Tues Oct 23rd
This is my last day in Thailand. Only one more day to breathe in that smoggy Bangkok air, and then back to Austin, to my own hearth and home. I have a flight on Korean Air (da cheapest!) at 1:20 am to Seoul, S. Korea. Only 7 months 'till World Cup 2002 Korea. That leaves plenty of time to shop for gifts and take advantage of the wild-on shopping here.
At the end of my trip, I am wandering around the (Zen) World Trade Center in Bangkok. But this one's a mere blot on the local landscape, just another mall.
Mon Oct 22nd
Last full day without plans to make. I take this opportunity to visit the legendary Bridge on the River Kwai. The trip involves a 2 hour minibus ride with 4 Dutch and a German Canadian woman travelling solo. Her name is Gertrude.
The trip involves mostly riding in the bus and watching our tour leader "Tom" get increasingly twitchy as his eyes get ever more bloodshot. But the Bridge itself spices up the trip, and the limited presentation in the museum adequately sums up the loss of human life during WWII.
One side note which Gertrude is acutely aware of: The shrine & museum pay tribute to the approx. 16,000 British, Dutch, and American lives lost, but scarcely mention the outrageous losses (100,000+) sustained by Asian slave laborers in the construction of the bridge and railway. While the POWs are exonerated, the others just *vanished*.
Sun Oct 21st
Accompany Julia to the airport at 5 am. She has a plane to catch back to the US at 7:20 am. When we arrive, the United Air personel begin scrambling to get the enormous travel bag we are dragging checked in. Then they calmly recommend that she run as fast as possible to the terminal. The lesson is clear: always arrive early for international flights - or else you will have to jog to the terminal. Oy vey!
After seeing Julia safely to immigration, I leave the airport and return to the Jatujak Weekend Market. It is a glorious achievement of mankind and probably houses more knock-off fake brands than anywhere else in Asia. In other words, more than anywhere in the world. Unfortunately, I had to wake up at 5 am this morning and am losing all my strength. Suddenly none of the clothes matter anymore, and all I want to do is take a nap. A quick glance at my Lonely Planet guidebook explains that the Weekend Market is only a name, and that it is actually open every day. That settles it, I am going back to bed for a while.
Sat Oct 20th
Since this is Julia's last day in Thailand (and practically my last day too), we stop in the Siam Center area only long enough to drop off our luggage. From there, we ride the Skytrain immediately to the Mo Chit station, where the Jatujak Weekend Market is taking place. This turns out to be the true ultimate shopping destination. Forget about the plastic junk at the MBK Center, this is a real flea market, with all the surprises and bargains you'd expect at such a place.
I find almost ten stalls that sell only used T-shirts. A few minutes browsing the racks and I realize something strange - these are all American t-shirts. It is an odd sensation being in a sweaty crowded stall in a Bangkok market and seeing t-shirts that proclaim "Houston Turkey Trot 1998. Sponsored by H-E-B." This is too domestic where a foreign experience should be. The more t-shirts I see, the greater the let-down. They are all from the US, and most seem to be from Texas. Halfway across the world, and these are the same shirts as your local neighborhood Goodwill. At least other items are more promising.
In addition to the bags of American t-shirts, there are bags of other American clothes that are harder to find. One stall specializes in vintage short-sleeve shirts, and sells them for about $2.20 each. This euphoric price is the same as the dregs of any thrift store in the US, but they are prime specimens, worthy of a specialty vintage pedigree. Even if I don't buy any, it is a bolstering discovery.
But where are all these good coming from? Brand names like Wrangler, Stetson, Sears, and JC Penney lay plain their genesis. They were once on a rack in an American department store, being sold for American dollars. But now, here they are halfway around the world in Bangkok. Vintage shirts by the giant bagful, such that bags are shoved under the racks to hibernate until there is more space to hang them up. How are these used clothes getting into sorted bags and to the Jatujak Weekend Market merchants? And who would bother to send them to Bangkok where they will fetch only $2.20 each, when the same shirts would easily fetch $8 or more at a vintage store in the US? I have a theory.
Initially, I thought there must be someone in the US, maybe a family member, who spends their time combing thrift stores for good shirts to send to their family in Bangkok. They send a bag of clothes to Bangkok, and the family makes money by selling the clothes at the flea market. This scenario is unfortunately impossible. The clothes would cost as much or more in American thrift stores than anyone in Thailand would be willing to pay, not even considering the cost of shipping.
So they are not coming from retail stores at all. No, there's another angle, and this is my theory, which I believe is true. Some organization is sending them as humanitarian aid. This is the only way clothes could make it to Thailand from the US and still be profitable. They are donated clothes collected by some non-profit organization and sent to Thailand as cheap clothing. Imagine, clothing by the cargo crate, tons of it, all unsifted and full of valuable vintage items. I would like to be there when it pops out of the cargo ship, fresh from the US, full of rare one-of-a-kind suits and shirts. That would be the ultimate treasure hunt.
The real treasure hunt is to take place in the evening. The Weekend Market is exhausting, and neither Julia nor I can imagine anything but sleep. We throw down the afternoon's purchases and nap for a while, but not too long. With so little time left, sleep is simply not an option. There are so many people at home counting on us to do what every traveller must do in Bangkok: we are obligated to go to Patpong and catch a sex show.
The guidebook is of little help in finding Bangkok's notorious red light district, Patpong. The book is second hand, over 10 years old. But by studying local maps, we soon find the district to the south of our hotel at the Siam Center. It is near some famous hotel called the Oriental Hotel. It seems we can reach the area by skytrain.
On the platform, we realize we don't know which station goes to Patpong. We approach a Thai security guard standing nearby. Instead of asking about the sex district, Julia takes a modest detour and asks "What station should we take to the Oriental Hotel?" Repeating, "Oriental hotel?" "Rama I?" He is confused. Probably doesn't get asked this very often. Finally, I just cut right to the sordid truth by asking "Patpong? Which station for Patpong?" Now he knows what we're on about and says "Ah, Patpong. Get off at ______ Station." Now he knows we're perverts, but at least we have directions.
Immediately upon arriving, the touts are swarming us, holding up cards with club acts on them. The cards say things like:
woman woman lesbian
pussy ping pong ball
pussy razor blade
pussy blowout candle
pussy blowup balloon
pussy write letter
to which we unenthusiastically reply, "fine, which way to the go-go bar?" Sign us up. We have to follow a young nervous Thai a few streets away to the seedier (is that possible?) area where a neon sign overhead brightly proclaims "Super Pussys."
At this fine establishment, we drink expensive long neck beers and wish to be elsewhere. The uninispired show the 8 or so women on stage are providing is a sad spectacle indeed. Revulsion I had expected, but this mechanical farce of a performance is just poor showmanship. They are besmirching what could otherwise become a respected art form, much like the Cirque de Soleil or the Jim Rose Sideshow. But the way these droopy-eyed nude bodies are tugging out ropes of razor blades, you would think this was an opium den rather than a nightclub.
The ping-pong woman isn't launching the balls, but merely letting them roll straight down into a water glass. The blowgun diva misses 2 out of 3 shots and lands the darts in customers' drinks or in their hair. Invariably, once they finish their lackluster act, the women shake down the audience, demanding a tip for their efforts. The ping-pong woman, who has already misfired on stage, is shaking a glass full of watery ping pong balls in my face until I give her 20 baht to sleepwalk on to the next punter.
After what seems an eternity, the meagre acts loop, and the birthday cake candles are being lit again. Indignant at the high drink prices and the total lack of entertainment value, Julia and I leave. To the management, I suggest that if you have even a shred of honesty (ha), you immediately change the name of your bar to Slumber Pussys. We have paid our tribute to Patpong. We have seen. To anyone else planning to visit Bangkok, yes, you have to do it too.
Fri Oct 19th
Thurs Oct 18th
Wed Oct 17th
At 8 in the morning Julia and I depart for Ko Phangan, an island 2 hours north of Samui in the Gulf of Thailand. This island is famous for something called the full moon party. As the name suggests, it is a party that takes place every full moon, approximately every 28 days. If you haven't heard of the full moon party on Ko Phangan, you are probably not European.
From the little hints I have uncovered, the parties seem to be geared toward rave goers of the beach combing variety. This means that if the names like Paul Oakenfold, Sven Vaeth, Ibiza, and Goa Trance mean PARTY TIME, then this is the place for you on planet Earth. It is the nexus of trance dancing, and the place to get your flourescent glowstick painted body shaking to the techno beat. It is cousin to more developed rave sites like Goa and Ibiza, in India and Spain.
On the ferry to Phangan, I am met by a woman who is going around showing pictures of her guesthouse on the beach. Since I have made no arrangements for the night, I agree to take a look at the bungalows. Also along for the ride, two Danish travellers named Stonheim and Jesper opt to ride out and see her place.
Upon arriving, we all decide to stay there. The island is undeveloped in most places, and most of the roads are made of sand. This is an improvement over the sprawling development of Ko Samui. Looking out at the beach and blue water reminds me what a good idea it was coming here.
They may be undeveloped, but there are roads to most places on Ko Phangan. We rent a scooter, and Julia and I decide to see the sights on the island. There is a tall hill in the center of the island with a waterfall that is supposed to be very beautiful. We set off.
Unfortunately, the road becomes extremely uneven. It is the rainy season and there are deep creases in the road from water runoff. This is made worse by the 4WD vehicles that have been driving over the path. It soon becomes obvious that we are driving on wet, unimproved, devastated road surfaces. Often there is only a 4 inch wide safe road with 2 foot craters on either side. More suited for a knobby-tire dirt bike than my too-civilized Suzuki scooter. Still, we have no idea of how far the road goes, and continue on the path regardless of the imminent wipeouts.
Due to incredible skill on the driver's part (that's me), there are no wipeouts today. Instead, we emerge from the jungle and the scarred dirt roads to find an incredible hidden resort at the opposite end of Phangan. This place is so remote and beautiful, no one can resist its rugged charms. We vow to return some day to stay forever more. It is inside a wildlife preserve. No roads, no electricity, and no discos. It is mercifully unimproved, and bungalows are perched along the proud cliffs to either side of the beach. I can only imagine how perfect a vacation spot this is. With a group of friends, dug in high up on the cliff, sitting on the porch of your bungalow with a candle to play cards by. And of course plenty of Thai beer to drink. No wonder the French woman who runs the restaurant (a hut) below has been in residence here for 7 years already. It draws you in like a riptide, but drowns you only in palm trees and warm salty air.
This is my last day in Thailand. Only one more day to breathe in that smoggy Bangkok air, and then back to Austin, to my own hearth and home. I have a flight on Korean Air (da cheapest!) at 1:20 am to Seoul, S. Korea. Only 7 months 'till World Cup 2002 Korea. That leaves plenty of time to shop for gifts and take advantage of the wild-on shopping here.
At the end of my trip, I am wandering around the (Zen) World Trade Center in Bangkok. But this one's a mere blot on the local landscape, just another mall.
Mon Oct 22nd
Last full day without plans to make. I take this opportunity to visit the legendary Bridge on the River Kwai. The trip involves a 2 hour minibus ride with 4 Dutch and a German Canadian woman travelling solo. Her name is Gertrude.
The trip involves mostly riding in the bus and watching our tour leader "Tom" get increasingly twitchy as his eyes get ever more bloodshot. But the Bridge itself spices up the trip, and the limited presentation in the museum adequately sums up the loss of human life during WWII.
One side note which Gertrude is acutely aware of: The shrine & museum pay tribute to the approx. 16,000 British, Dutch, and American lives lost, but scarcely mention the outrageous losses (100,000+) sustained by Asian slave laborers in the construction of the bridge and railway. While the POWs are exonerated, the others just *vanished*.
Sun Oct 21st
Accompany Julia to the airport at 5 am. She has a plane to catch back to the US at 7:20 am. When we arrive, the United Air personel begin scrambling to get the enormous travel bag we are dragging checked in. Then they calmly recommend that she run as fast as possible to the terminal. The lesson is clear: always arrive early for international flights - or else you will have to jog to the terminal. Oy vey!
After seeing Julia safely to immigration, I leave the airport and return to the Jatujak Weekend Market. It is a glorious achievement of mankind and probably houses more knock-off fake brands than anywhere else in Asia. In other words, more than anywhere in the world. Unfortunately, I had to wake up at 5 am this morning and am losing all my strength. Suddenly none of the clothes matter anymore, and all I want to do is take a nap. A quick glance at my Lonely Planet guidebook explains that the Weekend Market is only a name, and that it is actually open every day. That settles it, I am going back to bed for a while.
Sat Oct 20th
Since this is Julia's last day in Thailand (and practically my last day too), we stop in the Siam Center area only long enough to drop off our luggage. From there, we ride the Skytrain immediately to the Mo Chit station, where the Jatujak Weekend Market is taking place. This turns out to be the true ultimate shopping destination. Forget about the plastic junk at the MBK Center, this is a real flea market, with all the surprises and bargains you'd expect at such a place.
I find almost ten stalls that sell only used T-shirts. A few minutes browsing the racks and I realize something strange - these are all American t-shirts. It is an odd sensation being in a sweaty crowded stall in a Bangkok market and seeing t-shirts that proclaim "Houston Turkey Trot 1998. Sponsored by H-E-B." This is too domestic where a foreign experience should be. The more t-shirts I see, the greater the let-down. They are all from the US, and most seem to be from Texas. Halfway across the world, and these are the same shirts as your local neighborhood Goodwill. At least other items are more promising.
In addition to the bags of American t-shirts, there are bags of other American clothes that are harder to find. One stall specializes in vintage short-sleeve shirts, and sells them for about $2.20 each. This euphoric price is the same as the dregs of any thrift store in the US, but they are prime specimens, worthy of a specialty vintage pedigree. Even if I don't buy any, it is a bolstering discovery.
But where are all these good coming from? Brand names like Wrangler, Stetson, Sears, and JC Penney lay plain their genesis. They were once on a rack in an American department store, being sold for American dollars. But now, here they are halfway around the world in Bangkok. Vintage shirts by the giant bagful, such that bags are shoved under the racks to hibernate until there is more space to hang them up. How are these used clothes getting into sorted bags and to the Jatujak Weekend Market merchants? And who would bother to send them to Bangkok where they will fetch only $2.20 each, when the same shirts would easily fetch $8 or more at a vintage store in the US? I have a theory.
Initially, I thought there must be someone in the US, maybe a family member, who spends their time combing thrift stores for good shirts to send to their family in Bangkok. They send a bag of clothes to Bangkok, and the family makes money by selling the clothes at the flea market. This scenario is unfortunately impossible. The clothes would cost as much or more in American thrift stores than anyone in Thailand would be willing to pay, not even considering the cost of shipping.
So they are not coming from retail stores at all. No, there's another angle, and this is my theory, which I believe is true. Some organization is sending them as humanitarian aid. This is the only way clothes could make it to Thailand from the US and still be profitable. They are donated clothes collected by some non-profit organization and sent to Thailand as cheap clothing. Imagine, clothing by the cargo crate, tons of it, all unsifted and full of valuable vintage items. I would like to be there when it pops out of the cargo ship, fresh from the US, full of rare one-of-a-kind suits and shirts. That would be the ultimate treasure hunt.
The real treasure hunt is to take place in the evening. The Weekend Market is exhausting, and neither Julia nor I can imagine anything but sleep. We throw down the afternoon's purchases and nap for a while, but not too long. With so little time left, sleep is simply not an option. There are so many people at home counting on us to do what every traveller must do in Bangkok: we are obligated to go to Patpong and catch a sex show.
The guidebook is of little help in finding Bangkok's notorious red light district, Patpong. The book is second hand, over 10 years old. But by studying local maps, we soon find the district to the south of our hotel at the Siam Center. It is near some famous hotel called the Oriental Hotel. It seems we can reach the area by skytrain.
On the platform, we realize we don't know which station goes to Patpong. We approach a Thai security guard standing nearby. Instead of asking about the sex district, Julia takes a modest detour and asks "What station should we take to the Oriental Hotel?" Repeating, "Oriental hotel?" "Rama I?" He is confused. Probably doesn't get asked this very often. Finally, I just cut right to the sordid truth by asking "Patpong? Which station for Patpong?" Now he knows what we're on about and says "Ah, Patpong. Get off at ______ Station." Now he knows we're perverts, but at least we have directions.
Immediately upon arriving, the touts are swarming us, holding up cards with club acts on them. The cards say things like:
woman woman lesbian
pussy ping pong ball
pussy razor blade
pussy blowout candle
pussy blowup balloon
pussy write letter
to which we unenthusiastically reply, "fine, which way to the go-go bar?" Sign us up. We have to follow a young nervous Thai a few streets away to the seedier (is that possible?) area where a neon sign overhead brightly proclaims "Super Pussys."
At this fine establishment, we drink expensive long neck beers and wish to be elsewhere. The uninispired show the 8 or so women on stage are providing is a sad spectacle indeed. Revulsion I had expected, but this mechanical farce of a performance is just poor showmanship. They are besmirching what could otherwise become a respected art form, much like the Cirque de Soleil or the Jim Rose Sideshow. But the way these droopy-eyed nude bodies are tugging out ropes of razor blades, you would think this was an opium den rather than a nightclub.
The ping-pong woman isn't launching the balls, but merely letting them roll straight down into a water glass. The blowgun diva misses 2 out of 3 shots and lands the darts in customers' drinks or in their hair. Invariably, once they finish their lackluster act, the women shake down the audience, demanding a tip for their efforts. The ping-pong woman, who has already misfired on stage, is shaking a glass full of watery ping pong balls in my face until I give her 20 baht to sleepwalk on to the next punter.
After what seems an eternity, the meagre acts loop, and the birthday cake candles are being lit again. Indignant at the high drink prices and the total lack of entertainment value, Julia and I leave. To the management, I suggest that if you have even a shred of honesty (ha), you immediately change the name of your bar to Slumber Pussys. We have paid our tribute to Patpong. We have seen. To anyone else planning to visit Bangkok, yes, you have to do it too.
Fri Oct 19th
Thurs Oct 18th
Wed Oct 17th
At 8 in the morning Julia and I depart for Ko Phangan, an island 2 hours north of Samui in the Gulf of Thailand. This island is famous for something called the full moon party. As the name suggests, it is a party that takes place every full moon, approximately every 28 days. If you haven't heard of the full moon party on Ko Phangan, you are probably not European.
From the little hints I have uncovered, the parties seem to be geared toward rave goers of the beach combing variety. This means that if the names like Paul Oakenfold, Sven Vaeth, Ibiza, and Goa Trance mean PARTY TIME, then this is the place for you on planet Earth. It is the nexus of trance dancing, and the place to get your flourescent glowstick painted body shaking to the techno beat. It is cousin to more developed rave sites like Goa and Ibiza, in India and Spain.
On the ferry to Phangan, I am met by a woman who is going around showing pictures of her guesthouse on the beach. Since I have made no arrangements for the night, I agree to take a look at the bungalows. Also along for the ride, two Danish travellers named Stonheim and Jesper opt to ride out and see her place.
Upon arriving, we all decide to stay there. The island is undeveloped in most places, and most of the roads are made of sand. This is an improvement over the sprawling development of Ko Samui. Looking out at the beach and blue water reminds me what a good idea it was coming here.
They may be undeveloped, but there are roads to most places on Ko Phangan. We rent a scooter, and Julia and I decide to see the sights on the island. There is a tall hill in the center of the island with a waterfall that is supposed to be very beautiful. We set off.
Unfortunately, the road becomes extremely uneven. It is the rainy season and there are deep creases in the road from water runoff. This is made worse by the 4WD vehicles that have been driving over the path. It soon becomes obvious that we are driving on wet, unimproved, devastated road surfaces. Often there is only a 4 inch wide safe road with 2 foot craters on either side. More suited for a knobby-tire dirt bike than my too-civilized Suzuki scooter. Still, we have no idea of how far the road goes, and continue on the path regardless of the imminent wipeouts.
Due to incredible skill on the driver's part (that's me), there are no wipeouts today. Instead, we emerge from the jungle and the scarred dirt roads to find an incredible hidden resort at the opposite end of Phangan. This place is so remote and beautiful, no one can resist its rugged charms. We vow to return some day to stay forever more. It is inside a wildlife preserve. No roads, no electricity, and no discos. It is mercifully unimproved, and bungalows are perched along the proud cliffs to either side of the beach. I can only imagine how perfect a vacation spot this is. With a group of friends, dug in high up on the cliff, sitting on the porch of your bungalow with a candle to play cards by. And of course plenty of Thai beer to drink. No wonder the French woman who runs the restaurant (a hut) below has been in residence here for 7 years already. It draws you in like a riptide, but drowns you only in palm trees and warm salty air.
posted by jasonthewolf at
3:18 AM
