I turned on the ignition and pointed at the red alternator light, which was on. I started my bike, opened the throttle, pointed at the red light, which was still on. It should have gone out, so I waved my hands, palms pointed downwards, hoping he'd understand what I was trying to convey: 'That shouldn't happen'. We hadn't spoken a word, but the Thai man seemed to understand and turned to walk away, beckoning me with his finger. With nothing to lose, I climbed on my bike, rode it slowly behind him, around a corner and down a street for about 300 metres to a garage that was open to the street.
He pointed at my bike, then at the garage, so I rode inside and watched as he explained my problem in Thai to two overalled men in the workshop. Head scratches, pointed fingers, shrugged shoulders all followed. Eventually, working together, we figured out that one of the diodes no longer functioned correctly.
If I'd been at home, I would have replaced the whole diode board, but in a tiny Thai town there were no BMW spare parts. Instead we unsoldered the faulty one, soldered a new diode in place and reconnected the board above my alternator.
I twisted the BMW's key, started her up. The red light went out. He'd repaired the fault and saved my skin. And still not a single word exchanged between us. His cobbled-together diode board is still working on my BMW today.
Lone Rider Elspeth Beard p141