06/01/03: Hungover. Spend the day occupying
cafes, drinking coffee and eating sandwiches and crisps. Get overnight bus to Bangkok via Surat Thani.
I take the Bangkok Post. The
international reportage makes it perfect reading for the 12 hour bus journey
from Krabi to Bangkok. Its sports coverage in particular is excellent, giving comprehensive
cover of both the FA Cup 3rd Round and The Ashes.
I have mixed feelings about our impending mission. The
distance we have to cover is considerable, and I am
anticipating it to be physically discomforting. I don’t expect to get
much sleep, although my hangover gives rise to the possibility. I’m a
little sad to be leaving the south of the country and am apprehensive
about this whole Laos-Vietnam thing. I am, however, looking forward
to relocating to Bangkok for a few days, something that I wouldn’t have thought
possible 50 days ago.
The first part of the trip is
straightforward enough: we board a single-decked coach that takes us to Krabi’s
bus terminal. On arrival, the vehicular form of the second stage of our journey
is as yet unclear. Our previous experience of the larger VIP Bus
involved a colourful single-decked coach of modest capacity replete with
chrome interior, but I suspect that this was tailored to the hedonistic
destination to which we were then travelling. At the other end of the spectrum,
we have ridden a cosy minibus from Chumphon to Surat Thani, but I’m not
expecting that this will be the case here.
I am now concerned by the amount of people apparently waiting for a similar charter to Bangkok. I
am concerned because I have hitherto noticed a tendency to squeeze as many
people as possible onto any given bus or coach, with a total disregard
for notions of health and safety or comfort. I am also concerned because a few of my fellow travellers are voicing a similar tension. What’s more, the VIP Bus is running late.
My fears are soon allayed
when two double-decked buses show up, both bound for Bangkok. True to form,
they’re colourful things, adorned with various cartoon characters, and there’s even a TV on board. Closer inspection reveals these
vehicles to be older than they appear – a stain here, a cracked air-con funnel
there – but they are air-conditioned
and they do seem to offer a credible degree of leg-room. I’m reasonably happy,
although a little annoyed when our half-full coach alights in Surat Thani, of
all places, to fill in the empty spaces.
I’m now getting a handle on
how long-haul transport operates in Thailand. There’s nothing really 'VIP' about these buses: they’re just
regular, long-distance coaches, with functioning utilities, that charge about
twice as much than the alternative public model. This still only works out at about £13 for a
400 mile journey, and it will pick you up and drop you off at locations that
are convenient.
The only problem now is the
person sat in front of me who insists on reclining her chair as far as its
fixtures will allow. I would say something but she’s dabbing at a nasty looking
wound on her lower leg. Then her companion politely asks if he can borrow my Bangkok Post, leaving me impotent to do anything other than sit
back and suffer.
07/01/03: Bump into 'Mel and Kath' from Haad Yao. Book into the Khao
San Palace and take a nap. Wally’s for brunch. Sort out Laos visa and buy Fear & Loathing in Las
Vegas. Gulliver’s for dinner, then Dong Dea Moon. See elephant and talk to yank. Hole in the Wall for a nightcap.
It’s Tuesday, about 05:30 on the Khao San Road, and the
previous evening’s entertainment is just winding down. I managed to catch about
three hours of sleep on the bus, which for me isn't bad going, and now we’ve got to contend with the lingering detritus from the night
before. But there’s an excitement about the place, an energy and a coolness to
the air, even though the temperature can’t be much below 25°C.
We have arrived earlier than
expected – too early to find lodging. The staff at The Palace advise that we return in a couple of hours, whereupon guests
will have checked out and rooms will have been cleaned. After about three hours, breakfast, and
many cups of coffee later, The Palace is finally able to provide us asylum. We sleep a little and then hit Wally’s for something to eat, with a new found sense of
authority gloriously coursing through my veins. I have no problem waving away
the hawkers at lunch, and the pushy tuk-tuk drivers aren’t bothering me in the
least. I may not have the most active tan in the world, what with the fair
amount of southern cloud cover I’ve endured, but I feel a good deal less
conspicuous than some of the paler arrivals that occasionally pass us by.
It seems hotter than it did
down south and less humid. These
are not perfect conditions for traipsing around and deciding which
establishment is best placed to process our visa. It doesn’t really matter
because, as with the VIP bus situation, everything’s hooked up to the same
infrastructure and prices won’t deviate much from its predetermined course. That’s
not to say that it doesn’t hurt to shop around, though, and iron out the
possibility that some people somewhere might be trying to squeeze you for more
than is good and proper.
We are being told that it
will take at least three days to process a visa for Laos. This is not in any
way unusual: passports have to be taken to the relevant embassies and are filed
accordingly. You could always visit the intended embassy yourself, but
I postulate that this would be an approach overly mired in bureaucracy. It
seems very much easier to resign ourselves to a few extra days in Bangkok,
which I don’t mind at all. I’m starting to feel that the capital offers me some
sort of ‘peace at the centre’, a base camp from which to evaluate this whole
adventure. The only problem with this course of action is that Bangkok gives me a
terrible urge to drink.
Later and we’re back at
Gulliver’s taking full advantage of their air conditioning and pork chops in
pepper sauce. And when we’ve finished there it’s off to Dong Dea Moon for what
turns out to be a relatively quiet night. I talk to a garrulous American sporting
a ponytail who regales me with tales of his tight-fisted
adventures in Burma. Draped in his own hubris, he proudly examples of how he
and a friend refused to disembark from a public bus after being asked to pay double
the going rate. Together, they peremptorily declared that it was their right to
be charged the same as the Burmese and would not move until their demands for
equity were met. This might seem reasonable behaviour on one level, but the likelihood is that they were holding more cash on their person than the average Burmese earns
in a month. When I attempt anecdoture of my own (not my forte) I notice his
eyes idly taking in the bar’s surroundings. Disappointingly, I am finding that
Americans like to talk at you plenty but sometimes aren’t so keen about being
on the other end.
08/01/03: Taxi to Siam
Square to look at shops and Jim Thompson’s House. Back to Khao San Road for a shandy. Tea and then go to the Than Mago only to find it has been demolished. Return to Dong Dea Moon,
whereupon we meet J (Mk.2).
09/01/03: Awake with Sangsom
induced hangover. Brunch at Wally’s. Back to Dong Dea Moon to meet J (Mk.2) and his
Canadian chum S (Mk.2). Take them to Hole in the Wall, before finding new place around the back
10/01/03: Wally’s. Collect visas. Go to Chart for dinner and watch K-19: The Widowmaker and Panic Room. Sneaky drink in Dong Dea Moon.
We never really escaped our little quarter of Bangkok the
first time around. Sure, we made it far
as the Royal Palace, the Golden Mount and Wat Indrawihan, but all this is
navigable by foot, and abjectly touristic. My partner has a few ideas,
though. She’d like to see Jim Thompson’s House and take advantage of the many
shopping malls in and around Siam Square. I’m not that bothered about visiting
Mr Thompson’s ex-abode but the malls could be interesting, and I like the change of tack. We will take a taxi to Siam Square – a proper taxi with
a working meter – through heavy traffic and banal streets. It is estimated by
our guidebook that it will cost about 200 baht, and it does, factoring in a 20
baht tip.
Our first port of call is the
Siam Center (sic), outside of which
our taxi-driver deposits us in great haste. Dating back to 1973, the Siam
Center is one of Bangkok’s oldest malls. It doesn’t look that old to me but
then my formative experience of the shopping plaza is based upon the Armada
Centre in Plymouth and Treaty Centre in Hounslow – beige, eighties fossils both.
As is often the way of the
shopping mall, the Siam Center attracts those of a more youthful
condition. What strikes me here is how smart these juveniles are. Nobody is wearing shorts, for instance,
clothes are of a tighter fit and the prevailing fashion appears to be highly
accessorised (hair product, handbags, watches, brand names, etc.). I’m wearing
brown needle-cords, a lank white T-shirt and a shabby pair of Converse, and I
feel verminous by comparison. Moreover, these more affluent folk seem paler of
complexion than their out-of-town cousins, or even those I have seen working on
the Khao San Road. This is not so surprising when one considers it. A
preference for fairer skin pervades in many Southeast Asian countries, Thailand
being no exception, and a whole cosmetics industry is built upon it.
It might be fair to speculate that – as was the way in Victorian Britain –
darker skin brings with it an association with the labouring classes and that
whitening one’s complexion suggests a higher position within the social strata. [This is in retrospect seems obvious, but at the time it genuinely perplexed me.]
The shops themselves are your
standard high-street conglomerations with goods priced to match, so we don't hang about. The
more recently constructed Siam Discovery Center is more upmarket than its sister mall, meaning that I feel
even more under-dressed than I did there. The air-conditioning is more
aggressive too, and the garments are priced even further beyond my range
(constrained by my traveller’s budget or otherwise). A modest exhibition of
photographs is on display on the ground floor: a collection of various national
scapes.
The MBK Center (sic) is up next, a leviathan of a
shopping mall eight stories high, stranger than known, attracting over 100,000
visitors a day, so it’s claimed. MBK was constructed in 1986, and this time
it shows. Not as up-market as the previous two plazas, from which it can be
accessed via a footbridge traversing the busy junction which all three
overlook, you can find both the authentic and ersatz on sale here.
All malled out, it’s time for
us to visit Jim Thompson’s House. Jim Thompson was an American silk-merchant who put down roots
in Bangkok in the 1950s before making a strange disappearance somewhere in
Malaya during 1967. In between he built himself a house wherein he amassed a
vast collection of Southeast Asian art. Today it functions as a kind of museum, and you can pay to have a look around the place.
No disrespect to Mr Thompson
and his beautiful home, and maybe it’s just because I’m starting to wilt in the
heat, but I’m more enthused by the cup of black tea I’m given at the café
around the corner. I say ‘given’ because I don’t actually ask for tea; I
order coffee but I’m also served a complimentary cuppa as a sort of chaser. The proprietor senses my perplexity and reassures me as to what it
is. She misses the point. I am not thrown by the contents of my cup – it’s
plain to see that it’s tea – but merely why she felt it necessary to provide me
with it at all. Place it in the context of the weather and it begins to make
some sense: 'If you must drink hot liquid when it’s touching 35°C – and coffee
at that – then at least take a sip of this.' She’s right. It really is quite a
revelation, the most refreshing cup of anything hot I’ve had in all my life.
I am glad when our cab deposits us right at the end of the Khao
San Road. I’m not used to this level of activity in this sort of weather and in
this kind of metropolis. That said, I’ve enjoyed our trip about
town, so we indulge in a shandy to celebrate our modest achievement.
We’re set on having barbecued
sea-bass tonight, sitting outside, serviced by the restaurant that trades
beneath Dong Dea Moon. The fish is all right, despite the battle
with its bones, although I do feel a little exposed eating on the
road-come-pavement. But this is a mere introduction to the evening, for
we are building towards a night in The Mango (aka, The Hendrix).
Before us, nothing but rubble. At some
juncture during the six weeks we had been away, somebody had decided that The Mango wasn’t worth the recovered timber it was built from. This humble bar,
where I got stuck into some serious drinking that first, fragile week, covered
in sweat and bothered by mosquitoes, to be reduced to this.
So instead we returned to Dong Dea Moon and befriended J (Mk.2), fresh off the aeroplane from England
and travelling alone. He took great interest in our story so far, as the Noisy American glanced over occasionally from
the opposite side of the bar, and when it came to the subject of the islands
and their accompanying Buckets of Joy, Louise saw fit to educate him in
the practice. So comprehensive was her teaching that I was forced to bail out
of the lesson early.
The walk home was an unsteady
one, but I recall it vividly. I remember a desperate need to be back in my room and a fear that I might not make it. It wasn’t that I thought
myself incapable of walking the 300-odd metres to the hotel, but more that I
might find myself interrupted, be it by the Bangkok Police or a hostile
traveller, or even an opportunist citizen. Worse still, I might collapse into a random group of strangers, or some
roadside vendor’s stall.
Not surprisingly, the next
day was a bit of a write-off for the both of us, although, weirdly, more so for
me than Louise, who had shared in a second bucket with J (Mk.2) after my
premature exit. I spent much of the day getting stuck into Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, having read Fear & Loathing on the Campaign Trail
many years before but never having gotten around to reading Thompson’s more well known tome. It seemed apposite material, especially given that I was
keeping a sort of journal myself, although it did leave me feeling a bit barren
in the literary department. Where Hunter Stockton Thompson had a car, a boot
full of pharmaceuticals, a typewriter, a few firearms and a contract with Rolling Stone
magazine to work with, all I had was a traveller’s itinerary, access to
strong lager, and a biro. But I did suffer
from a degree of fear, and there was enough about me to inspire a certain
amount of loathing, if I could only find a way to convey this in print. In
truth, what with my morbid fascination with Apocalypse Now running in parallel,
such fantasies were best avoided.
Rather perversely, we met up
with J (Mk.2) again that evening, who brought along with him a Canadian he’d
befriended somewhere or other. Not even the Hole in Wall could inspire us this
time around as my partner and I wearily shuffled through the motions and soon
bade farewell to our newfound friends.
On Friday we collected our visas and prepared for our exodus
to Laos. This involved the acquisition of anti-malarial tablets, the north of
Thailand and beyond delineated as a higher-risk environment. We were probably
over the worst of it because the rainy season had finally come to pass,
depriving the common vector – the mosquito – of the conditions necessary to
reproduce en masse. In any case,
malaria isn’t a critical issue in Thailand (although persistent enough not to
be discounted completely), but near and across many of its boarders one is
advised to take precautions whatever the time of year. This is because the
prevalence of jungle wetland enables the vector to proliferate. In built up
areas such as Bangkok, on the other hand, the chance of infection is
practically nil.
Malarial or otherwise, the
mosquito is still an irritant that needs to be confronted. So far we had been
relying on N-Diethyl-meta-toluamide – more commonly known as DEET – as a means of
self-defence. DEET was developed by the United States Army and it is an
aggressive solution. Sold as a roll-on or spray-repellent, I’d knocked out
a couple of unwelcome bugs on the islands with this stuff. Directly applied, it
can kill a cockroach of substance within a matter of minutes. I’d more
commonly spray it onto our mattresses – in anticipation of bedbugs – or beneath
doors, or into any ominous looking holes where creatures might feasibly take
refuge. The idea really is to apply the liquid directly onto the skin,
whereupon one will experience a general tightening of the epidermis, maybe
even a slight burning sensation, but should otherwise remain unbitten.
Another
weapon in our armoury is the mosquito coil. Made from pyrethrum – a natural
insecticide derived from the dried flower-heads of the humble chrysanthemum – the hardened tendril is made to smoulder,
mustering a light vapour repellent to most insects. It is as effective as any
draught will permit, and therefore best utilised in enclosed spaces. Only the reluctance
to let them burn while you're sleeping – especially in wood-based dwellings –
prevents their more regular usage (it is claimed they will burn for up to 8
hours).
If
the mosquito succeeds in breaching these defences, one can alleviate the
discomfort with a camphor or menthol based balm. I use the Monkey Holding
Peach brand. It’s a competent application – as good as any balm, I should
imagine – but when confronted with the work of the Asian Tiger Mosquito [Aedes albopictus]
it can be found wanting. The wounds these insects inflict are quite nasty:
bruises as big as your fist, throbbing welts that visibly pulse, blisters
prone to infection. Fortunately for me mosquitoes aren’t very interested in my
blood. Unfortunately for Louise they're rather keen on hers.
Of
course, we should have sorted all this out before we left England. I actually
obtained a prescription for a drug called Malarone three weeks before I was due
to travel, but it took me another two weeks before I bothered doing anything
with it. In Plymouth, a week before my flight, I sauntered on down to Hyde Park
Pharmacy, not appreciating that anti-malarials aren’t the sort of thing a
chemist stocks as a matter of course. Assuming my departure to be still some
way off, the staff seemed quite put out when I told them how quickly I needed
these drugs in my possession. And when they offered to rush the order through,
only for me to balk at the price (over £120 for a month’s supply) and tell them
not to bother, they appeared even more so. But it was the right way to go
because I managed to find the same amount of Malarone in the Boots on Khao San
Road for less £40, and we embarked on our 37-day course – as prescribed – with
immediate effect. [WARNING! This financial disparity no longer applies: on subsequent
trips to South Asia I have found that the Malarone on sale there is nowhere near
as affordable as it once was. Conversely, charged by the pill, it is cheaper in
the UK in 2012 than it was in 2002.]
With greater motivation we
could have departed there and then, but for some reason we decided against it –
we had the days to spare on our visa so why not use them. It was also
determined that we would try the overnight train, offering us the beauty of
sleep and saving us a night’s rent, the same trick that we’d pulled off on the
journey back to Bangkok.
We agreed that drinking
profusely was best avoided and settled for supping a few shandies and watching
a couple of films in an institution called Chart. K-19: Widowmaker and Panic Room were the movies in question,
and they weren’t bad – the former in particular – although the watching of
films plein air, in what amounted to
someone’s backyard, felt odd.
We dusted off with a drink in
Dong Dea Moon, possibly to keep at bay the inchoate unrest that tomorrow’s
activities would assuredly deliver, and certainly because there’s very little
else to do at night when you're slumming it in Bangkok.
No comments:
Post a Comment