Pattaya
The city of male fantasy made manifest. Sweaty salty heat rolls through the streets in the evenings as the expats take their newfound girlfriends to dinner for two dollar Thai barbeque. One end of the buffet line thronged with farangs, foreigners, with chicken, ice cream, potato salad. The other end with squid, tripe, liver, cabbage. Paunchy man and mincing girl meet again at the table to roast their food over a bucket of hot coals and to eke out small talk.
Farangs who’ve lived here for years don’t know the language. It’s too hard to learn, they say, particularly to read. They are illiterate and simply let their money speak for them. It seems to have spoken persuasively, for bartenders and shopkeepers all know rudimentary English and The Economist and orange marmalade are on the shelves of the grocery store.
Islands off the coast feature uzi firing ranges and KFC delivers anywhere in the city. For the right price foreign criminals can purchase the golden visa- 10 years time here uninterrupted. The nexus of it all is Walking Street. There you can hire a bargirl for a ping-pong ball show or a basket f--- or just to talk down the price of a fake Rolex for you in the street. Lady-boys that you can’t tell until you look at the adam’s apple. Sixteen year olds swimming naked in a fish tank in Boy Town. It’s all in your price range.
My street is a holding pen for farangs, a European playground with rooms rented for as long as a tourist visa lasts. To the left of Language Corps is Jensen’s Danish Bar. To the right, Big Joe’s British Sausage. Everywhere are bilingual signs, saying Tourist Food, Not Too Spicy. My favorite is Rian’s Restaurant. 75 cent green curry chicken with mint, lime, figs, and coconut milk but with Foster’s posters on the wall to draw in the Australians. I eat lunch there everyday.
“We’ll get that movie from Blockbuster,” someone says after dinner. A man nicknamed Blockbuster walks by and pulls out a satchel full of burned DVDs. A woman on a motorcycle slows down outside my door and points to her sidecar, outfitted with a gas grill for roasting pork while she drives. I wave her on. It's all affordable but there's too much to buy.
Farangs who’ve lived here for years don’t know the language. It’s too hard to learn, they say, particularly to read. They are illiterate and simply let their money speak for them. It seems to have spoken persuasively, for bartenders and shopkeepers all know rudimentary English and The Economist and orange marmalade are on the shelves of the grocery store.
Islands off the coast feature uzi firing ranges and KFC delivers anywhere in the city. For the right price foreign criminals can purchase the golden visa- 10 years time here uninterrupted. The nexus of it all is Walking Street. There you can hire a bargirl for a ping-pong ball show or a basket f--- or just to talk down the price of a fake Rolex for you in the street. Lady-boys that you can’t tell until you look at the adam’s apple. Sixteen year olds swimming naked in a fish tank in Boy Town. It’s all in your price range.
My street is a holding pen for farangs, a European playground with rooms rented for as long as a tourist visa lasts. To the left of Language Corps is Jensen’s Danish Bar. To the right, Big Joe’s British Sausage. Everywhere are bilingual signs, saying Tourist Food, Not Too Spicy. My favorite is Rian’s Restaurant. 75 cent green curry chicken with mint, lime, figs, and coconut milk but with Foster’s posters on the wall to draw in the Australians. I eat lunch there everyday.
“We’ll get that movie from Blockbuster,” someone says after dinner. A man nicknamed Blockbuster walks by and pulls out a satchel full of burned DVDs. A woman on a motorcycle slows down outside my door and points to her sidecar, outfitted with a gas grill for roasting pork while she drives. I wave her on. It's all affordable but there's too much to buy.
posted by DMF at 7:09 AM
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