While life in this country can be crazy and unpredictable, there is one thing about my experiences that will always be true: I ain't from around these parts. No matter how many Thai words I learn to pronounce correctly (currently I can do about four)or how many fish ball soups I slurp down, I will never be mistaken for anything close to a local. I am and forever will be a "farang", an alien chick weaving my way through busy Bangkok streets.
At first, I felt some frustration with my foreigner status. The stares from little kids on the subway were off-putting, as was the "Welcome to Thailand, you want buy sex DVD?" line I got everyday on the walk home from my teaching course. I mean, really. Does being from a Western country automatically make me a sex-DVD sale candidate? Do I LOOK like I want to buy a sex DVD?
...Anyway. Those were the feelings of frustration I felt during my first few weeks here in the Land of Smiles. But after being here for four months, I've found that I'm pretty used to my status as an alien visiting Bangkok from outer space. In fact, I think I've grown quite attached to it. I've now realized that being a "farang" is actually extremely liberating. Look at it this way: in the eyes of the Thai's, whatever I do is weird/fascinating/hilarious, and a whole list of other adjectives. So I might as well do whatever the heck I want. Let's say I'm walking to work and I feel like singing along to a random Christmas carol that pops up on my iPod's shuffle. What do I do? I sing my freaking heart out. The people surrounding me are Buddhist and I'm blonde; for all they know today is Christmas day and I'm the next Britney Spears. Or maybe I'm at the park, and I start to feel the delirium brought on every-so-often by the Bangkok heat. Gosh, those sprinklers spraying over the lawn look pretty refreshing. Maybe I'll just take a few quick paces through them, just to avoid heat stroke. Twenty minutes later I'm soaked and playing a game of tag with a group of ten year-old Thai boys. Whatever. I'm a "farang".
So in my quest to "blend in" to the best of my ability, I've overlooked one key thing: being a foreigner in this country gives you a status of complete and utter freedom. You can sing in public, run through sprinklers, and pick your nose on a crowded metro(not that I ever do that...awkward...), and pass it off like it's just how we live in our native "Farang-Land". And the Thai's are none-the-wiser. Sometimes being an alien pays off.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
A Word on Motorbike Taxis
Like I've said before, Thailand is commonly referred to as "The Land of Smiles", based on the pleasant, 'anything-goes' attitudes of the country's population. But after countless missed collisions on the back of motorbikes, seatbelt-less cabs, and vans barreling down expressways at 150 km/hour, I propose that we toss out the "Smiles" and christen the country with a much more fitting nickname:
"The Land of Extremely Dangerous Methods of Transportation"
At the start of my commute every morning, I place my life into the hands of one of the motorbike taxi drivers who sit outside my apartment building. The Metro is a bit too far to walk to, and it's only a 75-cent ride on the back of a bike. By now I've come to recognize every different driver, so I know what the ride to the Metro will be like before I even sit down on the back of the bike. Take this morning, for instance. I walked out with relief to find the old, chubby dude who prefers an even-paced ride down the quiet backstreets, easing on the brakes at every speedbump while I sit comfortably on his spacious bike seat. Riding on the back of his bike is actually fun, and I don't feel like I'm going to go into cardiac arrest every 2.5 seconds.
So today I got lucky. Yesterday, not so much. My stomach dropped as I walked out of the building and saw him - the driver with the neon "Spiderman" gloves. This guy must be about twenty years old, and he seems to get a real kick out of scaring the living crap out of me (or any other helpless victim who is forced onto the back of his bike.) As he sped toward me in a cloud of tire-burning smoke, I took a deep breathe and took off my earrings and sunglasses, knowing that these things were bound to fly off at the extreme speeds this guy was capable of. After throwing the accessories into my purse, I hopped onto the back of the bike and assumed my usual "Dear-Buddha-Let-Me-Live" position, one hand gripping the driver's waist and the other behind me on the bike's back handle. I managed to keep my eyes open for the first few seconds of the ride, enough to watch the amused looks on the other driver's faces as we hurled towards the first speedbump in the road. I saw the chubby old man dozing off on the back of his bike, waiting for the next lucky customer. Worst. Timing. Ever.
As we flew meters in the air at every speedbump, I knew that the worst was yet to come. Unlike the dozy old man and his backstreets, this speed-demon prefers the crowded lanes of the expressway as a route to the Metro. As we slid into a three-foot wide space between two speeding buses, I had the same internal debate that I'd had so many times before in this same situation: should I just close my eyes and go with it, or is it worth an attempt to look ahead so I will at least have some warning when death becomes imminent? I decided to close my eyes, imagining that I was somewhere far away from the speeding buses, maybe sipping from a coconut on some tropical beach. I imagined the speed-induced wind sending my hair flying into my eyes as a cool ocean breeze.
The daydream granted me a momentary escape until...SCREEEEEECH! Speed Racer ground to a halt at the stairs leading up to the Metro. With a shaking hand, I reached into my wallet and pulled out a 20-baht note (still not really sure how I feel about paying somebody to almost get me killed), and slowly walked toward the train station entrance. I had survived the first half of my morning commute once again. At least this will help me kick my caffeine habit - who needs coffee when you've got a motorbike ride to wake you up every morning?
"The Land of Extremely Dangerous Methods of Transportation"
At the start of my commute every morning, I place my life into the hands of one of the motorbike taxi drivers who sit outside my apartment building. The Metro is a bit too far to walk to, and it's only a 75-cent ride on the back of a bike. By now I've come to recognize every different driver, so I know what the ride to the Metro will be like before I even sit down on the back of the bike. Take this morning, for instance. I walked out with relief to find the old, chubby dude who prefers an even-paced ride down the quiet backstreets, easing on the brakes at every speedbump while I sit comfortably on his spacious bike seat. Riding on the back of his bike is actually fun, and I don't feel like I'm going to go into cardiac arrest every 2.5 seconds.
So today I got lucky. Yesterday, not so much. My stomach dropped as I walked out of the building and saw him - the driver with the neon "Spiderman" gloves. This guy must be about twenty years old, and he seems to get a real kick out of scaring the living crap out of me (or any other helpless victim who is forced onto the back of his bike.) As he sped toward me in a cloud of tire-burning smoke, I took a deep breathe and took off my earrings and sunglasses, knowing that these things were bound to fly off at the extreme speeds this guy was capable of. After throwing the accessories into my purse, I hopped onto the back of the bike and assumed my usual "Dear-Buddha-Let-Me-Live" position, one hand gripping the driver's waist and the other behind me on the bike's back handle. I managed to keep my eyes open for the first few seconds of the ride, enough to watch the amused looks on the other driver's faces as we hurled towards the first speedbump in the road. I saw the chubby old man dozing off on the back of his bike, waiting for the next lucky customer. Worst. Timing. Ever.
As we flew meters in the air at every speedbump, I knew that the worst was yet to come. Unlike the dozy old man and his backstreets, this speed-demon prefers the crowded lanes of the expressway as a route to the Metro. As we slid into a three-foot wide space between two speeding buses, I had the same internal debate that I'd had so many times before in this same situation: should I just close my eyes and go with it, or is it worth an attempt to look ahead so I will at least have some warning when death becomes imminent? I decided to close my eyes, imagining that I was somewhere far away from the speeding buses, maybe sipping from a coconut on some tropical beach. I imagined the speed-induced wind sending my hair flying into my eyes as a cool ocean breeze.
The daydream granted me a momentary escape until...SCREEEEEECH! Speed Racer ground to a halt at the stairs leading up to the Metro. With a shaking hand, I reached into my wallet and pulled out a 20-baht note (still not really sure how I feel about paying somebody to almost get me killed), and slowly walked toward the train station entrance. I had survived the first half of my morning commute once again. At least this will help me kick my caffeine habit - who needs coffee when you've got a motorbike ride to wake you up every morning?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
