This Land is Thailand
A Current Fare
My stay in Bangkok began with something of a, well, bang. My plane touched down early Thursday morning, November 13, and I made it through customs without a hitch. My brother arrived the day before and booked a hotel room, where he would be sleeping when I arrived. He warned me about taxi drivers stiffing tourists with inflated fares and said the fare should come to about $3 and certainly not more that $5. This was based on the most current exchange rate when he looked. He also suggested passing by the first group of people peddling rides inside the airport and getting a cab at the farthest curb.
Armed with this foreknowledge, I retrieved my luggage and ignored the first bunch of people shouting “taxi.” Outside, the first person I encountered told me the fare would be $12. I moved on. The next person said $15. I hiked some stairs and went to a different part of the airport, where several drivers mobbed me and tried to outbid one another. The lowest was $10. I shook my head and said “too much.” A police officer walked over and when he made eye contact with me, I shrugged and said “too much.” He said “use the meter.” I looked at the drivers and one quickly said, “meter, meter,” grabbed my bag and scurried to his parked car with it. I got in and the drive began. We passed through two different toll booths and he announced the amount he paid each time. One of the amounts didn’t seem to match any of the amounts on the posted toll sign. When we reached the hotel, he gave me the price in Thai baht, the sum of the meter plus the tolls. Based on what I understood the exchange rate to be, I calculated the total to be almost $6, double what my brother said the fare should be. Tired from a long, all-night flight, I held up $6 for him. He made a big stink about the fare being more, insisting the exchange rate was something different. After some back-and-forth, I added a dollar, handed him $7 and began to leave. He demanded more. At first I said “no.” But he remained adamant. He made such a scene, I added another dollar, grabbed my bag and walked into the hotel. He followed me through the doors. I checked in, but he remained just inside the front door. When I looked at him, he said to me, in a thick accent, “you make me mad.” I said, “you make ME mad” and ignored him. Finally, he left.
I apologized to the concierge for the scene. Just to be sure I was in the right, I inquired of the concierge. It turns out, the exchange rate had dropped since my brother had looked, and the $8 I gave the driver amounted to a small underpayment. I felt awful. Off to a great start.
Everybody Was Muay Thai Fighting
My brother had booked a great room, and he was awake when I got to it. I told him the taxi tale and we overate at the hotel’s buffet breakfast. Big mixed martial arts fans, we booked front-row seats at the muay Thai (Thai kickboxing) arena for that evening. After dark, we rode across town in a tuk tuk–a three-wheeled motorbike with a loud engine and an open, covered passenger carriage in the back. We wove through chaotic traffic, passing store fronts, skyscrapers, and countless street vendors, who sold skewered meats, exotic fruits and sundry trinkets from tightly packed stalls. We saw a man walk along the road pulling a small elephant on a leash.
We took our seats inside the moderately sized arena. Colorful banners hung above the ring. We saw 10 bouts. Before each one, the two contenders entered the ring, removed their robes and simultaneously began an elaborate warm-up routine in the middle of the ring. It seemed more ritualistic than practical and involved a series of floor poses directed out from each of the four sides of the square ring. An unusual band played during the matches. I couldn’t make out the instruments, but they sounded something like a kazoo, a drum, a tamborine and a shofar. As the rounds progressed, the music intensified, becoming faster and louder, working the crowd into a frenzy. The supporters at each of the fighers’ corners grew fanatical, shouting “oh” or something like that after each blow inflicted by their man. Between rounds, they yelled advice feverishly from the floor while the ring assistants doused the fighters with water, massaged their muscles and slapped their faces. Between fights, the competitors lingered with their coaches in the back and seemed happy to pose for photos.
At the arena, we sat next to an Austrian guy named Stefan. We ran into him the next day touring the temples.
Can I Get A Wat, Wat?
The word for “temple” is “wat.” We saw our share. The most amazing are concentrated within the Grand Palace, a complex of incomparably colorful temples and statues. It looked like a Buddhist Disneyland. The holiest site is Wat Phra Kaeo, which houses the Emerald Buddha perched atop an elaborate pedestal. Some shrines within the complex are lined with alternating sacred humans and sacred monkeys who stood in a row, the only apparent difference between them being the monkeys had no shoes on. As it happens, we visitors are required to remove our shoes before entering the temples. I guess you could say they made monkeys out of us.
I’ll Give You Wat Pho
Near the the Grand Palace is another temple called Wat Pho, the oldest wat in Bangkok (17th century). Inside, a gigantic, shiny, golden buddha reclines on its side, as if posing for a magazine photo shoot, maybe the centerfold for Playbuddha.
We also took a boat taxi across the Chao Phraya River to a pagoda called Wat Arun (“Temple of Dawn”), unique in that its upper outdoor terrace is accessible only by two very steep staircases built into the outside of the temple and made of stairs no deeper than, say, a monkey’s paw.
Up A River Without a (Ping Pong) Paddle
At night, my brother Daniel, Stefan and I wandered through Patpong and Soi Cowboy, areas that combine tourist shopping stalls, bars and sex show “theatres.”
I can’t tell you how many different men approached us and asked us if we were interested in a “ping pong show.” Frankly, I hadn’t realized the sport was so popular here. Each ping pong promoter showed us a laminated card displaying an array of pictures of pretty women, apparently the evening’s competitors. I was surprised at the amount of make-up the athletes wore. And their attire seemed altogether impractical for a grueling ping pong match. Especially the short skirts and high heels. We gathered the women would be playing in some sort of exhibition match. Curiously, not a single girl was pictured with her ping pong paddle. Just how exciting can a game of ping pong really be, anyway? We told these men we’re really not into ping pong, but they persisted. I guess they had a stake in drawing spectators–maybe because they were trainers or coaches? I told one promoter I personally preferred bowling to ping pong and communicated that preference by demonstrating the size of a bowling ball. He winced and shook his hand dismissively, vehemently rejecting the notion. Guess he hates bowling.
Another guy asked me if I wanted a girl and I said “no thanks.” He then said, “you like boys?” and I said, “no.” He inquired “so what you like?” I said “trees.” He said, “I can get you three.” [WRITER’S EMBELLISHMENT:] I clarified “‘trees,’ not ‘three.'” He said “three what?” I said “No wats. I’m not Buddhist!” Hearing “Buddhist” he shoved a copy of Playbuddah in my face.
Big Brother Program
We observed quite a few older white men accompanying very young female locals. The girls seemed quite taken by the geezers. I’m assuming there’s a very active “big brother” program in Bangkok. In fact, some especially benevolent men sponsored two or even three girls. The sight was quite heartwarming.
Once, Twice, Three Times A Ladyboy
One can’t help but notice that some of the Thai girls are on the tall side and have big hands and Adams’ apples. They congregate in a few select clubs and seem more feminine than ordinary young women yet taller than all of the men. They are called “ladyboys,” which I think is cruel. I mean, they’re probably already self-conscious about their size and male attributes. Labels like that sure aren’t gonna help any of them–as the song goes–feel like a natural woman.
We ended the evening in a pub watching a Thai Elvis impersonator backed by a Filipino band. On the way, my brother fed an elephant.
Speaking of the King, Thailand’s is highly revered. His picture is everywhere. Thai people claim he’s the longest reigning king in history. We were told the people even pray to the king. One night we encountered a large crowd of people chanting and kneeling before a monument to the former king. A cab driver told us they were appealing to the monument for good luck.
Take Me To The Rivers
My brother and I took an excursion to the River Kwai in the Kanchanaburi Province and walked across the bridge the old movie is named after (“The Bridge Over The River Kwai”). The bridge supports the Thailand-Burma Railway, a railway constructed by the Japanese government in 1942 for strategic military reasons. Japan used the labor of WWII POWs and many conscripted Asians. An estimated 16,000 POWs and 100,000 Asian laborers lost their lives building the railway, earning it the title “Death Railway.” On a lighter note, the tune whistled in the movie is an actual tune the forced laborers created. It’s got lyrics. For the sake of propriety, I won’t spell out the lyrics, but they go something like, “Bollocks, To The [Ethnic Group],” etc.
On our final day in Bangkok (4 nights total for me, 5 for my brother), my brother and I took a short boat trip down the Chao Phraya River. We would also take an eye-opening riverboat trip in our next destination: Cambodia.
Tags: Bangkok, Southeast Asia, Thailand, Travel
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Okay, first off I got the baht-to-dollar rate from a coworker from Thailand who had recently been back. Secondly, I mentioned I wasn’t entirely sure about the $5 but most importantly just to use the meter. I just assumed he’d exchange some money at the airport and use the meter and be fine. I mean, I was able to figure it out, and of course my brother had already been traveling alone for over 2 months. Idiot. Wat A[ma]run.