We leave by train for Nong Khai, the cleanliness of air-conditioned sleeper a pleasant surprise after the squalor of Indian railways. We board at 8:30 pm, are asleep by 9:00, gently rocked and cradled through the night by the train’s last car. At 6:00 am we begin our approach to Udorn Thani, through rice paddies, houses on stilts at trackside, railroad crossings where children tending water buffalo await the passage of the train, their passive faces filled with a mild awe. A brief stop at Udorn – swollen during the Vietnam War years (as site of American Air Force base, one of seven, among the principal three – the others at Ubon Ratchathani and Khorat) – now subsiding. Sun steadily rising we descend the final 50 kilometers to Nong Khai, situated across the Maekhong River from Vientiane, former capitol of Laos, whose colonial French name respells Wieng Chan, City of the Moon.
Communicating our wishes in gestures and single English words, we make our way by tuk-tuk (three-wheeled auto-rickshaw) up Meechai Road to Niyana Guesthouse, welcomed by a worldly madam, whose fluent, if rough-and-ready English, gravelly-voiced, belies a more various experience than she admits to. Her 40-year-old face is round, dark and confident; her hips sway in a black silk skirt; her shoulders gesture through a black blouse of red and white floral design. In her kitchen we make our own coffee, from Nescafe jar and sugar bowl, the latter set in a water-filled saucer to keep out ants. At the kitchen table a stolid Japanese tourist sits reading (later he will listen to the short-wave news from Tokyo). Back in living room with steaming coffee cups we pore over carefully drawn, Xeroxed maps of city and surround, seated in formal chairs set perpendicular to one another about a square table. An immense display case lines one wall: ceramics, knick-knacks, family pictures; a numbered loan-collection of English-language paperbacks; empty whiskey bottles, memorabilia of festive occasions, some repacked in their gift boxes. On the wall opposite, portraits of the King and Queen at earlier ages; icons of the Buddha; photos of a guru. Flower vase atop TV, VCR below, beneath which a rank of video tapes; below them more paperbacks: Swedish, Italian, German novels donated by travelers.
Mid-morning outing to Wat Phra That Bang Phuan, located south and east of the city, site of a temple-monastery (wat) renowned for its Indian-style stupa. We anticipate a large architectural establishment, are disappointed to find a single elegant spire, surrounded, at some distance, by tree-shaded, roofed ruins of colossal Buddhas. Through the grove files a youth gaggle, up from the village below; a pair of young fishermen, square nets suspended from poles; a monk returning from errand to his monastic quarters, behind which hangs the laundry: saffron, ocher, brown robes, six feet long, pinned on clothesline, draped over fence, spread on bush to dry. As we move from shrine to shrine we are guided by a single butterfly, its wing-spread six inches. Above in the bodhi trees flutter a dozen smaller species.
Having finished our visit, we set out on foot for the next bus stop, some nine kilometers distant. The air is clear, the ground soaked, roadside streams purling with yesterday’s monsoon rain. We turn from the main road, umbrella out against late-morning sun, gazing across the flooded fields that border the country road, its red surface spotted with bright orange potholes. Before long a fisherwoman in samlor picks us up. Another two kilometers and she reaches her destination, a small bridge where a dozen other opportunists have congregated to harvest minnows. We continue on foot to the next main road and await returning bus. By noon we are back in Nong Khai again.
Over lunch, from the projecting portico of a restaurant, we have our first experience of the flooded Maekhong. The risen stream – nearly a mile wide here – is flowing at ten, fifteen, twenty miles an hour, bearing detritus, vegetation, whole trees with it. Over its muddy surface one views the Laotian shoreline, Thai patrol boats with mounted machine guns cruising beneath us as we eat. On lunch break, or simply late arisen, sit shady middle-aged types, already tipsy from Maekhong whiskey, carts of soda, ice cubes, liquor bottles drawn up alongside their tables. They converse inaudibly, their impassive faces masked by dark glasses. From a red and white skiff, through loud microphone, customs officials serve up a warning of some kind. Languorously the swarthy men adjust their positions slightly.
After long nap and leisurely dinner, an outing to the Nong Khai Café, the more respectable of two facing night-spots on Prajuk Road. conditioned by the rhythms of Bangkok, we arrive too early. There’s to be no music till 9:00. When things eventually get under way, the band (“The Punch”), the singers, the personnel turn out to be more professional than their big city counterparts. Even the drinks are more expensive. Departing early for a late-evening snack, we happen upon a large well-lit restaurant, whose staff is lively but also reserved, as though apprehensive. A sign on the wall indicates “No Guns.” Bullet holes riddle a nearby wall at waist level. The fried crab and sour sausage are cheap and delicious.
Having visited Nong Khai’s other attractions – brilliantly gaudy Ho Road Chinese temple, serenely imposing modern wat, where novices escort us – we climb aboard public bus for six-hour journey to Nakhon Phanom. The route parallels the course of the Maekhong, though we rarely glimpse it, the road clinging to higher ground, fields alongside it awash in acres and acres of water. Against one’s expectations of extreme provinciality (this is the Isaan, province and eponymous people, from whose number, one is told, so many flee to Bangkok), signs of prosperity everywhere: large, handsome houses, recently built of wood, line the highway for miles at a time. No sign of thatched roof, even at the region’s remotest. In every third driveway: late-model Nissan, Isuzu, Mitsubishi pickup. The rice crop planted, mile after square mile of lush emerald unfolds, the paddies interspersed with handsome trees. Idle farmers lazily tidy fences, spade at moat-work, stand at margins fishing. The fields are largely deserted, as the great crop rounds towards maturity.
Mid-afternoon arrival at Nakhon Phanom, in time for late-afternoon view of a silvered Maekhong, the Laotian border now transmogrified into a southern Sung mountain scape of a thousand fantastic li: conical peaks of stupendous improbability, ridge against ridge, fog-intervalled, the whole misted over, grey and white. The river reflects the drama, its surface of many minds, rippling, recumbent, recursive. Near its shore eddies reveal an underlying force, propelling it onward in sullen mass beneath a crystalline Ming patina. As one sips one’s Singha beer in contemplation, the racket of motorboat beneath, the sentimental musical score of Chinese soap opera dubbed into Thai, all six restaurant personnel, each at a separate table, their backs to the customers, sit enthralled, as they await the dinner crowd.
Between fits of rain one scurries back to hotel, out again to dinner, where, in another large hall one observes Nakhon Phanom’s ethnic mix: long Laotian noses, somber tribal Thais, more sensitive Vietnamese faces. At one’s downtown hotel all markings are Chinese (Di Yi Da Lu She), the personnel likewise ethnic Han, though no one responds to a word of Mandarin. With almost deliberate inefficiency, directions to the bus, accounts of its departure schedule, are vague, inexact, outright incorrect. Last-minute assistance from a charmingly efficient Thai girl saves a missed connection. As the rain begins to pour, the bus heads off farther downriver toward That Phanom.
Wat That Phanom, a Lao-style wat, similar in style, the guidebook says, to one in Vientiane, dominates the center of town, on axis with a Lao arch of victory, through which one strolls into the “French” quarter and on to the tiny pier. The chedi (or spire) of the wat is a thing of solid grandeur, as though one had come unexpectedly, say, upon Vézélay – though in truth this gorgeous vase set atop its monumental base rivals anything of the European Middle Ages, as Angkor Wat, the Parthenon, the Pantheon, St. Peter’s. From a sandstone base perhaps ten meters tall, fluted with pilasters, it rises, adorned through two stages with a great finesse and primitive strength, on to a subtly evolved apotheosis whereby energy, directed upward, redirects itself downward to complete and anchor an organic unity.
Entering, we are met by a group of nine-, ten-, eleven-year-old girls, who exact a price for incense sticks, for flowers, for tabs of gold leaf. (We decline to pay for small caged birds, whose release no doubt signifies the manumission of the soul.) On to the temple enclosure, Paved in marble, where under awning we seek shelter from commencing drizzle, time to observe the etiquette of ritual. Whole families kneel together, some who had accompanied us on the bus ride down. Elder women elevate plates of food, into which burning incense sticks have been inserted, while an elderly man reads aloud the text of sutra from pocket-sized book. More finely fitted tourists skirt the pilgrims to do their own earnest obeisance. We follow in our way.
At the wat’s exit we ask directions of a stern young policeman: We are not, says he, to proceed to the bus station but to wait here, at his station, where he officiously flags down the incoming bus, having in the meantime scolded another citizen for directing us to the bus station. There may be more at issue here than one at first perceives, for as we board the bus we notice two cracked windows, each bearing a decal portrait of Ché Guevara. Without further incident we arrive, presently, at Mukhdahan, a city of 90,000.
Its downtown, however, is small, the most luxurious hotel room engaged for a pittance (appropriately it has no bath). Out to the town’s single fancy restaurant, where we glimpse, for the first time, in the company of a white woman and her Thai husband, another western couple. Next morning they reappear in our hotel lobby. An hour later, at the bus stop, I am asked if I speak French. They, it appears from their accents, are Parisians. Reservations on our air-conditioned bus to Ubon Ratchathani place them across the aisle. Not ready to relinquish the pleasures of lonesome travel, we shake them at the Ubon bus stand, opting for a coffee at the café across the street, a deserted haunt of the Vietnam Era, where two young men of no more than twenty share a mid-afternoon, US$40 quart of Johnny Walker Black, having no doubt consummated, earlier in the day, a prosperous deal.
Coffee finished, we are off to Wat Phra That Nong Bua, the compound centered about a large, “almost exact” copy of the stupa at Bodh Gaya, Buddha’s Indian birthplace. The temple interior, approachable from four sides, is cluttered with the musty, dusty paraphernalia of provincial museum, though on its grounds, under a shed, stands a splendid plaster-cast float completely covered in saffron wax. We tour the wat, peering into monks’ quarters, they sheltered, like us, from the mid-day sun by enormous trees. A waiting tuk-tuk driver demands what seems a large sum to convey us to railway station, but the fare is correct, for the station is miles away, built on the other side of the river to avoid the inconvenience of a railway bridge.
Having established our bearings, we afternoon at an indoor-outdoor restaurant, whose multi-compartmented space is crowded with Painted plaster sculptures of giraffe, bison, antelope, bird, all culminating in an African diorama. Early dinner finished, we make our way back on foot through rush-hour traffic, pausing to respond to the chirps of children, to smile at elders, to watch at an amphitheater, where a lithe instructor directs her overweight students in aerobics. We board another immaculate train for return to polluted Bangkok. Seated in the opposite bunk: our Parisian couple.
I. Chao Phrya River crossing, farther shore reverse shot of near-shore Phrannok landing. Light water-surface detritus, plastic bags semi-inflated, drifting gulfward; the grey monumental buildings of Siriraj Hospital, governmental agencies, commercial establishments. Behind author disco beat, female Thai vocalist. Downriver view of just-lit Pata Department Store neon sign, in orange, emerald, light blue. Upriver: Bangkoknoi railway station red tile tower. The horizontal armature of a large construction crane bleeds into bluish low-level cloud-bank. A long-tailed, green-awninged skiff revs up as it passes.
After-dark river scene continuation: restaurant disco mellowed to languorous Thai ballad, which fades out altogether, as hum of upriver boat overrides it. Grilled mussel arrival, squid salad. A launch from The Royal Hotel makes its steady way downstream; a tug, with steady flutter, light bulbs arrayed on its deck, pulls a barely visible barge upstream, an even dimmer line of skiff in tow astern. Lights from two-tiered across-river restaurants quilt the water, the spread interrupted by long-tailed boat, straining against the surge. Near-shore apartments in unblinking river-regard. Three tied-together barges, but a single dim light on each of their rear castles; in their ominous wake, a cheerful nighttime ferry crossing from Ta Chang to a Phrannok landing.
Late Sunday evening street stall close-down scene, a woman loading tuk-tuk, hailed but a moment ago by her twenty-year-old daughter, seated in the street on stool, the stool now hoisted onto tailgate, as mother stows baskets of equipment, produce from her stall. In two minutes they are packed; in another, off for home. A stray dog walks quietly past, preferring the street to the sidewalk. From its perch on another stall’s table a plastic-sheathed Kuan Yin regards the operation, as a tall, chicly-dressed girl converses with an attractive girlfriend on the curb, both craning their necks to catch the numbers of buses hidden behind other buses. The second girl scratches her head.
Across street, oblivious of the scene, looms a large, stylish wat. Out of its gate issue two flat-chested, head-shorn nuns, one 45, one 50, Both white-muslin-clad. Unattended, inattentive, they cross the street, Their motive unclear. Over bus stop, 30 feet above, rises an enormous ad painted on plywood panels; silently it proclaims the pristine beauty of modern condominium, each floor depicted with mechanical precision, its four stories surmounted by traditional Thai roof, gable ends in flaring finials. The buses continue to stop, pick up passengers, depart: 203, 53, 203; air-conditioned 3; 203, 18, 53. Still no sign of 91. A peanut vendor’s daughter studies author activity, as a mangy black-and-white dog situates himself mid-sidewalk.
II. Bangkoknoi 4:30 am siren awake, two, three, four vehicles passing, stopping farther up the boulevard. Three more sirens. Author at last to window to check out scene: flames visible as they mount above overpass. More siren-driven vehicles arriving, seven, eight, nine. Author up and out into the street, where citizens are congregating, prostitutes and clients from next-door motel, people from surrounding apartments. Relocation to Arun Amarin/Khlong Bangkoknoi overpass, as police begin to clear the way of parked tuk-tuks, cars, motorcycles. View against slightly bluing horizon of conflagration, as it eats its way through a neighborhood of at least 10,000 square meters. On the farther bank of the khlong (canal) a train departs from Bangkoknoi Station. Meanwhile police cars pull up, skinny brown-faced twenty-year-old cops emerging with long flashlights to clear more traffic. Slowly the motorcycles, cars, tuk-tuks depart. A youth on a new Honda motions to his two female companions to re-board the vehicle. Beneath the bridge, dim in the unlit ambiance, a fireboat moves upstream toward the site of the blaze, whose reddish orange flames lick heavenward, coughing out ropy billows of white smoke, underlit by the fire.
An incoming train horn sounds over the sirens of another half dozen red vehicles, whose total now mounts to 30 or 40. Approaching from both directions, they disappear up the entrance to the soi (lane) opposite author’s residence. The conflagration blazes with a heightened ferocity, its flames mounting to 50 feet. Billowing smoke darkens, carrying with it larger and larger chunks of glowing cinder. Atop the static middle ground of rooftops rise television aerials; to one side, electric lines, illuminated by the steady blaze, their T-shaped poles in a ghostly chiaroscuro At long last, from the fireboat below, high-arching jets begin to shoot shoreward but with scant effect on the terrible flames. Now jets begin to spurt from the landward side, they too swallowed by the fearsome blaze. Across the khlong a temple, its huge gothic “Bangkok-style” arches in orange-grey light, sits serenely. Tiny figures gather on its porch, as rescue boats hurry by.
Author to overpass stairway landing, balustrade overlooking refugee, view of dangling spectator legs above, audience below seated on concrete railings. A family huddles together calmly amid belongings caught up in sheets. To one side a small stove, to the other a motorbike, as though delineating their new domicile. Another family, newly arrived, stands talking, as older residents sit speechless. The small plaza fills to four, five dozen people. Up the allée formed by building fronts/descending ramp, a view of randomly parked vehicles: a pale red ladder truck, two pumper trucks in darker red; an orange van, a yellow Mercedes. More than a dozen cars line the narrow street, making it difficult for still-arriving Fire Department vehicles to turn the corner. A military guard from the Royal Barge Shed stands on desultory duty. Two fire trucks, their red lights flashing, abut one another face to face, neither willing to budge.
III. Entrance to Wat Pho off Jetuphan Street, author seated under canopy, to right of him an open hall being swept, mopped, by monks in yellow smock tops engaged in lively, humorous discussion. Atop table of redwood, a placement of sacrificial packets, within which, under bows of gold ribbon, saffron candles, metal boxes of “Special Tea,” other things to eat. A monk arrives to deposit his collapsible black umbrella on the table’s corner. Beyond, a grotto of rock-grey, rust-stained sandstone, around and within which have been situated various works of stone sculpture. From this vantage, the backside of an elephant, a rectangular casket, the portrait bust of a saint climbing out of a pedestal of magenta ceramic above a gold dais, which in turn surmounts a rose-emblazoned, pale green floral ground of individual tiles. A saffron-clad figure approaches, a red plastic vacuum cleaner held to his chest, its electric cord dangling.
“Welcome to Phralai Buddha (Please Remove Shoes).” Entranceway breached to discovery of massed Buddhas, forecarpet, candle display, incense trough, a Bodhisattva, over which looms a larger seated image, gold-tab-encrusted, of Gautama Himself. Shrines, disposed as extruded wings, lead to the small figure of an elephant, on whose back sit smaller elephants; to a golden monkey in the postures of veneration before a large, umbrella-ed, saffron-garbed Buddha, slender, authoritative but withal compassionate. In another shrine, on a dais, an elderly guru-confessor ministers to a lei-encircled neophyte. Neophyte departed, the monk turns to count his hundred-baht bills, Returning them one by one to a flesh-colored envelope. On the lintel sits an ethnic-Chinese Thai boy, playing at miniaturized billiards.
“To tell how to live.” Immense guardian figures in green-tinted limestone. “Your work will be suitable for you or not.” Placards behind their ears, metal poles for lances. “Your love will be happy or not.” We enter the golden Buddha courtyard, where various heroic figures are housed in glass cases, aluminum-framed. “Your travel will have an obstacle or be lucky.” Pouty-lipped, straight-lipped, serene-lipped images, all in gold. “You will poor [sic] or have a lot of money.” A faintly smiling, closed-lidded image in black. “Have you a good health and what’s a happening.” Multiple Buddha images recede in a row to a darkened corner. “Prediction by Mr. Thanorn Chaimoonkol.” Where four paired, seated figures intermingle with three standing. “We predict in English please.”
Central bot courtyard, loud child’s voice, issuing from stereo speakers – Thai Mother’s Day ceremonial chant happily overwhelming the knowing, chatty voices of European tourists. On a broad bulletin board a display, for the Queen’s birthday, of color photos from popular magazines, many faded, all stapled, some inadequately, for the wind is blowing beneath scudding clouds. Views of the Queen in green light-weight shift, strapless white pumps, elegantly positioned on a gold-bordered chair; in a large, plaid trapeze coat, quietly submissive; the King, even more submissive, in beige, ’50s-cut suit, at her side. More views of Her Royal Majesty: exiting the regal carriage in a mauve shift, white handbag, strands of pearls; at a later age, conducting military review in Jackie O dress and beehive; at an earlier age, seated at a desk, in diamond broach, ruby ring, Cartier wrist-watch, The Memoirs of Catherine the Great in her hand.
Onward to the central, imposing bot, a single orange tabby cat descending through its just-opened portal, preceded by a middle-aged monk, who emerges to view the progress of a young artiste/copyist intent on replicating the intaglio design on the tall door’s mother-of- pearl-inlaid teak, the portal itself faced in white plaster, onto which colorful images of fruits and flowers have been applied, each in a natural bouquet of leaves. One foot placed upon the top step, the other extended two steps below, the artist shades with a careful pencil to accentuate the chedi that culminates this segment of his overall design, one step below which sits a ceremonial figure, seated on an elephant, accompanied by standing servants at its feet, all wading in timeless procession through the flood of teak and pearl, whose surfaces glimmer in a darkness of silver, rose and grey. Within, the back of the golden Buddha, seated on a gem-encrusted dais.
One skirts the major wiharns, the old tripitaka, the large sermon-hall, to reach, through a forest of 91 smaller chedi (the larger four commemorating four Chakri kings), a gregarious touristic plaza: giggly French youth, more robustly disrespectful Germans, a Swede, an Italian couple, Americans in their gaudy-naïve get-ups.
2: Chang Mai, Chang Rai, Mae Sai Hong, Bangkok