All I do is sweat, sweat, sweat no matter what

On a recent Sunday, the Bangkok Electric Company (or whatever it’s called) decided to shut off the power in my employer’s building for most of the day. As a test prep teacher, that meant an unexpected day off. As I was continuing my commitment to explore all that Bangkok tourism had to offer, I decided that I should spend the day touring a place that can only be enjoyed during the weekend: Chatuchak Market.

Okay, “enjoy” might be too strong a word. Chatuchak Market is huge, crowded, and hot as hell. But I have a strange, masochistic love of open air markets. They are, in fact, one of my favorite things about Asia (the NYC equivalent used to be street fairs, but these days street fairs have devolved into one gigantic underwear/arepa stand. It’s tragic.) I was also just easing off jet lag, so I was still capable of waking up before 10am. It seemed like the perfect plan for my utility-sponsored vacation day.

The last time I visited Chatuchak Market was on my first, brief trip to Bangkok in 2012. I remember it through a sweaty haze: rows upon rows of goods for sale, vendors and tourists alike languidly dripping through the narrow aisles. The market (one of the largest in the world) is split into about 25 sections, with themes such as “odds & ends”, “clothing & accessories”, “creature”, and “fighting cock”. There’s also a section devoted to original artwork, which is where I spent most of my time during that 2012 visit. This time I was determined to cover more ground, and maybe actually shop (while I absolutely love markets, I hate haggling, and travel light so I usually don’t have enough room in my tiny bag to add stuff. I know. This makes no sense.)

Start your day right, with many,
many fried things.

I set out around 9:30am, mainly in an attempt to beat the crowds. There’s really no way to beat the heat, which was already pulsing at that early hour, but at least by starting my day in 88 degree temperature I could ease into the eventual triple digits. Many stalls were up and running, and the plastic chair “restaurants” were already doing a brisk business. I didn’t really have a shopping agenda; mostly I wanted to explore the offerings and the atmosphere. Almost immediately I found myself standing in front of a vaguely Mediterranean man tending an enormous paella pan. Ah, Bangkok. You cater so nicely to our Western food needs. I know, I know. No one goes to Bangkok to eat paella. Were I only here for a week, I might have passed on it, but I’m here for four months and dammit, I love paella. So that was immediately put down as the final stop on my day’s itinerary.

Portrait of a man and his paella.

For the first hour or so I just wandered around, enjoying the brisk 90 degree temperatures, and inquiring about the price of an occasional scarf. These are always hilariously awkward encounters. First of all, I think that in many cultures it’s considered rude to ask for the price of something you don’t intend to buy. I don’t mean to be rude, not at all. It’s just that after I ask the price, I choke. I know that the appropriate response is to counter with an offer at least 50% lower. But I still get so uncomfortable doing that. My Western background rears its ugly head. To me, it seems incredibly rude to tell someone that an item they’re offering is not worth even half their asking price. This results in one of two outcomes: either I sheepishly back away and offend the seller, or if it’s something I really want, I say fuck it and pay the asking price. Which is most definitely way, way too much. I know all the reasons that this is wrong: it offends the vendors, drives up prices for other tourists, and also keeps me from experiencing something that I am extremely unlikely to encounter in the US (not so much haggling going on at Target). Of course, it also means that I bring back fewer items from my travels which is probably not such a bad thing. As I discovered when I unpacked my storage unit after a year away from home, most of the stuff we collect is useless. Right now I think that some silk scarf is extremely important and will serve to instantly call to mind significant memories from my time in Asia, but ten years from now I will probably junk it. Maybe even earlier.

Duck. Mountains of duck.

So I suppose I’ve duly established the fact that I went to one of the largest markets in world with the express plan not to shop. Events conspired to force my hand, however. I had an early lunch of roast duck over rice.  I’ve had this meal in a variety of guises since returning to Bangkok. Sometimes it’s pork, sometimes it’s duck, but it always involves a light splash of brown gravy and some pickled ginger. This is definitely a meal greater than the sum of its parts. The duck is good, the sauce a little sweet, and rice is rice. But for some reason once you add the ginger it becomes something totally unexpected and pretty damn great. Pickled ginger: condiment of the gods. Oh, and there’s also a random piece of some type of greenery, which sometimes constitutes my vegetable intake for the day. Scurvy, here I come!

After the duck I ventured back to the outdoor portion of the market and was immediately assaulted by a brilliant, boiling sun. I then realized that I had left my hat at home. For some this would not be a problem, but I am extremely melanin-challenged, and go directly from pasty white to lobster red. Luckily I was in the middle of the largest market in the world. Looks like I would be forced to shop.

Another reason I don’t particularly enjoy shopping: I can’t make up my mind. What if I buy this cheesy elephant knickknack here, and find an even better cheesy elephant knickknack at the next stall? How could I possibly be expected to commit to just one pointless tchotchke?! I believe the New York Times calls this “decision fatigue” but I call it “the indecisiveness of the overly privileged Westerner buying useless shit.” This sometimes extends to moderately useful shit, as in the case of the hat. I just needed to buy a hat. Just a simple hat. I don’t like hats. I don’t look good in hats. There wasn’t some magical millinery stand hidden away in the market offering hats that would somehow not make me look like a sweaty, bald pinhead. So the clear answer was to just buy a cheap hat and have done with it. Reader, I think I tried on every hat in that goddamn market. I wandered for hours. I fully attained the sunburn I was trying to avoid. And I came away with not one, but two hats, both of which make me look like a sweaty, bald pinhead. Mission accomplished.

The Great Hat Hunt did, however, introduce me to much more of the market. I found random restaurants tucked away behind rows of second hand clothing stores. I listened to the sweet sounds of a Thai bluegrass band. I found the restaurant wholesale section and discovered that those roast ducks I always see hanging from street stalls? Totally fake. Stupid farang. There’s even a pet store section, with puppies panting in non-air-conditioned enclosures. Yes, that’s just as depressing as it sounds. The one thing I did not find? Fighting cock. So disappointing.

Chatuchak Market: Bangkok's premier place
for evening wear. 

Bangkok banjo!

After purchasing my two ugly, unnecessary hats I made my way to the art section. I know in my last post I was less than enthusiastic about some of the art that I saw. I was much more interested in the work I saw at the market. The section is really like a large, open air gallery. Up and down the aisles, artists display their works in nooks of various sizes. There’s a huge variety ranging from crafts, to immense portraiture, to intricate bronze sculptures. I wandered through the galleries for a bit, then took a break with a cold beer at a narrow bar squeezed between two crowded aisles.

At this point I’d been walking (and sweating) for hours. Luckily, just like every other touristy place in Thailand, there were plenty of shops offering $4 foot massages. I ducked into one of these air conditioned havens, and dozed a bit while feeling slowly returned to my poor, tired feet. Finally, it was time for paella. I’d traversed Chatuchak, explored its murky depths. I’d earned my overpriced plate of Western goodness. The paella pavilion is festooned with flapping flags, and features not only the titular meal, but also a bar and a DJ. It was a quick affair: you give them money, they scoop out paella for you, then you grab a beer and a seat. I was ravenous, and attacked the plate of rice and whatnot with gusto. In front of me the paella man was theatrically drizzling olive oil into the pan, the bottle held high above his head. I could certainly taste its richness in the rice, and in the browned bits of socarrat scattered throughout. Mixed in with the rice were pieces of golden, juicy chicken, and perfectly textured pieces of shrimp. Also, a few roasted peppers and pieces of green beans. Scurvy averted! I devoured my food, and sat back to enjoy my beer, listening to the tourist chatter and watching the locals casually swaying along with the music. And then I took my sweaty self (and two hats) back to the BTS for the air-conditioned ride home. As I waited on the platform I noticed that, for the first time in my Asian travels, everyone was as drenched in sweat as I was. I smiled at the realization that, in the face of Chatuchak heat, all are equal.

Everything's better with paella.

Tune in next time for the story of how I managed to beat the Bangkok heat (for a day), and updates on whether or not I have, as yet, worn either of those two fucking hats.