Bangkok by Day

It’s hot. Ripples hover above the asphalt, and the thick air is heavy to inhale. Engine fumes mingle with the pungent odors that the city produces to create a soup of gases that I float in, sweating. In the sun, my body temperature skyrockets and I become groggy and agitated. In the back seat of the stationary Tuk Tuk, only the heat of the street and the vehicles surrounding us oppresses me. I anticipate the cool breeze of transit. My driver, Doi, glances back and forth as traffic dwindles, preparing for launch.

And we’re off!

The tiny three-wheeler jettisons out into the intersection, dodging bicyclists and pedestrians, and the more troublesome trucks that would turn our Tuk Tuk into a totaled pile of tin. I sense this must be what the African savannah is like: we’re a tiny mongoose, perched on our hind legs to best survey our hazardous environment, then all of a sudden we’re sprinting through cheetahs and warthogs and elephants, hyper-aware that any mistake may kill us, but simultaneously utilizing our dexterity and small stature to maneuver through nearly impossible spaces.

Of course, I can’t really see any of this. The awning that protects me from the hanging ball of fire in the sky also blocks the upper two-thirds of my vision, and all I catch glimpse of is tires and feet and sidewalks. I trust in Doi’s ability, well, because I don’t have a choice.

Gaze of wisdom and compassion

When he initially flagged me down on the street, he shared with me that he was only a temporary Tuk Tuk driver. His brother had injured himself badly and Doi had come down from Chiang Mai, in the north, with his son to fill-in and drive his brother’s cart until he got out of the hospital. We talked at length and became friendly before he pitched me his city tour proposal. Warnings about drivers scamming ignorant tourists were plentiful, resulting in a slight anxiety infiltration of my brain. And though I had a nagging distrust of the situation (which I feel guilty to admit, as I usually trust people straight off), I liked Doi and he seemed honest, so I jumped in with him.

His admitted “temporary driver” status did have me a little concerned as we ran what appeared to be a red light and careened through magnitude-elephant traffic.

I pride myself in my natural sense of direction (I am a geographer), and yet I have no clue where we are. So many U-turns and tight alleys ago, I had lost all semblance of location. So as we arrive at our first destination, the Standing Buddha, I am pleasantly surprised to slip out of my moving reverie and behold the massive golden Buddha rising up out of the temple.

Stupas at the Temple of the Standing Buddha

From the back, the one hundred foot tall statue is already impressive. Ringed by white stupas that rise out of the complex floor like stalagmites climbing skyward, and temple structures with the gilded adornments I have grown so enamored with, the Buddha stands vigilantly at the center. A beacon of love.

I wander past twittering song-birds in cages and elderly women selling some sort of prayer parchment. Turning a corner the full glory of the Buddha comes into view. His calm and compassionate visage looks down at all those around him, conveying comfort and safety. The awe radiating out from such a figure creates a tangible tranquility. I immediately feel at ease. My mind wanders back to a conversation with my mom from a few months prior.

I was telling her about my recent trip to Salt Lake City, Utah, and she shared her past experience at the Temple Square of walking beneath a large statue of Jesus, whose eyes followed her wherever she moved.  I asked her if it was creepy, and she said no, in fact it was rather awe-inspiring. Although I try to be mindful of being judgmental, I had slipped into that mindset with regard to the Mormon Church in our chat. Some might say the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints is an easy target... My mom’s simple yet poignant comment about the statue touching her had righted my skewed view and reminded me of spiritual potential regardless of external assumptions or appearances.

Looking up into the Buddha’s eyes, strong faith and admiration wash over my mind and body. I wonder if this was how my mom felt so many years ago, on the other side of the world and in a land of different religious leanings? I feel grateful to share this moment with her.

I pad through the temple grounds at a relaxed pace, then rejoin Doi outside. Back in the Mongoose Machine we quickly zip out into the Bangkok Savannah en route to the Sitting Buddha at Wat Benchamabophit, the Marble Temple. We stop briefly outside the Royal Palace for a photo opp, and Doi is flattered when I request that he be part of the memory, too. Click, snap, save, and back in traffic.

What seems only a few heartbeats later, Doi kills the engine and I clamber out of the Tuk Tuk. The mid-day heat is stifling. The bright white walls of the Marble Temple blind me with their reflective capacity and I nearly stumble into an old woman while I attempt to adjust. Blinking through tears, the structure slowly comes into focus and captures all of my attention. Cascading roofs fall off in each direction from the summit pinnacle in tiered symmetry. A pair of feline sentinels carved from marble guard the main entry way. Clean white pillars standing tall behind each sentry support the ornate façade bearing an intricate image of Buddha. The doorway is framed with golden flame and the similarly fiery windows spread out in complete harmony with the form of the temple. I imagine that the entrance to Heaven would look something like this.

Doi and his Tuk Tuk in front of the Royal Palace

Inside, the Sitting Buddha is magnificent. The hue of the walls, the lighting, and the makeup of the statue together in concert create an appearance of low intensity blue flame. Less so engulfed by and more so subtly emitting the eternal fire, Buddha sits in meditation, one hand touching the earth and the other resting palm up in his lap. I sit for some time in good company.

The rear courtyard contains perhaps fifty different statues of Buddha, from different time periods and geographic locations all over Asia. Though most of the representations are from Thailand, Burma, Laos, and Cambodia, India, China, and Japan are also represented. The differences in facial features, body postures, and stylistic add-ons correlate to the various empires from which the pieces hail. One particularly effeminate Buddha is strikingly different from the others. Perhaps a queen ruled in this time?

Doi finds me walking around a Bodhi tree in the rear of the temple, the tree of enlightenment under which Buddha attained realization in northern India twenty-five hundred years ago. He is nervously looking at his watch and needs to pick up his son. Time to go.

Bangkok by Night

Plane and train deposit us in the heart of Bangkok. It is a massive sprawling city. Its arteries are eternally clogged with clots of cars, clumps of trucks, clusters of two-, three-, and four-wheeled vehicles. The anticoagulants that usually keep traffic flowing are grossly ineffective. Stop lights, stop signs, traffic wardens; all ignored, broken, or entirely absent from the scene. The result: extreme hypertension.

Tuk tuk drivers hassle us as we hail a taxi and immediately get absorbed into the gridlock. Motorbikes weave recklessly through the miniscule spaces between vehicles. Sidewalks turn into optional lanes. There are more honks per minute than rotations of the wheels on our taxi.

Annaliese and I stare out the windows in disbelief as the mayhem unfolds around us. We wonder at the law that clearly requires drivers of motorbikes to wear helmets but not passengers, and why the extremely law-abiding citizens seem to discard logic regarding the safety of their noggin. The dodge and weave of the bikes between lane changing cars seems to be quite an art. How many of those artful dodgers acquired their finely honed skill through broken mirrors and broken bones, ridicule and road rash? The stand-still traffic gives me plenty of time for due contemplation.

After snaking our way along six-lane roads, through twisting back alleys, past massive, gold-framed photographs of the beloved Thai king, we arrive at an impossibly crowded pedestrian walk. To my amazement, the driver begins plowing through the bodies where it seemed to me a vehicle clearly did not belong. Based on the throngs of farang surrounding the car, I infer that we have arrived at the infamous Khaosan Road… not our destination. I inform the driver that we are heading to Soi Rongmai, quite near Khaosan, but undoubtedly not here.

Our driver is perplexed. He nods as if he knows the location I speak of, then rolls down the window and begins shouting “Soi Rongmai! Soi Rongmai!” out the window. He appears to expect people to respond to this form of request, and eventually someone does. But they don’t know where it is. So we roll slowly down Khaosan’s packed streets as our driver continues accosting pedestrians.

With his attention clouded by multi-tasking, our driver rolls over the flip-flopped foot of a poor foreign girl in a white dress. A Thai man starts banging on the car and yelling at us. I lock the door. The driver apologizes profusely (he is really sorry and almost looks as if he wants to cry). The girl looks startled but not severely damaged. Some more shouting and pointing and arm waving. Eventually we are cleared to proceed, and the conflicted parties go on their ways.

Being the geographer that I am, I unsheathe my trusty Lonely Planet map and find our street. It takes some convincing of the driver, but he eventually succumbs to my determined pointing and we arrive safely at the hostel.

Clothes changing, bag dropping, dinner eating. Several hours pass.

After nightfall, Annaliese and I are strolling alongside the Grand Palace, gazing at the golden parapets and spires rising up from behind great white walls and illuminated by floodlights. In the foreground, miniature geckos scramble along the vertical surfaces, scooping up unsuspecting insects. In the back, unbelievably beautiful structures jut into the sky. The Grand Palace complex includes several large Buddhist temples and the former residence of the royal family. The architecture inspires visions of an alien empire, as the impossibly thin and dagger-like adornments climb glittering into the night. The brilliant gold and rust red glowing as from an unseen fire or lava pit below. At any minute I expected one of the towers to open up and a spaceship to rise up and take off to do its regular rounds of terrorizing its citizens. Or at least see Indiana Jones swinging amongst the towers with his trusty whip.

The Marble Temple, Wat Benchamabophit

Disregarding my fancies, I am inspired by the magnificence of the place. The craftsmanship and architectural style is so unique and stunning, and unlike anything I have ever seen before. Much of the decorative flare is reminiscent of a flame’s flickering edges, passing spontaneously in and out of existence. The essence of impermanence. Seemingly fragile yet enduring in what it represents.

These Buddhist inspired structures are symbols of peace and understanding and the royal family is widely respected across the country. Of course, Thailand’s political situation is considerably more complex than this. There have been several large protests over the past few years by the pro-democratic “Red Shirts” and the pro-monarchy “Yellow Shirts,” some of which have ended in violence. The largest and most recent was in March, April and May of 2010, when Red Shirts held massive protests in Bangkok which ended in military suppression. I am not well read enough to tackle this topic here, but in searching I have come across some good articles for those that are interested:

Democracy in Thailand, by Leo Horn. December 2, 2008.

Whither Democracy in Thailand?, by Tim Meisberger. April 8, 2009.

Chatting and walking, walking and chatting, Annaliese and I circumambulate the Grand Palace and all its amazing structures. She’s got a few hours left before her flight takes her back to the States, so we keep exploring. We wander our way further through the streets and come upon a bustling night market with sizzling food stands, dusty relics, and raw meat hanging from stalls. The sights and smells are invigorating, overwhelming, and some are pretty much just gross. Many sensations sandwiched into a brightly light, tightly packed place.

Through the market, down an alleyway and onto a pier, we stand with a large river stretching on in both directions, the Mae Nam Chao Phraya. The choppy dark waters coursing through the city absorb all light, and are a stark contrast to the brightly lit buildings on its banks. Illuminated high rises and temples inhabit the opposite shore. Though the river is dark, we spy outlines of boat traffic working on through the night. As we stand on the floating pier, listening to the city and to the water, a deep rumbling crawls upstream to our ears.

I glance left and see a small tugboat chugging slowly toward us. Its stature doesn’t seem too diminutive until its looming load lumbers into view. An enormous barge, black and oily seeming in the darkness, manifests in my field of vision, as if it climbed up out of the depths to settle on the surface for a brief bout of air. The entire structure is dark save a small porchlight on the rear deck, where squinted eyes can also make out the tell-tale blue flashes of a television set. But no human form do I see. Watching the barge troll by brings a coldness to my chest, with its empty windows devoid of all color and life. I expect some band of ancient, long-dead pirates to swing off its flanks and take us for all we are worth.

Annaliese and I watch, eyes wide, as the barge pulls past, only to notice another, and … yes! A third! All being hauled by that tiny beam of light, the tug boat torch in the void. And these vessels are just as creepy as the first, with their eerie silence and sole, lonely porchlights. A massive hulk cutting through the waters with such stealth. Discomforting.

The beast fades into the upstream dark. I have been so enthralled by the bizarre aura of the passing freighters that I don’t notice the small crowd gathering on the pier. I glance around me and wonder what they are doing here. My questions are quickly answered as a water taxi sails like a dagger out of the distance directed at its target: us. It looks like a mere sliver at first, but as it quickly gains ground I see it is quite large and not slowing down. The boatman pulls the equivalent of an aquatic e-brake and drifts into the pier, which is now rollicking in the massive wake. I’m holding onto to anything for dear life, so I don’t topple into the Mae Nam Chao Phraya and become a crew member of some ghostly midnight freight hauler myself. The other people shoot humorous glances at me and board their taxi, which is off as quickly as it arrived.

The rolling and rocking slows and then is gone. I look toward Annaliese and smile. So this is Bangkok?