FOR MY SON’S high school graduation gift, we decided to go to South
East Asia, specifically Thailand, Hong Kong, a one-day excursion to Macau, Beijing, and Shanghai. He and I had started saving for this when he was twelve. His job was to save spending money; I would save points for flights, hotels and other travel needs. We planned a great trip. Beijing was unbelievable, with the chance to see the Great Wall, the Olympic grounds, and the royal palace. Shanghai has a long park-like area along the river where, when you walk it, you observe different small groups practicing various martial arts, dancing, exercising, flying large kites, and enjoying other outside activities. There are many stories to be told about the trip to Beijing, Shanghai and Hong Kong. This story is not those stories. Rather, this is about Bangkok. We went to Bangkok. Skip past airplane rides, hotel check-ins, first impressions, and let’s get to the important things, like having a beer. Bangkok is a city I have been to before with Jen and where I have a very good college friend Brenda, who lives there with her husband, Daniel. Bangkok is nightmarish to traverse. Crowded, that is to be expected, but with cars that are over the shoulder and up on the curb where the pedestrians are, crowded. The noise was a constant wall of sound, mixing gunning engines, screeching brakes, non-stop swearing even if the traffic was stopped at a light, and the less-than-philharmonic horn section of car and truck horns playing simultaneously. The assault on the senses was mixed in with the choking taste of burning brush fire, gas, and diesel, Ban gkok Moto rc yc les
with a strong aftertaste of the sparks that come from the “black snake” fireworks you burn on your driveway on the Fourth of July. Absolutely none of the locals were alarmed or even mildly interested. The shoppers getting groceries from tiny corner markets didn’t flinch as they moved from inside to outside. Children played with small boxes on the curb and most people smoked cigarettes through the apocalypse I was watching, looking at the traffic. I imagined maybe this is what Nero saw. Zach and I were the only ones who seemed concerned that we were watching a crime scene in the making and would have to provide details later. We were meeting Daniel at 5pm on a Friday afternoon on one of the corners of Pat Pong. If you do not know what Pat Pong is, it is famous. During the day, it is an enormous open-air flea market that sells almost everything that you could think of: American knock offs, food, clothing, novelties and crafts. It is possibly two blocks square over this open area. As you walk the tarp-covered sales stalls, you are reminded of a farmer’s market back home that had just survived a hurricane. You turn around and look at the buildings rimming this haggler’s delight. The market is not what makes it famous; it’s the buildings, bars, and clubs that surround the market that do. Rimming this area are strip clubs, sex shows, and more. Every hundred feet there was an alley that showed smaller signs of dingier clubs. The idea that I was on the “main avenue” and that was where the clean and shiny was kept for the new tourists, terrified me more about what the alleys held. During the days, almost all of this is closed up; just the market is open. After dark it becomes more of a market/freak show/sex carnival. At 5pm, we were safe from the little shop of horrors, but even when you are close to the dirt you have to watch out for the mud. Not that I’m judging, right? Take a moment. I’m not making fun or minimizing the atrocities of human trafficking. It’s just that this chapter isn’t about that. Guinness at 5pm on a Friday afternoon, it seems, is a global custom. I have had it throughout North America, Europe, a bit of North Africa, and now Asia. Possibly you would insinuate that my selection of pubs named “O’Malley’s” in those continents may have something to do with
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that. I can only report that I was on those continents when it happened. The remainder of the extrapolation is yours. Somehow, we find this Irish pub, “O’Malley’s,” on the corner of Pat Pong on a Friday afternoon, and have a pint of Guinness with our friend Daniel. After we pay the tab, we have to figure out our way to Daniel and Brenda’s penthouse (huge, things are cheaper in Thailand) about 3 miles away. Remember, we are in the middle of Bangkok, rush hour traffic. It takes a few moments to become accustomed to. They use the same width we use for 3 lanes of US traffic to fit five lanes of vehicles. Motorcycles, scooters, bikes and tuk-tuks are all used to navigate between these cars. Nothing moves that does not have multiple dents and a screaming driver, regardless of the condition of traffic or vehicles around him. Daniel speaks fluent Thai and hires three motorcycle taxis to take us. Each of us gets on a single cycle behind a driver. This is a travel first for me. I have not ridden on many motorcycles in life, never with someone who does not speak my language, and most definitely not someone who is wearing the helmet when I am not. Daniel’s last instructions are to “keep your elbows very tight to his body or you’ll hit one of the car mirrors.” Daniel moves to the first motorcycle, I am behind him, and Zach is third. Our friend had been gesticulating at the three, pointing, yelling, directing, nodding—all of these before we got on the bikes—so we felt nervous but safe. It’s a sunny day, eighty-five degrees, and of course it’s humid. When “climate change” finishes its final step or there is the next ice age, it won’t matter, Bangkok will be chicken-soup humid. I look left at five lanes of traffic pulling away from us. I look right at five lanes of traffic coming straight at us and feel my head pop straight back as we lurch forward. The motorcycle takes off straight into traffic—perpendicular. All three motorcycles are cutting across five lanes of moving traffic, perpendicular. Weaving, honking, threading, and weeping (I think that was me). We got to the end of the five lanes of the traffic that was coming on our right, although we were not really safe because the ingenious drivers look at the shoulder as a passing lane. In the US, we separate traffic in some busy places with large concrete barriers that can be moved. They have a small
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opening between the barriers. Each of our motorcycles had stopped and was duck-waddling us through the opening in the cement barriers. A motorcycle’s appearance on the other side of a cement barrier only meant that motorcycle and passenger were now fighting their way through five more lanes going the opposite direction on the highway. This was often occurring when a car was using the shoulder as a passing lane. I could see Daniel in the barrier opening further up from mine and Zach ahead of him. I cannot explain the relief to know that we were all still alive. The next crossing was much like the first, except we went against traffic between the lanes several times to get a better crossing angle. This must be very normal, because I could see many side mirrors of cars knocked off or dented. Our host gets across the last car lane and onto a neighborhood side street and stops. I get there alongside him. We turn just in time to see Zach flying down the freeway to who knows where, because he is going with the traffic 100 yards away and moving with speed and purpose in the wrong direction. There are 25M people in Bangkok. I realize at this very moment that Zach has no identification, money, or cell phone because he has crappy cargo pants and I have been holding all of his stuff for him (like he’s seven and we’re at the grocery store!) We gun the bikes and head to the penthouse that Brenda and Daniel live in. Brenda starts asking all of the right questions. The most relevant question being, “Where did you tell him we live?” Her husband said, a bit sheepishly, “Well, I didn’t, I was just negotiating price for the three motorcycles.” Brenda asks me, who is trying not to freak out, if Zach would have either gone back to where we rented the bikes or our hotel. Daniel knows where that is, gets a bike, goes there and sure enough there is Zach, yelling at one of the motorcycle guys. Daniel gets Zach, and they ride back to where we are. Zach is just fine. I am recovering from having lost my son in the middle of one of the world’s biggest cities without any money, ID, phone, or knowledge of the language or where he is going. He’s cool as a cucumber. He’s not faking. He really isn’t shaken up. Daniel tells me about picking up Zach and the argument. I ask Zach, “What were you arguing about?” Zach says, ”I wasn’t going to pay him because he didn’t get me where he was supposed to, so
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why should I pay him?” I mentioned that he didn’t have any money. Zach gave a smirky little smile and said, “Well, we hadn’t gotten that far yet.” TRADE #1 Light versus Safe I hate carrying stuff. I can pack for 10 days for all level of events in a roll-on suit case and backpack. Zach wearing ridiculous clothes so I had to carry his stuff? Me not having him buy a $1.99 backpack or something else to carry his stuff? Bad trade-offs. Money, ID, phone (Yeah, you get a SIM card or temp plan or whatever. It’s easy to do), and have doubles so that you can get yourself out of a jam. This stuff is light. We traded light and got lucky. TRADE #2 Adventure Control. The address you are going? Hotel you stay at? Somebody responsible to care and look for you if you don’t show up? As for us, we we’re a pair of Americans, don’t speak the language, don’t have phones, don’t have the address of where we are going (I know, don’t say it). We traded adventure for a little forethought.
Bangkok is a good city to have a tour guide or a local friend in. A bit more adventure control does not ruin one’s sense of adventure. MUAY THAI BOXING
If you have ever watched sumo wrestling on television—even just a single round as a part of a show—it is a little fascinating. It is not UFC fascinating, but UFC does not have the ceremony and tradition of sumo wrestling. In sumo there is a referee, dressed kind of like a geisha, who is old, thin, and very grumpy. It seems everyone, including the popcorn boy, bows to this guy. Personally, I would toss him some loose change and remind him that God loves him, but it’s Thailand, so you follow the natives. The fighters stomp around the ring, throw salt in the air to purify things, then pause at all four sides of the ring, more salt, and repeat. Once this has happened, the old man geisha steps to the middle like a referee preparing a jump ball in basketball, the two enormous and nearly naked men grab each other in ways that make me uncomfortable, and the match lasts about ninety Ban gkok Moto rc yc les
seconds. OK, you now have the American’s version of sumo wrestling as watched from a hotel room in Shanghai with commentary provided by someone in Japanese who sounded like he was not only a commentator but was angry because he was losing a bet at the same time. Fast-forward to Muay Thai boxing. Think of it as the dog track racing vs. horse track racing version of the sumo sport. Don’t get hung up on whether you have been to either. You haven’t been to sumo and you get the gist of it. Muay Thai you also have not been to, but the experience is a little dirtier. Let me explain. Before we get into the “stadium,” there are rituals for the attendees. The first of these is being dropped off at a building in the semi-darkness at a part of town where only one out of every two street lights is working. You are now in front of an all-cinderblock building with groups of Thai men meandering around in front of the building. The arena—I guessed it was the arena even though there was no signage, neon lights, or identification of any sort, but noise and light coming from doors like you might see at Kohl’s. The Thai men are yelling