Some years ago, a book called One Year in Provence was, as the French like to say, un tabac, an international bestseller. Peter Manly, the British author, portrayed his neighbours — the locals of central southern France — as beret-wearing, garlic-crunching tipplers who motored through poplar-shaded country lanes with baguettes and onions hanging out the windows of their ancient Citroen 2 CVs. Their speech was peppered with beaucoup of "Zut alors!" and "sacre bleus!", and many of the stereotypical Gallic utterances that red-nosed, retired Anglophones like to quote after a few Glenfiddich-and-sodas too many. The book's good-natured, but rather one-sided, account seemed jolly at the time, and promptly rammed South Central France's real-estate values up into the stratosphere, as well as putting Peter in so well with the local mayor that he didn't have to worry about the odd free case of Cótes de Provence for years.

I don't mean to be a killjoy, but any attempt at a book called One Year in Phuket wouldn't nearly scratch the surface of this island's goings-on. There are far too many facets of life and nationalities here to glibly squeeze Phuket's cosmopolitan mix into a single quaint novel. (Besides, local real-estate values have already shot through the roof enough, without the help of some scribe romanticizing the place and raising them even higher.) Moreover, it's my belief that to write from the Westerner's viewpoint would be to look at the whole theme of amusing cultural differences the wrong way around. Instead, let's look at the issue through Thai eyes by recounting two short vignettes — both of them, I promise you, true stories.

Imagine you're a young Thai girl, and you've just arrived in Phuket to work for a major Patong-based hotel. Your new work companions invite you out for a tour of the south coast in their recently purchased car. You accept. You've seen, but have never actually had, a conversation with a "long nose" before, and hold mildly optimistic views that you just might get along fine in your dealings with them. And looking out of the car window you think, "Gosh, there're an awful lot of them here on Phuket, aren't there?"

Meanwhile, two male Belgian tourists looking for some action thunder out of Patong on rented muscle bikes. The interior of the car is ice-cool; outside it's blisteringly hot. Halfway up Karon Hill, the two Westerners overtake the Toyota in an excess of exhaust fumes, sweat and sunscreen lotion, revelling in the midday heat. Cresting the hill, a kilometre ahead, the Westerners ride through a swarm of wasps, one of which stings the lead rider smack-bang on the nose. As your sedan purrs up to the peak of the hill, the view is magnificent; the sea is as incandescent as your mother's sapphire wedding ring and the sky is an infinitesimally deep blue but . . . What's that? There, to your right, you see an unexpected sight: a half-naked, fully grown man writhing on the roadside grass wildly shouting "Suck my nose. Suck my nose." All heads turn right, the car slows gently, but no one says a thing, even as one of the pink creatures kneels and proceeds to suck the middle of the other's face in what would appear to be a North European gesture of male bondage. You whoosh down to Karon, eat lunch and return to your hotel. Then you start worrying about your career in the tourist industry.

Imagine again that you're a culinary student on an internship in a hotel. You've just spent the whole afternoon down in the hotel's cavernous kitchens with the sous-chef learning how to carve a humble old turnip into the shape of a blossoming rose. At six o'clock prompt, you proudly place your labour of love on a dining table in the hotel's restaurant, hoping it'll brighten the hearts of guests for a while. But 10 minutes later a Westerner strides in, sits down, pours salad sauce over it and eats the whole darn lot up then orders steamed fish with rice as a chaser.

Yes, we do some bizarre things in Thai people's eyes but even normal Western behaviour can often seem totally wacky to a Thai person. Take for example the simple act of walking down the road. There's a saying in Thai, "Only the poor and farangs (Westerners) walk." (Actually, many of us would prefer not to walk, but fare-gouging tuk-tuk drivers provide many visitors to Phuket with a perfectly sound reason to ride shank's pony once in a while.) Most Thais would rather wait 20 minutes for a motorcycle taxi to come by than to walk a distance that would take 10 minutes to cover. The sight, therefore, of sweat-stained foreigners walking purely for pleasure over large distances is as out-of-the-ordinary to Thai eyes as the vista of a Bangkok traffic snarl or an entire family plus the puppy on a moped appears to a newcomer to Southeast Asia.

The sun — the very reason some travel all the way to Southeast Asia — represents one of the widest cultural chasms between East and West. For a local, to have a dark complexion is generally taken as a sign that one is, or at one time was, a lowly labourer, and no amount of whitening powder and cream will change that fact. Therefore, row after row of beachside sunbathers lying for hours under a merciless orb, purposely and determinedly darkening their hides to show off back home, beggars belief in a pale-faced, city-bred, class-conscious Thai. Mad dogs and Englishmen, indeed.

Shopping is another domain in which farangs excel at being prize chumps in the Thai mind. Any market trader worth his salt will present his goods at an elevated price, and the shopper who doesn't politely negate the original offer and then put in a more reasonable one should be wearing a dunce's cap and handed their ticket straight home. Yet many a deal is prematurely struck when foreigners convert the trader's asking price into euros or dollars and immediately capitulate in the belief that they're getting an instant bargain. Result? Locals witness foreigners actually ripping themselves off without any outside help whatsoever, and acting perfectly happy about it. Bizarre behaviour indeed, seen through Thai eyes.

So while Peter Manly and his readers were having a gentle laugh at le vieux monde ways of Provence, the Provencals themselves were probably holding knee-slapping, wine-guzzling, snail-slurping laugh-ins at the expense of the expat population — guffawing at their bland food, berating their anemic cars and marvelling at the expats' strange disinclination to speak the local argot with a perfect accent. Who knows? Maybe someday a witty Provencal will even write a tome entitled How Did We Put Up With Him for a Whole Year? In the meantime, a Thai scribe should maybe pen a self-help book about expats in Thailand. Something like Farangs: Try Not to Laugh at Them, They're only Human.

Kanasutra Restaurant is in 18-20 Takua Pa Road, two doors down from Korjoksee Restaurant, in Phuket Town. Call 018 940 794 or email