The women: Much is said of Thai women's beauty, supplicatory nature, eagerness to please, etcetera etcetera. As for their beauty, there is bound to be a couple lookers even in a women's maximum security prison, but the rest will probably be masculine, busted and wore-out hoes who are crazier than a shit-house rat. The proportions in Thailand are roughly the same. It's not that I can't appreciate Asian beauty. On the contrary, I find them to be -- and here I broadly generalize, no pun intended -- more softly feminine and sensuous than their Western counterparts with beautiful, deep black pools for eyes and a wonderful languour about them even when they're working their lovely asses off, which most Asian women -- again in contrast with most, that is, not all, of their Western sisters -- do on a daily basis simply to survive, and modesty is something that they know the meaning of. Much props. However, the women in Thailand, due likely to their extended contact with farangs from all nations, have adopted what they take to be the Western standard of beauty and seduction, with horrible results: they use whitening products for their skin which ends up looking like they've been rolled in honey and slapped with flour, they think that grabbing a guy's arm and pulling him towards them constitutes a legitimate claim on his time, and they think that they're sitting on platinum which magically bestows upon them the right to act all kinds of stupid. Now this assessment, granted, is not applicable to the good girls in Thailand, but the good girls in Thailand are either hidden away, married at 14, Muslim or just generally uninterested in farang men because of our unflattering stereotypical characteristics which are pretty well represented in most of the guy tourists that I've seen operating. In short, unless you have years to stay here, speak perfect Thai or are incredibly lucky, you probably will not meet a good Thai girl. And it is more than likely that the Thai girl you do meet at that bar is not a girl at all...
The landscape: Like a lot, i.e. all, of third-world countries, the Thai people survived solely on local agriculture for a lot longer than the western world and are therefore pretty ignorant of the effects that synthetic products have on the environment. While you can toss a banana peel just about anywhere and be confident that it won't poison or kill something, the same is not true of an "empty" quart of oil. Garbage festoons the wilderness here, to a comic/depressing extent in some places, e.g. Phi Phi, and to a lesser and perhaps even more depressing extent in places like Khao Sok which receive a lot less tourists and are much more staunchly "protected" by law and the locals. It seems that all "protected national lands" means here in Thailand is that you can't build a McDonald's right on the spot, but instead have to move it to just outside the boundary line. Regardless of the garbage, I've seen a lot prettier places. The limestone stacks are pretty cool, yeah, but not breathtaking in the way that a panoramic view of the Rockies from on high is. And the beaches, well, they're beaches without good surf, with too many people and the marine life has nearly all been killed by overfishing and pollution. And the beaches are supposedly the most stunning part of Thailand. I remain unstunned. So, the most I can say about the landscape is, "Eh."
The language: At first I found the Thai people's English solecisms and malaprops cute; a menu listed the lobster at 700 baht per kilo, and the "crap" at 500 baht per kilo. And I was going to have the crap, as well, but not for that price. The "vermiform appendix", while perfectly spelled, was understandably cheaper. The place names are also amusing to an English speaker with a somewhat juvenile sense of humor, e.g. "Damrong Rd.": shit, I knew I should've taken a left back there; "Kok Khain": that explains the white dust everywhere; "Bangkok" and "Phuket": do I need to elaborate? But after a while of listening to Thai being spoken I find it unbeautiful at best. 33% nasal, 33% guttural, 33% whiningly pitched and repetitive, repetitive, repetitive. It is a language suited neither for poetry nor for song, and to hear it spoken is to want to get away from it. Most of the time I just block it out, but sometimes, as when I was getting my hair cut by an old Thai woman who kept muttering to herself, I want to run screaming down the street.
The attitude: Yes, the Thais smile a lot, and that's because they're dishonest, cunning and mercenary; at best it's because they are obsessed with "face", that is, presenting a good one. If you think a smile is means the person wearing it is necessarily a pleasant person, then I'd like to move to your planet. Of course my cynicism doesn't extend to every single Thai I've ever met, only to the majority of them. Oh yeah, and if you move off of the tourist trail, you're gonna see a lot less smiles and a lot more open hostility. If you're a farang, you represent a dollar sign and not a potential friend from abroad.
Paying the farang price: Cheap? Comparatively. You're still being taken for a ride...
Reasons I'll come back to Thailand:
Monday, March 14, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Days 14-16
Day 14: Get me the hell out of Phi Phi. Risto and I hop the first boat for Koh Lanta and as we step off of it Risto is again buttonholed by a tuk-tuk driver who "knows a good place to stay." I go along for the ride but am getting sick of being shuttled around and long to simply strike out on my own, start walking and see where the road takes me. We arrive at the Ting Tong, an irie bar owned by Tofi who also promotes Muy Thai fights and concerts, sells party favors and shoots pool with the local police. I strike up a conversation with a Canadian expat named Jocko who tells me that during certain times of the year Koh Lanta's beaches are literally piled with the garbage from Koh Phi Phi. The monsoon rains wash it all away, but the tourists are coming... As a matter of fact when we stepped off the boat there was a Phi Phi feeling to the port town, complete with an English expat who threw a flyer for his bar at us as we passed in our tuk-tuk. Fuck fuck. But for now Koh Lanta is quiet. I pitch my tent on the beach and fall asleep.
Day 15: I feel as if I've finally arrived in Thailand, or at least at a place where I feel as if I can unwind and stay for a while. Ironically, the feeling of wanting to travel on my own, extemporaneously -- along with the fact that there is a small breaking wave a bit south of us and I take this as a sign that I'm meant to follow it (and follow it I will, all the way to Bali, but again I'm getting ahead of myself) -- makes me pack up the tent and start walking down the beach. I tell Risto that it's time to part ways and I feel surprisingly light on my feet as I walk down the beach. I'm smiling. After a few kilometers the beach turns into rocks and I walk to the road. The Thais who pass me are all smiles and "hello"s, no doubt surprised to see a farang on foot, laden with a gigantic bottle of Cooly Fresh water and a backpack. I have a lunch of fresh pineapple, which I peel myself, and tamarind which is so energizing that, as a Frenchman at the Ting Tong told me, if you were to eat it everyday you'd operate with "full power, 24-hour, no shower." The girls on motorscooters who pass me as I walk are some of the most beautiful I've seen thus far, and when I finally arrive in Lanta Old Town I find that the people are gracious, happy and quick to laugh or play a joke. They've got a charming rascality to them and the town itself is a prosperous, quiet place not geared towards tourism. There are, of course, tourists as well, but most of those who come to Lanta are of a different breed than the Phi Phi set. In Lanta Old Town I stay at an old fish merchant's turned guesthouse and the owner, Bao, teaches me a little Thai. It's a quiet evening in Old Town and I feel fine.
Day 16: Here in Koh Lanta I've begun to hear the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer in the evening, a sound which will become more common the further south I go. It is a softly beautiful sound, almost a lament, and in these tropical surroundings under a pastel sky I too feel the urge to fall on my knees and touch my head to the ground. It's a much needed change from Phi Phi where one hears the flyer-plastering booze shills calling the sober to drink. Lanta as yet is a far cry from Phi Phi, but probably will not escape the onslaught of the tourists' trampling feet; sadly it is much too beautiful, the people too welcoming, its soul too pure to escape defilement. But right now in Lanta Old Town all I hear is the wind wafting the muezzin's wail out over the water. The rhythmic ploonkaploonk of my gigantic water bottle as I walked south out of Khlong Khong and the Ting Tong was nearly as sweet a sound to me, signifying a sort of resilient solitude, as if I carried on my back and in my two hands everything I could need to survive and even thrive. My tent, a few clothes, first aid kit, water and a bit of food are all I need. In other news Bao, the owner of the old fish merchant guesthouse, is a jolly character. I talked him down from 500b to 400 for my room the day I came in, and he has refused payment for letting me borrow his motorscooter after we'd agreed on a price of 200b for the day. Now he keeps jokingly suggesting that I borrow his flip-flops when I step out into the street. I told him I'd buy him dinner if he gave me a Thai lesson during the meal, but he declined. I don't think he wants to repeat word after word untold times in his 5-tonal language for some silly farang from god-knows-where-Wyoming-is. Mai bpen rai.
Day 15: I feel as if I've finally arrived in Thailand, or at least at a place where I feel as if I can unwind and stay for a while. Ironically, the feeling of wanting to travel on my own, extemporaneously -- along with the fact that there is a small breaking wave a bit south of us and I take this as a sign that I'm meant to follow it (and follow it I will, all the way to Bali, but again I'm getting ahead of myself) -- makes me pack up the tent and start walking down the beach. I tell Risto that it's time to part ways and I feel surprisingly light on my feet as I walk down the beach. I'm smiling. After a few kilometers the beach turns into rocks and I walk to the road. The Thais who pass me are all smiles and "hello"s, no doubt surprised to see a farang on foot, laden with a gigantic bottle of Cooly Fresh water and a backpack. I have a lunch of fresh pineapple, which I peel myself, and tamarind which is so energizing that, as a Frenchman at the Ting Tong told me, if you were to eat it everyday you'd operate with "full power, 24-hour, no shower." The girls on motorscooters who pass me as I walk are some of the most beautiful I've seen thus far, and when I finally arrive in Lanta Old Town I find that the people are gracious, happy and quick to laugh or play a joke. They've got a charming rascality to them and the town itself is a prosperous, quiet place not geared towards tourism. There are, of course, tourists as well, but most of those who come to Lanta are of a different breed than the Phi Phi set. In Lanta Old Town I stay at an old fish merchant's turned guesthouse and the owner, Bao, teaches me a little Thai. It's a quiet evening in Old Town and I feel fine.
Day 16: Here in Koh Lanta I've begun to hear the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer in the evening, a sound which will become more common the further south I go. It is a softly beautiful sound, almost a lament, and in these tropical surroundings under a pastel sky I too feel the urge to fall on my knees and touch my head to the ground. It's a much needed change from Phi Phi where one hears the flyer-plastering booze shills calling the sober to drink. Lanta as yet is a far cry from Phi Phi, but probably will not escape the onslaught of the tourists' trampling feet; sadly it is much too beautiful, the people too welcoming, its soul too pure to escape defilement. But right now in Lanta Old Town all I hear is the wind wafting the muezzin's wail out over the water. The rhythmic ploonkaploonk of my gigantic water bottle as I walked south out of Khlong Khong and the Ting Tong was nearly as sweet a sound to me, signifying a sort of resilient solitude, as if I carried on my back and in my two hands everything I could need to survive and even thrive. My tent, a few clothes, first aid kit, water and a bit of food are all I need. In other news Bao, the owner of the old fish merchant guesthouse, is a jolly character. I talked him down from 500b to 400 for my room the day I came in, and he has refused payment for letting me borrow his motorscooter after we'd agreed on a price of 200b for the day. Now he keeps jokingly suggesting that I borrow his flip-flops when I step out into the street. I told him I'd buy him dinner if he gave me a Thai lesson during the meal, but he declined. I don't think he wants to repeat word after word untold times in his 5-tonal language for some silly farang from god-knows-where-Wyoming-is. Mai bpen rai.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Days 11-13
Day 11: We wake up early, check out of the bungalows and drive to the marina to meet Tom. He seems like a good guy but the boat needs a lot of work before it will be ready to make the trip. He gives us an estimation of about two weeks until she's seaworthy, and hands me a can of tropical strength bug spray. I am now thoroughly repellent. We agree to meet Tom in two weeks and drive south back into Phuket Town for the night before leaving for Ko Phi Phi in the morning. We check into the Thalang Guesthouse and get a great room with a private garden -- complete with an outside shower -- for 200b. I go out for a walk, unaware that it is Chinese New Year's Eve -- year of the rabbit -- and there is a free concert in the park given by five of the cutest Thai girls in all of the land. I rush back to the hotel to grab my camera and head back out. After an hour at the concert I'm done and I head back to the Roxy to see if there's anyone I know there. There isn't, but there is an impromptu show given next door by three Thais chasing a rat running around their restaurant. They eventually whack him with a broom and pose for a picture with their prize. I'll end up eating one of his rat brethren on Phi Phi, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
Day 12: Up early to catch the ferry to Phi Phi. Everyone on the bus to the ferry is wearing white sunglasses -- refer to the website "Things I Hate About Backpacking" to learn more about the psychological type of people who wear white sunglasses (hint: they tend to be douchebags) -- and this proves to be portentous. As we all load onto the boat there come more and more twenty-somethings with less and less clothes on and I think to myself that this is a microcosm of Phi Phi, minus everyone's weight in booze. As we near the island I can see that it is packed to the gills with people all lowing like cattle and milling around aimlessly. Risto and I make a dash for our bags and step off of the frying pan and into the fire. It is 20b to get onto the island for a "cleaning" fee because Phi Phi is a "protected" marine reserve. I might as well have crumpled the 20b note up and thrown it into the water because Phi Phi is filthy, and I'm not talking about "Clean your room!" filthy, I'm talking "strike a match and the whole place goes up in flames" filthy. There is raw sewage running down the street and garbage literally everywhere. An unholy stench makes you wish for a respirator and rises in visible waves from the sea and the beaches. Going for a swim on Phi Phi is simply not an option unless you're into hepatitis and/or E. coli, yet there are plenty of mindless youth from around the world frolicking in the garbage like the happiest shit-flies on the planet. The booze probably helps, and there is a lot of booze. Phi Phi's specialty is "the Bucket", a sandpail full of Sang Som rum, RedBull, and Coke. At night the world's dimmest and drunkest down about ten of these buckets per person and suddenly become impervious to third-degree burns. The fireshows, Thais who juggle flaming hoops, wands and bolos, are entrancing to watch at the beginning of the evening, but by the end of the night all of the drunken farangs are giving it a try as well and it can get pretty ugly. In the morning there'll be bandages and burn ointment, but for tonight it's open bar at the amateur circus. I check into the Rock Backpacker Hostel dorm and immediately spray the place with my bedbug fogger; it looks like that type of place. Sure enough, after I've stowed my gear, and bought two locks for the safety box at the head of my bed which was previously sealed with zip-ties, I start talking to a few of the other inmates and one girl shows me the tell-tale line of bites on her ankle and asks if it could be bedbugs. I point to bite #1 and label it "breakfast", bite #2 "lunch" and bite #3 "dinner". An English lad -- more probably a "chav", the English equivalent of our American "wiggers" -- in white sunglasses recovering from the night before tells me that Phi Phi is "good fun" but that Koh Lanta is a bore. I decide then and there to get to Koh Lanta as soon as possible. There are, however, some people worth talking to on Phi Phi and as fate would have it they're staying in the same room as me. Ruben is from the Netherlands -- "All anyone ever asks me about is the coffee shops" -- and Vinny is from Italy. They are both homeward bound and have decided to make Phi Phi their last stop. We go out for an unbearably spicy meal, the waiter laughing at us as he watches us suffer through it, too proud to push it away and watch it spontaneously combust. Risto joins us midway through and after a few beers we're ready to brave the shit-show that is Phi Phi. We stop first at a reggae bar which has staged, i.e. "fixed", Muy Thai fights every night. It's my first Muy Thai fight and even though the winner is decided beforehand, some of the blows connect with devastating results. I wouldn't want to piss these guys off, however unimposing they look at 5'5" and 130 lbs. So, after a few bouts and faced with the prospect of watching two amateur Thai women fight -- a fun idea for the first five boring minutes -- we head off to the beach and the fireshows. Ruben, Risto, Vinny and I watch for a while and then hit the dance floor hard. After a while I decide to take a break and shoot some pool with some fun-loving Chileans. Then, suddenly, it's two o' clock in the morning. On Phi Phi two o' clock means that everything shuts down, everything. For an island where booze is the only thing to do this is one helluva disappointment. We all head home but Ruben and I meet a Dutch girl along the way and decide to see if there's anything, anything, open. As it turns out there is. One food vendor is catering to a late-night crowd of Thais and we order up one of her specialties. I briefly wonder what the meat is, but after seeing one unmistakeable cross-section and a tiny rump roast with a tail still attached I put two and two together. We're eating rat. Still, the spices are just right and we finish the meal with gusto. Plus, it was free-range rat.
Day 13: Risto and I go for a boat tour of Phi Phi Don (the island we're staying on) and Phi Phi Ley (the sister island where Maya Bay, from "The Beach", is). Tourists, tourists everywhere, fouling the water and polluting the air. I'm thoroughly disgusted with all the gawking, preening, picture-happy farangs destroying, directly or indirectly, such a once-beautiful place and I decide to leave on the morn. Too depressed for revelry, I leave the boys to it and go to bed early.
Day 12: Up early to catch the ferry to Phi Phi. Everyone on the bus to the ferry is wearing white sunglasses -- refer to the website "Things I Hate About Backpacking" to learn more about the psychological type of people who wear white sunglasses (hint: they tend to be douchebags) -- and this proves to be portentous. As we all load onto the boat there come more and more twenty-somethings with less and less clothes on and I think to myself that this is a microcosm of Phi Phi, minus everyone's weight in booze. As we near the island I can see that it is packed to the gills with people all lowing like cattle and milling around aimlessly. Risto and I make a dash for our bags and step off of the frying pan and into the fire. It is 20b to get onto the island for a "cleaning" fee because Phi Phi is a "protected" marine reserve. I might as well have crumpled the 20b note up and thrown it into the water because Phi Phi is filthy, and I'm not talking about "Clean your room!" filthy, I'm talking "strike a match and the whole place goes up in flames" filthy. There is raw sewage running down the street and garbage literally everywhere. An unholy stench makes you wish for a respirator and rises in visible waves from the sea and the beaches. Going for a swim on Phi Phi is simply not an option unless you're into hepatitis and/or E. coli, yet there are plenty of mindless youth from around the world frolicking in the garbage like the happiest shit-flies on the planet. The booze probably helps, and there is a lot of booze. Phi Phi's specialty is "the Bucket", a sandpail full of Sang Som rum, RedBull, and Coke. At night the world's dimmest and drunkest down about ten of these buckets per person and suddenly become impervious to third-degree burns. The fireshows, Thais who juggle flaming hoops, wands and bolos, are entrancing to watch at the beginning of the evening, but by the end of the night all of the drunken farangs are giving it a try as well and it can get pretty ugly. In the morning there'll be bandages and burn ointment, but for tonight it's open bar at the amateur circus. I check into the Rock Backpacker Hostel dorm and immediately spray the place with my bedbug fogger; it looks like that type of place. Sure enough, after I've stowed my gear, and bought two locks for the safety box at the head of my bed which was previously sealed with zip-ties, I start talking to a few of the other inmates and one girl shows me the tell-tale line of bites on her ankle and asks if it could be bedbugs. I point to bite #1 and label it "breakfast", bite #2 "lunch" and bite #3 "dinner". An English lad -- more probably a "chav", the English equivalent of our American "wiggers" -- in white sunglasses recovering from the night before tells me that Phi Phi is "good fun" but that Koh Lanta is a bore. I decide then and there to get to Koh Lanta as soon as possible. There are, however, some people worth talking to on Phi Phi and as fate would have it they're staying in the same room as me. Ruben is from the Netherlands -- "All anyone ever asks me about is the coffee shops" -- and Vinny is from Italy. They are both homeward bound and have decided to make Phi Phi their last stop. We go out for an unbearably spicy meal, the waiter laughing at us as he watches us suffer through it, too proud to push it away and watch it spontaneously combust. Risto joins us midway through and after a few beers we're ready to brave the shit-show that is Phi Phi. We stop first at a reggae bar which has staged, i.e. "fixed", Muy Thai fights every night. It's my first Muy Thai fight and even though the winner is decided beforehand, some of the blows connect with devastating results. I wouldn't want to piss these guys off, however unimposing they look at 5'5" and 130 lbs. So, after a few bouts and faced with the prospect of watching two amateur Thai women fight -- a fun idea for the first five boring minutes -- we head off to the beach and the fireshows. Ruben, Risto, Vinny and I watch for a while and then hit the dance floor hard. After a while I decide to take a break and shoot some pool with some fun-loving Chileans. Then, suddenly, it's two o' clock in the morning. On Phi Phi two o' clock means that everything shuts down, everything. For an island where booze is the only thing to do this is one helluva disappointment. We all head home but Ruben and I meet a Dutch girl along the way and decide to see if there's anything, anything, open. As it turns out there is. One food vendor is catering to a late-night crowd of Thais and we order up one of her specialties. I briefly wonder what the meat is, but after seeing one unmistakeable cross-section and a tiny rump roast with a tail still attached I put two and two together. We're eating rat. Still, the spices are just right and we finish the meal with gusto. Plus, it was free-range rat.
Day 13: Risto and I go for a boat tour of Phi Phi Don (the island we're staying on) and Phi Phi Ley (the sister island where Maya Bay, from "The Beach", is). Tourists, tourists everywhere, fouling the water and polluting the air. I'm thoroughly disgusted with all the gawking, preening, picture-happy farangs destroying, directly or indirectly, such a once-beautiful place and I decide to leave on the morn. Too depressed for revelry, I leave the boys to it and go to bed early.
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