About a week after I was diagnosed with meningitis by Chinese doctors, I was on a plane to Thailand. Most of my travels require flying with an Asian airline. That is just one of the hardships of life in Asia. But I flew to Bangkok on KLM, a European airline based in my favorite European city. If Europe is the whipped cream, Holland is the cherry on top. I had forgotten what efficient service was like. Many international airlines will use local crews on short distance flights outside of the airline’s regional hub. Airlines from this continent are always affiliated with airlines from that continent in one way or another. When I boarded the plane and saw all those shiny white faces I knew this was going to be different. Ordinarily I prefer not to be surrounded by white people. They tend to give me the creeps. But a crew from Holland is better than a crew from any non-Japanese Asian country in every possible way. For those unfamiliar with the Asian concept of customer service, the easiest explanation is that most non-Japanese Asians have no concept of customer service. At least this broad generalization is my experience every day of my life.
On the plane something happened that really does not occur as often as it should. A hot blond babe sat down next to me. I thought she was from Holland at first, and I imagined that hearing that accent for the next four hours would test my allegial limits. Then she spoke and I immediately recognized the grating howl of an American voice. Truly none of us is perfect. She was an American teaching English to spoiled Chinese children, not unlike myself. She was also a Christian Republican from Texas. Very much unlike myself. Another interesting difference between us was that she was dumber than a sack of papaya. Arguable as that may be. She explained that this trip to Bangkok was her visa run. Foreigners living here on visitor visas must leave the country every few months to get a new visa, depending on their home country. Some people do this for years. The only reason anyone with a job would remain on a visitor visa is if they are working illegally or they are dumber than a sack of papaya. She told me that this was her second visa run and that the government makes it difficult to get any other kind of visa. She said that the entire process was just too cumbersome and bureaucentric, I am paraphrasing. I think she said icky and poopoorific. I have never been on a visa run. I got a legal job before my visitor visa expired (although not really) and have been living on a resident visa ever since. But then, perhaps I am not dumber than a sack of papaya. Arguable as that may be.
Britney (for obvious reasons) spoke about how exciting it was to live in a foreign land and experience a different culture. She went on about the food and the people, and I wondered if my previous blind stereotyping assessment of her intelligence had not been overly optimistic or if perhaps I was closing myself to some aspect of my own experience. Probably a little of both. But she was pretty dim.
Ordinarily all in-flight announcements are made in English and whatever languages are spoken in the departure and arrival countries. Sometimes that can make for a litany of international prattle. But since this crew was entirely European all of the announcements were in English and Nederlands. This was probably strange for all the Chinese and Thai on the plane, but also for me since I have grown accustomed to tuning out announcements in Chinese. To be fair, Europeans are not well known for their fluency of Chinese and Thai. Their butchery of those languages would have only caused confusion. During the fine dinning portion of the evening a flight attendant attempted to ask the Chinese passenger sitting next to Britney whether he wanted noodles or rice. The passenger said, “Yes”. Being the great humanitarian I am, I asked said passenger in Chinese if he wanted noodles or rice. Not that I formed a complete sentence, but I can say “noodles or rice”. Not that the Chinese ever form complete sentences (by English standards). I then gave the flight attendant a half-assed lesson in Chinese. At the next row he asked another Chinese passenger what I could only assume was supposed to mean “noodles or rice”, but I could not understand a word.
The first passenger chose 麵.
People have asked me why I say Nederlander instead of “Dutch”. One person has only ever asked, really. A person from Holland and/or the Netherlands is a Nederlander. The language they speak is Nederlands. “Dutch” is a bastardized version of “Deutsch”, created by British people who did not know the difference. Ironically, British people call the Deutsche “German”. To some Dutch, the word Dutch is insulting, like when you call the Inuit “Eskimo” or Hillbillies “Inbred Tractor Monkeys”. But most Nederlander are too polite to tell you not to call them Dutch, or they have been beaten into submission, like Americans who really believe that the Runaway Bride was the most important news event that day. More importantly, Dutch chicks are much better looking than Eskimo chicks, so it never hurts to score some extra points.
Ratchadamri Rd on an unusually empty day
My first impression of Bangkok was that the airport was impressively empty for the third largest hub in Asia. But then, it was somewhere between 1am and 3am. I never bothered to figure out the time difference before I left. Whenever I let Boss Lady arrange my flights I end up leaving in the late afternoon, which is convenient since I do not have to bother waking up before noon. The only problem with leaving late in the afternoon is that I usually arrive very late at night. Someone more intelligent than I might resolve this situation by arranging the flights themselves. A valid point, except that this particular trip was paid for entirely by Boss Lady. It seemed only fair to let her do all the work as long as she was picking up the tab. Part of my bonus package when I renewed my contract seven months prior was a free trip to Bangkok. I was finally collecting.
My forty fifth impression of Bangkok was that it was unbearably hot and humid. I had just come from a place that is unbearably hot and humid 10 months out of the year, but the unbearable heat and humidity always seems worse on the other side of the hai.
Ratchadamri Rd, below Baiyoki
Whenever I tell anyone that I have been to Amsterdam or Bangkok the first question they ask always seems to be about the whores. Both cities have a rich history of culture, art, science, and food. Although “Dutch” food blows. But people seem to care more about whether the rumors are true than they care about Rembrandt’s kick ass charcoal sketches or that weird looking monkey thing at Phra Kaeo. I read some article in the National Review (or Penthouse Forum; it is all the same) by some idiot who said that the best thing about his trip to Amsterdam was the Red Light District. It is an amusing area to stroll through while nipping at an ice cream cone, but a trip to Amsterdam without the Rijksmuseum is a waste of perfectly expensive jet fuel. I could spend entire minutes in Amsterdam without even considering that prostitution is legal. I have always been amazed that such a vibrant and historic city can be so easily reduced by repressed people to a depot for hookers and pot. It is easily one of the best cities in the world, including the thousands of cities I will never see.
Bangkok is nice, too.
Of course, while in Bangkok I did go to a sex show. When in Rome, do as the Thai do. Technically it was a “look show”, which almost has to be better than a smell show. A walk through Patpong will elicit an endless assault of invitations and bargain rates from pimps and other icky people (special thanks to Britney). Patpong is the place to go if you want cheap food, cheap alcohol, cheap bootleg DVDs, cheap imitation jewelry, cheap counterfeit designer clothes, cheap hookers, or cheap sex shows. It is truly a shopping paradise for those with no discerning taste. It can be amusing at first. Some of the peddlers are women (although only those not attractive enough to be $5 hookers), and as I walked passed one woman she held out the same menu that they all seem to have and said, “Pussy, fuck, fuck.” I suppose if you are only going to learn two words in English there are worse choices, depending on your chosen vocation. One male pimp was barking the usual sales pitch in broken English as I walked toward his general direction. Once I got as close as I was ever going to get he practically whispered, “(Something unintelligible) for weed?” Narcotics possession and even prostitution are illegal in Thailand. The prostitution is largely ignored by the authorities. Most of those fat, bald American vets would not visit Bangkok every year if they could not relieve their syphillatic glory days. But like most Southeast Asian countries that prefer to export drugs rather than import, there are some serious penalties for those who want to trot the white pony around Sala Daeng.
While being led up a dark and narrow staircase I thought to myself what is the worst that could happen, other than being kidnapped, tortured, disemboweled and beheaded. The venue appeared as any other low rent stripclub. Or so I have heard. There was a small stage on which a few young girls stood and vaguely swayed to the loud music. The audience was mostly white and middle aged. The atmosphere was dark and smelled like cheap alcohol and despair. I was escorted to my chair. I saw Lola dancing there. But I was immediately accosted not once, not twice, not thrice, but more than whatever is more than thrice by girls who all seemed to think I was the most interesting person in the world. I am convinced this had more to do with my winning personality than the fact that to them I was a rich foreigner who could easily give them a year’s salary with a simple flick of the wrist. As much as I enjoy being surrounded by contagious young women who will do anything without emotion for spare change, I did want to see the show, and the constant begging for money was a distraction. They were not literally begging me for money, but my money was their obvious goal. I think they would have been shocked and even angry had they known just how little money I actually had on me at the time.
When I left my fans and took a different seat much closer to the stage I got to watch the show for about a minute before more girls wanted to convince me that I was endlessly fascinating. The basic routine on stage was that one girl wore a bikini, one was topless, one was completely naked, and one performed some kind of gynecological circus act. They would occasionally rotate and switch positions, and sometimes a new girl would climb onstage as a replacement. When they switched positions it struck me as odd that the nude girl would then put on a bikini. It seemed as though the horse was already out of the barn on that one. Of course, the highlight of the show was the bizarre “sex act”, which had nothing to do with sex. In between fending off the girls offstage I saw a girl onstage play a small toy horn nowhere near her mouth, and the infamous ping pong ball act. The one that surprised me was the girl who popped balloons by shooting small darts out of her naughty bits. I would imagine that takes some practice. I also saw the dreaded string of razor blades. That is something most people can live without ever seeing. I have no idea who, how or why someone invented these little parlor tricks, but certainly the razor blade piece must have come from the mind of a man. At any point in history, in any country in the world, men are pretty fucked up.
Aside from the annoyance of constantly being harassed by all the drink whores, my general impression of the entire experience was that it was all as far from erotic as it could have possibly been. The girls onstage performed their routines with absolutely no enthusiasm and seemed as though they would rather be scrubbing toilets than doing what they were doing. The girls offstage showed more interest, but they were only interested in money and drinks. I have met plenty of women like that who speak my language, so the hand signal variation did nothing for me. And when I say “girls”, I do not mean it in any condescending way. All of these female people were young, and some of them could have easily been feloniously young. Child advocacy groups check these places from time to time, but how reliable can that be.
Which brings me to an interesting point. Pi Chi did not accompany me on this trip.
I have always preferred to travel alone. It is easier to arrange a trip for one, and it is much easier to see and do whatever I want without having to compromise and visit the world’s largest quilt when I would rather see the Grand Canyon. But somewhere along the line something has changed. It occurred to me early on that this trip would have been much better with Pi Chi. I certainly would have missed the ping pong show, but being splashed by the filthy water of Chao Phraya during the “canal cruise” might have been more romantic if the driver and I were not the only people on the boat. I think Pi Chi would have enjoyed all those large, ornate temples. Chinese temples are pretty weak compared to elaborate Thai temples. And there is the shopping. Pi Chi likes to shop, and Bangkok is a great place to buy a wide variety of cheap crap.
Pi Chi would have loved Wat Phra Kaeo. It sits on the grounds of the Grand Palace and is easily the largest temple in Thailand. It used to be the private temple of the royal family, and even today only the King is allowed to touch the large Emerald Buddha, which he dresses in ceremonial costumes three times a year to reflect the current season. There are, of course, only three seasons per year: rainy season, summer and winter. I went during the rainy season. Though it did not rain much at all.
I ordinarily visit such tourist attractions on my own, but my hotel was offering some “limited time” special deal where a guided tour was cheaper than the taxi ride alone would have been, so I let Kehatanee authorized tour guide Napaporn Phurattanakornkul show me around. Her English was terrible, but I have become quite adept at deciphering broken English. The main benefit to the services of Ms Phurattanakornkul was that she was either intimately familiar with the history and culture of Wat Phra Kaeo or she was very good at making shit up. On my own it would have taken all day to wander around, and I probably still would not have seen it all. With Napaporn I am reasonably sure that I saw everything worth seeing, and it only took several hours. And yes, her name was indeed Napaporn. And it is pronounced the way you think it is.
Wat Phra Kaew is actually a series of temples, consisting of the Royal Monastery of the Emerald Buddha, as well as Phra Siratana Chedi (right), Hor Phra Naga (the mausoleum of the royal family), Phra Wiharn Yod (a repository of numerous Buddhist images), Phra Mondop (left, a repository for sacred scriptures inscribed on palm leaves), Hor Phra Monthian Dharma (the scripture library), Hor Phra Rajkoramanusorn (which holds Buddha images dedicated to kings of the Ayuthaya Dynasty), Hor Phra Rajphongsanusorn (which holds Buddha images dedicated to kings of the present dynasty), Prasat Phra Dhepbidorn (which holds statues of the Chakri Dynasty), and Hor Phra Gandhararat. All of these are within the Grand Palace, which also houses Borom Phiman Mansion (currently the royal guest house), Buddha Ratana Starn, Amarindra Winitchai, Paisal Taksin (the coronation hall), Chakraphat Phiman (where the new king spends his first night after coronation), Mahisorn Prasat, Hor Phra Sulalai Phiman, the Rajruedi, Chakri Maha Prasat and Rajkaranyasapha. There will be an oral test later.
One of the more interesting aspects of international travel is finding out just how much the locals mispronounce their words compared to the proper way that we pronounce them. Siam, for example, is called
see-ahm and not
Sy am, and it was never what they called their country. Probably because Thai names are generally 48 letters long and largely unpronounceable. The way they pronounce Bangkok sounds far less pornographic. Those crappy little motorcycles with shells for passengers are tuk tuks, pronounced
dook dook. I grew up pronouncing Hiroshima with the emphasis on the third syllable while the Japanese mistakenly emphasize the second. The Chinese think their country is called Zhongguo. In Holland, Koninklijke Luchtvaart Maatschappij is pronounced Koninklijke Luchtvaart Maatschappij. Another similarity between Amsterdam and Bangkok is that while their words may look easy to pronounce, when they are actually spoken they tend to sound nothing like their spelling.
Wat Phra Kaew
Bangkok is louder, filthier, and more crowded than where I live. The only way to cross one of the larger streets is via one of the scarce walkways that are elevated high above the pavement. There are entirely too many steps to climb to the top, and entirely too many steps from the intersection where I want to cross and the middle of the block where the walkway is located. We have similar walkways here (along with the underground variation), but they are not as necessary since it is actually possible to cross most of the streets. Crossing a busy intersection in Bangkok is suicidal. People exaggerate about how bad the traffic is everywhere, but in Bangkok it is not hyperbole. There are simply too many cars on too narrow roads. The city recently installed the new BTS (SkyTrain), which is an entirely elevated mass transit system. Since it is never underground or at street level there are always good views (assuming you are near a window), but it does not actually go anywhere. There are only two lines and they cover a small fraction of the city. It does go to Siam Square and one or two other shopping areas, but it does not go anywhere near a single temple or any place of cultural interest.
But I liked Bangkok because the city was alive. The people seemed more vibrant than they ever do at home. Chinese cities often seem as though they are populated by those slow moving zombies. Only instead of eating human brains they wander the countryside looking for duck brains. The denizens of Bangkok probably eat all manner of brains, but they move much faster. A simple analogy that I just made up is that Bangkok is an old house that the owners are constantly renovating and adding on to, while (any Chinese city) is one of those post-war urban flight prefabricated houses that all look alike with loud, garish furniture draped with plastic covers. There are better analogies, but it is past my bedtime.
Angor Wat at Wat Phra Kaew
When Thailand controlled Cambodia, King Mongkut (Rama IV) wanted to move Angor Wat to Thailand
When his engineers finally convinced him that it would be impossible, he had this scale model built
A few helpful tips for the traveler
Although not too terribly big, it takes some time to get from one end of Bangkok to the other. That is because walking is slow, there is no useful mass transit system, and if you do find a reliable taxi it will be stuck in traffic for days. Taxis are fun. Some are marked “Taxi Meter” and some are not. Those that are not have drivers who are not known for their honesty and ethical business practices. Supposedly, “metered taxis” always use the meter and the fare is whatever it should be. In reality those drivers can be just as bad as the others. Half of the metered taxis I entered had “broken” meters. Apparently there is a broken meter epidemic in Bangkok. I quickly learned to ask if it was indeed a metered taxi when I entered, regardless of what that sign on top said. I entered one metered taxi to get from my hotel to Wat Pho and the driver told me it would cost 1,000 Baht (about US$30). I eventually found a metered taxi that actually used the meter and the metered fare was 55 Baht.
Another taxi option is the motorcycle taxi. Bangkok is littered with tiny motorcycles. It seems as though every major Asian city has more motorcycles, bicycles, or scooters than cars. The benefit of a motorcycle taxi is that the driver can dart recklessly through traffic at dangerous speeds. The downside is that the driver darts recklessly through traffic at dangerous speeds. If you have no regard for your own life you can identify a motorcycle taxi by the orange vest that all of the drivers wear. Strictly for tourists is the tuk tuk. The government is trying to discourage their use since they are louder, uglier, and vomit out more pollution than Ann Coulter. But tourists like them since tourists like loud, ugly, dirty things. I guess that also explains book sales. Tuk tuks also have no meters and can be very expensive for people who do not realize that a ride on one of the overcrowded and slow buses would have cost them one thousandth of what that tuk tuk ride cost.
Phloenchit Rd
On the flight home the nightmare that haunts my every waking moment came true. Some fat guy sat next to me. I have nothing more against the gravitationally challenged than I do Asians, Whitey, or people who say “um” before every sentence. But the seats in economy class (the airline euphemism for dirtshit poor) have precious little room as is without some stranger’s lifetime dependency on twinkies and Yoohoo billowing its way into my personal space.
Happily, this fat guy was one of those happy fat guys, and not one of those depressed fat guys. Um, as we all know those are the only two options. He was an American teaching English in Bangkok (and probably still is). Meeting Americans on both flights is extremely rare for me. I like it that way. My sense of adequacy gets a certain satisfaction out of being the only delusionally adequate person from the world’s most delusionally adequate country around. Say that to a Chinese person and he will think you believe it. Say it to an American and he will believe it. This particular American was on his way to a holiday in my country while I was on my way home from a holiday in his country. We found that amusing for a good second. We compared our lives as babysitters in foreign countries. I would say I got the longer end of the stick. His stories seemed to be centered more on chasing tail than teaching children. He apparently had much of his success at a time and place I would refer to as “last call”. Sweet as that is, I was much more interested to hear about the working conditions than the working women’s contagions. If Chinese villagers ever come to my door with torches and pitchforks I should probably have an escape route. Japan would be my first choice, but apparently they want their teachers to be actual teachers. Backward heathens.
Something new on the flight home was a sheet of paper that we are apparently supposed to fill out during the ten days following arrival. The government would like everyone who has been abroad to check their temperature and record it on a form that no government employee will ever see. This is a reactionary measure from the recent and distant outbreaks of bird flu, SARS, avian-bovine crosspollinatory myopia, and lame duck disease. I felt fortunate that this form did not need to be filled out during the ten days before I left. The reason I went to the quack who diagnosed me with meningitis in the first place was because my 40 degree temperature and appearance of death after a Jerry Lewis telethon alarmed my employers enough to shell out the $1.50 to pay his fee. The doctor prescribed (handed me in an unmarked bag) a variety of pills. I took none of them because Pi Chi told me not to. I will accept pretty much any excuse to ignore a doctor. In about two days I felt much better on my own. I guess it was that 48 hour meningitis.
