Ghost Train to the Eastern Star

The last time I had stayed at the Erawan Hotel—famous, venerable, atmospheric—it was full of American army officers and camp followers of the Vietnam War. There had been only two great hotels in Bangkok then, the other being the Oriental, just as venerable and luxurious. Now there were many posh hotels. Bangkok was a so-called spa destination, and the Grand Hyatt Erawan, on the site of the old hotel, had a whole upper level of spa bungalows, like a village for sybarites and lotus eaters on a high rooftop. My bungalow had its own massage room, steam room, veranda, and bamboo garden. A swimming pool was just outside. Did I want another massage? Was I hungry? What about a cup of tea? How about a banana?

In a much too big, humid city, still with a traffic problem, even with most of the klongs (canals) and creeks paved over, and questionable sights—newly painted temples and the murky Chao Phraya River—the hotel had become the destination. People checked in and simply stayed for a week, being waited on and pampered, without leaving. The Oriental was more palatial, with its spa and cooking school in a villa across the river, its five gourmet restaurants. The same general manager, Kurt Wachtveitl, had been there all those years ago.

"Ten million tourists come here," Kurt told me. "But it won't be long before there are twenty million, because the Chinese are starting to arrive—to shop, mainly for gemstones."

The city itself is still busy and bright, the side streets still sleazy, with grubby bars and brothels in the same districts as before. Tourists come to shop for silks and eat great meals. Some book buyers, too—the five-story Paragon Shopping Center had the best bookstore I'd seen since leaving London. Bangkok had been a destination for sex tourists and soldiers on R and R. Though the city is now prosperous from manufacturing—sweatshops and outsourcing—that rosy dimension remains. Pat Pong Road, which used to have a seedy charm, good-natured in its pimping, is now just scuzzy, and raucous, with loudly contending whores.

I was on my way to see a tailor. The taxi driver said, "You like sandwich?"

"I'm not hungry."

"No. Sex—two women."

"Sandwich?"

"One front, one back, very nice." He found my face in his rear-view mirror. "Or you want lady-boy?"

What I wanted was to buy a train ticket, be fitted for two shirts, get some film developed, buy a present for my wife's birthday, and have my laundry done. When I marveled to an American teacher in Bangkok that I managed all of these inside of an hour, he said, "But you probably got them all done at the same place, right?"

He was roughly my age, and that day he was in a hurry to get to his Thai girlfriend's birthday party.

"She's turning twenty," he said, knowing I would ask.

"So you're in heaven."

"Tell you a story," he said in a cautioning voice. "A farang met a Thai woman and fell in love with her. They got married. When the woman got her American visa, they moved to the States, to the guy's hometown. They were really happy. The Thai woman learned English, got a job, and was a devoted wife. The ideal woman—the guy's dream. Like you said, heaven. This lasted five years.

"Then one day the woman says, 'I have to go back to Thailand. My husband is very sick. I have to be with him.' Husband?

Yes, she explained. She'd been married before and had never gotten a divorce. But that was a detail.

"'When will you be back?' the guy asks.

"'I can never come back. I don't know how long he will be sick. Better to say goodbye now. If he dies, I'll have to look after his family.'"

I said, "And the moral is?"

"She was young, but there was a lot the farang didn't know."

The youthfulness of Bangkok is a surprise: the bright faces, the smiling sylph-like beauties working as shop clerks, staffing hotels and restaurants, filling the new metro and sky train. It is a city of schools and colleges, and so a city of beautiful students. I found myself staring. The wok stirrer at the smallest noodle stall might be a ravishing woman, the more lovely for her strenuously paddling the noodles, her skin glowing from her effort, dampened and strangely lit by the cooking fire.