You can feel rich on a drained bank account in Bangkok – but even this shopping paradise is not immune from the global recession
RUPERT MURDOCH opened Davos this week by telling high-flying delegates that we are all living beyond our means and we have to stop. Rupert, we know, we know. Trouble is, it is hard to break the habit of a decade. Which is why I am writing this beside the pool, under a palm tree, inside a cabana, lying against a heap of pillows. The merest lift of an eyebrow brings a man with a glass of iced water or a verbena-scented cold towel or a copy of Vogue. A little sorbet, madam? Why not, it's terribly hot.
We’re in Thailand on a family reunion holiday that was booked last year before the economy took a nosedive. Strictly speaking, this week is beyond our means, but there was no getting out of it. Honestly. And we got a group rate.
Frankly, it was thrilling to escape all the bad news. At Dublin airport – a lot of empty check-in desks, none of the zig-zag queues for departures – we met some acquaintances who were quietly tiptoeing out of the country for a long holiday, but didn’t want to be quoted on it. Wouldn’t look good.
It’s a guilt thing now. People feel they have to explain any unusual expenditure. Big purchases come with an automatic disclaimer, usually the size of the discount involved. Long-haul travel warrants a particularly lengthy explanation – see above. In America, they are calling it spending shame. How do you justify going places and buying things when the world is in financial tatters? By shopping anyway, but doing it discreetly. No flashing the carrier bags. Spending shame has a number of offspring, like spa guilt, wardrobe remorse and shoe chagrin, all of which must be endured by those who want their treats but can’t brag about them anymore.
Back to the holiday. We arrived into Chinese new year celebrations in Bangkok and were given gifts of money at the hotel – shiny red envelopes with coins in them. It’s the Year of the Ox, which stands for diligence and sacrifice on the Chinese lunar calendar: handy pointers for the year ahead.
Thailand has plenty of reasons to be gloomy too, with tourism figures drastically down following the airport closure in December. Visitor figures are expected to fall by more than 18 per cent this year, according to a blog by a member of the Association of Thai Travel Agents.
The government is raising taxes and has had to abandon an elite card programme designed to attract wealthy business people and tourists, offering them fast-track immigration, long-term property leases and discounts and spas and golf courses. There has been such a run on gold bars that gold shops closed down for two days.
Still, the newspapers make plenty of space for good news. The Bangkok Postcarries a full supplement on wellbeing and happiness, with the lead article dwelling on the importance of love. At the hotel, the elderly, rich clientele lie in the recovery position on cushioned beds around the pool.
Recession-proof, they have wintered here for years, decades even, and are inclined to ask pityingly: “And is this your first time here?” Yes, and it may be our last for quite some time, is the correct answer, but a gloomy outlook is not permitted here.
The breakfast maitre’d announces that now is an excellent time to buy jewellery, as he did during the Sars and bird flu crises when prices dropped to ridiculously low levels.
The 71-year-old manager, who could pass for 50, hands out leaflets about the 20 most important foods to eat for health and happiness. The downturn? He waves it away with a manicured hand. It will pass.
Bangkok is the kind of place where you can go on feeling rich, even on a drained bank account. You can spin around all day in air-conditioned taxis, visiting tailors and jewellers and handbag stores, spending less than a meal for two in Dublin. But there is a definite slowdown. At the Lin jewellery store, a group of English ladies rifle aimlessly through tray upon tray of silver bracelets, but eventually drift away without buying. In the famous Jim Thompson silk emporium, immaculately clad assistants fold and refold T-shirts and scarves in an effort to look busy, but there is no queue at the till.
On a previous visit to the city we bought all around us in the MBK, a hellish, seven-storey bazaar stuffed with knock-off jeans, T-shirts, watches, handbags and pirate DVDs. This time it didn’t seem like so much fun.
Instead, I bought from good shepherd Sr Louise Allen, a slim, aristocratic nun, originally from Coachford, who runs a refuge for prostitutes and their children in the Bangkok suburbs. They make beautiful rag dolls inspired by fairy tales, and hand-smocked dresses that sell like hot cakes to tourists, like us, seeking shopping absolution.