Tag: hotels

On the Subtle Art of Washing your Testicles Amongst other Sets of Testicles

I have stayed in capsules (also known as pods, or coffins if one is feeling disparaging, or claustrophobic) in Singapore, Bangkok, Jerusalem, and Phnom Penh. But this is the first time I have stayed in a purpose-built capsule hotel. Japan, of course, is where this method of accommodation originated, with the idea that drunk salarymen who missed the last train home needed a cheap place to sleep, sober up, and start again in the morning. It’s the same thought process that leads convenience stores in Japan to sell underwear and socks. For budget travellers in a country known for being tough on even a generous travel budget, they are an ideal alternative to hostels, providing a place to sleep, attend to personal hygiene, and to have a tiny piece of privacy, which is in short supply in Tokyo.

By Chris 73 / Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=19656 Same model capsule as in my hotel.

Two things bugged me about this capsule hotel. The first being the fact that even with my multiple-night booking, I still had to vacate the hotel by 1100 every day, and my belongings evicted to a tiny locker or the luggage storage room on the top floor. The second was the public baths, which were the only option for bathing for men staying at this hotel.

You strip naked at your locker, and enter the main bathroom, where you sit at a plastic stool set in front of a set of taps and a wall-long mirror. Shower gel and shampoo are provided, and here is where you lather up your entire body, scrub, and then rinse off. Once you are clean enough, you are free to have a soak in one of the spa baths or use the sauna.

Naked men omitted.

Now you are clean and relaxed, you sit at what amounts to bathroom sinks, and brush your teeth, do your hair, shave, etc.. Still, during all this, you are supposed to be completely naked. Once again, I was supplied with a hair dryer with no hair to dry. Once you are satisfied with your appearance, or at least manage to delude yourself that you are in fact highly attractive, you discard your towel and dress in the super sexy robes provided by the hotel, and lounge around for the rest of the night.

With every selfie, the eye bags get a little bigger.

The Japanese, of course, take all this nudity in their stride. It’s part of their culture, and I suspect they think no more about it than I do when getting changed at gyms. They don’t exactly strut around, but act as if its the most normal thing to be naked, which of course it would be if we didn’t get screwed over by a snake.

Numerous times in my five-night stay, I used this shared space every night, and every night I noticed a new resident walk in, look confused, look for the shower stalls they were expecting, before trying to look nonchalant and getting on with it. Most notably was a six foot six African gentleman, who had more muscle mass in his neck than I can claim all over, looking around bashfully, trying to wrap the towel around himself modestly (they seem to be made so you cannot quite do this) before getting on with it like everyone else. This was in constrast to the fact that he had nothing to be bashful about, having a body that most of us are envious of.

At first I was also awkward, but after the second night, I got used to it and enjoyed the process. Then it got routine, then tedious. By the last night, I was wishing I could just have a quick shower without getting involved in a ritual. I was also thinking that at some point I was going to get up arse up, slipping on the slippery tiles-Who thought that was a good idea? I’ll tell you one thing about bathing in company, it does wonders for your willingness to take your time washing everywhere when you are surrounded by men doing the same.

Pattaya and the Plague

Due to my unhealthy addiction to Youtube, during the planning stage of my trip I discovered a number of channels by expats living in Pattaya, a city that I had only ever heard of in reference to the sex trade. In contrast to stereotypes, these often charismatic men were unabashed and proud of the place they had made their homes.

I would love to have a beer with this guy.

I made up my mind, I would go to Pattaya, let it wash over me, maybe sample some delights as my somewhat untrustworthy ethics would allow, then leave before I learned to love or hate the place.

By the time I got off the bus in Pattaya, three things made this plan unmanageable. First, I was in a meaningful, exclusive relationship, not the bored and horny single man I was when I was still at home. Second, the Aussie dollar was taking a massive battering against all other currencies, in addition to inflation, which meant I was on a stricter budget than I was used to, and a night’s drinking at inflated Go-Go bar prices was not an option unless I was willing to sleep under bridges until next pay-day. Thirdly, in Kanchanaburi I had gained some kind of horrible flu, and all I wanted to do was sleep with my back against a wall. None of this boded well for any kind of Gonzo journalism, but with bloody-mindedness typical of me, I went anyway.

I booked a three night stay in a hotel just back from the beach road in Jomtien, a satellite city of Pattaya. Of course my room was in a low-rent wing of an otherwise fancy hotel, that seemed to be exclusively inhabited by local workers. I didn’t mind that, but I did mind the slices of tomato that stayed in the hallway for two days, and the shared bathroom that looked like it had been transplanted from a maximum security prison. For the first two nights I only left the hotel for food, medication and runs to the nearest Seven-Eleven.

My first impressions of Jomtien from my short trips was of incredible normalness. For every single guy I saw, there were three or four couples, some with kids in tow. Surely they all cannot be here out of morbid curiosity? The beach was long, straight, and made up of yellow-grey course sand, not at all inviting to me even if I was not feeling like a brisk walk would kill me.

There seemed to be a lot of businesses run by Russians, for Russians, which I soon learned to avoid.

By the last night I started to feel vaguely human, so I took a baht bus from the beach towards Central Pattaya, and then walked up to the Big Buddha Temple.

Further evidence of my unwillingness to spend time with my back to the door of that bathroom.

I continued walking towards the infamous Walking Street. I passed Seven-Elevens, I passed squash courts underneath freeway overpasses, I passed more weed dispensaries that I thought were sustainable. When I started passing an alarming number of Indian restaurants and massage parlours, I figured I was getting close.

Very useful, thanks.

By now it was raining, and just on six PM, I suspected it would be a few more hours before things got interesting, but I was already feeling tired and a little unimpressed with myself when I got to Walking Street. Out of instinct to get off the street while I had no real purpose, I found a restaurant and ordered a decent chicken rice dish and two only slightly overpriced beers.

When I paid up and continued walking, things did look a little busier but still hardly pumping. I noticed a Korean tour group being led through the streets, never a good sign when you want any kind of authentic experience. And like most tour groups, they seemed to be going through the motions rather than any kind of meaningful experience or education. At least I didn’t have to follow a bored man waving a flag. I observed a few clubs, but no one trying to drag people in like I was warned about, and the prospect of entering felt like a Rubicon that I was not willing to cross.

Just going through the motions.

Of course, there were a number of weed shops, and a handful of stalls selling butterfly knives, nunchucks and other things only being sold because they were illegal back home. Further down the road there was a number of businesses advertising Russian girls. I know for a long time women from former Soviet Bloc countries having been selling their services, sometimes in conditions that would be described as slavery, in South East Asia for years, but I suspect recent events have made this even more prevalent.

If they were Russian Salty Girls I would have been straight in.

By now, I was feeling tired, bored, and mildly sexually frustrated. I got to the end of Walking Street, got a Pocari Sweat from Seven-Eleven, and then a Grab back to my hotel. It was nine o’clock.

If you liked this post, please check out the rest of the posts from this trip here!