Adventures By Design

In which the travelers meet Neung, avoid hyperactive death, and are visited by an inked devil

Go get a snack, this one’s approaching novella size.

Today we decided to go the the train station to buy tickets to an island in the south called Koh Lantao (aka Koh Lanta). We studied our Lonely Planet guidebook, and Lantao seems like a nice place to visit. We loosely figured that after a few weeks in the south (that’s how folks refer to the skinny peninsular area of southern Thailand), we’d be ready to either leave Thailand for (Malaysia, Cambodia, Laos, Indonesia, or Vietnam???), or maybe we’d travel to the north and visit Chiang Mai.

We took the subway to the train station, and walked in the front doors. Not surprisingly, there were people everywhere: families slowly made their way to claim a small piece of floor as their own, young men shuffled by with their ubiquitous sandals worn flat, saffron-robed monks carried their meager possessions (which we’ve noticed always seem to include an umbrella… so practical).

We paused for a moment to get out bearings, and a pair of earnest-looking Thais caught our eye, and made their way over to us. Initially, we were suspicious: everyone knows that train stations are inherently unsafe places where all manner of nasty creatures hang out. But these folks carried clipboards and had laminated identification cards pinned to their shirts, thus proving their legitimacy and setting our minds at ease. They asked us where we wanted to go and looked crestfallen when we told them our destination and timeline: we were attempting to book tickets to one of the most popular destinations during Thailand’s new year’s water festival: Song Kran. Because there were no tickets available for almost a week, they suggested we talk to one of the ticket agents located on the second floor of the station. This was where we met Neung.

We walked in to the cramped office and were greeted warmly by a young woman. She offered us seats, and asked us where and when we wanted to go. We told her, and she gave us her own deflated frown, and repeated what we already knew: that itinerary wasn’t going to happen. Still, she made a few calls, because miracles happen… but not today. Neung was upset that she couldn’t fulfill our completely irrational and culturally-clueless itinerary. Gin then stated that our plans were flexible, and that maybe we could reverse our locations, and go to Chiang Mai first, and then Koh Lantao when the country quieted down after the holiday. Ric thought Neung was going to kiss Gin, she was so relieved. “Oh! I am so happy! Yes, that is a much better plan,” she said. We got the impression she deals with some pretty belligerent tourists, and our openness to change made her life much easier.

Chiang Mai is one of the places we visited last year with Janet. It has a reputation for being a backpacker’s paradise: laid-back, youthful, and cheap. Neung said there were no more train tickets left, but she could get us on a nine hour night bus (“Think of it as an adventure!” she said with a wink and a smile.). Well, Bangkok was wearing thin, and being in Chiang Mai for the water festival sounded like fun; she booked us the bus tickets. Neung asked if we knew where we wanted to stay and what we wanted to do in Chang Mai (nope and nope), and suggested a hotel that had a well-deserved reputation for being clean and friendly; she booked us the hotel. Then she asked if we’d ever seen the long-necked Karen tribes women. These are the women who bend brass coils around their necks, starting when they are young girls, and slowly stretch their necks to giraffe proportions. Neung booked us a tour. After Chiang Mai, we wanted to take the train to Koh Lantao, right? Neung booked us the train tickets. Finally, did we know where we were going to stay in Koh Lantao? She booked us two nights in a hotel. Talk about One Stop Shopping, eh?

 

We felt pretty good about our plans for the next couple weeks, and Neung was kind and sweet. But the adventure at the train station had one more surprise for us. Just as we were about to leave, a ripple went through the crowd. Neung and the rest of her office jumped up and ran out onto the balcony that overlooked the train station lobby below. People we crying out, and everyone was looking up: a man had climbed up the building’s internal support arch and was hanging off, fifty feet above the ground, threatening to jump to the concrete and marble floor below. Macabre, we know, but fascinating, too. We watched for few minutes, silently hoping he wouldn’t jump, and wondering what would happen if he did. Finally, we decided that whatever this fellow’s problems were, a pair of foreigners staring up at him wasn’t going to make things any better.

We left unnerved, and decided to go to one of the most famous areas of Bangkok backpacking culture: Khao San Road. Getting there was the best part. We queued in line for the next taxi leaving the station, and hopped in. Holy ADHD, Batman! This fellow was a barely-contained hurricane. In the ten-minute ride, here are some of the things we observed him doing: twitching and dancing his body, drumming his fingers on the dashboard, adjusting the radio, giving an impromptu Thai lessons for us, muttering to himself about traffic, adjusting the radio again, laughing maniacally at his own private jokes, clinking coins together, wai-ing (praying/greeting) in front of the Buddhist temple, and creating a wind instrument from his plastic candy wrapper. All of this, and somehow he managed to keep the taxi hurtling down the road at breakneck speeds!

Khao San Road was Khao San Road. Meh [non-committal grunt]. Street vendors, drunken youth, dredlocking and braiding stalls. Fake degree vendors. Shots of hard alcohol for sale (“We don’t check ID!”). Notably, the juggling supplies booth now sells clubs, and not just torches (ya, Ric’s the only person who will ever read this blog and actually care about that).

We did cross paths with a tattoo artist eating dinner outside his shop. We had a friendly conversation with him, in which he asked the questions that all Thais seem to want to know:

Thai person: “Are you on your honeymoon?”
Us: “No, we’ve been married for five years.”
Thai person: “Oh! Do you have babies?”
Us: “No.”
Thai person: “Five years and no babies?! Why no babies? You don’t like babies?”
Us: “They’re great, but I couldn’t eat a whole one.”

Seeking to turn the conversation away from ourselves, we asked him if he had children. Beaming, he pointed to a series of inked portraits on his right arm.

Thai artist: “I have two girls: here and here. This my wife. This my mother. You know Buddha? This is Buddha.”
Us: “They’re beautiful. Daughters, wife, mother… what, no father?”
Thai artist: “Here is my father, ha ha ha,” pointing to a mustachioed red devil on his left forearm.

We wound our way through the back alleys to find the famous Ranee’s Restaurant that we went to with Janet last year. The (mostly foreign) service was as abysmal and inattentive as we (now) remember it being last year. They seemed to think they were doing us a favor by serving us. We felt like screaming: you live in Thailand! Why are you so sour with life? What are you, retired Air Canada employees?

PS: Gin wants to make sure I don’t mislead you into thinking I actually made that crack about eating babies. I didn’t really say it, but I thought it. Ever since Mike Hopaluk nonchalantly let off that zinger one evening, I’ve had to be careful not let it slip out whenever there’s talk of babies. I know it is just a matter of time before I do. Thanks, Mike.