Travelers' Tales Thailand: True Stories (Travelers' Tales Guides) Page 13

  Some of the Bangkok canals in Thonburi, on the western side of the Chao Phraya, were never filled, and the trip I took there made it possible to imagine 19th century Bangkok. Here, in the heart of a great city, were small river villages with stores, bars, and barbershops, all accessible by water and sometimes connected by wooded walkways. There was a musty, tunnel-of-love odor of wet wood and recycled water. Sunlight filtered through thick foliage, giving everything an aquamarine tint. The best time to visit these canals is early morning, before tourist longboats descend, churning the water and shattering the peace.

  I had heard Thais endlessly praised for their gentle dispositions and smiles. The famous Thai tendency to compromise and avoid conflict may explain why they seem able to tolerate their ghastly traffic with such equanimity.

  The legendary Thai smiles are marketed by the Thai tourist industry with a cunning reminiscent of Hawaii’s effort to retail “aloha.” But the quality and quantity of the smiles in Bangkok were indeed remarkable. There was apparently a smile for every eventuality, even a tight little grimace I took to signal anger. But the smiles were not a façade; behind them was genuine concern. I won’t forget the woman measuring me for a suit who talked me into choosing a less expensive fabric. Or the two students at Wat Saket who guided me around the observation terrace naming every temple and insisting we be photographed together. Or the man who, thinking I was lost, walked with me to the nearest ferry landing.

  Sometimes the Thais seemed too polite. So many smiles and wais. So many eyes studying my face and body language for signs of discomfort or disapproval. Did I really need my water and beer glasses refilled every time I took a sip? Would my beer not stay colder left in its bottle? After a while, I began feeling clumsy and graceless, like someone who dreams of himself arriving at a fancy-dress ball in underwear. If you think I exaggerate Thai sensitivity, just consider what one Thai guide told me about U Nu, the first leader of independent Burma. When U Nu made a state visit to Thailand shortly after the war, he said, the government hurriedly reconstructed parts of Ayutthaya so that “he would not feel bad” about his people’s having sacked the city two centuries earlier.

  But there was so much to like about the Thais that I came to agree with the Australian expatriate who had answered my questions about the city’s appeal, “The people, mate, they’re the attraction of this place.” I liked it that nobody, even the woman selling fake Gucci shirts on the street, tried to hustle or pressure me. The bargaining was always good-natured; it had none of the desperate undercurrent found in India and the Middle East. I liked it when even the seediest touts stepped back and smiled when I refused their approach. I liked the way waitresses, following the Thai sensitivity to relative tallness, kneeled down to take my drink order instead of towering over me.

  I liked the pleasure the Thais took in their food and the way they had liberated it from the straitjacket of breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Instead, they snacked constantly at gimcrack outdoor restaurants so cheap that even the poor had enough baht for a bowl of spicy noodles. These were companionable places, arranged like sushi bars, with low tables set up along a sidewalk so that diners faced cooks who created miracles with a handful of utensils, boiling water, and a charcoal fire.

  I liked the way the Thais had woven the spiritual and the temporal together: the dollhouses on poles, known as spirit houses, that sat in front of homes, stores, and even gas stations and, with their daily offerings of flowers and incense, appeased the spirits believed to inhabit these places; and the sunrise spectacle of saffron-robed monks, walking barefoot across highways soon to be clogged with traffic as they collected donations of food in plastic buckets. On my first morning, I woke to see the staff of my hotel, turned out in suits, morning coats, and elegant uniforms, standing behind trestle tables covered with starched white tablecloths and handing out food plates wrapped in yellow cellophane and ribbons to monks who moved down the line like diners in a cafeteria.

  After I learned how the express ferries worked, I began making short excursions on foot back into the interior of the city. I found I could take a boat to the Pak Klong Talad vegetable market and then walk half an hour on roads paralleling the river to the Grand Palace, where there was another ferry dock. Farther up the river, I walked to the National Museum, and on my last day I discovered walking to be the best way to see Chinatown. By car, it was a horror, and several times I was told it was the city’s most polluted and congested neighborhood. But on foot I could follow a maze of pedestrian alleys detouring around the traffic-clogged arteries and leading to fabulous temples and markets. My favorite alley was Soi Issaranuphah, where bins of food and clothing spilled out of stores, almost meeting in the middle, and where overhead awnings created a perpetual twilight and neon signs burned brightly at midday.

  After a half mile of spices, silks, sea slugs, and flowers, I came upon lines of stores selling what I took to be children’s toys.There were elaborate dollhouses and telephones, computers and luxury cars, all constructed of paper. It was only when I arrived at the Dtai Hong Kong shrine, at the end of the lane, that I understood these were not toys but kong tek items, purchased to be burned and sent into the afterlife for the enjoyment of deceased relatives. A casual ceremony was in progress, and believers were slipping items into an urn. Most offerings were folded pieces of orange paper representing money. But it occurred to me that, if I waited long enough, I might see, if only in my own imagination, undisguised joy on the faces of these Bangkok worshipers as they turned their automobiles to ashes.

  Thurston Clarke is the author of Equator, a chronicle of a journey around the world, and California Fault, an account of travels along California’s San Andreas Fault.

  For many Westerners, death is horror. Yet it is the Western religious creeds which dwell on death and instruct the followers on how to avoid the fear of death. Religious people and death-bed rites are available to aid the dying to accept death, yet death remains, for many, a trauma of the gravest dimensions.

  Buddhist teachings focus on life—since life and death are one. Death (or changing) is only a part of life. Of course, there are rites and rituals attached to the cremation or burial of a Buddhist and the families reflect sadness. But because many Theravada Buddhists believe that they have many lives to lead—hundreds, perhaps hundreds of thousands, yet to come—there is an absence of finality in the cessation of one. For the Buddhist, death is not a trauma, but more the continuation of a constant process of changing, decaying and arising, that somehow lies outside the notion of death as a finality.

  The essence of this understanding of death is softly chanted by monks at funerals—“All things in ‘samsara’ (the world of birth and death) are impermanent. To be happy there can be no clinging.”

  —Jane Hamilton-Merritt, A Meditator’s Diary

  GENA REISNER

  Siriraj Hospital Museum

  Looking for Thailand’s most famous killer? You’ll find his pickled remains at Bangkok’s offbeat museum.

  IT’S EASY TO GET TO BANGKOK’S SIRIRAJ HOSPITAL. THERE’S AN express boat stop right there, and the name is written in large letters across the white building, clearly visible from the river.

  The difficult part is finding the hospital’s museums, even though there are several of them. But once you do, be sure to visit the Prehistoric Museum and Library. This collection represents a life’s work. Dr. Sood Sangvichien, 86, who is emeritus chief of anatomy at the hospital, gave us a personal tour.

  “I built this museum because I wanted to know where the Thai people came from,” the doctor explained in English as he ushered us into a large, hot room. His quest began during World War II when a Dutch archaeologist—held by the Japanese as a prisoner of war in the Thai countryside—found six pebble tools. “After the war he had the pebbles analyzed at Harvard,” recounted the doctor. “They had been made by people 500,000 years ago. When I heard this, I became convinced—contrary to most theories—that the Thai people originated here in Thailand.” The pivotal
pebbles are on display in the museum.

  Fifteen years later, Sood joined an archaeological expedition and traveled by boat and elephant to Three Pagodas Pass. Digging its first pit, the team hit the jackpot—two four-thousand-year-old skeletons. These were the first Neolithic skeletons found in Thailand. A display compares a model of one of these skeletons to a modern Thai skeleton, pointing out numerous similarities.

  We concluded there was no difference in the characteristics of the two skeletons,” the doctor said. “Thais lived here four thousand years ago.”

  The museum also contains a display of Stone Age tools, complete with drawings of how the tools were used. One set of these ancient tools was found by chance. “We bought one in a market across the river, and the lady refused to tell us where she had gotten it,” Dr. Sangvichien explained. “But luckily, a student recognized the tools as coming from his part of Thailand, and we were able to go and get more.”

  Two long wooden objects that look like dugout canoes remain a mystery. “They might be boats, but they might also be coffins with room for traditional objects to be buried with the dead,” the doctor said. As evidence, he showed us a rock painting of a funeral procession, where the “dugout canoes” were carried aloft.

  After we finished seeing Dr. Sangvichien’s prehistoric museum, his son, Dr. Sanjai Sangvichien, the current chief of anatomy at the hospital, took over the tour and showed us several more of the hospital’s museums. We started at the anatomy museum, which included a dissection of an entire human nervous system.

  Also in the collections are skeletons of several important people, including members of the faculty. One particularly important person’s skeleton is varnished, polished, and kept in a case topped with his photograph.

  The most macabre of the hospital’s museums is the Museum of Forensic Medicine. Here we saw the most famous killer in Thai history, his body preserved and on display in a wooden case. Other preserved bodies on display included murder victims and more notorious killers. On one case containing the body of a particularly nasty criminal, someone had draped a flower garland—a typical Thai offering. “Some kids were joking about the body, then got scared, and wanted to propitiate its spirit,” the doctor explained.

  The Museum of Thai Medicine showcases traditional methods of Thai healing. A set of dioramas shows treatments being administered in a village. In one diorama, a pregnant woman inhales vapors while her shoulders are pounded with heavy sacks. In another, a healer cuts the umbilical cord with a shell. In a third, the mother is massaged after childbirth.

  n another Siriraj Hospital museum [there is] a pair of conjoined twins, usually known in the West as Siamese twins. The famous originals were first spotted in 1824 by an English resident of Bangkok.The twins were swimming in the Chao Phya river not far from where the hospital is presently located.

  —William Warren, Thailand, Seven Days in the Kingdom

  Another exhibit shows Thai herbal medicines. For those interested in native remedies, hundreds of these medicines, collected throughout the country, are catalogued here. Signs give the Latin terms for the various herbs. Some of the same medicines can be seen on display in Thai country markets.

  According to Dr. Sanjai Sangvichien, Siriraj is the Thai’s favorite hospital. “It’s Thailand’s oldest hospital, so everyone knows it,” he said. “And with 2,400 beds and 1.1 million outpatients, it’s the third-largest hospital in the world.”

  Gena Reisner is a free-lance travel and technical writer who lives in New York. She was a Peace Corps volunteer in Togo, West Africa, from 1964 to 1966.

  To get an idea of what shopping in Bangkok used to be like before all the canals were tarmacked over, make an early-morning trip to the floating markets (talat khlong) of Damnoen Saduak, 60 km south of Nakhon Pathom. Vineyards and orchards here back onto a labyrinth of narrow canals thick with paddle boats overflowing with fresh fruit and vegetables: local women ply these waterways every morning between 6 a.m. and 11 a.m., selling their produce to each other and to the residents of weatherworn homes built on stilts along the banks. Many wear the deep blue jacket and high-toppped straw hat traditionally favoured by Thai farmers. It’s all richly atmospheric, which naturally makes it a big draw for tour groups—but you can avoid the crowds if you leave before they arrive, at about 9 a.m.

  —Paul Gray and Lucy Ridout, The Rough Guide Thailand

  JEFF GREENWALD

  Bite-sized Buddhas

  Amulets are serious business at the Buddha bazaar.

  WHEN I HEARD THAT ONE COULD BUY MAGIC BUDDHAS IN Bangkok—small, sculptured images which, worn around the neck, protect the wearer from harm—my only question was, where? The answer was, Wat.

  According to Joe Cummings, author of Thailand - a travel survival kit, the money exchanged for Buddha images is actually “rent” paid to the wats or monks associ- ated with them, and thus is neither a purchase nor a donation.

  —JO’R and LH

  Wat Mahathat is the site of the Saturday bazaar, the best place to find these magic buddhas. I took a tuk-tuk to the Oriental Hotel, where the Chao Phraya River Express taxied me< over the waterways to Mahathat. Then, after navigating a labyrinth of back alleys (clouds of oily wok-smoke, the ground littered with banana leaves, pressed dried squid stacked in straw baskets), I emerged into the light.

  All along the sidewalk, tables stood covered with tiny, exquisite Buddhas. Shoppers leaned over the displays, examining the wares through loupes. Each amulet, I knew, was meant for a specific purpose. Some were ancient, worth many thousands of baht; others, mass produced, might be had for the equivalent of a dollar or two. Traditionally, of course, nobody may buy or sell a magic Buddha; any money that changes hands is merely a donation.

  I spent hours at the Buddha bazaar, fairly oozing from stall to stall in the hot-tub humidity. Finally I returned home, four bite-sized Buddhas in hand. Speaking no Thai, I hadn’t a clue what their various powers might be. I showed them to the cashier at my hotel, who perused the lot and eyed me quizzically.

  “This one will protect your jackfruit crop from hail,” he said, “and this one will ensure success on your high school equivalency exam. This third one you must wear around your waist when kick-boxing; it will safeguard your testicles. And this fourth one will make you invulnerable to bullets.”

  “Hmmm. That last one might come in handy in my country,” I admitted. “But how do I know that it works?”

  “You may be very sure,” the cashier replied, dead serious, “that all these amulets have been carefully tested.”

  Jeff Greenwald is a contributing editor for Wired magazine and the author of Mr. Raja’s Neighborhood, The Size of the World: Once Around without Leaving the Ground, and Shopping for Buddhas.

  Few Thais would leave home without an amulet (or two, or three) dangling on a chain around the neck. This may seem peculiar to Western minds, but not so peculiar when you consider that the average Thai has very little insurance—car insurance, life insurance, medical insurance, or otherwise. Insurance provides coverage after an accident happens; amulets give the wearer reassurance that no accident will happen in the first place. Like different kinds of insurance, there are different kinds of amulets—some are good against air crashes, others against theft or bullets or snakebite. All-round invulnerability is possible—but such an amulet is highly prized and therefore expensive.

  —Michael Buckley, “The Arcane Power of Amulets”

  KEMP M. MINIFIE

  A Cooking School in Bangkok

  Thai food is aromatic, pungent, spicy, and sweet. Learning to prepare it offers unique insights into Thai culture, and gives a fresh view of local markets.

  TALK TO ANYONE WHO HAS BEEN IN THAILAND AND INVARIABLY you will hear excited descriptions of the food, with virtual rhapsodies on the exotic flavors. But even though one of the most vivid pleasures of travel in Thailand is the cuisine, it is one of the most elusive memories.

  Thanks to the foresight of the Oriental Hotel in Bangkok, travelers intere
sted in returning home with some of the secrets of preparing Thai food can enroll in the Thai Cooking School run by the hotel. During a week-long course that combines lectures with demonstrations and some participation, I learned why Thai food tastes the way it does and how to achieve the balance of key flavors with what for many of us are new, exotic ingredients.

  To be honest, a hotel-sponsored cooking program sounded at first like the ultimate tourist trap. Despite glowing reviews I’d heard about the school I had my doubts, but I should have known that the Oriental, with its reputation as one of the finest hotels in the world, would not get involved in anything that was not first rate. I left the school most impressed; I had gained more knowledge in one week at the Oriental than I had in much longer courses at other cooking schools, in both the United States and Europe.