Today I took a photo of the scary bunnies outside the Siam Shopping Centre, then took a moto-taxi to the Grand Palace complex to see Wat Phra Keow. There appear to be two extra invisible lanes in addition to the three or four that are indicated, and the moto-taxi riders seem to possess a preternatural awareness of which tuk-tuk is going to swing wildly across tow lanes of traffic, or which flat-bed truck is going to straddle two lanes while taxis weave and dart around him. Despite the apparent chaos, the road awareness of most of the drivers on the street in bangkok puts the average European motorist to shame.
I arrived at Wat Phra Keow awake, if slightly subdued by the dense exhaust fumes, and proceeded to have my mind blown in a million directions. To some extent the grand Oriental architecture of the temple compound in the Grand Palace was the realisation of years of longing to see Classical Asian architecture and culture from my own immediate perspective. Seeing the golden tops of temples piercing the sky was as invigorating as I'd hoped, but I was astounded by the brilliance, detail and magnificence of the hand-painted mural that unfolds endlessly around the interior walls of the great Wat. Late-eighteenth century depictions of the legends of Thai history, the conquests of the kingdoms, the collision of Vedic cultures that is Thailand, are emblazoned in bright gold, rich green startling blue: I didn't know the stories but they were told so well I felt I was part of them.
Stepping into the glare of the central compound I almost felt disappointed with the flat reality of the external world when compared to the fiery two-dimensional brilliance of the painted world beneath the eaves. O was impressed by the beauty and elegance of the buildings, the forceful vibrancy of the architectural decoration, but it was the spiritualism that began to impress itself upon me from every surface I looked at. I've struggled to identify this essential component of ecclesiastical architecture in the great cathedrals of Europe: the true spirit of Christ's teachings seems easier to find in the medieval chapels and Protestant meeting places than the great palaces dedicated to "men, money, and power', as one friend described the cathedral at Cologne. But now I wonder if my own inability to be a Catholic might have blinded me to the spiritual beauty of our own cultural homage to the great power of the holy spirit. here in Thailand, religion is a part of everyday life for most people, though it's not a confessional state by a long stretch. The simple beauty of the prayers offered up by the cook at the food stall where I ate last night struck me forcefully. I thought about the the workers whose skill had been utilised to create the wonders of the vast palace and the royal Wat, and I wondered if their devotion to the Buddhistic way of life meant that their subjection to the wealthy and powerful was different to that of the catholic peasants whose labour created Cologne Cathedral. I always saw the medieval magnificence of these huge structures as something of a con, and I couldn't help feeling the same when I saw the outrageous grandeur of the palace mansion. I looked up at the scaffolders working on the roof of the pavilion, wearing balaclavas against the heat, and I wondered what they thought of it all. I wonder if the catholic Church allows the same communion between the material and the spiritual worlds as a religion in which each man is expected to become a monk for three months. I wonder what Buddhist women think about it, and whether the centrality of men, money and power in the Catholic faith is something shared by orthodox, state-sponsored Buddhism. In any case, judging from the murals in the palace, war and religion seem as entwined in Thailand as they ever were in medieval Europe.
It's only a short distance from Wat Phra Keow to Wat Pho, and I walkedm picking up some barbecued pork and a bag of sticky rice on the way. One of the inevitable tuk-tuk touts told me it was closed, but I'd read about the various gem and shopping scams they run in the Gospel according to the Lonely Planet...
There are so many Buddha images at Wat Pho, some huge, some ancient, all beautiful. I thought about the peace that must have reigned before armies of light-skinned foreigners like myself descended on these temples and monasteries, but I happily snapped away like all the other shutter-bugs, becoming increasingly happy with my efforts as the sinking sun lent its aid to my amateurish efforts.
Eventually I went to the the temple of the Reclining Buddha, and I was utterky overwhelmed. It cannot really be adequately described.
Along the wall are pots for monetary offferings, which people place coin by coin, the whole length of the wall. i determined to give my change to each and every beggar I encountered on my home, until I was out of coins. this seems to me a better gift of charity. The reclining Buddha seems content as he is.
I was ready to head for home, but Wat Arun beckoned from across the river, and a short ferry ride took me there as the sun was finally sinking. I may have been more concerned with maximising the potential of my point-and-shoot that I was with the spiritual importance of the magnificent stupa, but it took my breath away nonetheless.
The stairs are steep, in a refreshing absence of health and safety law, and the view is spectacular. looking across at Wat Pho as the setting sun glinted from the mirrored rooftops was wonderful. Looking over the western shore of the Chao Phraya River as the sun set over the suburbs was mmore than wonderful. I managed to find a cheap tuk-tuk home, and the deep v-shaped sunburn and sloght crankiness it's brought with it have now been more than amply cured by the Buddha's very own 'good eating, good drinking'.
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