Thailand: a Western backpacker's paradise. M5
the fumes from the lack of catalytic converters, the steam of fried noodles sizzling in sidewalk stalls, the foul aroma of durian fruit, which smell like elephant dung.
As my driver cuts through the traffic, I notice a halo of haze hanging over all of Bangkok, from the muddy, catfish-filled Chao Praya River to the narrow streets packed with wan-looking girls selling sex in Patpong to the massive markets in Chatuchak, where vendors hawk everything from Siamese cats to buckets of live eels to bags of fried grasshoppers.
One of the first things a visitor notices is the incongruous relationship between the grandeur of preserved antiquity and the tackiness of encroaching modernity.
Next to the majestic millennia-old wats, those often bejeweled temples housing immense golden sculptures of Buddha, are the neon lights of countless 7-Elevens and Dunkin' Donuts. Saffron-robed monks amble about in sandals, some chatting on cellphones. And on many corners, the state has erected life-size color photos of the king and queen, revered relics of another era who use their monarchy to promote a peaceful, if coup-plagued, democracy of 60 million people.
My 10-day tour of Thailand begins on an overcrowded ferry that slowly groans down Bangkok's antique central artery, the chocolate-colored Chao Praya River. Before embarking, I stand on a pier with bamboo supports, watching children empty bags of bread crust into the river. Hundreds of catfish suddenly swarm to the surface, feeding in a frenzy that makes them look like piranhas.
From the river, when I can see above the crowd of commuters boxing me in, I glimpse Bangkok's future and its past.
