Temples, transit, and the triumph of the will

It was the third time I’d eaten at her riverside breakfast stand and the first time I’d gotten a smile. 6.30am and with a bus and a ferry to catch in half an hour to get to Koh Samui, it seemed a shame that having finally won the wizened old lady’s affection, I was now to disappear forever. She served the most delicious chicken and rice. A simple dish that she somehow elevated, serving a constant stream of customers until she ran out and so motored home. The gentle slap of her cleaver as she dextrously sliced and diced poached chicken in the exact same manner each and every time a constant of the new day and testament to her enduring position on this corner before the first sunburnt tourist hove in to view, now, and forever more.

Lacking a beach, Krabi is a quiet place. Guesthouses offer rooms for as little as $4AUD a night. The main tourist cry you hear is for Railay Beach which is akin to all the other island beaches of Thailand that carry some repute: crowded with resorts and overrun with tourists. Still, the water sparkles that infinitely alluring appropriately categorised aquamarine and the limestone cliffs loom lichen green and bone white. Bottled water costs almost as much as a room on Krabi and the snacks of cuttlefish jerky and vacuum packed roasted chestnuts the same.

I finished the uncomplicated paperwork and left a deposit of my ID with the woman. The scooter was mine. For the day, at least. A wiry young man drove it out of the shopfront, which doubled as the living room of his house, a small girl sitting enraptured in front of the television just below road level. He handed me the keys and made a noise that said, “You’re ready. What are you waiting for?”

Tomb Raider Temple

You can tell someone who is new to riding a scooter by whether their indicator is on when they are motoring along with no intent to turn. Unlike in a car, the turn signal doesn’t automatically pop off after a corner has been successfully navigated. You have to do it manually. I was even more a neophyte. Recognising my look of confusion, he gave me a brief tour of the controls. Indicator, horn, ignition, seat opening. My indicator was constantly on.

The common thought of scooter design seems to support the placement of the horn below the indicator. Driving along the highway to the Tiger Temple, the lack of turns saw the trouble of this proximity emerge little. In sleepy, corner-filled city life the loud honking as the wobbly-looking white guy approached every corner was yet another ready identifier of the new and inept.

In the midday heat I was melting. Small blue lettering marked progress up the 1237 steps to the golden Buddha and I was gazing through sweat-stung eyes at 621. Half way. I had passed a number of people, some carrying huge tripods, others a few too many years, as I ascended the steep stairs that at the start are littered with monkeys, and towards the second third, the weary looks of those contemplating if they can make it to the top. Baleful stares as I passed by. A sweaty, panting mess at the top, it was a haven.

The supreme quiet of such a place compels you to contemplative dignity. There is a respect for being here, and awe at how it came to be. I remember riding towards the Temple and seeing this small speck high above—I wanted to go there. Then a chuckle. It looked stupidly high. I stayed at the top savouring the atmosphere for close to an hour and saw none of those I’d overtaken reach the top. Nor did I see them on the way down. The Temple takes its toll.

Tiger Temple

 It seems rather crude that the higher you get the closer you are to god. At eleven a.m. in Cambodia there is a twenty minute queue to go up the stairway to heaven. In Siem Reap it is alleged that you are in heaven on earth when you ascend the central tower of Angkor Wat, this the physical form of Mt. Meau, the Mt Olympus of the Hindu faith. The stairs are steep as the ascent to heaven should not be easy. Yet now there are rails worn smooth by the hands of penitents and tourists alike and steps at too easy of an incline.

The continents and ocean radiate around in the form of outer temple and moat. On the walls are endless bas-reliefs that appear to the lazy glance as repetitions, but which enjoy fractional change as they depict, like a flick-book animation hewn laterally in stone, the battles and triumphs of the God-kings in the honour of whose egos’ these places stand and crumble.

Apsaras, too, dance in incremental variations and everywhere heave tourists. In so many places paradise has elements of hell. Tourists are an inevitability of wondrous sights. Indeed, I am a tourist. But I like to think there is a difference between tourists. Those who follow someone with a flag. Who dawdle inconsiderately. Who stop for five minutes to take endless photos. Who make absurd poses for said endless photos. Who squawk and chatter with no appropriate sense of place. Who exist through a camera lens or iPad held to their head, never actually seeing what is in front of them. Never getting a sense of the human touch in search of the divine. Only filming, recording, happy-snapping.

And those who try to get a proper sense of a place and do so with due consideration.

Krabi

Angkor Wat, Heaven on Earth, does not feel that way over the loud voices and slow moving crowds. Tour groups ruin everything. Returning the next day Jess and I savoured the difference a couple of hours make. In the heat of midday as the buses reingest and disgorge the masses for mass lunch somewhere else, heaven is blessedly quiet. Sparrows dart and the breeze is gentle and cool. There are moments of silence, and those usually loud are now reserved. One tour guide walks past a Buddha, his jaded countenance of too many tours dropping as his eyes glisten. He pauses to return and offer a quick prayer, palms together and with a succinct bow.

Moments close to the divine quickly crumble down as you exit. “Mister, mister—cold water? Guide book? Coconut?” The sad façade faces of the small children who hound you mercilessly, “Three postcard, one dollar, one dollar, one dollar.” He looks almost in tears as we refuse. Suddenly he is deadpan and scanning the crowd.

Each temple has its own defining element touted for close examination. But the real trick to appreciation involves avoiding the crowds. Having been guided the first time to Phnom Bakheng, a hill on which all tourists gather to watch the sun descend into redness, we used the two or so hours of time this offered us free of much of the tourist traffic to explore the other temples in the peace and quiet. Bayon with its 54 towers and 216 faces of Avalokiteshvara—what ego. Neak Poan, at the end of a long path through the mangroves. Preah Khan with its corridors and tumbled towers. Baphuon Temple and its stunning afternoon view over sacred pools. We barely scratched the surface. 

My steed

 With tree roots intertwining and piercing temple walls and moss clung relics, Ta Prohm, the ‘Tomb Raider’ temple, is enchanting. Holding the illusion of being taken back by nature, the trees allowed to impose are carefully selected and the great wild otherwise pared back. Nonetheless it stands dignified and haunting, filled with the intricate detail of those bas-reliefs preserved across time and those being carved by workers doing restorative work under Indian sponsorship. At some temples they show before and after pictures of the restoration, wondrous halls and alcoves sprung anew like sacred phoenixes from piles of detritus. I cannot help but wonder whether this grand scale restoration is in the spirit of things. Restored ruins are not ruins anymore, and they do not clearly distinguish the ancient hand from the new. Does this take away from the spirit of the place, or is it a necessary evil?

In the heat such questions are beyond me. The tension between the authentic or the beautiful and tourist infrastructure has weighed heavy on my soul. In Koh Samui I caught a bus from the pier to Chaweng Beach, as that was where all the buses seemed to be going. This should have been indication enough. Arriving there I was immediately put in mind of other stretches of similar Thailand I had not been impressed with. Asking politely for wifi at a tourist office does wonderful things, and so I set off back in the direction I’d come in search of a hostel on Buphot beach. The local buses wouldn’t take me to where I wanted, only close, and all the taxis kept trying to rip me off. So once again in the midday heat I found myself undertaking a sweaty hike, this time in search not of God, but of accommodation.

For Thailand, this place was quiet. Only one real road on which there were a few bars and resorts, but minimal compared to other parts of gorgeously beached coastline. Also home to another giant Buddha, this one overlooking the bay and surrounded by bells around which one walks, banging them in turn with a bamboo cane worn smooth by many hands and many bells in an attempt to pray and absolve.

The heat

In the markets not far from here the meat sat warm in the late afternoon and the fish still periodically wriggled, crammed into a tank with just enough water to cover them, like vegetables in a pickling jar. Pre-cooked fish in a bag. Two westerners getting a carefully filleted eye of beef. More meat than a local would consume in months. I found some apples—an expensive taste of home.

There were six of us in the back tray of a ute heading to the night markets in Koh Samui. It was a surreal experience sitting laterally and focussing on someone to talk to them, the clear focus marred by the swirling colours of the passing world like a photograph or a music video. One Scottish girl insisted on standing up the entire way, her back to the driver’s cabin. One guy, thinking we’d stopped, stood up, only to almost fall out when the driver lurched into gear again.

We strolled around drinking 50 baht cocktails and eating miscellaneous street food. There was nothing too exciting going on, and the group had been split up. I was with Ben, who works on oil rigs in the ocean and had plenty of ink. We had come across Lorence and the owner of the hostel, Adam. Lorence, having befriended Adam, was staying for free and had been for a month now. They had come on a moped, and the four of us, now bored, wanted to go back to the hostel. Loathe to leave the moto behind, it took two trips, under the effects of mild inebriation, to ferry back and forth all to the hostel and the top floor penthouse for a balcony session. Also present was nong Joe, the tiny adopted puppy from the stray dogs that lived nearby who had just developed a delight in chewing people’s fingers and had yet to develop complete bladder control.

Once again I was on the beach and music was blaring. This seemed to be the inevitable end point of any night in Thailand. After questioning Lorence for turning away the advances of two girls he told me he was gay. How I didn’t see it when he started dancing is beyond me. He has moves. And eye lashes to die for.

After the beach I was sitting on the curb eating someone else’s 7-11 toastie. They sell laughing gas here on the streets and on the beach. With a wet slap Ben’s head hit the pavement. It didn’t seem very funny. He was struggling and the laughing gas proprietor would not return his glasses—lost during the fall—until the semi-concussed man had paid for his balloon. Cue a 3am visit to the hospital where no one had enough money to pay for the stitches required for his chin. He’ll be alright. Just another of the walking wounded strolling the coast of southern Thailand, feet, hands, heads wrapped in fresh white bandages.

Bangkok, 5am. I was sitting at the Rachathewi BTS line stop with my bags. The BTS starts at 6am. In the pre-dawn darkness the mosquitos are fierce. I had been in transit since 12.30pm the day before from Koh Samui on some very inconveniently connected buses and ferries. A two-hour layover in the middle of nowhere some eleven hours ago had seen me stretched out on a bench reading The Quiet American and thanking modern pharmacy for gastro-stop pills. At 5.30am as I gazed down filthy alleys in search of somewhere discreet to expel the torment of my intestinal tract, I shook my fist at the indignity of the human bowel.

Touching the divine

Since Krabi I had been dealing with some intestinal distress. It had come to a head in Koh Samui and it was dire. As I watched the policeman doing push ups on the handrails of the station I contemplated the Thai fitness focus as a means of distraction. In Krabi James and I had gone wandering and accidentally stumbled upon a local sports area which at dusk was full of people running, playing soccer, basketball, and on some miniaturised volleyball courts, a version of said game but played with the feet. One competitor risked some nasty grazes as he did a bicycle kick to spike the ball and I assume, win the point, landing on the asphalt with his hands before bouncing back up for the next. My final morning in Krabi it was just after 6am and I could hear the blaring beat of Gangam Style. Given that Krabi has a few bars but nothing resembling a club, I was intrigued to find the source. It turned out to be middle aged women doing morning calisthenics.

I was one of five people on the first BTS service to Chong Nonsi. I hurried to my hostel and blessed relief before passing out on a futon until a reasonable hour. The benefit of returning to the hostel at which you’ve stored your bag for two months is a sense of entitlement to their facilities, pro bono, when dealing with extended transit.

The purpose of this particular ordeal was to get to Ho Chi Minh City and meet Jess. First I had to get to Bangkok’s old airport, Don Mueng. One can do this two ways, one: a 300 baht, one hour taxi ride, or two: a 45 baht three-modes-of-transport-adventure. 15 baht worth of BTS, 25 baht worth of metro, and 5 baht worth of overground train. My ticket said depart, 3.20pm, arrive 4.08pm. At 4.10pm we hadn’t left the station. I gazed at other people’s tickets. They seemed to have paid 0 baht. It explained the service. The train was sweaty and people were crammed onto every seat and arm rest. Vendors traipsed up and down selling cold drinks, warm meat and comic books. A bit after 5pm I was at the airport. Duty free KitKats and some bland western sandwiches for my troubled bowel.

Our tuk-tuk driver around the temples, Mr Yen, for some reason vertically placed

I was determined to endure. I refused to be in thrall to uncooked vegetables, ice, vendor water, and rinsing my mouth with local H20. It took until Cambodia, but the bowel was triumphed by the will. And gastro-stop. The bowel might have had the most recent laugh, however, as latent chemical constipation saw me in the Asian squat in the middle of the forest just off Preah Khan temple, using sheets from my notebook indecently.

Ho Chi Minh is a city that moves more slowly than any I’ve been to before. The chaos of motorcycles gives the illusion of movement and energy, but they dawdle. Everyone honks constantly and for no discernible reason. Maybe to keep awake. Men lounge on their motorcycles by the side of the road in recumbent positions of repose. In the shade of trees, walls, or shop fronts, groups of locals sit, pick at food, and play cards. Houses open to the road have families sitting outside eating, drinking, laughing. Playing cards.

The Royal Palace and War Museum even close over midday so everyone can eat, have a siesta, play cards, or hang out on their motorcycles. It is wrong to hurry in this city. In the late afternoon Jess and I sit on a step and watch the crowds filter by, most in search of the street parade. Vendors slowly set up along the foot path. Candy floss, sweet coconut, dried sweetened-condensed milk sheet and black sesame spring rolls. A little girl from a nearby store comes and sits next to use, elbows back on the stair behind her in a pose of unguarded relaxation.

The stairway to heaven

A man selling coconuts gets me to lift his old-timey balance-style means of conveyance across my shoulder. Jess takes a photo and he sells me an overpriced coconut. Swindled by a street vendor for the second time in four and a half months. The coconut is refreshing. I would have a photo too, if I didn’t lose my camera after the first day in Siem Reap. Total frustration. I rationalise, but hate myself.

Cancelled bookings for Cambodia. Jess and I decide that given her short period in SE Asia we should just see as much of Vietnam as we can. But it is Chinese New Year. We wandered through celebrations in the park, bonsai displays and wood carvings part driftwood-natural and part serpentine-sculptured. The year of the Snake. A little kid with a plastic AK-47 poses in front of each one as his dad takes a photo. The dad takes the photo well over his head. Everyone is happy.

There is a street parade in the city centre. A street full of Asian tourists. Ten photos a minute, each. Cute hand gestures and posing everywhere.  Yellow flowered plants and sponsorship from a company that seems to be SE Asian Nestle, as I buy a cornetto-imposter from one of the many stalls. A foot taller than everyone, even used to it as I am I notice the gawping.

Taking it easy

In a one-day radius out of Ho Chi Minh everything is booked. We re-book and go to Cambodia on a sleeper bus that has sort of inclined futons large enough for a wiry Asian. Not for me. Barely for Jess. The foetal position and a 3-hour stop as the Vietnam border closes overnight. From Phnom Penh straight to Siem Reap. And the tourists.