The Horror, the horror

The Rambuttri Village Inn, only steps away from Bangkok's infamous Khoa San Road, was a hive of activity. On the best of days I would have been disgusted with the scene playing out before me and in the condition I found myself in it was almost more than I could bear. I had been on a tranquil (ie. empty) beach outside Chumphon for nearly a month, far from the throngs of package tourists, lady-boys, tatooed skidmarks, hustlers, prostitutes, family vacationers and, of course, the dreaded backpackers.

I had departed my personal paradise on the wings of two packs of Marlboros and about 12 big bottles of Singha Beer, the last of which was absorbed, not by my liver, but by my clothes and the sheets of my bunk on the train to Bangkok. The aftermath of my debauch clung to me as I disembarked at Hualumphong train station and shambled to the curb and waited for a city bus that would take me to the Rambuttri Village Inn, recommended by a guy I met in Chumphon. Little did I know that it was also recommended by the acursed Lonely Planet. The ride was long and smoggy but interesting as I had the chance to see a lot of the city. As we wound our way through Chinatown and Little India my nose was assaulted my all kinds of amazing smells, and some not so amazing ones as well. I would describe the scenes to you if I could remember them clearly but I was observing the murky world through the haze of a mispent evening. I got off the bus at the last stop in the rain and asked directions to Khoa San Road. This resulted in an hour long search through wet and dirty streets which I probably would have enjoyed had I been sober and without any luggage.

It was about 8:30AM when I started up the cobbles of Rambuttri towards my destination. I was appalled by the number of people already on the streets. Tuk-tuk drivers offered to whisk me away to Patpong for some diseased snatch, shady characters were already lurking around every corner trying to sell everything from hats to hash to heroin. Here and there, a western youth could be seen sitting in a daze on a street corner or in a cafe, doggedly trying to drink one more beer in hopes that it would cure whatever it was they caught the evening previous. There were European-looking couples trundling expensive luggage laboriously down the street, cursing each other in German, French and Dutch. I watched with amusement as one couple then another were descended upon by the murder of taxi and tuk-tuk drivers, all clamoring for a fare. It was already too damn hot and I stumbled on envisioning a shower, a bit of breakfast and a long air-conditioned nap. I found the Inn easily enough and turned into the small plaza that held lobby... the horror, the horror. I was confronted by two travel agencies, a fish and chips shop, a 7-11, four tailors, a laundrette, a massage parlor, an internet cafe, the Rambuttri Village Inn, and an oppressive gallery of humanity's worst travelers. I gazed with a mixture of wonder and disgust as I made my way into the packed lobby of the Inn. What was this place? Who were these people? Why did I want to run away?

My reverie was broken when a little kid with a blond afro walked straight up to me and punched me in the balls. Amazed and shocked, I watched as he scuttled back behind the ample safety of his mother's very exposed legs (think the moon's surface) and blooming rear end. She turned to scowl at me through her mustache, then spun back to the desk to continue chastising an exhausted-looking Thai girl in Italian. There were piles of luggage all around and a line twenty people deep. I probably should have bailed then and there but I couldn't face the prospect of looking at rooms, climbing stairs and trying to make myself understood in a more obscure guesthouse. I tossed down my bag and dove into the gaggle. As I waited I looked at the line of backpacks against the wall and noticed that, save my own bag and a couple of other battered turtleshells, all the packs were shiny new and brimming with stuff. I know, I know, I'm a bit of a snob and everybody has as much right as me to travel wherever and however they choose, but I couldn't help feeling a twinge of superiority when I compared my dirty little pack, all of 25 pounds, to all these 100 pound behemouths full of God-knows-what. You would have thought some of these people were planning a camping trip to the Antarctic followed by a trek across the Australian Outback and the circumnavigation of the globe via small sailboat to wrap things up . As always, copies of the infallible Lonely Planet were everywhere.

Sidebar: I have used Lonely Planet on many occassions and have found it to be an excellent resource in obscure and difficult places. I will use Lonely Planet guides again before my travelling days are done. My beef is that in a place like Thailand, which is about the easiest place to get around I've ever been to, all the LP guide gets you is a ticket to the same place every other westerner is going to. If I want to hang out with Canadians, I'll stay in Canada.

I caught a few looks as I slowly made my way through the line. I must have looked a state, reeking of beer, thoroughly disheveled, hair wild and unkempt. As I got closer to the counter I was awed at the level of impoliteness, both by the service staff and their customers. People were wildly impatient, raising their voices and demanding this and that. In turn, the girls behind the desk got increasingly flustered. People pushed past in line, waving their keys and more and more frequently the staff would just stop serving people and talk amongst themselves, no doubt commenting on how unfortunate it was that these westerners hadn't gotten acute food poisoning from the green curry they'd eaten the night before. This went on for half an hour or so before it was finally my turn. With my gentlest smile and most pleasant demeanor I requested a room. The tactic worked, the girl smiled back and took my information cordially. It was going to be several hours before I could get a room because they had to finish checkouts for the day and clean. Still smiling, I accepted this rather distressing news, collected my bag and went to the small Indian restaraunt next door.

I got a coffee and started chatting to the Burmese owner. The heat of the day was mounting rapidly, as was my hangover. I imbibed in a little hair of the dog and felt better. The circus around me got more and more unbearable, although the one redeamng feature was the incredible number of sexy white women displaying varying amounts of skin for my viewing pleasure. There were lots of fat, hairy old North American and European men with sweet young Thai girls. In Thailand it is considered a pretty good gig for a chick to score a farang (foriegner) with a bank account, even if he looks like an orc. None of the girls looked very happy though. I continued to observe, distressed and increasingly depressed. For some reason I find it demeaning to find myself in travel mode halfway around the world and to be forced to share my space with a bunch of overwieght European couples who sit around and grumble about the instant coffee, chain smoke, and furiously flip the pages of their Lonely Planets with pudgy white fingers. The fish and chips shop was doing brisk business. Suprisingly, there were a lot of Brits there, scarfing eggs and beans, drinking beer, and guffawing loudly as only the British can do. The tailor shops opened and I was solicited to buy a custom suit by every one of them. Unlike most of my foriegn compatriots, I kept talking to them after I told them I didn't want a suit and found myself a handful of good friends. They were all from Burma, spoke pretty good English and were happy to talk. The poor bastards spent 12 hours trying to sell suits to rude farangs, dressed to the nines, in the scorching sun. Not an enviable position.

I walked around a bit in an attempt to stay awake. I had my pack still, that 25 pound weight I was boasting about was getting heavier and heavier as the sun inched towards its apex, and I made my way slowly through the alleys around Rambuttri. It was monstrous. Everything was geared towards farang pleasure. T-shirt shops, pirate music stands, busy restaraunts selling hamburgers and bacon and eggs, massage parlors, hotels, bookshops, and miscellany galore. A scummy character wearing a CCCP tanktop and Nike shoes walked past. I guess the irony was lost on him. I fled back to the relative safety of the Indian restaraunt.

My room was finally ready around 2:00PM. I wound through the halls of the huge complex until I found C210. The room was spartan but it had a TV, a (broken) aircon unit and a private hotwater bathroom. I collapsed into a sweaty slumber until nightfall.