Come to Koh San Road, they said. Have a life-affirming cultural experience, they didn’t say.
When friends moved to Bangkok, Thailand to teach English, I thought "great" and booked a flight out to visit them. It’s rare a friend moves abroad for any period of time without a visit from me *somewhere in the distance, I hear New Zealand and Canada based friends huh*.
It was my second time in the city of madness. The first had been full of surprises, assurances and inspiration. I had been travelling alone for the first time – after I pulled my socks up and decided to take that life-long dream trip around Asia – and it followed a stint in China, which was an incredible baptism of fire. My second visit saw a much more confident, well-seasoned traveller in me.
I confidently strutted down Koh San Road. A backpackers haven; full of amphetamine-laced buckets of Sangsom (the local whisky), revellers expertly dancing to endless renditions of Gangnam Style in the street and the hawkers of Chang Mai selling their croaking wooden frogs. It was carnival, 365 days a year.
Two of my friends, now battle-hardened to the hedonistic charms of Koh San, reluctantly agreed to have a night out there. We had to take our first-timer friend, who delighted in every assault of every sense Bangkok had to offer.
We had tired of the drinking game we made up of ‘tramp stamp, whacky t-shirt or sex tourist”, so I jumped at the chance to show them a secret place I discovered on my first visit. “Just up here” I pointed and led the group to an alleyway. After the exchange of bewildered and scared glances, just passed massage parlours and tailors, we entered the Reggae Bar; tucked behind the thoroughfare of carnage, it was a million miles away.
Plastic stools and wooden chairs lined the alleyway; records, posters, flags and a panoply of Jamaican memorabilia adorned every wall, ceiling and alcove. The dreadlocked Thai barman and the afro-haired Thai DJ bopped their heads to Elephant Man and Jimmy Cliff while serving a handful of hippies Singha. In an instant, the atmosphere went from the hectic throng of youthful, gap year exuberance to a tranquil buzz of off-the-beaten-track travellers who have been there, done that.
While the barman was clearing the empties, I asked him where his love of reggae came from, if he ever visited the Caribbean, where he gets his trinkets from and if there were similar places like this in the area. Being a smart businessman, he claimed his place was unique but mentioned that there were artist squats on the adjacent street of Rambuttri.
The next day, two of my friends returned to the classroom, one stayed on the tourist path lined with golden Buddhas assuming varying positions and I waded through the debris of Koh San and headed towards Rambuttri. There, I followed the assortment of canvases, sculptures and crafts, knitted in with mass-produced tourist souvenirs to yet another alleyway, festooned with an array of techniques and styles.
I cautiously entered the first place I saw that had its door open. I stepped inside an Aladdin’s cave of art. A cassette of Buddhist chanting filled the air and I was beckoned in by a tiny, bald Thai pensioner. He was wearing patterned harem pants and a white Bruce Willis vest, minus the physique.
His kind face and watery chocolate button eyes greeted me with such warmth, it could rival the November humidity. He pointed towards the canvases gracing every bit of wall, picked up sculptures and handed me antique objet d’art, each time punctuate with a shy grunt. I quickly realised he was deaf.
“Tea” he indicated, using the international language of mime. I nodded my head enthusiastically. He mirrored my gestures and about-turned to the back of the gallery-come-studio. I followed and waited as he stepped into a dingy kitchen, no bigger than a broom cupboard. When he emerged, he had two small glasses filled with steaming clear, caramel coloured liquid. I nodded my head in gratitude as he presented it to me on a floral, plastic tray.
He then sat on a well-worn cushion on the floor, in front of a big, half-finished canvas and continued painting abstract scene of, I assume, the Chao Phraya river in Bangkok from a bygone era. Perhaps a Bangkok he remembered. The dusty, water-stained room was covered in paint splatters resembling a Pollock, some vibrant as if dropped yesterday, other faded under the shards of brilliant sunlight burning through the slats of the window.
I looked around while he worked. A thin mattress and cotton sheets rolled up in the corner, clothes hanging from a hook and a battered, G-plan armchair pointed towards a small TV indicated that he lived where he worked.
He produced hundreds of pieces of art. He was good, but he was no Monet, Matisse or Picasso. He painted what he knew and that was his city, his faith and his upbringing. I couldn’t ask him any questions; had he had any formal training, did he make a good living from his art, how long had been doing it, where are his family. Part of me felt I didn’t need to. We communicated with looks and gestures.
The silence that fell between us said everything that needed to be said. I was surrounded by the answers. I got a glimpse into his world and his inner thoughts. What is art if not a reflection of ourselves? And what I saw was a man, not obstructed by his disability, not held back by naivety, not despairing over his insolvency, not wallowing in his loneliness, but thriving doing the thing he loved. His simple, uncompromising and immersive life enabled him to be content, and only contentment can make us happy.
Without uttering a single word, I learnt everything I needed to know about identity, the human condition, love, happiness and, above all, that it is our art that makes us.
First published 14 February 2017
