|
Thailand is the world’s ultimate chill-out zone. but now
they’ve banned music after 2am, cops patrol the beach and
a weed bust will cost you £800. What now for the ultimate
smoker’s paradise?
The Canadian dude in shorts standing on Hat Rin beach with a didgeridoo
stares into a horizon as straight as a blue Rizla, and says, 'When
I first got here, I didn't like it. I thought Thailand was a rip-off
culture. Then I went to the north and talked to the people more,
started smoking loadsa opium and hanging with the Thais. Now I'm
just taking it for what it is: an escape. It's easy to do nothing
here. I can just smoke dope on the beach. All day. Heh...'
Then didgeri-dude looks at the American man sitting on Hat Rin
beach with a guitar, for a second a beam of telepathic paranoia
shoots between them.
'You don't work for Interpol do you?'
No, man. We just want to know whether you're feeling chilled.
On a scale of one to, like, 10? Dude?
The Canadian grins a grin suggesting there's more than just gutrot
Mae-Khong whiskey pickling cerebral cortex, a grin suggesting the
number he's thought of just doesn't conform to any decimal standard
whatsoever.
The Canadian dude has entered 'the zone'. He got out of the boat.
We've lost this one: someone inform the parents. Ladies and gentleman,
he is floating in space. Smoked-out and beach-bummed well into
the fifth dimension, he is, in fact, exactly where most of mankind
would now like to be right now.
***
Welcome to Thailand, man! Permasmiling locals, iridescent beaches,
great big trees, no moody people and more drugs than you can shake
Shaun Ryder at! Are you feeling chilled yet? You should be, because
despite everything we endured - looming recession, planes demolishing
skyscrapers, Anthrax: The Comeback Tour, suicide bombings, rightwing
boneheads everywhere, impending thermonuclear war and not one but
TWO hits for DJ Otzi - in 2001 culture got cryogenic its our asses
like never before. Chilling out as a has never been so huge an
industry, so popular a cultural pursuit, so widespread a collective
impulse. Once, it just meant the post-coital cigarette of dance
culture, the restorative power-napping that developed as a response
to the energy flash of rave. But now, like just about every other
aspect of dance culture it's lapsed into cliché. Once, chill-out
meant embracing something: now it means rejecting everything, the
active pursuit of nothingness. Given the unbearable shiteness of
being alive during a time of massive global anxiety on a humanity-wide
basis, the entire the world spent Christmas 2001 thinking it needed
a proper vacation to get its smoke on and its head together.
Last years, megastore racks buckled under the weight of identikit
chill-out compilations, Radio One launched it's late-night 'toke
show' show for ardent weed smokers featuring, and if Afroman's
'Because I Got High' didn't articulate the non-thoughts of the
Zombie Nation, then we're all Dutchmen. Which, given the amount
of weed we're likely to be consuming following reclassification
of Cannabis, you could easily mistake us for anyway.
We want to chill out, at a time when mass-long-haul tourism in
the norm for rather than the exception, it seems like every man
and his hammock has headed for Thailand's Costa Del Chill for New
Year and rubbish British winter. Posh People (Kate, Jude, blah
Sadie blah blah and Meg are all ardent fans), gap-year traveller
and increasingly, normal folk of middle-England who've decided
a fortnight in Torremolinos just doesn't cut it anymore.
On Hat Rin beach on the island of Kho Phang Nan - original setting
for Alex Garland's dystopian traveller yarn The Beach - you can
hear the phrase, 'pass us the skins and I'll roll a fat one mate,'
in a billion languages, all of them vaguely slurred. Hat Rin was
once thought to be the world's most horizontal place, the absolute
last word in spliffcentricity for worldwide chillagers who want
nothing more than good weed and zero stress for as long as their
bugdets would carry them. For the past 20 years or so, Hat Rin's
full moon party scene - which now comprises the any-excuse-for-a-do
the half-moon, quarter-moon and black-moon (ie no-moon) parties
- has provided the punctuation marks on a narrative of non-stop
chillage.
Or so the legend goes. Today, you can stare along the stretch
of sand bordered by rocks and a parade of bars of this arresting
vista, and as far as the eye can see, dudes are chilling out with
such commitment and intensity you'd swear someone had spiked the
entire sea with hospice-strength temazepam. But it's not just e
presence of a Seven-Eleven amid the multitude internet cafés,
bars, shops and scooter hire centres that suggests this hippie
utopia seem indicative of culture on the cusp of decline, a destination
turning into a heavily-marketed imitation of its former, wilder,
poorer, realer incarnation.
There are problems in paradise, and one of the problem is standing
not ten yards form Canada's Mr Chill. It's dressed in hip-to-the-scene
beachwear, wears a furtive expression and is trying very hard not
to look the Thai copper the man so obviously is.
This year, sensing that the money lies not so much with the steady
stream of young travelling folk but with affluent Western Family
who demand more than just a beach hut and plentiful alcohol, Thai
authorities imposed a 2am curfew on the soundsystems and beach
parties in a move not unlike the regulation that did for Goa's
fabled beach party scene. Weed prices are staggeringly low, while
the penalties for possession as staggeringly high - in the region
of 50,000 baht (about £800).
People come to Thailand for many reasons, and most reasons involve
smoking. Not that Garry and Rich, from Cambridgeshire, had much
by way of problem scoring in the time they've spent lolling around
the well-travelled routes of Thailand's narco-tourist trail. A
while back, they chucked in their jobs, bought £700 round
trip flights and made directly for weed central, Thailand. 'We
just thought fuck it,' considers Gary, hooking his hair behind
a sunburt ear. 'Getting hold of gear is not a problem. In Koh Samui,
literally every ice-cream seller is flogging opium, pills, weed,
everything. Round here we haven't been approached once. It is here,
but you've got to look for it.'
As it stands, they keep a vigilant watch over their narcotic activities,
retain an edge of paranoia just uppermost in their mind just
to the forefront. Truth be told, they already clocked that Thailand
isn't the U-toke-pia they're hope it would be,
'We didn't think it was gonna be as tacky as this,' Gary laments.
'It's beautiful, don't get me wrong. But all the kiss-me-quick
tack is coming out. I didn't expect it to be as westernised. I've
heard Krabi and Koh Phe Phe are more chilled out. On Koh Samui
it's just geezers larging it up everywhere and in the end, you're
trying to get away form everyone else. The capitalist machine
has already rolled in and set up roots to get money out of everybody.
Pay for this pay for that pay for this. Some places you even have
to pay a few Baht to get a bit of shitroll,' he adds.
Which may not be a particularly 'chilled' attitude, but is all
the evidence you need to tell which way Thailand’s service
economy is headed.
***
Though here are plenty of tales of how there were once only three
bungalows on this particular beach and rent cost 25 Baht per month,
or how the island was run by gangs of dogs, or how and you had
to sell your eyeballs for a bowl of green curry back in the day,
not everyone you speak to in Thailand will tell you It's Not As
Chilled As It Used To Be. Older heads will put some perspective
on how the primitivistic party mythology of Koh Samui, Hat Rin
and the billions of obscure, recommendation-only locations scattered
around Koh Phan-Ngan now vastly obscures the actuality. Cyrus Irani,
a thirtysomething, Camden-based promoter from, is part of a demographic
of club, music biz, fashion and media types who've been evangelised
Thailand's charms for some years now. Right now he's staying in
a bungalow on Koh Samui
'Thailand's got a lot of the things that people in the UK go away
to find,' he says. 'And you can probably count the destination
around the world with the right elements on one hand. There are
myths attached to the place. The real problem is that a lot of
people who come here just can't chill, because there's that out
there,' he says, gesturing through the palm trees and half a mile
up the road to an explosion of neon strip bars, shops and 'attractions'
set back from the shoreline. 'It's the curse of the Westerner,'
he says. 'Every night, people are like, Shall we? Shan't we? Shall
we?'
The tractor beam in question is called Chaweng, the island's principal
tourist drag. Chaweng is Blackpool 6,000 miles around the globe.
It's like Regent Street on Christmas eve, only without less peace
and tranquility, an action painting of consumerism wrought in neon,
lipstick and tattoo ink. It's conceivably the world's least chilled
place, no matter how much cheap weed you're furtively toking. And,
as you weave between hordes of Thai girls and ladyboys, past the
Starbucks, the Seven-Eleven, the Burger King and into the Basil
Fawlty Bar and observes marauding squads of British and Northern
European geezers out on the piss and on the fuck, one image enters
you head: Ibiza. A culture of raw free-marketeering leisure enterprise
running on western money, lust, drugs and banging beats. It's not
particularly the kind of place you take your partner to on hols.
It remains to be seen whether the Thai embrace of tourism - if
only since country's 'Amazing Thailand' marketing campaign of 1998,
back when Koh Pan-Ngan didn't even have an electric grid - destroys
what remains of the mythic 'vibe', as it has on Hat Rin.
When you witness in the glint in the eyes of Cyrus's contemporaries
- people like Electric Stew's Mo Morris - when they scan the territory,
it's clear that the ideal seeding conditions exists for canny club
operators to translate the Full-moon vibe of yore into the well-packaged
rave experience, even if it is just for the party instead of the
money.
'We've spoken to the Thai people who own the beach whether they
run the full-moon parties with a view to bringing an English superclub
or our own DJs,' says Irani. 'They're aware that there are a lot
of Europeans and travellers. I'm never gonna make any money, but
it would be great to come one or twice a year and party.'
It's not like big guns haven’t caught the same aroma
of opportunity, either. Ministry of Sound recently franchised operations
in Bangkok. At least one record company is considering a first
Thailand-themed dance compilation. Dude, where's my virginal Island
paradise gone?
***
SO IF Thailand really is the New Ibiza - because long-haul travel
is the new two-week Med package tour - then where is the new Thailand
on the world map of hip chillability? Depending on who you speak
to, the index runs like this: Thailand was the new Goa. Now Kerala
is the new Thailand while the new Goa is said to be a practically
untouched islet in the Aegean sea whose whereabouts the elite are
sworn not to reveal, on pain of death by independent financial
advisers. However, the new Thailand could just as well be Bahia
in Brazil (major beach scene there), assuming Na Trang in Vietnam
doesn't gets there first, or that place in Laos people keep going
on about. Babylon exists: we just don't know where.
As for shaven-headed IT engineer Jimmy Crangle, 22, crouched on
the rugs with a bucket of vodka and Red Bull outside Hat Rin's
Drop In Bar on Saturday night, he couldn't particularly give a
toss either way. Out here, people keep asking him if he sells weed
(he doesn't). For him the principal redeeming of quality of Thailand
is that it's not Glasgow, his home town. He's not bothered that
the legendary psychotropic chilledness is now, for the majority
of those who pass through on cheap Qantas and BA deals, about as
authentic as the Louis Vuitton holdalls of Bangkok's markets. In
front of him is an the assemblage of bindis, Thai pants, delirious
faces and cryogenically relaxed Swedish, Iraelis, Germans, and
British, the new internatiolist peace corps in front of him. Spliffs
circulate, and the DJ drops a choice selection of underground chill-out
cuts. You now the type: Blue's 'All Rise', House Of Pain's 'Jump
Around' and, yes, DJ fucking Otzi.
Is this the real life? Or is this just fantasy?
'You can probably travel five miles up the hill to find the real
Koh Pan-Ngan,' he says, whose on holiday for as long as he can
'but this feels like Ibiza to me. It's down to the fact that you
can fly here a lot cheaper than before. The standard of living
has gone up so much that you can live forever here for fuck
all. 'Most of my mate will just got to Spain. They’ve a psychological
thing about they can't go any further than a three-hour flight.
I keep saying come over, they're like, 'och it's too far away.'
Why spend the money and go to spain. Still, I hate to think what
it's gonna be like in ten years.'
Jimmy reckons Thailand is being ruined. Anne, a 21 year-old kindergarten
worker from Sweden, reckons so too. 'This place is where you learn
you to travel. Everyone wants to chill out, yeah, but it's getting
worse. Now there's a Seven Eleven and you see people going round
with make-up up and skirts an high heeled shoes. When you got to
Thailand you shouldn't have to worry about looking like that!"
No such consideration for wee bronzed dynamo Daniel from Melbourne,
who, when he's not bombing between posses of girls, skinning up
a spliff or untying his shorts, summarises his experiences of Thailand thus:
'Beaches: amazing. Drugs: amazing. Women: amazing. Parties: amazing.
This place,' he bellows, lolling all over his mates, 'is amazing!'
The myths hold no fascination for Daniel; all that counts are
the fantasies he'll be dreaming up tonight with the aid of another
magic mushroom shake. Because dream creation is Thailand’s
singular business skill, conforming to whichever fantasies you
care to project onto it. Somewhere in a palm-sheltered beach to
the north of the island, chances are the psychedelians are lost
in a vortex of THC and good vibrations. Right here, under the winking
eye of McSevenElevenBucks on Hat Rin beach where the Drop-In bar’s
soundsystem blares the global beach life Top Forty, this feels
like Paradise lost. The funny thing is, everyone’s too chilled
out to notice. But anyway, we should kick back, relax, reach for
the Rizla, enjoy it while we can. Never mind Ministry of Sound.
Interpol will be here soon. Just ask the man with the didgeridoo.
© Kevin Braddock 2002
|
