Chapter 2. Lemongrass Stains - Bangkok : Home Away from Home

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Bangkok is a frenetic urban steam bath of shops, food stalls, and markets sheltered by a growing glossy skyline. Its historical welcome center for its ex-patriot counterculture is Khao San Road, a Walt-Mart Supercenter of backpacker frugality. Whatever you heard about Khao San, some of it is probably true: soulless, a Caucasian ghetto, substandard guesthouses for budgetarily challenged twentynothings. A singular street supported by a few alleyways and covered corridors in its vicinity, Khao San is a foreigners’ prison of British pop tunes where the inmates remain voluntarily. All the appropriate infrastructure is provided. Touts insistently peddle nightclubs, but refrain from going overboard as the tourist police keep a watchful eye so as not to disturb the contributors that keep the neighborhood prosperous. Travel agencies, tailor shops, massage parlors, cheap eateries and exchange booths abound. Counterfeiters openly flaunt specimens of drivers licenses, press passes, and other legitimate ID cards they can produce for a nominal fee. It was never this good on 42nd Street in the eighties as I recall. The illuminated neon signs that compete for every last baht protrude so far into the street from overhead that they practically create a canopy from the sun. Satellite broadcasts of the Arsenal-Liverpool match appear on plasma screens to the delight of their respective fans “on holiday”. Every comfort is considered for foreigners in Thailand so that they will feel they never left home.
Purists scoff at Khao San, as do I, but so must the Thais. Is this what they think of us? They should know that we do not all proudly dawn ripped tank tops and sunglasses from the Dollar Store to sleep on benches for the afternoon. Not all of us deem it necessary to impale our earlobes with safety pins and look self-important, yet so out of place. Uninterested in being productive back home? Be unproductive here. I have come here only to realize that if in I have an urgent need to reconnect with my world and a Whopper, here it is.
Well, sort of.

Bangkok having been seemingly designed by civil engineers who play darts very poorly, traffic snails though the center on mountain concrete columns of highway with a view above the fray. Congestion is so tight below, it is easy to assume that it was just simpler to go up than totally redesign the impossible. From the monorail-like swerving perch of highway encircling slums one minute and an office tower the next, Bangkok still makes no sense. There remains, however, one constant through the city: the King and his favorite color, yellow. His image is emblazoned on vehicles, the currency (of course) schools, temples, boats, and even jewelry. As it is Monday, all public workers dawn yellow in reverence to the monarch. Performing an unscientific survey of five blocks, at least one in every three seems to be on the payroll.
The man is so adored that it is forbidden to deface his likeness in any way. So said Michael, who sat next to me on the shuttle in from the airport.
“Whatever you do, do not say anything negative about the king.” I’m Irish and enjoy giving a good go at the British monarchy.” His twenty-eight year old face became stern. “I’m serious. I read an account in the Bangkok Post about a Swiss tourist who drew in a mustache on his face. You know, on a large plastic banner. He did it as a joke. Neighborhood residents called the police. He was arrested and sentenced to ten years in prison. After one month, they released him. He got the point.”

Tuk-tuks are open air motorized coffins attached to motorbikes that provide transportation throughout Thailand’s cities. Think of a go cart bolted to a Yamaha with sheet metal for a roof supported by steel rods. Sometimes, these rods are tied down, not bolted into the frame. Unless looking out the back, the roof is so low, it impedes any view. Riding one in Bangkok is insane on a good day, given most drivers have a wish to join their ancestors by the way they navigate through service allays and around cement trucks at 35 miles per hour. If broadsided, I think to myself, I lose my legs if I am lucky. Rear ended? Shattered vertebrae. A head on collision? Most likely an explosion of some sort. If your driver successfully manages all the moving hazards of Bangkok, then you can rest easy for the next twenty years or so until the effects of the air you sucked into your lungs appears as dark spots on an x-ray.
My tuk-tuk driver, like so many, tried to scam me today. Fair enough. So, I scammed him back. A whole tour of Bangkok for twenty baht? There had to be a catch. It included two unforeseen trips to a Indian tailor and another to a tourist office behind the train station. All the pleasantries of “Wheh you fwum?” and “America good country!” turned horribly sour when he deviated off the temple path we originally agreed to. When the driver realized he would not be getting any commission from his usual storefront accomplices, I almost found out what a collision in a tuk-tuk was all about.
“You pay me now for gasoline!” He pulled over on a busy street. “Two hundred baht!”
Or what? “No. My hotel now. You are a thief.” He knew the word well enough.
He refused to start the engine. Good thing. Note to self: Never accuse a tuk-tuk driver of being a criminal and then get back in the vehicle. I got out and walked away. He followed me until I pointed to a police officer, at which point, he cut his losses.
With the cash I was going to pay him originally, I treated myself to an ice cream soda.

Tuk-tuks provide a valuable service. When riding around in them, the moving air dries the sweat stains in T-shirts. It makes me feel slightly less awkward when entering wats, or the elaborately decorated sharp angled chapels with gilded roofs that house Buddhist shrines. They are walled sanctuaries of incense-infused quiet and order in a city where there has been none in decades. Open to the public, a wat immediately struck me in two unforgettable ways. First, there is no theism, no God. Reverence to Buddha is to a man who once lived and preached the proper path to a finer existence. I know little of the faith, but when spending one’s whole life around monotheistic cultures, this really causes pause. Buddhism requires a relationship between you and the man. Interference in that relationship does not have to be world-altering. Also, it is peaceful and unaggressive. There is calm at a wat. No one is in a hurry. All forms of life try to be respected, though the stray cats with parts of their legs eaten away by disease should be disposed of. Monks in their classic orange robes are available for consultations and guidance, but are benign and offer welcoming smiles. I think I could deal with Buddhism if I had to. There is no sense of dogmatic pressure. The calm is a delightful contrast to riding in a tuk-tuk.

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Photos

Khao San Road
A Human Zoo

Tuk-Tuk
We won't be having dinner together.

King Rama IV
Free speech in Thailand? Not if you insult the king.