Bangkok

Bangkok is unique. Unchained, exuberant, roaring.
Getting around by bike requires a constant awakening, good reserves of adrenaline and a small dose of madness. In peak hours, the crowded arteries allow only a meticulous and laborious slalom, inspired by the 2 motorized wheels that do not fail to spit their gasvenom under your nostrils at every red light. Taxis, empty and in a hurry to catch their next prey or ordered to stop in incongruous places to satisfy the king customer, are by far the most dangerous cohabitants of the urban jungle. Buses and especially tuk tuk scan the ideal route imbued with the fluidity of the cyclist but bring you the charm of local life before your eyes. Individual cars, on the other, are as bland, oversized and despairing as in our attitudes.

By day, pedals in motion, figies of the new king, tricolor flags and yellow Buddhist shingles parade at the corners of your sharp eyes like a well-honed kaleidoscope. At a standstill, the gilding and serpential shapes of countless temples, as well as the open-air kitchens or the sinious writings of Chinatown, draw you to the exoticism of a future break. Looking up, what you will rarely do as it is difficult to lose the thread of traffic, it is the skyscrapers and subways “out of ground”, edified or in the process of being, that will enchant you or indignant you according to that your antibodies are still attached to the fever e expansionist or you have just completed the last issue of the Decline.

At night, if you have the chance to pedal at full speed on a little busy aisle, the scripted or decorative neon neon will gradually make you lose your footing and you will find an impromptu poetic refuge in the ever-ambient moist. If you are, rightly, of the family of nocturnal advertising sign outs, throwing yourself into this task would be totally despairing here. Just enjoy the stupas sublimated by their projectors that bloom like stalagmites on the edge of the dirty river. Or change your senses, feel the last edible scents that triumph over the carbonized nitrogen stagnant on the asphalt like a stubborn fog. Listen to the soft roll of oriental tongues surpassed by the rattling of the stalls being stored that syncs with that of your adventure partner’s derail. Touch your brakes and rest assured, they will hold as much to the next urban alert as in the mountains once you leave the big city.
Return to sight, leave your brain at rest and remember the mop of the day for an innocuous count of tricolor fire.
5-4-3-2-1… Bangkok.

Illustration by Charles

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