Street-Crossing a New Thai Sport?

Crossing the road in Thailand as a pedestrian should be a national sport. It is intense, adrenaline-packed action with definite winners and losers, the latter of course a heavy underdog. I'll describe the teams and the typical match.

On one team you have powered motion. In Thailand they've found a way to fashion an engine to anything that has wheels, and the wheels vastly outnumber the walkers. On the defensive side of this team you'll find the average car driver, which is the most docile and forgiving of the wheeled participants. They'll brake and slow down, not without irritation, but generally they'll let you get through.

Just up the field we meet the uniquely Thai tuk-tuks. To those unfamiliar with the tuk-tuks, it is essentially a 3-wheeled taxi that looks like a Shriner's car on steroids. Basically, it is a battery, (bolted down on the floor panel by the driver's left foot) a two-cycle engine, a fiberglass frame, and a windy love seat in the back. Of course there are metal railings above to hang on too, and when sitting on the edge, it is a requirement. As a passenger you get the nauseating equivalent of a mild-hangover if you try looking at the speeding ground below; the motion and the diesel fumes from the exhaust mix together in a potent combination. Riding in tuk-tuks is generally safe and fun, but as a pedestrian these guys don't screw around. To them you're either a fare, at which point they'll slow down and ask "tuk-tuk" in a compressed clucking, like a choking squirrel, or else they already have a fare and will regard you as an impediment to getting paid. They're nothing though, in comparison to their heavyweight counterparts and the offensive side of the wheeled team.

Most of the taxis here are light, fast-streaking Toyota's that disregard most, if not all, elements of personal and public safety. Andretti would be proud of these boys. They're quick and aggressive, finding holes in traffic that I'd be scared to ride a bike through. They show no fear and bolt past pedestrians at full speed. They only slow down for walls and semi-tucks. Riding in one is like playing Russian roulette because you're either lucky or crazy. I will admit, though, that not all taxi drivers are crazy. Some, mostly older gentleman, drive like they're late to an important meeting that's not quite important enough to die over, but still it's business, you understand. Also, there are some slow taxi drivers who love to chat with you. They'll even drive you to your destination for an incredibly low price or even for free. The catch, you have to visit their "sponsors" store. Mostly these are men's tailor stores and go-go bars who pay off the cabbies in free gas coupons in exchange for bringing tourists in. Most of these guys are young and speak a little English. Obama is a typical topic of conversation these days. Fortunately, you don't have to buy anything you just have to look. If you're not in a hurry this really is the way to go, as I've gotten across Bangkok, in rush hour traffic (pretty much all day) for about a $1.50.

Moving into the middle of the field we have the motorbike gangs who zing in and around traffic, ignoring white lines and even sidewalks. More than once I've been pushed up against a store wall by a motorcycle coming at me, (in the opposite direction of traffic of course) because let's face it who wants to go up a block to the next light to make a U-turn. At least on the sidewalks they drive slowly, but only because they know they're outnumbered and deep within enemy territory. Also, in Thailand, motorbikes seemed to be the preferred method of travel as they're cheap, light, and efficient, so they flock in vast hordes like angry, late birds.

In this same category are the offensive mid-fielders the motorcycle taxi. These guys are the ones to really watch out for because they can make some dangerous runs. I've had a couple of expats and a Thai tell me that it isn't uncommon for these (mostly young men) drivers to be drunk. I wouldn't know, I haven't gotten close enough to smell their breath. Watching them, they're reckless with their passengers, but in a pinch they're the quickest and most agile of the wheeled team.



Finally, we have our bi-pedal participants. We are armed only with cunning ingenuity and the ultimate prize for winning, our lives. And so the game begins:



You step up to the curb, the old schoolboy mantra pounding in your head "look both ways before you cross." As a Westerner you inherently look right first. This is fatally wrong. Traffic comes from the left here, but don't worry if you forget, several horns will remind you as you step off the curb without looking. So, you must re-train your brain. You look left. The motorcycle army screams past, some just inches as you feel their breeze and taste their diesel carbon. After they pass you make your first move. In the center lanes motorcycle taxis and tuk-tuks scream past. One tuk-tuk stops, thinking you're a fare. "Tuk-tuk" he clucks, cars slam on their brakes behind him. "No thank you," you yell slipping past, into the next lane, grateful for the hole. The metal river of cars parts around you and you're stuck. Can't go back, can't yet go forward because of the taxi Nazi's who just won't give up. Cars honk and swerve around you but still that last lane is being held. After a few interminable seconds you see that slight hole, and make a break for it. The trick you realize is that sometimes you just have to be crazier than they are. And, with a suppressed anger you turn, smiling at the cabby shaking his head. You see him nod, and give a wry smile, as if saying, "Next time, my friend, next time." As you turn, your glory is always short-lived because you still have five more lanes to go. Just the same but from the opposite direction.

Third Class All the Way

I've never had an affinity at spoiling myself. Some have called me cheap, but I'd prefer the word thrifty. I only buy the things I need, the things most essential for a comfortable survival, and an air-conditioned sleeper train car is not one of those things. This is typically an un-American trait, and in this new-world recession Americans are learning the effects of un-adultered consumerism.

Taking a third-class train in Thailand is, without a comparison in American standards. In America trains are safe because Americans like to feel safe, even though the reality may be much different. The feeling is what's important.

I arrived at the train station early, walking past a food market, I picked up a kilo of oranges and bananas for around 2$ U.S. The train station was huddled in a back corner off the Chao Praya river. Hanging in the air, lingering like a corpse, was the constant smell of rotting sewage (in most of the third-world countries I've visited this has been the case). If you've ever forgotten to take the garbage out for a few weeks, than left it out in the rain, the smell is equal to the garbage water at the bottom. It can choke a person into madness. To make this worse I have a taste/smell aversion to this specific odor.

Last year in Mexico, I recieved, quite wonderfully, the typical traveler's ailment. Montezuma's revenge as it's known down there. As I lay in my hammock, running to the toilet every 1/2 hour, I ran past another typical sewage drain with this exact smell. Also, every time I burped, the same acidic rot spewed up from my bacteria-infested bowels; again, this same smell plagued me. So, now everytime I catch a wiff on the passing breeze, I'm transported back to that wonderful time.

Holding my breath, I ate a few oranges waiting for my train. Behind the station, spilled out over a half-block was a ramschackle community of shirtless bums, gambling and drinking in the late morning.

The train reminded me of a relic from the boxcar days of American Depression, back when jumping was still common. Rickety, rusty, and damaged, these trains didn't try to impress with aesthetics. Their cheap, community-based service their only importance in this global recession. I tried conjuring romantic images of Kerouac and Cassidy, drunk and crazy from cheap wine trying to hop one of these. Dangerous, deadly.

Inside, not much difference. Stale, drummed down wooden benches ran along the side walls facing each other. There were no assigned seats, no class reservations, but luckily no window restrictions either, as the heat of a hot Bangkok day barreled down on the baking train. A spasmadic antique fun buzzed and circled above, giving a second of respite every five. Sticky and sweaty I swatted at a fly, praying for the release of the drum brakes.

I was half-delirous by the time the train took off, but I was startled back to life by the rumbling dragon below. It bellowed as if a knight's sword had given it a blow that would kill it slow and with terrible agony. Every half-mile the bellowing ceased, replaced by a horrible metallic shrieking as the train came to a stop. At every stop, different snack merchants, selling everything from beer and sodas, to hand-sized pieces of BBQ chicken, got on. I had a coke and some roasted peanuts.

We rolled past palms dangling across rusty sewage canals. It seems that proper waste disposal is a priviledge reserved for developed nations. Luckily, our speed was enough so it didn't seep into the train bed and my fearful nose. Beyond, lay broken rice paddies and developed fields of smoke where farmers burnt-off piles of late summertime grass.

Now, writing this, I sit on the exit/entrance steps with the ground just a few feet below. There are no safety belts, emergency exits, or doors even. Nothing but common sense keeping me from jumping out. Still, I can't help but wonder if I'd live or die if I jumped.

I clutch the railing tight, as more verdant country rolls past. The doorway offers cooler, fresh air though it is tinged with carbon monoxide from the fires in the fields. I close my eyes letting the cool wind calm me. I meditate for a moment, calm and comfortable, until another bridge crossing threatens to throw me from the train. I return to my bench and let the sun wash over me again.

Suk 11 Hostel

01/04/09 Bangkok

Outside of Suk 11, our Bangkok hostel, stands a uniformed security guard in a pleated khaki suit. His stoic, broad Chinese face and dim smile remind me of a by-gone relic from the Mao-Zedung days, with his starch pressed outfit squeezing his tight smile and sense of humor, especially at three in the morning when I don't have my key. Regardless, he lets me in. Inside, there are only tight wooden walls and steep low-ceiling stairs crafted in the opium den style for Chinese coolies. I'm a giant here, and I'm constantly reminded of that as I smack my head going up and down the stairs.

Earlier today, I took a garden shower on the roof, with cold water and little pressure. Climbing the chain link fence around me were palms, ferns, and a vine that wrapped and twirled around the wooden shower stall. Below me in the back alley, two local Thai hand-washed their clothes in one plastic bucket, their dishes in another. Across the street a push-cart food vendor was frying up some type of spicy garlic peanut sauce, while two motorcycle taxis looked on. Farther down the alley, a separate snack vendor biked up beeping the Mexican hat dance. Every 30 seconds his horn sounded the familiar "da-na-na-na, da-na-na-na, dana-dana-dana-da."

Generators rolled, dogs barked, car horns blared, and children giggled; the buzz of the city. Alive, like any other major metropolitan area Bangkok brimmed with life, and somewhere I was a part of it--alive.

And, somewhere today, immersed in the unfamiliar chaotic sounds and odors of Bangkok, I found that familiar taste; that strange sweetness of home.

Maybe it was while I showered, but perhaps it was while I walked back to my room after my shower. As I walked back, I read the wall poets who scribbled their songs across the white-washed hallways. On every last creeping inch of space years of traveler advice, well-wishings, and philosophical ponderings had accumulated. From Japanese script to Arabic scrawlings, a dozen or more languages (still finding more) decorated each traveler's tales.

These were still snapshots of others who'd passed through these doors, marking the brief history and frenetic energy of Suk 11. These snapshots will stand as stories against the passage of time, even if only briefly, marking each arrival and passing.

A majority of the quotes were laconic but well-intentioned, like "Best hostel in Bangkok, thanks Suk 11," or "Had the best time with Mark, Beth,..." Some of these quotes were sad stories, like this writer "This is where I was when I lost you. Sleep with angels brother."Others still were humorous and light, like "Follow the Yellow Brick Road all the way from Oz to Suk 11," or "You can't take the bog out of the fart, but the fart can be taken out of the bog," which must be some sort of Eastern thing I don't understand. While the best quotes, still, were reflective and thought provoking like, "I believe in making every experience a lesson;" "A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step;" and "Live life until you die from it." And, of course, there is the ridicoulus and my personal favorite "Anunnaki, Do you know what this means? If you don't you really should. Google this word."

These notes may only be brief stands against the white-washing of time, they are stands nonetheless. Each thought unique to its creator, each passage different, and each another footlog in the world's nomadic guidebook. "Welcome home," they say "Welcome to the road."

We're not perverts I swear

12/30/08

Walked to the U.S. embassy to register and check on any new travel advisories for our trip to the troubled southern Thailand border. At the entrance, like most U.S. government buildings, was a security checkpoint. Two security guards helped us unload restricted items, such as, cell phones, cameras, and any other suspicious object. Eddy and I each own a high-tech water filter that emits UV rays from a cylindrical cathode light tube, destroying all harmful bacteria. Its round, wand shape resembles a miniature Star Wars light saber, and is about the length and size of a candle. Its public use generally draws skeptical curiosity, but it's highly efficient, and as living proof I can tell you it works and is a must have for any serious backpacker. It is called the Steripen.

The confused security guards were suspicious and confiscated them along with our phones and cameras. They gave us in exchange a numbered pick-up slip for later. We then proceeded inside to take care of our business.

A half our later we returned to claim our belongings. The chuckling guards gathered around us as we pulled the Steripens out. With great curiosity and interest they asked, in broken English, what this futuristic device was for. We held up our water bottles and gave them a demonstration. Laughing, they acted out what they had thought it was used for. One guard bent over and the other pantomimed with a probing fist, thrusting in and out like he had a dildo in his hand. We all had a great laugh together before we left.

In a society where ladyboys, hookers, and every form of sexual perversion is not only tolerated, but accepted as commonplace, we can only wonder what image they had in their heads as they bet on the Steripen's function.

Portraits of Bangkok

12/31 New Year's Eve, drinking beer and wandering the streets, (no open container laws exist in Bangkok, at least not for foreigners) we stumbled upon the greatest bar. Chor, an amicable, honest Thai man had converted the back of his small Toyota truck into a bar, from which he served a limited supply of local specialties; Singha beer, and 100 proof Thai whiskey. Small stools encircled the truck bar, and we sat street-side talking to an Australian couple as cars whizzed past an arm's length away.With nervous smiles we felt every rushing breeze of each vehicle, while Chor assured us that in four years of operation he'd never had an accident. This helped assuage our fears, and with each passing beer our security blanket grew as the new year came upon us. Here we ushered in the new year until the cool pre-dawn hours of a chaotic Bangkok morning.


12/30 With crack-tooth smiles street vendors sip moonshine out of plastic soda bottle tops, while hot pepper spices mix with diesel fumes. Three-wheeled tuk-tuks spin taxi rides for foreigners. They always offer gringos rides, tagging along for a half block or checking back five minutes later to see if you've changed your mind. This is not annoying, as the oppressive heat in Bangkok can quickly change even the most stubborn and cheap tourist. In the morning I ate spiked fruit that looked like a sea anemone as a river taxi shuttled us along the Chao Praya to Wat Po. At Wat Po I watched faithful Buddhists bow and pray to their god while saffron-robed monks chanted strange intonations.