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  3

  And now, there I was, on my own like an idiot, a few feet from the Nouvelles Frontières desk. It was a Saturday morning during the Christmas holidays. Roissy was heaving, as usual. The minute they have a couple of days of freedom, the inhabitants of Western Europe dash off to the other side of the world, they go halfway around the world in a plane, they behave —literally—like escaped convicts. I couldn't blame them, since I was preparing to do just that. My dreams are run-of-the-mill. Like all of the inhabitants of Western Europe, I want to travel. There are problems with that, of course, including the language barrier, poorly organized public transport, the risk of being robbed or conned. Therefore, to put it more bluntly, what I really want, basically, is to be a tourist. We dream what dreams we can afford; and my dream is to go on an endless series of "Romantic Getaways," "Colorful Expeditions," and "Pleasures à la Carte" —to use the titles of the three Nouvelles Frontières brochures. I immediately decided to go on a package tour, but I hesitated quite a bit between "Rum and Salsa" (ref: CUB CO 033, 16 days/14 nights, 11,250 francs for a double, singles an additional 1,350 francs) and "Thai Tropic" (ref: THA CA 006,15 days/13 nights, 9,950 francs for a double, singles an additional 1,175 francs). Actually, I was more attracted by Thailand; but the advantage of Cuba is that it's one of the last Communist countries, and probably not for much longer, so it has a sort of "endangered régime" appeal, a sort of political exoticism, to put it in a nutshell. In the end, I chose Thailand. I have to admit that the copy in the brochure was very well done, sure to tempt the average browser:

  A package tour with a dash of adventure that will take you from the bamboo forests of the River Kwai to the island of Ko Samui, winding up, after crossing the spectacular Isthmus of Kra, at Ko Phi Phi. off the coast of Phuket. A cool trip to the tropics.

  At 8:30 a.m. on the dot, Jacques Maillot slams the door of his house on the Boulevard Blanqui in the 13th arrondissement, straddles his moped, and begins a journey across the capital from east to west. His destination: the head office of Nouvelles Frontières on the Boulevard de Grenelle. Every other day, he stops at four or five of the company's agencies: "I bring them the latest brochures, I pick up the mail, and generally take a temperature reading," explains the boss, always vibrant, always sporting an extraordinary multicolored tie. It's a crack of the whip for the agents: "There's always a tremendous boost in sales immediately after I visit each agency," he explains with a smile. Visibly under his spell, the journalist from Capital goes on to marvel: who could have predicted in 1967 that a small business set up by a handful of student protesters would take off like this? Certainly not the thousands of demonstrators who, in May 1968, marched past the first Nouvelles Frontières office on the Place Denfert-Rochereau in Paris. "We were in just the right place, right in front of the cameras," remembers Jacques Maillot, a former Boy Scout and left-wing Catholic by way of the National Students Union. It was the first piece of publicity for the company, which took its name from John F. Kennedy's speech about America's "New Frontier." A passionate liberal, Jacques Maillot successfully fought the Air France monopoly, making air transport more accessible to all. His company's odyssey, which in thirty years had made it the number one travel agency in France, has fascinated the business press. Like FNAC. like Club Med, Nouvelles Frontières —born right along with a new age of leisure culture —might stand as a symbol of the new face of modern capitalism. In the year 2000, for the first time, the tourist industry became —in terms of turnover—the biggest economic activity in the world. Though it required only a moderate level of physical fitness, "Thai Tropic" was listed under "Adventure Tours": a range of accommodation options (simple, standard, deluxe); group numbers limited to twenty to ensure a better group dynamic. I saw two really cute black girls with backpacks arriving, and I dared to hope that they'd opted for the same tour. Then I looked away and went to collect my travel documents. The flight was scheduled to last a little more than eleven hours. Taking a plane today, regardless of the airline, regardless of the destination, amounts to being treated like shit for the duration of the flight. Crammed into a ridiculously tiny space from which it's impossible to move without disturbing an entire row of fellow passengers, you are greeted from the outset with a series of privations announced by stewardesses sporting fake smiles. Once on board, their first move is to get hold of your personal belongings so they can put them in overhead lockers—to which you will not have access under any circumstances until the plane lands. Then, for the duration of the flight, they do their utmost to find ways to bully you, all the while making it impossible for you to move about, or more generally to move at all, with the exception of a certain number of permitted activities: enjoying fizzy drinks, watching American videos, buying duty-free products. The unremitting sense of danger, fueled by mental images of plane crashes, the enforced immobility in a cramped space, provokes a feeling of stress so powerful that a number of passengers have reportedly died of heart attacks while on long-haul flights. The crew do their level best to maximize this stress by preventing you from combating it by habitual means. Deprived of cigarettes and reading matter, passengers are more and more frequently even deprived of alcohol. Thank God the bitches don't do body searches yet. As an experienced passenger, I had been able to stock up on some necessities for survival: a few 21 mg Nicorette patches, sleeping pills, a flask of Southern Comfort. I fell into a thick sleep as we were flying over the former East Germany. I was awakened by a weight on my shoulder, and warm breath. I gently pushed my neighbor upright in his seat. He groaned softly but didn't open his eyes. He was a big guy, about thirty, with light brown hair in a bowl cut; he didn't look too unpleasant, or too clever. In fact, he was rather endearing, wrapped up in the soft blue blanket supplied by the airline, his big manual laborer's hands resting on his knees. I picked up the paperback that had fallen at his feet: a shitty Anglo-Saxon best-seller by one Frederick Forsyth. I had read something by this halfwit that was full of heavy-handed eulogies to Margaret Thatcher and ludicrous depictions of the USSR as the "evil empire." I'd wondered how he managed after the fall of the Berlin Wall. I leafed through his new opus. Apparently, this time, the roles of the bad guys were played by Serb nationalists; here was a man who kept up to date with current affairs. As for his beloved hero, the tedious Jason Monk, he had gone back into service with the CIA, which had formed an alliance of convenience with the Chechen mafia. Well! I thought, replacing the book on my neighbor's knees, what a charming sense of morality best-selling British authors have. The page was marked with a piece of paper folded in three, which I recognized as the Nouvelles Frontières itinerary: I had, apparently, just met my first tour companion. A fine fellow, I was sure, certainly a lot less egocentric and neurotic 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 t
he 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 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, and 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," characterized by the use of standard phrases and by limited emotional connection. According to Edmunds and White,1

  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, and 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 anymore; there was no obvious solution. The retirees were slowly circling around 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 have breakfast now if we wished. Otherwise we could relax in our rooms; it was entirely up to us. Whatever we decided, we were to meet back in the lobby for the trip along the khlongs at 2 p.m. The window in my room looked directly out onto the highway. It was six-thirty. The traffic was very heavy, but the double glazing let in only a faint rumble. The streetlights were off, and the sun hadn't yet begun to reflect on the steel and glass, so at this time of the day, the city was gray. I ordered a double espresso from room service and knocked it back with a couple of Efferalgan, a Doliprane, and a double dose of Oscillococcinum. I lay down and tried to close my eyes.

  Shapes moved slowly in a confined space: they made a low buzzing sound —like machines on a building site, or giant insects. In the background, a man armed with a small sword carefully checked the sharpness of the blade. He was wearing a turban and baggy white trousers. Suddenly, the air became red and muggy, almost liquid. As the drops of condensation formed before my eyes I became very conscious of the fact that a pane of glass separated me from the scene. The man was on the ground now, immobilized by some invisible force. The machines from the building site had surrounded him; there were a couple of backhoes and a small bulldozer with caterpillar treads. The backhoes lifted their hydraulic arms and brought their buckets down together on the man, immediately slicing his body into seven or eight pieces; his head, however, still seemed animated by a demonic life force, an evil smile continued to crease his bearded face. Hie bulldozer in its turn advanced on the man; his head exploded like an egg. A spurt of brain and ground bone was splashed against the glass, centimeters from my face.

  1 "Sightseeing Tours: A Sociological Approach," Annals of Tourism Research, vol. 23, 1998, pp. 213-227.

  5

  Essentially, tourism, as a search for meaning, with the ludic sociability it favors, the images it generates, is a graduated encoded and untraumatizing apprehension system of the external, of otherness. — RACHID AMIROU

  I woke up at about noon. Now, it was the air conditioning that was making a low buzzing sound, but my headache was a little better. Lying across the king-size* bed, I was aware of the mechanics of the tour, the issues at stake. The group, as yet amorphous, would transform itself into a living community. As of this afternoon I would have to start positioning myself; for now, my mission was to choose a pair of shorts for the walk on the khlongs. I opted for a longish pair in blue denim, not too tight, which I complemented with a Radiohead T-shirt. Then I stuffed some odds and ends into a knapsack. In the bathroom mirror, I contemplated myself disgustedly. My anxious bureaucratic face clashed horribly with what I was wearing, and I looked exactly like what I was: a forty-something civil servant on vacation, trying to pretend he's young; it was pretty demoralizing. I walked over to the window and opened the curtains wide. From the twenty-seventh floor, the view was extraordinary. The imposing mass of the Marriott Hotel rose up on the left like a chalk cliff, striated by horizontal black lines: rows of windows halfhidden behind balconies. The sun, at its zenith, harshly emphasized planes and ridges. Directly ahead, reflections multiplied themselves into infinity on a complex structure of cones and pyramids of bluish glass. On the horizon, the colossal concrete cubes of the Grand Plaza President were stacked on top of one another like the levels of a step pyramid. On the right, above the green, shimmering space of Lumphini Park, you could make out, like an ocher citadel, the angular towers of the Dusit Thani. The sky was a pure blue. Slowly I drank a Singha Gold while meditating on the notion of irreparability. Downstairs, the guide was doing a sort of roll call, so she could hand out breakfast coupons* This is how I found out that the two bimbos were called Babette and Léa. Babette had curly blonde hair—well, not naturally curly, it had probably been permed. She had beautiful breasts, the slut, clearly visible under her see-through top —an ethnic print from Trois Suisses, most likely. Her trousers, in the same fabric, were just as see-through; you could easily make out the white lace of her panties. Léa, very dark, was skinnier; s
he made up for this with the pretty curve of her butt, nicely accentuated by her black cycling shorts, and with a thrusting bust, the tips of which were squeezed into a bright yellow bustier. A tiny diamond adorned her slender navel. I stared attentively at the two sluts so that I could forget them forever. The distribution of the vouchers continued. The guide, Sôn, called each of the group members by their first name; it made me sick. We were adults, for fuck's sake. I felt a ray of hope when she referred to the retirees as "Monsieur et Madame Lobligeois"; but immediately she added, with a delighted smile, "Josette and René." Unbelievable, but true nevertheless. "My name is René,'' confirmed the old man, addressing himself to no one in particular. "Tough," I muttered. His wife shot him a look as if to say "Shut up, René, you're annoying everyone." I suddenly realized that he reminded me of "Monsieur Plus" in the Bahlsen cookie ads. It might have been him, too. I directed this question to his wife: had they, in the past, ever worked as character actors? Absolutely not, she informed me, they had run a charcuterie. Yeah, that would probably fit too. So, this cheery, jolly little fellow was a former pork butcher (in Clamart, his wife explained); some unexceptional establishment devoted to feeding the proletariat had been the previous theater for his antics and quips. After that, there were two other couples, less distinctive, who seemed to be connected in some obscure way. Had they already been on vacation together? Had they met each other over breakfast?* At this point in the tour, anything was possible. The first couple was all the more unappealing. The man looked a bit like a young Antoine Waechter, if you can imagine such a thing, but his hair was darker and he had a neatly trimmed beard. Actually, he didn't so much look like Antoine Waechter as like Robin Hood, though he looked Swiss, or, to be more precise, he had something of the Jura about him. All in all, he didn't look much like anything, or nothing more than a real jerk. Not to mention his wife, in overalls, serious, a good milkmaid. It was inconceivable that these creatures had not yet reproduced, I thought; they'd probably left the child with their parents in Lons-le-Saulnier. The second couple, a little older, seemed rather less serene. Skinny and nervous, with a mustache, the man introduced himself to me as a naturopath, and, faced with my ignorance, went on to explain that he practiced healing using plants or other natural means wherever possible. His wife, thin and curt, worked in social services, reintegrating, I don't know, first offenders or something in Alsace; they looked like they hadn't fucked for thirty years. The man seemed inclined to tell me about the benefits of natural medicines, but still dazed from this first encounter, I went and sat on a bench nearby. From where I sat, I could barely make out the last three members of the group, who were half-hidden by the pork-butcher couple. There was some fifty-year-old thug called Robert, with a particularly harsh expression; a woman, of age ditto, with curly black hair framing a face that was nasty, world-weary, and flabby, whose name was Josiane; and another woman, yet younger, pretty nondescript really, of about twenty-seven who followed Josiane with a sort of canine docility and whose name was Valérie. Anyway, I'll get back to them; I'll have far too much time to get back to them, I thought glumly as I walked toward the bus. I noticed that Sôn was still staring at her list of passengers. Her face was tense, words formed on her lips involuntarily—it was clear she was anxious, almost distraught. Counting up, it appeared there were thirteen people in the group; and Thais are frequently superstitious, even more so than the Chinese, so much so that the numbering of floors in a building or houses in a street often goes straight from twelve to fourteen, simply to avoid mentioning the number thirteen. I took a seat on the left-hand side about halfway down the bus. People establish points of reference pretty quickly on this kind of group outing. In order to feel relaxed, they need to find a place early on and stick to it, maybe leave some personal effects around in order to actively inhabit the space in some way. To my great surprise, I saw Valérie take a seat beside me, even though the bus was about three-quarters empty. Two rows behind, Babette and Léa exchanged a couple of scornful words. They'd better calm down, those sluts. I discreetly fixed my attention on the young woman. She had long black hair, a face, I don't know, a face that could be described as "unremarkable": not pretty, not ugly, strictly speaking. After brief but intense consideration, I managed awkwardly: "Not too hot?" "No, no, here in the bus is fine," she replied quickly, without smiling, relieved simply that I had started a conversation. Though what I'd said was remarkably stupid—actually, it was freezing in the bus. "Have you been to Thailand before?" she went on by way of conversation. "Yes, once." She froze in a waiting posture, ready to listen to an interesting anecdote. Was I about to recount my previous trip to her? Maybe not right away. "It was good," I said eventually, adopting a friendly tone to compensate for the banality of what I was saying. She nodded in satisfaction. It was then that I realized that this young woman was in no way submissive to Josiane, she was just submissive in general, and maybe just ready to look for a new master. Maybe she'd already had enough of Josiane—who, sitting two rows in front of us, was furiously leafing through the Guide du Routard, throwing dirty looks in our direction. Romance, romance.