Slower than Watching a turtle crawl across the road, Slower than watching a snail slide around a rock, slower than watching the last traces of ketchup pour out of a bottle, there is no way to accurately describe the constipated flow of Bangkok Traffic. And we were on an elevated express highway. Every car had extra hood mounted mirrors strategically placed like gun torrents. They were a driver's sixth sense against the invading hordes, the motorcycles, the kamikazes that raced in and out of traffic like swarming mosquitos buzzing in and out of your ears, while sitting on the back porch, trying to enjoy a humid summer night. Every car was a reflection of the upper, lower, lack of middle class society. A Mercedes Benz said don't get too close. I am a banker. I am a gemstone dealer. I am a rice exporter. I am, I am... A Corvette, a Camaro, a Porsche, a BMW bragged I am his son. I am his daughter. I've just gotten back from America or England. I have an MBA. I have a degree. I'm special. Look at me. I'm the next generation. I'm the new elite. And then came the slums, a post Korean War Japanese invasion of Mitsubishis, Mazdas, Toyotas, Suzukis, and Hondas, older than some of the people who were driving them, taken apart and rebuilt more times than a five-year-old's Tonka toy a week after Christmas. The ones with the oversized exhausts, sounding like sports cars, sounded out their driver's dreams, a declaration of who they hoped to become. The ones that belched and jerked clouds of oil-stenched smoke like an eighty-year-old coughing from a three-pack-a-day habit advertised a desperate owner, just hoping, along with his ride, to survive another day.
(excerpt from "Thai Lies")
(excerpt from "Thai Lies")
