Stall after stall displaying silk, cashmere, and linen dyed in any color you like. Stall after stall of t-shirts reading "Chiang Rai" in a plethora of fonts, with or without scribblings of elephants and happy little Buddhas. Stall after stall of ceramic elephants, plush elephants, wooden elephants, elephant pillows, baggy Thai pants with elephants dancing across them. Stall after stall, interrupted here and there by carts cooking up smelly comestibles conjured up to attract the ceaseless flow of tourists. Stall after stall of items whose domestic origin was highly questionable. Cheap trappings guaranteed to attract lots of rich tourists looking for an 'authentic' experience they could take back home with them. An authentic market showcasing authentic items that represent an authentic Thai experience. Foreigners, the majority of whom were white westerners with deep pockets, abounded.
The air reeked of oyster sauce, raw sewage, diesel, and sweat. Every odor was weighed down by the humidity and heat. Any hope of a fresh breeze to come clear, even temporarily the atmosphere was crushed by the enclosed surroundings. The dirt encrusted buildings towering over the market were illuminated by lights strung from the rooftops. Only the dark brown light of the moon outshone the tiny lights suspended above my head. Thai music played by traditional instruments accosted my ears from every direction. A blind man sat mock-playing a two-stringed instrument as a radio played beside him. Pairs of middle-aged white men disinterestedly browsing the vendors with their much younger escorts, some of whom, in spite of their cosmetic attempts to conceal it, could have been no older than sixteen. Women known as "Toms" dressed as men accompanied by their counterparts--extremely feminine-looking women known as "Dees"; men known as lady-boys dressed as women, and boys dressed as women dressed as boys made up a significant portion of patrons of the Night Market. White backpackers sporting their signature unkempt hairstyles, sleeveless shirts, baggy fisherman's trousers, and overall disheveled aspects roamed the place like derelicts infest the streets at night back home. Massage parlors overflowed with torpid-looking tourists. Feet, legs, backs, and necks could all be sorted out for approximately $3 an hour! Facials, manicures, and even cosmetic surgery were just some of the singular features of this and most cities of Thailand.
Massage parlors, pizza restaurants run by American expatriates, tuk-tuk encampments, shops, shops, shops selling dirty, cheap goods to tourists. Beggars stationed themselves outside of 7-elevens, outside of the restaurants catering to richer customers, outside of the nicer massage parlors. Beggars dressed in rags, most of them young women with babies or toddlers attached by some sort of tattered and filthy blanket.
For hours I sat watching them. Money was passed, junk transferred from one person to another. Men and women wore their silly elephant trousers proudly. Groups of people rushed to the money changer adjacent to the Night Market's gates. Chinese, Americans, Germans, Japanese, Russians. Backpackers roamed in groups, looking hungry, trying to look local and failing. Beggars with forlorn, dirt-encrusted faces clocked out, gathered their meager belongings and went on their way, swiftly replacing their tears and plaintive whining with smiles and giggling. It was all just another day on the job. Everyone wandered about for no reason at all but to buy things that were not authentic. The only appeal that I could see that it was all cheap, but none of it was real. The people at the stalls were real patrons looking for a cheap and fake thrill.
The darkness of the sky was not as dark as that which lingered in this place. The din could not drown out the desperate plea for peace that raged inside me. We were supposed to be different, but they were off getting a massage, and they were off shopping with all the other tourists. I was left to fend for myself. What could I do? What could I do for these people or for myself? What could I do for God when all I wanted to do was escape.
The air reeked of oyster sauce, raw sewage, diesel, and sweat. Every odor was weighed down by the humidity and heat. Any hope of a fresh breeze to come clear, even temporarily the atmosphere was crushed by the enclosed surroundings. The dirt encrusted buildings towering over the market were illuminated by lights strung from the rooftops. Only the dark brown light of the moon outshone the tiny lights suspended above my head. Thai music played by traditional instruments accosted my ears from every direction. A blind man sat mock-playing a two-stringed instrument as a radio played beside him. Pairs of middle-aged white men disinterestedly browsing the vendors with their much younger escorts, some of whom, in spite of their cosmetic attempts to conceal it, could have been no older than sixteen. Women known as "Toms" dressed as men accompanied by their counterparts--extremely feminine-looking women known as "Dees"; men known as lady-boys dressed as women, and boys dressed as women dressed as boys made up a significant portion of patrons of the Night Market. White backpackers sporting their signature unkempt hairstyles, sleeveless shirts, baggy fisherman's trousers, and overall disheveled aspects roamed the place like derelicts infest the streets at night back home. Massage parlors overflowed with torpid-looking tourists. Feet, legs, backs, and necks could all be sorted out for approximately $3 an hour! Facials, manicures, and even cosmetic surgery were just some of the singular features of this and most cities of Thailand.
Massage parlors, pizza restaurants run by American expatriates, tuk-tuk encampments, shops, shops, shops selling dirty, cheap goods to tourists. Beggars stationed themselves outside of 7-elevens, outside of the restaurants catering to richer customers, outside of the nicer massage parlors. Beggars dressed in rags, most of them young women with babies or toddlers attached by some sort of tattered and filthy blanket.
For hours I sat watching them. Money was passed, junk transferred from one person to another. Men and women wore their silly elephant trousers proudly. Groups of people rushed to the money changer adjacent to the Night Market's gates. Chinese, Americans, Germans, Japanese, Russians. Backpackers roamed in groups, looking hungry, trying to look local and failing. Beggars with forlorn, dirt-encrusted faces clocked out, gathered their meager belongings and went on their way, swiftly replacing their tears and plaintive whining with smiles and giggling. It was all just another day on the job. Everyone wandered about for no reason at all but to buy things that were not authentic. The only appeal that I could see that it was all cheap, but none of it was real. The people at the stalls were real patrons looking for a cheap and fake thrill.
The darkness of the sky was not as dark as that which lingered in this place. The din could not drown out the desperate plea for peace that raged inside me. We were supposed to be different, but they were off getting a massage, and they were off shopping with all the other tourists. I was left to fend for myself. What could I do? What could I do for these people or for myself? What could I do for God when all I wanted to do was escape.
