Thai'ed up, in knead and winding down: The Bangkok warm up

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On a rainy Auckland day, the temperature dropping and garden sodden and soggy with lawnmower marks, I put my absence greetings on, packed with thought, and awaited my ever enthusiastic and loving airport chaperones.

No early morning dash this time, the anticipation of flying at night feeling less wasteful and more enticing when I didn’t face the prospect of being an upright sardine for 11 hours in economy. Go the business class deals I seem to scout.

Checking in, I realised an oversight. “Do you have a visa for Vietnam? You need an invitation letter!” Well, no I replied, my travel agent suggested it could be sorted out in Asia, and every other country I had been to lets us Kiwis in at the border, albeit my 8 year memory of buying one in Auckland somewhere for a past trip is hazy.

So I forgot about that worry, headed to the Koru (lounge), eyed up some squashed sushi, and glaringly obviously, everyone there had bent heads staring at their smart phones, with departure time soon after. The thought crossed my mind as I entered, dressed barely in the sartorial glamour of some, what if everyone was interacting, making eye contact, smiling, joking, enjoying convivial conversation, then I realised that I was probably deluded and reluctantly part of the default-habit problem. So it was time for an uncharacteristic nip of rum to settle the throat and try to induce sleep. Dads are full of good ideas!

Settled into my kidney shaped cocoon, and forced on with any beverage or food by the all-male crew, come 2am NZ time it was lights out on the code shared Singapore Airlines flight. Let’s hope, I prayed, it doesn’t cross the Bermuda triangle and disappear or the driver go seriously nuts and shuts his companion out of the cockpit whilst plunging us into the highest mountain in Asia, Kota Kinabalu? Pleasant thoughts.

As bright as one feels after 6 hours dozing and wicked turbulence, I was accosted by a bright eyed made up hostess for more food, and eventual landing at Changi. Destined never to meet thy neighbour in this herring bone configuration, we wandered slowly off the plane in semi slumber and into the arrivals concourse. Changi is massive, you can get your 10,000 steps moving to all 4 corners, and they have invested heavily in DVT prophylaxis, for free.

Calf massage units sit every 100 metres or so and taking a pew I met a lovely lady whom had just spent 3 weeks in NZ seeing her son married. How serendipitous, as many events are when I travel. We talked as we were pummelled and connected at that clichéd spiritual/ live and give/ life is short level.

Bidding farewell, I made for the Kris lounge, discovered by checking my emails that the visa situation could be dire, and infused myself with double espresso. I broke the one day fast, but may as well start out in coffee territory as I intend to return to NZ as, bearing caffeinated gifts!

Leg two of the plane trip came soon enough. Within a few hours, a better kip, and a good yarn to the Irishman next to me about the demise of proper face to face conversation re: social media, and I hit a curtain of humidity.

Bangkok. Sultry was understated at 38C. I did not remotely think a hair straightener would survive in these climes. So amongst the heavily made up young ladies dabbing their foreheads, staring into their mirrors with persistent beads of sweat, wiggling up metro steps or rickety pavements in heels, I said goodbye to frizz by donning my hat and headed by the ugly overland metro for the Chatrium Riverside hotel. I may appear as if I am about to go for a tramp a la Kathmandu, but true to form, it’s practical in this hectic and often dirty metropolis

Near dying of heat, I made it to the hotel, minutes from Taksin Pier by boat, gave the friendly concierge an All Black pen for his friendly and personal in-room check in service, and with time ticking by before the Vietnamese Embassy closure, headed straight out by taxi.

My driver, a man of one word (“here”) charged me a cheap 100 baht (4NZD) for the roller-coaster ride. On arrival, faced with a just opened office after a lunch closure, there were no queues. I was excited and prepared for a 2 hour wait as my instinct suggested

But, one small problem. Songkran had just finished, the Thai New Year celebration. They could only do land visas for processing over 4 days, too late to join the tour by Sunday evening, not 2 or 4 hours or one day like the internet Vietnamese Visa website states as land arrivals differ from airport arrivals.

And could I pay a little extra I offered, smiling at this slight wiry boy behind the counter.

Evidently not, the price went up to 5000 baht to be a one day fee, but then he said it had to be in by 8am on the same day and it was now 2pm. Time travel is not my speciality and I gave up, went shopping and trundled back to the Taksin Pier BTS sky rail station where the ferry to the hotel is taken, to get some recreation in me. Nearly 36 hours of dozy and waking activity later, I came right with a bit of music, a swim and some quiet terrace contemplation overlooking the river at sunset. The decompression was just beginning.

So to battle through the following days of self-enforced relative rest, there came a decadent mix of vigorous Thai massage, morning swims, sightseeing the River frontage in high humidity and seeking refuge from the same in indoor Malls.

Cruising the river, seen from this south eastern corner of Bangkok city, at all times of the day and night are the traditional long boats, countless hotel transfer vessels and private water taxis. Not a kayaker or stand up paddle boarder in sight and safer for it given the tea coloured water.

Many a collision could be had if not for the swift acting of the captains and waterside porters, our local Taksin Pier resident being a stringent improvising actor dispensing sharp ‘stand here!’ orders to those whom breached his space or queue rule. “Such a smile seems so practiced” I mentioned, as he giggled again under his breath with his self-humouring, a fag being dragged between his lips and him barely looking 18 years old.

Chinatown was the expected and first sight to see, followed by few others on a similar pilgrimage through the narrow shopping arcades full of undersized jandals, wallets and reeking of smelly smells in parts.

Moped after roadside stall after tuk tuk, I transferred to Tha Pra Chan pier, an enclave of the Grand Palace, City Hall, Sanam Luang Park and National Museum, on foot.

Mercury rising to now about 37C and the thought of donning long sleeves and pants to just enter the Grand Palace, in respect of Buddha, sent me in straight out again search of an air conditioned museum. That idea crashed once I accidentally wandered onto the grounds and not knowing it was closed a guard angrily accosted me. A ‘Sorry’ did not cut it, and I got marched out with an ignorant cold shoulder upon asking for directions. The Irishman on my inbound flight had warned me of the volatile angry Thai having lived here before, and there it manifested.

Making my way steadily back to base, with a missed stop at the wrong pier (there are hundreds!) and it was massage time.

To receive skilled touch is always a joyous experience when I am usually giving it. Sonya, my elegantly spoken middle aged Thai lady from the Nemita Spa, adjacent to the Chatrium, was to be my flexor for the next hour. In various positions of relative intimacy, I was to be pushed, pulled, contorted and clicked. Although I got straight down to business taking my clothes off as is the culture in my country, light pyjama like rags were provided to don. And we began.

Not only did her knuckles, forearm, knee, elbow and fingers get in to it, but laying prone on the floor and partly unconscious, I wondered what the fleshy rounded appendage was mobilising everything up to my groin, my sit bones, back and calves. Yes, she was petite but damnit she had a striking knee extension that rippled every sore spot, and more. It was amazingly good once I put my physio brain aside, given her atypical approach.

Punctuated by genuine concern with “you like” and “I take care you” once the initial banter about NZ and Thailand died down, she finished with an orchestra of mid-trunk manipulation clicks to the left, and some near neck manipulation which I started to naturally resist. “You be back tomorrow?” Of course, and the next, and some paua shell earrings as a gift would be all hers if she played her cards right.

So the cycle repeated itself for a few more days; sleep, healthy behaviour, massage, hearty decadent breakfasts, tie up post grad work, shop a little, retreat to air conditioning, more massage, swims, aperitif in the lobby, Singapore Sling on the 36^th floor….and so on. And the malls! One word, EXCESS, although not a patch on Dubai. I will never understand the obsession with immaculate unblemished beauty and high priced glamour of some.

Leaving the oasis of Chatrium and joining the tour group at Nuovo city hotel in the thick of Bangkok came next. No more jazz musicians playing Girl From Ipanema in the lobby, Beyonce at breakfast, or ‘The Look of Love’ ripped off by yet some soft artist in the elevator.

Ferries were quiet that day, being a Sunday, and a fixed price journey on the tourist boat bound for Prha Athit Pier (number 13) was the safe, economic choice. Albeit services appeared segregated between tourists and locals , these vessels run a tight and practiced ship and in 35 minutes from Taksin I had travelled to a rustic grubbier Bangkok. Khao san road is the capital of commerce here, road side stalls and arcades giving way to night vendors presenting their wares on motorised shops. If I can’t see the driver of the pop up tuktuk shop, they probably can’t see me

So we all met up for the team greeting at night, we 8 being a great mix of a GP, Physio (me), Engineer, Coin and antique dealers and a Midwife which given my size large (!) maternity dress purchase from Kao San road for the heat (and an upset tummy!), we could all be in need, jokingly, of each other at some stage.

Can’t forget our guide’s name either. Chai like the tea, looking every bit as spiced and cinnamon as he sounds.

‘One night in Bangkok’ this was not, but for 4 nights and Murray Head, the musician famous for the just song was right when he said ‘go back to your temples your massage parlours..” The undercurrent of that is alive in Khao san road.

So up early and on the saddle tomorrow and it is looking hot hot hot as we head due east to Kabinburi and national park, and thereafter, Cambodia. May health on and off the saddle prevail.

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