Thailand is my favorite place in the world (other than New
York, of course) for three reasons: the food, the women, and the Buddhism; all
three are done there better than anywhere else I am aware of (if you do know
where these three things are done better, please fill me in; thanks). Of all
the things I love about Thailand—from the oddness to the strange dichotomies and juxtapositions to the weather to the feeling
of spontaneity that is omni-present—tequila is not one those things; it’s not
even in the top 1000.
Normally in Thailand, I stick to Singha beer, a lager much
in the vein of Heineken or Stella. Sometimes I opt for Sangsum—a ‘Thai whiskey’
that is actually a rum, that may or may not have some kind of serious and
intense hard drug in it; if you drink too much of this ‘whiskey,’ you’re liable
to have some kind of moment of clarity. I was once found speaking in tongues in
a meditative sitting position on the floor of the apartment I was staying at,
post-speaking with street dogs in the neighborhood, all after imbibing a pint of this devilish drink. #realtalk
But when the moment is right, tequila is the only option,
regardless of your surroundings… but now I have gotten ahead of myself, allow me to explain how this moment came about....
After a lovely Chinese New Year in a Chinese-style river town
(see previous entry Chinese New Year, Thai style) my travel partner and I set out further South to Phuket where we
had a friend teaching at a university to crash with. As we entered Phuket, I couldn’t help
but feel like a marine on R&R; the wild and untamed power-lines were
tangled to levels that only decade’s worth of haphazard and non-cooperative
infrastructure development could create; the architecture was low-effort Portuguese
style; the skies were super clear and the air was super humid; and there were
bars on the main drag and in downtown that aimed to entice men hungry for the
visceral pleasures of life. All in all, these characteristics compounded to
formulate a feeling that I was in Full Metal Jacket 2.
Over the hill and through the jungle from Phuket, the dingy
but lovely beach paradise on a peninsula, was Patong—the 2nd or 3rd
‘sexiest’ place in Thailand (and of course, by ‘sexy’ I mean wrought with prostitution
and steroided up dudes looking to mount anything they can). In addition to these
two demographics, there were lots of Chinese families on vacation for the New
Year.
Whenever I am surrounded by neon silhouettes of women and people pushing sex
shows on the street, I wonder what decision process leads Chinese families to
come to places such as Pataya and Patong, but I suppose that’s neither here
nor there.
My travel partner and I had prepped for the night with some
Northern Thai food, beers, Sangsum (it was one of those nights), Redbull©, and
lighthearted existential joking about how we wound up in the places we had
wound up in (see previous Thailand posts).
We strolled up and down the main drag of Patong, perusing
the schedules for various sex shows and other adult entertainment (Man and
Woman, Flower Shows, Ping Pong Shows… mostly standard stuff). We considered getting
suits tailored for 80 bucks then decided against it. We stopped into a 7-11 and
had another Redbull© and beer.
After stepping out of the 7-11, we were approached by 4
young Chinese women. They asked us to take a picture of them; it was relieving
to be approached by non-salespeople. Being that both me and my travel partner
speak pretty darn good Chinese, we wowed them and our crew and their crew
became a singular crew.
As we walked down the main drag, women in tow, a tequila bar magically appeared out of nowhere. Normally I know to avoid tequila bars in Asia, but it
was one of those nights, and the Chinese women had never had a tequila shot, so
we had to school them.
There was a discount if you bought the shots by the
15-platter, so being the frugal folks we were, we took advantage of the
discount.
As we explained the salted hand and the lime chaser, the
tension was building; I had never realized how odd the process of a tequila
shot was—the Chinese lasses’ fear was palpable. The process was explained,
everyone had a salted hand, the limes were being gripped, the shot glasses were
hoisted up… we then held them down (Chinese style cheersing) and called out ‘gan-bei,
xin nian kuai le!’ (cheers! Happy New Year!)… the alcohol entered our systems…
annnnndddddd…..
Turns out it wasn’t tequila; it was more like something
between vodka and rubbing alcohol. Shit. There were no immediate adverse
reactions so I remained calm; my travel partner, who had been living in rough and rugged
Beijing for a few years at that point, was not standing for the counterfeiting
we had become victims to. In a fit of rage he demanded to speak to a bar tender
or a manager or someone that he could heir his grievances to. In a commanding
Chinese style, he told them that their product was counterfeit and he wanted a refund.
They said no. He demanded it once again. They said no. They offered more shots
for free. We took it. Haggling 101, yo.
We left after 2 trays of shots to take on Patong once again,
which had seemed to become smaller and more beautiful while we were in the
tequila bar. We went with the only logical next step at this point: a ladyboy
bar. We entered and ordered another bulk discount shot tray—this time it was
Sambuca (real Sambuca! Yay!).
After a few songs and taking in the whole scene, I looked
into the eyes of one of the Chinese women; it struck me like a ton of comedic
bricks: they didn’t know they were in a ladyboy bar. I asked her which woman
was prettiest, she responded with a finger and a ‘that one.’ I then asked her: ‘you
do know that these women are all actually men, right?’ She denied it, I told
her to look at the legs of the dancer in front of us, the rippling calves, the
defined hamstrings. Her jaw dropped, her eyes scanned the room, a new sense of
her surroundings was taking hold.
After some chit-chatting with the Chinese ladies about their views on transgenderedness (it’s just a phase! They are confused!)
and some informal interviews with some of the ladyboys to learn about the life
of a transgendered sex professional, we set out for the beach.
The beach was pretty empty at this point in the late night.
We enjoyed some more 7-11-bought beers and jokes with the Chinese women.
Somehow, this turned into an unrequited match of truth or dare which ended with
myself and my travel partner naked, with this group of fully-clothed women
cheering us on and yelling out objectifying slurs. Luckily, as an experienced
Boy Toy, I am not a masculinist and I don’t mind being on the receiving end of
a bit of objectification from time to time.
After an awkward denial of entry from these young ladies’
hotel, my travel partner and I were forced to walk long distances in search of
transportation—in soaking wet pants (literally). An early morning walk in a
place like Patong is a great illustration of the dichotomy that is omni-present
in Thailand and something I truly love: you can see street level prostitutes
picking up their last customers or walking home for the night, right next to
the monks who do there alms in the early morning, plus drunken foreigners
looking silly and out of place in a land equal parts interesting and confusing
to them (although we could only see the latter-most when looking at reflections
in store front windows).
