TRAVELING AROUND THE WORLD: Our Tales of Delights and Disasters (4 page)

We finally made it to the Grand Palace the next morning, hired a guide, and prepared to enter the Palace grounds. But first, we had to be appropriately attired, which we weren’t. We were in shorts, which were not acceptable. Fortunately, the guides are prepared with skirts and pants. Perfect – well, accept they weren’t the most stylish. My skirt was a tie-dyed rainbow. Mike had drawstring, balloon pants that, well, ballooned. The ensemble effect was rather unfortunate. There was nothing to do but laugh, put them on, and pose for fashion photos.

We entered the grounds to an explosion of color and glitter. The temple was covered in bits of blue, red and gold tiles that gleamed and sparkled in the sun. Roof lines ended with a graceful bird head while a serpent – the protector of the Thai King – wound down the eaves. We saw the emerald Buddha (it’s actually jade) which was wearing his winter outfit (he has an outfit for each season – winter, summer and rainy), a cloak of woven gold.
Dazzling.
We saw the Palace, which is a shocking contradiction. The building was constructed by King Rama V, who traveled in Europe and brought back European architecture. The first two floors were an understated English design but on top was a multi-colored Thai roof with its swooping, extravagant lines. A pavilion was in front where the King was carried after his coronation. Next to it was a place to tie up the elephants – an elephant hitching post.

Our next stop was Wat Pho. “Wat” means “temple,” and there are “wats” everywhere. Wat Pho is famous for the enormous reclining Buddha. Long and gold, he looks peaceful lying with his head on two ornate cushions. We snapped photos, and walked around the complex filled with giant statues sporting a variety of postures and expressions. Tiring from the heat, Mike and I caught the boat back to our hotel and yet another massage. This one was a foot
and
back massage. It was a perfect way to end a day of walking in the heat, humidity and smog.

The streets by the hotel were lined with tailor shops. Custom-made suits and dresses are a specialty and they were embarrassingly cheap. Mike took advantage of the opportunity and had a coat and trousers made. They gave him a custom-made shirt for the same price. They took measurements and asked for a deposit but we were short some of the cash and had to run over to the hotel. By the time we got back – fifteen minutes later – they had cut out the suit coat and did his first fitting. That was with no deposit and within minutes of the order.
Crazy.

One thing that is remarkably common in Thailand, Egypt and Turkey is the recognition of Barak Obama. Taxi drivers, tour guides,
tuk-tuk
drivers and hotel staff ask where we’re from. We tell them that we live in the U.S. near Washington, D.C. “Oh,” they say, “Barak Obama! He a good president.” One taxi driver in Bangkok said, “His skin the same color as mine!” The level of recognition and respect that he commands in this part of the world is extraordinary.

While this sentiment may be shared by the people in Cairo and Bangkok, we were also struck by the contradictions between Bangkok and Cairo. In Cairo, the appearance of the people, their dark hair and eyes, and the wielding of clubs, presented an uncomfortable impression. Yet they were polite and kind. The Thai people – delicate, diminutive, and graceful – give an impression of graciousness, but put them behind the wheel of any motorized contraption and watch out! I’m not sure whether I felt more threatened by tanks in Giza or crossing the street in Bangkok. Both held equally deadly weapons. Cars and motorcycles zipped past with only occasional acknowledgment of a pedestrian. To cross the street, we congregated with others on the curb – preferably locals – and dashed when they dashed.

The other contradiction is the image of Thailand as green, peaceful and temple-filled. And it is. However, Bangkok is a hectic city with all the difficulties that accompany large, urban areas. Masses of electrical cables are strung along crowded streets, and sidewalks are filled with cart after cart of vendors selling any kind of food you can imagine and many you can’t imagine. Streets are packed with traffic – bumper to bumper –and the air pollution that accompanies them. At major intersections, dozens of motorcycles crowd the front of the queue while their tail pipes spout concentrated smoke. As I ran along these streets to reach the peace of a large park, I quickly learned to inhale as little as possible. The park was a welcome oasis in this huge city. I enjoyed practicing chi gong in the park knowing that no one would find it odd.

There have also been many small, pleasant things about the Thais. For example, they have a delightful custom of folding their hands and bowing slightly to speak a welcome, thank you, or whatever. It is charming. And it can be amusing, too. The tiny, young woman who cleans our room nearly dropped an armload of linens in order to fold hands and bow. Mike asked to take her picture. She and her co-worked reacted as thought they won the lottery. They were thrilled and said that no one had ever asked for their picture before.
So cute.

I could do without the air pollution and the noise from the street, but I loved our introduction to Bangkok – its sparkling color, graceful beauty and Buddhas, and, of course, the massages.

Friday, February 11, 2011

Here a Monk, There a Monk
 

Of the population of Thailand, 95% are Buddhist but only a few practice strictly. In our short visit, we saw countless temples (there are 30,000 in Thailand) elaborately decorated and plentiful images of Buddha – all smiling and serene. For some reason, Mike and I were unprepared for the prevalence of the monks. We expected them to be tucked away and glimpsed fleetingly. We were wrong.

Everywhere there were orange robes against tan skin and bald heads. Some robes were bright orange with yellow sashes and others were burnt orange. We were told that some monks live in the forest and their robes are brown. We saw small robed boys, old men, stooped and small, and all ages in between.

It was explained that practicing Buddhists have five rules:

1. No killing

2. No stealing

3. No adultery

4. No lying

5. No alcohol

The monks, however, have 227 rules.

We saw monks at the temples and along the streets collecting their daily alms in the early morning (donations are their only way of surviving). In the temples, they offered blessings to small groups of barefoot, kneeling people by dipping a small, round wicker brush (like a round whisk) into water and sprinkling the people. Mike and I went to the large temple, Doi Suthep, on the hilltop in Chiang Mai, and we had the opportunity to be blessed by a monk sitting cross-legged in a chair. Afterward, with a donation, he tied a simple white yarn around the wrist of those blessed. I was passed to a helper as monks are not allowed to touch a woman (it is one of the 227 rules). He did, however, tie Mike’s string. It was a very nice experience, although, I have to say, we were on the front row and were drenched. That little brush held lots of water.

It’s an odd feeling to be a forbidden object. One of our tour guides shoved me to one side as a group of monks passed, explaining that I needed to give them plenty of room as they should not even brush up against a woman. Sure enough, I was walking along a narrow street behind two tiny Thai women who were browsing the inevitable row of vendors. Suddenly, they squished themselves to one side of the sidewalk – odd, I thought – and then I saw the oncoming monk. After he passed, far to our left, they moved over and continued browsing.

We saw many ways for people to offer their offerings or pay their respects. Many times, people bring a white or pink lotus flower; others light small yellow candles or pots of burning oil. One can buy a small gold bell, write your name on the clapper, and hang it in the temple. There are also packages of materials to buy for the monks. Some contain food, a few orange marigolds, and others even toilet paper. We saw people selling bags of fish and small cages of tiny birds outside the temples, too. People buy them to set free, representing their troubles swimming or flying away.

In Thailand, there is great concern about the spirit world. Each home has a small house on a pole in the backyard. It looks like an ornate bird house but it is for the spirits of ancestors. Each day, an offering of water, food, incense or flowers is made to keep the spirits happy. As we drove along the highway outside of the city, we passed outdoor centers with plants and pots and these colorful little houses. It was like a Garden Ridge Pottery store for spirit houses. We also saw people sitting in the temples shaking containers of sticks. Our guide had me try it. The round cylinder holds many plastic sticks with numbers. I shook the container until one stick – only one – fell out. It was an eleven. Small papers stacked on the side of the temple gave information for each number. For me, my “desires are accomplished.” That works for me.

Whatever the offering, people bring it to the temples or buy it outside. They remove their shoes before entering (as a result, shoes are piled outside), walk across the cool, smooth entrance, and step inside to the soft carpeted interior. They kneel in front of the Buddha, bow and deliver their offering.

We saw this play out at temple after temple. For some reason, at the temple Doi Suthep, the offerings were particularly compelling. I was struck by the atmosphere of reverence that pervaded the temple grounds, even in the midst of clueless tourists, inappropriately dressed, staring and snapping photos. Imagine trying to conduct a church service with camera-totting tourists wandering about.

But for all the devotion, it was startling to see monks in the street, walking about, doing regular things and even sight-seeing. We chuckled at a group of four young monks who posed for their photo with the guard at the Grand Palace. The monks live in small rooms surrounding many of the temples. Their laundry, orange robes, hangs outside drying like large orange blankets. But it’s the little activities so common for us that seem out of place for them. We watched a monk line up to use the ATM. Another was talking on his cell phone. A group of ten- to twelve-year-old boys in their orange and yellow robes browsed the aisles of a convenience store, puzzling over chips and candy. A monk on our flight from Chiang Mai to Bangkok scrambled along with everyone else to retrieve his bag from the overhead bin.

One of the experiences I planned for Thailand was to participate in a Buddhist meditation session. There is a temple in Bangkok that conducts three sessions a day in English. We located it across from the Grand Palace, and I made plans to return for the 7-10 am session. Dressed all in white, I took the boat with the local workers early in the morning while it was still dark outside. No one was at the center except a young woman cleaning the floor. I sat outside and waited with my shoes neatly in the rack. As I waited, I watched the monks returning from collecting their alms. Old men, middle-aged men and gangly teenagers with feet still too big for their bodies walked past holding their alms bowls and carrying bags of provisions that were given to them. Some had two bags; others had six. Eventually, a kindly monk invited me inside. I was apparently the only tourist visiting that morning. Meditating at 7 am is not a top tourist attraction. I signed in and waited for the “master.” Soon young women emerged from the back in long dresses of palest lavender. They were well versed in the ceremony. They grabbed a cushion, so I grabbed a cushion. They sat on the floor, so I sat on the floor. An old monk with a smiling face arrived and stood on the raised platform along with the other men (men and women were separated). He chatted with the women and was apparently telling jokes as he had everyone laughing. After the stand-up routine, he sat in the front with a crackling microphone and everyone started chanting and bowing to touch their foreheads to the floor. I followed as best I could. Then they all stood and started walking very slowly across the floor. I copied and wondered if this was the process for the next three hours. I had the door in sight.

Then I noticed another monk sitting at the information desk. He motioned to me to come sit. He welcomed me to the session and told me about Vipassana or Insight Meditation – meditating to simply acknowledge what is happening in the body or mind in that moment. Frankly, he startled me. Since I had been coached to stay away from the monks, he was not what I expected. He was a few years older than I with sparkling eyes and freckles across his nose. He looked me directly in the eye with an unwavering gaze. I struggled to maintain eye contact, feeling somehow vulnerable, exposed and forbidden, but he never faltered. He led me to another room while the others continued their walking. Our room was long and narrow with white tile walls and a grey tiled floor. A pile of cushions sat at one end with a simple, metal folding-table at the other holding the image of Buddha. Three fans provided the only cooling in the room on a sticky, humid morning.

First there was walking meditation. All I needed to do was maintain focus on my body as I slowly walked, stood, turned and repeated – over and over. He chanted for me, “Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot, standing, standing, turning, turning, turning, right foot, left foot...” His voice was soft and comforting. After several passes, he had me continue saying the words to myself. Nothing could be so simple, and yet when he stopped chanting, I felt that the training wheels had been removed.

After my short stint of walking meditation, he instructed me on seated meditation. The principle was the same except to say, “Rising, falling, rising, falling” with every breath. And if my foot went to sleep, I was to focus my attention on it until “it passes.”
Hmmmm.
He showed me how to get onto the mat, sit, and fold my hands with intention. Here was the first problem. My legs are not flexible enough to sit in a yoga pose like this. He rallied and had me pile up several more cushions until it was more like a chair. There we sat – rising, falling. He told me to continue with thirty minutes seated meditation and thirty minutes walking meditation. And he left.