9 and 10 November 2007

And then, there's coffee...

Just before six in the morning of November 9 2007 we cycle out of Thamel, the tourist area of Kathmandu, Nepal. Peter only had one cup of coffee, but he'll catch up with that later.
It's still dark, and we rub our eyes whilst cycling along the garbage dumps, caused by one of the so many bandha-strikes about whatever which reason.
Nepal is more awake than we are. The festival of Dasain hasn't even finished yet, and people are already busy preparing for Tihar. Everybody tries to lure the goddess of prosperity into their houses: on the sidewalks candles and lights burn, orange strings of marigold hang for sale on railings and every early bird is trying to impress the immaterial ghosts.
Slowly the new daylight emerges and the city becomes visible; the streets fill with inevitable motorbikes overtaking us left and right.
Small groups of women walk in complete devotion with their offerings to the nearest temples.

The sky is greyish blue, when we pack our bikes; like always, we are a bit tense for the flight. Despite the fact that we finished all of our stock in the last days, we still struggle with a surplus weight of twenty kilos per person. I talk to the airport manager on our behalf, smile at him and tell about our long journey, after which we only have to pay for five extra kilos.
Two hours later we see Nepal sink under our feet and hope this is not a metaphore for the politically instable situation of the country at the moment.
During the flight a young South-Indian man sits next to us. He probably is on a plane for the first time in his life and unknowingly entertains us. He doesn't know how to handle a Western breakfast, pours tomato ketchup in his coffee and milk powder in his cup of cold water after which he drinks both with a smile on his unflappable face. Peter prefers his coffee just with milk and sugar.
Early in the afternoon, Thai time, we are standing on the brandnew airport of Suvarnabhumi, twenty-five kilometres from Bangkok. It is a perfect example of a modern, well organised and customer friendly airport and for that reason doesn't resemble the Kathmandu airport in any way.
We load our bicycles and then start pedaling on the great and smooth Thai tarmac roads to the capital.

The official name of Bangkok is: 'Krung Thep Mahanakhon Amon Rattanakosin Mahinthara Ayuthaya Mahadilok Phop Noppharat Ratchathani Burirom Udomratchaniwet Mahasathan Amon Piman Awatan Sathit Sakkathattiya Witsanukam Prasit'.
But even the Thai think this is not so handy, and they call the city 'Krung Thep', or: the City of Angels. We will just say Bangkok, everyone understands this too.
After having stayed in India and Nepal for over a year, Thailand is a complete culture shock. Everything seems to be new, the roads are impressive, just like the civilised way of driving of the Thai.
On our way to the city we pass hundreds of eating places, supermarkets, coffee stalls, big gas stations, brightly coloured temples with pointed roofs, while fatty four-wheel-drive pickup cars overtake us, one even shinier than the other.
Similarities also occur: just like Hindi, the Thai language is incomprehensible to us, and also here many tuktuks, motorbikes and cycle riksha's zigzag through the dense traffic.
With over sixty kilometers on our computers, we made a small detour of forty kilometers and for a moment we thought we neared Cambodia, we arrive in complete darkness into something that looks like a centre.
For the twentieth time we ask for directions: "Sawadee Krab, Khao San Road?"
A young cyclist looks at us astoundingly, and after three more times of asking he understands where we want to go.
"Aahhh, Gausanlood!"
The pronounciation appears to be very important.
He cycles in front of us and in ten minutes he effortlessly leads us to our final destination of the day, the tourist walhallla: Khao San Road.
What a shock. It looks like all the English problem-youngsters and any other Western riff-raff have found a safe haven here, together with the everlasting singles, mostly ugly old men, who found the love of their life here in Thailand. And any difference in age is not important at all.
Khao San Road is a fancy fair with litres of beer, metres of tattoos, dangling white breasts in too small bikinis, between night clubs, expensive hotels with cupboard-sized fan rooms, mega television screens, pubs and dozens of stalls where one can overeat oneself.
Oops, is this Thailand?
Just outside of this wrong area we find a reasonably priced and quiet guesthouse with a friendly owner: New Central Guesthouse. With AC.
After a late dinner at the neighbouring Number One restaurant it's after twelve. We've been up for over twenty hours and we've had it. Tired. Exhausted. Bedtime.
But we definitely are in Thailand.

Because of the flight we have no stock: no food, no coffee, no breakfast.
We wake up hungry and hit the road for some shops. And, Peter would welcome a cup of coffee very much. For him it's the only important thing in the morning.

We walk through some alleys to the broad Thanon Ratchadamnoen, a long road that leads to the huge Democracy Monument. The right shops appear not to be here. Peter's need of cafeine starts to bugger him, slowly a hollow and empty feeling engulfs his body.
We turn left, but here there are only clothing shops and lottery stalls. In his fantasy Peter buys a lot and wins a whole pot of coffee. Hmm...
Again left, and again no 7/11 supermarket, but even more clothing stalls all of which are filled with the yellow and pink polo shirts emblazoned with the royal weapon.
We pass the stalls and different kinds of rubbish, like sun glasses and a thousand kind of plastic covers.
From far away we hear drums and music. It can't be true: on our first day in Thailand we are going to be welcomed by the city council of Bangkok! But first, a cup of coffee for Peter please.
He's been awake for an hour and a half now, and still he has to get the first shot of the day. A unique momentum.
I am lured by the sound of the music, like an addict to the smell of coffee. But, the music appears not to be for us, strange.
An immense dragon, at least fifteen meters long, sticks his huge head in every shop he passes, returns with some banknotes and goes on hunting for the next shop keeper. Men with formidable masks, banners, painted faces, fireworks, children with fake beards, colourful wagons and loud drumbands follow the animal.
The noise is enormous and almost empties Peters hollow feeling.

We have encountered the traditional annual festival of Chao Poh Noo, with which people honour the sacred image.
A long time ago Chao Poh Noo floated on the river, and at one moment he stopped at the Nana Market. The people there asked him to stay and live there. He fulfilled their request and since then brought prosperity to all traders and shopkeepers in the neighbourhood. With this festival, the inhabitant show their respect and gratefulness, already for 43 years.
I, the only one of us with a camera at hand, go with the parade and take as many pictures as I possibly can.
Peter, in the meanwhile, stands stubbornly next to the road, only enjoying the beautiful theatre half, while thinking of the taste of that deliciously brown stuff.
After nearly half an hour the music dies away, and we can proceed our shopping journey. We decide to change directions and go closer to the tourist area.
And, exactly at eleven o'clock we sit in a real coffee house. Peter ends his first cup, which is burning hot, in one gulp. His tongue and palate are on fire, but the pain doesn't really reach him. He suddenly remembers the swirling parade of dragons and colours from twenty minutes ago, and only now realises the very beauty of it.