The Bangkok blues
Handzel summer excursion 2024 part I: Missing the madness
Sweat is pouring down my back, cascading down from the tip of my head and dripping off my ears. My armpits feel like an overworked sprinkler system. My baseball cap is drenched through and my polo shirt has turned into a distinctly darker shade of red. I could go on and explain what is happening below the belt, but ladies read this utter tripe.
My eyes frantically blink as my body attempts to fight off a combination of cheap useless sun cream, potassium, urea, ammonia and unreal amounts of sodium chloride from permanently blinding me. I feel as if it is a losing battle. At least I will still be able to listen to Zadok the Priest — if I make it out of the heat alive, that is.
Wit (for that is his name), our tour guide, is even struggling — despite his familiarity with the blazing hot sun and humidity levels that could grow 7-foot cannabis plants in the space of a solitary morning. Why he is called Wit (for that is his name), no one knows. Perhaps it is an ironic nickname given to him by his friends, considering the fact that he has the charisma and inventive humour of an overcooked chicken foot. On the subject of slimy chicken feet, I do not recommend them.
He wipes sweat off his own shiny brown bald head. It gleams. The solitary long white hair that curls out of the side of his neck prompts much speculation amongst certain members of our group (well, the Wife mainly). Is it a sign of homage to a false deity? Is he a member of a secret Thai society?
Wit (for that is his name) marches us into temple after temple. Other tourists (mainly southern Europeans) recoil in horror at the amount of sweat that is dripping off every inch of my body. Those of a paler complexion take no notice. They are just trying to survive. At every temple we have to take our footwear off. The children complain that their feet are very sweaty and that they are finding it hard to keep taking their sliders off and putting them back on. ‘Try magnetic sandals,’ I tell them, the irony being lost on Wit (for that is his name). (What irony? — Ed).
In one of the temples, Wit explains that Buddhist monks are not allowed to take off some inner robe they wear, even if they are having a shower or bath. The children are briefly amused. I feign mild interest as I blink sweat off my eyelids. Some of it lands on Wit’s neck, near his wispy white solitary hair. We both pretend nothing has happened.
Wit (for that is his name) asks me and the English Gentleman if we would like to light some incense to offer up to some false god. We politely decline his offer.
Our Surrogate Holiday Mother takes pictures of us outside in the blazing heat. The children moan incessantly. Everyone has sweat pouring down their faces apart from the English Gentleman, who is able to keep cool as he is wearing a vest. Vests, he reminds us, keep you cool in the summer and warm in the winter.
We queue up in a cafe. The English Gentleman orders some tea. The children buy smoothies and then refuse to drink them when a rumour circulates that they contain tomatoes. The rest of us to quench our thirst and replenish our depleted salt levels and then gratefully make our way back to the beautifully air conditioned mini bus for some reprieve.
Wit (for that is his name) explains the importance of the Thai Royal family to us as we drive to another temple. He is effusive in his praise of the Royal Family. (Later that night, the wife shows me a newspaper article that says criticism of the Thai Royals can land you in prison for a good chunk of your life.) We ask him some questions. He ignores them and proceeds to talk about something completely different, laughing as if he is a deranged maniac.
Wit (for that is his name) throws us onto a boat and we take a tour of the city by water. Poor Thai children swim and mess around in the brown water that appears to be infested by crocodiles. Apparently the “crocodiles” are nothing of the sort and are in fact called water monitor lizards and do not attack humans. I am not convinced in the slightest and remain on high alert.
We stop at the side of the river and buy some strange bread buns from a Buddhist monk and his toothless sidekick. Wit (for that is his name) tells us to break up the bread and throw it into the river. Large groups of strange fish come to the surface, devouring the chunks of bread. I pray that we make it out of the boat alive and get back to our hotel in time for Happy Hour.
As we ride off down the river away from the no longer starving fish, a giant golden statue of Buddha sticks out above the skyline and smirks at us.
I continue to blink frantically as my sunglasses slip down my nose for the umpteenth time.
The Wife appears to be overheating.
Some 48 hours earlier…
The taxi driver tries to converse with me as we get within a mile of the hotel.
‘Where you come from?’
‘England.’
‘London?’
‘Yorkshire. Do you know it?’
‘New York in England?’
‘Not quite.’
‘You need taxi tomorrow?’
‘No thank you. We have a tour bus booked.’
‘I pick you up early. Make good price.’
‘I think we’ll be OK.’
‘Big traffic in Bangkok. If not me, my brother come. He have big engine.’
‘I think we have transport arranged. But thank you. Is the traffic always this bad?’
‘No. Is much worse usually.’
The conversation dies a quick death. The driver turns up the radio. I look out of the passenger window, even though it gives my neck a lot of gyp. Swarms of scooters weave in and out of the tight spaces left by cars and trucks. None of the riders or passengers wear helmets, to the Wife’s horror. Tuk tuks push in front of us, and speed off, half on the pavement, half on the road. They carry Westerners in the back, their lives flashing in front of them. Motorbikes rev their engines behind us, before performing wheelie tricks at extremely high speeds.
The children are delirious from the jet lag, mumbling questions about why everyone on a scooter has a death wish, or something along those lines.
I give all the Baht I can find in my bag to the taxi driver as a tip, hoping he does not return in the morning.
The English Gentleman’s Grab app is telling him that our taxi is only 500 metres away, but it will take the driver about 30 minutes to get to us.
We are sheltered from the tropical storm by a tunnel in between a shopping centre. A few feet from us, traffic police bawl into megaphones at drivers who have violated some mysterious Thai highway code. Three mega-coaches reverse back into a dense line of traffic. Somehow, they find space to back into the road, after the traffic police continue to bawl into their megaphones and wave their arms around as if they are reincarnated twenty-armed false gods (can you even have such a thing? — Ed).
A smell of some sort of roasted meat wafts towards us from around the corner, where market stalls sell all sorts of street “food”. Hordes of people swarm past us as they move from one section of the shopping centre to another. Some stop to wait for their own transportation in the tunnel, their faces lit up by their smartphones. People jump onto the back of scooters and head off into the night. Taxis and mini buses jostle for position. Tuk tuks narrowly avoid killing people every couple of minutes.
At the Thai boxing stadium, we order beers and The English Gentleman opts for a hot dog, which turns out to be an unfortunate decision. The boys order extremely large soft drinks, which also turns out to be an unfortunate decision. I do not order any food as I am still recovering from an earlier traditional Thai lunch, which resulted in me sitting on the hotel toilet for a considerable amount of time, violently spraying myself with the obligatory Thai bathroom water hose.
A Western Thai boxer prances around the ring like a sissy for about ten minutes, showing off some elaborate dance routine. The crowd appreciates it. His opponent does not. He knocks out the dancer within 20 seconds of the bout beginning.
We cheer wildly and order another beer.
The boys start shadow boxing as we wait for over an hour for our taxi back to the hotel, despite The English Gentleman’s Grab app telling us that has only ever been a mile away from us at any moment in that 60-minute period.
Back at the hotel, our Surrogate Holiday Mother tells us that we need to be up at some horrendously early hour to eat breakfast as we are off on a mammoth tour first thing in the morning.
I sit on the toilet and violently spray myself with the obligatory Thai bathroom water hose.
“You must watch out on the island,” says our guide ‘Katie’. “The lazy sexy boys will steal your husband on the beach. They will think you are also the lazy sexy boy.”
‘Katie’ could be talking about me. She could be talking about The English Gentleman. Thankfully, the children do not hear a word.
After a long drive, we end up in a small boat on a famous river market, whose name escapes me.
Boats bump against us from every side. Our driver keeps trying to squeeze us into small pockets of space to get us closer to the market stalls that line every inch of both sides of the waterway. Diesel engines splutter, grunt and roar along the entire course. The drivers and market stall sellers are all dressed head to toe in protective clothing, as if they are ninjas, ready to pounce and take all our Baht in exchange for some tat. I blink sweat out of my eyes and peel the back of my T-shirt off my drenched back. I have cramp in my feet and legs and may also have whiplash.
‘Katie’ stops at every food stall she can to buy us some traditional Thai snacks. She does not ask us if we want them. We have to ask passengers on other boats to pass the snacks to the boat transporting our Surrogate Holiday Mother, the English Gentleman, and the Goddaughter. After the sixth snack, I yearn for the obligatory Thai bathroom water hose. The Wife keeps eating. The children ask us where the nearest McDonalds is.
When we finally get off our boat an old Thai lady helps me onto dry land, before immediately measuring me up for some T-shirts. I buy a Chang vest. She rubs some wooden implement up and down my arm and back, before doing the same to the Wife. It is supposed to be some sort of massage therapy tool or something. All it does it make me feel even more clammy.
We have some reprieve on our air-conditioned minibus and visit some old temple ruins that used to be in the old capital of Thailand. ‘Katie’ attempts to take some “funny” pictures of us. In one shot, she has us pressing against each other’s sweaty backs as we pretend to be propping up an old column from a destroyed temple. I feel extremely clammy.
Tourists point at us and laugh. The children complain. I take my baseball cap off and wring some of the sweat out of it.
On the way back, while all the adults are asleep one of the children decides to urinate into a coke bottle, with the help of a sibling.
Somehow, urine is not spilt all over the minibus.
12 hours earlier…
The train crawls through the ridiculously narrow market. We step back as far as we can into the stalls. A lady tries to sell me a handheld electric fan. I’m not sure that’s going to quite cut it love, I think to myself.
‘Why is there a train going through this market?’ asks one of the children.
‘I have no idea.’
Chicken feet are on full display in the morning heat. Strange fried food items hit the nostrils before the pupils can locate them. Untold amounts of tat further assault the eyes as we make our way down the train tracks.
I buy some strange fruit, not knowing whether it will fatally poison me or not. The market stall keeper lady bows to say thank you, her palms pressed together. I try to respond in kind and fail miserably, inserting the feminine affix on the end of ‘thank you’ — ‘Khop Khun Kai’ instead of ‘Khop Khun Krab.’ The market stall seller wonders if I am a sexy lazy boy. ‘Katie’ smiles at me as we leave. I try to get closer to the Wife, but she is overheating and will not let me touch her.
‘Katie’ orders us some coconut juice and iced coffee. We gulp the drinks down as if we have been walking through a desert for days on end. She takes various pictures of us posing inside a train carriage in the station. Other tourists have a good laugh at us, probably amused by how red-faced and clammy we all are.
The children complain.
‘When can we go back to the hotel swimming pool?’
‘I don’t know.’
The children are in awe of the English Gentleman, our Surrogate Holiday Mother and the Goddaughter.
We eat breakfast as they tell us about their night trip into the more “interesting” parts of Bangkok. They show us their fake tattoos.
‘Are they real?’ ask the children.
‘No.’
‘Dad, can I get a tattoo of a snake on my leg?’
‘No.’
‘Not fair.’
The English Gentleman tells us about the deep fried scorpion he ate. The Goddaughter describes how people would come up to her and offer her drugs.
‘Can I have some drugs?’ says one of the children.
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Not fair.’
As we head to the airport to fly to Koh Samui, I have a non-LED lightbulb moment and begin formulating a story idea that will allow Albert Poniatowski to visit Bangkok in his next adventure.
Progress report:
I have recently once again had the privilege to be a guest on Mike Consol’s ace podcast: Novelist Spotlight.
If you want to hear me blather on about my fiction then check out one of the following links:
https://www.youtube.com/user/MrConsilvio/featured
Apple Podcasts
Spotify
The Anchorite, my latest novella, is edging closer and closer to publication.
Take it easy.
And thanks for reading.
P.S. Part II of this holiday recap is winging its way to you right now.
Loving this so far Marek. So funny yet so true. Brilliant!