The bells chime, and an automated voice announces this to be
the last stop on the transit system of the skytrain. Jordan and I step out of the doors, and
immediately find ourselves engulfed by a sea of moving bodies. The heat rushes towards us, hell bent on
claiming yet another pair of unsuspecting people. It will soon reduce us to panting, sweating
animals.
We decend the stairs towards the street, where taxis of
every colour weave dangerously through the crowded mass of motorized machines. At the first sign of our raised arms, a green
and yellow cab swerves over to the curb, eager for what we will soon learn to
be a meager fare. There seem to be no
rules where traffic is concerned, and the driver appears oblivious to the resounding honks that follow
in the wake of his blocking an entire lane.
We on the other hand, feel more
flustered about holding up an impatient line of cars, and hurridly toss our
bulging bags into the back seat. Stumbling
in behind them, we wipe our clammy brows with the backs of equally soggy hands,
and tell the driver that we would like to go to Banglamphu. After some confusion and map-studying, the
driver indicates that he understands where we would like to go. However, within the confines of stand-still
traffic he reaches back towards the map several more times, which sparks some
worry within our already weary minds.
The traffic in the city is dizzying, and if rules of the
road exist, one could seem to spend their whole life studying them and never
achieve complete logic. Motorcycles
squeeze through impossibly tight spaces, unwilling to delay their trip by mere
seconds. Tuk-tuks speed by, their
brightly painted exteriors equally as impressive as their seeming disregard for
any form of life on two legs. Buses
careen through the throng of vehicles, honking their horns as passengers step
from their doors in the middle of the rushing road. White blocked crosswalks are pointedly
ignored, and the flashing yellow pedestrian lights serve little purpose. To cross to street is to take one’s life into
their hands. While we stare open-mouthed
at the scenes around us, our driver announces what we interpret to be the
arrival at our destination.
We watch his license plate as it manouvers back into the
ocean of chaos, and slowly take in our environment. The side street is hardly bigger than an
alley, and the rough edges are lined with litter and construction debris. We pass a parked tuk-tuk, and polietely
refuse him while he badgers us to take a ride.
We trapse down to the end of the street, only to find an absolute dead
end. Convinced that we are ablout to
discover ourselves lost, we pull out our map and intently study the shown
land-marks, desparately searching for something to compare our surroundings
with. A massive golden bridge rises up
in the distance, its shining wire cables acting as a beacon to our
position. We stagger back out of the
side street and are once again thrown into the cluttered and deafening roar of
the main streets. Jordan tends to be
good with directions, and soon we find ourselves turning down yet another side
street. This one seems to assert more
potential, and is reinforced by the small number of Caucasian tourists that
occasionally step from hidden entryways.
Towards the end of the lane, we eventuall glimpse our designated guest
house (after walking by it once) and find ourselves staring up at a weathered
sign that reads, “Bamboo Guest House.”
After handing over the equivalent of about $8.00 Canadian
dollars, we are led up a steep wooden staircase to a rather dark but charming
hallway. Room 210 is stark and bare,
with little more than a bed and a small desk, but it is a welcome sight after
two days of wooden benches and cramped airplane confines. In spite of the light breeze that flutters in
through the four open windows, we immediately reach for the large fan, intent
on testing its full capability.
The guesthouse has neither blankets nor hot water, but as
the chilly water flows through the humid air, never has there been a better
feeling. Taking several hours to recover
from the weariness that comes from crossing six time zones, we lay back on the
stone slab mattress and revel in the accomplishment of continuing our travels.
Some time (and another shower) later, we venture once again
out into the wild, intent on discovering edible delights. We stroll through a park, feeling much too
flashy and gaudy in clothes that would be considered average and even
understated back home. Thai music plays over a loud-speaker, and as we walk
alongside a battered stone railing, we stare at a canal that would make the
Thames River in London look like a beach-worthy resort. The
water is cloudy brown and completely opaque thanks to the dirt and
garbage that has no doubt been deposited in it for years. We pass a man who is keeping a watchful eye
on his three fishing lines. Jordan
whispers to me, “I can’t imagine anything even remotely edible being procured
from this water.” As if on cue, a large
mottled grey fish floats by, its lifeless body tossing about on the choppy
waves. Time to continue our exporation
of the area.
We find ourselves back on the main drag, and I marvel at the
many opportunities to twist an ankle.
Tree roots push up at the already fractured sidewalks, and open holes
are frequently noted amidst the haphazardly lain bricks. With every new entryway, we are bombarded
with an assortment of smells, all of them strong, but few of them
favorable. Live powerlines dip low into
the streets, many within reaching distance for the immortal few. The sheer amount of wires bundled together is
so impressive
that I can’t help but wonder how the tilting wooden poles don’t
buckle under the weight.
Stray cats and dogs lay about on the curbs, many of them
thin and malnourished. Their sad eyes
seem to stare at nothing in particular, and their tounges loll from gaping
mouths, victims of the heat. Perhaps
they are dreaming of a large and fulfilling meal, or of a loving pat on the
head.
Still targets of culture-shock, we secretly rejoice at every
tourist we glimpse, for they seem to be surprisingly few and far between. Making the decision to ease our way into this
way of life, we search for a restaurant as opposed to a street vendor. There will be time enough to experience
road-side cooking.
An eatery that is tastefully decked with cushy chairs and
rich colours beckons us, and stepping inside we welcome the product of the air
conditioner. The menu is vast, and we
feel somewhat overwhelmed by the choices that are presented to us. Narrowing down the options proves to be a
difficult task, as the photos present countles images of both colourful and
uniquely arranged dishes. Jordan orders
a dish called, “Hon Rin Don,” which is essentially thinly sliced pork, served
with vegetables and a delightful chilli sauce.
I order the “Spicey Salmon Salad,” which proves to be an excellent
decision.
Served on a small dish,
cheerful pink pieces of salmon are nestled in amongst mint and lemongrass,
while a decidedly fiery looking sauce provides the moat to my meal. The first mouthful is unbelievably delicious,
and the savory blend of spices of herbs make for a taste like few I’ve
experienced. Then the bodily fire alarm
is set into action. Few foods trigger my
defence mechanisms, but I can shamefully admit that from the first bite, this
plate does. Across the table, Jordan is chirpily
exclaiming about his appealing albeit spicy dish. I offer him a bit of my food, and watch with
sadistic satisfaction as he squirms uncomfortably from the sting and reaches
for his beer.Tipping isn’t standard practice in Thailand, but after
devouring such a lovely meal, we can’t resist leaving our eager young server a
20 baht bill. (About $0.70 in Canadian,
which seems like an insult tip to us, but is probably very appreciated by
them.)
The night market seems like the
obvious choice after dinner, and with full bellies and eager eyes we make our
way through the masses. The market is a
teeming scene of colours, lights, smells and sounds, the majority of these
pleasing to the senses. Shops line the streets,
offering clothing, jewellery, toys and foods.
I buy a large slice of watermelon from a vendor, and while sinking my
chompers into the sweet, dripping fruit, I reflect gleefully on the price of
about $0.40 CAD. Strolling along, store
owners bekon you into their dwellings, hoping to haggle with inexperienced
tourists. Warmly coloured lanterns hang
from the roofs of open air bars, tempting passerbyers to indulge in an
experience that promises contented relaxation and a cold beer.
Feeling the effects of our journey, we slowly amble back to
our guesthouse, passing several more shops along the way. These stalls are settled in residential
areas, and see less of the tourist rat race.
Wisened old men and aging wrinkled women sit quietly on stools, displaying
the fruits of their labours. I glance
past the shop and into the abode beyond, catching a view of a man sprawled out
on his floor, watching tv amongst piles of shop stock. It seems that this is evidence of how the
Thai culture lives. They are less dependant
on the technologies of the western world, and have yet to become slaves to the
iPhone and internet. In spite of this,
they seem more content and at peace than many people I know.
Creeping up the stairs to our room, we once again turn on
the fan, and prepare to settle down for what will inevitably be a sticky
night. We hear a mewling from the hall,
and upon inspection we find ourselves staring down into the wide eyes of a cat
who has settled himself by our door. He
continues to meow at us, a tone of pleading in his cries, before padding down
to the hall to another closed door. He
appears at our window the next morning, his amber eyes peering through the
screen, begging us for some food.
Unfortunately we have no food with us, and we can do nothing but coo
sympathetically at him through the barrier.
Deciding it’s time to venture south, we make our way via
taxi to the Humphalong Train Station.
Riddled with pleasure at our private cabin, we stare out the window as
graffiti stricken walls and blackened apartment complexes retreat into the
distance. The buildings become less
frequent, and city scenes eventually give way to brilliant emerald foliage.
Goodbye Bangkok.
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