Ao Nang www.wanderingwendyswonderings.blogspot.com

Both beautiful and bland all in one yawny breath.  As long as you face west, this place is as stunning as any other of the exquisite beaches of Thailand that line its coasts.  On bright days the sea is calm and a colour chart of warm green to deep blue, lime stone islands are dotted across the horizon and long tail boats bounce along the surface of the ocean, spraying a white tail behind them.  Turn around though and you have a watered down version of Khao San Road, catering for families, men looking for Thai love longer than one night, and package holiday makers.  

A road runs along the side of the beach, elevated from the shore.  On the other side of the road from the beach are restaurants, at present desperate for custom, each one along a baht less for a pizza, or an extra percent off the menu, what with it being the beginning of low season.  There are countless souvenir shops, 7-11’s, massage parlours, hair braiding, travel agents and T-shirt shops, blah, blah, blah.  The depravity of Khao San Road is not here, but its essence is.  The wrist bands with obnoxious messages have gone, but the t-shirts aren’t much better.  Most extolling the virtues of women with their legs spread.  

(Ahhh, yawn, I am almost too bored to write any more about the place.  Did I mention it was bland?)  

The road curves up away from the beach, to be over looked by an imposing limestone monolith, making the banality of the activity below all the more apparent.  Further up the road are more of the same, Irish bars, Reggae bars, Girly bars and more massage.  

However, to be fair to the place, although it is bland, in the blandest sense of the word, it is very clean – not that that should be the selling point of a place.  Oh, it’s clean.  A hospital is clean, but who wants to holiday in a hospital.  And there is a lot of green.  Again, not exactly a selling point given that crocodiles are green, and, again, no one wants to holiday in a crocodile.   Trees have been planted every couple of metres along the road.   Tiles have been inlaid into the pavements to make them look more interesting, in a bland kind of way.  There are curved benches, and snaking low walls that all show a bit of thought in the design of the place.    

Oh my life, I can’t be bothered to talk about the place any more….it’s too…..bland?  Oh, but there are the sunsets......

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The content on this website is copyright of Wendy King - © Wendy King 2012 All rights reserved.

www.wanderingwendyswonderings.blogspot.com

Any redistribution or reproduction of part or all of the contents in any form is prohibited other than the following:

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You may not, except with my express written permission, distribute or commercially exploit the content. Nor may you transmit it or store it in any other website or other form of electronic retrieval system.

www.wanderingwendyswonderings.blogspot.com 

Ladyboys

The ubiquitous Thai ladyboy.  Seen working everywhere from tit bars to 7-11’s.  Some much more obvious than others.  There are those that put exquisite care into their appearances, perfect hair, minutely detailed nails, curve accentuating clothes, a well-practised hip swing even in killer heels, bouncing bosoms, painted up in an idea of unmitigated femininity.  However, as beautiful as they look, everyone knows they are a man, there isn’t a single woman on the planet, bar the Beckham’s of this world, who put that much effort into looking good (and one could argue she looks more a pretend woman rather than a real one).  And then there are the less bothered ones.  They got the silicon slipped under their skin, creating weird little mounds, like wonky teacakes, and ta-da, that’s it, effort done with.  They might shave a couple of times a week, and for those lazy days, slap on a bit of extra foundation to try and conceal the prickly bits of hair poking out over their top lips.  A pair of sling backs might be evident, but there is no tottering; the ape like lunging steps, lolling from side to side, show the lack of commitment to the attire they have adorned.  And the trousers, designed for a little hip and arse, flap their loose bits as flags to an unsuited body shape.

Then there are unfortunate consequences when the ladyboys get old.  As they are still men, and either due to a half-hearted commitment to becoming a woman, or lack of funds, still have male hormones.  Sadly there comes a point in a ladyboys life, as it does in most men’s life that is feared, dreaded and as unmentionable as the real size of a girlfriends arse.  The hair starts to recede and thin around the crown – I think it is called a monkeys arsehole, as I was once charmingly informed.  For the ladyboy, there is no option of shaving it all off and being done with it.  That would look even weirder –right?  So they are stuck with it, well without it really.  The long luscious locks that have previously been swished in younger years of faux-feminine glory, are faded and thin, so regardless of the efforts made to wax that man right out of ones moustache, the monkey’s arse has the last, cruel, laugh.

They don’t like me either.   I am being shunned on a daily basis by the ladyboy.  I am not sure what it is about me they dislike so much, but if I have to deal with one in some way, they generally give me some sort of diva-ish attitude, with a wrist bent, offering me a dismissive hand, and head turned slightly away, eyes looking blankly elsewhere, indicating that they would really rather not have to bother with me, faking indifference.  Seeing as this attitude is evident before I even speak, I can only assume it has something to do with how I look or hold myself.  A Thai lady told me it was just because I was a woman.  I will have to ask some other female farangs to see if they are also subjected to this bizarre discrimination.

But one question I would really like answered is this.  Why are there so many ladyboys in Thailand?  I understand that the Thai’s are generally very tolerant, but that doesn’t explain why so many of the men want to be women.  If the same tolerance where allowed in other countries of the world, would there be more Western men squealing over Take That and discussing diets, would Indian men be sashaying around in sequinned saris and complimenting each other on their biryani’s, and would Arab men be embracing the burkha, adorning it with pretty sparkles so their personalities shimmered though? 

Koh Phayam www.wanderingwendyswonderings.blogspot.com

‘Every day is like Sunday, every day is silent and grey.  It’s a seaside town they forgot to shut down.’

Aow Yai beach, a 3 km gently curving bay, bends its way around the dense green forest of the inner island, offering a short sandy doorstep to the Andaman sea.  The sea, an immense expanse of mottled green, white capped turbulence, beats a monsoon rhythm upon the tireless sand.  The heavy clouds spill oppressively across the sky, shedding rivers of rain onto the sea and land, and bringing a squall of wind that breathes fiercely onto the shore, the trees and shrubs bowing frantically to its might.  Without the winds bringing the rains in from the sea, the air is thick and heavy with warmed water.  Oppressive heat and humidity cling to the skin and block the pores.     

Behind the curtain of green that hides the lines of beach huts, there are vibrant forest, home to noises of the jungle.  The tinnitus ring of cicadas, tut-tutting of birds unseen in the trees above, and the click and buzz of exotic insects, create an ear aching din of nature; and at night the deep rumble of hundreds of belching frogs, burps loudly into the darkness.  And the darkness is just that, when the moon sits behind the clouds, there is no adjusting of the eyes to the light, there is no light.  Footsteps made into the darkness, along a path seemingly innocuous during the day, turns into tentative wobble into thick bushes and complete disorientation.

This is one of Thailand’s quieter islands during the peak season, and during monsoon it is all but deserted.  We are sharing the beach with maybe 20 other people.  And it is nice, with the turbulence of the weather, there is no feeling that we ‘should be doing something’, there is nothing to do, except watch the waves relentlessly fall upon the shore and comment on the changes to the ever varying grey of the brooding clouds.

Copyright notice

The content on this website is copyright of Wendy King - © Wendy King 2012 All rights reserved.

www.wanderingwendyswonderings.blogspot.com

Any redistribution or reproduction of part or all of the contents in any form is prohibited other than the following:

·         you may print or download to a local hard disk extracts for your personal and non-commercial use only

·         you may copy the content to individual third parties for their personal use, but only if you acknowledge the website as the source of the material

You may not, except with my express written permission, distribute or commercially exploit the content. Nor may you transmit it or store it in any other website or other form of electronic retrieval system.

www.wanderingwendyswonderings.blogspot.com 

Khao San Road - Bangkok

‘What do you want?’  The city asks.

‘Strong alcohol, cheap Oriental pussy, men with tits, women capable of shooting hypodermic needles from their vaginas, tattoos, date rape drugs, oblivion, memory loss, diet pills, valium, mistrust, debauchery 24 hours a day, and a wrist band souvenir to take home to my family saying ‘I love rape’.’  The Western tourist replies.    

This thronging street is lined with boutique hotels, bars with buckets, tattoo artists, beauty salons (where the price of waxing depends on the size of the hair), 7-11’s, Boots, STD clinics, street stalls selling clothes, hair braids, pad thai, spring rolls, walking along it are the women selling wrist bands, balloons, wooden frogs, plastic tat and hats, there are tailors trailing the tourist talking about their suits made to order, and men flashing cards of female flesh whispering indiscreetly about ping pong shows.  Music from all around, competing pop from bars, merging into one incomprehensible cacophony, banging and beating its way down the street.  Above all this is the neon, bigger and bigger signs, with brighter lights sprouting from the walls of the buildings clamouring to find space and attention, to take centre stage above the tourists head. 

But it is clean, the locals are tolerant, accepting and uncurious about the depressing manifestation that this place has become.  They seem fine with all as long as it is paid for.  In our hotel was a list of every item within it, the sink, wall hangings, windows, bed sheets, table, fridge, etc. and the cost of replacing it.  And despite all the relentless booze, drugs and sex, there is no violence, no anger and people seem happy to mill around in this scene of depressing depravity.  Khao San Road, the place where hedonism ate itself.

Pokhara

This is the second of Nepal’s two cities.  Outside the main locals town, and accessed along a bumpy, potholed road, flanked by soft green roadside where fat, glossy cows munch contentedly, is a tourist town.  A modest, calm, town sat aside a large clean lake, sunk in the hills, and overlooked by a protective arc of the Annapurna range of the Himalayas.  The central lakeside is unashamedly touristy, bars, restaurants, hiking gear shops, adventure sports agents and souvenir shops vie for the visitors attention and outside the main drag of a few of hundred metres, the requests to spend dwindles, and the road becomes quieter, greener, lusher, calmer; and quite possibly close to what heaven is meant to look like.  At the north end of the lake, the road departs from the lakeside, and is replaced with a vibrant green carpet of gentle grass that is soft enough to lie upon.  Wooden hut cafes sit unobtrusively back from the gentle slope to the lake offering views across and beyond the tranquil mirror still waters.  Plump cows and goats, with lush, intact, coats share the space with chubby dogs and smiling people.  Men in wooden canoes paddle with unrushed ease across the lake, spreading their simple fishing nets behind them as they cruise the calm waters.  Across the other side of the lake are undulating hills, bursting with trees, each one clamouring for a bit more space as the terrain creeps serenely upwards.   

Each afternoon since I have arrived, the calm surface of the lake is broken by the thump of marble sized raindrops that pound down from the skies, accompanied by bright electric streaks that disappear behind the hills illuminating them in bright splendour, and the comforting growl of thunder as it rumbles around the valleys.  In the morning the clouds, having been dissolved by the previous afternoon’s downpour, are gone, and the white peaks of the Himalayas can be seen sitting ethereally, regally, god like in the sky.   When the sun shines, it is a warm sun that glows, and a gentle breeze skips lightly across the skin.  There is a calm in the air here that sits peacefully in the ears and mutes the stress within the soul.

And like Darjeeling, there is none of the hassle I have become accustomed to in India.  In every sense.  In addition to the wonderful temperament of the inhabitants here, the sense of apathy has gone.  All the rooms in the guest houses are spotlessly clean, not a single spore, nor a creeping grime line can be seen anywhere.  There is solar heating in most places.  Efforts are made to reduce electricity use (aside from the regular, but irregularly timed, power cuts).  Places boast of their commitment to women’s empowerment, donations of profit to orphanages, and considered treatment of the environment.  The place I have secured a room for the next month has used mud brick in the walls to keep rooms cool in summer and warm in winter, along with using through flows of air to cool rooms instead of fans and has solar heated water.  I have exquisite views of the lake, and the other side of the hills, a balcony, a beautiful room , immaculate bathroom, lovely gardens and when the electricity is out it is quiet, so, so quiet, all for £5 a night.  The Nepalese don’t seem to have a hand glued to the horn like the Indians do, neither do they feel the need to taint all things beautiful with a heavy scattering of plastic.  

However with this serenity comes a price.  Hippies.  Dreadlocked, morose looking fools, smoking way too much dope and taking themselves far too seriously.  When the electricity is on the thump of Goan trance music beats an obtrusive rhythm through the tranquillity.  Fortunately there is an 11 o’clock curfew that means it doesn’t go on for any longer than that, along with regular power outages which offer solace from the shit music that no one even seems to be enjoying.  For the younger hippies there are plenty of warnings of what their deluded, dope induced ramblings will come to if they don’t start thinking about what they are saying, in the form of seriously mentally unstable, toothless, shaggy looking twats.   It seems to me, after some study, that the young hippy starts with an uneducated search for meaning in their life, and instead of reading, learning and thinking about their perspectives, they make it up as they go along and feed ignorance off each other.  A few examples I have heard are, ‘the planet has DNA, and it is mutating at the moment to make seriously bad changes’, ‘drawing shapes and colouring them in can unblock past traumas’, ‘there are sadus that are able to sustain life for 12 years without eating’, along with the ever inane ‘the universe will give you what you want, just ask’, and ‘I’m an old soul’.   This is all obviously quite irritating to listen to, especially when challenges to their world view are received with accusations that I am closed and not open to the universe.  But the really worrying things is what happens when these bizarre mumblings about ‘life, the universe and everything’ are left to manifest and connect all the crazy neurons in the head.  They turn into people who believe they are ‘Shiva, the Buddha and Christ’ reincarnate, that they have the ability to control the forces of nature, that they have understood the mathematics of the universe and know its end, that they are ‘like the Buddha, but less arrogant’ insofar as they won’t tell people how to live their lives, but will just smile at them.  Some of these delusions are so well constructed and insanely far-fetched it is genuinely worrying.  Deeply twisted fantasies about their lives and journeys within it.  What is even sadder, is that in the 3 weeks I was there, I never heard much laughter.  People were so engrossed in their own sense of importance, they forgot to have fun.  Maybe this is the key to staying ‘sane’, laughing at your insanity.

But, aside from the hippies, this place feels like Shangri-La.  There is nothing else I can think I want from a place………..except maybe a loud speaker and a troupe of rational thinking, fun loving, mischief makers to poke fun at the delusional until they start to laugh at themselves and remember what fun is.