Walking the plank.

[Edited because Chris just sent me a link for an article on pirates in the Bangkok Recorder.]

As I've explained earlier, the word for foreigners out here is farang. (Or maybe it's falang and just pronounced "farang?" Whatever.) In Thailand, however, there is another way (one that my friend Chris LOVES) to describe a very specific kind of foreigner: Pirate. Since back in Laos, Chris has been making a hook with his index finger and hooking us whenever we caught a glimpse of a pirate.

[This cat is too much. He won't stop trying to lick my head. And he purrs like a little engine when he does it. Apparently, it's a by-product of being weaned too early. It's bizarre. My favorite is how he meows in a pissed off manner whenever you prevent him from doing what he wants.]

So what exactly is a pirate? Well, there doesn't seem to be a specific formula, but you know you're looking at a pirate when you see that special combination of tattoos, stringy hair, and questionable clothing (think tanks, maybe mesh shirts). They're the type of Westerner that makes other Westerners sort of cringe when you see them because you can't help but think, "Please don't lump me into the same group as THAT GUY." It's quite likely that they smell a bit. I'm not sure where the fine line between backpacker and pirate gets crossed, but I'm going to be liberal with my labeling. You look like a pirate to me, you're a pirate.

[Ha! Foiled kitty with a turban-style headdress. Oh, except now he's chewing the headdress.]

Yesterday, the boys and I headed down to Khao San Road ("KSR") after visits to the gigantic reclining Buddha at Wat Pho and the grounds of the Royal Palace (including the Emerald Buddha). KSR is labelled in one of my guidebooks as the "travelers' ghetto." A bunch of years back, the guy who wrote The Beach (you know it, the movie starred Leonardo DiCrapio) called it (I'm paraphrasing now) the road where East meets West. I like to call it, "The Plank."

KSR is really a pretty short stretch of road. Both sides are littered with stores that cater to Westerners, bars that cater to Westerners, and stalls, carts, and other makeshift vending establishments all attempting to cater to Westerners. And, of course, Westerners (and, to be fair, Easterners as well -- I saw quite a few Japanese tourists bopping around in there). Choosing a bar (with a TERRIBLE cover band, no Lao Kelly Clarkson this time) as a bit of home base, we proceeded to go out into the Khao San in pairs and small groups to run various errands: Some of us visited the Boots chemist for malaria pills, cough medicine, and multivitamins. Most of the boys checked e-mail at the internet cafe (they are not as lucky as yours truly). Mustafa got a (bad) foot massage. Ale and Adam attempted to buy some neat-o tuk-tuk t-shirts (but failed due to a mildly insane - and possibly narcoleptic - shopwoman).

And Rickel, Graham, and Ale ate scorpions.

But while all this was happening, KSR raged on around us. Young travelers, old travelers, families...you name it, KSR had it. Pretty soon, even I was starting to be won over by the sheer insanity of it. Still, there was something off to me. It didn't have that sort of strangely natural insanity of Bombay. That insanity belonged to the city and its people. It was loud and busy and noisy and smoggy but it was all somehow organic. Here, the insanity was a Western one. It had nothing to do with the people and things of this city. It had everything to do with Dutch families and Japanese couples and Italian girls and British pirates. And when juxtaposed with the peaceful beauty of the earlier Buddhas, it wasn't what I would call a pretty sight.

So, when presented with the option of hitting gay karaoke on Soi 4, I jumped ship.