Thailand – Then and Now

Nostalgia is a fickle mistress. She lures you into recalling past events through rose-coloured glasses: a miserable all-night bus ride on a treacherous Asian highway is magically transformed by the passage of time into an exhilarating and thrilling adventure; a damp cockroach-ridden beach hut is converted by reminiscence into idyllic oceanside accommodation.

When I finished law school in April 1982, my new bride’s meager income tax refund and the proceeds of a 1973 MGB sports car (my second love) financed our three-month honeymoon to southeast Asia. An uninterrupted (and unforeseen) 28 years practicing law awaited my return so a journey to exotic Thailand was, in hindsight, a very, very good idea.

This is where we acquired our travel itch, one that lay dormant for a long time but is now being pleasantly – and regularly – scratched.

May, 1982. Bangkok was insufferably hot and humid. As a kid from the prairies I was nearly incapacitated by the crush of heat and humanity. Jet lag magnified the effect. We bunked in a cheap, dumpy hotel far from the center of town and, sans dough, could not afford even a lowly tuk-tuk taxi to the action. Instead we trudged the stifling streets, stooped by our heavy sodden back-packs.

At each small roadside shop, desperate for relief, we’d feign buying a cheap trinket to steal a few moments in front of a whirling fan. Inevitably the disgruntled vendor would shoo us back onto the turbid sidewalk.

We left sprawling decadent Bangkok on a perilous overnight bus trip to the sweltering north. White-knuckled, we grimaced sleeplessly around every mountain curve, prepared for inevitable death. We arrived in Chang Mai exhausted and promptly transferred to an overloaded lorry stuffed with locals – and live poultry – for the three-hour journey to Chang Rai.

Then we struck out by foot on a four-day trek into the roadless terrain of Thailand’s “Golden Triangle”, where the Mekong River separates Burma, Laos and Thailand; and dense jungle camouflages lawless opium growers.

We struggled up hills and over passes, slashed our way through impenetrable rainforest and forded raging streams before collapsing each night in a remote village. The locals stared at us in amazement, unfamiliar with westerners. We slept on bamboo mats in stilted huts, listening to the pigs beneath us snort through the night.

We must have been miserable beyond description.

But when I look at the fading photographs from that trip I am overwhelmed not by recollections of discomfort and despair. Instead nostalgia, that deceitful Cassandra, floods my mind with fond remembrance – and a yearning for the Halcyon days of youth.

Last year we returned to southeast Asia, older and with rather deeper pockets. Instead of taking the cut-rate milk run, we flew direct – and first class – to Bangkok. Our $3 a night guesthouse was replaced by the five-star Peninsula Hotel. This time we could afford a tuk-tuk to explore the warrens and carnal earthiness of Bangkok’s inner core.

But it wasn’t the same. Our naïve, fresh, exotic experience from the 1980’s was nowhere to be found. The street life and wanton vibe of Patpong Road were still there but our perspective had matured, jaded? Where once we watched (even participated?) with jaw-dropping enthusiasm, now we simply observed, coolly, objectively.

In the 1980’s we were rudderless, wandering, inquisitive, reservationless. Alfred E. Neuman would be proud (“What, Me Worry?) We flew half way round the world, with neither notion nor concern as to where we might sleep upon arrival.

I have always maintained that no matter how far you travel, you always arrive with yourself; so we were fine.

We had heard rumour of a mystical place called Ko Samui, an island paradise in the Gulf of Thailand. Ten fellow law school graduands pledged to meet there – on Lamai Beach. And so, without benefit of internet or cell-phone – or (initially at least) the remotest idea where Ko Samui actually was – all of us bumped together for a few sultry days in May, 1982, sharing Mekong Whisky and fried peanuts, relaxing Thai style while the warm sea glowed shimmering white in the daytime and phosphorescent green at night.

Our accommodation was shoddy, leaky and bug-infested. The food was marginal, the service non-existent. There was no spa. There was nothing to do.

My memory is permanently etched with the perfection of Ko Samui.

Last year we visited Railay, on another of Thailand’s heavenly isles. Our accommodation was luxurious, our every whim and need attended to by helpful, attentive staff.

By luck we arrived during the festival of Loy Krathong, which celebrates the start of the new lunar year. We released candle-lit flower baskets into the tepid sea. The full moon illuminated our colourful petals bobbing in the bay. Then we joined hundreds of fellow revelers merrily, childishly lighting celebratory sky lanterns and watched them drift languorously upward into the soft tropical night.

As in 1982 we were surrounded by great friends, delightful company.

But the next morning I found myself scouring the beach, looking for the way it used to be: rottener, better.

That afternoon we wandered off the beaten track and chanced upon a remote back-packer’s beach. The ex-pat manager showed us a $15 room. We climbed the tree ladder access and peeked in – then hustled back to our five-star for a sunset cocktail at the infinity pool.

Recreating nostalgia is chasing a rainbow, a futile pursuit.

But who knows? Maybe a couple of decades hence we’ll be back in Thailand, cruise by limo down to the seedy reality of Patpong Road, watch a full-moon celebration by helicopter on an illuminated beach, then take a private yacht to a secluded cove for a midnight swim and, feeling nostalgic, say: “this is great but do you remember that fantastic trip back in 2013?”

Gerry