Bangkok, Tuk-tuks and Scams

Arriving in Bangkok was quite extraordinary. My first impression was that their driving "skills" are something to be desired. Apparently there are no rules when it comes to driving there. No rules at all. Overtaking can be done whenever and however. You know those sneaky drivers who weave in and out of cars on the motorway and you just want to throttle them? Welcome to Thailand. Hard shoulders are driven on quite freely, and there is apparently no correct lane to use, whether you're turning left or right - you just sneak in at the last minute. In the UK we'd call that selfish, in Thailand they'd call it efficient. In fact, such a move in the UK would be lethal, and you would rightly endure the wrath and death glares of other drivers. Drivers in Thailand on the other hand will cut each other up like it's no big deal. Sometimes I felt like we were going sideways more than we were actually moving forwards. It was like being inside a video game - helloooo Mario Kart - and a three year old kid was controlling the gears. That's how crazy it was. Yet their ability to whiz in and out in such meticulous fashion without crashing is quite remarkable, and would suggest that my "three year old kid" analogy was quite wrong. Naturally I had to hold on quite tightly to my possessions (you can never trust people driving past on scooters, ready to pluck an iPhone from your hand whilst you take a photo of some temple or other).

This was my first experience in a tuk-tuk, and certainly one I wouldn't forget. I soon learnt that it all begins with a price negotiation (I've got better at this over time). It usually goes something like this: I pretend to look outraged at the initial sum they demand, and immediately halve it. The driver looks incredibly offended and contorts his face into a "are you effin' kidding me?" whilst you threaten to take the next tuk-tuk that comes along instead. Begrudgingly, he concedes to your close-fistedness, hoping to squeeze an extra 20 baht out of you. You look at him, stupefied, repeating 80 baht to him so many times that he finally relents.  Bloody foreigners, he thinks. But he probably hasn't given a ride for the past 3 hours. I can't work out if my haggling makes me an awful person. The price he is offering is cheap by UK standards, but then you're not exactly paying for comfort, (or aircon I might add). And everything in Thailand is cheaper, anyway. Many of them are also sponsored by questionable tailors, jewellers and fake tourist agencies. 

On one journey, my friend Jaz and I were headed to Chatuchak market, but the tuk-tuk driver insisted on taking us to one of his sponsors. We complained, but to no avail. Apparently that was the price for haggling so profoundly. We owed it to him. "Go inside and spend 10, 15 minutes", he told us. We stood outside Emporium Armani, surrounded by derelict buildings and mangy dogs. A classy place for such a classy brand. Something's not quite right. But wait..shouldn't it be Emporio Armani? Click. We stood outside the shop, scared for our lives, and peeked in nervously. Automatically we were shuffled in by owners and shop assistants. Was this all part of a larger plan to kill us? Does that door in the corner lead to a dungeon? These were thoughts going through my head at the time. However, they proceeded to throw fabrics at us left, right and centre. What if they smothered me with them? Must keep my cool. Apparently I had to buy a pashmina. "Today, good price. Cheap, cheap", he motioned to me in broken English. Once the fear that they'd lock us up in some back room and throw a bag over our heads had subsided, I merrily (maybe a slight exaggeration) waved my hand through all the shirts, suits, and scarves on offer, stopping at some shiny ties, before grabbing Jaz's hand and leaving. The tuk-tuk driver seemed somewhat annoyed that we'd spent little more than 2 minutes in his sponsor's shop, and that we'd come away empty handed. His commission wouldn't be good that day.

I was slowly being introduced to the scams, cons, and trickery prevalent in Thailand.

The Red Light District and Other Tales

It was eight in the evening and the sun was still a peachy orange.  Armadas of vintage bicycles were resting on top of bridges above canals of slowly moving water, their handlebars glinting.  Picturesque houses on either side slanted forwards, their crooked façades giving them the appearance of reaching out towards the water below. The night was still young.

Walking down streets the distinctive smell of weed brought me back to my first year at university; the unforgettable stench would linger in the corridor of my student residence or waft in through my window in the early hours of the morning.  Walking into one coffee shop - the notorious name for a cannabis cafe - we were met by dazed faces.  A group of young men were sprawled out in one corner of space cake city, smoking joints and absentmindedly watching the peculiar music videos being aired on the different screens.  A druggy's paradise.

I watched my friends around me nibbling on their first hash brownies or sharing joints.  I didn't mind being there but I didn't want to try it.  I suppose part of me was scared I might have a bad reaction to it.  And then there was the money issue...I didn't want to spend well-earned money on weed.  Cheese, yes, but not weed. Yet the root of my decision was that despite it being one of those "When in Rome" moments, I just wasn't interested.

...

On first glance, it seemed like any other part of Amsterdam.  I searched for women in micro skirts and too much make-up but they were nowhere to be seen. We wondered if we weren't a bit early.  But then, looking to our left, we noticed alleyways lit up with red lights.  I thought red light was merely a phrase for "risqué", "naughty" or "dangerous" but it suddenly all made sense.  I was feeling nervous but intrigued and we decided to follow the flow of men and women who hounded the windows.  Beams of pinky red light infused the cramped passageways and I couldn't help but feel a twinge of fear as we ebbed deeper and deeper into the heart of Amsterdam's sex trade. I had been warned not to take photos; the pimps were protective of their ladies and wouldn't allow it.  I'd heard stories of cameras being taken and smashed to the ground. 

 

Walking past the windows, we saw slim, ample-breasted women wearing what looked like thin strips of elastic cloth, barely covering the essentials.  Some stared out at their voyeurs; others looked bored; some played on their mobile phones.  I don't know what was more upsetting; the women who actually looked like they wanted to be there, or the women who were conscious of their prison.  I felt a rush of guilt cloud over me.  They had been turned into dogs and these were their kennels. I saw a few men walking out of doorways, buttoning up shirts or doing up their flies. As we rushed back towards civilisation, seedy men eyed us up.  I couldn't help but ask my friends: "since when did prostitutes wear baggy jumpers and converse?"

Any woman who turns herself into a man’s whore knows no freedom.  

Under the South African Sun

The sunset glows pink, red, orange and gold, taking on different cloudy shapes and textures which can only mean one thing: we’ve reached Africa.  The dense orange bubble pours silky shadows across the savage wilderness of Acacias and Baobabs.  The gold-tinged clouds could be mistaken for fuming vapours, forming 3D silhouettes in the sky which look like spitting lava.  I lapse into their vitality and fancy myself a part of this abundant skyline.

I pause a moment, taking in the stillness of my surroundings.  The atmosphere is not tinged or bloodied.  I feel at harmony with what I see around me and smile at its beauty.  This is life.  This is freedom.  I don’t for once envy my colleagues sitting behind cold wooden desks, craning their necks and backs over stiff keyboards and staring into empty screens.

This foreign land feels like home.  

…

A herd of elephants thuds gracefully over the horizon, their trunks curling around branches - obscured by bright green leaves - to feed their hungry bellies with the blooming landscape.  Summer is very much alive in South Africa.  I’ll never forget the thick, mud-encrusted skin against my hands, or the vivid network of veins behind their ears.  I look out towards acres of wide open planes of golden reeves which rustle and shimmer under the sun’s peachy glow.  A dazzle of Zebra swish their tails and cock their heads back at us with an air of royalty.  I look down at them from my viewing platform, my legs spread wide over the elephant’s back as I hold on tightly.

…

Once I went running in the cool afternoon, the gentle breeze lapping at my face and the buzz of harmless insects swarming my ankles.  My eyes centred on the iron-red earth beneath my feet, careful not to tread on a Black mamba or stir a rock monitor lizard from its sleep.  I felt this overwhelming presence of life around me, like something was watching my every step.  It suddenly dawned upon me that in this giant wilderness that is Africa, I am never alone.  I tilted my head towards the sun whose glowing face was resting sleepily on the horizon.  And there, in the distance, six giraffe stared at me intently.  They seemed unmoved by my legs which rolled across the airstrip in shaky thuds, unsettling the sand beneath my feet.  They twitched their ears momentarily, pausing in the sun’s beaming radiance, as glorious as ever.  Zebra sauntered in the shadows of these long-necked creatures, their white bodies almost luminescent against their black stripes.  Then suddenly, as if a savage beast woke them from their calm reverie, they lurched into the shadows and I could see them no more.

…

Evenings were spent drinking glasses of South African wine on the veranda, sinking into an all-seasons settee lined with individually beaded cushions as we discussed the day’s conquests.  I looked out towards the garden, the deep blue of the swimming pool shimmering in the moonlight, the faint yet distinctive shriek of baboons hailing from the treetops.  A slither of paradise.

Our evening meal times were the highlight for insects, big and small.  Moths flapped their wings noisily between the candle centrepieces and beetles crawled underneath crockery.  At first they were pests, but we soon learnt to be fascinated by the creepy crawlies who were insistent on joining us for dinner, lured in by the light.  The anxious rustling of hair and banging of knives soon quietened down, and the bugs remained frequent guests at our table as we tucked into plates of wildebeest, warthog or kudu.  Lanterns hung from the trees, rocking slightly in the evening breeze.

…

A canopy of white butterflies all seemed to hatch one morning by nature’s call, flitting around the landscape like snowdrops caught in the wind.  I tried to capture them with my camera but they moved so fast that they were simply white dots on a forest green background.  They wouldn’t last more than a few days before they melted back into nature’s womb.

…

We stopped at the bridge and climbed out of the truck.  The binoculars swinging around my neck were immediately put to use.  The hippo poked their sleepy heads out of the water, their nostrils bouncing along the surface of the gently flowing river as they rested on each other in a familiar huddle.  

…

A storm approached.  We sat on the balcony in our deck chairs, the tempest looming and locks of thick, smoke-like clouds spiralling up from a point on the horizon.  The lightning struck in sheets and forks, a metallic blue, sometimes pink, slicing the air.  The thunder came in huge angry claps, like the thunderous roar of a lion demonstrating his dominance.  The heavens struck again and balls of hail were violently hurled from the angry sky, denting car roofs and pounding aggressively on neatly trimmed lawns.  A mixture of water and spheres of the whitest white were running in cascades off the thatched roof, a temporary yet daunting waterfall of all sorts.

…

I felt this unmatched peace as I buried my body in the creases of an all-enveloping hammock and delved into a book all about this wondrous land: I Dreamed of Africa.  As each page turned, a chapter of my love affair unfolded as the Africa around me harmonized with the poetry I held in the cusp of my hand.

I was surely falling in Love...