the ubiquitous street food stalls beckons and beguiles the adventurous in you
II. Suan Lum
It is my first night here, and the monsoon rains have come in torrents. The hot, humid air gave way to the lulling coolness the rain has brought. I am caught in its heavy downpour. We are drenched – my new found friends and I- huddled at some inadequate canopy, having pad thais and spicy rice with crabs, and fruits- with the flood of rain underfoot ankle deep. It is supposed to be a miserable night, but we felt otherwise. It felt the most natural thing in the world – to be caught in a torrential upheaval while laughing, having ice-cold watermelon juices, and the exotic tang of durian still lingering in your mouth, its perfume a heady aroma that is both lethal and lovely. The tacky tourist souvenir shops with its little Buddhas, suffocating incense, and t-shirts with vulgar prints, and other curious items lend an atmosphere that invites you to suspend beliefs. Anything can happen. Anything can be seen. A kathoey walks past, his/her languid ways mesmerize and terrifies. “How much you want?” urges the vendors, eyeing you with an earnestness that is heartbreaking- but you know its all about the kill. You ignore the almost pleading tone and you walk past his merchandise. But once past it, you have a desire to go back and see, but the stalls aren’t there anymore. It has vanished, and you feel lost – bereft of some magic that had you captivated just for a moment.
what is a little rain, a little flooding and becoming wet if one can have a plate of glorious pad thai? the appetite of academic deans come rain or high water...
III.
How quickly the sumptuous dinner buffet turned into a surrealist’s nightmare as the hypnotic beat of a Bollywood song urges the timid and the shy to stand up and dance like mad men. Raised hands, stomping fee, hips swaying to the rhythm of electronica turn the staid audience into regular party goers – all in the name of fun. Because you realize – as long as the river cruise lasts, you exist in another world altogether. You are not who you are. You are somebody else. You are someone who dances, who sings along bawdy songs. You forget who you were – while the lights of the city pass you by – the temple and the palaces become an incongruous backdrop to this liminal space.
Then the morning comes sheepishness, and a little embarrassment as the morning sunshine sheds light on a night better forgotten. You have no excuse. You had fun. And why not?
We certainly love our King (photo courtesy of Calvin)
IV. Watpo
Sonorous chants can be heard from a distance, as incense fills the air even as the rhythmic clink of coins being offered serve as a sound track for this sacred space. The gigantic Buddha reclines in its golden splendor – comfortable even it is constantly gawked at by tourists, onlookers and backpackers. The scent mingles with the sweat of the crowd, the fragrance of flowers and the surprising ripe smell of body odor coming from saffron-robed monks. What sacred mystery that enveloped this place once upon a time is long torn to shreds by the lure of commercialism. Whatever secrets may be whispered from the stories from the tapestries have long been deafened by the incessant chatter of those who have come to make this visit in the hopes of peace and quiet. For what we seek, we lose, what we treasure we destroy eventually. And while the monkey king is forever locked in some celestial battle, the sheen of gold leaf is peeling, and the marble façade is crumbling, exposing concrete and twisted iron bars. From its position way above the top wall, it looks on the onlooker with benevolence, and obsolescence.
Comments