Some don't do Budget Travel
March 19, 2012

Ex communists don't do budget travel.

Okay, no rule without exceptions.

But,

I made the rule - and am sticking to it.

While sitting on a wobbly plastic chair in my favorite, very cheap, people watching spot at the Gecko bar in Bangkok, things seen in the stream of passing humanity, and things overheard from seat neighbors, or people who asked, "is this chair free?" at my little table, lit a Gedankensblitz (don't know an English word for Gedankensblitz which, sort of, means a lightning and enlightening thought).

I overhear conversations in English with accents from almost every corner of the world. Apart from a working knowledge of English, most have another thing in common. They are budget travelers, predominantly backpackers. With a common language, and a desire to communicate about where, what, when, why, and how, in search of new places and adventures, conversations between these strangers are spontaneous and come easy. Few have fixed schedules. They are not bound to certain dates, by hotel or plane reservations. They (we) are the new vagabonds.

Conversations start spontaneously because there is a feeling of kinship brought on by similar traveling modes and traveling goals - and budgetary considerations. Except in backpacker saturated areas like Bangkok's Khao San neighborhood, whenever backpack carrying backpackers meet other backpack carrying backpackers, it is very likely a conversation will start: Where from? Where to? How long? Got an idea about ...? How much for ...? Oh, by the way, my name is ...

Today's citizens of former communist societies, the Soviet Union and it's influence sphere, and those from the present communist ruled China, are practically absent from that backpacker scene, even though they have caught up to us - big time - in the monied tourist movement that converges in multi-stared hotels, restaurants, and stores. Because I don't usually hang out in such places, I don't know for sure if that is a world-wide phenomena, even though I had glimpses of it just about every place this present trip took me. Same thing during last year's backpacking journey through East and South Africa. Also in New York's, now fancy and expensive SoHo, a place I know real well, having lived there the last thirty-six years (when home), one overhears in the streets Russian and Chinese more and more frequently.

In "exclusive" - depending on who does the judging - Phuket many of the tailors who advertise themselves as High End Fashion house, "We carry Armani, Boss, Versace, Uomo", "Better Looking, Better Fitting", have their signs written in Cyrillic letters and/or Chinese symbols. The same goes for jewelers, for silk shops, for hotels, restaurants and their menus.

I can't eavesdrop on seat neighbors in restaurants and bars in those places because they speak Russian, or Kyrgyz or whatever other ....stan language, and Polish, Hungarian, Bulgarian, Rumanian. Many others look, and talk, Chinese.

On Phuket, only very rarely can one spot a sandaled group, couple, or singles, lugging their backpacks through the streets in search of cheap digs. It is reasonable to assume funky affordable guesthouses are a thing of the past and backpackers in places like Phuket an endangered species.

Almost the same thing, even though not as pronounced like in Phuket, is happening in Bangkok, in Saigon, in Phnom Penh. In posher areas where the big hotels are concentrated, many former English store signs have been replaced by Russian and Chinese ones.

I am not partial to the use of English, it is only my third language (after German and French) but common sense would suggest it be used as the international lingua franca. In addition to the native tongue English speakers, the rest of western Europe, Central and South America, most of Africa, most of Asia, in short, practically the whole world, has learned, or, provided with the opportunity, is learning English as a second language. Practically every international traveler has a working knowledge of English.

Oooops! Right after claiming there are no Russians in Khao San I had to go change some dollars into bahts. In front of me at the money change counter two Russians, one in pink pants and the other in bright yellow, were changing dollars into bahts.

The Bangkok areas catering to Thailand's sex tourism are concentrated in the Sukhumvit and Patpong neighborhoods where you also find many of the starred hotels.

Nowhere in the Khao San backpacker ghetto have I ever seen anything resembling the wares offered by Sukhumvit and Patpong street sellers; porno DVD, porno books, porno pictures, dildo carved in wood, wood carvings of sex positions, huge assortments of speciality condoms, and girls trying to haul you into massage parlors with privacy cabins, or sex shows.

There is plenty of massaging offered in the Khao San area, but it is all outdoors, on long rows of cots lined up out in the street or in well lit indoor places that have full view glass fronts to the outside. No hanky-pinky is visible, or even suggested, anywhere. The male to female ratio in massage providers is roughly fifty-fifty.

Yesterday, after a four-hour walkabout in the searing hot town, totally soaked in sweat and pretty dirty, I took a shower, washed the sweaty clothes, hung them up to dry under the air conditioner and went down into the street for a foot and neck massage. Every time I do that, an inner, nagging voice calls me masochist. They massage so intensively, so vigorously, it is a mystery to me how not all the fellow massaged victims on nearby cots howl in pain. But, after all there must be something good about it because today, despite yesterday's extensive power walk, I have no sore muscles.

Two different worlds!

OMG!!! ... and how different!

Arriving from Seoul I slept in a Sukhumvit hotel (an online reservation made because of a past midnight arrival). Being totally bushed, I didn't go out. The following morning I tuck-tucked to my familiar home-away-from-home region, the Khao San area.

Now, after walking around in daytime's Sukhumvit, and fully aware it is more of a night spot, I went there last night and found a day-time slumbering beast fully awake and roaring. Having been to Hamburg's Reeperbahn, Amsterdam's grachts, Paris' Pigalle, Tokyo' Asakusa, New York's (before Giuliani) Time-square, and Zürich's Niederdorf, and, yes, Bangkok's Patpong, it seemed reasonable to assume I'd seen pretty much the full spectrum of licentious night life.

Wrong!

Sukhumvit takes the cake - passes everything I'd seen so far - big time.

My former attempt to defend the old-man-young-girl syndrome, at least in some cases, would fall on deaf ears with anyone who'd witnessed the Sukhumvit spectacle. Words like repulsive, obscene, grotesque, won't suffice to describe my impressions from the moment I came down the stairs from the Sky train's Nana station. Right past the station exit a side alley leads off from Sukhumvit street. There, side by side bars packed chockfull with old men and young girls can barely be seen because the streets in front of them were also packed with old men and young girls, and tuck-tucks delivering more tourists, and motorcycle taxis delivering more girls, and taxis delivering more old men, and food sellers, and sellers of roasted roaches, and younger men jugging beer from bottles, and young girls gesturing, cajoling, entreating, masseuses trying to pull you into their dens, competing with ruckus from juke boxes and giant tv screen soccer game cheering from old soccer fans in "sports - or sporting? - bars".

I escaped into a small Japanese restaurant, for dinner and a curative retreat from the sensory onslaught outside. A young woman asked if the other chair by my table was free. It was. She sat.

"You speak English?"

"Yes," I said.

"Where are you from?"

"New York."

"What's your name?"

"Ernst."

"I am ...." (forgot what names she said).

"Which hotel you stay?"

"It is a four-hour walk from here," I said.

"Oh, you strong man, walk so much."

"Yes."

"You want good time?"

"Yes, drinking a beer, watching the scene then go home. You are wasting your time with me. I am not a customer."

"Thank you for not wasting my time."

"I'll buy you a drink, that's all."

"Thank you."

She had a beer, we talked for a while, then she went in search of a more promising prospect.

I had some more beer on a bar counter facing out into the street, a perfect observation spot. Next to me sat one of the old men. To judge from the way he was dressed, I took him for African American. He said he was a doctor from Ethiopia. He came to Thailand to study treatment of HIV/AIDS.

You came to the right place, but instead of treatment, to study its promotion, I thought, but, of course, didn't say it.

Vignette:

Having time in Bangkok 'til my flight to Switzerland I went to a tailor for an advertised fifty-dollars suit, shirt, tie and clothes carrying bag. For fifty bucks, I reasoned, how can one go wrong. Such a suit could be worn just for a lark, maybe to an outdoor barbecue in Vermont.

"A white suit," I said and improvised, "it is for a beach wedding."

"What is your budget?" the Indian tailor asked.

"Oh, the advertised fifty dollars for an Armani suit," I said"

"Ah, you wouldn't want that, it is no good."

"What you advertise is no good, even with an Armani label?"

"Cheap material, cheap labor."

"How much for a good one?"

"What is your budget?"

"Never mind my budget, I say what I like and you tell me how much.

He handed me a book with photos of suits. I looked through it.

"This one," I said and pointed at a picture.

"You have excellent taste," he said. "This is one of our most expensive, but price worthy models. "Which fabric you'd like?"

I pointed to a bolt.

"You have excellent taste. This is the best we carry."

"How much?"

"What is your budget?"

"Never mind. How much?"

"Armani? We are licensed to produce Armani suits.""

"Sure. How much?"

"Three-hundred-and-fifty dollars, a special price for you because you are clearly a connoisseur."

"What about the advertised fifty dollars, with shirt, tie and clothes bag?"

"Dear sir, don't insult yourself. Those are for people who don't know the difference between quality and junk."

"You also licensed for making Hugo Boss suits?"

"Of course. Same price."

"I'll think about it," I said and walked towards the door.

He caught me by an arm. "Because you are such a connoisseur I will also give you a quality shirt."

"I'll think about it," I said, but couldn't get out of his grip.

"And a silk tie."

"I'll think about it."

He still wouldn't let go of my arm. "Okay, you are clearly an experienced business man and you know how to make a deal. Three-hundred for you."

"I'll think about it." He still held on to me.

"How much you offer?"

"Fifty dollars."

"You obviously don't understand anything about fine clothing," he said and let me go.

Out in the street, just outside the tailor's lair, a bar is set up. A sign says: Cocktails, prepared only with quality brand spirits, 70 baht (about two dollars). On the bar stands a row of bottles, Johnny Walker, Black and Blue label, Chivas Regal and Jack Daniels, Courvoisier and Cointreau, Sky and Smirnoff, Beefeater and and Gordon's, and HavanaClub, in short, all with labels of well known, mostly expensive brands.

From the looks of him, the bartender was the tailor's younger brother.

I wondered if a couple of cocktails from that bar turned you blind or simply left you completely sober.

Last night, on my way to the restaurant with so-so food but with the beautiful waitress - we exchange smiles all the time and she knows which condiments I like - I passed a place that is usually not particularly popular, but that evening was mobbed. So many patrons had spilled out into the street that traffic was blocked. I went up to a group and asked what was the occasion for the party.

"St. Paddy's day," she said.

Should have known, they all wore green and all drank beer and the name of the joint is: O' Hungry.

Late at night, and very early in the morning, male and female backpack carrying backpackers - the big pack on the back, the small pack in the front - roam the streets in search of accommodation. They must have arrived on overnight busses, or the cheap flights that have weird departure and arrival times. They have no reservations but look mostly happy for having arrived after a long journey.

With their way of traveling they have learned to improvise, to make do with what they can find, to search out opportunities, to be self-reliant, to be persistent, to have stamina and perseverance, to be goal oriented, to have all the qualities successful entrepreneurs are supposed to possess.

Might they be the future entrepreneurs?