After a tsunami of warm air had threatened to blow me back into the Don Muang airport terminal, I was somewhat ill-prepared for the throng of touts offering me rides to hotels, including one enterprising soul who offered to take me on a grand tour of Bangkok a mere four hours later! Evidently, I did not look jet-lagged enough. I pre-booked a taxi to the Amari Watergate Hotel in Pratunam and was given a voucher in exchange for 600 BHT. It was certainly the cheapest I had heard. Figures in thousands had been bandied about. It was well-past midnight and after 15 hours of sitting next to an English girl who never lifted her head from her crossword puzzles and a Chinese man who reeked of fish and slept with a heavy camera round his neck, I was not in the mood for conversation or bargaining, which, I was assured, must be done with a light heart and a sense of humor. I gave the lady at the counter my name, parted with the crisps, and my name was radioed to someone in the TAT (Tourist Authority of Thailand) office who would organise my ride.

A wiry young woman held up a sign with my name on it. We exchanged “Sawadi’ s,” and that being the extent of my Thai, communicated in charades the rest of the way. I was led around to the air-conditioned office, where a driver was assigned to me. I was then led back into the sweltering early morning heat, where I sat for half an hour on my suitcase, my backpack straps eating into my shoulders, waiting for the car that was “just coming.” A Nissan Skyline (with no Taxi markings) in dire need of a paint job and a timing adjustment rolled up, spewing something that was only marginally worse than the air I was breathing. I was suspicious. Could this be a taxi? I sized up the driver and got in only after making a mental calculation that I could take him on. (Later, I was to learn the folly of that when watching incredibly powerful muay thai boxers who were under 5 feet tall.) Once inside, the bliss of air-conditioning made me forget my paranoia. This was to be a recurring thought on the trip. Like the locals, I would wander into stores, pretending to be interested in some item on offer in order to enjoy the cool. As a digital camera toting firang, however, I was tolerated.

Bangkok is a sprawling city of 12 million. The next largest city in Thailand, Chiang Mai, is forty times smaller. The economic and administrative capital of an Asian tiger economy that fell from grace in the late 90’s, Bangkok is on the rebound. The massive Baiyoke tower complex casts a shadow over the ramshackle shacks of the shanty town across from the hotel where I was staying. Mercedes Benz’s, motorbikes, tuk-tuks and the (fast-disappearing) human powered carts loaded with produce, jostle for space on the roads. Bangkok is many things to many people. Most visitors I met wanted to get out to the countryside as quickly as they could. Locals proudly affirmed that they are from Bangkok. It is a distinctly Asian city with its narrow lanes, endless activity and cacophony. It’s often described as a ‘capital of sin’ - Patpong’s strip-bars, aquarium-girls (where up to a 100 ‘lovers for hire’ sit behind a huge glass panel) and `body-body’ massage joints (where the women massage you with their oiled bodies) cater to the sex tourist. Thailand is a very successfully marketed tourist destination with all the comforts a 21st century tourist would want. To Buddhists, spiritual tourism was the aim. Many of the Thai wats relied on their donations to survive. Bangkok, itself, was a repository of sacred wats and cultural relics—from Wat Benjamabophit (the marble temple, to quote it’s touristic tag) to the holiest shrine in Thailand—the Wat Phra Kaeo, home to the Emerald Buddha.

Bangkok is to Thailand what Hong Kong is to China. Same country, different system. A different pace of life. An unparalleled level of urbanisation, commercialisation, westernisation, pollution and deviation. I was here to get my kicks above the waistline. To learn about the culture of a people and a country that managed to escape the clutches of colonialism, only to fall prey to the grip of globalisation and the vagaries of short-term investor sentiment. (Thailand was one of the worst hit during the Asian economic crisis when billions of dollars of (mainly Western) short term, speculative capital took flight from the country, turning millionaires into paupers overnight.) How, I wanted to know, could the `Land of the Free’ become one that submitted so easily to the sex-tourist? How did this land of uniquely pristine beaches allow them to be turned into archetypal resorts with planeloads of tourists, busloads of magic-mushroom snorting backpackers and rows of towering concrete hotels? How could this refuge of a renunciate’s religion also be the sin capital of the East? “One night in Bangkok,” as Murray Head’s hit song from the musical, Chess, went, “and the world’s your oyster...the bars are temples. But the pearls ain’t free. You’ll find a god in every golden cloister. And if you’re lucky then your god’s a she...you can’t be too careful with your company. I can feel an angel/a devil sliding next to me.”

Still, it’s difficult not to be smacked between the eyes by it. It is thrust in your face, everywhere you go, day or night. In the street, just outside the hotel, the tuk-tuk and the taxis drivers’ first question is whether you want “good virgins for bang-bang.” As I left one night to Rajdamdern Stadium to watch some muay thai (Thai boxing), I had the following conversation with a taxi driver.

Driver: “You wanna go massage? Good bang-bang.”

Me: “No thanks.”

Driver: “In Thailand, no problem. Only 1000 baht.”

Me: “No. I don’t want.”

Driver: “No problem. Here in Thailand, massage no problem. I get special for you.” (He handed me a folded card with pictures of naked girls on it)

Me: “It’s okay, don’t worry.” I handed the card back to him, but he didn’t want to take it back.

Driver: “Special girl. Only 18 or 19. Young girl for young man, you like? I get you special. Special price. Nice girl. Cheap, cheap.”

Me: “No thanks. Do you go massage?”

Driver: “Yes, in Thailand, massage is no...”

Me: “...problem, yes I know. Are you married?”

Driver: “Yes.”

Me: “What does your wife say?”

Driver: “She say massage no problem.”

Me: “Are you Buddhist?”

Driver: “Kob chai (yes)”

Me: “Then what does the Buddha say about massage?”

Driver: (Wide grin in rear view mirror) “Buddha say in Thailand, massage no problem!”

I asked a fellow traveler on the train between Chiang Mai and Bangkok why all Thai people said ‘no problem’ all the time and what the origin of the expression was. Goff (his nickname—all Thais have one) informed me that, several years before the economic crisis, there was a Thai PM who used this expression liberally, and granted its use to the nation, as his legacy.

The Thais confounded me with their warmth. As a paranoid tourist, I initially suspected every approach with trepidation of being offered a massage, or being asked to buy a postcard, but more often than not, it was someone who wanted to practice their English, whether they could help me to get to where I was going, or tell me about their country, share the latest World Cup score. (The Thais love their soccer) or ask me where I was from. (When I mentioned India, they would exclaim with delight, “Oh, you ah brahmachari!")

Outside the World Trade Centre complex, a huge `jumbotron’ screen was set up so that the happy shoppers could watch the Senegal vs France game. I sat down somewhere near the front after eating a plate of fried rice, a pizza, garlic bread and ice lemon tea. (I had asked for the vegetarian items on the menu and was given every single one) Most of my fellow football aficionados were commuters who were delaying their trip home. Without exception, they supported Senegal, and a huge cheer went up when they scored. I was offered a Singha beer in return for teaching some guys the expression “the referee is blind.”

Whilst in Bangkok, early one morning, I walked up to the Erawan Brahma Shrine, in the shadow of the Grand Hyatt Hotel, on the corner of Rajdamri and Ploenchit roads. Brahma is one of the three central Hindu deities - the others being Vishnu and Siva, who are also worshipped by Thais. This was a remnant of a period of Indian cultural diffusion into Southeast Asia. The shrine is built at the base of the Erawan Hyatt Hotel after a spirit doctor advised its construction to put a stop to the various mishaps that plagued the hotel’s construction in the 1950s (including the capsizing of the ship carrying marble from Italy—that being the last straw). Early morning commuters stopped by to offer prayers and scented flowers, burn joss sticks and make donations. Several female dancers in full sequined regalia and tall pointy headgear, applied make-up to their faces. A Buddhist nun in grey garb sat under a colourful umbrella, oblivious to the notorious Bangkok morning logjam and choking fumes. A sign in the corner said “Holy Water. Do not tip.” A few paces away, ‘Zen Central’ had opened its doors and perfume girls and handbag ladies adjusted their skirts, tucked their hair behind their ears, and chatted with each other.

So not only did religion co-exist with the sex industry in Thailand, but also with open, unabashed commerce. Like all things in Thailand, traditions had been incorporated into ‘modernity’. In the stalls at Bangkok’s colourful Chatuchak Weekend market or in the night bazaar of Chiang Mai, or on the steps of Wat Phra Doi Suthep, the stall vendors appealed to the custom (also prevalent in India) of the auspicious first sale. Tradition and modernity sit side by side in sporting life, too.

Muay thai is a colourful extravaganza of ritualized violence. Before the fight begins, the musicians start playing what sound like bagpipes. The fighters greet the four winds, salute their masters and bow several times in several directions as part of a dance. During this time, the punters place bets with bookies, who are armed with Nokia cellphones with hand’s free kits and Compaq iPaq PDAs. During the fight, all one can see is a blur of flying knees and feet. All in all, I saw ten bouts, in different weight classes—each bout consisting of five rounds of three minutes each. The fighters ranged from the ridiculously small 5 feet, 40 kg fellows (much like my taxi driver) to the solid muscle fellows in the 65 kg weight class. The contenders gracefully swiveled their bodies like spinning tops, delivering kicks with the bony bit of the leg. As they were parried, I was reminded of steel rods slamming into each other. And so, for the better part of three hours, I watched them ritually bash each other up and then hug each other in the most amiable way possible after the winner was declared.

At the boxing, I met Simon and Joy, a Kiwi couple who have been traveling for the better part of two years. I followed them back to where they were staying, Thanon Khao San—a neon-lit road that is a mecca for backpackers. There were stalls selling counterfeit t-shirts, music CDs, $50 Tissot and IWC watches, pendants, beads, anarchy earrings and branded leather goods—there must have been over 500 stalls crammed along this multinational mile. Some offered to dreadlock your hair, or henna your hands. Some shifty looking characters skulking in the dim light had spread out bottles of pink pills. There was a tattoo parlour and guest houses by the dozen. A street artist drew a caricature of me, which is blue-tacked to my door.

Khao San Road, one of the 3 K’s of Asia (the others being Bali’s Kuta Beach and Kathmandu) is a case of life following literature. It is, arguably, a product of favourable Lonely Planet coverage and the ensuing frenzied opportunism. I ate a banana pancake topped off with sticky fudge and condensed milk (yummy) whilst discussing the joys of travel with Joy and Simon—“Being out there with the sun on your back and the road ahead of you.” There was also the curious case of a former boss of Joy’s who went postal and was captured by the armed offender’s squad in Auckland to add weight to our argument that it is dangerous not to travel. As we passed the set of food-stalls selling crickets, grasshoppers, scorpions and several unidentified grubs of the maggot persuasion, Simon pointed to one and gleefully remarked, “That crawled up my leg in Vanuatu!”

Some days later, I visited the house of Thailand’s most famous expat, Mr. Jim Thompson. The silk trade was revived in the 1940s by this American ex-CIA agent and architect. The CIA was then called the Office of Strategic Services and Uncle Jim was dispatched to Thailand to prepare a unit for the impending Japanese invasion. When the Japanese surrendered, Jim served as station chief in Bangkok, and found his niche helping the struggling silk-weavers. At the time, silk was largely unknown in the West. Reviving the trade and making Thailand synonymous with silk, Jim built a large house which is now a tourist attraction, housing all manner of early Thai objets d’ art. Jim Thompson mysteriously disappeared in the 1960s, never to be seen again.

I left the Amari Hotel once the business portion of my trip was complete, and moved to the Thewet area, which is adjacent to the backpacker’s mecca of Banglamphu. I checked into the very aptly named Shanti Lodge. Reception was behind an outdoor café. Serene Buddha images with their satisfied gazes met mine. Various antique looking odds and ends on the walls—a wooden handbag, a salad bowl, vines and Christmas lights. Faded photographs of old temples and King Rama, an open pond smack in the middle of the walkway filled with fish and a waterfall, (that I nearly fell into). The light sounds of Gaelic chants, soft reggae, Oriental stringed instruments and ambient Earth music spread like the clouds of smoke from the joints. They did not sit well next to the grating tones of “Then like we went there, and it was way cool, man!”

But apart from those excitable Los Angelites, everyone exuded cool. Bare soled denizens, feet strung over the solid, heavy chairs. No watches in sight. The tinkle of wind-chimes. Dreamy eyes and stories. Some obviously culled from an old Lonely Planet, whose dog-eared edges I could see jutting out of hemp bags. Random conversations picked up upon told of where’d they’d been and where they were going to, comparing guide books, and where to get a bargain. People who travel are aware and alive and give off a great vibe.

There was a very visible sense of time not being a major cause for concern here. The waitresses too were barefoot, and wandered around in singlets—Abercrombie and Finch—and sarongs. Now, techno-accordion music. I half expected to stumble over some forgotten remnant from the 60s, extolling the ideals of free love and how groovy world peace would be. And soon I did.

I end up talking to Dave, an American anthropologist studying the cultural habits of the residents in a sperm-whaling village in Indonesia. Our conversation revolves around the loss of traditional knowledge in the face of the homogenising effects of globalisation, NATO’s relevance, independence day celebrations in East Timor (which Dave attended)—“It’s this whole new country, and I was like wo—right there!” Next, we talked of the record of the US and Australia in Indonesia, Islam, V. S. Naipaul, Indo-Pak relations, The Prisoner’s Dilemma, human evolution, the Foundation series, capitalist-communistic systems, China, Myers-Briggs personality tests, the discretisation of the individual and random thoughts we don’t usually think of in our ‘economic’ lives. By 0230, several Singhas and 3 bottles of mineral water later, we pack it in. I doubted I would be able to fulfill my plan of seeing Wat Arun (The Temple of Dawn) at sunrise.