Neon and Firecrackers - Patpong Road, Bangkok | Bangkok, Thailand

Khao San Road was everything I was beginning to hate about traveling. Inflated prices, budget travelers by the bus load, video bars, westernised food and switched on locals who knew how to squeeze you for a buck. T-shirts that loose their color and shape after a single wash, watches that cease to tick moments after a completed transaction, fake credentials, fly by night travel agents and second hand bookshops charging first hand prices.

I wanted out, I went to Patpong Road. I had been assured Patpong can be a laugh in a group - ours was again up to nine. We had bumped into John and Obie buying banana shakes earlier that afternoon along Chakra Bongse Road and they decided that a night of nudity and cold beer held merit. "Bitchin man! Like those babes shoot darts from downstairs. Awesome!" Obie was later proven correct.

Before I go on, perhaps a little history lesson is in order. In the late 1960's an American entrepreneur turned an existing tea-house into an opulent nightclub catering solely for the predilection of American GIs on rest and relaxation leave from their efforts in Vietnam. From there, word spread, the red light district grew and Patpong's infamy was born. But the true roots of Thai prostitution are buried much deeper than this.

Long before Thailand openly promoted itself to western cultures as a destination for the sexually voracious, Thai men were practising polygamy and using prostitution at rates that many Westerners would find staggering. Even up until 1910 and the reign of Rama VI, Thai Kings kept a harem of minor wives for sexual gratification. Although Thai royalty has seen the wisdom of monogamous ways, many Thai men still juggle a mistress with an official wife - seen as a perfectly acceptable practice for those in a position to do so. For those who can't, prostitution offers a cheap and supposedly, satisfying alternative. Strange, since its been illegal since 1960.

But Patpong is merely a name that Westerners associate with the Thai sex industry. It is barely a pimple on the bum of Thailand's skin trade. It caters predominately for farangs, from the sex tourist to the slightly curious.

The number of Thai females earning a living from prostitution is estimated by the Children's Rights Protection Agency at up to two million. Many of these come from the poorer Northern and North Eastern regions where a single nights work can reap more than a months income derived from a job tending crops. Of those an estimated 800,000 are under the age of sixteen. Sad but true.

A low rise sprawl, directly contrasting the surrounding business district, Patpong comes to life when the sun goes down. Neon and sparkles promote places like Lipstick, Fire Cat, Pussy Galore, Super Pussy, KISS and Goldfingers. Open doors offer a glimpse of skin and a lick of lingerie to the passer by. On the pavement scantily clad Thai beauties work in tandem with persistent doormen drumming up business. "You want pussy?"

Young drunkens out on a bender, backpackers, businessmen, the curious and the depraved. They're all here, for whatever reason. The sticky, summer air complements the sleazy milieu.

A section of Patpong Road between the eastern ends of Silom and Suriwong roads is blocked to traffic and market stalls take over the tarmac. The usual crud is sold. Fake designer watches, electronic gadgetry, bogus branded T-shirts and Kentucky Fried Chicken. Sleaze and junk merchants. Sort of like, Dollar Savers meets Deep Throat.

After doing a couple of laps and seeing what was on offer we made our decision. A decision based solely on the cover charge. There wasn't one, and backed up by an aging piece of laminated paper showing stick figures in intriguing, if somewhat unbelievable contortions. "Look at the flyer man", Obie said slowly, quietly and deliberately. "There's gotta be some double jointed shit going down up there." he added, with a lot more enthusiasm.

I questioned one of the many doorman regarding the possibility of being herded into a back room, striped naked, relieved of our cash and passports, being done over with frighteningly large, black dildos in front of more fiscally fortunate clientele behind one way glass, and then being ejected via a fire exit into an alleyway full of mangy mutts. He assured me the rumors about Patpong were just that. At his club anyway. However, he couldn't vouch for the competition, who may well do much worse.

"He does have a badge", Belly offered. Which was true. Apparently our chosen venue was a member of some elite group of porn merchants. His I.D. was supposed proof. Hard to swallow when you've just come from Khao San Road. If you believed my recently acquired credentials I am a student at Hull University, a photographer for the London Times and the Sultan of Brunei. But our decision was made and as a group we climbed the stairwell.

Pushing through some decidedly seventies string bead curtains we had arrived. Like VIPs we were ushered to stools at the island bar by a short well dressed greaser with a porno mustache and a penchant for cheap aftershave. Pole position seats for the show that was already in full swing. The lighting was dingy, the place smelt of sweat and smoke. A passage for prostitutes ringed the bar stools. The clack of stilettos soon signaled their arrival.

Apparently, I had caught the eye of Vulva, although I doubt that was her real name. No sooner had I shelled out a months wages for a round of Tiger beers, she was onto me, kneading my shoulders and nibbling my ear, oblivious to the fact we had arrived with three women. Vulva, was an aging, widening woman who was once possibly a man. Maybe she still was, I was in no mood to find out. Looking a little too much like Zsa Zsa Gabor's long lost Thai sister for my liking I had to think of something quickly. "You like me, you like me" she repeated. I'm not sure if it was a command or a question. She ran her hands up and down the length of my arms as she rubbed her ample bosom into my back. I was afraid to ask her to stop. To my left, Ben was receiving similar treatment from an infinitely more attractive and decidedly more petite version of Thai femininity. He threw a smile in my direction. I gave him the finger. I took my leave, despite pleas from my new found friend. I needed the toilet, or at the least the distraction it provided.

Now toilet, there is a word that if you think about it for a moment implies at least a small deal of privacy. A chamber of isolation in which to perform those most private and primitive of functions. In the strict definition of the noun it hints at a physical structure complete with S bend, seat and flush function, but a sink? That is where the toothless, grinning attendant pointed me when I ventured behind his curtain. Not only did this toilet lack a toilet it also doubled as a changing room for the entertainment. Can you for a moment imagine, how hard it is to begin your stream under the watchful gaze of three semi naked, Thai prostitutes and a man who thought dental hygiene was a chain of panel beating shops. I managed a dribble and a shake and then turned to take my leave as a pine scent filled the air. I was stopped at the curtain by the gummy the attendant who demanded money for the fragrance. I demanded money for the exhibition. We came to an agreement whereby I gave him 25 baht and he didn't smash my kneecaps. It must be said, the room did smell pine fresh.

I was eager to get out of there. I was also eager to avoid Vulva so to speak, for the first time in my post-pubescent life. Our crew had moved to one of the less accessible parts of the club and crowded around a couple of tables placed suspiciously below a dozen multicolored balloons. At the time I thought little of it.

On the poorly lit stage an older woman with short hair and a flat chest blew an umpires whistle through a part of her anatomy I had wrongly assumed could not draw breath. She'd give it a blast, swivel 90 degrees, then repeat the process until she had completed four full circles. On the completion of her act Obie and John rose to clap and offer their more conventional form of whistle, but they were alone in doing so. It seemed the floor show was quite secondary to the whole business of the club. In fact besides our group and a couple of other backpackers, there were very few patrons taking any notice of proceedings on stage at all.

Red velvet couches lined the walls, where middle aged business men got comfy with up to three local girls at a time. They looked wretched, swilling beer and rolling around, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they were still in full view of everyone. Cheap art tried in vain to add a touch of class to the place.

Within minutes of new visitors arriving they were surrounded by prostitutes. Some where quicker than others on the uptake. That's what this place was all about. The stage show was there to draw the punters who came through curiosity, the beer prices paid the wages of the girls on stage. The whole setup was a front for prostitution. Admittedly, it made no claims to the contrary.

Almost inevitably "One night in Bangkok" found its way onto the turntable as six, tired looking girls took the stage and danced their little routine. Clad only in bikini bottoms they didn't attempt to hide their disinterest. Further sexual misdemeanors followed. There was the genital endangering firecracker show, the magically appearing pearls display and the downstairs cigarette smoker. Who knows what the Surgeon General would have made of that one.

I struck up a conversation with Dan a thirty five year old, New Zealand Accountant who was sat on the table next to ours. This was his third visit to Thailand in as many years. He usually spent a week on the islands of the South, Phuket or Ko Samui and then a week in Bangkok. He freely admitted that he came to Bangkok purely for the prostitution and saw nothing wrong with that. He laboured the point that he would never seek out under age Thai girls although he thought they were offered to him on a regular basis. "Hard to tell, ya know?" He went on to tell me that if you start flirting with the girls in these places you were expected to sleep with them. The proprietors did not take kindly to men wasting their time without forking out the Baht. That's where the trouble usually started.

Dan cut a pretty pathetic figure. Alone, paying the equivalent of five New Zealand dollars for a beer, waiting, knowing in time he'd be approached by a sure thing. I asked him if he'd ever had any problems. He told me that in 1997 he'd woken up in his hotel room minus his wallet and watch but he said with a laugh, "there was bugger all cash in it and the watch was a Bangkok cheapy anyway". It obviously hadn't dulled his enthusiasm.

The last act I caught literally frightened the life out of me. I clearly remember Emma's scream as a balloon above our heads burst. It wasn't until I saw the human pop gun on stage that I put two and two together. You can guess the rest. Twelve shots, twelve pops. Not bad from a range of twenty feet. Obie and John were visibly chuffed.

I was growing sick of the place. It was out of morbid curiosity that I came but excuse the pun, I left with a bitter taste in my mouth. We left the club to the dismay of Vulva as Dan bought a drink for his newly found friend for the evening. He gave me the thumbs up as we left. I forced a smile.

Budget Accommodation in Thailand