Out again into the smoky confusion of rush hour Bangkok, destination Hualamphong Station, to board a second-class air- conditioned sleeper for Chiang Mai, thence to points farther north in the so-called Golden Triangle, notorious juncture of Laos, Thailand and Burma, all whose poppy fields continue to flourish, the nexus serving as distribution point for smuggled goods from mainland China as well. Once settled, we are visited, first by conductor, then by policeman, whose probing questions, bordering upon impropriety, investigate our intentions, hint at impending danger, collusion, complicity. “If you have any difficulty in Chiang Mai,” he says, butt of revolver at eye level, “just visit the police.” “Many thanks.” Hugging our passport-, credit-card-, hard-earned-cash-filled luggage, we fall asleep, envisaging the week’s wait for help from afar, should anything disappear in the night.
The trip, however, is uneventful. We awaken to mountainous views of trees overgrown with vines, little streams running down crevices, idyllic station stops, where just-awakened women, dressed in traditional garb, bear panniers of comestibles to the windows of third-class cars. Trackside benches are surrounded with planters overflowing in red, yellow, magenta blooms. On to slightly larger centers – Lampang, Lamphun, thence to Chiang Mai, where taxi drivers must be brushed aside, next asked their price, then scoffed at, bargained with, until, 50 yards farther down the road one reappears, having finally agreed to half his original quote.
A late-November cold spell has swept the country, leaving These early-morning upper reaches chilly. Sweaters, brought as defense against overly efficient air-conditioning, will have another use, as we mount successively from Chiang Mai to Chiang Rai to Mae Sai Hong. Our ride into town through the crisp clarity of Chiang Mai’s provincial outskirts takes us across the Ping River, past the night bazaar, into the square-moated city, where our carefully selected driver tactfully pauses, only then to recommend a guest house in Moonmuang Road. The room reasonably priced, the lodge is filled with the poor cousins of the back-packing European jet-setters who dominate the local scene, and whose presence is heralded by the brochure of tours – “Elephants at Work,” “Bamboo Rafting,” “Hill Tribe Treks,” at prices eight or ten times that of the room. Semi-permanent residents also abound, having decorated their doors with national flags, pictures of Madonna, Thai rock stars. They will roam the halls till 2:00 am, flirting, carousing, socializing. A sixty-year-old Swedish woman engages us in the lobby, as we prepare to register. She has left her husband in Stockholm for a two-month stay in Chiang Mai. She wishes to join us for a cigarette. We decline. In fact she is one of dozens of Scandinavians, northern Germans, escaping the onslaught of Nordic winter for the moderate climes of Southeast Asia. In the crowded outdoor court of another guest house, where we will have dinner, young well-heeled Europeans of every stripe chat amicably over western dishes beneath a monitory "Last Warning: Use Condom against AIDS.” In yellow windbreaker a darling seven-year-old Thai girl, in the company of her eight- and ten-year-old brothers, circulates among the patrons, alternately proffering paired red and yellow roses, alternately begging scraps from the table.
But first Chiang Mai must be explored on foot. At 10:00 am a warming sun burns off the mist and quickly heats the pavement. By a long circuitous route, having re-crossed the moat, we come upon Wat Chiang Yeun, whose grounds include an elementary school, as well as temple, monastic dormitory, administration buildings. The children, on their mid-day lunch break, are delighted to see us. “Hey, you,” shouts a nine-year-old girl, among half a dozen classmates. The index finger of her right hand, no doubt in imitation of her English teacher, ticks off the fingers of her left: “A-B-C-D-E.” Pause. “F-G-H-I-J.” General mirth, ecstatic giggles, little hands held to noses covering laughter. Returning to Moonmuang by way of Maninoparat Road, we pause to inspect the open interior of traditional Chinese apothecary shop, are invited in by the doctor, seated in formal chairs, offered a glass of water. Conversation in Mandarin follows. Dr. Yang has resided at Chiang Mai for over 40 years, having left Yunnan in 1949. His medicinal herbs arrive from Canton, by way of Hong Kong and Bangkok. His five children have all attended college, two in the United States. Western medicine acts quickly but causes unpleasant side-effects. Traditional Chinese medicine works slowly but brings about a natural, permanent cure.
After long afternoon nap – still in recovery from the stresses of metropolitan Bangkok – we set out on rented bicycles, to explore two more corners of this engaging city. By 4:30 rush hour begins. Weaving in and out among high-priced Japanese vehicles, alongside a stream of motorcycles, we negotiate the length of Moonmuang, turn into Chang Lor Road, then cut through Pratu Gate in search of Wat Phra Singh. Pausing at lesser temples, we suddenly catch sight of Wat Chedi Luang, resplendent in its spaciousness, in the elevation of its iconography. From within we look out through the portal, as a setting sun yellows the scene across the way. Lights on bikes switched on, we push forward to Wat Phra Singh itself, with its multiple temples and even larger grounds. Young monks, seated outside in study, engage us in conversation. We wander from building to monument to building, as the light begins to fail. Stepping over a threshold, we stand behind the backs of seated, saffron-clad figures chanting the sutras. On either side, before the altar platform: two grandfather clocks, their quartz-driven second-hands ticking in unison: ten till 6:00. Dusk has settled over temple and town.
Next morning, up and out by 7:00 – trip to Doi Suthep, Phu Ping Rajaniwat. Joined in songthaew (mini-bus) by upland residents, pilgrims, an old woman laden with market-bought supplies, we begin our steady ascent of the mountain. The sunny day has turned overcast, the hillside breezy. The motion of the open-sided vehicle itself creates a windy chill. But at Doi Suthep the sun reappears, the 300-step climb to temple and copper-plated, gilt-umbrella-ed chedi warming. Along the stairway’s length the porcelain scales of a dragon guide us upward. Through the thin air, from temple portal to temple portal, circulates a cautious crowd: Portuguese, Danes, Americans. A French-speaking Thai guide must send one of his 60-year-old flock off in search of absent-minded Monsieur Simon. Animated, quick in their perceptions, this crowd of Santa’s helpers reminds one that not all Frenchmen are beautiful, that the language cannot be spoken without much gesturing, that generalization rules civilization (“Oui, alors, à Bangkok la circulation est très grave, mais . . .” – white-haired, beak-nosed elder helping his junior sort things out).
By the time we have made our 300-step descent to the dragon heads, the sun has all but disappeared. A radical decision called for: we will make the remaining four-kilometer ascent on foot, through full-leaved evergreens, through slash pine, through hairpin turns into walls of natural growth. Motorbike, songthaew, private tourist van pass the steady hikers. The trek is invigorating, the achieved goal itself a satisfaction. Stalls manned by hill people line the approach to a graceful palace complex, luxuriant with well-groomed flower beds – rose, azalea, chrysanthemum; but snapdragon too, petunia, pansy. The crowd includes a hundred soldiers, all well-mannered, milling about among other tourists, who include a heavy complement of Germans and Japanese, wealthy Southeast Asians.
The journey to Chiang Rai represents another stage altogether. One has heard the lurid tales: brigandage, kidnapping, even killing. The only white people on the bus, we situate ourselves at the front amid swarthy stares not very friendly. Across from the driver, last to board, what looks like an ex-Thai boxer seats himself on a jump-seat to ride shotgun. Apparently this is rough country. His eyes, once we have begun our ascent again, search the rugged foliage. Before long we are gearing down, struggling to crest steep hills. These moments occasion a tenseness. A group of men stand beside/ half-in the road. But, like us, they are merely tourists. A nervous smile from the boxer, a curt quip from the driver.
Rural Thailand begins to unfold in earnest. We have entered into wheat-growing country: women with scythes bend over together to cut their stalks, the collectivity hurled on a threshing floor several fields away, where a man with a bamboo fan winnows the chaff from the grain. We push on through long stretches of uninhabited terrain, hilly, inarable. A steep slope, cleared, supports a dozen banana trees. Then more desolation: an isolated hut; a road receding into a narrow wood. Suddenly we have passed this immediate range to enter a plain. In the distance, along both sides of the highway, an ancient village appears. Have we returned to an earlier age? Will we soon reenter Siam? No so. The bus swerves out to pass a brand new Ford tractor, elaborate with discs and harrows. The village, which extends for several miles, is filled with cultivated flower beds, which stand between the road and neat clapboard, stucco structures. Red and yellow Honda, orange Suzuki bikes are parked before post office, school, clinic. Then back once more into the wilderness.
Having departed Chiang Mai early, we enter Chiang Rai before midday. A paperback book, apparently stolen from our luggage at midway rest stop, is returned upon arrival by sneaky-eyed youths in seat behind us. Just a gesture. But enough to make author barge through waiting tuk-tuk drivers, suspect the worst of hotel touts, foot it on into main street to conduct independent search for guest house. A pleasant, preppy American tourist, seated on stationary motorbike, suggests “The Golden Triangle,” whose rate turns out to be five times that of moderate hotel. We settle for the obvious: Hotel Chiang Rai, whose staff of six all give registering Americans a prolonged inspection. Having asked for advance payment, they do not understand the word “receipt.”
The hotel’s inner courtyard is cavernous, cool, painted in pastel blues and greens. As we mount to the third floor we pass a table, on which stand empty whisky bottles. Having locked our bags in the room, pocketed passports, credit card and cash, we return to the second floor to sit for a smoke – an empty whiskey bottle will serve in lieu of ashtray. A door on the first floor opens six inches to receive a motor cyclist. He removes his oversized helmet; two pale hands grasp it; it disappears. The door having opened wider, wider still, he enters. Having closed, it reopens to reveal the prostitute, as she glances nervously about. It shuts again. Footsteps are heard on the concrete corridor. A burly middle-aged man strides to the door and knocks. A brief, gruff exchange ensues.
Having looked about town for an hour, we decide to leave our bags and continue on to Mae Sai Hong, distant some 30 kilometers. We should be back in time for dinner. The journey takes us higher still, the bus smaller, the tribal faces darker, again we the only Caucasians aboard. But here all is business, the fare but ten baht apiece. More wilderness, patches of civilization, ponds of pink lotus blossoms, a white duck among them. The bus stops at tinier and tinier villages, sometimes two or three times within a few hundred meters, to disgorge passengers bearing parcels, sacks of produce, coconuts. The temperature falls steadily. Sweaters on, we dismount along the broad single avenue that runs the length of the town. Half a mile ahead, across the Sai River, a Maekhong tributary, the Burmese border beckons. On foot we set out, stopping to warm ourselves over a bowl of noodle soup, served by one of three delightful children in an open tent, within which stands the pater familias cooking; next to him sits his wife, chopping vegetables on a dais. The smaller children rush to the mother, discuss this strange intrusion, return to say “hello,” are most pleased, the elder two, by the presentation of two American dimes. Many broad smiles, hearty farewells. Back into the tourist-shop-encumbered street, we head up the last quarter mile to Burma. Beyond the bridge flies the blue and red flag of Myanmar. At 4:00 pm Thais are returning from Burma; from Thailand, Burmese (there is much commerce between Mae Sai Hong and its twin city across this narrow river). The two peoples comprise two different races, speak languages from two different language groups, have for centuries been traditional enemies. From the South returning the foreheads are higher, noses broader, the people shorter than their neighbors. Mixed with the Thais and the Burmese proper are the more exotic strains of the hill-tribes (from both sides of the river), their costumes combining marvelous hues: silver and red; pale yellow and black; purple and green; headdress, sweater, sarong often in three separate pairs of colors, the profusion augmented by heavy hangings of silver: nose rings, necklaces, belts with pendants. We remount the bus at a half past five for the dank, misty return to Chiang Rai.
After dinner at the guidebook’s recommended Northern Thai restaurant – pla neua awn pae sa (whole butterfish steamed in a spicy-sour broth with mushrooms), a barbecued pork diced and eaten with cucumber and pork rind – we collapse into bed at 9:00 o’clock, exhausted from seven hours aboard three different buses. The courtyard below, mysteriously quiet, houses two even more mysterious laundry trucks. As we mount to the third floor, one cannot but notice another prostitute, smoking, arms folded, outside her second-floor room. Then solid slumber. Until 2:00 am, when one is awakened by a steady racket, the sound of drunken voices, someone banging on the doors along the corridor. The knocking moves progressively up the hallway. Is this, then, to be the shake-down? One stands behind the locked door, prepared to shout at assailants from within. Windows closed, the room heaterless, its temperature fallen to 50 degrees, the damp floor is cold underfoot. Two men approach: “America,” one mumbles. The footsteps recede. The racket, however, continues.
Morning arrived, we are up early, out for our one extravagance, a western breakfast at The Golden Triangle: green table cloths draped on a bias over white ones; a Swiss cuckoo clock; two miniature oil paintings, of Venice, of the Midi, tacked to supporting wooden pillars. We negotiate in English the menu choices, their prices exorbitant, the fare bland. Our fellow clientele: a single English woman of 30, a Thai gent in early middle age, a table of voluble Burmese women.
Following a stop at Hotel Chiang Rai to insure that our bags are still there, we head out through the city to the Mae Kok River, former scene of leisurely boat rides to and from distant Tha Thon (now deemed too dangerous). The river here is but a stream. From a park, carpeted in Augustine’s grass, we look down into small thatched houseboats moored end to end, across to huge tourist hotels, one completed, several still under construction, on a large island formed by diversion/re-confluence of the stream. A riverside promenade leads to a narrow stairway, of perhaps one hundred steps. We mount under warming sun to Wat Doi Tong, a modest temple that integrates Catholic and Confucian with Buddhist shrines, augmented near its entrance by much smaller wooden structures, set on stilts, inside which clay figurines of lions, elephants, maternal goddesses. These minor temples incorporate the elements of indigenous worship. Visible within are pallets, two or three feet long, beside which stand or sit the female figures. On an esplanade above, some ten steps higher, we arrive at the Buddhist temple proper, within which gaudily primitive murals, scenes from the popular narrative of the Buddha’s birth, initiation, ministry, nirvana.
About to descend, we notice yet another plateau, up yet another set of stairs. Hilltop cemetery? Phallic pillars announce a more elaborately designed display, rising through six stages that face the cardinal points, its rows of ten pillars representing the rivers of the world, The monument is capped with four shafts, in the midst of which, completing the quincunx, a single elevated phallus, the height of the monarch himself. This mountaintop mountain, it becomes clear, is of cosmological import. The “navel of the city” of the regent Meng Rai, its hundred and eight pillars, in their array, define the universe. Though indigenous in inspiration, the ancient site also includes Egyptian and Chinese elements, for as we descend two lesser shrines appear, overlooking the snake-like form of the river. The first, a twelve-stage concrete monument, built of progressively smaller squares, is surmounted by a pyramid; the second, a single grave slab, is marked “Tu Di Zhi Shen,” god of the earth. Beyond runs a narrow roadway whose course takes the visitor past monastic houses on down the hill to rejoin the town’s major routes.
Having regained the city, we linger over soft drinks, return for our bags, and proceed to the depot, where we board the frequent bus. The downhill return to Chiang Mai takes but three and a half hours instead of the four and a half required uphill. Re-arrived in the city, with a brief layover till train’s departure for Bangkok, we settle into a café across from the bus terminal, whose shabby 1960s console TV has been set on a table. Here we view preparations – a military review – for the King’s birthday, two days hence. Quietly, with a beautiful dignity, blurred only by bad reception, He and his Queen stand patiently through hours of ceremony, as the representatives of various armed services, each in distinctive parade dress, pass muster.
Dusk fallen, we make our way from bus to train station, where we receive four different opinions as to which car is ours. At last we find our places, among a foursome of Taiwanese businessmen, an aristocratic Thai woman, the remainder of the car taken up by the load of French tourists – our friends from Doi Suthep – all heartily discussing the merits of their identical platters of langoustine, served with efficiency by the railway staff. A plate of cashew chicken arrives, a bottle of beer. Dinner done, we slink back into the night.
IV. Monsoon wind lash rainstorm arrival, lightning thrust, view from third floor Arun Amarin apartment. Wind-whipped rain pelting eastern window, fig-tree-agitation over court below, bamboo flurry; Ashoka tree deep bend-over, coconut palm branch-detachment, torrent against double casement pouring into balcony, some now streaming down interior wall, having penetrated window crevice. “Shoo-shoosh, shoosh, sha-ah.” Flailing precipitation bounds off corrugated roof, saturating stained wood siding of modest house below. Over the khlong’s grey-green surface dance-like spray rages, through it an outboard skiff cutting its way, as lightning cracks again. Northern view: cars plowing through engorged Arun Amarin, most with their headlights on. Soaked stucco faces darkening, as apartment lights blink, dim, blink again under new crash of thunder, lashing downpour. Bus 127 slows to a prudent crawl, negotiating the rain-flooded way. In a nearly-filled lot to the west rapidly rising pools of milk-tan water, collecting, collected, disperse in rivulets. A red Honda creeps through the swamped street, its taillights blushing.
V. Sunday 10:00 am Dusit Zoo outing, skies overcast. The Tai people immigrated here from southwest China. Double motel view, Arun Amarin, client exiting with girl. Established in the sixth century, the Dvaravati kingdom flourished until the eighth. First of the two motels windowless. This was known as the golden age. We await the bus across from these featureless, five-story buildings. Their art, derived from the Amaravati and Gupta. A continuous auto ramp leads patrons to their destinations. Exerted great influence on subsequent styles. Each room furnished with canvas-curtained parking space.
Departure in direction of Phrya Pinklao. During the eighth century the Srivijaya dynasty came to prominence. By circuitous route past New Welco Department Store. And dominated the Malay Peninsula. Past Ray Audio, Barnhouse Restaurant, on to South Bus Station. Unlike the Hinayana Dvaravatis. View of off-on expressway ramps. The Srivijayas practiced Mahayana. U-turn in direction of Pinklao Bridge. This alternation of doctrine characterizes much of Southeast Asian history. Past Chinese restaurant, Inner Ceramic, Kung Luang Seafood, an enormous red crab reaching skyward. Then arrived the Khmer (eleventh to thirteenth centuries). Yesterday Café. To Dominate northeast, northern and central Thailand. We re-cross Arun Amarin for final Chao Phrya River approach. The Khmer themselves were divided between the worship of Hindu. Bunnyclub Massage. And Mahayana doctrine. Greenery, sky. For centuries. Passage over river. The indigenous population. Sanam Luang rock-and-roll set-up. Mingled with the Mon, Malays and Khmer. Street people, whores, pickpockets. Sharing their culture and art.
Rachadamnoen Khlong entrance, past Royal Hotel. Indian thought and Chinese manners also played a role. Past National Museum, past Thammasat, past empty, still unstruck Queen’s birthday celebration stands. Right turn at Grand Palace, on past Post and Telegraph. Only in the thirteenth century. Bangkok proper entry. Did a unified nation. Rachadamnoen and on toward Democracy Monument roundabout. Thus it was. Grey-faced moderne block-long structures. That the Kingdom of Sukhothai established itself in 1238. Mercedes Benz showroom. By 1350 the capital at Ayodhya (Ayutthaya) had been established. Bus radio turned to newscast. By 1367 Ayodhya power had grown so great. Heavy traffic creep-through. That the rest of the land was forced to acknowledge it. Alongside bus, sedans in cream, grey and white are also idling. In 1767 the Burmese destroyed the capital. Two teenie girls board, taking positions in aisle opposite author. By 1775 Chao Taksin had reunited the realm. One in “Thailand-Great Dane” tee-shirt, the other in “End Nuclear War Now.” And set up the new capital at Chonburi. We descend into Sri Ayutthaya. Shortly thereafter. Khlong Prem Prachachorn on-foot left turn. The Chakri dynasty was founded. Dusit-Zoo approach by way of Rama V.
King Mongkut. Zoo restaurant lakeside table-sit. Having opened an era. Hot fish soup/orange juice/soft drink-await. Of good relations with farangs (foreigners). Pound-out disco beat. (1851-1868). Tableful adjacent stare amid steamed fish consumption. At the end of his reign. Blue-on-white Ch’ing design ashtray delivery, red angular plastic napkin situation. King Chulalongkorn, who next ascended the throne. Past-planter pond-water cycle-boat observation. Introduced into the realm. Couples, threesomes: Western civilization. Father-mother-son; mother-sister-daughter. Which brings us up to the present. Two boys in school uniforms pumping out of synch with music. And the cultural synthesis. Across-pond view: classical western monument to Rama V, tiny Thai flag atop corroded green bronze dome.
On-foot up-Sri Ayutthaya to-bus-stop return. Traffic thinning; virtually ceasing; ceasing. At hundred-yard intervals, brown-uniformed policemen, some rail thin, some with paunchy bellies overhanging tan belts. A motorcade approaches. In V-formation three beige motor-cycles, red lights revolving; a limousine. At curbside someone informs us that the President has just gone by. Another squadron of cycles accompanies the Queen. “Stand up,” says an olive-suited cop. We arise just in time to avoid insulting the royal passage, though not in time to glimpse The Personage Herself.
VI. Siam Square Macdonald’s, view out plate-glass window, disco-thud within: middle-class Thais mounting up steps; rich Indian teenies in green and pink blouses, tight pants. A Thai girl in short black bob, high clogs, knee-ripped fashion jeans. Two pre-teen girls, arm-in-arm. Across-street view of yellow-bun-enclosed red “Burger King,” “Lido Theater,” “Uncle Ray Ice Cream Parlour.” An American couple down steps. Pink-haired Thai girl in “It’s Hot,” Thai boy in “What a feelin’” tee-shirts.
Following the destruction of Ayodhya. Colonial architecture in grey stucco. Thonburi became the capital of Thailand. White trim. In 1782 Bangkok began its construction. Across-street parking attendant waits for ticket from exiting BMW. Many wats were built, many artists arriving from Ayodhya. Lay-Out Body Works, Thai Xerographic Systems, Foto First. Later “the Bangkok Style,” as it comes to be known, shows signs of degeneration. Ken Follet (“The Key to Rebecca”); Gurman & Company, an etching of a seventeenth-century colonialist in its window. Architecture is too much influenced by Chinese wooden structures. “SUIT/PANT/SHIRT.” Chedi and prang decline into slenderness. “READY/IN/12 HOURS.” Café City 2 displays plastic models of items on its menu: Blueberry Parfait (tall glass, topped with whipped cream, dust-covered cherry); Fruit Yoghurt (lichee, sliced bananas, peaches). Also the abuse. Café Cappuccino; iced Vienna. Of decorating buildings. Main dishes: Garlic Bread and Sausage; Beef Pizza Toast; American Fried Rice. With ceramic ornaments. Children [sic] Plate: Shows an art. Hamburger patty, French fries, shake. In its decay.
Bangkok collected images of the Buddha from all regions of Thailand. Wat Benchanabotir collection recalled: a walking Buddha (Gupta-style); cross-legged Buddha (Chiang Saen-style). Each time a new statue. A standing Buddha calming the ocean (Ayutthaya-style). Had to be produced. An image of the Buddha, cross-legged, in the posture of teaching (Sino-Thai-style). The artist was called upon. A standing Buddha. To imitate an ancient figure. In the attitude of teaching (Dvaravati-style). All this inhibited invention. An image of the Buddha subduing Mara; a standing Buddha (Japanese-style); an image of the Buddha sitting, one leg above the other, invoking victory. Also, craft sculpture had become a commercial venture. A standing Buddha with royal attributes; another forbidding his relatives to fight one another.
Two Thai teens enter Orange Boutique; an older girl and her gay boyfriend pause to study perfumes in the window of L’Idea. The murals of the Rattanakosin era. A stairway sign shows a white figure ascending against black ground, diagonal arrow pointing in both directions. Especially those of the first three reigns. Across-plaza bright red neon: “We Sell Fashion.” Should be thought of as classical. “PARADOX” in a heart. Mother with a cute twelve-year-old in a purple top. For they still closely resemble murals found at Ayodhya. Paradox boutique interior: Afterwards. Old-fashioned clock (hour, minute, second hand), digital insert reading “2:47:45.” The pervasive influence of European art. Salesgirl in dirty ocher jumper. Thai painting. Black underblouse. Disastrously affected by it. Backward-reading window-reflection of “We Sell Fashion.”