The Afternoon Ban

For years he said he never drank before five. "It's the law." In May, the law changed.

Henk has a rule, and in Rawai everyone knows it, because he tells them.

"Never before five." He says it to new arrivals at the bar on the beach road, usually around six, with the calm of a man who has found the one thing that separates him from the others. "It's the law here, actually. Two to five, no sales. The Thais are very sensible about it. And it keeps you honest."

Henk is sixty-four, from Utrecht, eight years in Rawai. He has a Thai language app he uses on Mondays, a bicycle he uses on Tuesdays, and a rule he uses every day.

Pim keeps the tab book. It's a thick notebook with a rubber band round it that lives under the till of the bar she runs with her husband, Ton. Every regular has a page. Henk's page is near the front, because he's been coming the longest, and for years the first line of every day on it has said *17:05* or *17:10*, in Pim's small, round handwriting.

Last December the government lifted the afternoon break on a trial basis. Henk said it was temporary and that he'd wait and see. Then, at the end of May, it became permanent: bars could sell from eleven in the morning until midnight.

Henk read the news on his phone at the bar and said, "Well, it doesn't affect me. I have my own rule."

The first week of June, his first line says *17:05*.

The second week, *16:40*. He says the traffic was light.

In July, *16:00*. He says it's basically five in Europe somewhere. Pim doesn't point out that in Europe it's eleven in the morning.

August, *15:20*, the first time on a Wednesday. He's started bringing his laptop, so it's "working".

September, *14:30*. He says the afternoons are long when you're retired, which is true, and which he didn't used to say.

Nobody comments. Ton doesn't comment because Ton never comments; he fixes the fridge and watches football. Pim doesn't comment because commenting is not her job. Her job is the book, and the book is very clear.

Every evening, around six, a new arrival sits down next to Henk, and Henk tells him about the rule.

"Never before five. It keeps you honest."

Pim looks at the first line of the day. *14:15*.

In October Pim gets tired.

It's not about Henk. It's the low season, it's slow, and since May she's been opening at eleven to catch the lunch trade that mostly doesn't come. She hasn't had an afternoon to herself since Songkran. Her mother wants her to visit. Her back hurts. So one Monday she writes a sign by hand and tapes it to the shutter: *OPEN 5 PM.*

"Like the old days," Ton says, approving, from under the fridge.

On Monday Henk arrives at 14:10 and finds the shutter down. He reads the sign twice. He stands there for a moment like a man at a bus stop after the last bus. Then he cycles away.

He doesn't come at five.

He doesn't come on Tuesday either, or on Wednesday. Pim asks around. Rawai is not a big place.

On Thursday she has to drop something at the pharmacy on the main road, and on the way back she passes a new bar with a blue awning, the kind that went up in the summer, and there's Henk at a table near the front, at twenty past two, with a beer and the laptop open.

A man she doesn't recognise, new, sunburned, has just sat down next to him.

Pim is stopped at the lights, close enough to hear.

"I've got one rule," Henk is telling him. "Never before two. It keeps you honest."

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Question: Was the old afternoon ban the only thing keeping some expats sober?

*Illustrations are AI-generated.*