by Matt Kyler
UPRIGHT: Travel. Taking control. The world awaits.
REVERSED: Distracted. Avoiding the real journey. Stuck.
For some reason there’s an arrow pointing to a chess piece on the in-flight TV. And according to the monitor’s map, the chess piece is currently five thousand miles west of me. Somewhere in the Middle East. Which is nowhere near Thailand.
My plane hasn’t even left Australia and already I’m confused about international travel.
It takes ten minutes before I work out that the icon on the screen is actually a symbol for Mecca. I’m flying with Royal Brunei, a Muslim airline, so I’m guessing the arrow helps with directional prayer. Either that or the airline’s fuselage faith is so questionable that they encourage passengers to call on their God for safe journey.
As if on cue, a pre-flight prayer flickers onto the screen.
“O Allah, You are … the Protector for the family we leave behind… we seek refuge in You … from the misfortune to befall our household.”
The prayer does nothing to reduce my fear of flying and soon my anxiety is so heightened that I actually pay attention to the safety presentation that follows.
Thankfully, the plane touches down safely in Bangkok eight uneventful hours later. I retrieve my backpack from the carrousel and pass through passport processing without drama, barring the few minutes where I am absolutely certain corrupt police will set me up for heroin trafficking. It’s a melodramatic thought born from anxiety, of course, so instead of a death-sentence I have to settle for a little entry stamp like all the other tourists.
Outside the terminal, evening is fast approaching so I change some currency and quickly locate an inner city bus service. I climb aboard and come face-to-face with half a dozen other backpackers. Under their gaze, I awkwardly squeeze my ridiculously oversized backpack past two giggling English girls. Their mood is relaxed and jocular and I immediately assume they’re recent-graduates beginning a gap-year vacation. Life doesn’t seem so rosy down the back of the bus, however. Because hunkered down in detached seats are several older, more contemplative travellers. The solitary figures peer pensively through windows, probably wondering what life really means. Following their lead, I find a seat and silently stare out into oblivion as well.
And that’s when reality finally hits…
Holy shit… what the fuck have I done?!!
In a panic, I look to the door.
I need to get off the bus. Now. I need to fly back home, call the TV network and apologise for walking out on a dream job worth hundreds of thousands of dollars … to come to Thailand … for a psychic prediction … that wasn’t even mine!
Jesus Christ… I have to fix this mess before it’s too late.
But it is too late.
Because there’s no going back on what I’ve done.
I take a deep breath and try to relax.
Man, I wish Claire was here.
Of course, if Claire was here, she’d just look at me without sympathy and roll her eyes. Probably shake her head and say something like, ‘Why do you always do this to yourself?’. And the truthful answer to that would be: I really don’t fucking know. Which just highlights our differences. For a start, Claire wouldn’t quit a job on a whim. Nor would she freak out on an overseas holiday. In fact, she’d actually love the thrill of going on an adventure into the great unknown. Plus she was always keen on that whole ‘authentic’ cultural immersion thing that backpackers go on about. Me, not so much. Which, of course, was another source of contention…
“Fuck backpacking,” I say. “I want to be able to travel in comfort.”
“That’s so sanitised,” counters Claire as she hand-stitches a deckle-edged diary on the dining table. “Don’t you want to be exposed to a cultural experience?”
“You could still see the same things. It’s not like Angkor Wat has a perimeter of hemp-rope barring everyone but backpackers.”
“You’re probably more of a package tourist anyway,” she says offhandedly, knowing full well how much I hate organised… well, organised anything, actually.
“I don’t want to do an organised tour. I just want to go somewhere with enough money to have some options. I’m not saying I want luxury, I just want to have that choice occasionally. Doing it your way would suck.”
The comment stings her. “Sorry for having an opinion.” She slides her chair out and without another word, heads toward the bedroom.
“Hang on a second,” I say, voice rising with hostility. “I never said I don’t want to travel. All I said was that I didn’t want to backpack around the world working a bunch of shitty bar jobs like everyone else. But now you’re pissed at me because, what … I’m not cultural enough because I want to stay in a decent hotel occasionally?”
Claire stalls at the door and glares at me. “Why are you yelling at me?”
“Because you’re walking away from me.”
“Where does this anger come from? I can’t say anything without you over-reacting.”
“You’re deliberately pressing my buttons. All because I don’t want to waste a year of my life backpacking and then come back and have to start from scratch again, okay?”
She stares at me and shakes her head. “Sure. Do it your way. As usual.” She turns and slams the bedroom door.
The automatic door slams shut and the driver stomps on the accelerator. The bus launches forward, merges into a transit lane and, eventually, joins the highway.
In the distance, the skyline of Bangkok looms. The familiarity of its outline surprises me - it’s a modern metropolis. I didn’t expect this. Of course, I’m not really sure what I expected—bamboo office-blocks and paddy-field car parks probably—certainly not super highways and heaven-piercing high-rises. Truth is, Bangkok looks like any other massive urban sprawl. Just another scarred landscape of tarmac arteries, funnelling millions of people into a topography of concrete one-upmanship.
The bus injects us deep into one of those tarmac arteries as we dodge and weave around countless vehicles driven by people short of patience and sanity. Numerous roadside billboards implore the drivers to upgrade to something sexier and faster: a Mercedes Benz or a better phone. The tempo of these metronome marketing messages increases as we near the city until, finally, they become a blur of daily life that ceases to interrupt transit thoughts at all. Again, just like life in any other contemporary city.
It’s only when we reach the inner-city that I realise that Bangkok might be different to Brisbane or Sydney. Because here the streets advertise contradictory values. A mixed marketing message that informs me that Bangkok sells a new world capitalism wrapped in Buddhist spiritualism. It’s an intriguing product, so for the next half hour I window-shop the urban architecture and exotic symbols with new eyes until, finally, I am confronted with a strange thoroughfare that makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.
It’s Bangkok’s infamous Khao San Road.
According to the Lonely Planet guidebook, Khao San Road is home to Bangkok’s backpacker population. And judging by what I see outside the bus, I swear they breed the fuckers here too.
Or half-breed.
The door opens and a rush of rank humid air floods the bus interior. Reluctantly, I haul my backpack onto my shoulders and step out into what looks like a flea market run by nightclub-dwelling drug dealers. The entire length of the street is alive with neon lights, loud music, shopping stalls, food carts and partying people. I glance at my fellow passengers to gauge their reaction. It’s a wasted exercise since, like me, they’re all playing a game called ‘Act Cool’. It’s a dumb game and not a single one of us is any good at it.
Thankfully, our surroundings are filled with familiar western faces. In fact, there are so many western travellers on Khao San Road that I am taken by surprise when I finally spot some actual Thai people. In turn, one spots me. Immediately, his face breaks into a wide smile and fake friendship high-beams from his eyes. Paralysed with politeness, I watch as he approaches me. Fortunately, an auto-rick
shaw arrives on cue and blocks his advance.
“Tuk-Tuk?” asks the driver.
I shake my head and wave him off. “No, thanks. I just got off the bus.”
He nods in understanding then says, “Tuk-Tuk?”
Remembering the language barrier, I scissor a couple of fingers past his eye-line, knowing full well that he’ll recognise the universal charade.
He doesn’t.
“Tuk-tuk?” he repeats again.
I shake my head again but we seem to be at an impasse. And after thirty silent seconds, he eventually gets the hint and drives off, which provides an open invitation for the next…
“Tuk-tuk?”
I ready myself for the whole charade once again but this time, I am saved by the arrival of my smiling friend.
“Hey, you want sex show?” he yells. His smile is topped by a wispy, adolescent-like moustache. It wriggles like a hairy caterpillar and draws my eagle-eye as if it were prey. “Cheap, cheap,” he chirps.
“What?”
“Sex show. Cheap, cheap.”
“Nah, mate. I’m good.”
He grins. “Ahh, Aussie?! I show you good time, maayyyte. Cheap, cheap.”
“Sorry, I’m not interested,” I say, glancing at him and his public transport cohort, “in any of this.”
He responds by pressing a brochure into my hand.
“You look. Nice girls. Very nice.”
I scan the front of the brochure. It’s filled with images of nude females in various ‘come-fuck-me’ poses.
My new friend pats my shoulder. “You like?”
I hand back the brochure. “Sorry, mate, I need to find a room.”
He grabs my arm. “You want room?! Come. Good room this way. Cheap, cheap.”
It’s obvious that this is never going to end, so I rudely shrug off his grasp and make a bee-line for the over-crowded party street.
Once safely hidden in the dreadlocked forest, I stand on tip-toes and look for my fellow bus brothers. Reassuringly, I see the two English chicks scurrying down the over-populated road, haphazardly weaving between tourists and restaurant tables - both of which overflow the sidewalk and onto the road proper. I take their cue and side-step my way past countless stalls selling clothing, jewellery, CDs, sunglasses … fried insects, and within minutes, I’m satisfied that I’m completely and utterly lost.
Desperate for guidance, I scan the heavens for a sign. Preferably one that combines the words air conditioned and guesthouse. Eventually, that sign appears above a building in a back-alleyway. I enter the lack-lustre establishment and book a vacant room sight unseen. A bored employee grabs a room key and motions for me to follow. Helpfully, he shows me the shared bathroom amenities first, which turn out to be a horror show. I hold my breath and peer into the cramped and damp enclosure. A sign on the wall says, ‘Don’t flush toilet paper’. I immediately look for the complimentary roll of toilet paper, but there is none … unless you count the fecal-smeared wads from previous depositors overflowing from a lidless trash can beside the toilet.
When we reach the end of the hallway, I am presented with my room. Unsurprisingly, it too is an uninviting shithole with a decor straight out of Alcatraz. The bed is mouldy, lumpy and hard, yet inexplicably soft in many places. The wall plaster is stained and cracked, and torn segments of filthy linoleum are jig-sawed into something that vaguely resembles floor covering. Of course, it’s everything I imagined cut-price backpacker accommodation in Asia to be: absolutely crap.
What truly is magnificent, however, is the view outside. Especially if you appreciate middle-aged Thai women shouting the cliched ‘Want good time, very cheap?’ from the balcony opposite your room. I consider shutting the window on the friendly show of hospitality but the decision is taken out of my hands, thanks to the two pieces of cardboard that moonlight as window closures. Both of which are on the floor.
Exhausted beyond belief, I slump onto the stained mattress and stare at the cracked ceiling. For a brief moment I think about the relative luxury of even a three-star hotel back home… then I close my eyes and let Claire’s idea of a wonderful fucking cultural experience overwhelm me.
Morning brings a sunnier outlook that bathes me in positivity. I get out of bed and congratulate myself for surviving my first night in a foreign country. I feel like a bulletproof backpacker. I wish Emma could see me.
Buoyed with this sense of invincible pride, I decide to tackle the day’s only truly terrifying challenge - the bathroom. But even that hell hole fails to wipe away my smile, simply because I’m ecstatic that I had the foresight to pack a full roll of surprisingly soft, single-layer, airport-grade toilet paper. A portion of which finds its way into the large plastic trash can.
Apparently, it’s not the done thing to flush toilet paper anywhere in Asia. I’ve recently discovered this fact after sleeping with my new best friend, the now extremely well-read Lonely Planet guidebook. According to guidebook, squat toilets, struggling sewers and the splash and rub method of butt-cleaning are the norm throughout Thailand. Of course, many western travellers are left aghast by this since we find paperless toileting unhygienic. And, yet, there is the opposing argument that smearing crap across any part of your body, even your asshole, is equally unclean. For example, if I had shit on my handsome face, would I:
a)Grab a wad of toilet paper and smear it over my face a little more or,
b)Wash it off with water
I mark the puzzle down as one of earth’s great mysteries then, flushing it from my mind, I head outside to Khao San Road in search of breakfast.
The street is in stark contrast to the previous evening. All is quiet and subdued, giving the impression that every backpacker in a five block radius is either comatose or extremely hungover. Which means I almost have the place to myself. Capitalising on this good luck, I decide to explore the many alleyways on foot before the revellers start crawling out of the woodwork.
The walk is a pleasant experience because the local area truly is the typical cliché of old-meets-new. Friendly Thais set up their food and clothing stalls, children ready themselves for school in doorways and weekday workers wait idly for buses. Of course, there are foreign travellers out and about too and soon it becomes obvious that Thailand attracts tourists from all walks of life. Some for the full-moon dance parties, some for cheap cocktails and drugs, some for sex and sun, and some just to relax and have fun. Some are possibly even here for dubious adventures of love.
I find a Khao San cafe and, imitating every westerner around me, order a breakfast of sausages, bacon, eggs, toast and coffee. It’s not exactly Thai cuisine but I console myself with the fact that I need energy for a big day ahead. Because Bangkok’s just a stop-over to my next destination. And what awaits me is a connecting flight to a land that has the power to transform the most boring traveller into someone windswept and interesting instead. Which is exactly why I plan to kill three months there before I return to Thailand for Emma.
Of course, if a single night in a modern metropolis like Bangkok can shake my fragile little world, the obvious question must be this:
Why the fuck have I chosen to find myself in India?
Ben is adamant it’s legal herb that he’s smuggled into India … and who am I to argue? The old dude certainly looks like someone who knows the vagaries of a country’s marijuana legislation, so it’s hard to doubt him. Of course, what could be argued is whether Ben actually knows he’s in India.
I’m killing time in the international airport in Delhi, and contrary to all expectations the terminal is quiet and empty. I’ve spotted roughly fifty people since breezing through airport customs with Ben and his son, Josh. That was thirty minutes ago. Since then Josh and I have been waiting patiently for the old man to repack his Everest-like backpack.
Apparently my new friends are embarking on a father/son trek through the Himalayas. And like a novice mountaineer, I’ve attached myself to them for safety. Clinging to their rock solid confidence simply because I’m terrif
ied of falling into the abyss. The one outside. The one known as India.
“Seriously, it was legal herb, man!” says Ben, continuing the story about his brush with security in Taiwan.
“Like oregano and crap like that?” I say. Josh looks at me as if I’m an idiot.
“They tossed all my stuff,” spits Ben. “Way over aggressive, man. Just a really bad vibe there. Like everywhere, yeah. You know what I mean, Matt … huh?” I nod but I don’t know if he’s stating a fact, asking a rhetorical question or just knitting his own version of the English language to mess with my head. “They thought I was a smuggler, man. Can you believe that?!”
Yep. I can totally believe that.
Simply because Ben does, in fact, look like a derelict stoner or desperate drug runner: mid-fifties, unfocused face, long hair, greasy beard and wearing clothes he bought back in the 80s. I’m envious, of course, because at least Ben looks like a spiritual adventurer … or, at the very least, someone who truly doesn’t give a shit. As opposed to me, whose wardrobe of board shorts and surf t-shirts makes me appear like a walking billboard for a big-brand surf conglomerate.
I’m envious of Ben’s son Josh too, who looks somewhat similar to his father. Albeit half the age and with the addition of dreadlocks, backpacker swagger and quite possibly even Khao San Road tattoos. This is Josh’s third trip to India for a total of eighteen months. Which means he is either unbelievably cool or unbelievably stupid.
I’m finding it hard to get a read on Josh. I can’t make out whether he is fake or real. He’s fashionably unwashed and oozes alternative chic. The kind of guy who women probably love since he exudes a kind of aloof, carefree, asexual charisma that belongs to a wise journeyman who has travelled many an enlightened path. Which is quite an accomplishment for a kid in his early twenties.
Josh looks to his dad. “You right, Ben?” he asks, in an effort to speed up the process of us leaving the airport terminal and actually arriving in India.