Moving home in Bangkok is a lucky dip of dungeons, covidians, and crackhead neighbours

Nostalgia and sheer terror.

As I brace for the various threateningly imminent impacts of 2023, I thought it prudent to reduce my monthly overheads and move home, for the umpteenth time. Reducing my living space by over 100 square meters will be an adjustment, although saving $600 in rent will be most welcome.

I ‘lucked out’ on the place I’ve occupied for the past 18 months, getting an outrageous scamdemic-related discount on the rental price; a sprawling two-story townhouse in the heart of Bangkok. The first few months were great fun. The place seemed purpose-built for hosting gatherings, and I felt duty-bound to host illicit drinking sessions late into the night during the height of curfew / lockdown insanity.

We had enough rooms to accommodate guests that had sunken into a stupor, or didn’t want to risk the Royal Thai Police nabbing them on their way home after 7/8/9pm for ‘breaking curfew’. The morning after the night before, the place would be littered with bodies (*not corpses), and Mrs. Creed would brew up a pot of fresh coffee whilst I rustled up a full English Breakfast: proper, thick-cut back bacon, local English-owned butcher’s sausages, grilled halved beef tomatoes, baked beans, and eggs however they were requested.

We really did spoil our friends. Then again, they never turned up empty handed, and our spirit cupboard was always well stocked with all sorts of paint-stripper-esque whiskey and rum provisions.

As with any seemingly too-good-to-be-true abode in this city, one can get ‘rug-pulled’ at any moment. We got a letter through the door one day informing us that the house opposite was to be demolished and rebuilt. Within four weeks we had home-shaking, bodily-organ-vibrating construction from 7am - 6pm six days a week, which then became 7 days a week for a few months.

We moved to the spare bedroom at the back of the house, for a brief respite from the construction noise, only to discover that the ‘rear neighbours’ opposite the little soi (road) seemed to be comprised of a large family with an animal sanctuary of mostly dogs, routinely barking from 1am-4am, followed by an elderly lady screaming at them and beating them with a stick.

Alas, it was time to move onto ‘greener pastures’, knowing full well that the dice is always being rolled when you decide to relocate within Bangkok.

It’s funny to recall that the reason I moved prior to this, was out of necessity and borderline eviction under the threat of being arrested. This was at the behest of a special breed of juristic manager at a condominium - a particularly nasty pedigree, the Covidius-Maximus.

I have written about this before, and you have all patiently waited long enough for me to release a redacted version of The Warning Letter, so here it is, into the wild to be free at last:

I had sensed something like this had been approaching for a while, as the entire building was filled with double-masking, medical-glove-wearing, liberal-hand-sanitiser-users, often shooting me those looks to infer that I was a filthy biohazard meatsuit.

It was also the only condominium building (in Bangkok) to my knowledge that implemented a swimming pool booking system during the scamdemic. The rooftop pool was approximately 25m long and 6m wide; big enough for at least 5 adults to do ‘serious swimming’ at any given time.

Then all of a sudden these clipboards popped up in the lobby and we were supposed to book ourselves in, one at a time, to swim or use the gym. Cue a bunch of selfish pricks booking up the prime-time hour slots for the whole month, rarely showing up (as I popped up whenever I felt like it), leaving only the midday sun slots and a few other slim pickings.

They also cordoned off the entire sun lounger area with red and white tape, as if it was an active crime scene under investigation.

A few days before The Letter was received, I casually popped up at the pool for a non-booked primetime slot, and to my surprise, there was a middle-aged little fella, kind of wading through the water, his upper body motioning a breast-stroke style of swimming, with his trotters plonked down one in front of the other as he walked across the length of the pool.

As I entered the water, the gentleman spun around and shouted at me:

What do you think you’re doing?! This is my time-slot! I booked it! Please get out! It’s not safe! Respect the rules around COVID-19.

I messed with him for a while, saying I was pretty sure I had booked this slot and there must have been a mistake with a double booking - basically I tried to blame the juristic management Covidians for a laugh. The bloke was having none of it and kept ranting at me. I then said:

Do you think you are going to die if I enter the water? Are you so completely deranged and fearful of COVID-19 that you honestly believe that two people cannot swim in this pool without a risk of contagion from a disease you believe to be deadly? I pay rent to live in this building and use the amenities, I do not give a flying f*** about these rules or the booking system. I am going for a swim. Leave me alone.

Maybe it was a bit overly harsh, but he brought it upon himself, and he needed to be told, he needed a dose of reality.

Then I thought it would be good for a giggle to print out and stick up this meme on the door leading to the rooftop:

The pool incident may have been the catalyst that spurned him on to complain about me, perhaps then banding together with other Covidian bed-wetters, in a plot to oust me from the building.

Back to The Letter.

I laughed heartily upon reading it in my room. Then I put my game-face on and decided to to battle with the Covidians face to face. It really tested my Thai language abilities and I got quite a kick out of just how articulate I had become at being able to complain, justifiably, whilst condemning immoral Covidian behavioural (new) norms. English translation:

“I’ve just read your letter, and I think it is ridiculous that you referred to me not wearing a mask as an ‘investigation’, even taking the time to capture screenshots from CCTV footage. Are you the juristic-managers, that are supposed to be service-minded, to look after the tenants, or are you just becoming like the police now?” I enquired within.

“You make nothing but trouble for us. Everyone else in the condo follows the rules. They wear a mask in the common areas, in the carpark, and in the elevator. Many people complain about you. If you do not start wearing a mask today, we will call the police to arrest you!” The lady snarled at me.

“One day, maybe a year from now or many years from now, you will remember your actions today, and you will be ashamed and embarrassed to remember how crazily you acted. When you do bad deeds, bad things will come back to you (Thai proverb). Go ahead and call the police. I’m moving out of this new normal prison.”

I searched for properties online and had moved out within 72 hours; forfeiting my entire deposit from a ruthless landlord, who had feigned sympathy for my plight, as the new normal conditions had become further entrenched as time went on, to the point of unbearable living conditions (for non-conformists to the new normal ideology).

---

If we harken back to B.C. (before COVID) times, my first ever apartment - many moons ago, was a mere 5,000 THB per month ($153 USD), for a 35 SQM studio in The Meechai Mansion - I believe the price remains unchanged to this day by the way. I was happy there for a few years as an English teacher earning 47,000 THB per month.

I had a good rabble of mates living there, and we would often sit on my friend’s balcony, watching beautiful Japanese-housewives drive up to the male brothel (I kid you not) opposite, at ridiculous O’clock in the morning, then slipping inside the establishment - Valentines - to be greeted by tall, white-skinned, boy-band looking gigolos. It was great people-watching fun, whilst sipping on cheap Thai beer. My American friend applied for a job there once, but they steadfastly refused his application; only Thai nationals were allowed to work there as prostitutes.

My brother is the only living soul to have infiltrated the brothel, when I put him up in the Meechai Mansion (only 700 THB per night for short-stays, I know, I should be on commission here). After a massive session in Kao San Road, I dropped him off at “The Meech” and then apparently he made a beeline straight for Valentines, after spotting some Japanese housewives pulling up in their Mercedes and entering the establishment.

The story goes, that the tall, light-skinned boy-band gigolos, thought my pint-sized handsome little brother was hilarious, and perhaps would hold some novelty value to let him inside. Big mistake. At first he said it was all fun and games, literally, as he joined the gigolos on stage to perform Chippendale-style strip-teases (only shirtless, he claims), as he swung his shirt around his head then flung it into the adoring crowd of Japanese housewives having a play whilst the cat (husband) was away.

Then once the performances had died down, my brother was charging around the place ‘harassing’ groups of women on various tables - basically trying to chat them up. At which point the managers turfed him out for ‘causing a nuisance’, bless his little cotton socks.

There was a snooker / pool hall in the basement level of the Meechai Mansion condo (long since gone, I think*), where my friends and I congregated during the 2010-2011 militarily enforced curfews when the tanks were roaming the streets. Signs everywhere inside advising that smoking was strictly prohibited, subject to a 5,000 THB fine (cost of the condo rent!), yet everyone was smoking and ashtrays were provided on each and every table. Ah Bangkok, the land of paradoxes.

After The Meechai Mansion, I thought I had made it out of dodge, moving into a more salubrious and affluent area; a huge 600-unit high-rise beautiful new building. That experience deteriorated rapidly when I discovered that my sweet and innocent looking neighbour, a cute young Thai lady, was an actual crackhead. She partied hard.

I found myself knocking on her door at all hours as the decibel level from her party raves penetrated my thin walls. She would answer the door red-eyed and completely out of it; I am almost certain she was smoking ‘ice’ or crystal methamphetamine. Then one night I got a knock on the door, she had sent the boyz round to have a quiet word with me, about five men armed with baseball bats and meat-cleavers. They told me to stop bothering her.

I moved out the following week.

Now I’ve come full circle, moving back to the original vicinity of The Meechai Mansion - Ratchada. I will pray for the best living conditions, yet prepare for the worst.

I will have more disposable income, which will come in handy for domestic trips with Mrs. Creed, island-hopping more often, or other times finding a quiet wooden house on stilts in the jungle topography of Kanchanaburi and such-like.

Wish me luck. I’d better get off now and pack the rest of my life up before the van arrives.

Nicholas Creed is a Bangkok-based journalistic dissident and occasional songwriter. If you liked this content and wish to support the work, buy him a coffee or consider a crypto donation:

BTC: 39CbWqWXYzqXshzNbosbtBDf1YoJfhsr45

XMR:86nUmkrzChrCS4v5j6g3dtWy6RZAAazfCPsC8QLt7cEndNhMpouzabBXFvhTVFH3u3UsA1yTCkDvwRyGQNnK74Q2AoJs6Pt