Khao San Road, Where People Get Wasted and Eat Scorpions.
I was attacked by a prostitute, saw a woman carried out in wagon, and tried laughing gas.
Khao San road should have a trigger warning "college freshman flashbacks". Everything from the loud bad music, to the sweating masses, to the limp passed out girl I saw being hauled out on a wagon, to the totally indistinct could have been anywhere night club called "the Club" I found myself praying for my watch to mercifully hit 3:00 a.m. The whole experience was an all too familiar strobe lit bacardi breezer fouled shout "you should be having fun right now". It is the patient zero in Thailand's "back packer" scene.
It is, like any other established tourist spot, a sort of caricature of its self; a projection of what the locals think you might want to see, with all the familiar comforts of a burger king. There are dudes walking around with the obligatory scorpions on a stick, and a few oddities like laughing gas dispensed from balloons and the fact the competing clubs have half their patrons dancing in the street to music cranked to weaponized.
While gawking at this street entirely dedicated to getting fucked up—I was jerked back by the arm.
Promptly grabbing my entire package in one strong hand, this trans prostitute actually uttered “Fucki Sucki”, and gestured to a dark alley way off the main strip. I have to say I did not expect to hear this stereo type in real life, but I suppose this is what they think you want to hear. I flashed a photo of Them before making a break for it, for which I received a barrage of punches to the back, and escaped into the crowd with a torn shirt.
Promptly grabbing my entire package in one strong hand, this trans prostitute actually uttered “Fucki Sucki”, and gestured to a dark alley way off the main strip. I have to say I did not expect to hear this stereo type in real life, but I suppose this is what they think you want to hear. I flashed a photo of Them before making a break for it, for which I received a barrage of punches to the back, and escaped into the crowd with a torn shirt.
Totally blackout, this woman was hauled off the strip on a wagon of all things
I had the pleasure of watching baby faced white kids walking starry eyed, right off the plane, at what must have appeared to them as a filthy, dangerous and exotic city. They would have booked their totally up to date/hip/clean/affordable/conveniently located hostel online with ease, and found on arrival dozens of people just like themselves. They would have a copy of Lonely Planet Thailand jammed in their 65L trekking pack, and settled into their bunk in the full glory of AC and Wifi to Skype their parents that they arrived safely. Anywhere they want to go people would be there waiting, expecting them, and with a bus or a hostel or a restaurant or a beer.
There are tons of westerners around, and whatever initial fear of wandering the streets in Thailand would pretty quickly dissipate, and they'll likely be wasted out of their minds eating a scorpion on a stick with their new best friends who a few hours before were total strangers.
This is not an indictment of the tourist industry in Thailand. Rather it is an acknowledgement of how efficient the industry has become pretty much anywhere. Any major "back packing" destination sort of whisks you a long with the same procedural familiarity of airport staff. It is like a greased channel, a rushing torrent of travellers being processed like so many plates in dishwasher, so that in the end when you're unloaded you don't even really know what happened. You pass through with a sort of bleary eyed attentiveness, and after some wild times, shoe string living and a bunch of transient roommates it's over and you're not really sure what happened. Kind of like college.
This is not an indictment of the tourist industry in Thailand. Rather it is an acknowledgement of how efficient the industry has become pretty much anywhere. Any major "back packing" destination sort of whisks you a long with the same procedural familiarity of airport staff. It is like a greased channel, a rushing torrent of travellers being processed like so many plates in dishwasher, so that in the end when you're unloaded you don't even really know what happened. You pass through with a sort of bleary eyed attentiveness, and after some wild times, shoe string living and a bunch of transient roommates it's over and you're not really sure what happened. Kind of like college.
