One Night in Bangkok

The air has a tangible quality. Heavy with moisture and thick with the pungent smells of Asia; a combination of spices, rotting vegetation and stagnant water. I stare at the rain washing down in sheets and try not to think about the sunshine I left the day before. The voice in my head suggests simply spending the rest of the night here at the airport, where it’s clean and safe and familiar. If I did that, I could set out for the city in daylight. Things would look better in daylight.

Instead I hoist my backpack, its crisp, clean freshness marking me as a beginner, onto my shoulders and step out into the rain, the oily syrup coating my new white Reeboks as I wade across the concourse to the highway where the buses run. I know the bus I want, Bangkok buses are numbered and run frequently. But I’m still not sure how I’ll know when I’ve arrived at my destination. No time to worry though because in moments the bus arrives and I clamber aboard.

The conductor is a young boy; I would guess around 12 or 13. I attempt to pay the fare but he waves my money away contemptuously. Worse, he indicates that I must disembark at the next stop; some 200 yards from the airport gates. A few minutes later another bus rolls up and I try again. This one takes me out of sight of the airport but once more I’m deposited unceremoniously on the curb. The conductors speak no English and of course, I speak no Thai so it is not for another 2 days, and many more failed bus rides that I realize I’ve been attempting to purchase a 3 cent ticket with the rough equivalent of a $50 bill.

Wet, cold and thoroughly dispirited, I make my way back to the lights of the airport. I see signs for limousine service to the city center, but backpackers don’t travel by limo; and for me, it was public transport or nothing. This perverse determination prevented me from learning that in this instance “limousine” simply referred to government authorized taxis, with fixed pricing and honest drivers. Far safer and much cheaper than the rent-a-cab I flagged down to take me into town.

"I need a cheap hotel." I tell the driver, "Somewhere near the Grand Palace."
"No problem meestah" he replies, with a smile and a flick of the meter. And we pull away from the curb and into the Bangkok night. Bangkok’s traffic is gridlock on a scale we can barely imagine. Lines of vehicles spread from one side of the road to the other, eight or nine deep, with no respect for lane markings, traffic lights or the smog-masked traffic police waving futilely in the center of each intersection. It’s every man for himself and in the black rain, the steel river ebbs and flows with glacial slowness.

Several times my driver pulls off the road and bumps his way along dirt alleys and along swollen canals. Away from the streetlights my sleep-deprived paranoia takes on epic proportions. Where are we going? Is he planning to pull a gun on me? Take me away from the safety of the main thoroughfares, to where accomplices lie in wait? A professional gang preying on naïve foreigners, fresh off the plane in a state of wide-eyed innocence? Or, as invariably turns out to be the case, is he simply attempting to beat the traffic by taking a short cut.

After about an hour where we barely cover 5 miles, he turns to me with his big smile once more in place and asks

"So meestah, you ready to see Bangkok?"

I stare gloomily into the darkness outside my window and wonder if there’s anything I’d like less right now. Because of course, he doesn’t want to show me Bangkok the city; but its seamy underbelly. I’m so tired I can barely hold up my head but he assumes I’m simply one more European guy in Bangkok for the sex trade. I place my palms together by the side of my head and tell him no, I’m too tired. So instead, he does as I ask and takes me to a hotel. But not the cheap lodgings I wanted.

Most backpackers traveling through Asia in the early 90’s would eventually gravitate to Bangkok’s Khao San Road, where inexpensive hostels, travel agencies and cafés make it a crossroads for travelers, as Katmandu was a generation before. A year later when I pass this way again on my way to China, I steer newcomers round the area like the veteran gypsy I am. Except this night, only 20 hours into my round-the-world venture, I’ve never heard of Khao San Road; don’t even know of its existence and am at the mercy of a cab driver who can take me anywhere he pleases.

I was budgeting $6 a day and anticipated paying no more than $2 for my lodgings. His choice, at $90 a night was too rich for my blood. As was the next at $40. By the time we find a place for $20 I’m too tired to argue further – it will do for tonight. Checking me in, the reception clerk wags a finger in my face and warns

"Welcome to Bangkok Sir, but tonight, you sleep alone!"

Yes I smile, tonight I sleep alone. Except sleep doesn’t come. Jet-lagged, exhausted and more than a little overwhelmed, I lie in bed and listen to the roar of the air-conditioning as it fights ineffectively against the oppressive humidity. I need to keep it turned on however, to drown the noise of the bullfrogs in the swamp outside. By 1am, I’m sitting upright and reading my book. By 2am, I’m dressed and heading back out into the streets.

I don’t even know where in Bangkok I am although it’s apparently one of the city’s nightlife hubs. Every other building is a bar, or a massage parlor or a hotel with rooms by the hour or the night, horizontal mirrors extra. The sidewalks glow red with the reflections of the neon lights. Even at this hour, the streets are filled with foreign visitors. Sailors, tourists and businessmen, each dressed in the uniforms of their respective callings. Breathtakingly pretty girls clutch my arm and ask if I would like to be their friends. I smile politely and keep walking.

Am I ready to see Bangkok? No, I’m really not. Right now I just want a beer, and a cigarette, and a sit down.

But tomorrow, ah, who knows what will happen tomorrow.