Thammasat courtyard, Faculty of Liberal Arts, bo-tree swathed in gauzy emerald, sky-blue, purplish-pink silk bands, knotted, their tails allowed to droop toward eventual decay. Saffron, Bordeaux, lemony green. Leaves still dripping from early morning rain, 7:00 am departure for Ayodhya, ancient capital of Siam. Busful of Thammasat faculty, learned guide, left-turning past Sanam Luang, on out through early Saturday streets of Banglamphu. Gold Thai lettering announces the name of a bank, repeated in Chinese characters. At a red light we pause alongside grey-maroon Mitsubishi. At the next, to observe a lushly-enfoliaged residential area. Eastward on up many blocks to another intersection, across which the Cable Television building, its multi-faceted sides all tiled in white, its highest section topped by a rainbow of colored tiles. Thence northward, eastward to face into the sun. The bus’s clock reads 7:38, its studious, sophisticated passengers reflected in a vacant, darkened VDT. A few more blocks and we make our final northward turn, departing Bangkok for an uneventful 80-kilometer trip up concrete strip.
After Ayodhya was built as his capital in 1350 A.D. by King Ramathipbodi I (Phra Chao U-Thong), the royal palace was constructed in this area. Orange brickwork of desecrated chapels, palaces and their outbuildings. In the palace complex there were three main royal residences. Extending out on two sides from the massive two new chedi. Phichayonmahaprasat, I-Sawanmahaprasat and Phtoomahaprasat. All under time’s ravage. In the area of the former palace. Sun moderate, in the coolest day of the year thus far. Three stupas were erected. A lush damp vegetation underfoot. The temple was named Wat Phra Sisanphet. View from outbuilding of three, lined-up, nearly identical chedi. According to the name of the presiding Buddha. The last of which shows only the rings of its spire, the tiny, onion-shaped hat that surmounts it.
The Royal Palace. Passage outward down walkway into buildingless vista, past sparsely padded lily pond, a dog trotting in author’s direction. In 1448 A.D., in the reign of King Tri-Lokanat. A woman with double baskets on pole approaches. The ninth King of Ayodhya. A white-shirted man riding a bicycle overtakes author. More residences were built, situated inside a fortress with massive gateways. Sun now warming, parasols out, the shuffle of leather-soled heels on pavilion stairs. Some were rebuilt several times. The wood-floored structure rises on cylindrical columns to a plank-ceilinged, hand-planed roof. Approach to King’s Residence, partly destroyed, partly extant, through rankness. Behind us, the relentless buzz of weed-eater. At author’s foot an insect crawls across a broad leaf as, overhead, an airplane passes north to south. The cool breeze quickens. We descend from a high brick ridge into the regal quarters, down treacherous moss-covered stair. Views of the royal bathtub, the royal goldfish pond, a terrace for dance and convocation.
Wat Na Phra Meru, a rather gaudily-figured temple exterior, its whitened stucco failing. Interior in sumptuous elegance, repair. Wat Na Phra Meru was the royal monastery. An immense Buddha image, golden, shadowed in darker tones, culminates the sala, whose focus Is enhanced by a row of octagonal pillars, painted a pale olive with yellow-gold ornamentation. The Buddha image is made of bronze, coated with gold leaf. Its huge eyelids almost close over hollow pupils. It bears the King’s dress from the Ayodhya period. Downcast toward an upraised open left palm, the right hand assuming a “touching-the-earth” posture. Instead of windows the temple has apertures to let the wind come through. As we exit yellow petals drop from a tree onto author’s shoulder. Stars, sun and moon are displayed on its carved ceiling.
After visiting the Kraal we proceed downroad to Wat Yai, several kilometers distant, where it towers above the landscape. In Thailand there are three kraals. Cloud cover has begun to dissipate, leaving pale vagueness as backdrop to the monumental structure. One is in Lopburi. Tier upon tier of steps. The others in Banna and Ayodhya. Lead to a Buddha-filled niche. This kraal is composed of two parts. In front, a standing figure. The first (red) part is the elephant-lassoing area. Behind, a smaller, seated figure. The other (blue) part is the King’s seat. A vast pile of rocks, its volume about twice the size indicated by its proportions.
Still-building wat under lunch-time inspection, craftsmen seated before red clay finial, hand-molding it, yellow-capped foreman, cigarette in hand, instructing apathetic underlings. Above us all, on a roughed-in platform, serenely viewing the scene, an already gold-leafed Buddha, orange and purple flowers adorning him, incense at his feet. Bare-chested, lunch-breaking workers pull their shirts back on, ready themselves for serious labor; a girl ties the straps of her straw hat.
Ang-Thong temple district continuation, banks of the Chao Phrya River, awaiting boat to ferry entourage across to farther shore. Crossing accomplished, we enter the hall of the reclining Buddha, whose gold-leaf-encrusted body is veiled by immense skein of golden gauze. At a single altar flickers a row of candles; tables support golden urns filled with flowers. White-clad nuns, seated in ancient postures, slowly attend to entering devotees.
Far-side return ferry-await, ferry near-side departure. Below steps on this (the far) side a woman in traditional sarong, having bathed in the river, finishes the last of her laundry, placing it in a large aluminum pan which, along with pail, she carries up two dozen steps. Ferry arrived, entourage now down two dozen steps, preparatory to river re-crossing. Ferry on at idling motor control, a bow hand, in sunglasses, pendant earring, pushes us off. We must head upstream to accomplish our downstream landing.
Ayodhya Historical Society, brilliant adaptation of traditional Thai architectural motifs, copper-engraved map in entranceway: “Present Ayodhya and its Area,” river and khlongs in muddy green, sites of chedi marked by white cones, other historical sites in a saturated turquoise. Relations with China: (Thai-Japanese Center displays of native dealings with foreigners): Ayodhya traded and maintained ties with China throughout its 417-year history. A second copper engraving of Wat Yai, its stupa the largest and tallest in Ayodhya. Relations with Ryukyu: Considerable documentary evidence exists of Ayodhya-Ryukyu relations in the 14th to 16th centuries. Complete reconstructions of period portals; fragmentary murals; a scale model of sailing vessel. Relations with the Netherlands: The Dutch East India Company first arrived in 1604, looking for a passage to China. Miniature Chinese junks. Relations with Britain: The English East India Company maintained a “factory” during two stages of the 17th century. Illuminated pictures of the white elephant, a blessing on the King. Relations with France: Missionaries came during King Narai’s reign. Display of domestic trade routes. Relations with India: Indian textiles were in constant demand. Relations with Malay Land: Some Malay kings sent the silver and gold flowers of tribute. More displays. The city developed close diplomatic relations with various Asian and European countries, allowing the foreigners to build warehouses, to settle down in separate villages. By doing so, Ayodhya gained certain knowledge and technology, employing skilled foreigners to work as state officials, conductors of trade affairs, etc.
Approach to final temple (Wat Chawattanaram), past brick-maker’s cottage (father, mother, two daughters at work on a dirt floor). Down shady allée to the banks of the river, where sound from a small blue skiff, two boys aboard, precedes appearance of the skiff itself. First glimpse of the wat’s spires over orange steam-shovel. The wash of the passing boat has reached the shore. Across-river a red-shirted boy with rod and reel fishes, as a younger lad, only his head visible, paddles nearby, treading the water. Farther downriver, in the waning light of late afternoon, a grey houseboat on grey-blue waters, the reflection of a clear, half-mooned sky. To author’s right, a sudden baby cry. Upriver two enormous sampans, alongside one another, dominate the opposite bank, a single distant coconut palm rising off it.
At last we arrive at the great temple bathed in golden sunlight, kids at play on its broken porch of red, mortared brick, against which a backdrop of three headless sandstone Buddhas. About the central chedi ranges in symmetrical, quadrangular design a mountainous, park-like world of truth, flawed, disintegrated, crumbled, but in outline still clear. Seated on the steps of the central chedi, at intervals of twenty feet, three young girls, in magenta top, in “Fido 701 Club” tee-shirt, in rose-printed sleeveless top. Chirping together, calling out, they flock about: Nanu (10), Yauya (9), Salau (8), followed closely by three little boys, who materialize out of nowhere: Myto (7), Babao (6), Achit (5). Bringing up the rear of the procession, much darker than the others, much smaller, is little Lek. In semicircle they stand about for their portrait, author simultaneously practicing their names. In the meantime, behind the principal chedi, the sun has set.
VII. Arun Amarin dawn walk, Pinklao Bridge approach, sidewalk life registration. Black cat, exiting dismantled outdoor singing club to disappear behind crumpled green trash can. American jogger past in violet tee-shirt, khaki shorts. Under-awning stalls of packed-together chairs, restaurant apparatus; an “Entertainer” jukebox, its lights already flashing. Upended tables at adjacent stall; a stack of dirty orange chairs. Casket shop, recently completed boxes in white with gold trim, sidewalk spotted with white paint, white on white; trash can, set at curbside, crammed with carpenter’s refuse. Udom Silverware, its grey metal corrugated door as yet unopened. Above Povej Thai Massage Parlor rises a silky, luxurious sky in lemony grey against a roseate horizon. Another (indoor) singing club, photos of the 36 stars in frames adorned with purple, gold and green sequins.
A yellow garbage truck, its crew of four sifting through damaged wicker baskets; two men stand in its gaping, nasty maw to stamp down provender with their black rubber-booted feet. Up the sidewalk comes a girl in white-on-magenta polka dot blouse, grey slacks, smiling as she passes. The garbagemen look down on scribbling author, they too smiling, as they commentate his activity. In red day-glo vest with even brighter yellow stripes, a bandana-ed street-sweeper, pant cuffs rolled up several inches, cleans up after garbagemen. Author onward: past medical clinic; past school van exiting soi; past boutique of bridal gowns. The gold Thai letters of Siri Chai gleam in the sun. The morning paper, a multicolored map of the Middle East on its first page, protrudes from an orange mailbox. Down an alleyway, in a tiny neon-illuminated shrine, sits the Buddha.
On past noodle stands, where a schoolgirl studies a photo album proffered by her classmate. The light of the sun is about to emerge over freshly-painted yellow railings of new pedestrian bridge. Sitting on their bikes, in orange vests atop black jackets, motorcycle-taxiests await customers. A beauty parlor has opened for business, one client already having her hair done, another, seated on the couch, awaiting her turn. An enormous Buddha, the dharmachakra fixed behind his head, sits on a table outside the shop’s open glass door, on which are pasted four glamorous soft-focus photos. Author continues, on past empty (not-yet-operational) sidewalk restaurants. Three stocky teenage joggers overtake him, as he in turn passes two parked buses. The sun has arisen, a large vague pancake behind a veil of cloud. In dowdy overblouses, long blue skirts, black sandals, white socks, a gaggle of high school girls heads up the avenue.
Author mounts sixty steps, past urinous landing, for Chao Phrya overview, its dappled surface afloat with weedy greenery, its tide high. In bright colors long-tailed outboards negotiate the flood, crossing at different angles, their automotive engines whining. From the bridge’s midpoint he looks down into an early excursion boat, as it heads upstream; on its deck, lounging passengers, one smoking a cigarette. Across the bridge in both directions traffic streams by through its own polluted fumes. His crossing complete, he descends steps to the entrance of Wang Nar (Mermaid) Restaurant, re-ascends southern stairs for bridge re-crossing. At its mid-point, standing beside two traffic cops, he pauses for downriver view. The flood curves out of sight behind another bridge, turning the river’s surface into an illusory lake-like entity.
Re-descending from the bridge to complete his south-side-of-boulevard transit, he faces another stream, of rush hour traffic: U-turning city bus, maroon Toyota, white Mazda; a cyclist in wide horizontal blue-and-white-striped shirt. Behind them stands the broad ten-story Office of Mahidol University, its taxi-van parked before double doors. Author foots it on up avenue, Arun Amarinward, past stone-cutter’s shop, outside which two lolling, open-mouthed granite lions, one with a ball atop its tongue. Squeezed between curb and industrial supply-laden sidewalk, two noodle-stands have started their operation. Lengths of aluminum stripping block the passageway, which is cluttered as well with plumbing parts; blue plastic pipe; lumber inadequately covered with heavy oilcloth tarpaulins; slabs of fresh-cut plywood; five-gallon cans of Emulsion Paint labeled “Exterior / Interior.” Before Siam Hansa Physical Therapy – its sign also reading in Japanese, Chinese and Thai – a forest of potted palms masks the parlor’s entrance.
At a brand new “Big Seven” (the Thai 7-Eleven), its white shelves fully stocked for business, he pauses for breakfast, continuing on past S. Pinklao Telecom Electric, its door just opened, a multi-colored bank of phones aglow beneath red lights within; on past a recently finished apartment building, in its first floor five bays for shops, their freshly-painted metal doors unopened. To either side, two bicycle-wheeled noodle stands remain unpacked, stools in one, chairs in the other, chained together. Down-avenue traffic has thickened to congestion. The day is heating up. On the grimy sidewalk two sparrows bounce and re-alight, picking through a sand-pile for morsels. Buses rumble by, packed with passengers, some hanging out the portals. Only on the service road is traffic flowing freely. As he pauses to write, a fly crawls over author’s boot top. Opposite rises a huge sign in the form of a poplar leaf, its white veins gleaming with reflected light. In grey uniform, pink satchel on his shoulder, a school boy strides past. Glittery gold “Happy New Year” pennons flutter high above him in the breeze.
4: Hat Yai, Songkhla, Nakhon Si Thammarat, Phattalung, Krabi, Trang