Ryan ChartrandI stepped off the plane in Bangkok and was not prepared for what I felt. They told me it would be hot. They told me it would be humid. The banister was sticky. Within seconds, I was dripping. The dense pollution mixed with my sweat to form a slime that coated my entire body. I felt filthy. “What have I gotten myself into?” I thought as I descended the staircase into a world that I had previously only heard about. “I hope I don’t regret this.”
Those feelings of apprehension have dissolved completely into ones of pure elation. “I’m in f-kin’ Thailand,” I have to tell myself every day. I still have trouble believing it.
It started sinking in on my first day in Bangkok. Imagine the polar opposite of everything you know. Imagine your world view being twisted into something so foreign, so incomprehensible that all your knowledge becomes obsolete. This is what I felt in Bangkok. The wits that carried me through life in California were suddenly as useful as my native English.
“You look like Thai people!,” observed the tuk-tuk driver as he weaved around buses and cut off taxis in a manner that sent chills through my body. Driving laws are a suggestion. Lanes dividers are there for decoration. Seat belts? Don’t make me laugh. Speeding through downtown Bangkok at paralyzing speed on a motorized tricycle is an experience that can only be described as, “What the f-k.” You think driving drunk is scary? Try putting your life in the hands of a tuk-tuk driver. You don’t know fear. “No, I would not like any hookers or ladyboys. Please keep your eyes on the road, for the love of God.” Is that an elephant on the street? Yes, that is a f-king elephant on the f-king street. Where am I? Being accosted by prostitutes of questionable gender is not as fun as I thought it would be. Please stop touching me.
That was two weeks ago. Back then, the sight of a transsexual wearing a miniskirt would make me slightly uncomfortable. Now, the lack thereof has the same effect. There are not as many trannies on the rice paddies as there are in Bangkok. It was disconcerting. I was starting to get used to the confusion, the suspense of not knowing whether the nice lady giving me a free Thai lesson was, in fact, a lady.
Everyone else took the trail, but I decided to use the rice terraces as a giant staircase. Five feet? OK. Ten feet? Why not. Fifteen feet? Just jump. I’m in Thailand. Halfway down the paddies, a rice farmer stopped me. “You see that?” he asked, pointing to a hut about 50 yards away. “That, Hotel California!” I approached the hut and took a seat on the porch as the farmer started to sing. Tell anyone over here that you are from California, and they start to sing it. It’s too bad I f-king hate The Eagles.
The Thai hill tribes are different from the urban population. They are more hospitable, if that is even possible. They served us coffee that they grow in the hills and hand roast over an open fire. It was the best coffee I had ever had. The best coffee in the world, dare I say.
We continued our trek down the the campgrounds. The tribesmen performed traditional song and dance for us, and we returned the favor. We ate. We drank. We here happy.
As the sun set over the rice paddies, it had to be said. I looked around to my newfound friends. “Dude. We are in a f-king hut, 5 feet above the f-king ground, on a f-king rice paddie, in a f-king hill tribe villiage, in f-king Thailand”. They didn’t believe it either.