Of Monks and Motorbikes

The fat, yellow moon fills my one open eye. A heavy blink brings temporary darkness, though the giant cheese ball remains imprinted on the back of my lid. The cool glass against my face feels refreshing after Bangkok’s oppressive heat. Though other oppression has followed me onto the bus. A rowdy, obnoxious mob of what I infer to be Israeli boys has taken the rear portion hostage, and are blaring music through crappy speakers, shouting, swearing, boozing heavily, and overtly harassing nearby passengers. The tension is palpable. As if it weren’t difficult enough to sleep on a cramped overnight bus, we now have these idiots throwing a rager in the rear. My foggy brain attempts to let go of its anger, and the bulbous sphere hovering on the horizon once more fills my thoughts.

---

“Do you climb?”

Erin aloft at Crazy Horse.

At first I don’t hear the question. I am so wound up with internal voices screaming at each other, that her soft voice is drowned out by the cacophony. The harsh light of the gas station convenience store adds to my general feeling of confusion.

“Excuse me, do you climb?”

I snap out of it and realize she’s talking to me. I slowly remove myself from my internal argument and look down at the smiling girl standing before me. I learn her name is Erin (serendipitous), that she is a climber, and like me, without a partner. She had noticed my Craggin’ Classic t-shirt (an annual climber’s party held in the US) and inferred my rock scaling, anti-gravity status. My hard shell begins to soften as we talk pleasantly in the cool mid-morning hours, waiting for the bus to fire up its engine.

After some deliberation, we decide to be buddies.

---

The wind and open road flush the exhaustion from behind my eyes. As does the uncertainty and consequent adrenaline associated with operating a motor vehicle in a foreign country. Getting out of the city had been a bit frantic, but now, with the countryside opening up around us and rolling forested mountains stretching off into the haze, my nerves begin to settle.

I had lied to the rental guy to dispel any concerns he might have regarding my gross inexperience operating a motorbike, but that lie did not quell our own worries. I’m nervous, and Erin knows it. She put a large portion of trust in her new, admittedly weary friend (our friendship is approximately 11 hours young at this point) by hopping on the back of a motorbike with him to head out into the unknown. But she is supportive, encouraging me when I do something well, and softly redirecting me when a plan of action appears unsound.

Getting to the crag where we intend to climb is no small feat. There are a number of formidable obstacles to be overcome before we arrive at our goal. The first, and most stark, is driving on the left-hand side of the road. A new and novel concept for my first international driving experience. Not such a big deal when going straight, but considerably more so whenever turning. Taking now more risky right turns rather casually, and then forgetting which lane I am supposed to enter into, until I face a head-on truck approaching at high speeds to remind me, is a very real problem.

The trucks are the second major hurdle. Very large, very erratic, with absurdly loud horns that nearly knock one off their bike by the sonic wave released. We have already thrice been nearly hit, and once almost forced off the road by a merging truck drifting off the shoulder and into the dirt, seriously compromising our position on the asphalt.

My new friend and traveling partner, Ms. Erin Babich.

The third is the ever-present pot-hole. Some merely uncomfortable to hit; others reminiscent of the giant sand-pit monster that Jabba the Hutt throws Luke Skywalker into in The Return of the Jedi. Minus the teeth and tongue, they are a little less frightening, but then again I have no light saber to defend myself with. I do my best to avoid these savage beasts altogether.

But whenever Erin and my lives are not being threatened, I begin to better appreciate my father’s love for motorcycles and their transformative effect on the automotive experience. I had tasted it before on the back of his Harley while we toured through the Catskills of New York, the road mere inches from our feet, with the soft green mountains rolling by in the golden afternoon sunlight. Everything had felt more real, more vibrant, when not enclosed by a box of steel and fiberglass. My memories of that ride are vivid and fond.

And now I am living it, at the helm myself for the first time. Captain of my vessel. Awake and alert upon my steed. And thankfully alert, as I dodge another motorbike-eating maw with too sharp of a trajectory adjustment, made known to me by Erin’s tightening grip around my waist. Struggling to regain stability, her large, gear-filled backpack becomes a highway-bandit that has mounted the vehicle from behind and is trying to pull her off. Its sheer size and excessive weight rocks and sways, bounces and jostles any time my novice handling skills make too sudden a movement. Erin also kindly head-butts me any time I decelerate too rapidly to let me know that I have made an error in my calculations.

With the help of these indicators I hone my craft.

Smoke billows out of the fields as farmers burn their excess chaff after harvest. The sky is thick with particulate haze, and the sun burns orange overhead. The mountains, indistinct in the heat and ash-cloud, begin to crowd in on us, and we spot our destination. A small buttress of limestone jutting out of the bamboo forest. Crazy Horse.

I grip the accelerator and thrust us onward.

---

The sun brightens the hall while we sit in silence. The rising sounds of morning fill the air outside. Birds chirping, chittering, squawking. Some totally unfamiliar to my ears, yet still uplifting and enlivening as any dawn birdsong.

After our morning session concludes, I walk outside into the courtyard to take in the new day. The fresh, glowing, solar orb is just creeping over the horizon line and the buildings are awash in warm light. The various representations of Buddha lining the northern perimeter of the square erupt in golden brilliance, their subtle features made bold and distinct in the low angle rays.

I am at the International Meditation Center, outside of Chiang Mai, during a four day retreat for foreigners. The course is run by monks from Wat Suan Dok in the city center, where the Mahachulalongkorn Rajvidayalaya Buddhist University (MCU) is based. No idea how to say that. Monks from all over Southeast Asia come to this university to study various aspects of Buddhism and earn academic degrees that they can then apply in their home communities. During a regular evening meeting called Monk Chat, Erin and I visited Wat Suan Dok and spoke with monks from Thailand, Burma, Cambodia, Laos, and Vietnam, who were all attending the university and eager to speak with us and share their experiences. The free sessions are an opportunity for monks to practice their English and for foreigners to learn more about Buddhism and monastic life.

Phra Sinlapachai at the International Meditation Center.

Our instructor, Phra Sinlapachai, was born in Chiang Tung, Burma and has been a monk for eighteen years. He is earning his Master’s degree in Buddhism at MCU and intends to continue with doctorate study in India. Phra Sinlapachai then wishes to return to Burma to help his own people, augmented by his stronger understanding of Buddhist scripture and theory. At present he is excited to help with the meditation courses for foreigners because he realizes many of us are interested in Buddhism and would like to learn more, but may not have the opportunity in our home countries. He believes many people suffer from materialism in our modern time, and wishes to help them however he can through these courses.

I am finding this course to be a welcome return for me to deeper spiritual practice. Learning new techniques in a peaceful environment with an opportunity for focused practice has been very grounding. It is part of a larger transition out of Colorado and into Asia, where I intend to continue shedding the excess from my life, and bring a smaller number of important things to the forefront of my focus. Coming to this course has been a major step toward that goal.

The stillness of the morning breathes calm into my heart. The life breathes energy into my skin. I walk slowly and deliberately, eyeing the intricate details of the golden statues, the buzzing bees visiting the tender pink-white flowers adorning the bushes along the walkway. Peace infuses this place, and the people fortunate enough to come here.

---

I am shocked and angry.

I try to remain aware of how I am feeling and let it pass, but my frustration builds despite my attempts.

Relatively well-educated, well-traveled, privileged people, who came here to learn, to experience Buddhism and meditation, are attacking their teacher. Verbal assaults are flung from all about the room. Our daily group chat sessions, supposed to be focused on the technique and any troubles associated with it, have metamorphosed into an outright siege on the foundations of this nation’s religion.

It has become West versus East; the Religion of Science versus the Religion of Buddha; Logic versus Faith. The farang (Thai for foreigner) have found Phra Sinlapachai’s explanations of Buddhist theory to be unsuitable, and now seek to deflate and expose it.

With extreme disrespect, the group follows the lead of a Brazilian man and a French man in aggressively seeking Western answers to Eastern concepts. But when Phra attempts to explain, they are unsatisfied with the answers and press further. Language barriers plague the exchange. English is many of the attendees’ second language, and few take into account Phra’s ability to cope with their complex questions.

Many of their queries could have been answered by their own personal study, and when Phra does not understand what they are asking I occasionally step in to offer what I know from previous readings. A few other meditators (in particular a woman from Australia and a man from Quebec) who have had previous experience in the tradition also add voices of reason to the debate.

But the overwhelming atmosphere is one of confusion. Emotions are flung while concepts are lost in translation. Travelers from the USA, Canada, France, Russia, Brazil, Australia, Sweden, Spain, and the UK are continually frustrated and unsatisfied by the responses our teacher gives to their pressing questions. Fifteen examiners to one defendant, the inquisition unfolds.

My anger continues to build over the days as our group conversations emerge as the most difficult and challenging aspect of the course for me.

The meditation hall at the Center.

The echo of misunderstanding reverberating through this hall dedicated to unity and internal peace is a disturbing one. The Eastern hand reaches out and the Western tongue lashes back.

---

Cruising through the city on our rented motor bike, we pass monks and prostitutes, temples and bars, farang and local shopkeepers. The old city walls and its encircling moat are now surrounded by traffic and all forms of combustion engine. Curry and incense hang thick in the air. Golden parapets and ornately adorned gates cluster around modern high rises.

Having gotten slightly more comfortable in the Thai traffic, I weave in and out of lanes, lights, and throngs of pedestrians. The cool morning air fills my clothes and my nostrils, my visor up and open. Erin casually watches the scene unfolding around us, intimately, as only a passenger on a bike can do. Fountains send airborne spray out of the moat. Multi-colored taxis and Tuk-tuks vie for position with horn and bumper.

We get lost among the narrow alleys, slanted side streets, and crowded corners one last time.

Independence Day

A flickering projection on a dissipating screen.

Once strong, distinct, pure.

Now vulnerable, alone, true.

Unthinking choices constructed of old assumptions

Throw an image at the sky.

With nothing to project upon

The night eats her illusion,

The shimmering stars empty and hollow.

Open the door, walk inside

The furnishings are absent

The pictures of her past life are shadows frozen in frames.

The walls are gone,

The beams are rotten.

Standing on the floor now standing on the earth.

Inside the house is the forest.

Charging blindly onward

The thorns tear at flesh.

Stepping carefully backward

The soft under-side of the leaf

Caresses the nape of her neck.

She turns about and the forest is gone.

Who is now is not who was,

She tells herself.

Confuses herself.

Scared she does not know

She weeps.

The tears are not.

She does not wipe them.

They roll off her face

Fall away to the earth.

Dry salt upon her lips.

The silence behind the tears

The quiet behind the eyes

Choicelessly watching the air pass over her wet

       cheeks

Now dry and flaky.

Her face falls away

Shedding skin, shedding body.

Molting in the moment.

The space around blurs

As she expands into it.

She touches and becomes,

Breathes and is.

Not doing what she did,

Only doing what she does.

Pale starlight fills her.

She fills the sky.

Free.

Shiver me Limbs!

The end of June, 2011.

I meet Phil in the early morning hours after buying some fruit and fried breads. We cruise through the already bustling streets en route to our bus, which will take us up to 三关口 (Sanguankou) our climbing destination for the morning. We arrive at our stop, and entertain a number of taxi drivers and pedestrians by our mere presence. They quickly endeavor to assess our equipment, its integrity, and how much it cost us. Hands begin passing over bike frames, checking the suitability of the padded seat, honking horns and ringing bells, gauging the value of each item as if they were preparing to auction it off in a few minutes time. Several men cycle through to lift and assess the weight of each (conveniently undertaken after we’ve already taken off our panniers). 不太重 (bu tai zhong), “not too heavy” is the verdict.

Phil and I prep the bikes to go under the bus, which he informs me may not happen at all if the driver is feeling particularly prickly that morning. Seats down, wheels off, bags off; all amidst the constant banter and questioning of our audience. They want to know where we’re going, what we’re doing, what everything cost, if we’re married. We try to keep track of our dismantled components in the crowd, all the while trying to put back a 包子 (baozi) or two, steamed buns with a variety of filling. This morning I went with the 韭菜 (jiu cai) a garlicy oniony vegetable that’s quite tasty.

My buddy Richard and my bikes on the road.

The bus screams up and the ticket lady ambles off  to appraise the situation. Phil and I quickly dive under the bus, rearranging all the luggage to suit our needs. Ticket lady laughs as I sprawl prone in the belly of the beast, shuffling this bag there and that sack there. Soon we establish a sizable alcove and stack our bikes underneath. We leave our peanut gallery on the sidewalk to harangue the next passing 外国人 (waiguoren), foreigner, that passes by, of which there are few in the city of 1.5 million.

On the road, we settle sleepily into our seats, passing idle chat and the remaining 包子 between our teeth and along our tongues. Phil regales me with harrowing adventure tales of gnarly whitewater and flipped kayaks in the Alps, round-the-world airport scrambles, and a Guatemalan bus station that defines the word chaos. I enjoy the tales as the 贺兰山 (helan shan), Helan mountains, climb into sight, capped in cloud.

The 西夏王陵 (xixia wangling), Xixia tombs, one of the area’s biggest tourist attractions pass into view on the scrub plain. Mausoleums constructed over a thousand years ago to safely encapsulate some dead ruler or another, the earthen beehives are a stark contrast to the surrounding flats (“a pair of muddy nipples,” according to Phil). I watch them float by against the overcast backdrop as the bus banks westward to the mountains.

Standing atop the Great Wall at sunrise.

Soon we pass through the old Great Wall, stamped earth that has lasted since the Ming Dynasty constructed it in these far western reaches of their empire seven hundred years past. And then we are off the bus, in a cold gusting wind blasting down from the mountains. Clad in shorts and t-shirts, us mountain hardy fools neglected to bring much of anything warm. To add to the fun, the clouds are descending upon us, and drops begin to fall from the sky. We smile stupidly and hop on our steeds.

The headwind is large, and we could walk faster than we are pedaling. With only a couple kilometers to go before turning off the pavement, we bend our heads into the breeze and will our legs to work. They fight back. They refuse. Muscular mutiny. And I just fed them! Ungrateful bastards.

At our wash winding out of a steep canyon, we turn onto the sharp cobbles and debris and pedal shakily past goats, sheep, and a farmer/shepherd before finally dismounting when pebbles turn to boulders. Lock the bikes to a tree, grab our bags, and we’re off!

Dodging a few rocks kicked down on us from the local fauna, we wind up canyon around sharp dry bends in the river bed and arrive at our cliff. Phil’s crag is quite nice, being so close to the road and rather accessible. He and his compatriots are likely the only hands and feet to have scaled this wall, and he affectionately tells me how he has named several of the climbs after a busty friend’s cleavage and crack.

Sunset east of the Yellow River.

The hike up has warmed us, but it is by no means comfortable. The warmth quickly evacuates our bones as we harness up and eyeball the wall. I offer to lead a climb, and am soon awkwardly scaling a crumbly, dusty crack with two questionable pieces of gear, sharp rock, and dirt in my eye. I love it. As I pull out of the dihedral on broken rock, with little behind me that would remotely catch a fall, I am shakily reminded how and why I love climbing so much. I slowly set up an anchor at the top and peer back down at Phil, still belaying me, and wrapped in a brilliant neon pod from head to toe. Ordinarily functioning as a waterproof cover for his bike packs, he has converted this blindingly bright shell into a kind of cocoon, and looks quite happy about it. Dancing around in the canyon bottom, trying to stay warm, with a huge shit-eating grin on his face, I can easily see how he and I would naturally become good friends.

A bit more grabbing and high-stepping later (technical terms for climbing), and it’s raining. Sideways. The wind is now punching across the mountain side, left hook, right jab, right up my shorts. We decide it might be a reasonable time to head home. So we scramble back down the slippery rock to assemble our gear and say goodbye to the crag for the day.

Camp along the Great Wall.

We wheel our bikes back to the road, mount up and begin our initially slow roll down the hill. Phil crams the last of his 包子 into his cockpit and we begin to pick up speed. The drenched asphalt could have bred concern of hydroplaning, but instead Phil and I glimpse an opportunity of reduced friction to go as fast as we possibly can to get the hell down to some warmer pastures. Whirring wheels and water sailing through the air accompanies our rapid acceleration to 60 kmh as we play leap frog with freight trucks coming down from the mountains.

The air warms rapidly and we are soon too hot. Back in the flats we resume casual conversation as we pedal toward a noodle joint for some sustenance for our ride back to 银川, Yinchuan, our home. All in a good morning’s fun.

P.S. As usual, I forgot to take photos this trip, so the photos posted are from a cycling trip a couple weeks prior.

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.

From the Vault: Night Before Duge La

Night envelops camp, carrying the first bite of winter. The old woman begins to chant and her leathery voice reverberates off the large boulder that is our shelter. She rocks forward on her sit bones and back again, arms clasped about her knees. The shadows dance across the valleys of her face as it sails in and out of the fire’s light. Fat flakes of snow fill the air around us, falling thick to the ground. My anxiety about the next day’s journey is dispelled in the aura of this pilgrim’s song. The three younger travelers join in the mantra and the vibrations saturating the air are intoxicating. My lids flutter as I finger my prayer beads and gaze into the fire. In the darkness above lies the high pass Duge La, the portal that will take us into Tibet and around the sacred mountain Kawagebo.

The four pilgrims hail from the small village of Yongdri, on a tributary of the Mekong River in Yunnan Province, China. It is the gateway for the circumambulation of one of Tibet’s four holiest peaks, a village I had left that morning with blessings and warnings of the journey ahead. Beyond the buildings tendrils of water snaked down cliff faces and the subalpine forest burned bright crimson, flush with fall.

Higher still sits a giant boulder amidst a braided stream. Reams of prayer flags join features of the landscape, marking this stone as exceptional ground. Fluttering green. Flickering blue. Orange waving and yellow wafting. The stone is charred from the fires of many pious passersby and broad Tibetan script is scrawled across the overhanging face in charcoal. All now draped in darkness.

Under its generous cover huddle five pilgrims. Elder mother, son, wife, cousin, and me, our gear cluttered around us. Their belongings bundled on pliable wooden frames, lashed down with twine. Thick bedding wrapped in a tarp; a sack of pulverized roasted grain called tsampa; balls of yak butter; a bag of loose black tea; several bowls and one large kettle. With these provisions they plan to trek for eight days, from pre-dawn to dusk, crossing two 4500 meter passes to earn the blessing of the mountain, Kawagebo.

The humming dissipates and I materialize in this world once again. Over creamy spicy yak butter tea I am invited to join the family, to navigate Duge-La as a team the following day. I warmly accepted and we retire for the night.

Dawn. A foot of snow and unease in camp. My morning haze turns to disappointment when I see little movement from the others. It’s over and we haven’t even started. I fidget in my sleeping bag while the snow falls harder. Suddenly there is chatter in the air as a festive party of ten more Tibetans approach camp. Greetings and laughter are exchanged.  I am poked and prodded as my nylon and Gore-Tex is examined, ridiculed, and promptly dismissed. With a few shouts and shoves, we pack up and climb into the storm.

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?

Happy International Women's Day!

Greetings to all the women I have had the pleasure of meeting and knowing!

I want to wish all of you special people Happy International Women's Day! So many women have had such a profound impact on my life, rounding off my rougher edges and creating a more complete human being, the human being that I am now. I am extremely grateful for the feminine touches I have had in my life. I am also gladdened by the wider understanding and appreciation of women that is happening across the globe. I am currently reading an incredible book, Half the Sky, by Nicholas D. Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn, which brings to our awareness the many crimes committed against women across the planet. The chapters in the book address different problems in different regions to inform the reader, and then each one finishes with a positive experience of change: a means for the reader to participate and change the world. To lift up and empower women across the planet.

I also recently read an article in National Geographic about women in the "untouchable" caste in India who are at the bottom of the bottom of the social ladder. They are not allowed to wear shoes, to pump their own water, or to own more than one article of clothing. The article highlighted Jamkhed, a program working to educate women in the untouchable caste to be health care workers in the poorest villages throughout India, improving their own lives and also vastly improving the quality of life of the people in their townships. They have drastically reduced infant mortality, spread of disease, and increased water quality. And now these previously outcast women are becoming respected members of their community.

These changes are inspiring, and the stories even more so.

"Women hold up half the sky." - Mao Zedong, former leader of China

So I want to thank you all and encourage you to continue to affect those around you and make changes in your everyday lives. The power for change lies in our hands.