We
woke up late and hungover and struggled out the door so as not to
completely waste the day. We were heading for Jim Thompson's house –
the home of a an ex CIA agent who practically single handedly revived
the Thai silk industry who mysteriously disappeared in the Cameron
highlands in Malaysia in the late sixties. I used to live beside a
pub/restaurant/bazaar called the same name (and owned by the same
foundation) in Fulham so I wanted to see the original. We took a fast
canal boat, complete with tarps on either side to prevent being
splashed (MOT 32) and stepped off at Siam Square deep in the
commercial district.
Up
until that moment we had seen Bangkok as a hectic but quaint city
filled with street vendors and little alleyways. That illusion was
torn up and thrown away by the sensory overload that is Siam Square.
It's pretty much the most hectic place I have ever been. It still has
the street hawkers and the stalls but added to it are massive
skyscrapers, the biggest shopping centre I have ever been in Centre
World, one of 4 which are around the area. Blaring TV screens, gaudy
advertising, Buddhist shrines, sky trains, elevated pedestrian walk
ways, constant bumper to bumper traffic and no idea where Jim
Thompson's house was combined with our sore heads and left us numb
and dumb. We retreated to a food court and regrouped.
After
a 30 minute walk we found the place eventually. It was a beautiful
collection of about 4 country buildings in traditional Thai
architecture style that JT had dismantled and transplanted to Bangkok
when the only access was via canal. He used the muslim silk markets
nearby to help develop his craft and gradually filled his house with
traditional artefacts. On the top floor of Centre World we found of
all things a supermarket containing ludicrously expensive Waitrose
products which we passed up.
The
luxuriant grand palace was the next Bangkok box to be ticked, former
residence of the universally revered Thai royal family and home of
the emerald buddha. As it was so hot we were wearing as little as
possible but traditions dictate require modesty in these areas so we
hired a sweaty long sleeve shirt for Claire (to cover her shoulders)
and some baggy pants to hide my knees. Like almost all Wats or places
or religious significance we had seen so far it was brilliantly
painted and restored to within an inch of its life so you could never
tell what was old or new. Thousands of snapping tourists thronged
around the main areas, everyone trying to get a decent photo and
acting as if they were in the place on their own. The old dislike of
rude tourists and oblivious holiday makers experienced more than a
few times since Maccu Picchu came rushing back.
Tourists
aside it is a fabulous place with the usual fabulous pagodas, an
impressive scale model of Angkor Wat, a European style residence in
the style of Versailles and a bot (sanctuary) housing the Emerald
Buddha itself. The King changes the golden suit which the tiny statue
wears according to the seasons – it was wearing its most splendid
summer outfit when we visited. The little statue has a tumultuous
past having been originally covered in plaster to hide it's true
“colours” (it's actually made of jasper not emerald) and
exchanged in wars with Laos a few times before ending up in Bangkok
as one of Thai Buddhism's most revered statues. Also impressive are
the enormous murals depicting the Ramayana, the Hindu epic tale of
the triumph of good over evil. One thing that struck us was that all
the images of Buddha are not the happy fat little fellow we seem to
get in the west but a more serene, serious and waist-conscious
version wearing a hat that I always thought was a Hindu image. I
guess I was wrong.
The
evening was quiet, staying in the guesthouse, catching up on the blog
(still writing bits of New Zealand!) and chatting to some of the
other guests. Met a good guy, Steve who had made his way up from Bali
with his girlfriend Jane. Also, a particularly enjoyable conversation
about culture, religion, modernity and philosophy with an interesting
American architect, Lou, who had made SE Asia his home many years ago
and a French banker on holidays from KL in Malaysia. And a few beers
of course! Great to get some advice on what to do where to go.
Starting to find out about the upcoming Thai new year and the water
festival and the resultant transport and accommodation issues. Some
planning is required!
Next
up Chinatown. Not really sure what we wanted down here so I took my
set of inoperable speakers in which had leaked some cheap Bolivian
batteries some time ago in an attempt to get them fixed. If it could
be done it was here among the electronics shops but they all said I
should just buy new ones. Chinatown is another busy place with huge
gawdy gold shops providing the backdrop for stalls selling all things
imaginable and unimaginable, lanterns, buddhist offerings, buddhas,
pigs heads, quails eggs, viagra, vibrators and novelty condoms. And
that's just one stall of a million. A kick boxing instructor got
talking to us and tried to take us to a travel agency but we
declined, a bit long in the teeth for that now.
We
had been thinking about taking various buses west and north
eventually making it up to Chiang Mai for the water festival but
given the amount of people telling us that we needed to book
everything in advance we decided to go up straight to Chiang Mai to
see the situation for ourselves and get ourselves organised. We took
a tuk tuk (sorry) to the station and bought tickets for the overnight
train to Chiang Mai for the following day. We were ushered into yet
another travel agency after buying the ticket but refused once more
to book a trek or accommodation in advance in accordance with our
instincts and experience.
For
our last night in Bangkok we took ourselves to the Radjamnoen Muay
Thai stadium for some Thai Boxing. It's an incredibly violent but
entertaining sport, each match consisting of 5 3 minutes rounds
separated by a 2 minute rest. These guys are so incredibly fit it put
me and my wobbly belly to shame. We had ring side seats beside the
red corner, literally being spattered with sweat as the kicks, knees
and punches landed. The little man who looked after the corner,
setting up the seat at each rest break and sorting out the ice and
water befriended us immediately and was constantly giving us cheeky
thumbs up and making jokes. When an agitated fellow sat down beside
us to shriek at one match he pointed him out to be the promoter,
who's photo was on the programme. Our friend made the universal sign
of lots of cash as he pointed at him. I suppose it was the equivalent
of having Don King sit down beside you.
We
took in 10 matches that increased in quality until the seventh which
was the most evenly matched, fervent and exciting. The whole
atmosphere was amazing: the garlands of flowers around the necks of
the fighters as they warmed up, praying and blessing the corners of
the ring before they started, the crazy rousing rythmical music
played during the bouts, the animated cries and gestures of the
punters betting on their favourites, the visible respect that
fighters showed for each other, checking the other was ok after a
knock-out. The last bout was normal boxing, seeming slow and
unskillful – the place was almost empty by then and not even the
boxers seemed to care that much.
