Day 13 - Bangkok
I'm back on the Khao San road, back in the same bar. Considering it epitomises the sort of place I've no wish to spend time in I've spent an awful lot of time here. But now, as yesterday, there is method amongst this madness. I have a purpose, it is another nostalgic circularity of life decisions. Another harking back to 10 years previous. Am I living out that trip again in the absence of a better idea? I have a pint of Dutch courage as I watch an enormous sign get lifted from the street onto the back of a truck. A few traffic cones dotted randomly around segregate the operation from the pedestrians walking either side. It must have come down 30 metres from up on the side of the D&D Inn that morning, with similar safety arrangements I suspect. The sign is laid at an awkward angle in the truck and a man hops up onto the top edge of it. He's putting enormous faith in the structural stability of a sign that had probably been up there for many years and was already bending under its own weight. An American at the next table finishes his beer and throws gang signs to the waitresses behind the bar. Given the confused and angry expressions on their faces I think they are more familiar with the British 2 finger salute than whatever the meaning was behind his gesture.
I feel scarred by life I think to myself. Ever the penchant for the dramatic eh? Dramatic and romantic. Like the desire to write with wine from a small glass, pulling on a gauloise and eyeing a belle epoque behind the bar. A dramatically romantic life. Big scars I do have running down my body but small ones too. The thin white lines on my arm from tennis on a wet day. The mark on my finger from melted sugar aimed at beginner's absinthe. The faded pock marks on my chest from suicide barbeque. And the intentional one, a curving, rearing mythical beast on my shoulder that stands for nothing more than an abandonment of prudence and long-term thinking and the reserve my parents tried to instill in me. Its lack of meaning is precisely its meaning. The embrace of a moment for all it's worth and putting aside the ludicrous worry that I might regret it in 30 years time. The fetishisation of caution. My experience of life thus far is that it will give you far more substantial things to worry about, dwell on and regret in 30 years than a bit of ink under the skin. The pain is familiar, like a sewing needle being drawn over the skin. Firm enough to cause some discomfort but not enough to draw blood. An hour of grimacing up at some grimacing Chinese masks and it's done. I mention that I was here 10 years ago and congratulate them on their longevity, they say that COVID was hard and show no interest in seeing their previous handiwork.
It's a Thursday and that means open mike at Penguin Bar. Khao San road and Penguin bar, the extremes where I seem to spend all my time outside (and inside) of work hours. There's also 7eleven I suppose, truly my adventurous spirit knows no bounds. Khao San road is a necessary evil driven by remembrance of times past, 7eleven has the cheapest coffee and Penguin Bar? Well it's good to have a local bar where everyone knows your name. Failing that find a bar where no-one knows your name and you can drink cheap beer in peace and the music isn't loud. But they are all by now familiar faces alongside whom I've drunk but had no conversation. None would seem to have the requisite English. I'm reluctant to strike up conversation when I don't know the other person's proficiency level to avoid that awkward moment when you both realise you won't be able to hurdle this particular language barrier. I'm not overwhelmed with people to talk to as a result though. Mr. Penguin knows my order by now though and brings a Chang. I actually think I prefer Singha but changing my beer would disrupt the one thing we know about each other. The old rocker apologises to me for the delay between songs caused by his heckling friends but goes on to give a decent rendition of Neil Young's 'Heart of gold' with the accomplished guitarist on harmonica. Old rocker is, again, replaced by the enthusiast singer wearing his Thursday night orange t-shirt again. He launches into his greatest hits. A girl comes in and, again, attracts far more interest than I do. Lobes wobbles past, the fish in the khlong surface for whatever they surface for and it's all rather pleasantly predictable. I'm actually offered a go on the mike this time and thankfully we still have the language of gesture and facial expression as I effectively communicate the sheer folly of that idea. And now we have a 4 piece as, halfway through a song with orange t-shirt on vocals, accomplished guitarist on guitar and old rocker on tambourine, one of the regulars digs out a violin and adds some complementary strings to the harmony. He seems to be able to join in with all the subsequent songs too even if they don't have violin parts. Maybe that's how music works, I've never really understood it.
Three guys walk down the alley and a free table is conjured up by moving Eeyore. Ah but he's left something behind at the table. He reaches over the guys, in between the pot plants and retrieves his bong. To compensate them for the inconvenience he offers them a hit. Only 1 is bold enough and I would guess he wished he wasn't after he spends the next few minutes vigorously coughing his lungs out. The girl has been captured by the regulars, they chat, serenade her and she seems to take it all in her stride, laughing at their jokes and sharing their drink. I admire and envy her comfort. If I'm having a night of wondrous voyeuristic pleasure her's is one of memorable immersion. Eeyore sits next to me after another round of musical chairs. We don't manage to communicate much but he tells me that he is heartbroken and I say I am too. He says that Liverpool are an excellent football team and I say I think so too. We covered the fundamentals at least. He has to go and find his bong again. I get a closer look and it's Manchester United themed so now I mistrust everything he says. Is there nothing those monsters won't brand? Lobes has found a small, child's keyboard that is powered by a bendy pipe he blows down. He accompanies the songs from a comfortable, seated distance and I can't work out whether he is trying to wind up the musicians with the funny little toots and parps that emmanate from it. The girl is now dancing with one of the regulars. He's twice her age but you can't fault his game or her gameness. This will be talked about down the club for quite some time. A group of old friends gathering in the same bar every Thursday to talk and and sing and play instruments and drink beer is wonderful in a way I can't adequately describe. None of it done for tourists but I get to experience it anyway. The very stuff of life. The joy that sticks the rest together.
I'm back on the Khao San road, back in the same bar. Considering it epitomises the sort of place I've no wish to spend time in I've spent an awful lot of time here. But now, as yesterday, there is method amongst this madness. I have a purpose, it is another nostalgic circularity of life decisions. Another harking back to 10 years previous. Am I living out that trip again in the absence of a better idea? I have a pint of Dutch courage as I watch an enormous sign get lifted from the street onto the back of a truck. A few traffic cones dotted randomly around segregate the operation from the pedestrians walking either side. It must have come down 30 metres from up on the side of the D&D Inn that morning, with similar safety arrangements I suspect. The sign is laid at an awkward angle in the truck and a man hops up onto the top edge of it. He's putting enormous faith in the structural stability of a sign that had probably been up there for many years and was already bending under its own weight. An American at the next table finishes his beer and throws gang signs to the waitresses behind the bar. Given the confused and angry expressions on their faces I think they are more familiar with the British 2 finger salute than whatever the meaning was behind his gesture.
I feel scarred by life I think to myself. Ever the penchant for the dramatic eh? Dramatic and romantic. Like the desire to write with wine from a small glass, pulling on a gauloise and eyeing a belle epoque behind the bar. A dramatically romantic life. Big scars I do have running down my body but small ones too. The thin white lines on my arm from tennis on a wet day. The mark on my finger from melted sugar aimed at beginner's absinthe. The faded pock marks on my chest from suicide barbeque. And the intentional one, a curving, rearing mythical beast on my shoulder that stands for nothing more than an abandonment of prudence and long-term thinking and the reserve my parents tried to instill in me. Its lack of meaning is precisely its meaning. The embrace of a moment for all it's worth and putting aside the ludicrous worry that I might regret it in 30 years time. The fetishisation of caution. My experience of life thus far is that it will give you far more substantial things to worry about, dwell on and regret in 30 years than a bit of ink under the skin. The pain is familiar, like a sewing needle being drawn over the skin. Firm enough to cause some discomfort but not enough to draw blood. An hour of grimacing up at some grimacing Chinese masks and it's done. I mention that I was here 10 years ago and congratulate them on their longevity, they say that COVID was hard and show no interest in seeing their previous handiwork.
It's a Thursday and that means open mike at Penguin Bar. Khao San road and Penguin bar, the extremes where I seem to spend all my time outside (and inside) of work hours. There's also 7eleven I suppose, truly my adventurous spirit knows no bounds. Khao San road is a necessary evil driven by remembrance of times past, 7eleven has the cheapest coffee and Penguin Bar? Well it's good to have a local bar where everyone knows your name. Failing that find a bar where no-one knows your name and you can drink cheap beer in peace and the music isn't loud. But they are all by now familiar faces alongside whom I've drunk but had no conversation. None would seem to have the requisite English. I'm reluctant to strike up conversation when I don't know the other person's proficiency level to avoid that awkward moment when you both realise you won't be able to hurdle this particular language barrier. I'm not overwhelmed with people to talk to as a result though. Mr. Penguin knows my order by now though and brings a Chang. I actually think I prefer Singha but changing my beer would disrupt the one thing we know about each other. The old rocker apologises to me for the delay between songs caused by his heckling friends but goes on to give a decent rendition of Neil Young's 'Heart of gold' with the accomplished guitarist on harmonica. Old rocker is, again, replaced by the enthusiast singer wearing his Thursday night orange t-shirt again. He launches into his greatest hits. A girl comes in and, again, attracts far more interest than I do. Lobes wobbles past, the fish in the khlong surface for whatever they surface for and it's all rather pleasantly predictable. I'm actually offered a go on the mike this time and thankfully we still have the language of gesture and facial expression as I effectively communicate the sheer folly of that idea. And now we have a 4 piece as, halfway through a song with orange t-shirt on vocals, accomplished guitarist on guitar and old rocker on tambourine, one of the regulars digs out a violin and adds some complementary strings to the harmony. He seems to be able to join in with all the subsequent songs too even if they don't have violin parts. Maybe that's how music works, I've never really understood it.
Three guys walk down the alley and a free table is conjured up by moving Eeyore. Ah but he's left something behind at the table. He reaches over the guys, in between the pot plants and retrieves his bong. To compensate them for the inconvenience he offers them a hit. Only 1 is bold enough and I would guess he wished he wasn't after he spends the next few minutes vigorously coughing his lungs out. The girl has been captured by the regulars, they chat, serenade her and she seems to take it all in her stride, laughing at their jokes and sharing their drink. I admire and envy her comfort. If I'm having a night of wondrous voyeuristic pleasure her's is one of memorable immersion. Eeyore sits next to me after another round of musical chairs. We don't manage to communicate much but he tells me that he is heartbroken and I say I am too. He says that Liverpool are an excellent football team and I say I think so too. We covered the fundamentals at least. He has to go and find his bong again. I get a closer look and it's Manchester United themed so now I mistrust everything he says. Is there nothing those monsters won't brand? Lobes has found a small, child's keyboard that is powered by a bendy pipe he blows down. He accompanies the songs from a comfortable, seated distance and I can't work out whether he is trying to wind up the musicians with the funny little toots and parps that emmanate from it. The girl is now dancing with one of the regulars. He's twice her age but you can't fault his game or her gameness. This will be talked about down the club for quite some time. A group of old friends gathering in the same bar every Thursday to talk and and sing and play instruments and drink beer is wonderful in a way I can't adequately describe. None of it done for tourists but I get to experience it anyway. The very stuff of life. The joy that sticks the rest together.
Comments
Post a Comment