I spent my first sulky day in Bangkok trawling disconnected through infernal back alleys. Dogs scabbed at open sores, kids begged for spare change, and old women filled up plastic bottles with boiled tap water, to be flogged as fresh mineral water.

Then I met San. As I was carefully avoiding tourist-trap temples, he found me in Banglamphu (Bangkok's Chinatown) photographing a man loading a block of ice into a crushing machine. He was an art student in a university with too many syllables to its name to remember. He had a kind face and spoke English relatively well. I was sure he was touting something. I was determined to follow him. San led me to Wat Suthat, a decent enough temple but nondescript in a city filled with splendid Wats. A young couple slept in locked embrace on the temple grounds. We met his girlfriend, the kind of dazzling nymphette Thai female fantasies are made of. The three of us squeezed into a Tuk-Tuk to Tha Thewet, a jetty on the banks of the Chao Phraya river. But just as I got off, San bade farewell, leaving me as mysteriously as he had found me.