24 Hours in Khao San Road

Wanna Fly your Freak Flag? Welcome to your Flagpole…

At eight a.m. the small minivans started to arrive from the southern Thai islands, and out popped bleary eyed travelers stumbling around underneath the gray monsoon cloud clogged skies, unfolding limbs, yawning and scrambling to disentangle backpacks that had become gnarled up during the long journey to Bangkok.

A band of too-cool-for-you touts rushed up and offered them rooms, onward bus tickets, taxis, internet connections, tattoos, discount passes to clubs and just about anything else a self respecting, card carrying member of the international budget traveler set would want on Khao San Road, that short stretch of Bangkok street that is part Lonely Planet Ground Zero, part Intergalactic Star Wars Bar, and part Multicultural Mother Ship all rolled into one.

Most of the street stalls were still locked up and only a few hardy souls were up at this hour, mostly because they hadn’t gone to bed the night before. There they were, huddled around cups of coffee, flinching to the sweet beats of the hard core techno music blasting from a street vendor’s cart that peddled Pad Thai noodles, knock off DVD’s from Desperate Housewives, dried tarantulas stretched and mounted on cotton and evil looking ninja stars.

At this hour even the normally pushy Tuk Tuk and taxi drivers were subdued and tranquil, sharing cigarettes and crouching beside their fume-belching beasts, un-eager to strike up a deal to visit a gem shop or tailor. Like lizards, it seemed they needed to catch some of the sun's rays to move.

But by nine thirty the warrens of ever extending alleys around this Thai institution, the countless guest houses, banana pancake joints, internet cafes, tattoo parlors and street stalls selling everything from Tibetan Thankas to porn DVD’s to Muay Thai boxing shorts began stirring to life, and sullen faced girls unrolled shutters, unfurled signs, dusted off merchandise, gave offerings to tiny shrines, and sat down to wait for the customers.

And come they did.

Within forty minutes, the guesthouses had emptied and the multi-ethnic, multi-aged, multi-colored and multi-languaged set began pouring out to…. shop. If you were going to be traveling with the Tribe, it seemed, you’d better dress like one of 'em.

Less than five meters from anywhere you stood along Khao San, a street stall was more than happy to outfit you to perfection for your new-found mates, the convenient velvet covered tables bulging with the necessary badges of cool: multicolored, flowing pirate pants for 100 Baht; a shop next door could bead your hair for 150 Baht; a woman could henna your hands for 75 Baht; and a shop further down could tattoo you for 500 Baht. Everything Thai was gone - the country's culture had been eaten and spat out forming some sort of hybrid version of world culture, a future vision, now.

In short, if you want to fly that freak flag, welcome to your flagpole.

‘Just point and choose,’ remarked a Thai man when he saw me lean in to have a look at his ninja stars.

It was never hard to guess how long a traveler had been at The 'San.

When I asked a British girl dressed in a crisp Lacoste shirt and sensible leather shoes, she said she had arrived from Manchester the day before. When I asked an American guy, who was nursing a bandaged shoulder that he had just had tattooed, wearing Tevas and red pirate pants, he said he with a smug sneer it was his fifth time in Thailand.

Did he speak Thai?

Of course not, he snapped as he laughed nervously.

Any visitor to Khao San Road could take their transformation even a step further: an International Press pass, University degrees, driving licenses and other forms of I.D., including fake passports, could be had for as little as 500 Baht. Casual inquires to the unsmiling selling these services earned me a violent dressing down. I guess my lack of pirate pants, dreadlocks, and nose piercing made me more than a little suspicious looking…..when asked why they wouldn’t give me a price one of them pointed a tremulous finger at me and screeched, ‘You look like American police! For Mister Bush!’

By noon the tropical sun was out in force and the outdoor restaurants of Khao San now hummed with life, serving the same ubiquitous (and boring) menu from Kathmandu to Bali - banana pancakes. Staffed with cool Thais, they went about their jobs slave-like, dull eyed, unfriendly, un-similar to the laughing and fun Thais you saw elsewhere in the country. It seemed their souls had been crushed by some monstrous, invisible force.

And by now, the snoozing sales people had cranked up their sound systems, flung open their doors, selling second hand books, thanks paintings, Buddha heads wrapped in bubble wrap, chess sets, LOWE backpacks, and piles of handicrafts. It was amazing to see such laisez faire approach to customers....no one came running up to force me to buy something like in Bali, no one shouted you you you at me like in Saigon, and no one harassed me like a tout in India.

Khao San, despite the traveler’s urban legends, seemed a tame, docile beast by comparison.

‘Your backs against the wall!’ wailed Beth Ditto from the band Gossip, whose song was blasting out of a nearby café. ‘You’d move it all again….What ya gonnna do?’

Not much, by the looks of it.

While most cafes were filled to bursting with beasts of all stripes, most of which were tattoo'd, smoking joints, looking bleary eyed at the TV’s blasting movies (one restaurant had 3 movies running, but not one patron was even looking at them)

In less than sixty seconds, I heard snatches from a Tower of Babel of languages, from German, French, and Spanish, to Hebrew, Thai, Korean, Cantonese, Burmese, and Japanese.

Khao San was a global village indeed.

As I walked through the stalls, travelers were haggling and arguing over every Baht so much so that most vendors waved them off as soon as they began to whine about the price.

When I passed a travel agent a Thai man inside was wearing an ethnic minority headdress to sell a package tour to an elderly European couple.

‘Do you have The Beach?’ I asked a second hand book seller the question he had probably been asked a million times.

‘No.’ he muttered as he turned back to dusting his shelves, filled with at least six copies of the book I had just asked for.

A moment later, further down the alley, an Indian man grabbed my arm and shouted, ‘Suit! For you man! Have a look! No PRESSURE!’

A woman bowed to a tiny shrine crammed between a t-shirt vendor and a shop selling trance music.

‘That’s some pretty groovy shit,’ whispered a man as he walked by, reaching out to shake my hand for no reason.

The police have recently blocked off Khao San road ever since the bombs in Bali, and even more since the bombs in Bangkok on New Years Eve. What has been created is a pedestrian friendly zone, free for hippies and aging flower power kids to indulge their inner dancer. More than a few stopped to just that - one in particular, dressed in a multicolored mumu, was gently engaging strangers into dance, backpackers, street vendors, a terrified Thai Tourism Authority person, me, and even a bewildered policeman.

‘All in the name of peace,’ she said over and over.

By early afternoon, the pedestrian zone was packed with people, just shopping. Every once in awhile, however, a western family wandered amongst the tattooed, dreadlocked, hash reeking hordes, searching for their package holiday; clearly, this was not the Land of Smiles they had expected from the tourist brochure they had flipped through back home.

‘Nepal’! screamed one French woman to a startled Tuk Tuk driver carrying a Thai child in a papoose. “I need Nepal!’

‘You, Delhi, right? a harried Indian travel agent asked me as he flipped through a stack of tickets. When I shook my head, he said, “Bali, right?’ When I shook my head again, he said with relief, ‘Ah, Tokyo…..’

‘Strange shirt, man,’ remarked a random foreigner, who reached out and touched my collared shirt. ‘I haven’t seen one of these, since, gosh…’

Vegatabel, extra 5 Baht, read one street vendor's sign.

Once shunned by young Thais, Khao San Road has now been embraced as an eastern suburb hub of cool, a fifteen minute bus ride from Siam Square. Most days more than a few bands of teenagers were there, some scared, others emboldened, most taking pictures, just drinking in the freaked out residents. A few slipped into meet and greet mode to introduce themselves to these visitors from outer space, though most hung out in frightened clusters, talking to street vendors in hushed tones.

By nightfall, the young Thais had fled to safer neighborhoods, leaving the bars to beefy Brits minding their Singhas with one arm and their Thai girlfriends with the other, watching the world go by. Tall Swedes were eying the international blondes at the next table (when I walked by 15 minutes later their chairs had slid ever closer). Girls in Fred Flintstone animal print miniskirts were shyly handing out Happy Hour promotions as a bum stumbled by blissed out by the neon signs blinking furiously above his head.

A Farang walked past with a T-shirt that read 'PIGS FLY'.

Duck down any alley off of Khao San, and you will find guest houses crammed in so tightly it seems a fire marshals nightmare. Restaurants with just two tables. A shrine hung with Christmas lights, a graffiti covered wall; and all round, internet cafes were advertising the cheapest rates compared to their competitors.

‘We are 1 Baht cheaper than everyone!’ boasted one.
25 hour a day internet, shouted another.

Inside, fingers are furiously tapping, ignoring the posted notices on the walls.

'American man Missing,' pleaded one.

'Have you seen this girl?' implored another.

Khao San it seemed, ate people, too.

The eastern end of Khao San is anchored by a branch of Burger King. HAVE IT YOUR WAY! screams an ad in the window. Only a few sheepish travelers actually eat there, shamed by the looks of death aimed at them from other travelers munching on Thai street food: grilled squid, coca cola dumped with ice in plastic bags, pancakes slathered in chocolate sauce and even grilled crickets.

A few meters away, a tall Lady Boy serves up roasted corn as she flicks her long hair away from the open flames, her elegantly painted nails expertly grilling the vegetables to perfection.

Next to LAVA, a nightclub situated next to a derelict mall, an Indian born Thai is jamming to hardcore techno that even in its bone rattling intensity, isn’t quite strong enough to keep everyone awake.

‘Hey!’ he yelled, ‘wake up!’ to an Israeli guy who had been so busy, or so blessed out by the music that he had fallen fast asleep on the table.

Not much further away, a 7 11 employee is kept hoarse and breathless as each time a customer comes or leaves, the door chimes, and each time this happens, she chirps a hearty, SAWATDEE KAAAA…… SAWATDEE KAA….. so often that it seems her voice is actually a recorded message.

But it isn’t.

Though the restaurants are strange, perhaps the wierdest think in all of Khao San is the Starbucks smack in the middle of the strip hidden between the tattoo, internet, money exchange places and more, its staff smartly dressed in the Starbucks uniform, polite and gentle even with the western saddhus who linger over lattes reading three day old newspapers and talking to themselves in low voices.

The western end is anchored by a wat, and the main police headquarters. Here a dozen policemen sit around looking bored, even though just about everyone walking past is reeking of marijuana……

Late evening is the departure time for the shuttles to the southern islands, and groups of travelers were banding up around white minivans, prostitutes eyeing the men while their girlfriends shot them evil looks.

By midnight, the place is pumping, and the music is keeping just about everyone awake - bars are packed to capacity, even the Starbucks is still open and through the next four hours, time seems to stand still. Bars remain packed, even the strict nightly curfew imposed upon bars in Bangkok seem to go un-enforced here, and the sanuk goes on: A six foot six german guy is pointing his pierced tongue at me; three French girls are saying poisonous things en francais under their breaths at the Thai guys staring at them; and a gaggle of white t-shirted, white Nikes and khaki pantsed Americans are eyeing anything with blonde hair; and a group of Aussie surfers are talking loudly about how they were off to Bali for a competition.

The noise goes on, all except for the narrow, twisting alleys. A few steps away from the raucious bars, rats scurry away at the sound of my footsteps....a few farangs are arguing and bargaining with prostitutes to come up to their rooms, a few international travelers are using the late hour to call home (one woman was calling Brazil, another, Manhattan) bragging about all they had seen (Mom, I saw a water buffalo yesterday!)

As the morning hours crept on, the arteries around Khao San died off, shut down, like a coral reef at night, tentacles recharging for the next day. Women and men hissed at me from dark alleys, calling out prices for drugs, sex, booze, and pills in the darkness. A few cats yowled, but that was it.

The nerve center however stayed conscious; neon lights bathed the streets, the music rattled the window frames and vendors still tried to strike up a bargain, perhaps using the early hour as a leverage to break their customers ability to bargain. By now the hours of looking at neon, and green fluorescent lights had given me a nasty headache, and I begged for daylight.

By the time the sun rose, even the main alley was deserted... the air was cold again, and the vans began to arrive from the south, spilling out another crop of Khao San groupies. Tanned, toned, tattooed, dreadlocked, and slowly retrieving their backpacks as their hair beads clattered….

....and the kaleidoscopic Khao San ferris wheel spun on.