6. Lemongrass Stains - Ayutthaya

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It was too late to rent a bicycle and start peddling around the island. No one with any sense exerts himself in the midday heat. Not terribly motivated to dig into the first pages of James Clavell’s Taipan (I read Shogun years ago and remember little of it), enough was going on at the table across from me to pay attention.
Instead of a café menu, he was fingering through a notebook of images, some of them rather ordinary: a twisted snake, dragon, and a pair of swords were among them. That was enough reason for me to go over and see what he was up to. Other foreigners who had gathered here just kept to themselves, either loners or couples laboring to invent something interesting to say to each other. “Which one do you think will work for you?” I started in, peering over his left shoulder at the collection of tattoo images.
“I am not sure yet, but I want something small, only for me to know about. I don’t need world to see everything about me. “What you think?”
He was asking the wrong person, though he didn’t know it. It is not in me to deface any part of my body with pigment I did not create myself.
“Something that’s you” was all I could muster for a reply.
“I am a Buddhist. I think I will consider something like Buddha. Or maybe a temple.”
“Where will it go?”
He did not hesitate. “Back of my shoulder. No one can notice there.”
Abdul has been between Ayutthaya and Bangkok, for the better part of two-and-a-half years. His prominent features are a well-trimmed goatee and a square block face. He hails from a large Saudi family, but has settled down with a Thai wife. All the while, he has been bouncing his eighteen-month-old daughter on his right knee. Conversation with Abdul was easy. He had come in contact with few Americans and all I knew of Saudis came on the evening news, and that was never good anyway.
“Let me tell you, Rich, Thai good country. Free here.” By nature, I tried to correct his English and tell him it was Thailand, not the proper adjective for the country. He did not like the instruction, however gently I delivered it.
I did not necessarily agree about freedoms in Thailand, but he had much on his mind and I was his opportunity to let loose a bit. His girl wobbled away to his mother. Abdul went for another sip of Heineken in his glass full of ice cubes. Then he lit a cigarette.
“I happy here. No one bother me. You too, will like Thai! Free. Buy house. Have children. Do business. Woman can love you here.”
He told me he met his Thai wife in Bangkok, but I did not inquire about the particulars. They seemed genuinely happy together. Good for them, I thought. His daughter walked back and I put a lapel pin on the collar of her pink blouse stained with the remnants of this afternoon’s lunch that missed her mouth. She was the third person that had received one. Dee back in Patpong and a helpful police officer at the train station were the others.
“Women cannot love you Saudi Arabia, Abdul?”
He scoffed and his face pressed out of shape. “It is different there. They want you to give them jewelry, car. Or you need to come from good family. One I loved says I too short. Here in Thai, no problem.” By tone alone, his disdain approached but did not reach misogyny. Also, I expected him to dominate the conversation and become dogmatic. He didn’t. Neither religion nor politics interested him (I did not want to go there) or came into the conversation. He just wants to be peaceful, have his family nearby…
I kindly declined his third invitation for a beer. Beer does not work in intense heat. I continued twirling industrial ice cubes around in my mouth from a glass of water and listened. Adbul adjusted himself in his chair with a snakehead walking stick. One of his knees was no longer reliable.
“Do you ever go back to Saudi Arabia and visit family?”, I asked. Abdul has one brother and six sisters.
“My family is here”, and he pointed to his wife feeding their daughter. He said it with a vigor that inferred an estrangement. “We friends now. So, I tell you: Once, I send a ticket to my mother so she come to Thai. But she not come to see her granddaughter.”
“Then you go back to see them, yes?”
Abdul shook his head in frustration. No. Too complicated. I have problems back home.” He made it clear he did not prefer to discuss them. But it occurred to me hours later that his conversion to Buddhism might have something to do with it. Saudi society does not take too kindly to those who leave Islam. Buddhists teach tolerance. It works for Abdul.
He and I met later in the evening at the same café. This time he pried about my background. I complied. Happenstance meetings with strangers in far off lands permit you to disclose more than you are willing to at home. We choose not to unload what’s on our mind to the ambulance driver behind us each morning in line at Starbucks on our way to work.
“Ah,” he quipped. Sometimes complicated for you, too!”
“Yes, but I’ll take it.”

Ayutthaya is a decompression chamber for those leaving Bangkok in search of Thailand. It is a natural step to ease from expat urban intensity to full-fledged immersion. All of this is lost by those who book daytrips through Bangkok tourist agents in order to be back to Khao San by nightfall. It is just one more way you can come to Thailand and take pictures without ever seeing a thing.
The destruction of Ayutthaya by the Burmese in 1767 marked the turning point for the city role as Thailand’s royal capital. Nowadays, its legacy lies in the form of ruins, palaces, and solitary temples, and is spread about the outskirts of this modern, but small city enclosed by three rivers.

The best means of managing the island is by bicycle during the morning hours before God turns the setting of Central Thailand all the way to broil. Getting to many complexes does not require a map, rather peering ahead and pointing the obviously for-rent bicycle in the direction of the full-length prang or chedi in the distance. Only when face to face with these imposing hulks do I realize how far from Western architecture I have come: No stained glass windows, flying buttresses, or Romanesque arches. Instead, multiple copies of carved sandstone statues of Buddha reign among mortarless and conical burial chambers for monarchs long since passed.
Three days in Ayutthaya will not suffice to see it all even at break-neck speed. In no predestined order of importance and without a map (very crucial), I turned my squeaky Edsel of a bicycle on Naresuan Road and set off into the center of the island. From what I had read, I would have to eventually hit something in my path.
The names of the individual wats underscore the absurdity of transcribing Thai words into English. Their titles are simply unpronounceable. Even if you could manage to retroflex your tongue properly enough through the jungle of letters, the fruit of your labor lasts only a few seconds. Trying to recall the name with any accuracy proves your original attempt a waste of time. Place names like “Bangkok” and “Chao Phraya” I can handle. But, when I entered the grounds for Wat (and I am not making this up) Phrasirattanasatsadaram, my mind just shortened it to Wat Phrasir. It works, really. Sometimes, monarchs like King Borommararchathiraj, become King Borat. Otherwise, forget it. I’ll have no idea where I was and will not make any connection to the site and its attractions. Think it’s easy? You try it. Look at King Borat’s full name. Try to pronounce it. Turn away and try again. Walk away and get a glass of water. Now try again for a third time.
Couldn’t do it, could you? Me either.

Wat Phra Si San Phet has been around for about five hundred years. Its pièce de résistance is a trio of grey gabled chedis. They house the remains of influential royalty, whose names I am not even going to bother with; they’re too painful to even type. I parked my bicycle and walked past the ticket booth and entered the grounds without being stopped. The gatekeeper did not ask for my ticket, but smiled and opened the iron barrier for me. The grounds are immaculately manicured, as proven by the crew dawned in facemasks that run guardless gasoline-powered trimmers to keep the lawn from reaching ankle height. Other workers, all men, scale secondary brick chedis and manually pluck away vegetation. The work is arduous and apparently equally as thankless. It was an hour before the first regiment of Japanese showed up. I considered myself fortunate to have inserted my nose into the white tree blossoms, climbed one chedi, and marveled at the way yellow robes tastefully adorn the achromatic figures of Buddha.
My bicycle tour took me over bridges by a lake smothered in lily pads at the center of the island. Pivoting three hundred sixty degrees, I ignored the stinging sweat in my eyes and remarked at the skyline of reddened towers above still palm trees. There was no way to see it all. I would have to dedicate more time than I am willing to invest in Ayutthaya. It is better to passively appreciate this appetizer. The main course awaits me in the weeks ahead north of here and beyond the borders of Thailand.

Wat Yai Chaya Mongkol was voted off the island two kilometers away by Thai royalty. Today, it serves as an active monastery catering primarily to Thai visitors. it commemorates King Naresuan’s victory over the Burmese invasion in 1593. It is a busy, but orderly sanctuary of gazebos, gardens, courtyards, all dwarfed by a mammoth staircased chedi wrapped in yellow fabric. The interior of the burial tower now houses five dozen or so bats, which cling from the ceiling. Their droppings pepper the offerings and statues in the center of the alcove left by worshippers. The odor is horrific.
The monastery has set up a banquet reception for a Buddhist procession that encircles the chedi among the sounds of horns, dancing and the sight of vibrant floral bouquets and wrapped gifts. The vigilant rows of decorated Buddhist statues guide the parade around and then up to the top of the chedi. On the far side of the gardens out of view is an unrelated scene. A Buddhist nun, recognizable because women wear white robes as opposed to the orange for men, keeps silent as she sweeps up the fallen blossoms with a timber broom, the bristles of which are made of long thin twigs. Other than the scraping of the twigs on the amber brick surface, she makes no sound at all and offers not a single emotive expression on her face. Her neck never lifts forward and it is several minutes before she pauses or breaks the swaying repetitive motion of the broom. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“Well, maybe.” was all I could muster when she interrupted me from studying the departure board at the train station. I was trying to decipher or make some clue of Thai script to determine which cities were which and so on. Why she spotted and approached me instead of asking the Thai station master made no sense.
“I want to go to Lopburi and I think I paid too much for this ticket. She was Swedish, about as thin as a famished European fashion model and left her boyfriend behind to occupy a few chairs in the waiting hall.
“Well, how much did you pay for each?” It was about a ninety-minute ride.
“Sixty baht.” That’s less than two dollars per ticket. You have to be kidding me, I said to myself. They are from Sweden of all places, where prices are astronomical. A beer can run as high as eight dollars in an ordinary bar.
I sighed. “I really wouldn’t worry about it. Perhaps it is an express train or you bought second class instead of third.”
“Yes,” she piped in, “but the guidebook says that-”
“It’s a guidebook! Not anything else. The information is never complete and is at least one year old. I would not waste my time with a few baht.” Her boyfriend was still holding up their backpacks with his chin, disinterested in our encounter.
A conductor interceded and I made my escape across the tracks through a food pavilion, the Ayutthaya few farang have the courage to examine. Their guidebook didn’t mention the part of town not on the map.
It is a stage like so many others in the Third World, one of busy women vying to sell what goods they can and idle men not even making the effort to be helpful. Mongrel dogs roam in packs, thankfully unaggressive, though I have a stick in hand and I can quickly get to my pocketknife if I need to. The dogs’ hind quarters are exposed and bloodied. Most of the bitches are pregnant and half of them hobble in wincing pain. To quench their thirst, the canines drink from open sewer pipes. The rotted tubes empty into contaminated ponds from which shaky stilted houses rise. Children splash each other nearby, playing knee deep in the rectangular algae-infested Petri dish. Southeast Asia is the Humane Society’s worst nightmare, and probably UNICEF’s as well.
Soon I find an exit from what could very well be a commercial for Feed The Children and make it back to the main road. Pleased to have emerged from distasteful reality, I forget to look right before crossing the road and a tuk-tuk whizzes by me with no more than foot of clearance. My fault, as I gathered my composure. They drive on the left here, at least some of the time.

I did not think much of him at first. He rarely cast on eye on the visitors in the café. It was almost as if we weren’t there or he didn’t want to bother with our type. Many expats can be like this; few bother to get to know anyone who has decided to be in town for a maximum of forty-eight hours. Most of the time, he kept to himself on his laptop or interacted with the staff at Chang House, perhaps even persuading them to attend to newly-arrived customers. One time he was together with the lady in charge to help her with some accounting figures. When I noticed him the first time, wait staff told me he was a teacher in town; I dismissed him as someone not interested in me and vice versa.
The second time, he walked in while I was having a curry lunch and offered a direct “Hello.” I had a choice to make: return the gesture unconcerned or pull out the chair opposite me. I went with the latter, gladly, and motioned him to sit down. He grabbed the seat.
A mature twenty-seven years old, Chris has been in Ayutthaya for over two years and knows the visitors’ scene better than anyone. England had run him ragged. One morning upon boarding a bus for work, he looked at all the others in a catatonic state. “Miserable weather, miserable people, miserable life”, he quipped. “All people do in England is complain. I see them here in Thailand and they complain as well!” It was time to do something about it. His mates hadn’t. So he made the decision to pick it all up and come to Thailand.
He has a Thai girlfriend now, the manager of the café, Chang House, with whom he lives along with her three daughters. Chris has now committed much to Thailand, far beyond the year stint as a young, bored, and unemployed foreigner looking for something to do. His unassuming pose can be misinterpreted because he often keeps one watchful eye on the flow of foot traffic from Naresuan soi that passes in front of the entrance. They inspect the menu and see if they will stop in or continue to another establishment. For as much as he wants to, he cannot extinguish the part of his brain segregated to working on a better business plan for the café. When he scans from left to right, he appears to be more experienced and mature than his age indicates.
My background interested him and triggered a question. “Is there anything you can do to get me into the Lonely Planet?” He was referring to the world famous backpacker guide; it covers every region of the world and overshadows all other publications. Brilliantly positioned in the market, Lonely Planet serves its purpose. It is a top-flight brand name.
“No, not at all. To be frank with you, Chris, I am not a huge follower of the series. I use it only when there are no other options.” Chris nodded in agreement.
His dislike for the book is embodied in its reader. They take the book as the final truth, much to his torment. Chris unloaded. “I’ve seen couples, loners, even families come over to our entrance and read our menu. And then they check Lonely Planet, realize we are not in it, and move on. I want to say, ‘Try thinking for once!’. But I don’t.” It’s the mild-mannered part of him that permits him to keep his composure. “They best thing you can do with that book is burn it or throw it under a train. But if we got in it,” referring to Chang House, “it would change the face of our business. Backpackers read Lonely Planet as if it were a trashy novel for fun. It’s the only reading material some carry.” I am pleased. I do not have the LP for Thailand. And I am twenty whole pages into Taipan. I have more than seven hundred to go, however.
Chris pointed across the street that was paved only in the past few years. He said that much of the infrastructure for tourists in Ayutthaya was recent, guesthouses, Internet cafés, and restaurants and restaurants included. “You see over there? That’s Tony’s Place. Nothing wrong with it at all, I like the place.” Tony’s Place is highlighted as the spot to be in Ayutthaya and the noise escaping from the street side deck proves it. “But the food is better here and so are our prices.” He’s right on both accounts. I had lunch across the way. Chang House makes a better curry. Period.

I accompanied Chris to a local hangout off the tourist strip. He is relaxed here. The bar has a laid back tropical setting and the bartender specializes in mixed drinks. The tension has visibly seeped away from Chris’ shoulders. He started up again once the Heineken draft arrived at the table. “It has been too long at the same bar and I know too much.” He was alluding to the daily process of helping out at Chang House. “I know who is doing what, all the gossip, customers’ personal lives, their girlfriends”, and what’s going on in the farang world of Ayutthaya.
“Sounds as if there are secrets better to be kept.”
“You have no idea. If I just started talking…”
He could do a lot of damage. But he won’t. He makes it a point to stay behind the scenes. Pretense is not his style. Chris is not an encyclopedia of information about Ayutthaya, but rather a card catalog. He may not know the answer to every question, yet he can certainly introduce you to who does.
“I just don’t care anymore” he continued. On his 32,000 baht per month salary, he will soon move to another part of the island, and sever himself from the exertions of the café environment.
Following a momentary but violent downpour, Chris and I departed company past midnight. All but the heartiest of stray dogs had settled in on the asphalt. We shook hands and parted ways. “I’m glad you came here, Rich.” He meant it.
I’m glad I originally misjudged him.

The next morning, I passed Dairy Queen, McDonald’s and Dunkin’ Donuts to grab the ferry. From there it is a short walk uphill to the train station. The ceramic form of Ronald McDonald greets patrons in a Thai wai, by slightly hunching over and holding both palms together below his chain. What brilliant marketing. At the corner by the shopping center is a little piece of Rhode Island in Thailand. It was still too early to see if I could get a coffee, cream and sugar, with a Boston Creme donut to go. It was nine twenty. I need to board car number two, seat twenty-seven, for my rail journey deep into the Northeast.

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Photos

Historical Monuments
Get there early and enjoy everything without having to share...

Old Fashioned Landscaping
All vegetation plucked away manually...

Buddha Dressed in Yellow
Very tasteful image...

Ronald Does the Wai
This is the genius of corporate marketing...

Lady Clergy Member in Solitude
Sweep...sweep...sweep.