This post originally appeared on Frontier Psychiatrist on January 30th, 2014.
On the way to and from Thailand, I had an eight hour layover in Istanbul. It gave me time to think, predict, and reflect. What struck me most were the smells: the various perfumes, fragrances, and body odor adorned by people from all over the world; the olfactory imperialism of US fast food restaurants (primarily Burger King) in the food court; the reassuring waft of espresso or cappuccino at the abundant cafes; the layer of sterility behind it all, a building in a constant start of attack against international germs.
If nothing else, my nervousness while traveling (yes, I still feel it) to such far-flung parts of the world is quickly quelled by the consistency of airports. Of course there’s the subtle look of contempt in the eyes of the bartendress, having dealt with global travelers who don’t speak her language and are probably unsure whether to tip. She hands me a goblet of ice cold Efes Pilsen; it tastes like every other pilsner I’ve ever had and is delicious.
But there was another point of departure that captivated more than the airport. If I ever get to a point in my life where I have the time, I want to write a novel that takes place in a day at the Bangkok Railway station. A grand painting of the king of Thailand overlooks the hangar-shaped hall. While seated in one of the purple plastic seats that face the boarding area, I took note of my surroundings: a bookstore, massage parlor, Dunkin Donuts, a food court. The bathrooms cost 2 baht (six cents) to use. There is a sectioned off, preferred-seating area for monks. Along the balcony of the second floor, the red, white, and blue-striped flag of Thailand alternate with the yellow royal flags. Two stray cats begged for food from two people seated in front of me, what looks like chicken on a stick. The couple finished eating, and the cats followed their noses toward further bounty. There are as many foreigners as locals here (if not more). Where are these people going? Chiang Mai, Mongkhai, Silaat? And where did they all come from? The ticket windows are empty this time of night; everyone is waiting.
The ride from Bangkok to Chiang Mai was 15 hours. By the morning, the light in my bunk had gone out, but it was futilely dim to begin with. The pale yellow paint on the walls are chipping in some areas to reveal two separate layers of faded green. There were two blue straps to prevent me from falling off the bunk and a green curtain with the number 14 stitched in gold in the center to block out the pervasive fluorescent lights. The air conditioner was rotating ceiling fans and an open window, of which only those fortunate to have a seat on the lower level possessed; we on top were stuck with no view and stagnant air. No matter. As we pull away, further and further from Bangkok, we drank Chang after Chang, as well as the bottle of Malort we wisely brought with us.
As the train stopped at various rural stations in the morning, middle-aged women would get on the train to sell food. I passed on the fried chicken, popcorn, and other snacks. And here I thought I had a sense of adventure. Why didn’t I eat any of these foods? Was I afraid of getting sick? Apparently it didn’t matter. A week and a half into our travels, fever struck. Riding in a songthaew for nearly two hours from Fang to Chiang Rai was miserable and ever-lasting. Finally arriving at the guest house, my head was a volcanic orb, yet my body frozen. Eventually the heat spread: my socks come off and eventually my jeans and my hoodie. Flashes of Mexico City leaped across my mind. I slept off and on from the afternoon until the following morning, tossing and turning, trying to stay cool with a wet towel wrapped around my head. I couldn’t even scrounge the energy to drink water. The roosters wouldn’t stop crowing; the dogs wouldn’t stop barking.
Eventually, time passed, and the single day’s worth of rest is enough to get me up and running again, riding motorbikes around the countryside. We were actually supposed to do this a few days before, but we had trouble renting the bikes: the shop wouldn’t let us rent them because they had a negative experience with foreigners in the past. Likewise, the national park we stayed at charges five times for foreigners what it does for Thais. A sign at one of the temple implied foreigners would not be let in without a tour guide (though not enforced), and another temple had a mandatory charge for foreigners while Thais could enter for free. I was having trouble recalling such blatant xenophobia in any other country I’d been in. Then again, Western tourists aren’t known for being the kindest to Thailand. It has a strong reputation for attracting sex tourists and partygoers who destroy the environment. At one particular guest house, we encountered loudmouth, obnoxious, racist, entitled travelers from Australia and Canada, people who cared for none but themselves.
Do you ever stop to wonder how many strangers, even ones you don’t necessarily interact with, you have to trust will allow you to get from point A to point B, through the rest of the alphabet, and back to point A, in one piece? The world is a volatile place. Disasters are imminent, as I learned in New York and Israel. Now in Bangkok, some of its citizens have been attempting to shut down the city until Prime Minister Yingluck Shinawatra resigns. Yet when I was there, there wasn’t as much tension as the media is making it out to seem. I saw one “protest” outside of the subway station at Silom. It seemed to be just a market, stalls selling clothes, jewelry, tchotchkes, anything else you’d see at any other street market, except there was some speech blaring over various loudspeakers. Not what I’d call a shut-down. But I wasn’t in Thailand as a journalist; I was a tourist. Should I feel guilty being a tourist in a country going through political turmoil? Is it any different than spending money leisurely in my own city, rather than on more social or altruistic means?
At the beginning of my trip, I was reading The Best American Travel Writing 2013. Inside there was an essay by Ian Frazier about exaggerating one’s adventures. It stayed with me the whole trip, and I concluded it’s not about exaggerating or distorting or lying but about romanticizing. Nobody wants to be disappointed by their time and money spent on elaborate vacation or travel. I’m sure I’ve fallen victim to seeing what I want to see in a foreign land as opposed to what it is. Hell, I’ve done it in this piece too. Are overnight trains really that great? Would my experience at the Bangkok train station have been more enjoyable if anything was open past 9 PM or if I was able to sleep on a comfier mattress? But perhaps it is human nature to shield our perceptions from reality. It’s safer when experience meets expectation. Perhaps also, travel and lying is another form of “story truth” vs. “happening truth.” Does one necessarily negate the other? Maybe they can both be correct.
Would my trip have been more worthwhile, or more authentic if I’d experienced any actual political violence? Or if I had smoked weed with those white dudes with dreads on the train? Or went to a Full Moon Party? Maybe I missed the forest for the trees. I look over my journal and see notes about how ubiquitous the 7-11s are and how there’s a Uniqlo in Chiang Mai before there is one in Chicago, of how globalization has even affected a “no eating or drinking” sign on the Bangkok subway which has a picture of a burger and soda crossed out because that’s Thai cuisine?? :deep breath:
As I touched on in
my first piece, it’s who you’re with that counts. So while
exploring the hutongs of Beijing or the nightlife in Sao Paulo are an
adventure in their own, travel is just a means of extending and
expanding the lifeline of the people I am lucky enough to get to meet
and know. It’s why we put up with traveler’s diarrhea, delayed
planes and too-long layovers, unusual bedding and bathroom situations
from what we’re used to, ants in the bed and spiders in the
bathroom, cockroaches on the train and in restaurants. Because no
minor discomfort should negatively affect an entire week, month, or
year of travel. While it doesn’t have to enhance, at the very
least, it’ll give you something to write about.
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