Salon Wanderlust | Deep in the heart of Thailand, Texas

[Salon Wanderlust: Travel with a passion]

T A B L E_T A L K
Cramming before the big vacation? Weigh in on the value of learning the language in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk

___________________
Planning a trip to Thailand? Read all about it at barnesandnoble.com
___________________

R E C E N T L Y
Hurricanes and hope in Honduras
By Rachel Louise Snyder
As the storm-battered Central American country rebuilds, dreams take root
(01/26/99)
A passion for Pelago
By Tanya Shaffer
An unlikely village hosts a Rainbow Gathering meets Burning Man meets rave music festival in Italy
(01/25/99)
This week in travel Wanderlust's selective guide to travel-related news from across the globe
(01/22/99)
Can this planet be saved?
By Don George
Mark Hertsgaard discusses his new book about the human toll of global environmental devastation
(01/21/99)
"Earth Odyssey"
By Mark Hertsgaard
Excerpt: A visit to Bangkok reveals the economic temptations and environmental troubles of the Technological Age
(01/21/99)

Browse the
Wanderlust Postmark archives

Wanderlust's Official
Travel Book Partner

DEEP IN THE HEART OF THAILAND, TEXAS | PAGE 1, 2
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Washington Square is a place of legends, both real and imaginary: the men who tell the stories that become the legends, and the legends that become the men who tell them. There are yarns from deserts in Saudi and freezing oil rigs in northern Russia, epic accounts of battles half remembered and women long departed but still vivid in memory -- and if slightly embellished, what the hell. Stories of very serious money earned and squandered, won and lost. Men with larger-than-life characters who know their own destinies but argue with them just the same. Tales of Laos during the war; the Death Railway; the CIA; the contra arms deal; Beirut; the Gulf War.
When the night manager of the Lonestar discovered I liked Miles Davis, I thought he was going to shoot me. Instead, I found an important ally. He put a black arm around my shoulder and said, "Mah man!"
I was in. Into what I had no idea, but I was in. When I tentatively inquired as to the validity of these stories, he shrugged and said, "Shoot, boy! These guys are for real. The man sitting next to you was once the personal press secretary to Reagan. Ask him." I did. He was. Well, that's what he said.
The average age is early 50s, and amid the raucous anecdotes and serious drinking -- "You gotta learn how to drink here, boy!" -- there are men of quiet authority and Southern manners; serious achievers with thousand-yard stares and lived-in faces that speak of hard, disciplined lives and upright integrity. They are well-earthed, experienced, hard to impress. They have a regular pulse. There is blood in their alcohol. They don't look for company but will except it as long as you don't talk bullshit or golf. Their heroes are country-western singers, football players, former presidents, dead generals, men who work the land and men who truck the produce.
A sign in the Lonestar reads: "For those who fought for it, freedom has a taste the protected will never know." These are proud men, and although America's denigrated as a place of abode -- its society "shot through with drugs, violence and welfare" -- the country's character is rigorously defended; its influence on the world rests easy in their souls, its spirit and culture as sacred as a Harley-sized Smith and Wesson.
To such men, these bars represent a taste of home, a sense of bonding and of comfort. You can smell the T-bone, feel the bourbon, fool with the women.
"You leave tip for me pleez?"
"Sure, honey. Buy low, sell high."
These men aren't in Bangkok for any altruistic reasons. There are no budding monks; no spiritual journeys. Some came to make money, some to spend it, many to waste it on a lifestyle they couldn't get away with anywhere else. I've seen money change hands over a single NBA game that an English teacher could only dream of making -- even if he taught Big Bird to Korean rich kids for the next millennium.
And then there are those poor souls who have been deprived of alcohol and female company by the sheer geography of their work and arrive in town on a mission, which usually means a serious demonstration against sobriety. I've seen the door at the Lonestar nearly ripped off its hinges as some madman, usually 6-foot-4, wild-eyed and crazed after six months in some scorching desert fixing giant earthmovers, hit the bar with a thirst that would make a camel blush.
One such character, who looked remarkably like a creature left over from the eighth episode of "Star Trek," once drank with intent for 72 hours on arrival.
The night manager and I found him in an alcoholic stupor halfway up the stairs at 3 in the morning in a position only a yoga master could appreciate: stark naked and legs akimbo.
"Mah man, we gotta get a doctor!"
"No!" I said, "We gotta get a camera!"
And we did.
As in any community, the eccentrics and casualties balance out the seemingly stable and the relatively sober. These bars aren't only a unique microcosm of America, they're also another rich vein of expat life in this city. It may be a potting shed to some, but you can find lots of things in potting sheds. I came across this world by mistake and left a year later blinking in the harsh sunlight of reality and went back to Thailand -- which was just outside the door. I made many friends, many contacts, worked hard, ate sensibly and drank like a fish, deep in the heart of Texas, Bangkok. We come to new countries intending to do certain things and then a whole lot of different things happen. I like that.
Only once in the entire year did I come close to death. It was late. The bar was packed, primed and loud. It was someone's birthday. Everyone was very drunk and I kept bumping into old acquaintances who didn't recognize me and total strangers who did. Some cowboy was wailing through the sound system and I said far too loudly that country-western was just "three chords and a cloud of dust."
There was a deathly silence. I froze in terror. I had realized my mistake. But it was too late. I had trod on sacred ground. I had insulted their holy music. It was like passing wind in the Vatican and then giggling.
Suddenly the bar was humming with outrage. Someone yelled, "Shoot the sonofabitch!" -- which soon turned into a chorus. Visualizing a rope being thrown over a branch, I did the only thing left open to me: I rang the bar bell.
The drinks bill was so high it should have been delivered by a priest. I was still paying it off a year later. But hey, I'm alive. And grateful. And if you don't believe any of this, then I've got a bridge to sell you in Brooklyn.
Now all I have to do is to keep my eye on that damned dog.
SALON | Jan. 27, 1999
Roger Beaumont is a freelance writer who lives in Bangkok.


	T A B L E_T A L K Cramming before the big vacation? Weigh in on the value of learning the language in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk ___________________ Planning a trip to Thailand? Read all about it at barnesandnoble.com ___________________ R E C E N T L Y Hurricanes and hope in Honduras By Rachel Louise Snyder As the storm-battered Central American country rebuilds, dreams take root (01/26/99) A passion for Pelago By Tanya Shaffer An unlikely village hosts a Rainbow Gathering meets Burning Man meets rave music festival in Italy (01/25/99) This week in travel Wanderlust's selective guide to travel-related news from across the globe (01/22/99) Can this planet be saved? By Don George Mark Hertsgaard discusses his new book about the human toll of global environmental devastation (01/21/99) "Earth Odyssey" By Mark Hertsgaard Excerpt: A visit to Bangkok reveals the economic temptations and environmental troubles of the Technological Age (01/21/99) Browse the Wanderlust Postmark archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		DEEP IN THE HEART OF THAILAND, TEXAS \| PAGE 1, 2 - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Washington Square is a place of legends, both real and imaginary: the men who tell the stories that become the legends, and the legends that become the men who tell them. There are yarns from deserts in Saudi and freezing oil rigs in northern Russia, epic accounts of battles half remembered and women long departed but still vivid in memory -- and if slightly embellished, what the hell. Stories of very serious money earned and squandered, won and lost. Men with larger-than-life characters who know their own destinies but argue with them just the same. Tales of Laos during the war; the Death Railway; the CIA; the contra arms deal; Beirut; the Gulf War. When the night manager of the Lonestar discovered I liked Miles Davis, I thought he was going to shoot me. Instead, I found an important ally. He put a black arm around my shoulder and said, "Mah man!" I was in. Into what I had no idea, but I was in. When I tentatively inquired as to the validity of these stories, he shrugged and said, "Shoot, boy! These guys are for real. The man sitting next to you was once the personal press secretary to Reagan. Ask him." I did. He was. Well, that's what he said. The average age is early 50s, and amid the raucous anecdotes and serious drinking -- "You gotta learn how to drink here, boy!" -- there are men of quiet authority and Southern manners; serious achievers with thousand-yard stares and lived-in faces that speak of hard, disciplined lives and upright integrity. They are well-earthed, experienced, hard to impress. They have a regular pulse. There is blood in their alcohol. They don't look for company but will except it as long as you don't talk bullshit or golf. Their heroes are country-western singers, football players, former presidents, dead generals, men who work the land and men who truck the produce. A sign in the Lonestar reads: "For those who fought for it, freedom has a taste the protected will never know." These are proud men, and although America's denigrated as a place of abode -- its society "shot through with drugs, violence and welfare" -- the country's character is rigorously defended; its influence on the world rests easy in their souls, its spirit and culture as sacred as a Harley-sized Smith and Wesson. To such men, these bars represent a taste of home, a sense of bonding and of comfort. You can smell the T-bone, feel the bourbon, fool with the women. "You leave tip for me pleez?" "Sure, honey. Buy low, sell high." These men aren't in Bangkok for any altruistic reasons. There are no budding monks; no spiritual journeys. Some came to make money, some to spend it, many to waste it on a lifestyle they couldn't get away with anywhere else. I've seen money change hands over a single NBA game that an English teacher could only dream of making -- even if he taught Big Bird to Korean rich kids for the next millennium. And then there are those poor souls who have been deprived of alcohol and female company by the sheer geography of their work and arrive in town on a mission, which usually means a serious demonstration against sobriety. I've seen the door at the Lonestar nearly ripped off its hinges as some madman, usually 6-foot-4, wild-eyed and crazed after six months in some scorching desert fixing giant earthmovers, hit the bar with a thirst that would make a camel blush. One such character, who looked remarkably like a creature left over from the eighth episode of "Star Trek," once drank with intent for 72 hours on arrival. The night manager and I found him in an alcoholic stupor halfway up the stairs at 3 in the morning in a position only a yoga master could appreciate: stark naked and legs akimbo. "Mah man, we gotta get a doctor!" "No!" I said, "We gotta get a camera!" And we did. As in any community, the eccentrics and casualties balance out the seemingly stable and the relatively sober. These bars aren't only a unique microcosm of America, they're also another rich vein of expat life in this city. It may be a potting shed to some, but you can find lots of things in potting sheds. I came across this world by mistake and left a year later blinking in the harsh sunlight of reality and went back to Thailand -- which was just outside the door. I made many friends, many contacts, worked hard, ate sensibly and drank like a fish, deep in the heart of Texas, Bangkok. We come to new countries intending to do certain things and then a whole lot of different things happen. I like that. Only once in the entire year did I come close to death. It was late. The bar was packed, primed and loud. It was someone's birthday. Everyone was very drunk and I kept bumping into old acquaintances who didn't recognize me and total strangers who did. Some cowboy was wailing through the sound system and I said far too loudly that country-western was just "three chords and a cloud of dust." There was a deathly silence. I froze in terror. I had realized my mistake. But it was too late. I had trod on sacred ground. I had insulted their holy music. It was like passing wind in the Vatican and then giggling. Suddenly the bar was humming with outrage. Someone yelled, "Shoot the sonofabitch!" -- which soon turned into a chorus. Visualizing a rope being thrown over a branch, I did the only thing left open to me: I rang the bar bell. The drinks bill was so high it should have been delivered by a priest. I was still paying it off a year later. But hey, I'm alive. And grateful. And if you don't believe any of this, then I've got a bridge to sell you in Brooklyn. Now all I have to do is to keep my eye on that damned dog. SALON \| Jan. 27, 1999 Roger Beaumont is a freelance writer who lives in Bangkok.