Thailand's little steaming cesspool of filth

Pattaya, Chanthaburi and Around

My friend, Boi, was going east of Bangkok to Chonburi for his graduation and offered me a ride in his company car; since I hadn't been that way and relished the notion of getting somewhere without buses, I went along with it. Boi's house is about 200m from mine; I have never been there, but I know it well, for he is the proud owner of a dozen pigs and is the reason why I may never open my windows and take a breath of fresh air. Given this proximity, I was a bit surprised when he showed up an hour late, but sadly, on a rainy Friday afternoon, Thai traffic is just that bad.

I always imagined that if I had a car, I could magically circumvent the endless traffic woes of Bangkok – that, like every other city in the world, there surely must be some beltway for those who want to skirt the edges rather than go to the dead-center of it all. Apparently, nothing like that exists, and thus, we spent the next 4 hours plodding along the 40km stretch to the other side of town. We were a bit too fashionably late to Boi's classmates' dinner party in Si Ratcha, but were still able to feast on the usual array of curries, salads and soups and entertain the other guests with my pathetic grasp of the Thai language.

To seek out a place to stay, we went to a nearby beach town that had the typical spread of lawn chairs and banana boats, but seemed to cater exclusively to Thais without an English sign in sight. For some reason, all the guesthouses in the area charged in 3-hour blocks, but since we arrived after midnight and left before 6 the next morning, it worked out to be fairly reasonable. Boi had a meeting to attend at the crack of dawn, so I got an early start and took a bus south to Pattaya.

An estimated one-third of all travellers to Thailand visit Pattaya and for many, this and Bangkok form their entire perception of the country. This is unfortunate, because this sprawling beach resort is nothing short of a grotesque rash on an otherwise beautiful country. Pattaya is like a giant playground for dirty old men, and it is built to satisfy any taste or nationality – Arabic and Russian script are just as common as English or Thai, and you have a better shot at finding wienersnitzel than Pad Thai.

At night, I can only imagine that walking these streets would be a truly terrifying experience, but as I arrived in the early morning, it was only moderately disturbing. Go-go clubs lined every street and half-dazed bar girls shouted out offers from every patio. Further to the south, the countless adverts for loose women were replaced by an equal number of signs along the lines of “Boys Live Nightly" and “Massage by a Man"; tall, burly prostitutes chased me down the street calling to me in voices far deeper than my own.

If there is one thing I don't care for in Thailand, it's the frequency and societal acceptance of men who dress like women. Back home, if upon sitting down in a restaurant, you found you were being waited upon by a man in drag, you would in all likelihood find something wrong with the menu and politely excuse yourself; here, these characters show up in every venue and are regarded the same as any legitimate woman. If the illusion is particularly effective, they are commended by other Thai men for their aptitude for deception. I would estimate that, in Pattaya, around one-quarter of those claiming to be women are, in fact, actual women; for this reason here, perhaps more than anywhere else in the world, you would be well-advised to watch your alcohol consumption carefully.

Pattaya is as much about spending money as it is about sex – thus water sports, bungee jumping and other highly indulgent forms of entertainment, are in no short supply. Around 8 in the morning, I looked out on the bay and counted 14 paraskiers simultaneously flying through the air within the same 1km stretch. Motorbikes are another crowd favorite and they range from the entry-level 100cc's to those resembling what you might see Batman using to drive up the side of a building. There were hundreds of rentals to choose from on every street, but I wasn't about to make the decision lightly – most were hired out by men who had nothing more than a folding-chair and lacked the official aire of someone you want to leave your passport with, and when I eventually found what appeared to be a well-established shop, I was in the middle of a territory to which I had no desire to return in the evening. I eventually chose a place far south of town, incredibly inconvenient, but sufficiently far from the filthy heart of the beast.

Having secured my new ride, I raced to the top of an urban mountain that boasted a tourist information center; the girl on duty at the office didn't understand why I wanted to get out of her beautiful city and couldn't offer much in the way of maps of the surrounding countryside. So I set off, unassisted, into the wilds around town.

Once I got off the main highway, it was a pleasant enough ride, but it was marred by the fact that I had no clue where I was going. I saw a sign for a place called “Khao Mai Kiao" which translates to “Mountain Not Green"; I was, quite frankly, fed up with all the green mountains around this place, so the non-greeness of this one was sufficient reason in itself for me to steer towards it. Much to my dismay, I found only a small town with no grey, black or teal mountain in sight. I stormed into a 7/11 and demanded that the attendant give me directions to a mountain nearby, and she pointed me towards the east. So I headed down one country road after another over the next couple hours; as the sun set, I considered figuring out where I was and deciding where I was going to sleep. The locals were able to eventually convey to me that there was a national park nearby which had lodging.

I inquired at Khao Chamao National Park about a place to stay and they explained that the cheapest option they had was an 8-10 person bungalow for 700 Baht. Since I didn't have 7-9 people hiding in my backpack, I told them this was more than I wanted to spend, and so they spent the next 30 minutes arguing about whose house I was going to stay at. After knocking on a couple of doors, it was decided that no one wanted me and I had to travel 50km further to the town of Chanthaburi. Here, I found a room which was, quite literally hanging over the river for 150Baht.

In the morning, I visited Thailand's biggest cathedral. Conveniently enough, Thai people get up ridiculously early and the packed 6am Mass fit my schedule perfectly. With no notion of what there was to see in this town (much like on the rest of the trip) I visited the local market; this was much like every other market in the country, but it was here that I made a critical step forward in my mastery of the Thai language – I had an entire conversation without letting on that I didn't actually know how to speak Thai – my side consisted of the following: “Hello sir, how much is your pumpkin… thank you sir" – as I walked away, the vendor turned to his neighbors and remarked on what an expert speaker I was

Another country road took me north to Khao Kitchakut National Park and the impressive 13-tier Krathing waterfall; as usual, a treacherous trail rose gradually up the slippery slope with viewpoints at every tier to the 9th. From there, the path turned into a scramble up a sheer rock wall with only tiny foot and handholds in algae-covered cracks; I passed a sign written only in Thai script that I later gathered must have said “Turn back now if you want to live". At this point I wasn't anywhere near the falls and never saw the 10th or 11th tiers, but I did get a great view of the surrounding countryside. When I'd reached a patch of level ground, I called the visitors center to ask if there was actually a path beyond the 9th tier and, if so, whether there was another path down; after describing my situation in what I perceived to be perfect Thai, the voice on the line only said “Ummm… can I help you?" – trying again in English, the lady gathered that I was in Chanthaburi and needed driving directions to the falls – it sure is a good thing I bring a phone along for emergencies.

A small trail at the top of the cliff led to the 12th tier; it seemed I would have to cross the raging falls to get to the trail for the 13th so I opted instead to crawl backwards down the cliff and move on. I asked about 10 different park rangers how to get to Khao Chamao by country roads rather than the busy Sukhumvit highway, but all insisted that it was impossible – several maps on hand also showed no indication of roads connecting the two parks. Not one to be deterred by overwhelming evidence to the contrary, I set off to look for this route – even though Thailand has virtually zero taxes and few private cars, it has an excellent system of roads that seem to go absolutely everywhere.

After an hour of driving in no consistent direction, I stopped for lunch. I attempted to order a vegetable curry dish, but like every single other time I've attempted to order anything here, I received fried rice. I'm not really sure where the communication breaks down – I explain that I want rice and vegetables and that I don't like eggs or pork – the waitress smiles and nods and ten minutes later brings me a big plate of pork fried rice. After lengthy investigation, I think I've discovered why this happens – the most popular form of the dish here is known as “American Fried Rice" and was introduced by our army some years back – since my country of origin is in the title, they figure it's a safe assumption that that's what I eat – it's a bit like a Belgian walking into an IHOP with no better command of the English language than that needed to say “I'm from Belgium." This is a real annoyance as I really don't like fried rice at all – when the food is set in front of me, I vehemently berate the dish and utter all matter of curses against it and the establishment – the waitress simply smiles, nods, and walks away thinking “Ah, another satisfied customer… Those Americans sure do love their fried rice!" In the end, I always pay the 30 Baht (it costs 10 Baht more than other dishes because of the two eggs included) and thank the cook for his/her service.

I eventually gave up my quest for the hidden passage to the northwest and headed back to the main artery; no sooner had I reached the highway than a violent rainstorm turned the heavens above me black. This was the part of the country where these sorts of things only last long enough to make you thoroughly wet, so after 10 minutes it had subsided and I was able to continue my westward journey. At Klaeng, I cut into the sea-side road and, after the touristy Ban Phe (the gateway to Ko Samet Island), I came upon a coastal national park. With my rental term set to expire in an hour, I was running low on time, but I was determined to get some more use out of my 100 baht park day pass, so I went in search of a lookout advertised on several signs. Upon driving into the park itself, the English signs promptly disappeared and I never managed to locate a viewpoint or anything of the slightest interest; however, whilst searching the 30m area around my bike, I managed to somehow lose the ignition key.

After recruiting two park employees to help and scouring the entire area for some 30-odd minutes, I was forced to call a locksmith; one of the rangers loaded my bike in a truck and took me to town. By jiggling a stick in the ignition then filing for a few seconds, the skilled craftsman was able to make a perfect match, and with about 5 minutes til the deadline, I set out on the 90km stretch to Pattaya.

The beach road ended at Rayong and I had to return to the highway. I proceeded to accelerate to Mach 2 (no easy task on a 110cc bike) and flew towards my destination. An important variation on traffic laws in Thailand that I was reminded of several times on this stretch is that of “biggest has right of way"; traditionally, if a slower vehicle is in your lane, you either move to the other lane or slow down and wait until the other lane opens up – sometimes vehicles did this, but more often than not, semis and buses would just lay on their horn and give me a few seconds to clear out of their way before they plowed into me – quite often I came within inches of becoming just another bug on the grille.

Anxious to get off the deathtrap, I immediately turned at the sight of a semi-official-looking sign for Pattaya. These would pop up every few hundred meters, leading me down a convoluted route through tiny side streets; what soon dawned on me was that every one of these signs was accompanied by another sign for the area's crocodile farm, and once I had passed the tourist trap, the helpful signs to Pattaya mysteriously stopped showing up. Through local advice I finally got back to the main road and to the town; I returned my bike two and a half hours late and the owner was surprisingly understanding.

I took a sangtaew across town to the Bangkok bus station. Along the way, I got a rapid glimpse of Pattaya's nightlife. Everywhere I looked, fat old white guys walked around hand-in-hand with petite Thai girls, not ever offering the faintest hint of uncertainty as to what the relationship was about. We arrived at the bus station, and as was the custom for every Thai-faraang transaction in the town, the driver tried to charge me double the highest fair posted on his window; we had a good chuckle about this before I tossed him exact change and sprinted around the corner.

The bus was an express and dropped me at the eastern edge of Bangkok shortly after 10PM. Here I was faced with the intriguing question of which buses still ran at that time of night – this was one nobody seemed particularly well-equipped to answer; after taking several that had already stopped serving my distant port of Omnoi, I found the one that still did and was home by 1.

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