Shot by photographer Wojtek Kalka at the Tiger Temple in Kanchanaburi, Thailand. We went there enticed by images like these only to find tigers chained up like dogs
Twenty minutes have passed since baggage collection at Swarnabhoomi Airport. So far, no sign of Bangkok Taxi man who has promised online to take us Bangkoking over the next three days. Mom’s worry lines are deepening. Mamaji (Col Rawat) has acquired the lips-tightly-stretched “they’re all cheats” look. Saransh,10, is sulking since his PSP battery has died and aspiring writer Isha,11, is looking sad and disheartened by the turn of events that had been expected to inspire a debut novel. Cousin Tanu (Raabert to my Mike-ale in this trying assignment to take Loin and the family on a South East Asia tour) is rolling her eyes and mouthing “just chill” to me.
Just when I’ve finished kicking myself for not having agreed to stick a red rose in the buttonhole or at least paint a mole on the chin for easy recognition, in the swarming sea of mindboggling faces I spot a placard at half mast.
Is it my imagination or is that Adnan Sami (or a twin separated at birth) half-heartedly holding up a card that says: “Mr Rachna Bisht”. Letting go of the trolley bearing a mountain of suitcases, I leg it to his side. “You are Meestal Beast?” he asks incredulously. “Well! Yes,” I nod firmly, telling myself that confidence is everything in cross-cultural confrontations like this. I’m not wrong. “Welcome to Bangkok. I am Meestal Beeeeeg,” he booms and goes on to give me a hand shake that feels like my hand has been swallowed by a wet, boneless jelly fish. I hastily withdraw my fingers and check to see if all of them are intact. Mom (who has been watching with eagle eye) has not approved of this immodest fraternizing with a strange man. One “apne-Bharatiya sanskar-mat-bhulo” talk coming up. Meanwhile, Mamaji is trooping forth, arm outstretched. “Mr Big meet Colonel Rawat”. Colonel Rawat’s fingers close around Mr Beeg’s and the crunch and sudden squeak that escape the latter assure me that he now knows what manly handshakes are all about.
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Now why would a decent Indian family go holidaying to a place famous for you-know-what kind of things that decent family blogs like this one shouldn’t be writing about? Because it happens to be in the way to Bali, silly. And Bali is where we are eventually headed with a rest and recoup planned at Kuala Lumpur. (More about that in a subsequent blog – if I get enough comments on this one). Cheaper flight too. And Expedia is offering some amazing rates on four star hotels with buffet breakfast thrown in.
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Mr Big drives us in a lovely luxury van to the hotel and then in the evening to the Siam Niramit show which if you haven’t seen it (possibly distracted by the numerous other attractions of Thailand), you must. Even though I haven’t had any interaction with them so far, the Ping Pong girls can’t be a patch on what that awesome evening offers us. As the show unfolds recounting Thai history and culture, rivers come gushing down the stage, large fishing trawlers make their way in, a thunderstorm erupts, apsaras drop from the skies and crops flower in front of our eyes. There’s humour, romance, mythology, thrown in with some unbelievable acoustics and special effects. The entire family watches spellbound and for once the whiny kids are silenced too totally taken in by the magnificent elephants that troop down the aisles, the grand court processions, the magic, the pretty krathongs (small decorated floats) that audience members are invited to float in the water. It’s an evening well spent. When Loin thumps Raabert and self on the back with “Good choice” we click our heels and military salute.
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The next morning the primary objective is to stuff ourselves to bursting point with the buffet breakfast at the riverside restaurant and dig into some luscious fruits - passion fruit, snake fruit, pineapple, papaya and rambuthan (sort of a litchi with a more elaborate hairdo). I’m pleased to report that the family does a good job of it though I have to look away and pretend "not guilty" when a tall and distinguished looking gentleman dips the spoon into the strawberry yogurt bowl only to have it scraping the bottom noisily. Next, we go looking for our luxury van at the hotel reception. Abracadabra! It has today turned into a poorer cousin that has obviously seen better days. Mr Big has been replaced by someone who looks like Mr Small (we soon find out he is Meestal Meeth) and cannot explain the black magic to us since he “no speak Englees”. Though I’m quite pleased that in my heels I look down upon his five feet, there has been a breach of contract and I know the Colonel shall have none of it. Detailed interrogation (mostly via voice modulation) reveals that Meestal Meeth cannot understand us and all communication will have to be done in sign language. Mamaji tries yelling in his ear but that too does not seem to enhance his understanding of the Englees language. I am ordered to sort out the matter with Bangkok taxi and only then shall the regiment move ahead. While the others chill in the van, I call up Mr Suwan (CEO, Bangkok taxi) and give him a piece of my mind. “You no get angly my fraand. I am velly velly sorry. You my very good customer. I change taxi. I change driver. My fraand from India, the land of beauty and culture, I geeve you special rate. Other people I give less.” He melts my heart completely. (Just for the record, we continue with the same taxi, the next driver is as bad as this one and each time I call Mr Suwan to complain he just charms me out of my anger).
The kids get back to their PSPs, the ladies sleep off their breakfast and the Colonel resorts to third degree methods to elicit information from Meestal Meeth. He plonks himself in the co driver’s seat and starts to talk to him in Hindi with a bit of Garhwali thrown in. When Raabert and I give him the “what-are-you-doing-bass” raised eyebrow he says he has his own ways to catch lying cheats. That day we are taken to the Damnoen Saduak floating market, the beautiful bridge on the river Kwai and the tiger temple at Kanchanaburi where big hefty snoozing tigers are tied up with chains like pet dogs and visitors can touch them and have a picture taken.
--------------
Day three we visit the awesome reclining Buddha temple of Wat Pho that dazzles us with the Buddha’s mother of pearl feet, stunning architecture, brilliant colours and the charming guide Suchin who tells us he is a cancer survivor and an ex Army man. Though when he repeatedly addresses Mamaji as Colonel-lu, I have serious doubts about that. Then it’s time to hit a mall and a food court – MBK or Mahboonkrong – where we look at some fake designer watches and pick up T shirts and strappy sun dresses for a steal. Saransh is completely mesmerized by a key chain that is designed to look like fake dog poo that the shopkeeper pretends to swallow. He digs his heels in and wails that he has to have it. I pull him away callously.
Later in the evening, we take a dinner cruise on the Cho Phraya river, where we see the riverside sights of Bangkok, all beautifully lit up to the live band playing some lovely Abba numbers and enjoy a buffet dinner. Colonel switches on the legendary Army charm and shakes a leg with the pretty Thai girls, completely outshining the paunchy Australian and Jap middle aged men flashing dollar tips. On the drive back to the hotel, we cross an area where mats are laid up on the roadside and some kind of (cough, cough) nefarious activity is going on. I look around stealthily to see if anyone else has noticed the change of scenery to find that kid-who-can only- be- surgically- separated- from- his- PSP has his nose glued to the car window. “What are they doing? What are they doing?” he whines. Isha looks out of the window and starts taking copious notes. Mom is saying “Hey Bhagwan” on loop, Mamiji is sleeping, blissfully unaware that calamity has struck. Meestal Meeth, noticing interest generated, helpfully asks: “You want stop?” slowing down next to a fat man and a young girl trying some gymnastic moves. Is it my imagination or has Mamaji boxed his ear. “Abe! Aage badh $%^&8 (unprintable Hindi swear word)” he bellows and the shocked driver steps on the gas and the car zips past. “I told you he understands Hindi also,” Mamaji looks back at me and Tanu victoriously. Saransh is still whining: “Mujhe dekhna tha.” “Baby that was Thai massage,” says Tanu intelligently. Mamiji, who has only just woken up, says she wanted to try one too. Isha puts up her hand for another question but Tanu distracts everyone by saying we have to get up past midnight for our early morning flight to Bali. “We are going to go to the beach, we’re going to snorkel, we’re doing to swim with the dolphins and we’re going to have a great time,” she says.
Well! Are we? If you are looking for an answer to all that and other nail biting questions like: does Saransh find something more interesting that his PSP in Bali; does Isha get a plot for her novel; does Mom find vegetarian food that doesn’t smell of sea weed; does the Colonel go in for a body massage? Watch out for the next blog. It’s khob khun ka or krun till then. Depending on whether you are female or male, that’s thank you in Thai.
Just when I’ve finished kicking myself for not having agreed to stick a red rose in the buttonhole or at least paint a mole on the chin for easy recognition, in the swarming sea of mindboggling faces I spot a placard at half mast.
Is it my imagination or is that Adnan Sami (or a twin separated at birth) half-heartedly holding up a card that says: “Mr Rachna Bisht”. Letting go of the trolley bearing a mountain of suitcases, I leg it to his side. “You are Meestal Beast?” he asks incredulously. “Well! Yes,” I nod firmly, telling myself that confidence is everything in cross-cultural confrontations like this. I’m not wrong. “Welcome to Bangkok. I am Meestal Beeeeeg,” he booms and goes on to give me a hand shake that feels like my hand has been swallowed by a wet, boneless jelly fish. I hastily withdraw my fingers and check to see if all of them are intact. Mom (who has been watching with eagle eye) has not approved of this immodest fraternizing with a strange man. One “apne-Bharatiya sanskar-mat-bhulo” talk coming up. Meanwhile, Mamaji is trooping forth, arm outstretched. “Mr Big meet Colonel Rawat”. Colonel Rawat’s fingers close around Mr Beeg’s and the crunch and sudden squeak that escape the latter assure me that he now knows what manly handshakes are all about.
---------------
Now why would a decent Indian family go holidaying to a place famous for you-know-what kind of things that decent family blogs like this one shouldn’t be writing about? Because it happens to be in the way to Bali, silly. And Bali is where we are eventually headed with a rest and recoup planned at Kuala Lumpur. (More about that in a subsequent blog – if I get enough comments on this one). Cheaper flight too. And Expedia is offering some amazing rates on four star hotels with buffet breakfast thrown in.
----------------
Mr Big drives us in a lovely luxury van to the hotel and then in the evening to the Siam Niramit show which if you haven’t seen it (possibly distracted by the numerous other attractions of Thailand), you must. Even though I haven’t had any interaction with them so far, the Ping Pong girls can’t be a patch on what that awesome evening offers us. As the show unfolds recounting Thai history and culture, rivers come gushing down the stage, large fishing trawlers make their way in, a thunderstorm erupts, apsaras drop from the skies and crops flower in front of our eyes. There’s humour, romance, mythology, thrown in with some unbelievable acoustics and special effects. The entire family watches spellbound and for once the whiny kids are silenced too totally taken in by the magnificent elephants that troop down the aisles, the grand court processions, the magic, the pretty krathongs (small decorated floats) that audience members are invited to float in the water. It’s an evening well spent. When Loin thumps Raabert and self on the back with “Good choice” we click our heels and military salute.
--------------
The next morning the primary objective is to stuff ourselves to bursting point with the buffet breakfast at the riverside restaurant and dig into some luscious fruits - passion fruit, snake fruit, pineapple, papaya and rambuthan (sort of a litchi with a more elaborate hairdo). I’m pleased to report that the family does a good job of it though I have to look away and pretend "not guilty" when a tall and distinguished looking gentleman dips the spoon into the strawberry yogurt bowl only to have it scraping the bottom noisily. Next, we go looking for our luxury van at the hotel reception. Abracadabra! It has today turned into a poorer cousin that has obviously seen better days. Mr Big has been replaced by someone who looks like Mr Small (we soon find out he is Meestal Meeth) and cannot explain the black magic to us since he “no speak Englees”. Though I’m quite pleased that in my heels I look down upon his five feet, there has been a breach of contract and I know the Colonel shall have none of it. Detailed interrogation (mostly via voice modulation) reveals that Meestal Meeth cannot understand us and all communication will have to be done in sign language. Mamaji tries yelling in his ear but that too does not seem to enhance his understanding of the Englees language. I am ordered to sort out the matter with Bangkok taxi and only then shall the regiment move ahead. While the others chill in the van, I call up Mr Suwan (CEO, Bangkok taxi) and give him a piece of my mind. “You no get angly my fraand. I am velly velly sorry. You my very good customer. I change taxi. I change driver. My fraand from India, the land of beauty and culture, I geeve you special rate. Other people I give less.” He melts my heart completely. (Just for the record, we continue with the same taxi, the next driver is as bad as this one and each time I call Mr Suwan to complain he just charms me out of my anger).
The kids get back to their PSPs, the ladies sleep off their breakfast and the Colonel resorts to third degree methods to elicit information from Meestal Meeth. He plonks himself in the co driver’s seat and starts to talk to him in Hindi with a bit of Garhwali thrown in. When Raabert and I give him the “what-are-you-doing-bass” raised eyebrow he says he has his own ways to catch lying cheats. That day we are taken to the Damnoen Saduak floating market, the beautiful bridge on the river Kwai and the tiger temple at Kanchanaburi where big hefty snoozing tigers are tied up with chains like pet dogs and visitors can touch them and have a picture taken.
--------------
Day three we visit the awesome reclining Buddha temple of Wat Pho that dazzles us with the Buddha’s mother of pearl feet, stunning architecture, brilliant colours and the charming guide Suchin who tells us he is a cancer survivor and an ex Army man. Though when he repeatedly addresses Mamaji as Colonel-lu, I have serious doubts about that. Then it’s time to hit a mall and a food court – MBK or Mahboonkrong – where we look at some fake designer watches and pick up T shirts and strappy sun dresses for a steal. Saransh is completely mesmerized by a key chain that is designed to look like fake dog poo that the shopkeeper pretends to swallow. He digs his heels in and wails that he has to have it. I pull him away callously.
Later in the evening, we take a dinner cruise on the Cho Phraya river, where we see the riverside sights of Bangkok, all beautifully lit up to the live band playing some lovely Abba numbers and enjoy a buffet dinner. Colonel switches on the legendary Army charm and shakes a leg with the pretty Thai girls, completely outshining the paunchy Australian and Jap middle aged men flashing dollar tips. On the drive back to the hotel, we cross an area where mats are laid up on the roadside and some kind of (cough, cough) nefarious activity is going on. I look around stealthily to see if anyone else has noticed the change of scenery to find that kid-who-can only- be- surgically- separated- from- his- PSP has his nose glued to the car window. “What are they doing? What are they doing?” he whines. Isha looks out of the window and starts taking copious notes. Mom is saying “Hey Bhagwan” on loop, Mamiji is sleeping, blissfully unaware that calamity has struck. Meestal Meeth, noticing interest generated, helpfully asks: “You want stop?” slowing down next to a fat man and a young girl trying some gymnastic moves. Is it my imagination or has Mamaji boxed his ear. “Abe! Aage badh $%^&8 (unprintable Hindi swear word)” he bellows and the shocked driver steps on the gas and the car zips past. “I told you he understands Hindi also,” Mamaji looks back at me and Tanu victoriously. Saransh is still whining: “Mujhe dekhna tha.” “Baby that was Thai massage,” says Tanu intelligently. Mamiji, who has only just woken up, says she wanted to try one too. Isha puts up her hand for another question but Tanu distracts everyone by saying we have to get up past midnight for our early morning flight to Bali. “We are going to go to the beach, we’re going to snorkel, we’re doing to swim with the dolphins and we’re going to have a great time,” she says.
Well! Are we? If you are looking for an answer to all that and other nail biting questions like: does Saransh find something more interesting that his PSP in Bali; does Isha get a plot for her novel; does Mom find vegetarian food that doesn’t smell of sea weed; does the Colonel go in for a body massage? Watch out for the next blog. It’s khob khun ka or krun till then. Depending on whether you are female or male, that’s thank you in Thai.
The noisy, colourful and exotic floating market
Siam Niramit show
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