"The. 7:25. First Great Western train to London Paddington is delayed." a disembodied, yet soothing voice crackled through the speakers of platform 11. Drones glued to their screens momentarily looked at the information board, saw "expected 7:57", shook their heads in compliant fury and went back to scrolling through pictures of other people's babies and kittens on Facebook.
"I was looking forward to finishing that project today. At this rate, getting to the office at a reasonable time will be today's biggest achievement!", I fitfully typed into Twitter - wiping away rain drops that distorted the text on my screen and accidentally typing 'lucking' and 'Harold'. My fingers numbed with cold skated across the digital keyboard.
The oppressive grey skies encapsulated my abiding mood. The thought of putting a project that had been the bane of my existence to bed had been the only thing getting me through. I had enough of battling through the noise, nonsense and politics of getting simple creative done; of being told how to do my job by people who didn't know how to do my job. As I wistfully sighed, the air filled with the vapors of my maddened breath and through the mist I saw aqua waters, sandy beaches and vibrant cultures of exotic lands far away.
That afternoon, I booked a trip to Thailand. I would be flying in and out of Bangkok, backpacking through Krabi, Koh Lanta and Phuket. I Googled images of the luscious mountain-sides, sprawling paddy fields, sparkling lagoons and majestic temples. My heart raced and head pounded with excitement at leaving the hum-drum of the rat-race behind, if only for a month.
Landing in Bangkok, it was an assault on the senses and I loved every minute of it. A city of wild contrast; from serene courtyards to debauched tourist strips, ancient Dharmic architecture to glass skyscrapers and Buddhist monks to ping-pong shows. Western men under constant sexual siege and Western women falling prey to con-men, is exactly what I expected.
Heading out to the paradise island of Koh Phi Phi, where they filmed The Beach, was like drifting through a painting of paradise. Colossal rocks, stippled with mesmeric green rose from the aquamarine waters like guardians at the gate. I felt like I, along with the dozen other backpackers, were about to be let into an enchanted secret, that hopefully didn't end like Duck's experience in the acclaimed Alex Garland book.
On arrival, I wasn't greeted by a chorus but by hawkers, running after each wooden, long-tail boat as it docked, each off-loading a dozen backpackers from Europe and Australasia. The beaches were lined with tourist information offices, hostel brokers and tour guides. Cut into the mountain, in the arse-end of nowhere, was a town bustling with white people tucking into the hangover breakfast of a full-English or dirty burger. Croaky voices seeped into the narrow alleyways, exchanging stories from the beach parties and strip clubs of the night before. Shops sold sunscreen, condoms and vats of spirits. Promo girls stood outside bars, beckoning with promises of pussy shows and fishbowls of Sangsom laced with amphetamines.
This wasn't the break I had been expecting. I wasn't going to be lazily lounging on a velvet beach, immersing myself in Donna Tartt's latest offering nor will I be dining with locals, eating traditional homemade dishes while hearing their stories. I was going learn and experience precisely nothing.
If I wanted to get pissed and shag men, I could easily to that at home - albeit, more expensive and minus the bronzed bodies. If I wanted to eat burgers and pizzas, I could do that home. If I wanted to get annoyed at the hubris and ignorance of youth, I could just watch TOWIE. This is not what I was expecting.
It was difficult not to join in - there was no other option. On the first night, I headed to a Muay Thai bar where young boys, no older than 10, were made to fight for their white overlords. They hopped around the canvas, being shouted at and goaded by drunk Aussies and their bosses. Imagine if little Jack or Chloe from Godalming Surrey were forced to practice their judo in the Wetherspoons in Soho, London on a Saturday night - there would be outrage. Here, it was not only ok, it was encouraged. I dread to think what happens to these kids away from the ring. This was not what I was expecting.
The second night bought a full-moon party on the beach. The rite of passage for gap-yarr students to get drunk, high, fucked and hope not to get arrested or hospitalised. I didn't see the glammed up girls salivating over Cody, the American surfer with flowing blond locks and rippling pectorals. I saw the locals being ordered around like Jam-Boys, treated like servants in their own country. Imagine Keith in your local cocktail bar being beckoned over by clicked fingers, abuse and headlocks and the crowds threw their glasses, bottles, crisp packets on the floor once they'd finished with them - Daily Mail headlines about the degradation of culture would ensue. Here, it was the norm to frighten or torture the wildlife, pollute the beaches and oceans, and it was fine to treat the locals like they exist to serve you. One Thai waiter was so happy I spoke to him, asked about his family and life, he said: "no one ever talks to me". This is not was I was expecting.
Finally, the pinnacle of my stay at Koh Phi Phi was punctuated with a trip to two go-go dancing clubs. Crawling with middle-aged white men, prowling for Thai girls who looked no older than 16.
They licked their lips in wanton desire as girls in their underwear jiggled on the bar, looking bored. They jeered using despicable language at exploited girls forced to share their body. One girl ran off the stage and head straight for me, she desperately grabbed at my arm with a puppy dog look of despair in her eyes, "please, help, that man, he want to see me after" she pleaded. I looked behind her to see pot-bellied, bespectacled man with wisps of white hair salivating at his debased thoughts. I told her not to worry, that I would distract him so she could get away. Off I trotted to chat with this man, who continued to look passed and through me. I wasn't young enough for him. I wasn't subservient enough for him. I wasn't commoditised enough for him. When I saw she made her escape, I called him a disgusting pervert. Little did I know he had the bouncers in his pocket, so I was thrown out. This is not what I was expecting.
Being a responsible traveller is tough. You can't stop it when you order a drink in Hanoi and they empty the Coke can into a plastic bag. Your heart pours out to kids in Delhi dancing on the central reservation for a couple of rupees. And sometimes, you just need a Starbucks pumpkin latte and to veg out in front of Friends. You try your best to support local business, stay away from anything that could be exploitative and protect the environment, but you can't help norms or the lucrative demands of tourist culture. What I experienced in Thailand made me sad that we (tourists) had debased the most beautiful of countries inhabited by the sweetest people, not just concentrated to the sex trade and the red-light district of Nana.
First published on15/02/2018 14:20
