Something New
Breaking Rank. A member of the Thai Army breaks rank to look at the big white guy with a big camera.---------------------------------------------------------------------
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My travel writing have taken on a disjointed sort as of late. Such is the way of the unorganized journalist. Flying into Bangkok after a stay in Hong Kong, I was at the airport with nary a clue about where to stay or how to get there. Fortuitous as it was, Danielle has mentioned of a road where here and Brian had stayed on their own travels some years back. Rembuttri Road.
Armed with this knowledge, I headed for a bank machine and the taxi queue. Soon I was on my way, bags in tow, about to arrive in what would seem like the most vile and depraved of street parties that this quiet and reserved traveler has ever witnessed.
After departing the safety and comfort of my taxi, I was deposited on the travelers mecca of Khao San Road, starting period for many a tourists downward spiral. Determined to avoid a fate similar to Dante's, I made a detour to what was imparted upon me to the "off the beaten path". I soon found lodging at a small and quaint bed and breakfast. After paying fees for two nights keep and squaring away two weeks of laundry with the concierge, it was time to set about the town to survey the city which attracts souls eager to explore the darker side of human psyche.
The people who inhabit the streets of Rembuttri and Khao San Road are as varied as the insects of the Amazon. You will find every race, every social class and every age of traveller. I settled into a lounge chair at an eatery not far from my abode and instantly noticed the most animated of fellows. He, by looks was a true Rastafarian.
With a tall and slender build, he towered above the locals by a good 12 to 18 inches. His hair, the darkest earthly shade of a farmers most prized top-soil, was thick of rasta dreadlocks, thick as snakes, ending at the nape of his clay colored neck. Dressed in loose fitting beach-wear, he was adorned in the most ironic looking Hawaiian shirt when worn by most would come off looking comical, yet on this man of the tropics, was the only shirt one could imagine on him.
The staple of most in these climates, he wore standard issue khaki shorts, cut at the knee, fastened at the waist by the simplest of canvas utility belts. Adorning his feet were simple yet functional flip-flops.
The scene was a mild confrontation. The Rastafarian was at lengths debating his eviction of a spot at the same establishment where I currently awaited a cold liquid relief from the humidity that enveloped the city like a wet, warm blanket. The young waiter, of an age not yet reaching twenty, was by looks growing both in frustration and despair. In a final volley, he called upon the assistance of three large men, who up to now had been busying within the shop, conducting renovations. Sensing a mounting defeat, the rosta beat a none-to-hasty retreat, making a last stand across the street, leaning against a taxi-cab. His consolation, a sole beer that did not leave his hand for the remainder of my time observing him.
For the next hour as I sat in the shade of a potted tree, drinking but the coldest of beers, I watched the rasta-man. Though he was alone, he carried on a most animated dialog with no less that three phantoms, all the while ranting and shouting curiosities not only to his invisible entourage, but at any hapless soul who thought it wise to partake his company. And so it went for the duration. Two beers and sixty minutes past hence, all the while, the rasta-man professed.
I must confess that the combination of my recent flights, libations and the ghastly weather was too much to endure. I promptly paid my tab and retired to my accommodations, where upon laying my head, the sweet blackness of slumber was quick to invade my body. For the next two hours it was so. I slept a sleep of the likes reserved for the deceased.
Upon arousing at the seventh hour past the mid-day sun, I was greeted to the sounds of thousands of revelers, sucking in both the sounds and smells that this new society had to offer the intrepid travelers. Realizing that it had been some time since I had dined, and reminded by the none-to-faint pangs of hunger, I decided that an exploratory mission was in order to experience the cuisine that this new world would afford me. It didn't take long for an opportunity of nourishment to present itself. Not but two doors away, a patio offered both cheap beer and what smelled like treasures untold. It was also upon this place where I met the Hungarian.
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The rest is to be continued as I find time. Probably on my train to Laos tomorrow...
Armed with this knowledge, I headed for a bank machine and the taxi queue. Soon I was on my way, bags in tow, about to arrive in what would seem like the most vile and depraved of street parties that this quiet and reserved traveler has ever witnessed.
After departing the safety and comfort of my taxi, I was deposited on the travelers mecca of Khao San Road, starting period for many a tourists downward spiral. Determined to avoid a fate similar to Dante's, I made a detour to what was imparted upon me to the "off the beaten path". I soon found lodging at a small and quaint bed and breakfast. After paying fees for two nights keep and squaring away two weeks of laundry with the concierge, it was time to set about the town to survey the city which attracts souls eager to explore the darker side of human psyche.
The people who inhabit the streets of Rembuttri and Khao San Road are as varied as the insects of the Amazon. You will find every race, every social class and every age of traveller. I settled into a lounge chair at an eatery not far from my abode and instantly noticed the most animated of fellows. He, by looks was a true Rastafarian.
With a tall and slender build, he towered above the locals by a good 12 to 18 inches. His hair, the darkest earthly shade of a farmers most prized top-soil, was thick of rasta dreadlocks, thick as snakes, ending at the nape of his clay colored neck. Dressed in loose fitting beach-wear, he was adorned in the most ironic looking Hawaiian shirt when worn by most would come off looking comical, yet on this man of the tropics, was the only shirt one could imagine on him.
The staple of most in these climates, he wore standard issue khaki shorts, cut at the knee, fastened at the waist by the simplest of canvas utility belts. Adorning his feet were simple yet functional flip-flops.
The scene was a mild confrontation. The Rastafarian was at lengths debating his eviction of a spot at the same establishment where I currently awaited a cold liquid relief from the humidity that enveloped the city like a wet, warm blanket. The young waiter, of an age not yet reaching twenty, was by looks growing both in frustration and despair. In a final volley, he called upon the assistance of three large men, who up to now had been busying within the shop, conducting renovations. Sensing a mounting defeat, the rosta beat a none-to-hasty retreat, making a last stand across the street, leaning against a taxi-cab. His consolation, a sole beer that did not leave his hand for the remainder of my time observing him.
For the next hour as I sat in the shade of a potted tree, drinking but the coldest of beers, I watched the rasta-man. Though he was alone, he carried on a most animated dialog with no less that three phantoms, all the while ranting and shouting curiosities not only to his invisible entourage, but at any hapless soul who thought it wise to partake his company. And so it went for the duration. Two beers and sixty minutes past hence, all the while, the rasta-man professed.
I must confess that the combination of my recent flights, libations and the ghastly weather was too much to endure. I promptly paid my tab and retired to my accommodations, where upon laying my head, the sweet blackness of slumber was quick to invade my body. For the next two hours it was so. I slept a sleep of the likes reserved for the deceased.
Upon arousing at the seventh hour past the mid-day sun, I was greeted to the sounds of thousands of revelers, sucking in both the sounds and smells that this new society had to offer the intrepid travelers. Realizing that it had been some time since I had dined, and reminded by the none-to-faint pangs of hunger, I decided that an exploratory mission was in order to experience the cuisine that this new world would afford me. It didn't take long for an opportunity of nourishment to present itself. Not but two doors away, a patio offered both cheap beer and what smelled like treasures untold. It was also upon this place where I met the Hungarian.
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The rest is to be continued as I find time. Probably on my train to Laos tomorrow...
posted by Blue4130 at
3/29/2009 07:24:00 AM
4 Comments:
Sounds good dude! Can't wait for the story about the Hungarian :-)
I say keep continuing with it. And keep getting army people in trouble. :D
Neither do I;0)
Sounds fantastic!!I sit here in Dallas Texas, I have no idea how i got on this site but the pictures are beautiful and the stories, marvelous! Cheers! I can live the life of an explorer thru YOU!
Keep up the good work for all of us living the daily grind in the US of A.
Looking forward to more!
shaughn niland, dallas tx
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