The Thao-San road freakshow

The ‘Thao San Road’ is a part of Bangkok that acts as a kind of ‘decompression’ chamber for newly arrived jet lagged backpackers, sugar-daddies looking to ‘adopt’ a Thai women for a week (and play pretend Husband & Wife), spotty-nosed penny-pinching Gap Year students, and the odd wandering vagabond. Not surprisingly the area is also a veritable watering hole for touts, hawkers, taxi-drivers, Tuk-Tuk drivers, scantily clad femme fatales looking to snag a foreigner with their luscious eye-lashes, and all manner of other specimens of the genus Homo Touristus Leechus. The guidebook warns you to be on your best guard. It gives you tips on how to avoid being scammed and how to prevent your wallet from being taken on a voyage of discovery by the Tuk-Tuk drivers – an art-form they seem to have perfected.

Here’s an extract of a conversation I overheard:

[Tout] “When you arrive?”

[Tourist] “Just this morning” (big mistake. Should have said it’s been a week at least)

[Tout thinking] Mmm…fresh off the boat. I smell ready ching-ching

[Tout] “Where you go?”

[Tourist] unable to extricate himself from the conversation and looking around wide eyed in a torpor of befuddlement “Err not sure yet. Still deciding to be honest” – Game over.

Imagine you’ve just arrived from the airport. To be then suddenly dropped off or ‘decompressed’ in the middle of the Thao San Road is bound to give you the bends; for jet lag is snagging your brain, a million horns and a thousand importuning hands clambering for your attention, your heavy rucksacks (one behind and one at front – what do these people carry?!) weighing you down, the clammy heat – it’s all fraying your senses so you just go along with the first tout that says "Hi, welcome to my country oh distinguished guest!" - big mistake. They’ll take you to a second rate guest-house where the toilets don’t flush, the showers squirt a strange brown looking liquid that looks like a stool sample, and where you’ll be sharing your bed with giant beetles with armour plated backs (so you can't kill em with your slippers). And the tout that takes you there will be getting a hefty commission for all his troubles.

For one person though recently arrived from Pakistan, Bangkok is a breeze. There’s nothing quite like Pakistan to prepare you for Bangkok, and to be honest, for anything else the world has to offer! Cue Bono:

"I'm not afraid

of anything in this world

There's nothing you can throw at me

that I've not already heard"

In Pakistan you can sense the edginess. It scratches your nerves and scours your nails. There’s a desperation born of uncertainty and economic woes that never fully relaxes you – a sense of danger. It’s in the air, on the faces, you can hear it in the taxi drivers speak, and it's in the news. Bangkok however is like Disneyland in comparison. You walk the Thao San Road wearing an impenetrable force-field. Nobody can get to you. All attempts at finding a chink in your armour fail woefully : verbal assaults reflected, sales-pitches bounce back, street patter of the con artist vaporised with a wave of your hand, and the breathless whispers in your ear promising "fucky-fucky?" become nothing but a limp fantasy (on their part!). You traipse though the thorny city-light infused morass untouched, untainted and invincible. Where weaker Earthlings scuttle on the shores and loose their bearings, you my friend, reign supreme. You are the Super-Fly and the smile etched on your face says it all.

It’s a relief for once to be somewhere where stuff actually works like the cash machines for example or the electricity or the showers. Contrary to what people might think the food dished from the roadside stalls won’t kill you. What it will do infact is make you come again for more. It’s fresh, wholesome, and rather delicious and not to mention easy on the wallet too. Outside dining is a must; there’s nothing quite like sipping hot-burning noodle soup whilst a chugging Tuk-Tuk rattles by in a blast of smoke and screeching metal.

At night the bars are desperately touting special offers (60 baht for 3 shots et al), restaurants are pulling punters by having foxy chicks hold out their menus and the kitsch sellers are wallowing in happy-hour kitsch land. There’s fake DVDs, CD’s, brothels masquerading in the euphemism ‘massage parlour’, dodgy gem stores, street artists, beggars, blind men, hooting ice-cream carts, curb-crawling taxis, drunken revellers, and those indefatigable mini-skirts – everything is for sale. But not your soul. Even the books that you buy can be sold back to the vendor after you’ve read them – at half price. So you hand back ‘Bram Stokers Dracula’.

But then you wonder: is this Thailand? For the average beach bumming Aussie it probably is, but for you this is a tourist zoo and you find yourself wanting to escape from its shackles. You don’t have to go far though. If you continue in any straight line, and keep going, eventually you’ll end up in one of the ‘local’ areas. You know you’re not in a tourist trap because nobody takes a second look at you. Also nobody comes up to you whispering that they have something to sell. At first it can be a little hard on your ego:

Heh! I exist you know? Hey guys I am here! Hello! Cogito ergo sum?

But nobody seems to be listening. After a while you realise, in a flash of profound insight, that actually this is not that bad. You start liking these out-of-the-way havens, the little alleys damp and covered in magical spidery fog lights. At night-time you follow the local people; hiding behind garbage cans if they look back; you follow them as if they’re a-little scuttling rats, to see which nooks and crannies they’ll go and hide in. Where do the ordinary folk of Bangkok go after a hard days selling crap to tourists? Lo and behold! You stumble into another Bangkok. A simpler Bangkok of genial working class folk; tame, timid and with goofy smiles. The smiles warm you. The cheap food warms you even more - you’re surprised to get some change back from a 50 Baht bill. You smile back goofily at the vendor. You’ve been here a week but it seems that only now have you finally arrived.

Here you go...

Many people have been protractedly hounding me like pan-handling mendicants in a vain attempt to try and cadge out of me (with guile and shiftinessas of the highest orders) as to the secrets behind the foto-grafs during my travels. This is what I have to say: the artist never gives away the key that unlocks his craft - so why should I? But in an audacious (and probably reckless) bid to silence the importuning beggars and alm-seekers I will hereby humbly lay before you in a gilded satin cloth a uncharacter-like petite expose on my equipment and technique. This is all you're gonna get so don't expect any more. No more. Finis! Kaput!

I have a Canon 5D full frame digital SLR - now 3 years old. Scratched. Dirty. Scrawny. But still going strong. The lenses I've bought along with me are the 16-35mm (f2.8), 50mm (f1.4) and the 35mm (f1.4). The telephoto lenses have been left at home as these are too heavy and conspicuous to carry around - an important consideration if your tramping around like a homeless twit.

16-35mm (f2.8) : This covers all my wide angle needs and was used extensively in Pakistan. The 16mm extreme wide-end was useful for those mountain panoramas and wide angle vistas.

50mm (f1.4) : This is the cheapest and lightest lens in my bag. It's handy for night-time photography and people shots (though it has to be focused manually). I use this lens mainly down dark, crepuscular, creepy-looking alleyways where the flying spaghetti monster hideth. Well, actually this is the first lens I tend to take out when arriving in a new city to 'test the waters' as they say - lest it be stolen.

35mm (1.4) : The most expensive lens in my bag right now. Relatively light. Sharp at all apertures. Awesome depth of field. Colour - contrast - bokeh are all there. This is probably one of the finest lenses that Canon has ever produced and one of my all time favourites. Perfect for high quality low-light street photography but awesome for just about anything else. The perfect lens. The only thing it can't do is make me an espresso - but heh who's listening?!

There you go that's the ammo. Here's a little blurb on technique:

I typically shoot Landscapes at apertures F8-f11 (to ensure maximum depth of field) with an attached polarising filter to bring out the contrasts and the sky. People shots are typically at f1.4-4 to bring out character and separate the subject from the background - unless of course the background is relevant to the context, in which case I use a smaller aperture. Panning shots are typically at a slower shutter speed of 1/1-20 secs (f18-22) taking particular care to keep the camera level and fixed on the subject - which, on a moving rocking boat is easier said then done! ISO's tend to be higher for night time shots but this also depends on the aperture and the 'affect' I'm after (excuse the artistic conceit there!)

All images are sharpened in photoshop CS2 (on my redoubtable Sony Vaio TZ - cute little <1kg thingy!), colour corrected if necessary using layers and/or converted to B&W. To finish off I then add a digital border (with the blurbs) and reduce file sizes to 200-3oo Kb for upload. The great thing is that I can do all this on the move. In my room. On an aeroplane. On a train. On a bus. In a noodle bar. In the toilet. In a rickshaw...kiddin!

That's enough. Must dash. Got an early morning train to catch tomorrow.
Yes I know. I know. I know. Life is tough but what can I do eh?! Hahaha

Bon boyage mon ami's!

Floating markets

Bangkok Bizarre

bi·zarre : –markedly unusual in appearance, style, or general character and often involving incongruous or unexpected elements; outrageously or whimsically strange; odd: bizarre clothing; bizarre behavior.

Somewhere on this planet...it must exist!

Bangkok K'night

'Soaking' in Islamabad

Soaking: the act of absorbing, imbibing and taking it all in. Slang = Chillin'

I am currently ‘soaking’ in Islamabad after arriving here last night. After the chaos, bedlam and tumult of Peshawar it is a relief finally to be somewhere with a semblance of orderliness. The streets here are huge freeways lined with trees and flowers and relatively civilised driving (thanks to the tough traffic police who keep an eye out on maniac drivers). It didn't start too well though: as I alighted from my bus from the 'Pir Whadi bus terminal', I was immediatey accosted by a vulture like taxi driver. Red eyed, and a bit wan and rough looking. The fare to my hotel seemed reasonable so I got into his decrepit beaten up taxi. His constant questioning (when all I wanted to do was switch off) was taxing my patience: Where are you from? Where are you staying? How much do you earn? Are you married? 'Do you have an English girlfriend?' and more worryingly 'why don't you let me take you to a nice hotel I know?' - as if! At one point we went down a narrow alley and I grabbed hold of my bag, ready to jump out, lest he attempt to rob me - but it was Ok. He was only doing a short cut and me being a tad paranoid. My nerves we're a little frayed though from my time in Peshawar and my stomach a little worst for wear.

I checked into one of the nicer hotels (Wi-Fi in my bedroom anyone?!) and went out for a meal in the evening to one of the more salubrious shopping areas called ‘Jinnah Super-Market’ - thronged with Levi’s, Hush Puppy boots outlets, Apple Computer stores, an array of designer shops and some extremely plush looking restaurants. I had a hard time choosing where to eat and finally settled for a pretentious eatery called ‘The American Steak House’. But first I had to get by airport-style ‘security’ – the armed guard outside performed a quick mandatory frisk with a metal detector before I was led in. It took me a while to adjust to the lighting or lack thereof. It seems that the more expensive the restaurant the darker the ambience. This place was pretty dark. I seated myself at a comfortable corner table where I could see outside onto the large lighted square below – where men and their wives and children were beginning to congregate to break their Ramzan fast. There was a Pakora sellers stall below doing a brisk trade and queues of people outside the fresh juice outlet. Well I say queues but people in Pakistan don't actualy 'queue' as such. They just barge in and the worst thing is they don't even realise it! It's fucking annoying and it always drives me nuts. But I try and suppress my wrath by convincing myself that the act of queing is unnatural to the human species. So in Pakistan they're just acting au natural. Does it work? Does it make me feel better? No!

Anyway, the restaurant itself was nicely decorated with a huge dollop of class. The chairs were comfortable. The tables brown teak. The napkins we’re crimson velvety and soft and you weren’t sure whether they were for decorative purposes or for wiping your mouth with! I ordered a T-Bone Steak with Pepper Jus with all the trappings washed down with a strawberry smoothie. The staff were attentive. Sometimes too attentive. It wasn’t busy so they had the unnerving habit of hanging around your table fidgeting. But it was ok. There was a large plasma television on the far wall showing a cricket match or something and the music was uber-americano. They asked me whether I was fasting to which I replied ‘yes’ (liar liar bum on fire) – this confirmed, to them atleast, that I was a Muslim which they weren’t sure of initially from my enigmatic and cool accent – and after that they seemed to relax a little. I was one of them! For breaking the fast they provided a complimentary platter that included the usual dates, fruit and some fried savourites. I took a little nibble at these but only a nibble lest I ruin my appetite.

In between waiting for my food I read: The Last Mughal by Darymple or sometimes just looked out through the window at the chorus of people below eating in the square in groups. And the food? Well it was ok. A bit pricey considering what I got (Rs 1,200 when you can get a better meal somewhere less pretentious for Rs 120), but as always it’s really about the atmosphere in these sorts of places, and the feeling of being somewhere comfortable and reassuringly Western!

The shopping area itself was busy in the evening with the upper crust elite of Pakistan strolling through the arcades and squares. It being Ramadhan and too hot during the day, people tend to come out mainly in the evenings and the shops cater by being open till way past midnight. I felt more at home here. The people seemed better educated. The women were decked in dupatta-less outfits, the latest western trends, and were walking around comfortably and confidently in female only troupes. One of the major problems for women in Pakistan, being a male dominated society, is the constant ogling that goes on by men of less ‘sophisticated ilk’ (pardon my haughtiness!). I was wondering why the men here we’re better behaved here, when lo and behold, I spotted a policeman whacking a group of men with a stick for misbehaving. Apparently the shopping area has its own ‘chowkedars’ or ‘crowd controllers’, huge lumbering mustachioed Pathans who keep a constant visual for undesirables lurking in the cracks and being a general nuisance. I found this ironic. The majority of Pakistani's belong to, what I lovingly call, 'The Mob'. These are the boorish, mannerless, crass, un-cultivated, philistines you see everywhere. However, there 'masters'; the bourgeois, educated, elite classes who shop in malls in the evenings, have nothing but contempt for them! The very people whose support they need. I think the middle-class in Pakistan lives in constant fear of being usurped by the tsunami of the barbarian mob.

I did a little shopping too by the way. Popped into a Levi’s store and purchased a t-shirt costing the equivalent of a weeks stay in Northern Pakistan! I also paid a visit to ‘The Saeed Book Bank’ – the largest bookshop in the whole of Pakistan. What a delight it was to stroll through the endless aisles perusing what they stocked and what they didn’t. They had all the English classics and naturally quite a substantial collection on the Indian Subcontinent. They even had a few titles by that staunch atheist Richard Dawkins – but I didn’t see a copy of the God Delusions…Perhaps they we’re out of stock?! They had a large collection of Lonely Planet guides, so seeing my opportunity, I purchased one for Thailand and Laos and a book by Hanif Kureishi. I’ve just realised that I’m going to have to carry these with me everywhere I go. So I’m not sure whether that was smart thinking! Oh well.

See you in Thailand. Inshallah.

Current coordinates: Peshawar & the Smugglers Bazaar (North West Frontier Province)

Peshawar has a tendency to conjure up images of lawlessness, guns, intrigue, treachery and romance. It is the ultimate in archetypal frontier towns and lies at the foot of the Khyber Pass, near the border with Afghanistan. It's been in the news recently as it is the battleground between the Pakistani Taliban and the Government; who have always traditionally held a tenuous grip on the fiercly independent Pasthtun population. Peshawar is all about atmosphere. It literally wallows in it. The old city a warren of bazaars - if you walk down these endless mazes you will be led into a Dickensian painting: bearded merchants bargaining hard and stroking their fabulous beards, tea-boys to-ing and fro-ing between the morass, in the evenings kebab fumes belching from street braziers, a gaggle of beggars, lepers, stray pariah dogs knibbling on garbage heaps, filthy boggy-smelling open sewers, butcher stalls decorated with fly-blown carcasses (haggled over by greedy old men with piercing eyes) and it is all men. Not a women in sight. If any women dare brave it; she will instantly be stripped and oogled by the stares. This is what all cities used to be like in the past. This is what the past used to smell like. This is the true face and stink of humanity: not the anaesthesised antiseptic cities of the modern West. If you stray off the bazaar you stumble into comely courtyards, twinkling gardens, shady boulevards and muddy dwellings: washing on lines, pots and pans being dried in the blistering sun and children playing.

On the fringes of Peshawar lies the 'Smugglers Bazaar' - a mighty thorn in the Pakistani economy. It is littered with goods imported through Pakistan for Afghanistan and then smuggled back into Pakistan to avoid paying excise duty. Everything is available here from the latest electronics to tampons. Foreigners are banned from entering the far end of the bazaar (though I managed to get through!) where guns and drugs are sold openly. This is where things get dark. Opiates and Cannabis are freely available - bags of the stuff literally hang from the shop fronts and behind these in the shadows, squalid addicts, misty eyed and beady-nosed, openly smoke the opiate. The vendors are smiling: opiate prices have increased due to lower production in Afghanistan this year and the prices of AK47's have gone through the roof with the recent tribal insurgency in Pakistan. Are they smiling or are they 'high' on their own produce? I can't tell anymore. Pakistan is a mass of contradictions. A bona fide enigma. Will try and sort this jumble of inexplicability out once I leave. Tourism or voyeurisn (call it what you will) doesn't come much darker then this.

Friday I'm off to Islamabad to catch a flight out of here. Next stop Thailand and the seedy night-life of Bangkok - perfect buzzing territory for The Fly. BeLIEve.

'caprice is a travellers best friend'



Love...you shine like a burning star
falling from sky
Tonight

Remember: Every artist is a cannibal
Every poet is a thief
All kill their inspiration
And sing about their grief

BeLIEve.