Bangkok Hard Time Read Online Free PDF

communist Pathet Lao, and the border with Thailand was still very open and porous, a policy which continued for the next seven years. But we did have to pay a uniformed Laotian officer the equivalent of three dollars in Thai money in lieu of a passport upon disembarking.
    We all stumbled off the bus into the overcast early morning light of a Laos in mid-rainy season. It was only then that we discovered the destination of the three hippies was the same as ours. The Third Eye Bar with its adjacent guesthouse and bungalows was a notorious establishment catering to the few foreigners in wartime Laos. It was reputed to have a vibrating floor – or at least that is what some other kids from ISB who had previously made the trip claimed. One of us had inquired in Thai as to the Third Eye’s whereabouts. The Laotian language is very similar to Thai and easily understood by Laotion locals living close to the border. When the Kiwis overheard us asking directions in an indigenous tongue, one of them said, “Ask him where The Third Eye Bar is.”
    Arrogantly acting as if we already had known where it was, we all headed off to our destination via the sprawling open-air market on either side of the road leading from the bus station into the city. Passing the various stalls that sold everything you could imagine and many things you did not even know existed, we finally reached the few small tables of the ganja market that we had heard of. Seeing cannabis being sold openly was part of our juvenile quest. Arriving later at the guesthouse next to the Third Eye Bar only slightly burdened by our purchases had us in possession of our final goal.
    The squalid little cubicle we crashed at in the dismal hostel adjoining the bar was practically airless save for one small window. That window let the smoke from the ensuing smokefest filter out of the room, but did not seem to bring any fresh air in. Mercifully, the Southeast Asian monsoon skies opened up for a few minutes with shot-glass-sized raindrops and cleaned the atmosphere like only a fierce Asian rain can. During a pause in the storm, we slogged through the muddy walkway leading to the building next door and into the infamous Third Eye Bar.
    The interior of the half-concrete, half-wooden structure was as dank and musty as our accommodations in the hostel. A cracked concrete floor tilted crazily at multiple angles, making it difficult to traverse as we plodded in from the quagmire outside. Under the dim glow of painted light bulbs, the eyes of a dozen or so bargirls, who were many long years past qualifying as girls, followed our progress. Half a dozen or so foreign patrons silently occupied the only stools that stood straight up from the few level floor segments in front of the bar. While trying to sit on a canted barstool without sliding off, I ordered a screwdriver and was given a small glass of sour orange juice with no ice but containing an adequate amount of vodka.
    We wisely moved to a sticky table and chairs in the middle of the establishment. At the next table over was a fat, middle-aged, sweaty Frenchman in a soiled white suit. On his lap (what lap there was) perched an older Laotian working girl who was speaking softly to him in French. Her white pancake makeup with heavily rouged cheeks and bright red lipstick contrasted harshly against her soft brown skin and effaced any natural beauty that had ever existed there. The obviously inebriated Frenchman stared at us threateningly as if warning us away from eying his current girlfriend of the moment.
    The bar’s quiet and strangely strained atmosphere was soon broken. From behind us came a weirdly familiar sound. On a raised wooden stage in the corner were three hippies with guitars and a tambourine singing “If you’re going to Vientiane, Laos”. The entertainers for the evening, the same three hippies that we had encountered on the train, were singing for their room and board plus tips.
    After we downed a few drinks, they sounded a