01/04/09 Bangkok
Outside of Suk 11, our Bangkok hostel, stands a uniformed security guard in a pleated khaki suit. His stoic, broad Chinese face and dim smile remind me of a by-gone relic from the Mao-Zedung days, with his starch pressed outfit squeezing his tight smile and sense of humor, especially at three in the morning when I don't have my key. Regardless, he lets me in. Inside, there are only tight wooden walls and steep low-ceiling stairs crafted in the opium den style for Chinese coolies. I'm a giant here, and I'm constantly reminded of that as I smack my head going up and down the stairs.
Earlier today, I took a garden shower on the roof, with cold water and little pressure. Climbing the chain link fence around me were palms, ferns, and a vine that wrapped and twirled around the wooden shower stall. Below me in the back alley, two local Thai hand-washed their clothes in one plastic bucket, their dishes in another. Across the street a push-cart food vendor was frying up some type of spicy garlic peanut sauce, while two motorcycle taxis looked on. Farther down the alley, a separate snack vendor biked up beeping the Mexican hat dance. Every 30 seconds his horn sounded the familiar "da-na-na-na, da-na-na-na, dana-dana-dana-da."
Generators rolled, dogs barked, car horns blared, and children giggled; the buzz of the city. Alive, like any other major metropolitan area Bangkok brimmed with life, and somewhere I was a part of it--alive.
And, somewhere today, immersed in the unfamiliar chaotic sounds and odors of Bangkok, I found that familiar taste; that strange sweetness of home.
Maybe it was while I showered, but perhaps it was while I walked back to my room after my shower. As I walked back, I read the wall poets who scribbled their songs across the white-washed hallways. On every last creeping inch of space years of traveler advice, well-wishings, and philosophical ponderings had accumulated. From Japanese script to Arabic scrawlings, a dozen or more languages (still finding more) decorated each traveler's tales.
These were still snapshots of others who'd passed through these doors, marking the brief history and frenetic energy of Suk 11. These snapshots will stand as stories against the passage of time, even if only briefly, marking each arrival and passing.
A majority of the quotes were laconic but well-intentioned, like "Best hostel in Bangkok, thanks Suk 11," or "Had the best time with Mark, Beth,..." Some of these quotes were sad stories, like this writer "This is where I was when I lost you. Sleep with angels brother."Others still were humorous and light, like "Follow the Yellow Brick Road all the way from Oz to Suk 11," or "You can't take the bog out of the fart, but the fart can be taken out of the bog," which must be some sort of Eastern thing I don't understand. While the best quotes, still, were reflective and thought provoking like, "I believe in making every experience a lesson;" "A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step;" and "Live life until you die from it." And, of course, there is the ridicoulus and my personal favorite "Anunnaki, Do you know what this means? If you don't you really should. Google this word."
These notes may only be brief stands against the white-washing of time, they are stands nonetheless. Each thought unique to its creator, each passage different, and each another footlog in the world's nomadic guidebook. "Welcome home," they say "Welcome to the road."
Outside of Suk 11, our Bangkok hostel, stands a uniformed security guard in a pleated khaki suit. His stoic, broad Chinese face and dim smile remind me of a by-gone relic from the Mao-Zedung days, with his starch pressed outfit squeezing his tight smile and sense of humor, especially at three in the morning when I don't have my key. Regardless, he lets me in. Inside, there are only tight wooden walls and steep low-ceiling stairs crafted in the opium den style for Chinese coolies. I'm a giant here, and I'm constantly reminded of that as I smack my head going up and down the stairs.
Earlier today, I took a garden shower on the roof, with cold water and little pressure. Climbing the chain link fence around me were palms, ferns, and a vine that wrapped and twirled around the wooden shower stall. Below me in the back alley, two local Thai hand-washed their clothes in one plastic bucket, their dishes in another. Across the street a push-cart food vendor was frying up some type of spicy garlic peanut sauce, while two motorcycle taxis looked on. Farther down the alley, a separate snack vendor biked up beeping the Mexican hat dance. Every 30 seconds his horn sounded the familiar "da-na-na-na, da-na-na-na, dana-dana-dana-da."
Generators rolled, dogs barked, car horns blared, and children giggled; the buzz of the city. Alive, like any other major metropolitan area Bangkok brimmed with life, and somewhere I was a part of it--alive.
And, somewhere today, immersed in the unfamiliar chaotic sounds and odors of Bangkok, I found that familiar taste; that strange sweetness of home.
Maybe it was while I showered, but perhaps it was while I walked back to my room after my shower. As I walked back, I read the wall poets who scribbled their songs across the white-washed hallways. On every last creeping inch of space years of traveler advice, well-wishings, and philosophical ponderings had accumulated. From Japanese script to Arabic scrawlings, a dozen or more languages (still finding more) decorated each traveler's tales.
These were still snapshots of others who'd passed through these doors, marking the brief history and frenetic energy of Suk 11. These snapshots will stand as stories against the passage of time, even if only briefly, marking each arrival and passing.
A majority of the quotes were laconic but well-intentioned, like "Best hostel in Bangkok, thanks Suk 11," or "Had the best time with Mark, Beth,..." Some of these quotes were sad stories, like this writer "This is where I was when I lost you. Sleep with angels brother."Others still were humorous and light, like "Follow the Yellow Brick Road all the way from Oz to Suk 11," or "You can't take the bog out of the fart, but the fart can be taken out of the bog," which must be some sort of Eastern thing I don't understand. While the best quotes, still, were reflective and thought provoking like, "I believe in making every experience a lesson;" "A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step;" and "Live life until you die from it." And, of course, there is the ridicoulus and my personal favorite "Anunnaki, Do you know what this means? If you don't you really should. Google this word."
These notes may only be brief stands against the white-washing of time, they are stands nonetheless. Each thought unique to its creator, each passage different, and each another footlog in the world's nomadic guidebook. "Welcome home," they say "Welcome to the road."
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anunnaki
ReplyDeleteFrom the ephemeral moments to the sublime, bask in the colors of all of it. Hell of a day you had a buddy...left a good taste in the soul. Safe travels.
ReplyDeleteJimmy