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Oh what a lovely cesspit
I HAD travelled to Bangkok on a tip off. Thailand, my informant had told me, is dead cheap. The world's backpackers have known that for a long time, of course; the difference now is that you don't need to follow the hippy herd to enjoy "Amazing Thailand" (as it's dubbed by its tourist board) on a low budget.
With the recent currency collapse thousands of British holidaymakers have cottoned on to the bargains to be had in the shops and at the more up market resort hotels. By February this year, the number of customers travelling to Thailand had increased by 99 per cent in 12 months. I had heard tales of people going to Thailand as opposed to America because their money was going further. And they were staying in decent hotels. It was all the encouragement I needed.
One of the first things to catch my eye on the journey from the airport into Bangkok was a sternly worded but heroically futile billboard poster: "Clean Area! Littering 2,000 Baht fine!" (that's about 50 to you and me). If it were imposed, the revenue would probably eradicate Thailand's current economic embarrassment overnight: Bangkok is a stinking, heaving, coagulated cesspit of a city, whose inhabitants think no more of dropping rubbish of any description (and much that defies it) than they do of breathing.
But I remain very fond of the place even the traffic, which was constipated from the moment I left the airport (about an hour's drive from the city centre). Congestion is Bangkok's bane all the more reason with a budget of 100 to be extremely selective about one's choice of transport.
The moment I poked my nose round the exit from customs, the pockmarked taxi touts pounced. I barged through the pack, exuding determination for all I was worth, and went knock off cartier love ring men straight upstairs where ordinary "taxi meters" set down their passengers. You may find the drivers here reluctant to activate the meter; I always pick on a younger driver and, if accompanied, gang up on him. It's a kind of legal hijacking, but I saved 7 which, as I was to discover, can go a long way in Thailand. As it transpired, my driver had no idea where my hotel was and needed to stop and call them from a phone box.
My hotel, Chom's Boutique Inn Thai Kitchen (formerly the City Inn), turned out to be quite a find. Centrally located, clean, safe and friendly, it is the antithesis of the cockroach infested dorms of the backpacker's ghetto, Khao San Road. The owner, Khun Pieng Chom, taught Keith Floyd all he knows about Thai cookery and once cooked for a Thai princess. What's more, the superb room was only 12.85.
I stepped outside into the thick, wet air. At the vast glass and marble malls a consumerist feeding frenzy was still in full swing as American and Euro tourists hunted in packs despite the Baht's recent rally from 90 to 70 to the pound. The malls are also good for cheap food. Most have food halls on their top floors where you can fill up on Pad Thai (noodles with chicken or seafood, nuts, lime and a sprinkling of sugar), curry and other Thai staples for 3. I washed down my noodles with a frozen watermelon shake, as refreshing as a slap in the face with a wet lemon.
That evening, a Tuesday, I went to Lumphini Stadium to catch some Thai boxing. For 1.50 I stood in what was little more than a large chicken shed, and soaked up the frenetic Deer Hunter atmosphere as two pre teen streaks of gristle battered the stuffing out of each other. Unlike in a Western boxing match, the victor received only desultory applause his "supporters" were busy collecting their winnings.
Budget and time restrictions set me something of a challenge for the next day's adventure. Ideally I would have flown south to Koh Samui (Bangkok Airways has just upped the price of a return to 111) and travelled on to some of the less popular islands, but my choices were limited: either head east to Fattaya and spend a few days averting my eyes from the roasting flesh of potbellied Germans disporting with young Thai girls, or bus south and see what I could find.
I plumped for the unknown and once again came up trumps. I'd been to Hua Hin (100 miles south of the capital) before and knew that, although it holds numerous fascinations (King Rama VII, who looked nothing like Yul Brenner, built his summer palace there in 1928), its beach is no longer up to much, and Western tourists outnumber locals. Instead I jumped from the comfortable air conditioned number 11 bus at the small seaside town of Cha Am, 15 miles north of Hua Hin, after a fairly thrilling (in the "Please God, don't say he's going to try to overtake now!" sense of the word) two and a half hour ride from Bangkok (1.40).
CHA AM is a lightly developed never ending strip of sandy beach, lined with frilly casuarina trees, deck chairs and restaurants. Favoured by Thais, especially students at the weekends, it is blessedly free from backpackers who whistle through on their way to Samui's Chaweng beach. I reached the beach by clinging desperately to the back of a motorcycle taxi for a few minutes, trying to achieve that delicate balance of not falling off and dying, while at the same time not wishing to appear over familiar. Then I set about inspecting the (admittedly unromantic) cement hotels, separated from the beach by a quiet road.
My first night at the most up market resort hotel, the Methavalai, cost 21. Feeling a little isolated, however, I scoured the strip next morning for a cheaper Thai owned alternative and found the excellent Cha Am Villas, which had a pleasant room for 7.
In the evening I had the pick of dozens of restaurants typical no frills Thai beach establishments with malapropic menus ("Charcoaled whole fist" anyone?). I dined fantastically well on cartier ring love fake cotton fish, squid and prawns, looking out at the winking lights of the fishing boats, all for less than 3. On one occasion I was even treated to an impromptu comedy mime as, from behind the kitchen's glass partition, it became apparent that a snake had been spotted on some shelves above the cooker and mute pandemonium broke out among the staff. I actually saw the snake rear up behind some pots a couple of times. It was big. I paid and skedaddled.
The next evening I took a taxi (4) to Hua Hin's night market, a bustling olfactory assault where tourists stock up on counterfeit Calvins and Cartiers, and where I saw a lobster that could have given a Labrador a good fight, on offer outside one of its many and justly famed seafood restaurants.
Despite the economic problems affecting the domestic tourist market, as the weekend approached, Cha Am's beach came alive with the usual jet skis, inflatable toys and elephant rides. There were bikes for hire, too including inherently comic Goodies style three seaters but a far more popular pastime for Thai families is simply sitting around a low table under sun umbrellas, eating.
Clap your hands twice and the bicycle mounted hawkers selling everything from ice cream to dried squid will chug over to serve you as you recline. Unlike at Chaweng, I wasn't plagued by watch sellers and sound systems, and before long, each day I would be invited to share a family's cartier ring love knock off meal or join in a game of football (you lose face if you put your shoes on, by the way). Nightlife is mainly eating, drinking and perambulating, though I took a peek inside the intriguing and disreputable looking Norton Music Hall which offered patrons the potentially eye watering combination of "snooker and imitation cartier ring love massage".
The backpacker mentality dictates that to experience the "real" Thailand I should have had to squat in some grubby 2 a night hut, sharing my Cadbury's Dairy Milk with Day Glo clad Norwegians and a small family of Buick sized bugs. Not so. My 100 lasted five days and if I hadn't wasted 1,000 Baht at the Methavalai, been quite so gluttonous, and not given a fiver to an hysterical Belgian and his young son (who accosted me outside a mall in Bangkok with, on reflection, a bogus tale of stolen bags), I could easily have stayed a week.fashion imitation cartier silver necklace steel you deserve to have Let's unders
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I HAD travelled to Bangkok on a tip off. Thailand, my informant had told me, is dead cheap. The world's backpackers have known that for a long time, of course; the difference now is that you don't need to follow the hippy herd to enjoy "Amazing Thailand" (as it's dubbed by its tourist board) on a low budget.
With the recent currency collapse thousands of British holidaymakers have cottoned on to the bargains to be had in the shops and at the more up market resort hotels. By February this year, the number of customers travelling to Thailand had increased by 99 per cent in 12 months. I had heard tales of people going to Thailand as opposed to America because their money was going further. And they were staying in decent hotels. It was all the encouragement I needed.
One of the first things to catch my eye on the journey from the airport into Bangkok was a sternly worded but heroically futile billboard poster: "Clean Area! Littering 2,000 Baht fine!" (that's about 50 to you and me). If it were imposed, the revenue would probably eradicate Thailand's current economic embarrassment overnight: Bangkok is a stinking, heaving, coagulated cesspit of a city, whose inhabitants think no more of dropping rubbish of any description (and much that defies it) than they do of breathing.
But I remain very fond of the place even the traffic, which was constipated from the moment I left the airport (about an hour's drive from the city centre). Congestion is Bangkok's bane all the more reason with a budget of 100 to be extremely selective about one's choice of transport.
The moment I poked my nose round the exit from customs, the pockmarked taxi touts pounced. I barged through the pack, exuding determination for all I was worth, and went knock off cartier love ring men straight upstairs where ordinary "taxi meters" set down their passengers. You may find the drivers here reluctant to activate the meter; I always pick on a younger driver and, if accompanied, gang up on him. It's a kind of legal hijacking, but I saved 7 which, as I was to discover, can go a long way in Thailand. As it transpired, my driver had no idea where my hotel was and needed to stop and call them from a phone box.
My hotel, Chom's Boutique Inn Thai Kitchen (formerly the City Inn), turned out to be quite a find. Centrally located, clean, safe and friendly, it is the antithesis of the cockroach infested dorms of the backpacker's ghetto, Khao San Road. The owner, Khun Pieng Chom, taught Keith Floyd all he knows about Thai cookery and once cooked for a Thai princess. What's more, the superb room was only 12.85.
I stepped outside into the thick, wet air. At the vast glass and marble malls a consumerist feeding frenzy was still in full swing as American and Euro tourists hunted in packs despite the Baht's recent rally from 90 to 70 to the pound. The malls are also good for cheap food. Most have food halls on their top floors where you can fill up on Pad Thai (noodles with chicken or seafood, nuts, lime and a sprinkling of sugar), curry and other Thai staples for 3. I washed down my noodles with a frozen watermelon shake, as refreshing as a slap in the face with a wet lemon.
That evening, a Tuesday, I went to Lumphini Stadium to catch some Thai boxing. For 1.50 I stood in what was little more than a large chicken shed, and soaked up the frenetic Deer Hunter atmosphere as two pre teen streaks of gristle battered the stuffing out of each other. Unlike in a Western boxing match, the victor received only desultory applause his "supporters" were busy collecting their winnings.
Budget and time restrictions set me something of a challenge for the next day's adventure. Ideally I would have flown south to Koh Samui (Bangkok Airways has just upped the price of a return to 111) and travelled on to some of the less popular islands, but my choices were limited: either head east to Fattaya and spend a few days averting my eyes from the roasting flesh of potbellied Germans disporting with young Thai girls, or bus south and see what I could find.
I plumped for the unknown and once again came up trumps. I'd been to Hua Hin (100 miles south of the capital) before and knew that, although it holds numerous fascinations (King Rama VII, who looked nothing like Yul Brenner, built his summer palace there in 1928), its beach is no longer up to much, and Western tourists outnumber locals. Instead I jumped from the comfortable air conditioned number 11 bus at the small seaside town of Cha Am, 15 miles north of Hua Hin, after a fairly thrilling (in the "Please God, don't say he's going to try to overtake now!" sense of the word) two and a half hour ride from Bangkok (1.40).
CHA AM is a lightly developed never ending strip of sandy beach, lined with frilly casuarina trees, deck chairs and restaurants. Favoured by Thais, especially students at the weekends, it is blessedly free from backpackers who whistle through on their way to Samui's Chaweng beach. I reached the beach by clinging desperately to the back of a motorcycle taxi for a few minutes, trying to achieve that delicate balance of not falling off and dying, while at the same time not wishing to appear over familiar. Then I set about inspecting the (admittedly unromantic) cement hotels, separated from the beach by a quiet road.
My first night at the most up market resort hotel, the Methavalai, cost 21. Feeling a little isolated, however, I scoured the strip next morning for a cheaper Thai owned alternative and found the excellent Cha Am Villas, which had a pleasant room for 7.
In the evening I had the pick of dozens of restaurants typical no frills Thai beach establishments with malapropic menus ("Charcoaled whole fist" anyone?). I dined fantastically well on cartier ring love fake cotton fish, squid and prawns, looking out at the winking lights of the fishing boats, all for less than 3. On one occasion I was even treated to an impromptu comedy mime as, from behind the kitchen's glass partition, it became apparent that a snake had been spotted on some shelves above the cooker and mute pandemonium broke out among the staff. I actually saw the snake rear up behind some pots a couple of times. It was big. I paid and skedaddled.
The next evening I took a taxi (4) to Hua Hin's night market, a bustling olfactory assault where tourists stock up on counterfeit Calvins and Cartiers, and where I saw a lobster that could have given a Labrador a good fight, on offer outside one of its many and justly famed seafood restaurants.
Despite the economic problems affecting the domestic tourist market, as the weekend approached, Cha Am's beach came alive with the usual jet skis, inflatable toys and elephant rides. There were bikes for hire, too including inherently comic Goodies style three seaters but a far more popular pastime for Thai families is simply sitting around a low table under sun umbrellas, eating.
Clap your hands twice and the bicycle mounted hawkers selling everything from ice cream to dried squid will chug over to serve you as you recline. Unlike at Chaweng, I wasn't plagued by watch sellers and sound systems, and before long, each day I would be invited to share a family's cartier ring love knock off meal or join in a game of football (you lose face if you put your shoes on, by the way). Nightlife is mainly eating, drinking and perambulating, though I took a peek inside the intriguing and disreputable looking Norton Music Hall which offered patrons the potentially eye watering combination of "snooker and imitation cartier ring love massage".
The backpacker mentality dictates that to experience the "real" Thailand I should have had to squat in some grubby 2 a night hut, sharing my Cadbury's Dairy Milk with Day Glo clad Norwegians and a small family of Buick sized bugs. Not so. My 100 lasted five days and if I hadn't wasted 1,000 Baht at the Methavalai, been quite so gluttonous, and not given a fiver to an hysterical Belgian and his young son (who accosted me outside a mall in Bangkok with, on reflection, a bogus tale of stolen bags), I could easily have stayed a week.
The Wall