The Metropolis welcomes me with an assault on the senses. Blaring car horns, and the smell of fried chillies, Delivery bikes blitzing through the intersection whilst the crossing guard does a little dance on the highway. This is it, Bangkok, Krungthep Mahanakorn - the City of Angels. I had not been here in so long that I had to spend a few minutes orienting myself in the new train station, when I heard a familiar voice.
“Syddhartha!” rings out from the bustling crowd, it was my cousin - Ronaldinho.
“Rody!” I scream, sprinting towards him. 6 foot tall, unshaven stubble and flip-flops, the way I remembered. As a kid we used to be inseparable. He lived in my grandmother's village in the far east and I would see him every Songkran. We would wake up early to dig holes in my grandma’s garden before being forced to fill them back up. Spend our days riding water buffaloes in the dried-up-yellowed rice fields, hunting for crabs and toads. Our evenings were often spent secretly lighting firecrackers in the temple behind the house, before promptly running away from the Abbot, chasing after us shouting buddhist hexes. My grandmother's house was small and only had one bed and one ceiling fan, so we would have to huddle up underneath it to try and not sweat to death. But my mother lived in the city, so we would only see each other once a year.
Now he is the one in the big city, studying law, in hopes to join the revolution. Who knows? All the revolutionaires studied law, Lenin, Castro, Banomyong. But he spends most of his days hungover watching Premier League matches on his Ipad.
“Syddhartha, My Boy! It’s been so long - too long.” He exclaims racing for a hug.
“First of all don’t call me that, that’s not my name and second of all you’re only 2 years older than me” I reply but still going in for the hug.
“How long are you in Bangkok, before you're off to Cambodia and all that?” he continues.
“4 days - I’ll take the train on 16th” I reply.
He pauses and counts the days on his fingers “Then we have a lot of work to do?” he says grinning
“What?”I reply consfused.
“To make these four days the best days of your goddamned life! That's what we have to do.” he shouts with a confused face as if it were obvious “After we’re done here, you’re gonna wish you could just stay in Bangkok forever”
We walk off to find his motorbike. We spend what felt like an hour in the sun trying to fit his gigantic body, me and my also gigantic backpack all onto - what essentially is a small Vespa. “Wish we had a fucking Buffalo right now.” He quips, looking at the backpack then back at his small vespa. First we tried carrying the bag in the back but the centre of gravity was too far back, which made it impossible to turn. Then we tried putting the bag horizontally in the middle, but the loss of circulation to my legs essentially meant that I was staying on the bike only through the friction of my pants. Eventually we settled on putting the Backpack in the front, Ronaldinho sitting in the middle of the seat, stretching his neck as high as he could over the top of the back pack and me sitting at the very back with my entire ass in the air, holding on to two small metal bars from in between my legs. This arrangement works, not well but enough - which soon became our motto for the week. “Good Enough!” Ronaldinho exclaimed before racing off into the midday traffic. There were thousands of cars, tuk-tuks and motorbikes, all racing through the underpass of Ramkhamhaeng street - many of them in more precarious situations than us. A man with a dog standing on the dashboard of his Honda Surf and a Suzuki with eight live ducks tied to the back - all heading somewhere different - but briefly sharing the same street. At one point we were driving alongside a police man on a motorbike who gave us a rather concerned look and gestured for us to pull over. Ronaldinho kept his cool, smiled and pointed at his helmet, which made the officer realise he wasn't wearing his and let us go out of pure embarrassment.
We finally arrive at his apartment block, park the bike and go up the lift. Ronaldino opens the door to his studio apartment and asks me to leave my shoes in the corridor.“Let me give you a tour” He says as he walks into the room “There’s the bed, there’s the water boiler”, walking to the door in the back “There’s the bathroom and that’s about it”, letting out a laugh.
“Good enough” I mumble under my breath.
“Exactly! Good enough is paradise.” He replies with a smile “Oh and say hello to Panasonic”, pointing up at the air conditioning unit.
“What” I mumble looking up to the aircon.
“He’s the ghost that lives in my air-con, he comes by every few nights - don’t worry he’s nice - he eats all the cockroaches” He answers in a straight face.
“Okay, umm… Hello Panasonic, how are you doing?” I say to the machine.
“He’s not very talkative in the day time” He replies looking at me “But you’re a right bastard at night, aren't you?” He looks at the air conditioning unit with a freindly smile.
I set my stuff down and take a very needed shower, when it starts to rain. I come out to Rody lying with his feet in the air watching something on his Ipad.
“What are you watching?” I ask him as I pack away my toiletries.
“Top News” he replies non-chalantly.
“TOP NEWS?! That right-wing news site?” I walk towards him, glancing at the screen. “Why in hell are you watching that?”
“Oh It’s the best, It’s like Pravda but without a single competent person or any understanding of politics - here join me.” He slides over a Doremon shaped pillow. “Look here comes the Generalissimo - He comes on this often”
He continues “Where’s he gonna sit? Oop he’s pulling a chair out, wait no it’s stuck. Maybe he’ll just lean on the table” He’s carefully tracing Prayuth’s movements with his pinkie finger. “Oh he’s got a pen, look at that! What’s he going to do with it? Oh he’s dropped it. Into his coffee! Oh no!” He let’s out a burst of laughter. “I told you it’s the best. It’s like watching gibbons trying to solve a sudoku puzzle - now he’s trying to fish the pen out with his finger, it’s hot. Yeah… Just sit back and pretend that didn’t happen - Look at him. Can you believe that this is the guy that couped the government in 2014?” Letting out a big laugh “ What a fucking Buffoon!”
We watched funny Top News clips for a few hours, going back to their election coverage. Their Anchors, one a seasoned propagandist from the coup, the other a soothsayer with strange tattoos on his face. Both men hopped up on COPE-ium, saying that the old people vote in the mornings, so their ballots are at the bottom of the boxes, and that a conservative landslide was just around the corner. By midnight, it was a resounding defeat for all the military parties, with the reformist youth party pulling out a surprise victory. The Anchors already looked defeated by 10 pm, by midnight they were desolate.
Rody had class all morning, so I decided to go for a stroll in the old neighbourhood I used to live in. As a kid I used to live in Bangkok, somewhere deep in the sois of the old town, but eventually my parents decided to move me to Chiang Mai to go to a different school. I never really fit into the old one anyways, being the only white face and the only one not completely sucked into the brain disease of the Sakdina system. All of Thai society is organised around it, a complicated system of social hierarchy. A golden fluid called Barami drips down from the royals flowing into the corporate and military rulers, all stemming from the same 100 or so families. The liquid drips down the classes slowly until nothing is left for anyone who wasn’t born into power anyway. This Barami, its authority cannot be questioned, ever. If you are lower in the hierarchy you might as well give in to being the subservient Serfs of those higher in it. Officially instituted into Law by Phibun Songkram, our WW2 era fascist dictator, and kept up by the dozens of military coups which would plague the young Thailand for a century. He essentially created the modern state, after seizing power in a coup a couple years after the Siamese revolution in 1932. He wrote the constitution, designed the flag and penned the national anthem - raged a race war against the Chinese and communist with the full backing of the western world.
I take the boat and ride all the way to the last stop, getting off at the Democracy Monument. I walk down the wide empty boulevards of Rachadamnoen and stop to stare at the Monument. These streets used to be full of shops, street food vendors and lottery stands, but all of that is gone now. Now its banks are littered with homeless people, who came to Bangkok hoping for a better life, but was left to the side By progress, too fast to care for the concerns of anyone, not fitting its ideals. The road was cleared after the 2014 Putsch, in a push to ‘clean up’ the capital, to make room for more ‘high-value’ tourists. It came with the 12 cultural mandates pushed out after the coup, a clear homage to Phibun’s cultural mandates in the 30s. A cheap xerox of evil - an apt way to describe the Prayuth regime. The Democracy Monument was also built by Phibun, which is ironic because he is the man that ended Thai democracy - twice, in 1933 and 1946. The irony is more evident by the fact that he invited Hitler and Moussolini to come to the grand unveiling, but they declined due to being busy with Operation Barbarossa. The Monument is composed of four large concrete spikes sticking out of the ground, with a statue of the constitution in the middle, the constitution which Phibun would go on to violate countless times. The spikes are adorned with the usual fascist modernist murals of soldiers doing this and that, looking like prime specimens of the ‘Great Thai Race’. Now covered up by a large anarchist flag and filled with protesters. The protesters, in orange shirts, holding colourful signs reading ‘Where is our vote?’
I continue walking, eventually reaching Dinsor road and turning into the little alley where my house used to be. The street feels alien to you. The old shops, owned and run by little Chinese grandmas, are all gone. Now replaced by instagrammable coffee shops, with sheer white walls and generic slogans like ‘Just breathe’ or just the words 'Aesthetic’ and ‘Vibes’ perfect for a photo op. Giant lines of garishly dressed hipsters line up to order whatever bubble tea is in right now and take the same five photos. One of their hands holding the Taiwan tea, with a potted plant in the background, one of them looking out the photogenically round window and one of them awkwardly posing in front of the various slogans on the wall. Everyman wears a plain loose fitting button up, dress pants and the same haircut, Korean-bangs. His girlfriend pulls out a poetry book by Rupi Kaur to find a caption for her photos, reading ‘I was hurt and so were you’ or something equally generic. Production-line Individualists.
I turn into my soi and look for the house of an old friend. I spend a few minutes looking for the wooden shack he used to live in, only to realise that it has been replaced by a marijuana dispensary called ‘Green Peace’ selling overpriced ‘California-Strains.’ I keep walking down the alley and turn into an even smaller alley. The abandoned haunted house, now an artisan bakery, the student apartment block, now a backpackers hostel and my house, its iconic blue gates, painted black and turned into a jazz speakeasy, playing ai generated ambient music. The large mango tree in front had been chopped down and turned into a motorbike parking lot. Every room is themed with a different colour, one for every mood you could imagine taking photos in. My parents' room is the blue room, decorated with Marine-themed props. Outside are two sailors hats, in case you’d want to take photos. The Buddha room, now the ‘Selfie Room’, is filled with little trinkets, japanese figurines and props. My dads office is now the ‘Coffee Lab’ where some pretentious guy will ramble at you about the authenticity of the ‘Hill Tribe Arabica’ they were selling that week. My room is the white room. White carpet, white sofa, white flowers and a white neon sign reading ‘Mindfulness’ hanging over where my bed used to be. Everything was white with the only exception being a bottle of red wine, placed very aesthetically in a sun beam in front of the neon sign. I sit down on the sofa and pick up the wine bottle to read the label. ‘Revolucion!’ reads the label, here in the home of the ‘lifestyle-socialists.’ I let out a chuckle at the sight of reading these words, in the counter-revolutionary den, taking a swig of the wine. The wine was terrible and tasted more like candy than alcohol, so I poured the rest out onto the pristine white carpet and promptly left before anyone noticed.
I met up with Ronaldinho again, at a park close to his university. Him in his white button up, black tie and dress shoes, me in a white T-shirt with a wine-stain directly above my heart.
“How was your day?” He asks me with a smile.
“Terrible” I reply“Always the miserable sack, aren’t you Syddhartha?” He continues with a chuckle and patting me on the back. “Let’s go for a walk”
“Don’t call me that” I reply again “Just a shame - what Prayuth did to our home...”
“Who doesn’t like coffee shops owned by Sakdina-Babies”, shaking his head ironically and continuing to the lake.
We sat by the lake, looking at the abandoned skyscrapers, which dotted the skyline. Most of them abandoned after the 1995-financial crisis - 500 metre skeletons of modernity. Abandoned when the contractor went bankrupt or committed suicide and never picked up again. The city just moves on, different neighbourhoods go in and out of style, these left to decay in the rain. He tells me a story of a man he once saw on top of one of those skyscrapers, a few months back. He told me how he thought the man was committing suicide, standing up there swaying in the wind. He told me of how he screamed and tried to tell people, but no-one else could see the man, and besides, the building was a kilometre away and the man was 50 floors up a building with no elevator. So he gave up trying to help - He just sat down and watched, hoping the man would get down on his own. The man must’ve stood there for half an hour before he jumped. He told me of how he watched the man fall 30 floors landing on a veranda, get up and walk away.
“The Fucker just got up, wiped the concrete dust off his pants and walked away, like nothing happened - Could you believe that?” He tells me with both excitement and confusion in his voice.
“No - honestly it sounds like bullshit. You’d die if you fall 30 floors onto concrete” I reply.
“I saw what I saw” he responds, glaring at me and looking away annoyed “I mean stranger things have happened before.”
“I think you saw a ghost” I continue in a lighter tone.
“Maybe it’s Panasonic-” he chuckles, before being interrupted by a monitor lizard swimming onto the grass.
“Jesus Crist, What the fuck is that?” I scream jumping away from the lizard.
The monitor lizard, 2 metres long, covered in scales and with jagged dinosaur-like teeth, slowly walks toward Ronaldinho, who is still calmly sitting by the lake, watching the oncoming creature.
“Don’t worry they don’t eat people - only chickens and rats” he continues, looking at me and reaching out to pet the creature “Isn’t that right Mr Prime Minister.”
I wake up to the sensation of shaking, my body violently bouncing up and down, crashing repeatedly on the hard bed beneath. I open my eyes to see a large figure standing over me, shaking me violently. Panasonic? Is that you?
“Get up we don’t have much time - Get up!” It was Rody, jumping up and down on the bed.
“What? What’s going on?” I ask, sitting up and wiping the sand out of my eyes, “Is there an earthquake?”, letting out a yawn.
“It’s 11! We don’t want to waste another of our precious days, Syd”, He explains, getting off the bed and stuffing my hands with a towel, toiletries and fresh clothes. “Central World is already open! We have to go”, shoving the slumbering me into the bathroom.
I freshen up and head off. Due to the unending traffic in Bangkok we decided to take the Saen Saep Canal boat. The pier was half empty, besides us there was a monk sitting there feeding the fish. The boat arrived first as a distant cloud of water, then the rumbling of the engine, followed. The boat was packed, all the seats taken, the only spot left were next to the deafening roar of the engine. We stood there leaning on the large engine box, our heads rattling aggressively, watching the Klong-side slums pass us by. Floating houses and shoddy wooden-plank bridges littered the banks, with the occasional Chinese temple or mosque passing by, the islamic moon poking above the houses. During the Rattanakosin period, foreigners and minorities were relegated to living by the canals, creating a long thin strip of muslims and chinese in an otherwise dominantly thai buddhist city.
“Wh-w-wh”, I try to ask but the intense rattling overwhelms my capability to speak. I pause and try again, now, practically screaming into Rody’s ear “Why are we going to Central World anyways?”
“What?” he replies, also screaming.
“Central World - Why?” I ask again, even louder, causing my voice to break.
Ronaldinho smirks, likely at the squeak, then leans in close to me “To make sure you don’t forget where you’re from.”
What does that mean? As if I will forget this place, I’ve lived my whole life. I take a step away from the engine and towards the opening on the side to poke my head out. The filthy canal with its murky brown water, was serene. The smell is absorbed by the passing vacuum, leaving a gentle breeze. The sunbeams stabbing into the cool undergrowth of the mangrove canopy, occasionally breaking up the grey urban sprawl of Bangkok. A bottle of red bull sucked in by the current of the boat, popping out from underneath, quickly snapped up by a catfish. You’ve ridden this boat countless times, how could you forget this place, this place which feels like home - more than home has in a while. Then suddenly the boat takes a small turn causing a giant wave of brown water to gush up, soaking my head. The smell instantly returned, reeking of trash and fish.
Rody lets out a sudden burst of laughter, walking over to me. “Unlucky Syd”, shaking his head “Unlucky”.
“It’s not funny, now I reek of dogshit and heroin needles” I say to Rody, trying to subdue the urge to panic, “Just great...”
“Don’t worry Syd, no need to panic” He replies running his fingers through my hair to assess the level of soakage “We’ll just stand in the sun for a bit and the smell will be gone - Plus it’ll help with the heat.”, grinning widely from ear to ear.
We arrive at Patumwan pier and quickly make our way up the sky walk, briskly walking past Central World.
“I think we just passed it.” I say to Rody.
“Passed what, Central World? Do you want to go window shopping? Won’t you have enough consumerism when you get to Europe?” He looks at me with an expression of pure confusion and a little disappointment, “We’re here for something more meaningful”, taking the steps down to the Erawan Shrine.
In front of every mall in Bangkok, is a Hindu shrine. In front of Central World is Ganesha. In front of Amarin Plaza is Phra Indra and in between the two is the Erawan Shrine. The mall owners put them up as a way to draw in the riches to their malls, attract Gods to come and shop. There’s also the extra benefit that the people who come here to pray often end up walking around the malls for a bit to cool off. Thailand is on the surface Buddhist but in most practical terms it’s still very Hindu. People don’t eat beef out of respect for the cows and pray at Hindu shrines at big life events. We walk to the counter and buy ourselves each a lotus and two candles, one yellow and one red. The shrine was packed as usual, so there was a long queue in front. Each person walks over, puts a lotus down, lights a candle and has a 1 minute window to do a prayer, one after the other. Eventually it was our turn, so we did the same, walking over, placing a lotus, lighting the yellow candles and praying. I sat down on my knees, next to Rody, both facing the shrine and put our hand into a lotus shape. Ronaldinho immediately went to praying, mumbling some stuff under his breath. I had a much harder time - The words just didn’t come. I thought to myself ‘I wish for a safe voyage, no accidents no catastrophes’ but didn’t say it out loud, as it didn’t sound prayer-like enough. So I tried again, digging up all the Sanskrit words I could think of. ‘No Dukkha’ was all I could muster up, so I gave up on the whole exercise of praying. I stared at the Erawan shrine and the gentle smile on the statue. The statue now stood towering over the both of us, but towering over it were dozens of giant LCD screens and billboards. Flashing ‘50 percent off! Buy one get one free’ intercut with glamour shots of the new Taco Bell or the ‘Virgin’ fitness club. The screens, some of them dozens of metres tall, would sometimes shine so bright that the Erawan Shrine in broad daylight would be reduced to a tiny silhouette, in comparison to the megalithic ‘Robinson’s back to school sale’. We stood up and began walking to the Pathumwan intersection.
“What’s the red candle for?” I ask Rody, rushing to follow him.
“Just wait.” He answers in a weirdly sombre tone.
“Where are you going?” I ask again, this time to no answer.
We cross the intersection but don’t go onto the pavement on the other side, instead stopping at the sign demarcating the intersection. The sign, the usual blue metal street sign you see all over bangkok, was tied up with little bands of red fabric. The asphalt in front of it littered the butts of burnt up red candles, and drips of red wax. The cars on the busy intersectional make sure to make a large enough turn to not run the candles over.
“Do you remember that protest we went to, when I visited you in Bangkok years ago?” Ronaldinho asks, still looking at the sign. “Do you remember that photo of you in that burnt up Armoured Personnel vehicle, the one with you in the superman shirt? You were pretty young”, now looking over to me.
“Yeah” I reply, not sure where this is going.
“Do you remember Suthep giving out that order to shoot them all down - the redshirts - I remember” he continues, now in a hushed voice, walking over to the candles on the ground “And now they’re going into government with the bastards that did this.” trying to catch a flame from a dwindling candle onto his. “Sretta, Cholalnan, Ung Ing, all of them cozying up to the man who carried out the massacre - Not a single back bone on a single one of them.” He extends his lit candle over to you, carefully making sure that the wind doesn’t blow it out. He pauses for a moment and looks you straight in the eye, “Tell me you remember Syd, tell me you remember the smell of smoke and blood.”
You were too young to remember all of it in detail or maybe you don’t want to remember. You see glimpses sometimes, a man with his brains sprawled out on the asphalt, another crying after his legs have been blown off. Brief flashes, instantly gone again. You remember the hysteria, the chaos but not the day. You remember crying, that you’re white PE shoes are now stained red and that the teacher will be angry on monday. You don’t remember any bullets, but you remember running. You don’t remember the situation, why it’s happening, but you remember the fear - the first time you’ve ever been that scared in your whole young life. The memory is slipping, already only a decade on. But the one unmistakeable thing, the one thing that you will never get out of your mind is that smell. The disgusting pungent combination of tear gas, gasoline and blood.
“Khoa Saan - You god forsaken street.” He says to himself, stepping out of the door. “Lek and Noi Na are waiting at the club already. Let’s go!”
Khao Saan is exactly as I remember, cramped and hectic. Lining each side, countless pubs, bars and souvenir shops. On the street, little stands, braiding hair, selling Kebabs, ‘Same-Same but Different’ muscle shirts and as of a few months, marijuana. Above the narrow street, hangs big yellow banners, reading ‘Long Live the King!’ still leftover from the King’s birthday celebrations a few weeks prior. The bright ratchapak-yellow now dirtied by weeks of rain, weed smoke and the city thin but persistant layer of smog. We walk, slowly, in the line of Chang-shirted partiers, each coming from a stag do or heading to a nightclub. The street is very cramped, we walk in single file, following the footsteps of the people in front. Perfect, for promoters at each bar to be able to reach you, shouting “Hey Bro, You want beer? Weed? Laughing gas? We have the best prices, bro - Just for you!” as you walk past. They had to shout because every bar was playing music, loud enough to try and drown out the next bar's music - triggering an arms race of who can crank up their house-remixes of 2000s Pop louder than the rest. The finance is disorienting, one ear assaulted by a bad remix of Usher with random fart sounds at the drops whilst the other deafened by a reggae-rendition of Pitbull. Walking through briskly turns each song into a sort of sludge, barely taking shape, barely legible with a disgusting chaotic bass that follows you along the street. The rhythms become blurred so the rhythmically challenged Farangs have an even harder time staying on beat than usual. It breaks your heart watching these boys get progressively drunker, trying their damndest to follow the music, but being off by different increments each time, late to the drop then drastically over correcting. We walk through, and the smell of marijuana becomes extremely potent, especially mixed with the distant scent of vomit coming from somewhere.
We arrive at the bar, already soaked in sweat, to see Rody’s friends waiting for us out front. They had already reserved a seat and ordered a beer tower. The two, Lek and Noi Na were both classmates of Rody, both coming from the far east region of Isaan like us. They greet us in the dialect "Sabai Dii, Boa?” before proceeding to take turns roasting Ronaldinho for being late - As per usual. The Lao Isaan people were a third the Thai population and almost half of the land, but only receive 10 percent of the state funding each year. Seen as traitors for having sided with the communists during the cold war, and sub-human due to the long history of the Siamese enslaving the Lao. As a result many move to Bangkok to find work, constituting a 4 million strong class of second-rate citizens who can’t vote in the city.
I was also technically from Isaan, or at least my mother is. Ethnically Lao but with a white face, like Hanuman, I’ve alway felt like an outsider, both there and here. There they treat me as the bougie prince from the big city, for having a white parent, here they look at me with disgust, for having a Lao one. Always choosing to see the aspect which differs and not the one which matches up. Same-Same but Different - Just Different. In the Sakdina-System this has the strange effect that I take up two positions in the hierarchy, simultaneously at the very top and very bottom. People upon seeing my face, its pointed nose and big eyes, treat me with high respect as a colonial overlord in the structurally feudal society, but after hearing where my mother comes from, changes to an expression of pity and contempt. You can see the moment, you fall ten rungs down the hierarchy, the superficial Siamese smile drops, and they switch to using low-class lexicon.
“This is Syddhartha.” Ronaldinho tells his friends, pulling me into the group. “He’s my cousin, so make him feel at home.” before walking off to order shots.
“Syddhartha? Like the Buddha?” asks Noi Na, the girl.
“That’s just what Rody calls me. Please call me Syd, that’s my actual name.” I reply in a modest tone
“เว่าลาว ได้บ่ (Can you speak Lao)" She continues in dialect, with an analytic look on her face, leaning in a squinting her eyes.
Me, nervous, try and muster up some Lao, saying “ข่อยเว่าได้ อยู่เด้ ข่อยเป็นลูกลาว ซั่มกัน (Of course I can, i’m Lao-son like you are!)” but in a terrible bangkokian accent. But it didn't matter, the moment a word of Lao left my mouth, Noi Na’s face relaxed and the trademark Siamese smile returned on her face.
“Then Syd, I think we are going to get along.” picking up a shot glass from the tray in Ronaldniho’s hand as he returns to the table handing it to me. “To the Future.” she proclaims, handing out a slice of limes to everyone.
“To the Future!” we shout in unison pouring the fiery liquid down our throats and biting the lime slice.
The bar was at half capacity and the decor was rather strange - Seeming out of time and out of place. Above the dance floor, next to the disco ball and spinning strobe lights, were two picture frames with two old looking Thais in them. In front, a small bowl of rice, with two burning incense sticks poking out. Further up the wall were small red lanterns and a decal of a chinese dragon. Towards the back was a big shrine. In it, a statue of Budai, commonly known as ‘the Fat Buddha.’ The statue was wrapped by two dragons spiralling up the walls, eventually interweaving where their heads meet at the ceiling. In front of them a large offering table covered in lit candles, incense sticks and lotus flowers, metres from the dance floor in what I could only describe as a fire safety inspectors nightmare. The crowd was an interesting bunch. Noi Na told me that this bar was an outsider's bar, so the usual guests were all those thrown aside by the Sakdina-System, Laotians, trans-people, migrant workers and even the occasional homeless man were the usual locals. Intermittent in the crowd of beautifully dressed Kathoeys and timid looking Burmese, were a couple of Farangs, white dots in a sea of glitter. Most likely backpackers, lured in by the remarkably cheap prices, slowly, piece by piece, realising the strange place they found themselves in. The perk of places like these is that they don’t card, as the police often feel bad fining the cast-aside, preferring to raid hipster-white joints, where people just pay them a 1000 baht each to fuck off.
I’ve always felt more comfortable around the ‘undesirables’, as amongst those who are at the bottom of the hierarchy - The hierarchy itself vanishes. It’s replaced by a felt-sense of solidarity and understanding. The caste system is a tool, speak a word of Lao to the Taxi driver, to let him know you’re one of them, often means cheaper fares and bizarre short cuts. Say a word of Lao to a Ladyboy and they stop flirting with you, instantly switching to calling you their brother and confessing their struggles. I could see why this is the go to place for Rody and his squad.The playlist however was all over the place, switching genres drastically to try and appeal to the fragmented demographics of the place. Some Morlum for the Laos, then switching over to disco for the Kathoeys, occasionally playing some foreign music to keep the Burmese and Cambodians entertained. The playlist also has to account for the random Hi-So (High Society) Thais that might wander in and peppered a few K-Pop tracts into the mix and every sixth or so song was the ‘Party-Rock Anthem.’ Clearly there for the Farangs. It works almost as a siren song for them. The whites would intermittently doze off during the ‘funny’ music, but spring to the dance floor screaming “PARTY ROCK IS IN THE HOUSE TONIGHT” the moment the LMFAO track comes on, as if in a hypnotic trance. Sprinting over to the dance floor to dance with the otherworldly women. Before falling back down onto their chair to snooze for another five songs.
The playlist continued on like that for an hour, until I hear a familiar pulsing synth. A rubbery pulling, fading in, followed by a “Wop, wop, wop, wop” then the primordial call - “Oppa Gangnam style!” Suddenly everyone, Thai and Lao, Cis and Trans, Bourgeois and Prolet, jumps up running over to the dance floor. No one left sitting - Every person, even the otherwise shy Burmese, now on their feet, erratic on the dance floor. The Music cut off at the chous to accentuate the liberatory choir of “Aaaaaaaaaaay Sexy Lady” before cutting back in for the ecstatic “Wop, wop wop wop - Oppa Gangnamstyle.” All the barriers broke down. The racist Hi-So Thais, loosening up in a circle of Burmese workers. The otherwise transphobic Farangs, now jumping up and down like lunatics, with their arms crossed around Kathoeys, all shouting “Oppa Gangnam Style!” The Boomers sang the International - Us Zoomers have Gangnam Style. This was around the point I lost consciousness.
“Look at that - Isn’t it beautiful?” says Ronaldinho thoughtfully, pointing out at the night-time skyline on the city from a rooftop. “I swear I’ve found my place, Syd - The place I belong.” pulling his arm back and inhaling from a cigarette in his hand before handing it to me.
“Where are we?” I ask, still trying to find my bearings, taking the cigarette from him.
“You’re back - Syddhartha’s back from Nirvana - Back so soon.'' He looks over to me smiling. “We’re on the roof - thought you could use some fresh air - You were pretty drunk down there.”
“I must’ve blacked out.” I say looking over at the skyline, inhaling from the cigarette. “It’s gorgeous, the glittering lights of the Chao Phraya”, then letting out a coughing fit.
“No one knows who you are, no one asks where you’re from - not a single soul judges how downhill things are going for you personally. You’re just free - Free from having to be someone - Free to exist or not exist - Nobody gives a single shit!” He continues, taking a step towards the railing and looking straight down at the people partying on the street. “Everyone, in their own worlds, their own worries, their own ghosts on their shoulders - The ghosts, with their own wishes and dreams. It’s beautiful isn't it? The symphony of chaos.” His voice shifts to a more sombre tone as he says that, his eyes heavied by a deep sadness, but the corner of his mouth still holding his trademark smirk. “Do you believe in ghosts, Syd? Reincarnation and all that?” He looks over to me. “That we just keep doing this shit - Over and over again, until we reach some kind of Enlightenment?” He looks back at the city, inhales the final bit of the cigarette and throws the butt off the Balcony. He doesn’t say anything for a moment but just stares off into the night. The fruit vendors push home their push carts, like squid fishing boats. Little islands of light in the sea of darkness. Young couples walking home slowly peeling back the layers of their infatuation to some stranger they met on the dancefloor, slowly realising that they don’t really love each other and that it was just the ecstasy. A homeless man passed out in a pile of sick, as strangers walk by seemingly not to see the man. A tourist, thinking it would be funny to steal a beggar's cup, before sprinting away laughing with his stags. A street dog, sniffling through the trash heap at the end of the street. He lets out a sigh.
He puts on a large smile and backs away from the railing, “Let’s go back down, I’m sure all the girls are wondering where the cute Lao speaking Farang went.”
I regained my consciousness again, in a long conga-line, marching down Khao San street. In front of me, Ronaldinho, holding onto my shoulders behind me an Indian man, I don’t recognise. We march down, breaking up the line to join various dance circles, before collapsing back into the line and marchin on. Ronaldinho, now clearly very drunk, keeps looking back at me, nodding violently before screaming “Good Enough is Paradise" over and over again, before promptly turning back to lead the line, every time having to seemingly re-learn how to walk. Walking whilst simultaneously making parallel jolts with his shoulders, corresponding to each step. After a while the conga-line disapparated, leaving only me and Rody.
“You know what I think.” says Rody out of nowhere and to no one in particular after swaying in the street for a few minutes. He leans in, closer to me before grabbing my arms and shaking me violently and shouting “Ganja - Ganja - Ganja!”
We walk off to find a marijuana stand, eventually stumbling on one which is in a crack in the wall. The stand was small and only offered one strain - A long joint labelled ‘Siamese Autumn.’ Next to it is sitting an old man, in a Sarong and business shirt, looking around 80.
“How much for two of those little sticks - old man?” Rody shouts at the old man or at least ⅔ in the direction of him. The man slowly turns around to look at us, his facial expression, drab and serious, revealing a missing eye.
“What’s the cost of Progress?” He asks now, staring straight at the two of us with his one eye. His glance, seemingly piercing through me, making me uneasy so I say nothing.
“Im guessing…” answers Rody, rifling through his wallet, “200 baht?”, pulling out the two wrinkled up red 100 baht bills and pulling an awkward smile. “May I ask what happened to your eye?”
I look at him with an expression, saying “Don’t ask that” but it doesn’t get across. Rody looks at me with a dumbfounded expression, before pulling out that awkward smile again.
“I lost it fighting communists in Isaan - around Ubon. We were liberating these villages that had been organised into people's communes by Ho Chi Minh and a stray bullet ricochet, scraping it.” He explains.
“Ubon Ratchathani? That’s where we’re from!” replies Rody, in an excited tone, seemingly not having heard what the man said. “Have you ever been to Baan Thai village?”
“I lost a lot of friends fighting there.” He continues, putting the two joints into a bag and handing it to us. Ronaldinho upon hearing that pulls a muscle, putting on a some-what serious face.
“Well thanks for the joints… And erm… Thank you for your service”, he says slowly backing away. We get a couple metres away, before hearing a shout behind us.
“Let me tell you something kid, I can tell you’re one of those students, properly sucked into the whole Future Forward, Revolution nonsense”, He tells us , trapping us half way from walking back into the lively street “I’ve lived a long life and I’ve seen you, student types, before - And let me tell you something. Do you think your precious ‘democracy’ will get you anywhere? Your votes and complaint letters - Do you really think it will achieve anything.” He pauses. “The only way to get anything done is with power - And power is whoever has more bullets. I’ve seen democracy in this country countless times. A hundred general strikes, student protests, people’s constitutions. It all ends the same. The men with guns have to come back to make sure all this stuff you see here doesn’t go completely ass up.” the man grins, for the first time dropping his drab expression. The movement of his cheek, revealing a black mass on the inside of his hollowed out eye socket. “All you anarchists and communists, progressives and liberals cry for equality and rights. But do you really want Anarchy, people stealing and killing in the streets. Or do you just want a big house with a nice garden, a pool and SUV. The only reason we have any of this-” He gestures to the street. “Is because of the men with guns - Because of violence… and force - And sure, some random people die along the way, but that’s the cost of doing business.”, looking back at us, “This whole Future Forward phase, it’ll end the same way it did in '76, but this time we won’t let any of you go, just to go join some geurillas in the jungles, This time we’ll make sure your types never pop up again!”
We walk off, looking at each other, slightly shocked, but ultimately lost for words. We just stand there, in the middle of the street, as a crowd of mindless drunks pass us by, in the shadow of the ‘Long Live the King’ banner looking at each other, suddenly sobre and a little scared.
After a moment Ronaldinho pulls out the two joints and hands one to me."You know where he's wrong, Syd?" He smumbles with the joint in his mouth.
"They can massacre everyone of us, but they can't stop the Revolution," fiddling with his pocket "It cannot die, it is the act of reincarnation!", he continues grinning like a fool.
“We’ll just have to go out fighting,” he says, striking a flame with his lighter, “They taught us to shoot in ROTC, right? It’s like they want us to destroy everything they built.” He inhales and lets out a large stinking weed cloud then chuckles to himself. “He talks as if he built anything himself. They gave out the orders, we all know that these bricks were all placed by Laotian hands”, handing the lighter to me.
“Long Live the King!” He shouts, raising his fist in the air, with the flaming joint sticking out of it.
I woke up again in the back of the Taxi. Ronaldinho was fast asleep, leaning on me drooling onto the, now sweat-soaked, button-up he lent me. The Taxi seems to know where we’re going so I don't say anything and just look out the window. The wide streets of Bangkok are now abandoned. Towering overpasses frame the space, creating a tunnel, in the open air, passing by covering up the night sky. The street lamps which litter the city give the space a soft orange glow. I try to follow them with my eyes, passing one then darting to the next. The city seemed to go on forever, its streets endless and its people gone - only traceable through the trash left on the street, parked cars, and lit windows.
The taxi arrives, I pay and wake Rody up. We try to walk up the stairs but realise we are too incapacitated to do so. Stumbling, with our arms crossed around each other, we slowly stumble towards the elevator, in a combined effort like in a sack race. Slowly, carefully lifting one foot up, moving it forwards then placing it down, alternating one after the other. Up - Forwards -Down. Up -Forwards - Down until we reach the elevator. We step into the bright metal tube and lean on each other for support, in a tent-like formation. Two sticks, propped up by each other, travelling up in a chrome spaceship, all the way to the sixth floor. We stumble again, now individually holding on the narrow walls of the corridor until we reached room no. 6. Rody immediately went to opening the door, stabbing the key first into the air, then into the wooden door, then finally into the keyhole, twisting it and falling into the black abyss. I follow him into it to find Ronaldinho collapsed face-first half on the bed half on the ground, fast asleep. I carefully step over him, to take my shirt off, when I see a dark shadowy figure crouching on top of the air conditioning unit.
“Jesus Christ!” I scream and the figure looks over to me. Rody mumbles incoherently to himself.
“Panasonic?” I ask, confused and grasping at something. The figure slowly looks down, then up, implying a nod.
“Okay… Nice to finally meet you…” I say to it and turn away to remove my shirt. I could feel its eyes, or whatever it has for eyes looking at me, so I turn around to look at it.
“Uhh… How are you?” I ask to try and burst the awkward tension. The creature slowly raises an arm to reveal a fist. Its body, a solid black, not a colour but more the lack thereof. As the fist goes in the air, I could see it breathing, slowly but steadily. The fist, black, slowly transforms to reveal a thumbs up.
“Okay… Glad you’re doing well…” I say backing up on the bed with my eyes still fixed on it. Rody, again, mumbles something under his breath.
“That’s good to hear…” I say nodding slowly, before falling fast asleep, this time for the rest of the night.
I wake up the next day at 11. Last night’s music, still reverberating in my head, as pulsing headaches. My incapacitation, as a momentary loss of balance, as I climb out of bed and onto the floor, falling sideways. My head fall onto my pile of clothes, reverberating like a meditation bowl, except the water remains dissonant. Ronaldinho, sends me off to the taxi, before presumably collapsing back onto his bed, as passing out for another few hours.
I make my way to Hua Lamphong station to board the slowline heading east. The line in the ticket booth wasn’t long, but in my dilapidated state, with two 20 Kilo Backpacks, weighing me down, felt like an eternity. I stand there, pulled down by my backpacks, one in front and one on my back, perfectly balanced so that I stand straight in spite of my spinning head, as long as I keep my knees locked. The ticket to the Cambodian border was 49 baht. I board the train, finding a seat by an open window before promptly falling asleep.
I wake up a few stations later. The train is now cramped, barely any space to move. In front of me an old monk standing holding onto the railing, staring at me, taking up a reserved monk's seat. I pretend to be an unaware Foreigner so as to not give up my seat and just look out the window. I can’t stand up now, I’ll vomit. Snaking through the thick undergrowth of students and salary-men is an old lady holding two baskets of snacks and fruits attached together by a piece of bamboo, resting on her shoulder. Quickly trying to fit into the small gaps between the people that form organically as the train sways from side to side, causing the people to lose balance. The old lady, shrunken from time, flows seamlessly through the swaying field of barely conscious commuters, all staring at their phones, barely aware of her. As she passes me I buy a bag of unroasted peanuts before she gets off at the next station, before taking the same train back in a closed circuit.
I stare out at the metropolis. The endless traffic jams underneath towering grey concrete overpasses. Simultaneously underground and overground. I look out at the people, living their lives, walking to and fro, in a harmonious interweaving of different plans, taking place on the streets. Simultaneously in perfect equilibrium and completely fragmented.
“I am fragmented” I think to myself, detached from the play happening on the streets. Headed nowhere in particular to do god knows what. Completely alone and alienated. Is who I am to become from this trip already set? And this is just the process of finding that self - Slowly unveiling something which was there from the beginning. When it does, it will be and have always been. A line easily drawn from the past to now, who I was to who I am to who I will become - But that line isn’t yet evident. The product of past lives Karma and this lives ambitions. Or is it that the process of already-happening sets the circumstances for it to happen. One day, walking to the bus or waiting at the cash register, the Me I will become with suddenly occurs, fully realised and setting a clear path forwards. When that comes, won’t that realisation, in itself set the stage for its own dissolution later down the road. By choosing to travel am I predestinating myself to become the Vagabond, or is the eventual Vagabond I become, revealing itself through the act of choosing to travel. Can I still fuck it up or is the process of becoming me just a series of inexplicable fuck-ups only evident at the end, what they ultimately amount to.
I think back to the ongoing political crisis. Once it happens, it will be clear that it was always going to happen, but until it happens it is wishful thinking to think it is going to. The Event recontextualizes its own past and if so - If the Revolution has already happened and this is just the slow process of realising it has happened - The Junta and Monarchy realising that the Jig is up - When did it happen to begin with.
I remember a conversation me and my father once had with a monarchist when I was young. We were sitting on a rooftop restaurant, looking over the Democracy monument when it was occupied during the red shirt protests of 2010. Watching the large rallies and crowds of protesters, shouting revolutionary slogans and fully convinced that the Apisit Regime was doomed to end. At that moment the Khao Saan massacre a few weeks later massacre already happened, the coup 4 years later too already happened, only yet to unfold in time. But at that moment also the surprise victory of the Move Forward Party in 2023 also already happened, just yet to be fully realised. Or is it just hindsight that makes these events seem inevitable. We talked to the man frankly about the King and asked him if he thought it was really meant to last. At that time, the stringent Lesé-Majesté laws were still unquestioned and the risk of imprisonment was real. The man told us that the Monarchy was meant to last forever and that nothing can change that. We asked him about the Crown Prince, the current King, and he fell silent. At that moment even he knew that the Jig was up. We were just yet to realise it. Waiting for the scene to play out the long way. Everything was forever - Until it wasn’t. Now Lesé-Majesté is a thing of the past. Sure thousands are still charged every single year, but none can be prosecuted without fear of public outrage, waiting in endless trials, with thousands of onlookers. The condemned will eventually become martyrs of a future Revolution, gestating as we speak. Waiting their days in Prison, looking at the fireworks in the night sky, that the students light in solidarity. You can imprison critics but you can’t imprison the night sky. We already won, we’re just waiting for the people in power to look up.
I decided to sit back and put on some music - to stop the thoughts from flowing. Just watch the city pass by.
Give in to the music...
