Chapter 4 -- Bangkok

My packed flight from Tokyo to Bangkok leaves much to be desired. The hot stale air inside the cramped plane makes feel increasingly ill by the time we land at Suvarnabhumi airport. I stumble down the jetway suffering from a throbbing headache and alternating waves of nausea and fever. My physical condition is so dodgy that I worry about potentially fainting before passing through immigration or at least sweating so profusely that officials will deny me entry on suspicion of carrying some infectious disease. While waiting on line I take slow and deep breaths, swallow a few mouthfulls of water, and try to psychically will away the discomfort. Luckily, the official barely even looks up and quickly stamps my passport with permission to enter Thailand for 60 days. I grab my bag, exit into the main airport, and am instantly surrounded by touts promising rides into the city at bargain prices.

One particularly attractive Thai woman almost lures me to her vehicle with seductive eyes and broad smile, but I pull away just in time and find the official taxi line. Unfortunately, my assigned driver speaks virtually zero English and has no clue where I want to go. I show him the exact location on a map which has street names written in Thai script but he just stares at the graphical representation for several minutes and makes clicking sounds with his mouth, a sure sign that he is confused and frustrated. I trace driving routes on the map with my finger, repeat the name of my destination neighborhood (called "Thewet"), and point to a particular intersection of two major streets. Although the location seems pretty obvious, he continues to be completely flummoxed. It occurs to me that he may be illiterate and unable to decode my attempts to pronounce unfamiliar Thai street names. Though the taxi has yet to move at all, my queasiness surges and a dull aching penetrates deeper into my skull. I am increasingly desperate to lie down in a cool, dark, and quiet room.

He finally starts driving but fails to turn on the meter. I point to the device and ask for it to be activated as a way to protect myself against being ripped off at the end of the journey. He offers to charge 450 Baht ($13) as a flat fee but I decline and insist that we rely on the measured fare. He complies while nervously laughing, a clear indication that I've busted him trying to scam me. Five minutes after we have left the airport, he pulls over to the side of the highway to again study the map and appears no closer to understanding the route. I feel anger welling up inside and a rising urge to start yelling, but barely manage to retain my composure. I urge him to call the guesthouse on his mobile phone and point to the number listed in my guidebook. He starts to dial but then cancels and restarts the process a number of times. I peer over his shoulder and see that everytime he presses the "2" button it comes up as a "5" on the display. He keeps trying to make the call on his malfunctioning phone, hoping that eventually a "2" will register. I glance at the guidebook, see that the "2" occurs four times in the number, and determine that he will never be able to complete the simple dialing exercise.

I tell him to drive and insist that I can guide him to the right place. He resumes driving and keeps looking nervously at my map each time the car slows down due to traffic. He pumps the accelerator haphazardly so that the taxi repeatedly lurches everytime the gas is applied, causing me to jerk forward while sitting in the back seat. The uneven motion exacerbates my nausea. I contemplate what past bad deeds merit being cursed by a bad driver who cannot read a map, is trying to rip me off, and pushes me to the edge of car sickness. We finally get to the desired intersection and I locate the guest house. I shoot the driver a knowing smile when paying the metered fare of 275 Baht (compared to the 450 Baht he offered at the outset) and stumble into a combination guest house/restaurant on a quiet street lined with leafy trees. I quickly check into a pleasant wood-paneled room with thatched palm covering the ceiling and a private bathroom for 500 Baht/night ($15). My first order of business is to lie motionless on the bed with the air conditioning blowing at maximum and a bottle of water by my side. One hour later, my stomach settles and the knot behind my temples dissipates. I am refreshed and ready to reacquaint myself with the buzzing metropolis of Bangkok.

My return to Bangkok has the feeling of a homecoming. This is my third visit to the city over the course of 8 years, so I am already oriented and comfortable navigating through the downtown neighborhoods. Although many people dislike the heat, grit, pollution and noise of this major urban node, I find it exhilarating and filled with life. In contrast to the detached and sterile social atmosphere of Japan, I immediately feel more engaged in the flow of this city. Walking the streets feeds all the senses with the beautiful, the bizarre, and the nasty. I pass street vendors cooking savory noodles, curries, soups and unidentified animal parts threaded onto skewers. The sidewalks are cracked and strange pools of dank water create a fetid minefield. Mechanics weld and fix machinery on the curb, letting loose a torrent of violent sounds and flying sparks. Across from my guesthouse is an open air market packed with stalls selling vegetables, raw meat, cooked food, household items, flowers and clothing. I snake through the warren of sellers, careful to avoid tripping on electrical wires or hitting my head on low-hanging steel poles. As a giant-sized person in this land, I often whack my head on objects placed well above the height of a typical Thai. Even doorways are usually too low for me to pass without stooping a bit.

On my first full day in the city, I focus on buying a mobile phone and signing up for service. In Japan, not having a phone made me feel even more isolated and significantly increased the difficulty of basic social logistics. Not wanting to repeat this handicap in Thailand, I walk across the city to visit a famous shopping center with an entire floor dedicated to the sale of mobile devices. The scene is chaotic and somewhat overwhelming -- endless booths run by individual proprietors selling selections of new and used phones. I pass by a group of Arab men aggressively haggling with a laidback Thai vendor over the price for an unlocked iPhone and notice that there are already faux-iPhone (and even bogus iPod) knock-offs being sold. It is difficult to even focus on anything in particular, so I try to slow down the process by going to one booth at a time and scanning the shelves for something very small, simple, and relatively cheap. The vendors all try to push phones which can play mp3 files, have crappy built-in cameras, contain cool games, and offer bluetooth connectivity. None of these features matter to me. It turns out to be somewhat challenging to find a stripped down tiny device which just makes phone calls and sends text messages. Finally I stumble onto a new LG model which is light, can barely be felt when inside my pocket, and does all the basics (including speakerphone). The vendor agrees to sell at a price of 1200 Baht ($36) along with a SIM card (200 Baht/$6) and my first increment of prepaid minutes (300 Baht/$9). Within moments of making the decision, I am the proud owner of a working mobile phone with a local number. The speed of the transaction and activation feels surreal. Empowered by my new connection to the network, I carry the phone onto the street and begin to send text messages to various contacts in Bangkok. I am no longer off the grid.

In Thailand (like in most developing nations), mobile phone service is purchased on a prepaid basis in increments of about $10. Refilling an account is easy -- just purchase a card at a convenience store (7-11 is a major retailer of phone credit). Switching networks is uncomplicated because there are no long-term contracts with service providers. And users only pay when they initiate a call or text message -- calls to anyone within Thailand are billed at around 3 Baht/minute (~$0.10). Recieving any communication is always free. So if someone calls me and we talk for an hour, there is no charge to my account. For an American, this may seem like an odd arrangement. The bottom line is that I'm happy to talk to loved ones from around the globe on my new phone, so long as they make the call.

After settling my communications protocols, I make a pilgrimage back to the most holy Buddhist monuments in the city. As I approach the famous reclining Buddha at Wat Pho, my body begins to tingle at the familiar sight. I have developed a special relationship with this Buddha over the course of multiple visits. Each viewing of this massive figure with the peaceful half-smiling face and mother-of-pearl inlay on the souls of the feet leaves me awestruck. I emulate his pose in an attempt to tap into a higher power and gain a shortcut to enlightenment. Unfortunately, this strategy does not prove successful. So I move to another temple building and watch a phalanx of monks chant in unison while prostrating themselves before a giant golden Buddha altar. Then I duck into the massage building and ask one of the practitioners to treat the intermittent pains shooting across my back. She obliges, pounds my middle back with packets of steaming herbs, and does some excellent kneading of the tender muscles.

On my third day in Bangkok, the outlines of my spiritual quest begin to emerge. In the morning, I sit at a small restaurant eating fried a plate of noodles amongst a crowd of students wearing their official uniforms and a single monk clad in his trademark orange robes. Upon finishing his meal, the monk begins to chant softly. Everyone falls silent and the proprietors approach, bow, and clasp their hands together in the prayer position. The remaining customers quickly freeze and assume the same pose while I do my best to imitate the appropriate posture. When the young monk, who looks to be around 20 years old, finishes the prayer, he gracefully lifts his body away from the table, turns, and glides away without a single word or gesture. At the moment he passes onto the street, the freeze lifts as both patrons and staff suddenly recommence the bustle of activity. I am amazed by the deference afforded to this monk and humbled by the sequence of events.

The experience prompts me to explore the religious icon district of Bangkok's old city in search of a suitable Buddha statute to provide inspiration in a future home. During my last visit in 2004, I wandered into a shop and encountered a dazzling Buddha statue so impressive that I was compelled to purchase it no matter the cost. But the store refused to oblige, claiming that the figure had been special ordered by a private buyer who had yet to retrieve it. When I attempted to place a comparable special order, the salesperson looked at me with no discernable facial expression and said "not possible." I pressed her and asked to contact the artist, to which she replied "not possible." So I left the store determined to find another Buddha as glorious as that one and scoured all the shops in the neighborhood. Fate was not my friend on that day -- no comparable Buddha revealed itself. Since my desire could only be satisfied by the one Buddha I was unable to acquire, that trip to Thailand had a Buddha-less ending. In hindsight (especially when considering certain events occurring in my lovelife at that time), I suspect the Buddha was trying to teach me a lesson about desire, attachment and suffering.

Since several years have passed since that frustrating search, I decide to revisit this district to see whether the Buddha of my dreams is now waiting for me. Is the time right to finally bring this Buddha into my life? My sense of direction leads me astray and I walk in circles for an hour before locating the store which originally hosted the glorious statue. Entering past rows of ornaments, life-sized figures, and shelves packed with Buddha accessories, I pray for the object of my desire to be waiting in the same spot. But it is not there. I scour the entire shop to try and discover a fascimile of that Buddha but only see low quality distant cousins. I describe my vision of Buddha perfection to the salesperson but there is no glint of recognition in her eye and she merely points to a section of the store with cheap and uninteresting imitations. It dawns on me that I may not be ready to have the Buddha object. Higher powers are repeating an important lesson about the fruitlessness of passionately pursuing something which drives me wild with desire. I accept my fate without bitterness and move onto other tasks.

Abandoning the pursuit of physical objects, I go to nearby Wat Mahatat seeking an introduction to the practice of meditation. After identifying myself at the front desk, a radiant older Thai woman sits with me and discusses the basics of Vipassana meditation. I demonstrate a genuine interest in learning more and she soon hands me off to Phra Suphe, an older Buddhist monk dressed in orange robes who speaks excellent English. Although his initial gaze hints at a certain wariness about my intentions, we talk for over an hour. He tells me that the only truth about life is impermanence -- all things are changing and nothing lasts for more than an instant. I am jolted by the realization that, in the months leading up to my departure, I often justified the radical life shift by reminding myself that change is the only constant. This notion provided comfort by helping me to understand the futility of trying to hold onto any situation whether it be an apartment, a job, a lifestyle, or a community of friends.

The monk practically mocks the fact that people clean their bodies on a daily basis but never take the time to clean their minds, an objective which can only be accomplished through regular focused meditation. Learning to meditate requires practice, devotion, and commitment. Since nothing persists in the universe, meditation must become an ongoing practice (even 15 minutes per day) in order to attain any benefits. These benefits include developing a more focused mind and ending personal suffering through freedom from grief, sorrow and greed. He reassures me that the introduction to insight meditation will not be accompanied by an attempt to convert me to Buddhism. This promise is strangely disappointing since my weak attachment to Judaism leaves me feeling quite open to conversion under the right circumstances. He laments that the world is in trouble because leaders have forgotten about cleaning their minds and cultivating merit and routinely abandon the key moral precepts of not killing, not stealing, not sleeping around, not drinking alcohol, and practicing meditation. Listening to his recitation of this list, I definitely agree with three of the five admonitions but don't have the heart to share my disagreement over the costs and benefits of sexual promiscuity or intoxication. So I nod and do not take issue with his list of societal ills.

While absorbing his speech, I realize that this type of meditation may be the exact practice needed to help me steady myself on the road and achieve my personal transformation goals. Travelling alone triggers sharp emotional ebbs and flows. Within the course of a single day, I can cycle through a range of moods -- elation, contentment, frustration, and alienation. In the midst of emotional volatility, I am seduced to judge others, engage in self-criticism, and obsess about the future. This protective mechanism disconnects my heart, mind and senses from the here and now, taking me away from appreciating the simple beauty of each moment. Can meditation offer a path to break free from these patterns, to generate inner peace and contentment, to remain confident about my ultimate destiny, and to learn to love myself regardless of external circumstances? Can judgement, fear and anxiety be replaced with compassion, love and connection? While restraining my enthusiasm for meditation being a silver bullet, I decide that it would be foolish for me not to see what this ancient discipline can offer.

I follow the monk into the basement where we stand in a long narrow room with tile floors and ceilings just an inch higher than the top of my head. He first takes me through the steps of a walking meditation -- gazing at the ground, propelling myself forward slowly with deliberate intention, and focusing on each movement of the foot (lifting, moving, dropping) by silently pronouncing the words inside of my mind. He demonstrates the proper sitting position (legs crossed, hands connected with palms facing up, thumbs touching) and instructs me to concentrate on the rising and falling of the abdomen with the intake and exhalation of each breath. Every time a thought enters my consciousness, I should note its presence, give it a label ("worrying", "thinking", "future", "past") and silently repeat the word several times before returning to my breath. We do these exercises together for 20 minutes then the monk leaves while my body is firmly locked in a sitting pose.

I attempt to focus only on the movement of my chest tied to the intake of air and cycle through 2 rounds of sitting and walking postures over the course of 45 minutes. Each time that my mind empties for a few moments, thoughts of the past and future flood into consciousness. Every quiet void is invaded by voices, visions and powerful emotions. I feel intense pain in my legs and across my back. Beads of sweat form on my upper lip. Consistent with the monk's instructions, I allow these sensations to persist without taking any physical action to alleviate the suffering. To my surprise, I occasionally tap into a peaceful clarity and am highly present to sounds, smells and sensations. But I cannot inhabit this space for more than a few breaths before an array of unwelcome intellectual voices arrive to analyze the situation and offer real-time commentary on the experience. I worry that my mind is weak, perhaps past the point of repair, and become dejected by my failure to demonstrate even a sliver of mastery at this mind cleaning exercise. After mulling my failure to instantly succeed, I conclude that achieving any level of success will require dedicated practice and swear to take the plunge in order to explore what pot of gold lies at the end of the meditation rainbow. I return the next day for another hour of meditation practice, but it will be another seven weeks before I can honor my commitment and truly explore the potential of Vipassana.

The following day I rendezvous with another friend of uber-connector goddess Lisa Ruth. Kob is an early 30s Thai woman who has traveled extensively, works at a major design center in Bangkok, is plugged into many fascinating local communities, and spends much of her free time checking out cultural events, taking yoga and dance classes, and hanging out with her tight-knit female posse. Her friendliness and enthusiasm are contagious. Within minutes of meeting, she begins suggesting places to visit, people to meet, and a slew of activities which may be of interest. She is one of the most genuinely likeable people I have met in a long time, and I feel lucky to make her acquaintance. Over the next week I join her girl-crew on various occasions to attend a dance class, munch on papaya salad and curry, and lead a teach-in on the basics of poi spinning. We pledge to organize a bona fide party with full-on fire spinning when I return to Bangkok the following month.

I also visit with my former landlord and her boyfriend. When she lived next door on Sacramento Street in North Berkeley, Natalie was a lovely presence and would often come over to share an extra bowl of Thai curry and rice. Now back in Bangkok working for a major company, she exhibits a strong entrepreneurial spirit and we talk about various business opportunities such as opening an English language school or a Bangkok branch of the Cheeseboard. I remind her that the Cheeseboard is a worker-owned collective, so this model may not fit with her profit-making objectives, but she claims that it may be possible to copy the recipes without adopting the ownership structure. Natalie and Gon collect me early one morning and we drive almost an hour to the city of Nakhon Pathom to cruise the famous floating market and visit Wat Phra Pathom Chedi, the tallest Buddhist monument in the world. I consume so much food at the market that it becomes exceedingly difficult to stay awake during the ride back to Bangkok. The next night Natalie and Gon take me to Chinatown and treat me to a large steaming bowl of shark fin soup. Thinking about the ecological implications of this culinary choice, I wince for just a moment before slurping the meat and savoring the flavor. This marks the second politically incorrect dish in my diet over the past two weeks (the other being whale sushi in Tokyo).

Back in my neighborhood, I check email while recovering from my fourth massage of the week. While waiting for a website to materialize on an interminably slow computer, a dazzling and poised Canadian woman sitting next to me strikes up a conversation. Her name is Annie Lalla. She and her American boyfriend (Anton) have just arrived and both of them start quizzing me about places to visit in Thailand. At one point she mentions possibly attending one of the infamous "full moon" parties on the island of Ko Pha Ngan. I tell her not to expect too much, especially in comparison to Burning Man. At the mention of my favorite desert extravaganza, her face lights up and fire practically shoots from her eyes. She reveals that the two of them met at a previous incarnation of Black Rock City (Burning Man's location) and are still buzzing from their experience this summer. An instant and powerful bond forms as we start swapping stories, realize that our respective camps were only blocks apart, and marvel at our participation in the collective consciousness of this crazy community.

Later the three of us share lunch and find other connecting threads. After hearing them both recite certain unique phrases, I mention Landmark Education and wait for a reaction. My hunch pays off as they practically explode with enthusiasm about these human potential and development courses and start testifying to the benefits for themselves, their family, and friends. My introduction to Landmark in 1987 caused me to enroll in a series of their programs over a number of years, so I share tales from the old days (back when Werner Erhard was running the organization). We revel in the power of open communication, of making highly ambitious and unconventional commitments, and of pursuing outrageous life experiences. I am completely energized by our interaction. We agree to meet again in the city of Chiang Mai a few days later.

Anton and Annie represent the kind of travelers who make me feel proud to come from a Western country. But they are the exception. Observing the actions of other tourists, I often feel shame by association. One day while touring the Vimanmek mansion and royal throne palace , I observe two German women standing at the ticket counter. As these two fairly overweight women hand over their money to the Thai woman sitting behind the counter, one barks in English "where can we find food here?". The ticket seller, not fluent in English, clearly fails to comprehend the question and shrugs. The German woman seems infuriated by the non-response, raises her voice, and practically screams the word "food" while closing her hand and pressing the tips of her fingers against her lips. Her disrespect and self-centered arrogance is sickening. I cannot bear to watch any longer and walk away in disgust. Another day I am checking my email in a shop located in a part of the city where many package and business tourists tend to stay. A middle-aged American businessman sits next to me and calls his office using Skype. During the course of the conversation, he repeatedly exclaims that he can't believe all the crazy things he has observed here in "Bangkok, Taiwan." I barely restrain myself from leaning over and correcting his major geographical faux pas. Listening to his conversation, I am saddened by his almost complete astonishment at the fact that other countries have different cultural customs. It only reinforces my belief that Americans lack a basic familiarity with what occurs outside of their own tiny universe. One evening I am eating dinner near a middle-aged American man sitting with an attractive younger Thai woman who is clearly serving as his rented girlfriend for the week. She looks incredibly bored and her eyes scan the perimeter of the room as they struggle to find something to discuss. When the waiter arrives with a plate of fried spring rolls, the American immediately sees that something is missing and demands "plum sauce". On the mistaken assumption that all Thai restaurants automatically serve "plum sauce" with this dish, he practically starts lecturing the waiter and says the word "plum" over and over again, as if the act of repetition will cause the waiter to recognize that he has forgotten to bring a standard Thai condiment. Despite his protestations, neither his Thai companion nor the waiter have any idea what the man is requesting. I squirm uncomfortably upon realizing that this American cannot distinguish between the Chinese restaurant serving Egg Rolls with plum sauce at his local mall back in the USA and the standard dips accompanying spring rolls in a Thai restaurant. His smugness and incredulity cause me to be extra polite to the waiter and I leave a large tip as if to compensate for the ignorance and insensitivity of my compatriot.

One of my final days before departing, I visit the Golden Mount and climb hundreds of steps to a viewing platform at the base of a shiny golden Chedi and survey the Bangkok skyline. Inside the shrine, I seek my fortune by shaking a can containing a series of small sticks tagged with numbers. When my shaking becomes sufficiently violent (aided by intense mental focus on the question at hand), one of the sticks pops out and lands on the floor. The number directs me to a printed fortune which reads as follows (typos preserved from the original):

Enjoyable life. Despite any illness, no need worry.
All in the family will be happy and have good lucks.
Long journeys will be undertaken safe and sound.
Desires will be fulfilled. Patient recovering.
Legal case in your favor. All is good for you.

Buoyed by these predictions, I prepare for the next phase of the journey. Upon reaching Chiang Mai I intend to settle down, slow my pace, and become a student of Thai massage. With all the omens seeming to be positive, events are unfolding according to some divine master plan. I let go of expectations and trust that destiny will provide. For now, my heart and mind are unburdened.