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Host responsibility
Patong is built alongside a stretch of white sandy beach, perhaps five kilometer from end to end, with three parallel roads running the length of the town and intersected by a few crossroads and lanes, or sois. One of these, Bangla Street, is closed to traffic after 6.00 in the evening and from then its party time. A map shows more than 180 bars in this one small area and they embrace an interesting array of names: Wet Dreams, G Spot Bar, Cheeky Girls, Dirty Deeds, Ooh La La Bar, The Love Bar, and Rock Hard A Go Go, a gentleman’s club advertising sexy lady dance shows. A sign fixed to a lamp post urging: Repent, the Kingdom of God is near, appears to have had no effect.
As if 180 bars isn’t enough, hotels, restaurants and bars dominate the two main roads, there are more at the edge of town, including one with the enticing name of Durty Munger’s, and then our Kiwi bar is further back behind the main markets among a cluster of perhaps thirty mainly Aussie-theme bars.
Host responsibility is a simple proposition, to extract as much money as quickly as possible from tourists, and it is a simple repertoire. Flatter the punters and engage them in games of Connect Four, a dice game called Jackpot, and competitions involving banging nails into a block of wood using anvil-headed hammers. It starts simply as fun to fill in time, but as the intensity increases wagers involve the losers buying a drink for the winner, and then rounds of sambucca or tequila, accompanied by the ringing of a gong and loud cheering. Naturally, the well-practiced bar staff have it all over the customers at games, but let them win often enough to keep them interested, and buying. And all the while the owner runs a tab, much easier than paying every time a round is brought - which seems to make sense at the time.
It would be disingenuous to say we hadn’t been caught, once, but we are old hands now and watch the staff work their charms on others. We just get chided gently for not calling in more regularly and then for not drinking enough. “Mamma, Pappa, you haven’t been here for three days, two hours and six minutes, and you’re just drinking beer, what about a tequila?” they say, declaring our guilt before giggling and regaling us with stories of their antics since our last visit. They may get the patrons absolutely hammered but, equally, they party hard themselves to keep the money flowing in. Winston Churchill would have been proud to have soldiers as willing to lay down their bodies in the line of duty.
It would be wrong to give a bad impression. Many visitors come with the purpose of drinking hard, and so they do, but it is in a relaxed, fun environment. Unlike New Zealand, there is no aggression and certainly no fighting and the bar owners and staff, while sharp, are also engaging and friendly in a genuine way. They are keen to give tips to ensure we get the most out of our holiday, the Kiwi bar owner introduced us to her children and one of the staff came in on her day off just to catch up when she heard we were there. On only our second trip to Scruffy Murphy’s, one of three faux Irish pubs in town, the wait person immediately recognized us and offered us a pint each of Singha beer, our tipple from the earlier visit. And it’s not that our behaviour had been memorable, it had been a modest occasion, but it does illustrate an attention to service and detail not usually found at home.
We have only three more days left here and one thing is certain, we are not yet quite ready to repent and find the Kingdom of God. And on a more practical level we also need to return when the Hard Rock Café re-opens after renovation so that Marty can add another shot glass to his collection.