Bangkok Klong of Consciousness

‘My biggest regret in life,’ my Dad told me one Sunday morning, ‘is wasting so many years worrying about what other people think.’

It was a typically English father-son moment. I leaned against the hall doorway in my dressing-gown as my Dad stood at the kitchen sink, looking out of the window and into the garden beyond. Little eye contact was involved but I knew he was trying to tell me something important and his words have stuck with me ever since.

Yet some five years on, a crushing cloud of anxiety still gathers around me whenever I meet new people for the first time. All the worry of what they might think of me turns my words into a mumbling gibberish and I walk clumsily as my brain tries to convince my body that it is capable of moving with grace and confidence.

They say the best way to overcome fears of a social nature is to go out and start a conversation with as many strangers as you can in one day. Now I’m in Thailand and my spoken Thai is still a work in progress, but what the hell, this could be fun. Here’s what happened when I tried it today:

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I flare my nostrils as the unmistakable smell of stale body odour gathers around me. It’s emanating from the starched blue shirt of the Skytrain security guard who’s just squeezed himself tightly into the small space in front of me. I’m not flaring my nostrils to get a better sniff you understand, I’m just trying to make it clear to the other passengers that I’m aware of the smell - and more importantly that it’s not coming from me. Not that you can blame the guy. If I had to stand on the platform all day wearing that uniform I’d probably smell too. Hell, just the thought of saying goodbye to the air-con of my apartment gets me sweating.

“Pizzaaaa! Sip-et, sip-sawng!”

As the train pulls into Asoke, I shift my feet nervously amongst the mass of contorted arms, bulky handbags and open-toe high heels that probably won’t appreciate the firm design of my heel. Yes, welcome to the rush-hour madness that is the space directly in front of the skytrain doors. My movement is meant to be a vain attempt at acknowledging the people who want to get off, but judging by the sudden push from behind, it has mistakenly been interpreted as meaning that I want to get off myself.

“Ooh! Cherry-co!”

At last some space. I can see the floor again. The train lurches forward and I reach out to steady myself on the central pole. Instead my hand meets the shiny polyester of a man’s shirt. He is casually leaning against the pole with his entire back propped against it, seemingly unaware that others might wish to hold onto it. Shit. We’re about to reach the wobbly bit before Ploen Chit. I make a last-ditch attempt to reach for a hanging handle. It gives a disapproving squeak as it readjusts to my weight and positively shrieks as we hit the bumpy bit of the track.

Hold your breath, hold your breath. Woosh. The doors open with a clumsy sense of urgency and we pile out, composing ourselves as we step onto the platform and into the sunshine beyond. Aaah. And breathe.

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‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud to be Thai,’ she says to me, carefully scooping a spoonful of strawberry sorbet from the glass in front of me. ‘But Thai people just don’t like to read books.’

I watch her play with the spoon in her mouth for a moment and take a look around. A group of university students giggle as they listen to a Thai pop song on a mobile phone. A man in his late-twenties shifts his weight in his chair as he turns the pages of a small black and white comic book. Maybe she has a point.

‘What about the bookshops like Asia Books and Kinokuniya in Emporium?’ I ask, trying to sound engaging.

‘C’mon, it’s mostly foreigners who go to those places,’ she replies. ‘It completely goes against Thai people’s nature to sit down for hours on their own and read a book.’

‘What about you?” I continue. “You enjoy reading.”

“Yes, but I’m different.’

‘Hmm.. Maybe you’re right,’ I say, leaning forward to tuck a loose hair behind her ear. ‘But you still stole all my sorbet.’

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…another Bangkok blog is born.

So here’s the thing. I used to be a writer. Not necessarily a good one, but I was nonetheless paid to be a writer in the professional sense. Then somewhere along the line I stopped. I was forced to look back and think about where all these words were leading me - and the truth was, nowhere fast. You see, writers in Bangkok don’t get paid enough to realise all the dreams that keep me awake at night.

And now here I find myself, a twenty-something guy in Krungthep, hurriedly putting on a suit in the morning, trying to squeeze onto the Skytrain at 8.30am, sipping coffee from Starbucks, discussing corporate timelines and arranging meetings on my mobile. But don’t let my appearance deceive you. There’s still a writer in me, and this is where you’ll find it - a place to express my thoughts, indulge my need to be creative and share my klong of consciousness. Welcome.

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