South East Asia on a Hamstring – February 8

Alone at last – but in Bangkok?? February 8, 2000

At 5:30am, the VIP bus stopped. No one stirred. My busload of backpackers was sound asleep.

A Thai man boarded the bus with his wake-up call.

“This is Bangkok! Wake up, you are in Bangkok!”

Dubiously, I looked out the window. It looked very plain. I saw no traffic, no pollution, and no crowd. Of course, even New York looks dead at 5am. Bearing

this in mind, I rubbed out the hideous goo that had collected in my eyes as a result of being sick and walked out of the bus.

Our packs were piled in an enormous mound on the street. I dug in and pulled mine out and hung back from the crowd, consulting my “South-East Asia on a

Shoestring” map of the area.

A tout came over and offered to escort me to a guesthouse. I lied to him and told him that I had a reservation at the Viengtai Hotel – I did, it just wasn’t until February 12. Instead of hassling me, he politely gave me directions.

A tuk-tuk driver asked me if I needed a ride. I told him I was going to the Viengtai and he gave me even more explicit directions.

“Walk up there, go left, take the second left.”

So far everyone was being helpful and pleasant. Bangkok was easy. I shouldered my pack and followed their instructions.

Fortunately, the Viengtai had a room for me. Certainly, at $32 a room, I could have found a hundred cheaper rooms in Bangkok. But reading “The Beach” with

its description of cardboard cells on Khao San Road had scared me and I certainly didn’t want to wander the streets at 5:30. I just wanted a nap.

My room was big and clean, featured hot water and CNN, had free bottled water refills and a mini-bar. I went to sleep instantly.

I managed to crawl out of bed and shower at 9am. The hotel safe was “full,” but I booked it for tomorrow. It struck me as odd that I was booking room in a safe. I left my valuables in my room, in the leg of my jeans for the time being.

I walked to the next block, to Khao San Road, looking for breakfast.

Khao San Road was unbelievable. It was filled with guesthouses, neon signs, and tons and tons of backpacking foreigners. There was almost no single Thai in sight…except for the waitresses at the restaurants. The backpackers all had that sloppy look – dressed in baggy Rayon or cotton, lots of batik and tie-dye. Several of them twisted locks of hair, attempting to grow dreadlocks. Lots of the young women were adorned in spaghetti strap tops, too small for their frames, with ample bellies hanging out above their baggy pants. Their bra straps were cheerfully displayed, proving that the East Village is nothing special.

Massage parlors and travel agencies filled the spaces in between the guesthouses. One fellow had just set up shop on the sidewalk, doctoring up old ISIC student ID cards for anyone with ready cash. Occasionally, I’d spot an old hippie, who had long ago succumbed to the temptation to never leave. I’d hold my breath as I passed them…they invariably had overcome the need to have the approval of society and probably didn’t bathe very often.

I downed my scrambled eggs and coffee quickly and headed to the internet cafe, where I spent hours complaining to Intrepid about Peter. I finally left when the schoolkids came in. They were all in uniform, black bottoms and white tops, and they came in to “chat,” or to play games or to learn English from computer programs.

My lack of sleep had made my wits dull, so I limited my aspirations to simple things. I found a map and guidebook to Bangkok. I had a young girl do my nails

with a dull emery board for 40 baht (a dollar). I went back to my hotel and vegged out, watching CNN until I fell asleep.

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