Thai Style
The smells, the tastes and the culture fill my senses from the moment I step out of the airport terminal – humidity smacks me like a lump of soggy wood to the face. The heat pounds, the crowds throng as dozens of drivers hold aloft signs for the multitude of passengers who have just embarked and push trolleys filled with suitcases through the hordes, everyone searching for their name on a card.
Black plastic overhead cables hang like electric capillaries, dozens bunched together and strung between solid concrete poles. They drape low, barely clearing the sidewalk they span. They hum and buzz in the humidity as if feeding from it.
Brawny dour Russian men wander haughtily, devoid of obvious enjoyment. On their arm hangs a gorgeous wife – normally used to the harsh frostbitten Russian winter, these beautiful women seem oblivious to their attractiveness, which only makes them more appealing. Cyrillic translations adorn Thai and English signage, advertising tours, condominiums and menus.
Bronzed European tourists (halfway around the world on their pilgrimage) wear bikinis and speedos whilst riding unstable mopeds, weaving in and out of the traffic populated by pumped up Tuk-Tuks that blast dance music and neon whilst transporting drunk tourists from one bar to the next.
The abrasive Aussie accent, ubiquitous during peak times, ricochets across the resort pool – over-fed kids and tattooed parents argue over whether it’s time to leave the pool or not. However, on the streets, the ones who are smiling and enjoying Thai hospitality are the Aussies – loved by the Thais for their attitude, their sense of good times, and their money.
Otop Markets in Patong, now almost totally devoid of indigenous stallholders, provide some shade during the heavy, humid heat of the day. A slight breeze pervades, offering some respite to the stuffy, energy-sapping environment that prevails. I am reminded of my golden rules in markets:
Do not stay longer than about 30 minutes – loss of energy will diminish bargaining stamina
Always be prepared to walk awayNever bargain for something you really want
Accept that you will get ripped off at least once; so make sure your purchases are lots of small ones so that the rip-off is also small.
Indian ex-pats inhabit the stalls, greetings range from enthusiastic to indifference. The tailors and their spruikers are slick Bollywood types, hair product, faked DG sunglasses and designer jeans epitomising “fake it ‘till you make it.”
Occasional pockets of pungency populate the streets, filling me with a smell I can taste. It’s a visceral, pungent aroma – the kind of odour that has burnt hair on it. It’s the smell of humidity, infrequent rubbish collection, and a disregard for public hygiene.
I run the gauntlet of tanned British backpackers who jump off the back of slowly moving mopeds to offer me a card to scratch to reveal a “free” prize, or “discounted” shopping. Constant rebuffs don’t seem to daunt them. My cynicism tells me that such prizes may exist, but only if you commit to a seminar of time-share or the like. One guy destroyed his sincerity by proclaiming his honesty – if he had to tell me he was honest before I even questioned it, then it tells me that he knows this is not quite legit. By way of proof he claimed he was a Jehovah’s Witness (yep, that will convince me!). I wished him well with the case and moved on, his laughter fading behind me.
Bangla Road – the scene of mayhem and drunken carnage.
Overweight middle-aged white men hold hands with young, barely-legal Thai girls, dragging their bored companions from one bar to the next – the girls acutely aware that this is the easy part of the night.
A foreign girl holds her friend’s long blonde hair back as she vomits out the front of a bar – one Mai-tai too many.
Tall Lady-boys strut and preen, posing for pictures with tourists for 20 baht each.
Decidedly dodgy dealers hand out flyers to ping-pong shows where the tamest of things to emerge from the nether-regions of a bored Thai ex-hooker are ping pong balls. They advertise budgies, razors, needles and the always entertaining blow darts to pop a balloon. Like a car-crash, morbid curiosity draws me in for a look (just once is enough).
