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At first light, in an ancient wooden chapel, chanting monks provide distant harmony as she pays homage to the Golden Image; her contemplations broken only by the arrival of the bird sellers. Offering a few small coins she takes a tiny wicker basket and releases its two captive birds. For five days she comes, one for each year of entanglement. Ten birds released; one each for herself and the partner she wishes to unbind. Thus from past lives rejoined she now unwinds for the final time, the bonds that have cut them both so deep. How hastily those birds flee.
Karma Birds for release at temple in Chiang Mai |
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High above the plain it shimmers, ochre red in dusty heat. Scorching sun and arid landscape sears one’s eyes. Towering stone edifices thrusting high virulent still; ancient corn cob designs, eerie mystical reminders of kingdoms past, glories lost and time’s passage dominant over all. Climbing giant Naga steps which silently caution pilgrims, one wanders through courtyards and cloisters, ever inwards, stepping further back in time until at the epicenter one enters sudden darkness. Eyes blink to adjust and there in the exact geometric heart lays the earthly Yoni, vulva to Shiva’s now missing mighty Lingam. How sad it’s been removed.
Phanum Rung
Corn Cob Chedis, Phanum Rung
Passage Phanum Rung
Cheddi Phanum Rung
Detail of Chedi lintel |
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NIGHTS IN A TEAK WALLAH’S HOUSE |
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Floating on delicate stilts amidst freshly swept gardens; their wooden shingles and roofs tapering, the old Teak Wallah’s houses look like something out of Maugham. Glassless windows shuttered at night keep out bats and other unwanted nocturnal flyers while we sleep blissfully under mosquito nets. Gazing out the windows, I watch the villagers taking their evening bathes in the river. The patina of polished teak floor and walls glimmers red gold in lamplight. The heady scent of night flowers equaled momentarily only by the enticing aroma of dinner brought by smiling lads speaking in the caressing tones of Lanna Thai. |
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Isaan Mat Mee, the exquisite handmade sarong lengths of refined Thai silk; sold usually by their weaver’s men folk, Muslim families most, who come to Khorat’s ancient markets after the annual harvests. The intricate geometric designs, handed down from matriarch to daughter their brilliant, kingfisher splashes of light woven so as to allure senses, seduce hearts, silken threads so enticing that when fingers touch fabric, eyes are beguiled by a myriad patterns and one’s resolve melts; the soul succumbs and finally, despite hard bargaining, pockets held to ransom, one departs replete with fabrics to love and cherish for a lifetime. |
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THE JEWEL IN THE LOTUS (MAE HONG SORN) |
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Nestled amongst enveloping mountains as in a womb, the hamlet of Mae Hong Sorn sits lotus like, thick forests keeping hidden her secret beauty from the outside world. Climbing above one has clear views across the entire valley. At the heart lies a diminutive park with a tear shaped lake and two Burmese style temples set side by side to the South in gardens. Bells hung from their wedding cake tiers tinkle in cooling breezes as tattooed monks nap on the polished teak floors in afternoon heat. One sits and fancies himself a pilgrim to an age long since lost. |
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Travelogue