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Lord, it was cold.
Viciously biting winds swirled along Yonge St., and
ripped through my leather jacket as if it was flimsy cotton.
And, although the spotless streets and decently flowing traffic
were a far cry from the chaos, confusion and traffic of Bangkok,
where I live and work now. I longed for the reassuring blanket
of tropical humidity and the warm smiles offered by the locals,
regardless of their financial situation or status.
Well let me correct myself there,
as, even in what is billed as "the land of smiles", there seem
to be damn few of those coming from people who are arrogant enough
to inch their Mercedes Benzes' solo through the clogged streets
of the Thai capitol. Money and possessions in abundance seems
to breed arrogance regardless of the corner of the world. Oh well,
something I probably will never have to worry about. The money
and possessions bit I mean.
These two cities probably have
more in common than even they are aware of. There are many similarities,
a surprising amount of sameness when one scratches beneath the
surface of the "yuppie paradise" on the lake. BKK and "Taranna"
each boast a sub-culture not so apparent to the casual observer.
But even closer scrutiny will reveal that one of these underground
lifestyles is as cruel and biting as a North wind - while the
other, although far from desirable, is much more bearable, and
within it is nothing less than a family structure.
I refer the reader to the sounds
of the cities to make my point. So much is revealed about the
core of any big city by the sounds of life and living coming from
the people who inhabit it. So much can be read into the tone of
the voices, the pitch, the shriek of fun or the sigh of despair.
To see what I mean, go to Patpong
once or twice during your visit to BKK why don't you? Pick yourself
a table outside one of the bars on the street where they have
the shopping stalls, grab a beer, and look…. and listen. Most
of all listen.At the right time, say around seven in the evening,
this street, which is a normal business artery during the day,
comes truly alive at night. Shopping stalls are being set up to
the cacophony of traditional Thai music and the latest western
hit parade. High pitched, good-natured bantering between vendors
only adds to the blend.
Go- go girls, many with a preview of the night's music already
blasting into their brain by means of private stereo injections,
make their way to their respective showcases to gyrate to the
very same music for the benefit of largely foreign audiences.
Doormen and ladies clap their hands for attention, and shout the
financial rewards of "happy hour" to passers by. The latter say
almost nothing but almost always proffer a quaint, superior little
smile as if to say "aren't these little street urchins cute".
But listen closely dear reader. Do you hear any hint of intimidation
in the voices, any trace of despair?
The symphony of sounds on Toronto's
main street is far different. Even menacing. The clapping of the
hands heralding the happy hour is replaced by the consistent cadence
of "spare some loose change sir?" being repeated constantly at
10 meter or so intervals as one passes the rows of panhandlers
on Yonge St. the city's main downtown artery. Huddled against
the cold, there is no joy on these faces, no spark in the eyes.
Young and old, male and female, sane or not, the plight is desperate
and made more so by the chill of the November wind. Survival is
everything, and anyone will be taken down to achieve it. There
is little, if any camaraderie here. Perhaps you might like to
practice your broken field running on the way to work each morning
as you "two step" your way around the scores of homeless lying
on the sidewalks, as oblivious to them as they are to you. Where
are their homes? Their families? Their friends? Where indeed?
And pick up the tabloid Toronto
Sun. The last 12 pages or so of classified advertisements show
head and shoulders shots of pretty, young girls and shout of an
indoor bar-sport called "lap dancing".
It seems the city fathers recently
deemed that it is OK for nubile, scantily dressed young things
to sit and squirm on a punter's lap (which one assumes comes complete
with an eager member) but woe betide anyone who actually attempts
to, er, do the deed, as it were. Will someone please tell me how
this is any different from go-go dancing? You're right! Perhaps
the latter is less hypocritical.So what drives the sub-cultures?
On one side of the ocean the lust for drugs plays a large role.
On the other side a life away from the backbreaking labour of
the rice paddies, and a dream of a better life are contributing
factors. If the drugs come into play, it is usually later on,
after the die has been cast, as it were.
But the banter in Bangkok between the citizens of the alternative
lifestyle is free, friendly, and easy. This extends to visitors
with whom they come into contact. With such good sounds, good
vibrations, one could easily be deceived into thinking that they
are even enjoying themselves. But you could never be so naive
as to think a junkie freezing his or her ass off on the mean streets
of "Toronto The Good", or any other western city for that matter,
is having any fun at all.
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