A Slow Walk in Bangkok
Bangkok, Thailand 28 Years Old
I step through the front door of the quiet Hua Lamphong Hostel into bustling Bangkok morning.
A wave of sweltering heat suffocates and the weight of its humidity makes my shoulders sag.
85 degrees at 10am. This is why travel books advise against Thailand in the summer.
A blinding rush of swerving mopeds, pink taxis, and sputtering tuk-tuks whirl in perfect chaos.
Mopeds zip through impossible gaps, cutting off taxis, who are already cutting off sedans. Rusty tuk-tuks sputter along in the spaces between.
All of them narrowly dodge old windowless busses as they slow to drop-off and pick-up without ever reaching full stop.
Despite all the commotion, I do not hear one single angry horn.
I’m here to drink Buddhism straight from the source. All my life, I’ve wondered: How would life feel if society held inner values in higher regard than the outer material world. This culture is my answer…
I veer right and dance down the narrow sidewalk between rushing traffic river and crumbling high rise canyon.
Grey buildings loom in varying degrees of decay, peeling paint, and fire damage. Endless arrays of tiny apartments crammed together like human storage units.
Meandering at street level, I gaze into open air shops the size of small bedrooms, every cubic inch of space is used completely.
Walls are smothered in cheap sandals and angry birds t-shirts, Floors are covered ceiling-high in piles of greasy, black transmissions or repaired moped chains.
Despite the cramped space, every single shop devotes its most visible wall to the display of a small bright golden temple, an altar to the compassionate, knowing Buddha in everyone.
Helmets hang, unlocked, on a line of ten motorcycles parked in front. A shop owner confirms, theft is rare.
Feeling the coolness of water nearby, I dip down a damp narrow alley.
Suddenly I am in a peaceful little tin roof garden, birds chirping, people laying back, petting and feeding stray dogs.
We converse with our eyes and little bows as I pass. The children watch our every move.
The narrow alley opens and a sweet Thai girl sits in a folding chair with a cardboard sign reading “3.50.” 11 cents. This must be the ferry terminal.
I bounce down the ramp to the back of the boat and lean against the waist-high rail, beyond the cover of the tin canopy, the last one on and the only foreigner. We pull out into the river.
Long, thin boats with front ends shaped like pointy bananas roar straight down the center. Their young, long haired captains sit way in the back beside massive, exposed truck engines, laid back relaxed, one hand on the long rudder.
We frogger our way to the other side. The crowd of Thais files patiently onto the small dock and up the metal ramp leading to the market above.
On the edge of the crowd, a hunched, elderly woman, maybe 80 or 90 years old, dangling pale grocery bags from each of her thin forearms, struggles to step off the ship, her steps too small, her balance unstable.
Several Thais quickly gather around. A man in his 30’s and a girl in her teens hold her frail arms while the woman places one foot at a time onto the dock as though her foot might crumble in dust if she steps too hard.
Another woman and two young men stand by to help.
As the old woman inches forward, the whole group moves with her, tiny step by tiny step, until her wrinkled hand is placed gently on the ramp’s handrail.
The old woman gathers her balance, turns to the group, joins her hands, and gives a long, silent, bow.
Everyone in the group, young and old, bows in return.
I follow her slow, small steps up the ramp to the market, life isn’t something to rush.
She was riding the ferry alone.
In a dirty city suffering the poorest human conditions, amidst the endless chaos of overpopulation, these small and gentle people have created a kind of heaven.
They maintain an inner peace and outer graciousness in the poorest conditions. They do it by sharing what little extra they have with friends, with stray dogs, with strangers.
They understand that we’re all going through the same feelings, that we all have the same needs.
Their cultural icons are peaceful and present, holding patience and kindness above all else. From the time they are born, they are raised to be kind. Negative and hateful and lustful emotions are rarely seen so never fostered.
This culture is onto something.
The majority of Bangkok’s eight million people live in material poverty. Unforgiving, year-round, sweltering heat makes simple tasks exhausting. Their physical world is crumbling.
Yet somehow, their spiritual world is a glistening masterpiece.
As I pack my bag to head south to smaller towns and silken beaches, I feel grateful for the time I have spent with these people.
My mind is fresh, my heart is open. I cannot wait to learn more.
“My religion is very simple. My religion is kindness.” -Dalai Lama
