what’s weather like there?…

Since coming to the glorious realisation that my travel insurance would cover the cost of a real hotel, life in Bangkok has been sensational.

“What’s that?”, you say, “I saw on the global news channels that Bangkok was in ‘turmoil’, that conditions for some travellers were ‘unbearable’, that the hundred thousand stranded travellers were ‘desperate’ to get out of the country?” Um … yeah, I’m not sure who they interviewed but it sure as hell wasn’t me. If they had, the title of this ridiculous BBC article would have been “I’m a tourist, please don’t make me leave”. Allow me to describe the conditions which we have been forced to endure during this time of national crisis.

I’ve been to Bangkok before and, on a whim (another story), stayed in the Amari Watergate hotel; a plush, five-star affair with beds the size of my parents’ garden. My travel insurance company had said, when asked if they’d foot the bill for a real hotel, “yeah, just don’t go checking in to a five-star resort or anything (laughs)”. Reasonable enough; I don’t need the adjacent golf course or spa treatments anyway. Instead I settled for the sister hotel, the merely four-star Amari Boulevard.

This place really does make you wonder where that extra star would come from. More free coffee in the room? Beds that could sleep five rather than four? Staff that actually wash your feet as you walk in the door, rather than merely bowing towards them? Perhaps it is just the lack of an adjacent golf course; regardless, this place is probably sufficient for my needs.

The staff are ridiculously attentive, and if you treat them like human beings (which so few residents of reasonably posh hotels fail to do) they soon become your friend. Welcoming smiles and the ubiquitous Thai “sawasdee kaaaaaaap!” are in abundance: from the staff immediately outside, who are now handing out “FREE ACCOMMODATION” leaflets to try and tease “stranded” passengers in to the hotel (the Thai taxpayer is footing the bill), to the porters immediately inside the door, through the lady infusing the spacious lobby with the gentle tones from her chake, past the check-in counter staff on the left and the lobby bar staff (notable mention to Chanissara, whose name I’m proud to have remembered phonetically at least) on the right, up to the staff just in front of the restaurant and lifts, and finally on to the lovely ladies who undo the squalor inflicted by Will and I upon our room on a daily basis. You’d have to actively try to be unhappy in a place like this: it would require a conscious, determined effort. Who has the time?

As it happens I have the time, but I choose to spend it on more fruitful endeavours. I choose to spend my time by the beautiful pool on the impeccable decking, mopping my lightly sweating brow with the complimentary chilled lemon fresh towelettes, sipping on a cold Singha delivered on request by the (surprise, surprise!) smiling poolside staff, alternating between loungers and chairs but always in the most exquisite comfort. If I get sick of reading my book (unlikely, as I’ve been put on to Murakami by Ryan and Bec) I can swim, or sleep, or simply admire the Bangkok skyline from my 6th floor vantage point.

pure anguish - oh, the horror

I choose to spend my time gorging myself on the lavish buffet three times a day, again provided free to us courtesy of the Thai taxpayer. Breakfast is a sumptuous display of fresh fruits, pastries, cereals and yoghurt for the healthy, hand-made (on demand) omelettes to adorn your standard western fry-up breakfast for the unhealthy, and Thai curry and rice for whoever can stomach that sort of stuff this early in the day. Interestingly, the Thais (along with a lot of other South-East Asian nations, I suspect – I seem to remember this from when I was in Vietnam 5 years ago) don’t really have a distinct breakfast food; they eat the same style of food, albeit with slightly more subdued flavours than dinner (that’s lunch, for the rest of you) and tea (dinner).

[Quick note: this blog's official language is North East English, and its official currency is the British pound. The reader is left to find their own translation services from this point onwards.]

Dinner and tea are similarly opulent, with an array of Thai, Western and Indian food that boggles the senses. The executive chef is a lovely Italian, Silvano. He guides Bec through the vegetarian selections each day; in the time it takes those two to catch up on each others’ daily lives, Will has already put a plate of pork, potatoes and vegetables followed by a pasta dish with more potatoes followed by a curry with naan and pickle down his capacious gullet. There’s dessert a-plenty, from home baked cookies and brownies to pastries, crème caramel and ice cream.

As you may imagine, I have literally piled on the kilos. Sucking in the stomach no longer remains a viable option.

When we dare to venture out of the hotel and on to the dangerous streets of Bangkok we find – once we escape the immediate environs, which are populated by skanky looking hookers pretending to be waiting for a bus (but actually just waiting for a Western man with money, age no issue) – more smiling people and a few particularly beautiful bars, one of which wouldn’t be at all out of place in Melbourne. nest is a tastefully decorated rooftop bar where beds rather than seats make up the majority of the furniture. Thanks to a refreshing lack of street advertising it is mostly devoid of people like us, which makes it all the more pleasant.

Getting back to basics, street stalls come alive after about midnight replacing the rows of stalls selling t-shirts, DVDs, laser pointer pens, engraved faux-ebony penises (some even have an attached set of balls), bags watches hats paintings food sex – you name it, if it’s crappy tat you don’t want they have it – with little vans and playground size chairs to create makeshift bars. Life really doesn’t have much time to stop in Bangkok.

By now you’ll doubtless be sensing the trauma and anguish in my voice. The worst thing about all this is that I must endure it with my best friends. I was alone for a few days when I first arrived but Bart, Bec, Will and Ryan travelled up from the islands last weekend so since then we’ve spent our days together looking at each other in wide-eyed astonishment at the predicament we’ve fortuitously landed ourselves in. Other travellers provide a constant source of entertainment when we get bored of each other (which isn’t often. Okay, it isn’t ever).

Will and I had the pleasure of meeting the British ambassador last week. Just after the airport re-opened he did a whistle-stop tour of the hotels where his stranded subjects were staying; he mentioned that he’d only just been able to get back in Bangkok himself, having driven up from Phuket that day. (Phuket airport has been open the whole time so people have been able to get out to KL or Singapore, but it’s a hell of a bus journey, then a flight to KL, then onward flights (two, in my case) to wherever you want to actually get to – I had a ticket booked and was due to leave on Tuesday, but the court ruling which dissolved the current government came through a few hours before my departure, at which point the protestors left the airport; given the option of a gruelling five day trip home or waiting it out in a plush hotel with my mates, well, let’s just say that wasn’t the hardest decision of my life…)

Mr Quayle was lovely and gave the 20-odd assembled Brits a concise but thorough overview of the current situation, including minutes old information about a special British Airways flight which would depart Phuket for Heathrow late the following day; he explained how we could check in at a central Bangkok hotel, that we would be bussed to Phuket, that the flight was open to anybody that wanted it, and that his staff had the number for anyone who was interested and we should contact British Airways directly. Simple enough, right?

Apparently not. The Brits abroad did themselves proud. “How many seats are on the plane?” asks one burly mid-op transsexual (I’m serious – imagine Jimmy Nail in a boob tube). About two hundred and seventy seven, says Mr. Ambassador. “But you said there’s ‘a bus’, will there be enough space on the bus for us all?” Good lord. The poor man actually had to spell out that there would be any number of buses and that he was sure that BA would have considered this in their planning. Someone else asked about their visa – Thai visas are granted for a month, and if you overstay it’s a fifty quid a day penalty. They’ve stated (in the Thai national media, if you would only bother to read it (there’s a free copy at the pool), and in any number of international news stories, if you bothered to read them either – but then why keep abreast of an international story that you’re personally involved in?…) that this fee will be waived for people who have overstayed through no fault of their own. “So I was due to leave on the 2nd, I won’t be charged when I leave will I?” No, says the Queen’s representative, we’ve been assured that you will not. Another Brit: “what about me, I was due to leave on the 5th but don’t know when my flight is yet, what about my visa?” [Deep exhale from Mr. Quayle.] No, I’m not the Thai immigration authorities, but I’m sure they won’t be charging you when you leave the country. I’m sure he was asked that same question three times. He left shortly thereafter, any lingering doubts he may have had about leaving England to become an expat no doubt expelled forever. Will and I even apologised to the lovely, intelligent, European (Dutch, possibly) hotel manager afterwards, assuring him that not all British were this retarded; even he cracked a joke about the number of buses, rolling his eyes…

So I’ve been here since Thursday the 27th, and it’s now Saturday the 6th. As you can probably gather, we’re bearing up okay: really, there’s no need to worry about us. The most traumatic experience of the week so far has been the call to Emirates (in the UK – Emirates Australia are pitifully incompetent) yesterday morning where they actually managed to get me on to a confirmed flight! Agh! Unfortunately I must stay in this hellhole until Wednesday the 10th as that was the earliest available seat.

I’m already thinking about my next holiday destination. The way this one is going, I’m looking at package tours to the FARC-controlled regions of Colombia.