BANGKOK TALES

by

Ray Storey

...in which I  illustrate the nature of life in Bangkok, where it is truly an unusual day if I cannot recall anything that has caused me to pause and reflect on what a wonderful  city it is...

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. Ghosts of the massage parlor

2. Service Plus!

3. Urinal Assault

4. Squirrel Superhighway

5. Head and Shoulders massage

6. Taxi Meter

7. Motorcycle Taxi

8. Chatuchuk Weekend Market

9. Motorcycle Safety Campaign

10. Another bridge to cross

11. School excursion

1. Ghosts of the Massage Parlour

Where's my Joss House?

We have just returned from the neighbourhood Massage Parlor [real massage, folks, not the rub'n'tug variety from the tourist precincts], which Na and I visit together about once a week for a session of extremely relaxing traditional Thai massage.

"What was all that chatter about?", I ask, in reference to the almost continuous interchange between Na and Aung [Na's masseuse... a pleasant, intelligent, very competent 40'ish lady].

And so she tells me.....

Owner of the Business is a successful Chinese gentleman, who has several businesses in our lane. He is continually watching what is happening in this area and, when he feels the time is right, he opens another business.

A few months ago several tall apartment towers came on stream, and so the population of middle class Thais has increased quite a bit. The Businessman acquired a town-house close-by the new towers and set it up as another branch of the massage business.

The number of masseuses has been increased, and they operate as a kind of resource pool to service customers in both premises. A few bicycles have been supplied to enable the workers to quickly deploy to wherever the need is greatest.

But, the workers don't like the new establishment; their dislike is so great in fact that a few have resigned and moved away. Aung is staying put, but is quite vocal in her protests; she is hoping the Businessman can be persuaded to make a remedy.

It's not that the new premises are poor quality, or infested with rats, or attracting unsavory clients; the problem is Ghosts!

Recently, Aung was on duty at the place during a quiet time at the start of the day. Actually, she was the only person in the place, and her task was to check everything out to make sure it was ready to receive customers; perhaps burn a mosquito coil in a room known to harbor mosquitoes, or flush a urinal where a cockroach may have committed suicide overnight.

Aung was on the top floor, checking the supplies of pyjamas [to be worn by clients receiving traditional Thai massage] and towels.

There was a faint, but unmistakable creaking as of someone [or something] slowly ascending the wooden staircase. Aung held her breath. She felt the hairs rising on the back of her neck. She tried to remain calm. There was a sensation of disturbed air beside her left ear, as if an invisible bird had just flown by.

Aung dashed down the 3 floors of stairs, and out into the reception veranda; there she sat, until other workers arrived.

There have been other incidents.

Why are Ghosts in this new, previously uninhabited town-house that is now fitted out as a Massage Parlor? Well...the answer is simple. The Chinese Businessman does not have the same belief system as his Thai workers.

Thai people know very well that it is essential to provide lodgings for the Ghosts of the people, now deceased, who once lived on this ground. Thai people erect a small dwelling, known as a Joss House [Thai.....sarn], on a tall pedestal to avoid a living human's shadow shading it, in some pleasant corner of the garden; they furnish the dwelling, place small plastic or plaster avatars in the dwelling, and generally make it a pleasant place for Ghosts to live. Thai people will burn a little incense at the sarn each morning, and leave a little water and perhaps some fruit, so the Ghosts can be comfortable and have no need to go into the other buildings.

The Chinese Businessman will not provide a sarn at this site, and has no empathy with the workers who might be prepared to organise one.

Ghosts

There are about as many sarn in Thailand as there are buildings. There is one near the front entrance of the tall, modern building where I work; as I arrive in the morning I notice many of my Thai fellow-workers giving a deep and respectful wai in the direction of the sarn as they pass by.

I was asked by a middle age Thai male co-worker once if I believed in Ghosts. "No", I replied, emphatically. After considering my response for a while, he then said "I don't believe in Ghosts either.....but, I saw one once!"

Thai movies and TV soap-operas are full of Ghosts, both benign and not.

2. Service Plus!

What answer would you like to get?

Next to the famous Lumpini Park, in Bangkok, is the Suan Lum Night Bazaar. It's a sprawling attempt at an upmarket Chatuchuk Weekend Market, and is clearly targeting foreign tourists. Suan Lum has hundreds of small "shops" selling all manner of tourist stuff, like clothing, furniture, paintings, ceramics; it has an enormous outdoor beer hall, with large stage for performances by live rock bands; it recently acquired a 56 cage ferris wheel, which serves more as an advertising landmark than as an attraction for fun-seeking adolescents.

We are visiting Suan Lum, as we are seeking a few small items that should be readily available here; hand-towels, bamboo serving trays, that kind of thing. We are also hunting for a small submersible water pump to drive the terracotta water feature we recently purchased, sans hardware, from a roadside stall.

We have everything, except the water pump. We walk up and down, peering into dozens of possible sellers, without luck; there are several shops selling water features with pumps, but none seem able to offer advice or guidance...perhaps they are hoping we will give up, abandon the water feature, buy a new one that comes complete.

Mawin offers a diversion; boredom causes him to brush his hand across a stall's goods and sweep a small ceramic trinket onto the tiled floor where it instantly transforms into a 20 piece 3D jigsaw puzzle; Na apologises to the vendor, offers to pay, is told "mai pen rai [it doesn't matter]", so thumps Mawin on the bum as a non-monetary compensation on his behalf.

We are all getting a bit tired and frustrated; I think perhaps I might do the Mawin thing as a diversion; saved...I see a tourist map of the place and suggest it might give us a clue. Can't see anything useful....just a minute..."Pets...section #D"; eerrrr...pets = cats, dogs, fish...fish = tanks, weeds, pebbles, filters, pumps...there we go.

We find section #D and, indeed, there are several fish and aquarium supply shops. We enter the first one, where a stout, balding, middle-aged guy immediately steps forward.

"Yes", he says, I have pumps. He grabs a cardboard box off a shelf.

"Is it strong?" I ask, "Does it make big water?" enacting a monumental water fountain with my arms.

"Yes", he replies, "is very STRONG" and he outdoes my gyrations.

"Oh", I say, "we don't want a strong one...what we need is a small, weak little one", making minute fountain movements with the tips of my fingers.

He pretends to read the cover of the box, turning it over in his hands a couple of times and squinting intently. "Actually", he says, while demonstrating timid little movements with his finger-tips, "this is very NOT STRONG."

Oh, joy! Mission accomplished. We have the pump, and I am not one to quibble about fitness-for-purpose when I am hot and tired. In due course we will set up the water feature and see if it is an "old man" or a "young boy".

3. Urinal Assault

Dangerous public Mens' Rooms!

The first time it happened to me I thought I was being assaulted, so there was a near-death experience for a guy in the men's room.

Now that I understand the drill, I have devised a cunning plan [as will be understood by fans of the Black Adder British TV series from a few years back].

It was my first visit to Tawan Daeng, one of the gigantic theatre restaurant establishments in Bangkok. Tawan Daeng is close to my apartment; it is a huge barn of a place; table-seating for 1000 or so patrons; a large stage for live shows of indifferent-to-excellent quality; a German boutique brewery, manufacturing 3 or 4 tasty beers on the premises; a kitchen that offers quite decent quality Thai and ruptured-Western dishes.

I am with a few friends from work, and we are having a party to celebrate some sort of successful project outcome. At least, the couple of foreigners with me are celebrating, washing down the food with large quantities of the home brew; the Thais with us are eating modestly, sipping minutely on the token beer to make it last until they can excuse themselves and go home [or, side-trip to the room of their mia noi (= minor wife, or all expenses paid girlfriend); they are also observing with huge amusement how their foreigners "party".

At one point, my bladder protests, so I locate the men's room with the assistance of a waitress and weave through the crowded hall to the bladder de-stress room. I step up to the porcelain tub, release the beast, fill my foggy brain with excellent images of cascading torrents, and start the relief.

Ye Gods! Something red hot has been swiped across the back of my neck! Before I can respond, two strong fists have commenced rabbit-chopping the base of my neck! The brain clears...obviously it was a razor-sharp knife that cut into my neck, which explains the wet sensation on the collar; the assailant is now trying to break my thick farang neck, so he can rob me while I lay helpless and dying on the piss-wet floor.

I am not done-for yet! I release the beast [thus pissing down the front of my trousers]... I crouch and spin, feinting right, then spinning left on my heels...fists ready to drive the attacker's nose bones deep into his brain...I commence the killing reprisal.

Fortunately, the "assailant" is young, fit and alert; he sees what is happening and springs back out of range; arms raised and open hands towards me in the universal sign of "cool it, mate, I'm just doing my job".

Now I become aware that we are not alone in the men's room...actually, there must be at least ten other guys with us...they are all laughing, or at least beaming big, toothy grins at me.

I swipe at the back of my neck, pulling away...no, not gore...a warm, moist hand-towel!

The truth dawns! My "assailant" is a men's room orderly; he is running a little side-business in quick, sharp, neck and shoulder massages for customers as they are engaged in relieving their bladders.

Now, I am hot and sober from embarrassment! The entrepreneur points discretely at the front of my trousers, where "Ray Jnr" is trapped by underpants elastic, half in and half out. Hastily I correctly my public exposure. The orderly dashes off, returning quickly with a handful of tissues and proceeds to energetically work on the large wet patch just south of my crotch; I buy him off with a 20 baht note, awkwardly recovered from my wallet in just about the place he is rubbing.

I slink out of the mens room.

<< >>

I am an old hand at this game now...I have a routine [aka cunning plan]:

1. I place a 20 baht note in my shirt pocket, so there is no fumbling with my wallet in the semi-dark and possibly mistaking a 1000baht note for a 20.

2. I ignore the "call to action" from my bladder until the tone sounds distressed; this ensures I will be able to pee, even if there is the major diversion from the vigorous neck-and-shoulder workout.

3. I keep a firm grip on Ray Jnr at all times.

Actually...now I know the ropes, the treatment is a bit of fun!

4. Squirrel super-highway

Bangkok…home of the traffic extreme gridlock

There have been many major infrastructure projects in the past 10 years or so to ease this problem and, despite popularity of Skytrain, subway, and rat's nest of somewhat interlinked elevated roadways, it is still quite on the cards that you will come to a sudden and lengthy stop as you try to make your way from one side of the city to the other.

I have just witnessed evidence that a smarter species than mankind have managed to solve this problem.

We are visiting friends in a small low rent [read "slum"] area near the old airport. Travelling by car, and using the "convenience" of the elevated tung duan [tollway], it has still taken us 45 minutes or more to cover the modest distance from our apartment.

We have arrived. I step out of the air-conditioned cocoon of the car and into the cauldron of stifling 40degree heat in the narrow lane outside the dwelling place. I find a plastic chair and some shade; our host trains a large domestic fan on me, and brings a long icy "pepsi"...obviously she does not want to be regarded as responsible if the farang turns up his toes on her door-step.

I acclimatise, slowly. I retrieve my camera from the car, and allow my eyes to wander about, looking [on automatic] for something that might be interesting material for one of the photoblogs I contribute to daily; that should amuse me for an hour or so while everyone prepares the evening meal. It's too damn hot...even the flies are comatose in the shade.

Something catches my eye, overhead. I look up. No birds in the bright blue sky. There it is again. I sit up, and focus my eyes deliberately. Up there...on the power lines. Small, hairy, and with a [relatively] huge, bushy tail...its a squirrel, and it is bounding along on the black plastic covered wire.

I fumble with my camera...but I am too slow in these conditions. Finally its powered up, lens cap off and ready to shoot. The squirrel is gone. Probably leaped off the line and into the large flowering tree nearby for a snack of flower-buds. I stagger to my feet and amble over to the tree. Peering up into the foliage and heavy blossomed tree fails to uncover the little rodent.

I am on my feet, now, so might as well wander about for a while...perhaps something of interest will appear, and pose, for this slow-moving photographer. I walk to the end of the lane, into another, then another...this place is a maze of narrow lanes. Finally, after travelling 700-800 metres, I come to a major road. All I have found so far is a mildly interesting red bug and a couple of [frankly] boring flowers. Time to retrace my steps, and take refuge in the fan-blasted farang-friendly cell.

Something causes me to glance up. There it is again...that squirrel.

That's how it gets about in the congested city. It has an overhead highway, where it has no problems with cars, people, dogs, cats....perhaps the only predator it has in the environment is hawk or kite, and the power-lines possible cause them some problems too.

The camera is ready and the brain is sort-of functioning, so I manage a couple of pictures and a short video; maybe there is something I can use later.

There are several trees touching or close to the power-lines, and the little guy stops at a couple of these as I travel with him; it rubs its body along a branch occasionally....fleas, or perhaps scent glands.

"This is funny", I think, as I leap back into a bush to avoid being struck by a fast moving motorcycle; "the little bugger has a better road system up there than I have down here".

Now it has turned around, so I rush along after it, and within minutes I am back with my friends and my comforts.

Life in the teeming city of Bangkok is not so challenging if you are a wild squirrel.

5. Head and shoulders massage

 Thai Massage [nudge, nudge; wink, wink]

Khun Nat [pronounced "Nit"] is the only guy working at the Massage shop in Soi 4, in the company of about 15 mostly very attractive Thai gals aged about 25-35 years. He specialises in all kinds of massage and has a [mostly] all-male client base. He is a very friendly guy, with an excellent disposition...and he gives great, but painful, massage.

I have a tension headache...across my eyebrows, and down the back of my neck. We are visiting our friends at Soi 4 Massage to recover some money loaned to one of them and to return the fancy mobile phone given as collateral. Na suggests I try the Head & Shoulders massage, and Nat is available.

I sit in one of the fake leather foot massage chairs on view to the passing public, and place my calves on the foot stool. Nat pushes to chair back to the full reclining position and stands behind my head.

I shut my eyes. I get a face full of steaming hot towel! I get two thumbs on my eye-balls, and a thorough working of the eye-socket ridges! The towel is removed from my face and firmly rubbed over my face and front and back of my neck. The moisture is removed with face tissue. My ears are rubbed between thumb and forefinger.

There is 45 minutes on unrelenting attention to every square cm of skin from my scalp to the bottom of my rib-cage front and back...and to the maximum depth allowed by my bones. It is excruciatingly painful; my headache is gone; perhaps it has been replaced by the sensations of the massage. Each arm receives 15 minutes of attention, with every muscle, sinew and bone surface getting solid manipulation.

Now Nat is sitting on the foot stool, and I am sitting on a shorter one with my back to him, and my arms hanging loosely at my sides. Now there is 10 minutes of stretching, squeezing, and deep, deep massage of all the muscles on the back of my neck and across the shoulders; it hurts like hell, but I don't want it to stop.

But it does....250baht please [AU$8]. I doubt that it gets much better than that. There is a cup of warm green tea for me to drink while I consider the possibility of standing up.

I have other massage experiences, and will document them another time.

I have some friends who have experienced Thai massage and reported a sense of terror from the rigor of it, to the extent that they have never been game to try a repeat performance. My experience is different.

6. Taxi Meter

The Bangkok Taxi Driver is a strange animal

Here are the challenges:

1. Get him to stop for me I am at the curb; I want to take a taxi to my other office; there are many taxis in Bangkok [about75,000 by my estimate] and quite a few are passing by on this busy route; I can see by the illuminated red light in the bottom left of the windscreen that a fair proportion are vacant; I indicate my desire to hire, by extending one arm a few degrees to the front of my body and flapping my hand gently like a lady-boy trying to dry his fingernail paint; three or four vacant cars pass by without evidence that I was noticed; he sees me, ignites hazard lights, slows, draws to the curb.

2. Get him to agree to taking me as a passenger I am about to move to the rear passenger side door; he lowers the power-operated window of the front passenger-side door; he looks at me, but says nothing; I say [in my best Thai accent] "pie U Chu Liung param si nar krup [would you be so kind as to take me to the U Chu Liung building in Rama4 road, Old Chap]?" He grimaces, like he has just belched and burned his throat with gastric juices, and responds in best Thai "Huh". I repeat my desire; he holds up his left hand, palm toward me and wags it vigorously; he raises the window, extinguishes the hazard lights and drives off, sans me.

I persist. After a couple of rejections, I find myself dealing with a driver who has no serious objection to being offered an opportunity to earn some money; I am in the car; I am already shivering from the effect of the full-on airconditioner on my sweat-drenched business shirt; the stench of the driver's recently consumed snack of somtum salad with side order of raw garlic is [just] tolerable; everything is going well.

3. Get him to take my preferred route He looks like a guy who is open to suggestions; I have done this route 100 times in the last 3 months, and experienced all the various "short cuts" on offer; pie Thanon Wittayu lieuw kwaa param si nar krup I say, in my friendliest voice; there is absolutely no indication he heard a word, but I know from the previous exchange that he is not deaf.

Bugger....I have offended him, and could be about to experience an entirely new and irrational route that will certainly get me to my next meeting 20 minutes late.

7. Motorcycle taxi

Terror on Wheels

I have finished work a little later than normal this evening. I check the traffic, and see it is thick and slow-moving; looks like I will be quite a while getting home.

I notice a motorcycle taxi nearby; a small, shiny blue step-thru 125cc with a disc brake and auto clutch; the "driver", dressed in the "uniform" comprising jeans, bright orange sleeveless tunic with white number 14 stitched on the left breast and middle of the back, and plastic safety flip-flops on his feet, is sitting on a low brick wall nearby, listening to music on his fake iPod....yes!

I negotiate the price [6 fingers = 60baht...very reasonable, as I was prepared to pay 80, and his disappointment registers on his face when I accept his starting price and he understands that means I would have gone higher]; he climbs aboard [he is a little guy, about 155cm and weighing about half of my 80kg]; dons his battered jet-style helmet; starts the engine, my god, electric start, such luxury; hands me a light plastic mixing bowl with straps, which I am to wear as a token safety helmet to avoid him getting a fine from a policeman; waits.

I put the mixing bowl on my head, attach the strap under my chin and pull it up firm; put the heavy daypack on my back; lower myself onto the pillion seat; reach behind with one hand and grasp the the hand-grip; I am ready!

I hear a concerned voice calling "Khun Ray". I look across to the footpath where my bosses PA is standing in her trendy outfit and worried face. "Khun Ray, You must be careful!" I give her my best "don't you worry about anything" smile.

Only adolescents, mad farang and poor people use this mode of transport. I have had serious lectures from Thai friends, warning me that I am 30 times more likely to meet a violent end off a motorcycle taxi than out of a hot-air balloon.

We are off. To my mild surprise he takes me back up the ramp to the building I have just exited, slips around the back through the carpark, and into a minor lane. At this time the lane is packed with vehicles, but he confidently zig-zags through the traffic and comes out onto a major road.

Crowded major roads are quite a hazard; no-one seems to pay much attention to marked lanes; drivers are always looking to gain centimetre advantages by suddenly shooting left or right into an empty space; hordes of motorcycles are racing down the narrow gaps between the lines of cars.

We become part of the horde. It is all accelerating and braking, zigging and zagging; I am glad of the handgrip on the seat behind me, or I might bash into the driver and cause him to lose control; the cloth at my pants knee grazes a car and I wonder what it would be like to have only one leg.

Some more short cuts down narrow, crowded lanes, and soon we are on the last major road before home; the only problem is we need to travel in the opposite direction to the 6 lines of cars and buses on the 4 lane road.

What problem? There is no problem that cannot be solved with a sound mind and a strong heart; we simply turn into the traffic and, hugging the curb where possible, dash along at a mighty speed in the opposite direction to everyone else. I am in the mind of the driver.....I am understanding the need for speed; the faster we go, the less time we spend in danger!

Then we have arrived. We have saved 30 minutes off my ETA by any other means. And...it was a bit of fun...blew out a few of the cobwebs from a long day at the computer.

8. Chatuchuk Weekend Market

Bangkok's biggest market

Number of Stalls at Market = xxxx....that would be a good statistic to give someone a feel for the size of this place. Unfortunately I don't know the answer, but certainly it would be some thousands.

We are a bit tired of the sick-looking specimens on our balcony, so decided today would be the day we did something about it by visiting the market and getting a couple of new houseplants. I do have a mimosa pudica [sensitive plant] in a pot...I like it a lot; unfortunately the bloody pigeons like it too, and keep stripping the leaves to build their nests under the apartment air-conditioners, so the plant is looking a bit sad.

We have decided to add a bit of adventure by taking the car, rather than using the excellent sky-train which has a station right at the edge of the market, or a taxi which could drop us off right at the stalls.

Got a bit of a late start...Na went out dancing with a couple of girlfriends, came home late, got waylaid [by me....emphasis on the second syllable] on her trip to the nodding land and, as a consequence, needed to sleep in until late.

The trip to the market was uneventful...turned out I had an [for once] accurate concept of the route and it worked a treat. What we hadn't reckoned on, though, was that the car-park would be enormous, as well as a long hike to the actual stalls.

We entered the market from an unfamiliar angle this time, and immediately became lost. We entered in the goldfish section where, I estimate, there would be 500 stalls selling fish and/or fish tank paraphernalia. The variety of fish is staggering....you can buy a tank-load of small gold critters for a couple of dollars, or you can have one of the big reef exotics for $1000 or more; you want moray eel, no problem; you want the genuine stone/coral cave for the moray eel, no problem; you want a 90cm grey nurse shark; you want a family of clownfish with their bosom-buddy anemone, ok! There are at least 50 stalls with workshops where they make the fish tanks and the metal or wood stands that they sit on.

Chatuchuk Market [known locally as JJ Market...JutooJuk] is always hot; the stalls are impossibly close together, quite a lot is under permanent corrugated iron roofing; the walkways are so congested it is difficult for air to circulate; today is a cool day but the market is still a sauna; the open drains running through the market also give the place a certain piquancy.

We thought we would find the plants section easily, as we spent a little time in that section only a few months back, buying a couple of dragon-fruit cactus plants as a present for a friend. After 90 minutes of staggering out of dogs into parrots, out of parrots into silver amulets, out of silver amulets into knitted tanktops, out of knitted tanktops into stainless steel knuckle-dusters, etc, I was about ready to admit defeat.

Suddenly, though, we staggered into a familiar-looking section of artificial flowers...hundreds of stalls all selling their subtly unique creations in paper, silk, woodchip and plastic. We got our bearings and, with the aid of a drink of fresh coconut, we suddenly had energy to continue.

We found the section, and quickly selected a couple of ornamental chilli bushes, a miniature lime tree and another thing with big, aggressive leaves that will hopefully terrorise the pigeons so that my mimosa pudica gets another chance.

Terrific! Wonderful! Now....which way to the bloody car?

9. Motorcycle Safety Campaign

Peak hour traffic in Bangkok can be pretty bad. Over the past 10-12 years a lot of investment has been made in [mainly] ugly infrastructure in an attempt to reduce the incidence of traffic gridlock. There is an extensive network of overhead tollways which, at best, can allow rapid travel across town but, at worst, provide unintentional above-ground parking for tens of thousands of vehicles. About seven years ago the "skytrain" service came on-line...a medium-weight elevated railway service with two interconnecting lines and about twenty stations. A year or so back the subway, a medium weight underground rail service, began rolling; it also has about 20 stations and loosely inter-links with the sky train at a couple of points.

The city continues to grow; infrastructure continues to be strained. Easily the quickest way to get about the city in peak periods is using the motor-cycle taxi facility. Main streets, as well as most sois [lanes] have this service. All motor cycle taxi operators wear an iridescent orange vest as a uniform over their casual clothes. The services are unauthorised, unregistered, unregulated and uninsured; however, operators are unmolestered by authorities, as they are a major arterial system in the overall Bangkok transport chaos.

I have taken to using motorcycle taxis as my main means of travelling to and from work in peak traffic; it cuts my daily travel times by at least 60%. Interestingly, the same trip by motorcycle taxi or air-conditioned metered taxi costs about the same; motorcycle taxis understand their customers reckon speed of service is more important than comfort or safety.

My daily trip to work takes me through the busy intersection of Naradhiwas and Sathorn. In peak hours the traffic-light cycle at this intersection is quite lethargic; that means motorcycles have time to filter through the stationary lines of cars and buses and congregate at the edge of the intersection in large numbers, before dashing across the intersection as soon as the lights change.

There is an air-conditioned police box at this intersection, and it is normal for the couple of on-duty officers to stay inside their cool zone; perhaps playing with manual over-rides of the traffic lights to ease their boredom, or sleeping off last night's ingestation of whisky Thai.

Last week, though, I witnessed one officer hoofing about amongst the waiting motor-cyclists and announcing to them with his un-assisted megaphone voice that next week he would be conducting a serious crack-down on travellers who were becoming lax about conformance to the rules for wearing safety helmets.

So...here I am, on the back of a taxi moto-sigh, in morning peak traffic on the way to my workplace; legally dressed in nipple-pink "Pretty Lady" brand plastic mixing bowl with straps to disguise it as a safety helmet. We filter through the heavy, but stationary, population of cars and buses, join the 150 or so motorcycles at the edge of the intersection and await the dash as soon as the lights change.

A couple of centimetres from my right knee is another motorcycle, occupied by a young driver, and his young, pretty and [shock...horror] naked-above-the-ears pillion; she is sitting side-saddle on the seat with her shapely bare knees and lower thighs pointing directly at me; her right foot is on the left foot-peg and her left foot is hanging in mid-air, with a colorful strapless sandal dangling precariously off her toes; her left hand is resting cleverly in her lap so that her upper thighs and beyond [sigh] remain private territory, and her right hand is resting in her driver's lap...an intimacy that suggests they are very good friends.

The policeman appears among us, immaculately dressed in his impossibly tight brown uniform and ensemble of police-issue gold motorcycle helmet, faux-Gucci sunglasses and pink-ticket book; he means business, and intends to extract on-the-spot fines.

The policeman sees the illegally helmetless gal, and starts towards us; his way is obstructed by the crush of motorcycles; his attention is distracted momentarily by the task of ordering drivers out of his way.

At that instant I turn to the young driver and mumble tum bru-art [policeman]; immediately, the gal steps off the motorcycle, moves around the back of the machine and stands on the curb with her back to the policeman.

Now he is at the scene; he performs a theatrically impressive double-take on becoming aware the observed offence has ceased to be perp'd; his mouth opens and closes a couple of times but no sounds issue; he performs an involuntary and impotent jig of frustration; he stares at the young driver, who carefully avoids eye-contact; he stares at the [attractive] back of the young gal, who has magically morphed into a legal pedestrian.

The world stands still...a snapshot, broken by the embarrased retreat of the policeman to his air-conditioned cocoon.

The lights change; the dash commences; the gal resumes her pillion status in a flash, and is whisked across the intersection...an anonymous piece of the charging herd.

10. Another bridge to cross

I am off to participate in the Bangkok tradition; every time a new bridge over the Chao Phraya river is completed, it is opened to pedestrian traffic for one day after which it becomes the exclusive domain of gasoline guzzlers.

It seems that the city planners have a bit of a pre-occupation with building bridges over this river at the moment; in the past 6 years at least 4 significant bridges have been constructed.

This one, which still lacks a name, is the biggest of them all, as it actually crosses the river twice. I have been watching the construction with some interest, as it is not far from my apartment complex, and is clearly visible from the treadmills in the gym. I would say it has been under construction for nearly three years.

There has been little English-language advertising of the event, but word-of-mouth has informed me today is the day. Official start time is about 5:00pm, but old hands have indicated any time today is close enough.

So...I am out of bed at 5:30am and on a taxi moto-sigh about fifteen minutes later. I cannot quite get the destination message clear with the driver who, evidently, is blissfully unaware there is a new bridge close by; eventually I make do with a place we both know, and which is only about one kilometre from my end of the bridge. I am organised, with a back-pack containing two bottles of water, a can of strong coffee and a block of imported chocolate in case it is a long haul and the worms start to complain. Oh yes...organisation freak that I am, I also have my "emergency kit" comprising of a plastic supermarket bag for my camera, mobile phone and wallet, just in case the weather forecasters have got their prediction of rain correct for a [rare] change.

The major hazard of the last kilometre, along the footpath beside Rama3 road, is the extra-ordinary amount of key mar [dog shit] and the old ladies who are removing it prior to setting up their food-carts. Despite the obstacles, I cover the distance quickly, which must be something to do with the very brisk treadmill workout I do most days.

I am on the approach ramp to the bridge. It is a little odd, I think, that I am nearly on my own; perhaps Bangkok folks like to sleep in on Saturday, so will show up in crushing numbers this afternoon. Five hundred metres up the ramp there is some kind of officials annex. A few people are there, lethargically setting up chairs, fresh flowers, that sort of thing. I nod to them and keep up my pace; around a plastic barricade and the first of four cable-stay towers is in my sights.

Two security guards materialise out of thin-air. No guns out of holsters! No night-sticks raised menacingly! They are menacing me by trotting along, one either side of me, and beaming at me with huge toothy smiles.

They are telling me something about VIP's.

"Cool", I say, returning the winning smile, "I am one of those rare animals." I continue on my way...radiating as much confidence as I can.

"VIP come four o'clock", they say and reinforce the message with their faultless execution of synchronised watch-tapping, which is very impressive as they are evidently unused to jogging up inclines [probably no well-equiped free gym at their apartment complex].

"I am an early VIP", I try, but I am beginning to realise their mission is to stop me from continuing across the bridge. One of the guards is beginning to pant a little...if he gets distressed, he might resort to something desperate like removing my right kneecap with his hand-cannon. I stop abruptly; the panter continues on a few steps before realising my mobility status has changed.

"Come to see my manager", says the fitter of my new companions pointing 150 metres back behind us, to the plastic barricades, at a young guy who is watching us intently.

So, we visit The Manager. He is wearing a blue TShirt with the messages "abc logistics" on the left breast and "security shift supervisor" on the right. He says, tapping his wrist watch [presumably this behaviour is standard mob-control training stuff], "VIP today 4:00 o'clock...tomorrow everyone can walk on bridge anytime...no problems!"

That's it, then; I will have to come back tomorrow. I retrace the route and mode to my apartment, where I hit the treadmill instead of the virgin pavement. Looking out at the bridge, from my whirring Lifetrack e9500, I see the forecasters got it right today, and the rain is bucketing down.

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Evening. I am on the swimming pool deck of my apartment complex. I see the technicians seem to have ironed out the gliches with the bridge lighting system, and now it must be bathing the real VIP's in its brilliant glow. I hope they remembered to bring their Raybans. 

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It's sunday morning, same time, same place.

The same two security guards are on duty; they remember me, and perform a bit of a pantomime of conducting me through the plastic barrier and on my way...very good-natured and genuine.

The walk over and back takes 90 minutes, including 103 stops for photo-opportunities. It is difficult for a snapshot amateur like me to capture the sheer size and powerful imagery of this 2.7 kilometre, 4 lanes up-hill and 3 lanes down-hill, cable-stayed engineering feat, but I try.

The pedestrian traffic is very light at this time, and everyone is friendly. There are a few joggers, a very few cyclists, one farang [foreigner]...me.

11. School excursion

Teachers, students, snakes

In a moment of madness I tell the Boy I will go with his class and teachers on the excursion to The Snake Farm. One likes to think one acquires wisdom with age, but...ain't necessarily so!

There were plenty of portents, but I ignore 'em. Every morning for two weeks before the outing, the Boy's first words on awakening are "Today we go to Snake Farm.....huh?".

The information note instructed that we be on time at school, by 8:00am, so we can start the day on schedule. So...we are at school by 7:55am. I presumed we would be boarding the bus at 8:00am...aaaaaah, no!

There is a whole routine associated with getting ready to board the bus:

there is the waiting [noisily milling about] for all the participants to show,

there is the chat about excursion rules [who buddies with whom, what to do if/when there is the need for a toilet break, how to behave on the bus, stuff like that],

there is the hand-washing routine, preparatory to the snack-time [we have only been 20 minutes since breakfast...give me a break],

there is the snack-time event in the school canteen [wow! what a surprise!...none of the kids is remotely interested in eating the snack...especially when one little gal comes along and offers a plug of bubble-gum to each of her friends],

there is the toilet routine [take a pee now 'cos there is no toilet on the bus, and then wash your hands]

there is the frenetic mobile phone exchange to try to locate the esky of lunch boxes to go on the bus [resolved only when a bus driver admits to have used his nut and fixed that up while everyone else was doing the snack thing.

Yes! Now we are loading, and it's only 9:00am. But, I am getting ahead of myself, in my enthusiasm to be there:

first, the kids have to be counted, by two teachers, and their count reconciled. Its tough...there are three attempts before the number matches. Good thing there are only 10 kids, or the excursion might have run out of time while the starting count was being made,

ooooops! There are 2 mini-buses, so there is the complexity of determining who goes in which. Ok...got that worked so now lets get aboard....

damn...one little girl and her Mum show up late, just when it is decided they are not coming. Now we have to re-count, and re-place.

We are on the road. I am in the leading bus. I am in the front passenger seat. I watch the driver; he is relaxed; he knows where he is going, and we are on exactly the route I would have chosen for this 4km journey. We stop at the first set of lights. The second bus pulls up on our left, and it is evident the other drive wants to chat with my driver. I wind down the window. They chat. The second bus turns left, and my driver [puzzled look clouding his features] follows.

What the hell? This is not the correct route. Unless there are two Snake Farms, we are definitely taking a long, irrational, scenic route. I let my driver see I am as puzzled as him. With [mainly] body language, I reconfirm to him where I think the destination is. He agrees...a few complicated driving procedures later, and he has corrected the bearing. He calls the other driver on his mobile...there is a heated exchange, and it is clear we do not have a general agreement regarding where we are going.

There is a bit of traffic ahead of us. My driver has been unsettled by the heated exchange with his buddy driver; with temporarily impaired judgement he thinks he knows a short cut, so goes for it, and ensnares us in a narrow-lane traffic snarl, from which there is no escape. No kidding...I could walk at least twice as quickly as we are now moving in the mini-bus.

I amuse myself, taking pictures of all sorts of street theatre happening outside my cocoon. I have a camera, a toy...something to amuse myself with. The kids sharing the cocoon do not have cameras; they are becoming seriously bored and noisy. A teacher has a diversion; she hands a pirate copy of "Favourite kid's Movie Songs from the past 50 years" to the driver. The driver knows what to do...he turns the volume way up! This has zero effect on the kids, of course, but adults are happy cos they executed the approved emergency procedure.

We have arrived. Only 10:00am! This event has already been in progress for 2 hours, and not a single reptile has been sighted. 20 minutes pass: the other bus arrives. Now we are ready to see snakes.

Hmmmm! They knew we were coming, but we are so late they have dismantled the show and the MC [Master of Ceremonies] has wandered off somewhere for a siesta. "Just 1 minute", says the obviously highly experienced greeting lady. Twenty minutes pass, while everything is made ready. So, now we have the show.

The Snake Farm is in the grounds of the Thailand Red Cross headquarters. Logical, really; the purpose of the facility is mainly to harvest snake venom for the production of anti-venom for the several poisonous snake species that call Thailand home . Real snake venom is injected into horses, who then produce the anti-bodies that are harvested and processed into anti-venom. I don't know where they keep the horses, but certainly I did not see any at the Snake farm.

But, we did see a few snakes, and some of them were even of poisonous species. For twenty minutes the MC introduced us to a representative of the main species of snakes native to Thailand. There was a little bit of fun stuff with getting them to wriggle, to rear up in defensive stance, and even to give up a few drops of the precious and deadly venom. The MC was a man of some humour, and he tried to make the show fun for the kids and interactive; before starting, he asked what language he should use, and was not at all concerned when told English...little did he know that the first language of most of his audience was Thai, Korean, Japanese, Lebenese but mostly not English. And, his information was interesting...but not to 4 year olds.

Show finishes. There are a couple of sleepy snakes in show cages, so we take a quick peek.

But the kids are already at the next phase. They are hungry! We find shade, and pull some tables together. Out of the esky comes enough sandwiches to feed an army brigade. The kids ignore the sandwiches, of course, as they have seen there are bags of crisps, tubs of yoghurt, boxes of flavoured milk and these are far more appropriate to sustain four year olds on an excursion.

A little kid, from the family who runs the snack shop, hovers. He has a small dog, which is more of a hit with the kids than were the snakes. He is a smart kid...soon he has traded petting favours for a feast of crisps and flavoured milk.

The kids are bored. A couple of kids torture a potted palm, by stripping it of fronds. Another couple of kids terrorise the tiny goldfish in a small bowl by trying to spear them with twigs they plunge into the bowl. Ok...we have some serious fun happening now.

But it is time to return to the school. First, of course, we repeat the peeing and hand-washing routine; then back into the mini-buses; then the return trip, which takes about ten minutes [probably because the drivers get to knock off for the day as soon as they return the kids].

I survive!

[Footnote: There are about five poisonous snakes of note in Thailand; most famous of these is the King Cobra and the Common Cobra , but the most dangerous is one of the Pit Viper family.]