Each country's expatriots are part of a unique subculture. Think of Hemmingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald in Europe, or any of Graham Greene’s novels, which continue to define the expat experience to this day. Even more modern books, like the wonderful Prague by Arthur Phillips, portray expat life as having unusual rhythms. Innside each of these subcultures are shared passtimes, a unique lingo, and a set of unspoken rules about relating to the locals.
Thailand has one of the more defined expat subcultures. This is most likely due to The Kingdom's status as a hub for Southeast Asia. In the past this was a region of wars. Now, it's a region of commerce (and the odd small scale armed conflict). It must be said that what I shall say below about expat subculture, does not include every foreigner living and/or working in Thailand.
This video was posted on youtube. Dean Barrett is an old Thailand hand, but obviously not your stereotypical hard-bitten cynic. He is a figure in Thailand's expat community for having written a series of mediocre books about the country, mostly about the go-go bar scene.
Upon first watching the movie, you might notice Barrett's weird use of English. I fell into that in Vietnam while teaching English. After spending the day explaining things in simplified English, I found it harder and harder to slip back into my regular voice. Also, because my friends were Australian, Swedish, and Brits, I had to be cognoscente of these different dialects as well. I caught different sayings and idioms sneaking in to my vocabulary. Still, in public situations, I did my best to speak in the voice of a native Englsih speaker. I think Barrett has fallen into speaking bargirl English. Which might be understandable, considering the amount of time he claims to spend in bars.
Of course, you can’t talk about Thailand’s expat community without mentioning the sex-trade. Not only is it celebrated in this partucular video, it's all over youtube, the internet and virtually any other internet outlet which allows you to search for the word Thailand.
Mr. Barrett, god love ‘im, gives a cursory explanation of the morality issues. In a sense, he’s spot on. “Parachute journalists” condemn “The Industry” with one-sided arguments. There is no mention of the blinding poverty that some of these girls had to endure. There’s no mention of a culture which stresses loyalty to family above almost all else. There’s no mention of the view of sex as “scratching an itch.”
At the same time, Barrett, despite his years in country, comes across as ultra naive about the gritty aspects of this trade. These girls, while mostly there by choice, have short careers before it becomes impossible for them to compete with younger, fitter girls for customers. And surely there must be some psychological effects of sleeping with hundreds of different men each year.
A don’t criticize Barrett for admitting that he enjoys the sexual carnival that is Soi Cowboy, and Nana and Patpong. Who among heterosexual males wouldn’t. There’s an equivalent carnival for gay men as well, but that’s a whole ‘nother story. I guess I have to admit that I have enjoyed and will enjoy again, a trip to certain go-go bars in the three nightlife areas. But, at the same time, it is what it is: an industry, meant to make money from those who are seeking a break from reality. Most guys I know go out of their way to treat the girls working in this industry with respect. I’m sure Barrett is no exception. He’s human, just like you and me. So are the girls working at these bars. Sometimes, as Barrett's one sided monologue shows, that's an easy side of reality to forget.
4/04/2007
Subculture, Expat style
3/22/2007
The Late, Great Bingham
Perhaps one of the most talent writers of his generation, the late Robert Bingham managed to write one novel before his premature demise. That’s a shame for more reasons than one. Bingham weaves literary fireworks with his unique use of language, pitch black wit, and compelling narrative. He had a true talent for putting the reader in the mind of each character and bringing out the character, flaws and all, through their thought and actions. In this debut/swan song, Lightning on the Sun, a down and out expat named Asher tries to better his out of control life by initiating the smuggling of heroin from Cambodia into the US. Of course, this is Bingham’s nihilistic world where nothing goes as planned. His ex-girlfriend, herself looking for a chance to make her life as a strip club bartender better, has her own issues. The unwitting mule is a burnt out journalist who is home on a break from the Phnom Penh bureau. All these wonderfully flawed individuals populate a world in which pain rules. By the book’s end, the events of the story have built up so that when Asher gives the middle finger to his existance, and, one might say, to existance in general, it is uterly beleivable.
Bingham’s language is like that of New England prep school boy who graduated and spent time in places at the opposite end of the affluence scale. Half-dressed in designer threads, half covered in grit. This seems to correspond to the lives of the once affluent people crumbling apart in a place like Cambodia. The irony, which is lost to Asher, is that Cambodia is a place where most people would kill to be in these flawed foreigners. Indeed, some do kill in the attempt to get a little piece of the wealth. This point is not lost on Bingham, who endows his self-centered characters flashes of compassion.
Still, it is more spectacular and sustained missteps of these flawed elites that gives this story its juice.
Bingham would definitely have become one of those writers whose next release readers anxiously await. However, it was not to be. All that remains is this novel and a collection of short stories called, “Pure Slaughter Value.”
Bingham’s language is like that of New England prep school boy who graduated and spent time in places at the opposite end of the affluence scale. Half-dressed in designer threads, half covered in grit. This seems to correspond to the lives of the once affluent people crumbling apart in a place like Cambodia. The irony, which is lost to Asher, is that Cambodia is a place where most people would kill to be in these flawed foreigners. Indeed, some do kill in the attempt to get a little piece of the wealth. This point is not lost on Bingham, who endows his self-centered characters flashes of compassion.
Still, it is more spectacular and sustained missteps of these flawed elites that gives this story its juice.
Bingham would definitely have become one of those writers whose next release readers anxiously await. However, it was not to be. All that remains is this novel and a collection of short stories called, “Pure Slaughter Value.”
3/20/2007
Pocket Pissing
"Pissing in pockets."
A saying that was imbedded in my mind by a good friend who used it to explain the shenanigans of a certain breed of expats who frequented the back alley cafes of SaiGon’s Pham Ngu Lao Street. These lanes are exponentially quieter and freer of tourists than the main drags of Pham Ngu Lao and De Tham. But still, there can be a bit of drama. After all, this is where the bull shit gets heard.
Not that bullshit doesn’t exist elsewhere. It does. Everywhere, in fact. It’s simply that this small space is where I have found it to be most pronounced. Said pocket pissing takes place on a proportionately epic scale.
This kind of expat chatter is nothing new. Good God, Ernest Hemmingway made himself a legend by capturing the stuff on the page. Tough talk about bullfighting, hunting, fishing, war, death.
Usually, the purpose of this talk is simply the talk itself. Actions, whether real or imaginary, are sometimes performed for the sole purpose of using them in conversation. And there are props. On gentleman used to carry around a set of business cards he’d collected from clients, flashing them during conversations about the import export business. “These are my contacts. And these are just the one’s I carry around on weekdays. I’ve got another one for weekends,” he say (or something to that effect). Eventually, his money ran out. Everyone knew it, but he still persisted, bragging about his business plans. Some of the other guys would encourage it, voicing their own pipe dreams. I guess this is what is meant by pissing in one another’s pockets. “You give me some bull shit, and I, in turn, will give some to you. There, the score is even. We can now both feel that we will now succeed in our personal conquest of this part of the world.”
You feel sorry for them. Then, as the alcoholic beverages flow, things get a little more hostile, and you forget that you ever felt sorry for them.
I’m sure that pissing in pockets is harmless enough. Just remember to take any expat’s advice with a grain of salt. Especially when there are other expats around and alcohol is involved.
A saying that was imbedded in my mind by a good friend who used it to explain the shenanigans of a certain breed of expats who frequented the back alley cafes of SaiGon’s Pham Ngu Lao Street. These lanes are exponentially quieter and freer of tourists than the main drags of Pham Ngu Lao and De Tham. But still, there can be a bit of drama. After all, this is where the bull shit gets heard.
Not that bullshit doesn’t exist elsewhere. It does. Everywhere, in fact. It’s simply that this small space is where I have found it to be most pronounced. Said pocket pissing takes place on a proportionately epic scale.
This kind of expat chatter is nothing new. Good God, Ernest Hemmingway made himself a legend by capturing the stuff on the page. Tough talk about bullfighting, hunting, fishing, war, death.
Usually, the purpose of this talk is simply the talk itself. Actions, whether real or imaginary, are sometimes performed for the sole purpose of using them in conversation. And there are props. On gentleman used to carry around a set of business cards he’d collected from clients, flashing them during conversations about the import export business. “These are my contacts. And these are just the one’s I carry around on weekdays. I’ve got another one for weekends,” he say (or something to that effect). Eventually, his money ran out. Everyone knew it, but he still persisted, bragging about his business plans. Some of the other guys would encourage it, voicing their own pipe dreams. I guess this is what is meant by pissing in one another’s pockets. “You give me some bull shit, and I, in turn, will give some to you. There, the score is even. We can now both feel that we will now succeed in our personal conquest of this part of the world.”
You feel sorry for them. Then, as the alcoholic beverages flow, things get a little more hostile, and you forget that you ever felt sorry for them.
I’m sure that pissing in pockets is harmless enough. Just remember to take any expat’s advice with a grain of salt. Especially when there are other expats around and alcohol is involved.
3/16/2007
The Secret
Every once in a while people living in foreign country get wind of expat secrets, little rumors that are first whispered in the back of sticky-floored bars. Usually they are nothing worth getting excited about. Perhaps someone is whispering that they've found a cool new bar or a lead on a new teaching job. Most of the time, it’s people trying to act important by shelling out the Bull Shite, “pissing in one another’s pockets,” as an Australian friend of mine liked to say.
I became privy to one such secret that seemed to be guarded more than most. Said secret was whispered about in the back several Sai Gon bars (Ok, Ho Chi Minh City for you who have never been there for more than two weeks but insist on correctness without giving any regard to the locals, most of whom call it Sai Gon).
A rather enigmatic teacher, I'll call him Joe (for that was his name) would let slip that he was looking into a new school “somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“I can’t tell you. I’ll let you know if it works out. I'm not supposed to tell. That's the agreement.” And that was that.
Well, it didn’t work out for him because he stayed on at the school for another year. One night, for the price of several large Tiger Beers, he let me in on it, using a hushed voice ever though the music was too loud.
“Cambodia.”
“Cambodia?”
“Yeah.”
I thought of Cambodia as a backwater. Even though the border was nearby, I'd never thought of a visit. I always split to Bangkok for visa runs.
This guy went on to produce a flowering monologue about the reasonable salary expected by English teachers combined with the unspoiled, un-globalized vibe and the wild west feel on the streets. He went on to say that expats who had lucked into Cambodia didn’t want to spoil said vibe and feel. Therefore, they were sworn to secrecy, compelled not to sing the praises of Kampuchea.
However, with visions of Cambodia’s violent recent history, and rumors of frequent gun play and anarchy was enough o make most expats wary of relocating even if they had been privy to my Joe's epic account of all that was good about Cambodia.
Having since visited the country, I can say that there is a certain sense of idyll that is gained from walking through this land. However, I’ll say no more. I swore an oath not to.
I became privy to one such secret that seemed to be guarded more than most. Said secret was whispered about in the back several Sai Gon bars (Ok, Ho Chi Minh City for you who have never been there for more than two weeks but insist on correctness without giving any regard to the locals, most of whom call it Sai Gon).
A rather enigmatic teacher, I'll call him Joe (for that was his name) would let slip that he was looking into a new school “somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“I can’t tell you. I’ll let you know if it works out. I'm not supposed to tell. That's the agreement.” And that was that.
Well, it didn’t work out for him because he stayed on at the school for another year. One night, for the price of several large Tiger Beers, he let me in on it, using a hushed voice ever though the music was too loud.
“Cambodia.”
“Cambodia?”
“Yeah.”
I thought of Cambodia as a backwater. Even though the border was nearby, I'd never thought of a visit. I always split to Bangkok for visa runs.
This guy went on to produce a flowering monologue about the reasonable salary expected by English teachers combined with the unspoiled, un-globalized vibe and the wild west feel on the streets. He went on to say that expats who had lucked into Cambodia didn’t want to spoil said vibe and feel. Therefore, they were sworn to secrecy, compelled not to sing the praises of Kampuchea.
However, with visions of Cambodia’s violent recent history, and rumors of frequent gun play and anarchy was enough o make most expats wary of relocating even if they had been privy to my Joe's epic account of all that was good about Cambodia.
Having since visited the country, I can say that there is a certain sense of idyll that is gained from walking through this land. However, I’ll say no more. I swore an oath not to.
Theology of Ass-shaking
Indonesia is the largest Islamic country in the world. Given the stereotypes portrayed by the western media, Islamic countries are, by definition, rather conservative.
In Indonesia, this is obviously not the case. At least not everywhere. While there are some instances of "stepping over the boundaries" in regards to morality (the failed Playboy Magazine, for one), Indonesia is a country with a vibrant pop culture.
Take Inul Daratista as an example. Her name, when translated to English, means “the girl with the breasts." I’m not kidding y'all. She is a dangdut singer who has been been at the center of some moral controversies. You see, Dangdut is an Indonesian folk-pop music heavily influenced by Indian, Malay, and Arab music. Inul, along with many other singers of the genre, dance in a way which heavily utilizes their hips and rear ends. You know how Shakira dances? Times the number of hip movements by about 20 and run it on a continuous loop. That’s how Dangdut girls dance. Suggestive? Yes. But by no means overtly sexual.
Daratista dresses conservatively by pop princess standards. Jeez. She wears things some people might even consider wearing to the office, at least on casual Fridays. Still, some people are up in arms, saying they want to outlaw her style of dancing because it is obscene.
This might make the news, but such complaints are not much different from those of conservative groups here in the states.
What does this all mean? Nothing, probably. But still, as the West and Islamic worlds seem to keep bumping heads, one has to pay attention to Indonesia, and notice how pop culture has provided a counterpoint to keep religious conservatives honest.
In Indonesia, this is obviously not the case. At least not everywhere. While there are some instances of "stepping over the boundaries" in regards to morality (the failed Playboy Magazine, for one), Indonesia is a country with a vibrant pop culture.
Take Inul Daratista as an example. Her name, when translated to English, means “the girl with the breasts." I’m not kidding y'all. She is a dangdut singer who has been been at the center of some moral controversies. You see, Dangdut is an Indonesian folk-pop music heavily influenced by Indian, Malay, and Arab music. Inul, along with many other singers of the genre, dance in a way which heavily utilizes their hips and rear ends. You know how Shakira dances? Times the number of hip movements by about 20 and run it on a continuous loop. That’s how Dangdut girls dance. Suggestive? Yes. But by no means overtly sexual.
Daratista dresses conservatively by pop princess standards. Jeez. She wears things some people might even consider wearing to the office, at least on casual Fridays. Still, some people are up in arms, saying they want to outlaw her style of dancing because it is obscene.
This might make the news, but such complaints are not much different from those of conservative groups here in the states.
What does this all mean? Nothing, probably. But still, as the West and Islamic worlds seem to keep bumping heads, one has to pay attention to Indonesia, and notice how pop culture has provided a counterpoint to keep religious conservatives honest.
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