Khao San Road

When in Bangkok, a traveler relying on her Lonely Planet or Rough Guide would get the impression that the place to be was Khao San Road. In fact, the R.G. warns against going there only because one might get sucked in and be so comfortable and entertained that one might forget to explore further and miss out on the rest of Bangkok.

In fact, Khao San Road is neither comfortable nor entertaining, unless your idea of fun is getting liquored up on overpriced vodka and energy drinks served in a plastic beach pail while one of your new Israeli friends vomits into a flock of overweight, sunburned Swedish girls with blonde hair and Rasta beads and 18 people try to sell you Velcro sandals, hair wraps, wooden frog-rattles, flowy insta-fat “fisherman” pants, plastic jewelry, scatologically-themed t-shirts, styrofoam dishes full of gooey, reheated street-fried-rice spooned up by the guy over there blowing his nose onto the pavement, and tuk-tuk trips to the crocodile farm. It’s a party.

Khao San is a wide pedestrian avenue tucked between a commercial street near the Grand Palace and the river. It looks like a miniature, filthier version of Tokyo, or Los Angeles circa Bladerunner, with every bit of free airspace three storeys up littered with a 3D patchwork of lit-up neon and plastic signs in English and Hebrew, advertising massage and fortune-telling, hi-speed internet, travel help, and bar after bar after bar. In the daytime, every building spreads its lower floors into open air seating, where cold bottles of Chang and Singha (pronounced “Sing”) beer accompany desperately boring versions of the blandest curries and mediocre attempts at Western food. At night, it’s as if a sewer main filled with Europeans, Israelis, and North Americans erupts near the Burger King and geysers forth the ugliest that each region has to offer: red-faced, shirtless men in beer bellies and new tattoos dog pudgy, scowling women crammed into ill-fitting, teensy new beach dresses. Everyone looks drunk and lost and horny and awkward, their bodies lumpy and unmanageable beside the delicacy of the Thai women serving them drinks. Hundreds of tourists fill the streets – it’s impossible to walk; one can only wade through the throngs and shoot for open gaps between food carts and bracelet stalls, pausing for air to leaf through t-shirt racks with worn-looking wares ranging from the surprising hip (“Punk Panther” or old Ramones concert knock-offs) to the surprisingly crass (silhouettes of naked women bending over with butterflies where their anus would be, and the phrase, “Pimp Yourself.”) The sound is incredible. Walking steadily is like turning a radio dial: each open patio and upstairs window blares its own version of party jams, from tinsel-pop and drum machines to rowdy rock. Some bars feature live acts that generally do covers – of The Knack. It’s a great place for one of my favorite pastimes: the Guess What Language They’re Speaking game; if you can’t tell, it’s either Portuguese or Turkish. As the crowd ebbs and flows, every surge brings with it a new floating chunk of words, shouted or slurred, and then carries it off to bring in another snippet of conversation, questions and come-ons and chatter and laughter, all rising and fading with the sounds of the food vendors calling out deals on crepes or pineapples, craftspeople shaking musical instruments or rattling their wooden frogs, beer bottles breaking, buyers haggling, girls giggling, guitars whanging, scooters honking, and noodles frying. The air grows thick with the smells of sweat and grease and fruit and gutters. You can walk through in 10 minutes, or veer off to some of the labyrinthine side streets, equally charged with commercial hunger and festivity. Some people seem to arrive and simply never leave. It’s like Key West and Las Vegas grown on Asian soil and compressed into a single street. Of course, you have to see it if you’re ever in Bangkok. But then leave immediately, wash your hands, and find out what Thailand is like.

~ by knifemaker on February 24, 2008.