Kill Time: Still the coolest bar in BangkokWeek 20, Thailand
HAVE I: been a bit down on Bangkok, recently?
I haven't meant to be. I guess it's just something that comes with spending a long time in one place; the ugly bits tend to stick out and poke you in the eye a bit more than earlier, when you first arrive, smiling, clutching closely to your ideas of what the place should be like with the breathless optimism of migrants and Barack Obama. And being poor: being poor is a grinding dullness that can make a mockery of any city's nightlife. Add to that a boring job - a job with the kind of crushing paralysis that sees you sitting at your desk furiously trying to work out how many cents you are earning per minute, or wondering whether dogs hear sound the same way fish do, or spending hours staring at the clock trying to work out if the second hand is moving slower than it was a few hours ago. Suddenly you're trapped and bored all day by the job and trapped and bored all night by your inability to spend money. So, in the words of 90's relationship guidebooks: It's not you, Bangkok. It's me.
And I should be fair to Bangkok, even though I agree with Theroux when he calls it "a preposterous mixture of temples and brothels". This city is cool. The young guys with cigarettes hanging limply from mouths surrounded by ambitious facial hair, pouring whiskey for their friends at run-down little college bars. The old ladies doing tai chi in the morning and preparing their alms to give to the monks wandering past in a sea of wide grins, saffron robes, and hands pressed together in thanks. The fat men behind the food stalls, hazy with chili smoke and laughing with grease stains down their chest, each one a consummate master of the only dish they have ever made or will ever make. The slimy canals that criss cross the city, filled with boats; the evil laughs of tuk-tuk drivers; the hammocks over train tracks filled with labourers escaping the midday heat; the endless games of bottle-top checkers and makruk; the children shouting "Hello! I love you!" and the young guys and girls anxious to find out everything about you and all your thoughts on Thailand. And the food! There is an unspoken rule in Thailand that the more one spends on food here, the worse it will be, and vice versa. Beautiful, tongue-scorching, stomach-filling meals are available everywhere for less than the cost of a Paddle-Pop, in Sydney.
But just as Bangkok has many brilliant sights, tastes and sounds that are found only here, and nowhere else in the world, it also has its bastions of shittiness, the things that seem deliberately tailored to make your day a little harder. So, in the interests of getting everything out on the table, a few of the lamer aspects of living here:
GROUP AEROBICS:
So, even though Thais are genetically the slimmest people on earth, they nevertheless are determined to rub our faces in our own fat arses by exercising constantly. Parks come with every conceivable sporting arena - tennis, badminton, bocce, basketball, soccer, futbol, pools, running tracks - plus huge areas of free exercise equipment, weights and dumbells and stationary bikes and that one where you press your arms together and another where you spin your arms in opposite circles and another that makes you look like you're practicing having sex, which is really funny.
Every large corporate building has a stereo system out the front and every afternoon (you guessed it) they unite in their spandex glory to do an hour of aerobics. This would be more goofy than annoying if they hadn't decided to set up one such aerobics arena right outside our window, so that now we suffer through two hours of techno remixes of "Jingle Bells" and "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town" (I wish I was kidding) filtering into our apartment. I've got enough on my plate, what with all this blogger-ing (?) and surfing (?) the inter-web (?) without having to listen to music that sounds like Alvin and the Chipmunks dropping some pills and buying a drum machine. Lame!
THE WET SEASON:
Aka, the Most Disappointing Event of My Life. Each week since June, we've doubted ourselves, saying, "Oh, maybe it'll start next week", but I'm ready to call bullshit on the whole thing. Wet season? Where? I'm expecting lightning, floods, screaming, sandbags, being trapped in our apartment block, much gnashing of teeth, old men with long beards measuring things in cubits. Instead, we get a half-hour storm every couple of days. Meh? Sure, hundreds of people are dying in mudslides and flooding in Laos and Vietnam, but here? They should rename this the Mildly Damp Season. Lame!
THE WHISTLEBLOWERS:
Traffic in Bangkok is bad, it's true. But it's not so bad. It's rare that you're stuck in the one place for more than fifteen or twenty minutes; the subway and the SkyTrain have taken alot of pressure off the roads. Some roads would almost be kinda pleasant to sit by. Almost, that is, if it weren't for the Thai obsession with blowing whistles at anything that moves.
A car reverses out of its driveway - BLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP goes the security guard on his whistle.
Put your foot over the yellow line on the SkyTrain - BLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP goes the train guard.
As for traffic cops, just forget about it: they will sit on their whistle going BLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP even if they're not doing anything. It's mind-numbingly constant but no matter how much you hear it, it's always just as irritating as the first time. My "punching the goddamn whistle out of their stupid goddamn mouth" fantasies have proceeded to boiling point, but they're lucky, because these violent fantasies always start with me going "The next person I hear blowing a whistle..." and since the sound never stops, it's difficult to work out who that person is.
Plus security guards and policeman wear uniforms that are skin-tight, so even while they're irritating you, you're forced to imagine them naked. Lame!
THE EDUCATION SYSTEM:
Learning by rote is so lame. Here's how my lessons go:
"Okay, everyone, repeat: I am going to the supermarket."
"I ahm goo-ing too tha supahmahkut."
"Good. Now say: I will buy some milk."
"Guhd. Nao sae: I will bay sum mik."
"Okay, good, but we don't need to say good..."
"Oh-kay, guhd, but wee-"
"No, no, don't repeat everything I say..."
"Noh, noh, dot rupeet -"
Sometimes I want to scream "STOP COPYING ME!" like a five-year old getting picked on by an older brother. I'm totally going to have a temper tantrum soon. Lame!
FOOTPATHS
Everybody here is smaller than me. So I hit my head on everything - poles, lightbulbs, roofs, electric wires. Plus, they seem intent on making footpaths into obstacle courses of potholes, sudden steps, dead rats, dogshit, and wandering babies. I've never been what you'd call the elegant, graceful type, but over here clumsiness is a life-threatening condition. Lame!
THE DREGS OF SOCIETY
Look, I'm not one of these anti-whitey whiteys. A lot of backpackers will make a big show of trying to avoid other travellers, expats and well-known places (god forbid a place should appear in a guidebook), but it's all bullshit, really: without other English-speakers we'd have no-one to inflict our mind-numbingly boring stories on (even the Thais have limits to their 'nodding and smiling politely while white guy talks about his adventures' behaviour).
I don't mind tourists and ultra-touristed areas; they have their good sides and I won't go out of my way to avoid them. But here in Bangkok: well, it can be a struggle. Bangkok attracts a certain type of person, and, not to put too fine a point on it, that person is either:
a) a drunken, overweight Australian man in his fifties, here for the promise of free sex, no matter how ugly you are.
b) a muscular German with glasses in his mid-forties, here for the promise of free sex, no matter how boring you are.
c) a drunken, tattooed British guy in his early thirties, here for the promise of free sex, no matter what a brain-dead slobbering moron you are. [You can tell these ones by the way they drool while shouting "She showed me her booby!" to their mates on the phone.]
Sex for sale is nothing new, and the girls here make a good living from it, with little of the shame and violence that happens elsewhere. And the way Bangkok's reputation collects all these people who couldn't make it anywhere else, like a beach collecting driftwood and dead seaweed: it's nothing new, either - Goa and Laos act as just as much a magnet for failed hippies as Bangkok does for sex-deprived middle-aged men. But none of that stops it being the most depressing sight on earth, sometimes. Plus, it makes every conversation with a Thai girl feel more like a possible transaction than a chat. Lame!
Phew, so that's all off my chest. Now I can get back to the good stuff. According to current plans, we should be heading back to the jungle this weekend. See you then.
Lachie
Sometimes I want to scream "STOP COPYING ME!" like a five-year old getting picked on by an older brother. I'm totally going to have a temper tantrum soon. Lame!
FOOTPATHS
Everybody here is smaller than me. So I hit my head on everything - poles, lightbulbs, roofs, electric wires. Plus, they seem intent on making footpaths into obstacle courses of potholes, sudden steps, dead rats, dogshit, and wandering babies. I've never been what you'd call the elegant, graceful type, but over here clumsiness is a life-threatening condition. Lame!
THE DREGS OF SOCIETY
Look, I'm not one of these anti-whitey whiteys. A lot of backpackers will make a big show of trying to avoid other travellers, expats and well-known places (god forbid a place should appear in a guidebook), but it's all bullshit, really: without other English-speakers we'd have no-one to inflict our mind-numbingly boring stories on (even the Thais have limits to their 'nodding and smiling politely while white guy talks about his adventures' behaviour).
I don't mind tourists and ultra-touristed areas; they have their good sides and I won't go out of my way to avoid them. But here in Bangkok: well, it can be a struggle. Bangkok attracts a certain type of person, and, not to put too fine a point on it, that person is either:
a) a drunken, overweight Australian man in his fifties, here for the promise of free sex, no matter how ugly you are.
b) a muscular German with glasses in his mid-forties, here for the promise of free sex, no matter how boring you are.
c) a drunken, tattooed British guy in his early thirties, here for the promise of free sex, no matter what a brain-dead slobbering moron you are. [You can tell these ones by the way they drool while shouting "She showed me her booby!" to their mates on the phone.]
Sex for sale is nothing new, and the girls here make a good living from it, with little of the shame and violence that happens elsewhere. And the way Bangkok's reputation collects all these people who couldn't make it anywhere else, like a beach collecting driftwood and dead seaweed: it's nothing new, either - Goa and Laos act as just as much a magnet for failed hippies as Bangkok does for sex-deprived middle-aged men. But none of that stops it being the most depressing sight on earth, sometimes. Plus, it makes every conversation with a Thai girl feel more like a possible transaction than a chat. Lame!
Phew, so that's all off my chest. Now I can get back to the good stuff. According to current plans, we should be heading back to the jungle this weekend. See you then.
Lachie
ps, My brother Daniel has just started his own blog, obviously looking to cash in on the limitless wealth and fame achieved by this one. Since he's five years younger than me, it will automatically be at least 17 time more dynamic, relevant, edgy and youth-y than this one (O young people! Tell me your secrets! Like, where is this so-called Timbaland, and how do I get there? Can I take the bus?).
I suggest we all jump ship immediately. http://modern-day.blogspot.com/
