Leaving Las Bangkok

Bangkok Thailand, wretched den of vice and iniquity.

Even for those who have never been it conjures images of leering sex tourists and neon drenched prostitutes hanging lazily from the railings of go go bars.

The truth is not that far off, but the ‘Kingdom of Thailand’ is far more conservative than most would think. An amazing hypocrisy exists where public displays of affection as innocent as holding hands in public is frowned upon yet for the price of a Singha you can see a woman shoot ping-pong balls from her nether regions.

Pornography is outlawed both in print and on the internet, yet any farang (mildly derogatory Thai term for ‘foreigner’) walking down the street is literally slapped in the face with laminated menu’s of services that would make Larry Flynt himself blush.

Like many young men of my father’s generation I came to Bangkok for some well deserved R’n’R from the rice paddies of Vietnam.  My two weeks up I now pack my bags to return to the suck, but not without a word or two of appreciation for the town which took me in and nurtured me when I had the continence of…well, Larry Flynt again.

I arrived in a bad way. Reeling from a packed and sweaty 14hr overnight bus from Siem Reap, Cambodia, I needed a shower, air con, and a bed (in precisely that order).  Needless to say it was not the arrival of conquering heroes I had envisioned for the final stop on our southeast Asian adventure.  Little did I know at the time the Kampuchean bug waging Kurtz-like guerilla war in my gut would soon level me for a week. At the time I simply thought I was in need of some rest, a big Singha beer, and some Pad Thai Kung.

Dumped unceremoniously on a sun scorched Khao San road, Evan and I attempted to find lodging before our road weary legs gave out under the substantial weight of our gear.  Our usual modus operandi when scouting places to stay was twofold.

1. Pre-scout online by checking the usual travel websites (TripAdvisor, LP, and booking.com).  Not booking mind you. By booking online you secure a room, but usually at the top dollar rate posted. No, this was simply scout and recon. Pick three close to our budget range (generally bottom barrel), tag them in the GPS and done.

2.  Locate and negotiate.  One of us would pop in to inquire about two rooms (we stayed separate when possible for the sake of trip harmony, and I highly recommend this when affordable).  One would stay with the bags and the other would put eyes on the room. A quick look for moderate cleanliness (incredibly relative), hot water (if offered), and WiFi (if available, usually spotty).  Then would begin the delicate task of price negotiations. Too low and you offend, too high and well, you’re a farang sucker.  Entire pages could be written on this facet of travel alone, but suffice it to say ‘that’s too high’ was a staple of our limited vocabulary in all languages.

Bangkok threw a solid wrench into our well oiled machine.  Everything was full. Everything from the lowliest guest rooms behind seedy gogo bars to the fancy hotels that ring Khao San (for those flashpackers who want to be in the mix but not down in the pit with the unwashed masses).

We were bust.

Still not willing to admit to myself that I was sick I was however acutely aware of the internal clock ticking down to the moment before I flat keeled over.  Now I’ve passed out in some notable gutters before, New Orleans being my favorite, the Palace of Versailles the classiest, but a Bangkok gutter is a sight to behold and I wanted to avoid adding it to the list. A month of moving at breakneck pace had finally caught up with me. And unlike the overnight bus-straight to the Angkor temples, the unnatural beauty of the area did nothing to invigorate us.

Thankfully before the clock reached zero, just as I was fluffing the nearest plump thai rat-pillow, we managed to secure a couple rooms at a surprisingly passable hotel on Rambuttri.  The price for this haven? A whopping 650baht ($22). A princely sum considering we had to that point paid between $1.75 and $8 for some of our favorite spots.  But this was not Vietnam, and I had to resign myself to that fact. Truth was, in my state I’d have paid triple.

It ended up being a great decision.  A veritable smorgasbord of stick-meats, fruit vendors, and 7-11’s ringed the entrance. Yep, the Big Gulp is alive and well in the land of smiles with more stores than any other country save the U.S., often comically facing each other across the street.  We even had a Subway (at 150 baht the $5 foot long even plays internationally).  It was the perfect place to recover from the intestinal Tet offensive being waged in my tummy.

After having not stopped moving or spent more than one night in the same place for the last month I reveled in the relaxed schedule. Mornings were spent over $1-4 breakfasts depending on whether I wanted eggs and toast in the farang spots, or curried mystery meats and sweet mango with the locals.

A quick stop at the 7-11 to procure water for the day (hydration is key when losing the quantity of ‘fluids’ I was), a swing by the ever-smiling rotund fruit lady for a couple chopped papayas and I was off to the pool. The rooftop pool of the hotel was an oasis in the Bangkok heat. A veritable United Nations of hotties.  A litany of languages and unshaved armpits as far as the eye could see.

I tucked myself into a comfortable cabana and for the first time in a month did…nothing.  I finished ‘World War Z’ (great for the research they put into it, although I’m about on zombie burnout these days), killed ‘Catch Me If You Can’ (is it too late to become a grifter?), and started in on Dick Cheney’s autobiography. The last one might surprise those who know me, but it’s a fascinating read from the guy who basically ran things from behind the scenes for 8yrs.

Once I was well enough, afternoons were spent working out in my room and jogging to the various temples and Wats in the area. Running the streets of a city as complex and busy as Bangkok was an experience, but not necessarily one I’d relish repeating.  The exhaust from a million motorbikes makes it similar to running with a hair dryer in your mouth and I nearly bit it more than once from cars popping out of side streets.

Dinner was generally taken at the locals market nearby. A plethora of stalls which could be put up or torn down in the blink of an eye should the Thai-fuzz roll up.  Row after row of knockoff Prada, bootlegged movies (gasp, pornography!) and questionable meats galore.  I was taken under the wing of the smiling mamasan, and as the only farang to stumble that far north of Khao San, was treated as something of a novelty. Putting my bubbling gut to the back of my mind I dabbled in fish cakes, eel curries, and frog leg stews to my hearts content. No meal was complete without a fried egg (yolks a color of orange previously unknown to me) and a dollop of nuclear chili paste (my pained expressions eliciting much laughter amongst the tuk-tuk drivers and heroin addicts I regularly dined with).  The cost for this feasting? A buck. Buck and a half if I splurged on both eel AND frog legs.

The catch? There always is one.  Get the fuck out of dodge once the sun goes down.  As the nexus for cheap heroin from the Golden Triangle, Bangkok has a horrible drug problem amongst both farang and local alike.  Many of the market-goers were openly snorting heroin from small ampules, and nearly every tuk-tuk driver was popping amphetamines like candy to stay awake.

It didn’t take a genius to realize that bopping around to the Stones with my white ear-buds after dark was risky. A couple dangerously hungry looks from the junkies and panhandlers was enough for me to me to learn to keep my lily white ass on the other side of 8mile after dark.

Bangkok Dangerous? You bet. But it’s also one of the most amazing cities in Asia as far as I’m concerned.

-Nick