Blade Runner Redux

It is easy, by no stretch of the imagination, to think of Samui Island as a tiny window on the world of the future. This torrid tropical resort set on a tiny island in the Gulf of Siam has at its core a truly peculiar Blade Runner-esque quality.

With its swiftly growing image as every Asia’s lover’s favorite tropic wonderland, Koh Samui is quickly becoming a micro-cosmos reflection of the complex splendors and inherent pitfalls of our rapidly globalizing world.

Certainly, Thailand has long been famous among the cognoscenti for its odd mixtures of the classical and the modern, the elegant and the tawdry, an ancient yet open society. And perhaps as much or more than any other Asian country, Thailand not only permits but actually panders to and quickly emulates western cultural and commercial ideas.

And yet Thailand somehow retains its proud and unique culture, quickly discarding anything that keeps the Siamese from straying too far from their inherent inner “Thai-ness”. This is what gives Samui its crazy mismatched neon mix of Colgate mint gel toothpaste brightening the smiles of elegant tenth century temple dancers.

Thailand is one of the ‘Big Dogs' of South East Asia, and nearby Burma, Malaysia, Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, and Indonesia all are measured, for better or worse, against the culture and the dramatic economy of Thailand, perhaps the number one success story in the region.

Unlike the ultra conservative Nipponese, or the industrious but basically unimaginative and socially conforming Chinese, or the rich but culturally entrenched Indians, or the Indonesians and the Phillipinos, both cultures dominated by non-indigenous religions and having histories of colonial military occupation, the Siamese stand alone.

The one country that remains staunchly independent, has never been colonized by western powers, and yet is a symbol of tolerance and personal determination, Thailand remains the most popular travel destination for westerners visiting Asia.

And why not? Thais will let almost anyone visit their country. The Buddhists are a notoriously non-violent bunch, and Thailand is probably the safest travel destination in the world for women traveling alone or without the company of men. The food is fabulous, the people smiling and damn good looking, the prices are beyond a bargain for westerners, the scenery is often breathtaking, and you can do pretty much as you please. What’s not to like?

It was another Sunday night at the Secret Garden, and the band was blowing out passable but humourously off kilter Pink Floyd and Red Hot Chili Peppers tunes. A sense of sultry desperation hung in the torrid air like a spark spewing Chang Mai white tissue paper lantern lit into a slow amber glow and set drifting lazily skyward. The regulars had found their niches and were yakking away like Titanic survivors at a reunion. Tonight that old coconut telegraph was humming faster than an unsecured wireless Cisco router in a crowded apartment complex.

I found two damn cute and slightly high Danish blondes willing company in the barBQ line, and again later at the overly pregnant Dutch model's table. I chatted them up for the better part of an hour before I got bored with how absolutely perfectly white and western they were, and went looking for a way to get my ass into Hell.

Hell, a resident Canadian hit man's latest venture in wildly off center bar / lounge events was all the dish this evening, and the haves were sporting plastic laminated passes swinging on red cords around their necks. The entire thing smacked of some back stage pass obsession from the seriously wild American rock concert circuit, a game we once played so deftly, and with such well-heeled and passionate panache.

Go to Hell were the words bouncing across the obviously new black plastic badges, little white arrows showing the exact route to take. I was waiting for my chance to order ice water in Hell. Getting there was simple. It would be getting home that would prove challenging.

I sat in a corner of the beachfront bar conversing with the usual who’s who. This time it was Scottish Bob and the oddly attractive wife of a French GM working the tres chic designer hotel side of the local Hospitality Industry.

The wife had the squeaky clean look of Audrey Hepburn, a real Holly Golightly breakfast cereal heiress debutant healthy vibe, that Palm Springs in ’64 look. I thought she was a straight knock out, and when I told her this was my take on her she acted shocked, fluffing up her short pixie cut auburn hair, and swiftly shifting into her 'Bad Girl' persona. “What...ME?” she said, a look of offended distress dancing over her arched brow.
"Holly Golightly?...Never!"

Ces't la Vie, I thought to myself, That sure went over well...”

I knew I’d do better chatting up the wild crowd of strangers in Hell. It was only a ten minute drive on 'The Ghost Road' across the island, into the heart of that most surrealistic and rockin' of local neighborhoods, Soi Green Mango. I put on some chillout tracks from an all night Ibiza café, sucked down an iced mint coffee, and changed into something black. Damn the mosquitos...I was going to Hell, and there was no stopping me now...

Samui is the craziest place. At one moment it's a lush and idyllic island, drifting through a timeless realm of ten thousand gold Buddha’s, torrid, opulent and reeking of mystery and history.

And then a few hours later and 5 kilometers away its no less than a mind-boggling vision of a surrealistic global village gone ecstatically haywire. Perilous late night steaming Johnnie Mnemonic traffic jams ripping through hopping neon mosaic seaside villages, high camp cyber slums populated by the most incongruous cross section of sunburned and tipsy humans imaginable.

I tried to take a photograph the other night while waiting for a friend in his green Range Rover and watching the swirling street scene. The picture didn’t really come out well. The lighting wasn’t right, and the traffic got in the way.

But essentially this was the picture; a line of six strikingly beautiful Thai gals in classic gold and silk floor length dresses with brocade sashes and shimmering gold tiara headdresses set in their jet black waist long hair were walking in single file towards their night jobs as waitresses at a classic style seafood palace.

To get there they had to pass on the sidewalk in front of a typical Thailand beer bar full of painted up working girls dancing in skimpy outfits and platform shoes, the thumping beat of disco dance music washing over the sidewalk.

Next to the front of the bar was a vendor selling racks of cheap rubber fright masks. A bunch of drunk bar patrons had bought masks and had managed to engineer the drinking of their cocktails through straws. From across the street it looked like the pumped up party girls were chatting up Tony Blair, Osama Bin Bombing, George Bush, a space alien, and Elvis.

A certain portion of the Bar patrons were a bit eccentric looking anyway, sporting full length full color body tattoos and purple or blue hair. You know the type.

Christmas lights strung across the front of the bar painted the rain wet street in pools of red, green, and gold, and sparkled like fireworks off of the shimmering crowns of the passing classic Thai waitress/princess/goddess looking girls.

Their serene parade seemed to float past the madhouse bar, none of the elegant waitresses even registering any expression or making even a split second notice of the entire tawdry bar scene as they passed mere inches away. This was way too facinating for me to sit still for, and I grabbed my Nikon and lept out of the Rover, aiming my camera at the bizarre tableau.

But exactly as I pushed the shutter button my flash bounced off of a giant fully refurbished olive green World War II US army truck full of shaved headed monks in brilliant orange robes as it passed directly across my view of the girls.

The Monks were followed closely by a parade of Martial Arts boxers in bright knee length satin boxing shorts, holding trophies and waving flags from three pickup trucks. Promoting that nights MuayThai boxing matches, each truck blared loud traditional ethnic music from bullhorn speakers set on painted billboards. All of this insuring there was no way to get the shot.

Not that I didn’t try!

I just about knocked yet another Swedish super model off the sidewalk when I hopped out of the Rover to get the shot from higher ground. I just gave up and stood there drinking it all in, thinking that Fellini couldn’t have done a better job laying out this incongruous a cast of characters.

Naturally the entire scene had shifted and everyone was gone when two minutes later my friend stepped out of the Hong Kong tailors shop and returned to the Rover. He had no idea why I kept prattling on about missing the shot of the century. Everyone had moved off into the sultry night and all I had was left this exceptional vision in my memory.

Since then I’ve realized what I was witnessing was no less than the two primary forces, the Yin and the Yang, each in their full tilt sacred and profane human forms; whores and goddesses going one way, non violent monks and professional ass kickers going the other, passing each other at that exact moment, one hundred yards from the hiss of a warm jade green South China Sea.

I guess the real charm of this place is that even though this is a modern country it is teetering on top of a very ancient world, and by any western standards is really semi out of control. Yet that exact chaos is the appealing factor. It’s The Good, The Bad & The Ugly all mixed together, and that’s how we like it. Pungent, juicy, wild, and alien, all good descriptions. And it could have only happened in Asia.