Let Me Entertain You
It started with a fruit trolley. When the road turned into a muddy river, during yet another torrential Bangkok rainstorm, I could no longer reach the Skytrain stop and went into the closest dry space, the Thai equivalent of Wagamama. The noodles were fine, the beer finer but the spectacle outside the restaurant was much more interesting. A fruit vendor had parked his wares on the pavement and I had a ringside seat on his work and the various transactions made. Separate compartments in his trolley contained watermelon, mango, papaya, pineapple and grape-like berries. I watched the comings and goings, trying to determine what went with what but he was just as fascinating. Every so often he took out a whole watermelon from the bottom shelf, wiped it free of dust then placed it carefully on the glass of his cart. Taking a huge knife he sliced it sharply into eight equal longitudinal wedges, the sort of shape that most Brits have only seen in American cartoons. He then picked up each slice and, like a sharpshooter peering through the sights of a rifle, he looked along each one and carefully smoothed over the cut sides, removing any loose pips. He then placed all eight in neat alignment in the end compartment, wiped the glass clean and dry and sat back to await a customer.
It was obviously a busy night since the watermelon disappeared very quickly. For each customer the man would select a piece, slip his knife between the soft flesh and the thick skin, slice it into mouthfuls then - my favourite part - snap open a clear cellophane bag and tip the fruit into it whilst simultaneously removing the skin. A wooden stick, used as a fork, was added at the end. He never let anything slip, not even a pip. The surface and knife were wiped, ten baht changed hands (no, my eyesight is not that good; I bought some along with everybody else on the street) and the man sat down again.
Emboldened by my first attempt at ordering something beyond the confines of a restaurant, the next night I set out for the Suan Lum Night Market. A cross between a bazaar and a beer garden, it offers everything from puppet shows to Paulaner in a huge cavernous space, with food stalls along one side and beer and cocktails on the other. Money is exchanged for coupons which in my case were then exchanged for beer (35 TB), noodles (30 TB), spiced papaya salad (30TB) and grilled pork (45TB). Having negotiated this, I was very proud of myself. Most other countries would be proud too, proud to offer great, cheap food and drink outdoors because, in this climate and in this city, it is a rare treat. Even the periodical soakings from the sprinklers, a half-hearted attempt to offer air-conditioning to the punters, seem appropriate.
But no; in Thailand this isn't enough. Entertainment is de rigueur. Long-distance buses show films, Skytrain platforms show adverts and, to my eternal irritation, internet cafes seem to think that the punters who are paying per minute to read and write on one screen will also appreciate another at full volume...even headphones can't drown out soap screams. At the night market there is something for everyone: in front of a huge screen showing ESPN football games a parade of young Thai bands sing covers, mostly American rock songs, some Thai and occasionally some British ones. My personal favourite so far, and the one that intrigues me the most is My Sharona...by The Knack. This was sung twice in quick succession, first by a girl band who did a rather authentic rendition accompanied by dance moves worthy of the Spice Girls, then by a boy band who had obviously spent more time perfecting their microphone stand acrobatics than their chords. But, all of this is neither here nor there: it's My Sharona that fascinates me. This is a song that came out years ago, when the singers were all minus ten if not twenty, a song that is rarely played on British radio let alone here. What possessed them to choose it? I fear this is one dilemma that will go unresolved. The only clue to its use, and to some of the other choices, are the small booths huddled behind the stage: having been inspired by the young superstars, any budding vocalist need not waste a minute since s/he can practise their skills on the abundant Papa karaoke machines. Indeed, despite the double whammy of sport-pop on offer, the booths were all packed.
The final, and in Thailand rather inevitable, addition is the method of selling beer. Young girls and boys (and I use those words deliberately) plough up and down the aisles clutching picture menus advertising their wares. Each one is attached to, and dressed by, one particular brand. So the Tiger girls wear blue and orange dresses, usually with a big cat head imprinted somewhere on their backside; Erdinger girls wear white pleated gym slips and red halternecks, with the name of the beer sparkling on their chests; Asahi boys wear plain grey polo shirts and Paulaner, the only brand to employ both sexes, shows how far equality has to go in this country: turquoise tops all round but boys can wear trousers whereas the girls, once again, are in something short. Gold Star girls, in cocktail dresses with red piping win the prize for least offensive outfit but the prize for the worst goes to the Heineken sellers who are obliged to wear ugly Astroturf-green dresses, shorter than short,with the name emblazoned down their ribcage. The idea, obviously, is to pull in the punters with an alluring outfit and smile (pity, once again, the poor Heineken girls) and then sell them as much expensive foreign beer as is humanly possible.
Or rather, that is the idea for the male customer. If you're female, you'll be walking to the stall yourself. On my first visit, I watched as eight (yes eight, I counted) different staff huddled like mosquitos round an English leg as an American man and his compadres spent ages deliberating over the different menus. Meanwhile, I was halfway through my food, rather parched but evidently invisible. Funnily enough, in male company two nights later I was suddenly a bright spot on their radar.
Whether on a street corner or near a stage, entertainment is abundant and easy to find in this country. But it helps if you're a man. Preferably foreign.
It was obviously a busy night since the watermelon disappeared very quickly. For each customer the man would select a piece, slip his knife between the soft flesh and the thick skin, slice it into mouthfuls then - my favourite part - snap open a clear cellophane bag and tip the fruit into it whilst simultaneously removing the skin. A wooden stick, used as a fork, was added at the end. He never let anything slip, not even a pip. The surface and knife were wiped, ten baht changed hands (no, my eyesight is not that good; I bought some along with everybody else on the street) and the man sat down again.
Emboldened by my first attempt at ordering something beyond the confines of a restaurant, the next night I set out for the Suan Lum Night Market. A cross between a bazaar and a beer garden, it offers everything from puppet shows to Paulaner in a huge cavernous space, with food stalls along one side and beer and cocktails on the other. Money is exchanged for coupons which in my case were then exchanged for beer (35 TB), noodles (30 TB), spiced papaya salad (30TB) and grilled pork (45TB). Having negotiated this, I was very proud of myself. Most other countries would be proud too, proud to offer great, cheap food and drink outdoors because, in this climate and in this city, it is a rare treat. Even the periodical soakings from the sprinklers, a half-hearted attempt to offer air-conditioning to the punters, seem appropriate.
But no; in Thailand this isn't enough. Entertainment is de rigueur. Long-distance buses show films, Skytrain platforms show adverts and, to my eternal irritation, internet cafes seem to think that the punters who are paying per minute to read and write on one screen will also appreciate another at full volume...even headphones can't drown out soap screams. At the night market there is something for everyone: in front of a huge screen showing ESPN football games a parade of young Thai bands sing covers, mostly American rock songs, some Thai and occasionally some British ones. My personal favourite so far, and the one that intrigues me the most is My Sharona...by The Knack. This was sung twice in quick succession, first by a girl band who did a rather authentic rendition accompanied by dance moves worthy of the Spice Girls, then by a boy band who had obviously spent more time perfecting their microphone stand acrobatics than their chords. But, all of this is neither here nor there: it's My Sharona that fascinates me. This is a song that came out years ago, when the singers were all minus ten if not twenty, a song that is rarely played on British radio let alone here. What possessed them to choose it? I fear this is one dilemma that will go unresolved. The only clue to its use, and to some of the other choices, are the small booths huddled behind the stage: having been inspired by the young superstars, any budding vocalist need not waste a minute since s/he can practise their skills on the abundant Papa karaoke machines. Indeed, despite the double whammy of sport-pop on offer, the booths were all packed.
The final, and in Thailand rather inevitable, addition is the method of selling beer. Young girls and boys (and I use those words deliberately) plough up and down the aisles clutching picture menus advertising their wares. Each one is attached to, and dressed by, one particular brand. So the Tiger girls wear blue and orange dresses, usually with a big cat head imprinted somewhere on their backside; Erdinger girls wear white pleated gym slips and red halternecks, with the name of the beer sparkling on their chests; Asahi boys wear plain grey polo shirts and Paulaner, the only brand to employ both sexes, shows how far equality has to go in this country: turquoise tops all round but boys can wear trousers whereas the girls, once again, are in something short. Gold Star girls, in cocktail dresses with red piping win the prize for least offensive outfit but the prize for the worst goes to the Heineken sellers who are obliged to wear ugly Astroturf-green dresses, shorter than short,with the name emblazoned down their ribcage. The idea, obviously, is to pull in the punters with an alluring outfit and smile (pity, once again, the poor Heineken girls) and then sell them as much expensive foreign beer as is humanly possible.
Or rather, that is the idea for the male customer. If you're female, you'll be walking to the stall yourself. On my first visit, I watched as eight (yes eight, I counted) different staff huddled like mosquitos round an English leg as an American man and his compadres spent ages deliberating over the different menus. Meanwhile, I was halfway through my food, rather parched but evidently invisible. Funnily enough, in male company two nights later I was suddenly a bright spot on their radar.
Whether on a street corner or near a stage, entertainment is abundant and easy to find in this country. But it helps if you're a man. Preferably foreign.
posted by Louise at 5:59 AM
1 Comments:
Seems like those cute beer boys would give you a gander? But no. In Italy at 20, I bought some really great Dolce Vita glasses from a street vendor in Vatican City and, through them, became invisible. But of course, a 20-y. o. woman in Italy is about as prized as that American man at the bar... I wanted a respite. I think traveling as a woman wicked hard. And, so far, I haven't found a way to travel as a man. Much love...
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