more plain-clothes approach here so as to not scare the tourists. You make a mental note to be vigilant.
The area also seems to have a high number of Indian and Pakistani immigrants. Practically every restaurant serves food from the subcontinent, and dark-skinned men try to get you to buy tailored clothes. Come to think of it, this is just like Bangkok, only denser.
You pick your way through the crowds of backpackers, street trash, and beach folk until you find the Soi Post Office. There, nestled in between a shop selling "authentic nagahide" and a go-go bar, you find Ali’s. This little Yemeni restaurant is barely a hole in the wall, a door at the top of a narrow flight of stairs. Little electronic bells chime and then die as if the battery went dead as you enter. Ali’s consists of a counter and stool for the cashier and four small tables. The cashier, a young Arabic boy of twelve, smiles at you when you come in and points to a grey-haired man eating some sort of chicken and rice curry.
Falah Almarri
The old man wipes his mouth and motions you over.
"I’m Falah Almarri," he says.
"I hoped you would come by sooner rather than later. What can I do for you?"
