The trip to Hanoi goes smoothly as can be expected in
Vietnam. We’re left to sprawl on the concrete for a good 40 minutes between our first bus and speedboat, and once on the
mainland, we take a sideways jaunt to the Hai Phong Hoang Long bus
garage for a thirty minute spray-down before continuing to Hanoi.
I find my way to the Old Quarter and check into the
Sanctuary, a slim hostel nestled halfway down a cluttered alley, ten minutes’
walk from the district’s busiest streets. The hostel has a clean, simple and
individual charm– each room is dedicated to a specific endangered species,
with said species painted on the door and additional photos hanging in the
rooms.
The area around Ma May itself is one of the busiest streets
I’ve ever seen. In the center of the backpacker district, hostels and bars
ranging the gamut from grungy to five-star line the street. Trinket shops
squeeze into spare crannies, while vendors arrange short plastic stools around
low tables to sell street food from sidewalks and corner stalls. Motorbikes
parked by the hundreds force pedestrians into the asphalt proper, where
tourists and Vietnamese alike swarm amongst the noise of screaming cars and
motorbikes. Bicycle rikshaws cycle through, overpriced massage parlors abound
and little ladies laden with baskets of banana-filled donut-holes attempt to
offload baggies onto me for obscene prices. A side alley yields rows and rows
of women selling fresh food from baskets and tubs on the ground– while
one lady hawks spinach and cabbage, the girl next to her takes a meat cleaver
to a catfish head, separating the head from the body and yanking out its guts
barehanded while a sack of giant frogs squirms on the ground in front of her.
____________________
Stepping into Bangkok hurtles me back into the modern world.
A queue forms behind a counter where officials organize taxis and eliminate
bargaining from the journey before we pass through a downtown full of abstract
high rises, windows gleaming. Cars fill the streets, obeying traffic signals
(which function!) in orderly fashion. Without motorbikes’ constant beeping, the
streets seem almost silent.
Bamboo Guesthouse, run by a crotchety lady and her gentle
husband, is tucked into the far corner of a narrow alley just off the Chao Phraya
River and five minutes’ walk from Khao San Road– Bangkok’s epicenter of
backpacker debauchery. Small residences and guesthouses connected by a maze of
small passages fill the old-style neighborhood.
For the next two days I wander. The city bursts with color– houses’
wrought gates shine purple, green and gold. Temple spires rise into the sky,
visible from miles away as brilliant golden paint reflects the sun, inlaid with
red, blue, green and mirrored tiles set in geometric and floral patterns. High
rises and apartment buildings boast multicolored contemporary accents.
Longboats painted in striped green, orange, yellow and red boast garlands
dangling from their prows. Dotted throughout neighborhoods I find miniature
shrines dedicated to Buddha, tucked into corners or set into giant tree trunks
comprised of hundreds of twisting branches, trees and pedestals wrapped in silk
scarves. I find monks appear everywhere, bright orange robes contributing to
the burst of color around me.
Modern and ancient aspects coexist so naturally here, in a
society so stepped in cultural history. Modern government buildings stand
next-door to centuries-old temples, transit includes both sky trains and tuk
tuks, and while tap water isn’t potable, refill stations pop up every block or
so: 1 baht, the equivalent of a nickel, refills a 1.5 liter water bottle.
I find street food everywhere. Wheeled stands shaded by
large umbrellas form pods alongside avenues, tuck into allies and cram into
markets. Selections are endless: women grill skewered pork and chicken, sell
baggies of sliced watermelon and mango and sit behind trays of whole dried
fish. Men peddle bicycle carts full of processed sausages and meatballs, ready
to hold over a flame with a moment’s notice. Other women set up shop behind a
dozen bowls or more of traditional dishes, serving rice and any selection of
curries and meats from the midst of giant bubbling pots. At one point I buy a
baggie of what fried chicken, soon discovering I’m actually eating deep-fried
banana. I haven’t gotten my hands on these treats since living in Ecuador five
years ago.
A side street near the palace hosts an amulet market– thousands
upon thousands of little metal trinkets amongst dozens of stalls set along the
sidewalk. Monks wander the row, bending low over tables, while an older man
utilizes a magnifying glass to inspect a rather small piece.
In a city park filled with flowering trees and manicured
lawns, cut through by a small, branching canal,
a man leads a dozen or so ladies in the Cha Cha
from a courtyard stage. To my left I hear a wild thrashing and look down to see
a monitor lizard, at least two meters long, haul himself up out of the canal
and onto the bank, a giant fish clamped in its jaws. Once firmly on the lawn
the reptile dumps his catch in front of him, striking repeatedly as it flails
before swallowing the thing whole. The fish, three times longer than the
lizard’s head, disappears in a minute. Then the lizard slips back into the
canal.
In the evening I discover why all the strays have such shiny
coats: an older lady approaches two slender cats in a park, dropping fish at
their feet and allowing them to rub against her legs before continuing on her
way. It’s a welcome change from Vietnam, where the rare feline is a mangy mess–
usually they’re just seen as free meat, of the high-end variety.
I find my way to Khao San Road, which puts Ma May to shame. Swanky
bars blast western music as tuk tuks and taxis inch through hoards of stumbling
tourists. Street vendors hawk food of all sorts (I’m fairly sure the fried scorpions and tarantulas are there primarily
for shock factor), and hundreds stalls form a night market, selling overpriced
tank tops and Billabong knockoffs. Massage parlors occupy every third or fourth
building, drunk tourists sprawled in reclining chairs as Thai women rub their
feet. I’ve never seen more tattooed people in my life. Even in Portland. At one
point I run into a coworker who’s just left Asia Outdoors, and we watch the
best break dancers I’ve ever seen mesmerize the street as their human beatbox
maintains a flawlessly inhuman beat for over thirty minutes.
I’ve been informed that the Bangkok’s knock-offs are far
better quality than those found in Hanoi, so I head to the markets on my first
full day in the city. The river transit system presents organized chaos:
crammed long boats speed over the churning water between the river’s twenty
thirty or so piers, conductors and watchmen communicating through shrill silver
whistles as they approach the dock. Boat and dock collide violently, people
swarm on and off, and the boat pulls away within twenty seconds. Colored flags
at each boat’s tail designate different lines: although all boats follow the
same route, not every line stops at each pier. Express boats vie for space on
the pier with cross-river ferries and hoards of slender longboats.
The markets I find hold befuddling mazes of stalls selling
flip flops, electronics, clothes, belts, wallets and food vendors. Alleys dead
end in shops filled with very Asian-looking stuffed animals, occasionally breaking
for giant trees wrapped in dozens of scarves. I find a small shrine set into
the base of one where roots reach into the ground, with a happy orange cat
clambering amongst the tree’s branches and pillowed fabric where it’s obviously
made its home.
My search for clothing is somewhat futile: Although
knockoffs may be better quality in Bangkok, they’re still made for tiny Asian
people. Half the time vendors insist, “One size! One size! It stretch! It
stretch!” …I call bullshit, unless you’re below a size 3. Other ladies simply
flap their hands at me: “Nothing for you!”
The district’s wholesale market is something else entirely,
stretching in a matrix for miles beneath buildings, intersected only by major
streets. Thousands of people swarm narrow aisles, passing stall after stall
brimming with trucker hats, coin purses and watches. Aisle after offshoot aisle
reveals more bolts of fabric than I’ve ever seen in my life. An attempted shortcut leads me into a bizarre
land of thousands of Hawaiian shirts, garish colors accosting me from every
direction.
I watch as the city’s largest flower market comes to life
for the evening as women raise umbrellas and tables while men pull trucks to
the streetside, ferrying orchids and roses piled high above their heads,
fireline-style. Delicate purple, white and green wreaths are created in
minutes, presented in ornate stacks or atop miniature shrines. Other stalls
bulge outward with bags of marigolds, traditionally used as offerings in
temples.
The city’s temples take my breath away. Filled with acres of
shining tiled and mirrored mosaics and spires and dotted hundreds of
gold-plated of Buddhas and fairies, they embody splendor as none other. Deep
red and gold murals line hallways and tell histories from temple walls and
ceilings. The Temple of the Reclining Buddha holds a towering statue 160ft
long, feet inlaid with mother of pearl as it serenely watches thousands of
people who file through. A courtyard hosts an art class of two dozen students,
sprawled across the ground as they pencil spires and rooftops to paper.
The Temple of the Emerald Buddha, which is in fact jade,
sits next to the palace. Full-length skirts and pants are required (A guard
chants a mantra of “No sarongs for men!”), and photos are forbidden. The
relatively small figurine sits amidst a room of gold, high upon a shrine and
beneath a many-tiered canopy. The adjacent throne room holds the same majestic
elegance, shrines and canopies and seats facing neat rows of deeply cushioned,
high-backed chairs. Elsewhere, in a museum of weaponry, the palace displays
thousands spears, tridents and evolving guns. Around a side passage and away
from the crowds I find a small, sheltered garden filled with meticulously
pruned bonsai trees, small pools and stone animals.
I treat myself to Thai massage– some combination of interactive,
half-assisted yoga and elbows digging into my back and girls walking on me that
probably only works because they’re all so tiny.
I hate to tell you Vietnam, but I’m pretty sure Thailand has you beat in both
street food and in massages.
Getting out of Bangkok proves a bit of an epic in itself. I
hail five taxis, all of whom quote me outrageous prices to the rail station and
refuse to turn on the meter. An old lady on walking down the street stops to
ask where I’m going and tells me the train doesn’t in fact run in the
afternoon, since it’s Thai summer holidays. She snags a tuk tuk and quickly
agrees on a price, stubbornly insisting I head to the TAT. The locals swear by
the place- probably because they’ve never tried to get information out of them.
Although they’re theoretically government regulated, I get the impression that
only one or two are legitimate– most are simply Thai travel agencies eager to
book you on overpriced tours to classic tourist traps. One tells me the station
where I catch the train headed to Kanchanaburi is too far away. How far? Forty
minutes. One tells me that the last bus has left for Kanchanaburi for the day.
When I ask about local busses, she tells me there aren’t any (that’s a lie).
One lady hands me a card, instructing me to go away and come back when I’m
ready to book a tour. Another lady tells me they leave on the hour (I think
this may be a bit optimistic). Finally (Finally!)
my driver brings me to a place with a lady who doesn’t offer me organized
overpriced tours. Somehow the conversation shifts to Ayutthaya, since I seem to
have lost faith in my options to travel northwest this afternoon. Instead, the
nice lady tells me to head to the main rail station, gives me concrete
departure times, tells me how much a taxi should cost and bids me a good day.
I make my train with five seconds to spare.
Ayutthaya, built amidst the ruins of Thailand’s former
capitol, sits on an island amidst three separate rivers’ confluence. I rent a
motorbike for the day, giving myself a terrifying combined crash course in city
riding and in driving on the left-hand side of the street as I trust my luck
and follow street signs written in foreign characters between various ruins and
temples. It’s absolutely surreal to ride through a modern city as ruins appear
around almost every corner, bleached white with age after the Burmese ransacked
any gold and jewels to be had. Little remains to convey how the city once
looked: three chedis containing ashes of ancient kings, a few temples and
grounds and scattered Buddhas. One sandstone Buddha in particular has
disappeared except for the head, wrapped in an ancient tree’s lattice. I watch
the sun set from atop an ancient temple just outside town.
I run into the day’s only snarl when I arrive to return my
motorbike, walking into an unlocked, unattended shop to find my passport in
plain view on the agent’s desk. Because apparently in these parts, leaving to
take a shower and letting the lady next door know that some girl will be by to
pick it up is totally acceptable. (This seems to be a thing in SE Asia, since
the folks at The Sanctuary showed me every passport in their possession when I
asked if a friend had checked in.
____________________
Kanchanaburi is, in a word, bizarre. The town mixes a modern
center with old-style wooden houses, while hosting a thriving expat population
of fat old drunk white men and their Thai wives on Guesthouse row, just off the
river– by far the most hazardous position I’ve found myself in as a single
white girl this week.
I find the Allied Cemetery, a pristinely maintained grassy
expanse shaded my trees crowned with fuscia blossoms, under which lies a mini
Arlington. Row upon row of small headstones, flowers planted between each,
glint beneath the sun. Among the six thousand graves in the cemetery I find
only one Jewish soldier among the rows I wander. I leave a small stone on the grave
before continuing on my way.
I duck briefly into the sprawling grounds of a Chinese
temple before a dog begins chasing me, barking from behind the monk who’s come
to my rescue, before watching the sun set upriver from the rebuilt bridge on
the River Kwai. It’s actually slightly underwhelming, aside from swarms of tiny
Asian girls posing with selfie sticks and smoothies in their hands, fixing
sunglasses and flashing peace signs. Also: apparently the movie managed to get
the river’s name wrong (the original River Kwai lies just west), so the
waterway was renamed as tourists began arriving in droves.
The next morning I catch a bus to Erawan National Park,
where I hike a kilometer and a half upward through the jungle, following the river’s
continuous cascade. Insects and water maintain a constant buzzing rush as I
climb the falls’ seven official steps, making frequent stops to dunk myself and
dodge schools of minnows as they approach to nibble at my feet. The water
shifts from a deep turquoise to milky white by the time I arrive at the top of
the cascade, pouring over walls covered in mineral-encrusted leaves and twigs.
We ignore a sign warning us off the slippery rocks to climb directly through the
fall’s path, dodging as monkeys chuck fruit at us, to a final pool below the
falls’ towering head, slipping behind the water to swim in a gaping cavern
filled with billowing stalactites.
I rent a tent and spend the night in the jungle on the banks
of the river, wandering beneath trees full of crimson fruit and watching
foreign birds build nests as the sun sets before I head back toward Bangkok and
home.
Changing weather brings changes on the bay, as well–
jellyfish have surfaced in droves, massive blobs of color dotting the bay’s
emerald channels. We’ve begun carrying limes and vinegar with us; the things
are absolutely everywhere and surprisingly fast-moving. 
We’ve been without our usual boat for over a month now while
it’s in repair, our interim boat has brought a new crew. One of the crew, Hung,
a constantly happy guy in his mid-twenties, has taken it upon himself to
introduce us to squid fishing on overnights. After dinner, we load into kayaks
and paddle a short distance to where a family has a fine net submerged in the
water beneath a glaring light in the otherwise black night. As we watch from
the bamboo rails of the family’s fish farm, schools of squid circle beneath the
light and a small child practices casting a lure to pass time. Eventually the
lights dim and the men raise the golden net from the water, bringing with it
dozens of small, translucent squid.
