Thanks Dennis Hopper, so do I. Permanently. If I somehow make it to the ripe age of retirement, getting a breezy shack on the Andaman Sea is precisely my plan. Maybe I'll even open a little beach-side bar and peddle reasonably priced Singapore Slings. In the meantime, I'll just have to make do with all-too-brief visits.
Most people in my situation would probably save the week of relaxation on a tropical beach for the end of the seven month journey. As you may have noticed, I am not most people. And, to be honest, the beautiful beaches I was looking forward to relaxing on just so happen to be in Thailand- stop three on our Asia grand tour. Specifically, we're heading to a resort in Khao Lak.
Khao Lak isn't that easy to get to. It is about an hour drive north of the island of Phuket, on the elbow of the dog-leg shaped appendage of Thailand that trickles down the Malaysian Peninsula. To get there by land from Penang one would need the following: taxi to a ferry, ferry to the mainland, walk to the station, overnight train to Surat Thani, bus to Phuket town, taxi to Khao Lak, and finally a tuk tuk to the resort. Alternatively, as luck would have it, there happens to be a daily direct flight between Penang and Phuket for only $25 more than all of that. Lock city.
We're up early in Penang but the air is already sultry; it's going to be another hot one. We kill time at the station awaiting our bus down to the airport. A man from Pakistan harasses me about donating for Pakistani bombing victims. I give him some money and he files me in a very officially looking ledger. Jon buys an ice cream. The bus ride is 45 minutes and costs us a dollar each.
I'm not sure what to expect when we arrive at the airport. My head is filled with images of a dusty tarmac lined with old poorly maintained King Air prop planes. I couldn't have been more incorrect. The airport is brand new, sparkling even. There is a KFC and a McDonald's prominently situated. Zero security wait, no lines anywhere. It feels almost deserted. Boarding takes less than 10 minutes. We pull back and taxi faster than any plane I've been on.
I'm not sure what to expect when we arrive at the airport. My head is filled with images of a dusty tarmac lined with old poorly maintained King Air prop planes. I couldn't have been more incorrect. The airport is brand new, sparkling even. There is a KFC and a McDonald's prominently situated. Zero security wait, no lines anywhere. It feels almost deserted. Boarding takes less than 10 minutes. We pull back and taxi faster than any plane I've been on.
In a flash we are touching down. We're in Thailand now. Immigration is easy and we locate the arrivals hall. Getting a taxi to Khao Lak is child's play, but getting cash from the ATM is much harder. Since my last visit apparently Thailand has worked its way on the fraud alert block list for most banks including mine. Eventually I revert to Citi and we're holding what seems like an unreasonable amount of Baht.
It takes almost an hour and a half to make it to Khao Lak even with the wild and erratic driving of our cabbie. We're told once we arrive that the Platinum Guest free happy hour will commence at the beach-side bar in approximately 30 minutes. I don't pipe up to inform them I'm no longer Platinum. We arrive at the happy hour two minutes early and it turns into what Jon calls the "hammered hour." The staff looks on aghast at how many cocktails we can put away. Looking at the regular drink prices we feel we're making money with each one we take down.
Eventually the clock strikes 6 and the river of libations has run dry. We take a stroll on the beach up to a little restaurant a few hundred meters from the resort. They've got cheap beer and really cheap curries. We dig in. Mosquitoes swarm around us despite the best efforts of the staff. We bathe in spray that burns our skin. We relieve it with beer. We stand up to leave and it's apparent we've overdone it a bit. Hammered hour has become hammered three hours.
We stagger down the beach laughing and acting ridiculous. We spot what we believe is the resort and storm toward the pool. Disrobing to swimsuits we jump in. I notice I'm still holding a beer. I notice we aren't at our resort. We proceed to another pool which is in our resort and make several attempts diving down the water slides. Never once do we notice the pool closure signs. Finally we make it back to the room. My beer and sandals have vanished but I don't notice the latter until the following morning.
The next four days roll by quicker than one would like. I feel under the weather the next day, then Jon is sick for two days, then I'm sunburned and sick the last day. We mix it up, sometimes eating resort food, sometimes local, and occasionally getting pizza. We lay on the beach by day and swim in the (closed) pools at night. Most days are overcast, one day it pours rain. Despite all of this we never once miss the free afternoon happy hour. Few pictures are taken.
Our last night we take full advantage of said happy hour and then retreat to our favorite little restaurant. A similar situation to the first night ensues and on the way back to the hotel I reach peak aggravation with having to walk all the way around the pools to get where I need to go. I decide to ford my way across. Not to be noticed by the patrons dining at the poolside Italian restaurant I utilize my umbrella to shield my personage. I'm certain that this will allay all suspicions. Jon films me from poolside amidst fits of laughter. He assures me that my subterfuge was entirely unsuccessful.
Undeterred I beckon him into the pool as well and we continue. We eventually make it to the spa pool where we continue our unabashed abuse of the pool closure policies. As we trudge back to the room we pass the main dining room and the evening's entertainment. They look at us puzzlingly- especially at me as I've fashioned my towel into a toga and turned my shirt into what I'm at this point calling a "Heart of Darkness bandana." It's somehow a fitting conclusion to our vacation from our vacation.
The next morning, the day we leave, the sun is out in full force. We get off to a late start but we're only heading back to Phuket to set up shop in the legendary beach town of Patong. It takes us nearly two hours to get there. The streets are cramped and winding. People in Patong, it seems, categorically abhor even the concept of sidewalks as we are forced to weave our way through and alongside traffic everywhere we go.
We spend the next few days following the typical Patong itinerary: getting a massage, strolling around, eating at the night market, contemplating attending a muay thai boxing match, and of course patronizing the infamous Bangla. We visit the beach but find it overwhelmingly crowded and touristy. It is certainly a sight to behold- people swarming everywhere hawking beers, fruit juices, sandwiches, and freshly shaved aloe for your poor sunburned back. There are boats of every description along the sand and able-bodied captains rest in the trees awaiting any remotely inquisitive look from a pale passerby.
The beach umbrellas, lined up three to four rows deep, seem to extend for miles. It's expansive and yet claustrophobic, wondrous yet oppressive.
The chaos barely subsides on the nearby strip where every nook and cranny is packed with scooters, t-shirt stalls, and tiny bars slinging iced down beer. It's like Myrtle Beach on steroids. A ton of steroids. It would seem exotic if it weren't for all the Subways, McDonald's, and Burger Kings.
There's even a Mexican restaurant which Jon and I just can't help ourselves from trying. We duck out of the staggering midday heat. At this point I'm too hot to even drink a beer. I opt for a huge bottle of water. The food is decent. We fortify ourselves preparing for what we anticipate will be long night at the Bangla. As it would turn out we had no idea what we were getting ourselves into.
After showering and changing clothes we march from our hotel toward neon-encrusted destiny. Along the way we stop at the night market for salty fortification. Jon gets a noodle dish, I rice. I also cough up 60 cents for a skewer of fried fish-balls and some sort of hot-dog concoction. The former is edible, the latter not so much.
Ahead of us the Bangla glows welcomingly and intimidatingly. The street is littered with pubs, clubs, go-go bars, and a host of other establishments ranging from moderately to exceptionally seedy. Men and women of all ilk approach offering deals for massages and ping-pong shows.
We have our first beer at the Original Shipwreck Bar. We are filming for the show and the bartendresses are intrigued. We make our way through some Leo beers and are garnering much attention. We mix it up.
Back on the Bangla we dart into one of the mega-bar complexes which houses dozens of little bar "stalls." Jon is physically corralled into one. They promise "happy hour" special which is a free tequila shot with a beer purchase. We pony up. I do my shot in "tequila suicide" format and demand one of the bar girls do the other. Jon is in no mood for tequila. I'm stricken with admiration for his willpower. The girl doesn't realize it's real tequila until it's too late. We laugh heartily.
In Patong, Bangkok, and other parts of Thailand certain bars have "bar girls." These girls hang out and talk with you and then ask you to buy them "drinks." The drinks are usually 2x the regular price and what they drink is actually just water. You're tipping them for their time. If you know this scam, however, you can avoid it or leverage it in your favor. At this hole-in-the-wall, we agree to buy drinks for the girls but only under the condition it is real tequila or a beer. They decline and we stay a few bucks richer.
Deep in the recesses of the mega-bar Jon spots a place we have read about. It's a go-go type bar with a twist. We enter and are immediately handed foam rubber bats. At this bar it is your freedom and prerogative to whap the waitresses, bartendresses, dancers, and anyone else you feel with the bats at your leisure. In fact, the motto is "an ass-slappin good time." Hard to beat that... ahem. Beware, however, that these vixens are equally within their rights to wail on you as well. And as I found out in quick order they are quite adept at disarming you and beating you with your own bat. What a glorious country.
Back on the streets we amble on. We find ourselves back in the Shipwreck for a stabilizer beer. A middle aged British man and woman somehow get behind the bar and begin dancing to "Gangnam Style." The staff cheers them on; the whole bar has gone nuts. We swoop back outside, nearly reeling. Bangla swirls around us, neon lights trying in vain to batter us into submission, daring us to soldier on. We summon the courage. I've hyped the ping-pong show to Jon. "It's a once in a lifetime thing" I tell him, secretly meaning you'll only want to see it once and then you're scarred for life.
We decide to go for it. The admission is one heftily priced beer. The entertainment comes out and proceeds with their show. Some call it tricks, I call it art. Terrible terrible art. Jon is pulled on stage for a dart and balloon popping exhibition. Some woman performs an incredible feat with razor blades that we are sure aren't real until she randomly selects a few to shave a straw into minute portions. I go to the bathroom. When I emerge I'm pulled on stage for the grand finale. I'm mostly disrobed, handcuffed, thrown in a chair, and beaten with foam bats. They then drag me back stage in a puff of smoke.
It's closing time. Unshackled we make our way to the door both a little rattled, both certain that we'll never want to experience that again. After witnessing one of these shows, no matter how old or seasoned you are, it's hard not to feel a little bit of your childhood innocence evaporate- even if you've long outgrown such silly notions. We both agree it's probably a good time to end the night... but we meet a Swedish guy who has other plans. The night is just getting started he declares. Jon buys him and I obscene bracelets from a passing woman and the Swede, like a crazed pied-piper, leads us down an alley to another bar.
The bar is filled with bar-tending students. They all want to be in the show. We make conversation that makes no sense. The throng absorbs us. We move on to a Euro-club. Prices are arbitrary- I pay a crazy amount for a beer and Jon gets two reasonably priced Jager-bombs. We're on-stage with the DJ, we're dancing in a circle, we're completely gassed. The club is hot and stagnant, it pulsates with youth pumped up on vodka and Red Bull. We storm into the streets and make our escape.
I'm cornered by a Thai woman sitting on a bucket hawking beers. She challenges me to a beer drinking contest. My manhood is insulted. I prickle up, buy the beer, and crush her with ease. We stagger down the street not certain of whether we feel victorious or defeated. All we know for certain is that the Bangla will deal us one final haymaker in the morning. I, for one, am dreading it.
The next day is lost.
The final morning we dust ourselves off early and prepare to evacuate. Dawn is breaking and already the narrow streets of Patong are coming to life. Flange poses for a picture before we hop a taxi to the airport.
It is our 9th day in Thailand and given the events of the past week we feel we need some R&R from our R&R. But we'll find no respite for our flight is destined for Bangkok. Out of this frying pan our jet barrels toward the fire, perhaps the biggest conflagration in all of Asia. We've planned a week but before wheels up I get this foreboding suspicion that it may be longer. Things in Bangkok have a tendency to go awry and I have a tendency to be swept up in such mayhem.
I try to put my worry aside and relax. I focus on what needs to be done once we land. I think about the rest of our time in Thailand, I start to consider Laos. Finally the tension begins to subside and I drift off. It's at that exact moment the wheels touch down at Don Muang Airport.
The beach umbrellas, lined up three to four rows deep, seem to extend for miles. It's expansive and yet claustrophobic, wondrous yet oppressive.
The chaos barely subsides on the nearby strip where every nook and cranny is packed with scooters, t-shirt stalls, and tiny bars slinging iced down beer. It's like Myrtle Beach on steroids. A ton of steroids. It would seem exotic if it weren't for all the Subways, McDonald's, and Burger Kings.
There's even a Mexican restaurant which Jon and I just can't help ourselves from trying. We duck out of the staggering midday heat. At this point I'm too hot to even drink a beer. I opt for a huge bottle of water. The food is decent. We fortify ourselves preparing for what we anticipate will be long night at the Bangla. As it would turn out we had no idea what we were getting ourselves into.
After showering and changing clothes we march from our hotel toward neon-encrusted destiny. Along the way we stop at the night market for salty fortification. Jon gets a noodle dish, I rice. I also cough up 60 cents for a skewer of fried fish-balls and some sort of hot-dog concoction. The former is edible, the latter not so much.
Ahead of us the Bangla glows welcomingly and intimidatingly. The street is littered with pubs, clubs, go-go bars, and a host of other establishments ranging from moderately to exceptionally seedy. Men and women of all ilk approach offering deals for massages and ping-pong shows.
We have our first beer at the Original Shipwreck Bar. We are filming for the show and the bartendresses are intrigued. We make our way through some Leo beers and are garnering much attention. We mix it up.
Back on the Bangla we dart into one of the mega-bar complexes which houses dozens of little bar "stalls." Jon is physically corralled into one. They promise "happy hour" special which is a free tequila shot with a beer purchase. We pony up. I do my shot in "tequila suicide" format and demand one of the bar girls do the other. Jon is in no mood for tequila. I'm stricken with admiration for his willpower. The girl doesn't realize it's real tequila until it's too late. We laugh heartily.
In Patong, Bangkok, and other parts of Thailand certain bars have "bar girls." These girls hang out and talk with you and then ask you to buy them "drinks." The drinks are usually 2x the regular price and what they drink is actually just water. You're tipping them for their time. If you know this scam, however, you can avoid it or leverage it in your favor. At this hole-in-the-wall, we agree to buy drinks for the girls but only under the condition it is real tequila or a beer. They decline and we stay a few bucks richer.
Deep in the recesses of the mega-bar Jon spots a place we have read about. It's a go-go type bar with a twist. We enter and are immediately handed foam rubber bats. At this bar it is your freedom and prerogative to whap the waitresses, bartendresses, dancers, and anyone else you feel with the bats at your leisure. In fact, the motto is "an ass-slappin good time." Hard to beat that... ahem. Beware, however, that these vixens are equally within their rights to wail on you as well. And as I found out in quick order they are quite adept at disarming you and beating you with your own bat. What a glorious country.
Back on the streets we amble on. We find ourselves back in the Shipwreck for a stabilizer beer. A middle aged British man and woman somehow get behind the bar and begin dancing to "Gangnam Style." The staff cheers them on; the whole bar has gone nuts. We swoop back outside, nearly reeling. Bangla swirls around us, neon lights trying in vain to batter us into submission, daring us to soldier on. We summon the courage. I've hyped the ping-pong show to Jon. "It's a once in a lifetime thing" I tell him, secretly meaning you'll only want to see it once and then you're scarred for life.
We decide to go for it. The admission is one heftily priced beer. The entertainment comes out and proceeds with their show. Some call it tricks, I call it art. Terrible terrible art. Jon is pulled on stage for a dart and balloon popping exhibition. Some woman performs an incredible feat with razor blades that we are sure aren't real until she randomly selects a few to shave a straw into minute portions. I go to the bathroom. When I emerge I'm pulled on stage for the grand finale. I'm mostly disrobed, handcuffed, thrown in a chair, and beaten with foam bats. They then drag me back stage in a puff of smoke.
It's closing time. Unshackled we make our way to the door both a little rattled, both certain that we'll never want to experience that again. After witnessing one of these shows, no matter how old or seasoned you are, it's hard not to feel a little bit of your childhood innocence evaporate- even if you've long outgrown such silly notions. We both agree it's probably a good time to end the night... but we meet a Swedish guy who has other plans. The night is just getting started he declares. Jon buys him and I obscene bracelets from a passing woman and the Swede, like a crazed pied-piper, leads us down an alley to another bar.
The bar is filled with bar-tending students. They all want to be in the show. We make conversation that makes no sense. The throng absorbs us. We move on to a Euro-club. Prices are arbitrary- I pay a crazy amount for a beer and Jon gets two reasonably priced Jager-bombs. We're on-stage with the DJ, we're dancing in a circle, we're completely gassed. The club is hot and stagnant, it pulsates with youth pumped up on vodka and Red Bull. We storm into the streets and make our escape.
I'm cornered by a Thai woman sitting on a bucket hawking beers. She challenges me to a beer drinking contest. My manhood is insulted. I prickle up, buy the beer, and crush her with ease. We stagger down the street not certain of whether we feel victorious or defeated. All we know for certain is that the Bangla will deal us one final haymaker in the morning. I, for one, am dreading it.
The next day is lost.
The final morning we dust ourselves off early and prepare to evacuate. Dawn is breaking and already the narrow streets of Patong are coming to life. Flange poses for a picture before we hop a taxi to the airport.
It is our 9th day in Thailand and given the events of the past week we feel we need some R&R from our R&R. But we'll find no respite for our flight is destined for Bangkok. Out of this frying pan our jet barrels toward the fire, perhaps the biggest conflagration in all of Asia. We've planned a week but before wheels up I get this foreboding suspicion that it may be longer. Things in Bangkok have a tendency to go awry and I have a tendency to be swept up in such mayhem.
I try to put my worry aside and relax. I focus on what needs to be done once we land. I think about the rest of our time in Thailand, I start to consider Laos. Finally the tension begins to subside and I drift off. It's at that exact moment the wheels touch down at Don Muang Airport.
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