The following diatribe is dedicated to my editor Liz “Lola Canola” Wells, with love and thanks from Craig “Jurgen Sorghum” and in memory of our crop reporting days.
1. BEVERLY ‘S HILL
This week’s million dollar question: Why can’t travel writers and television hosts show a little more imagination and resist the compulsion to compare places in Asia with destinations, streets or cities in the “developed’ world? Why, why, why, I ask you? It’s irritating, irksome, idiotic and it really gets my goat.
While I’m no stranger to idiocy – especially after a bottle or two of Sauvignon Plonk -- I’m not easily irked. Ask anyone.
But I was peeved to read in an in-flight magazine recently that Macau is the “Vegas of the Far East.” Oh Please.
Singapore, unbelievably, was described on a shallow travel show as “a much larger version of New York’s China Town, only cleaner.”
And “Sisowath SPELLINGQuay in the Cambodian capital Phnom Penh is the Promenade de Anglais of this impoverished former French colony. But it would be wise not to stray too far from it if you value your safety,” warned a London newspaper. Dear oh dear, what bollocks.
On that note, I was astonished to learn from CNN and the New York Times that Thonglor, the street on which I live, is apparently “widely known as the Beverly Hills of Bangkok.” Widely known by whom? The International Association of Travel Writers? The Foundation for TV cliché speak? It’s certainly news to me.
Granted, parts of it are glamorous, grandiose and egregiously expensive, but Beverly Hills?
I only ever visited L.A.’s suburb of choice for the rich and famous once. And that was quite a few years ago.
But I don’t recall seeing kamikaze motorcycle taxi drivers wired on Red Bull charging full throttle down pavements; Nor did I notice pushcart peddlers selling fried grasshoppers and dried squid, blind singing beggars with strap-on portable sound systems, open drains, or plastic bags, used condoms and the occasional dead dog drifting down putrid canals.
The bridal shop mannequins all had heads in Beverly Hills and were draped in more tasteful garments, the stores were upmarket with unimaginative generic names. There was not a House of Cheesecake, a Superstar Academy, a Marry Me Baby, Balloons or Bust, Mr. Bag Fix-It, Mrs. Smiley Face Happy Dentist or a Botoxilicious sign in site.
Beverly Hills felt devoid of character and unwelcoming, its residents hermetically sealed in their mansions behind security gates in pristine, PALM TREEPLINED but people-less streets, -- at least in the gated “residential zones.”
Thonglor could never be described as pristine, we don’t have many trees and zoning never really caught on here, nor did pedestrian crossings for that matter. But much of life is lived on its streets. TOO MANY REFERNCE TO STREET LIFEXXXXX
It’s a cacophonous, chaotic mix of the young and old, the traditional and not so traditional.
Thonglor, which connects Sukhumvit and Petburi Roads, is teaming , clogged with cars, motorcycles and outdoor stalls, sheltered from the sun by stolen beach umbrellas, that makes walking along the footpath a bit of an ordeal.
The street life, which characterizes Bangkok, has survived despite the city’s seemingly relentless pursuit of modernity, materialism and economic success.
A block down from my apartment, a woman with an ancient Singer sewing machine sits in front of a luxury 30-floor condo mending shirts, socks and zippers for $1 a piece.
A man in a cowboy hat rides his three-wheeled bicycle up and down the street selling brooms and mops, competing for road space with SUVs, Mercedes and BMWs.
Down at the intersection, Miss Noi sits in the same spot she has occupied for 30 years, threading jasmine onto intricate Buddhist garlands and selling orchids as the ultra-modern Skytrain zooms overhead.
On Thonglor, street sweepers, candy floss men, motorcycle taxis, sticky rice stands and hundreds of hole-in-the-wall eateries co-exist with upscale bridal salons, Botox clinics, modern malls, Porsche showrooms, five star hotels, chic boutiques and trendy bars catering to Thai and foreign clubbers with pockets full of cash.
That’s why I love it. It’s loud, lurid, frustrating and fabulous, but its quintessentially Bangkok, not Beverly Bloody Hills.
Still, if the name catches on, I’m sure we’ll all go with it. Bangkokians are nothing, if not adaptable and faddish.
They’ll probably erect a sign, down near “The Trendiest Condominium in the World”, which will more than likely be grammatically flawed. It might say something Like “Welcome to Thonglor – Beverly’s Hill in Bangkok.”
I worry, though, that if Thonglor is officially renamed Beverly’s Hill, does that make its residents, including myself, Beverly’s Hillbillies?
Should my friend Stu and I consider changing the name of our hugely successful cover band from the Petburi Shop Boys to the Clampert Family Crooners?
And should I send my dear maid Sanom out shootin’ at some food? CHECK
To be fair, Bangkok means different things to different folk. It is a difficult place to capture on paper or on TV. And the city is so diverse, sprawling and ever changing that making sense of it can be daunting.
The myriad of books, both travel guides and fiction, even the odd song portray varying versions of the so-called City of Angels. Fair enough given people have hugely different perceptions of the city, but some verge on ludicrous.
Bangkok , if you believe the locally published foreign male authors commonly referred to as the sexpats – is a dark, dank, dangerous place where pole dancing sirens slither like snakes in seedy sex clubs; evil lady boys lure unsuspecting sex tourists to love motels for trysts before drugging them and making off with their cash, Rolexes and occasionally even their clothes, and where hit men disguised as blind street food sellers lurk on every corner, ready to mow you down if you’ve had a falling out with the mamas an or fled without paying your bar tab.
I’ve been here for 20 years and have yet to encounter a hitman, let alone one in dark glasses selling fish balls on a stick.
Yes, Bangkok was once famous for its sex, sin and sleaze -- a paradise for men who couldn’t get laid elsewhere but, for a few thousand Baht, could have booby babes swarming all over their big bellies and more blow jobs than you could poke a stick at.
As Murray Head sang, or rather spoke to musical accompaniment: “One night in Bangkok makes a hard man humble, ‘aint NOTXXXX much between despair and ecstasy.” I’ve always loved that line.
But the red light areas are pretty tame these days and make up only a small part of the vibrant nightlife.
Foreigners have been coming here for years. Thais are used to us, our large sweat-soaked bodies, our loud voices and occasional cultural insensitivities. They take it with a grain of salt and their characteristic good humor.
Some of the guidebooks don’t seem to comprehend this. One very famous one devotes a dozen or so pages to the “Dos AND don’ts’ in the Land of Smiles.
Particularly offensive, according to the rule book, is leaving your chopsticks in a vertical position on top of leftover rice on your plate – who would even think of doing that? – and pointing your feet at Thai people, which the book would have you believe would reduce them to tears, spark an onset of bad Karma and possibly land you in jail. . XXXXX MAKE IT FUNNIER
“Always eat with a spoon,” it trumpets. “Under no circumstances should a fork make contact with your mouth.” My Thai friends thought the latter, in particular, was hilarious.
Recently a new breed of writers have sprung up – the women’s literary group. Its purpose, I gather, is to give foreign women a voice, present their impressions of Bangkok and counter the sleazy nonsense espoused by the male sexpat scribes.
This seemed like a good idea in theory until their book came out last year.
Judging from the first few stories, they don’t seem to have much of an impression of Bangkok or anything of substance to say.
“When friends and family back home ask me why of all of places (sic) I ended up in Bangkok in steamy Southeast Asia, I tell them I really have no idea. Who ever knows these things? “Riveting.
Some of the others tend towards the “I love this Land and its Peoples” line, effusively praising the Thai “peoples” who are so full of “charm, grace and always smiling.” They are obviously in the love affair/novelty stage of life in Bangkok where everything is new and exotic, cheap domestic help is readily at hand and the Chamber of Commerce costume balls are a hoot
This phase often ends with a thud as adoration turns to frustration then hatred before they run screaming for the next plane to Sydney, London or Milwaukee vowing never to set foot in this “hellhole” again.
Of course, the women don’t write that. By this time they’ve either unraveled, gone into therapy or are still reeling from the shock of being abandoned by their investment banker husband, who has takiENup with a local lass and moved upcountry to her hometown to buy three new buffaloes, pay for grandma’s cataract operation and install a new irrigation system. And that’s not fiction.
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