A Walk Along Indochina's Brown Waters
Text by Albena Shkodrova | Photographs by Anthony Georgieff
Not everything in Bangkok is kitsch and shopping. The city from the period before Coca-Cola and McDonald’s is preserved in the old neighborhoods along the Saen Saeb Canal
Tour guides should be forbidden by law to make up metaphors and use poetic comparisons. This is confirmed again as I walk along Khlong Saen Saeb – the brown, high-water canal that crosses central Bangkok and merges with the Chao Phraya River to the west. Calling this Asian megapolis of futuristic skyscrapers and concrete bunkers blackened from the humidity “the Venice of Indochina” is like trying to compare a fly and a computer. You’re bound to find some similarity. Both emit a buzzing sound, for example.
Bangkok, and especially its canals, not only have nothing in common with Venice, but – rather the opposite – they clearly demonstrate the numerous aspects which make Asia and Europe two distinctly different worlds.
Khlong Saen Saeb is the thread of my route through a few of the city’s old neighborhoods. However, it is only an approximate thread – I am forced to deviate from it many times, as there is no transportation on the canal itself and it is not always possible to walk along its banks. For example, I have to reach my first destination– the temple with the phallic symbols, by car.
The cheap and widely available taxis are one of Bangkok’s considerable advantages. There’s an abundance of them even in January, at the height of Thailand’s tourist season. After a short ride, during which I note that the OUTSIDE of the windows is getting covered in frost because of the fully-blasted air-conditioner, I find myself in front of the lobby of the Hilton.
The Chao Mae Tuptim temple is in the hotel’s backyard and it’s probably the temple with the least traditional approach in the world. A white-gloved doorman offers his hand as I climb out of the taxi and I accept it with a benevolent nod. But instead of heading towards the doors, courteously held open, I turn towards the parking lot. Past a series of service rooms and a dumping ground, at the alley’s turn I come upon a surreal sight: a small garden, surrounded by multiple phalli. Their bright colors bring up associations with a children’s playground but their forms are so realistic that a closer look erases all traces of innocence.
Even though they are starting to become outmoded, phallic symbols – known as palad khik, are among South Asia’s oldest amulets. Their powers are summoned for all kinds of purposes, ranging from the protection of young boys from drowning to the casting of a spell on the jury of a beauty pageant. And that’s not even mentioning some of their more mundane functions.
While I look, stunned, at some larger specimens with small feet and pigs’ tails, a motorcyclist parks by the fence. He leans his bike against a tall red phallus and unhooks a plastic bag from the handle. From it, he takes out a box with food and steps towards the altar (consisting of complexly intertwined phalli made of ivory), venerably offering it to his god, whoever he is.
Beyond the wall behind Chao Mae Tuptim, the canal continues. The water looks still but, every 30 seconds or so, it is shaken by a kind of a tidal wave, which splashes hard against the canal’s edges, threatening to flow over the wooden barracks hanging over them.
Probably because of the densely brown colour of the water, suggesting four-metre crocodiles lurking about, nobody considers Bangkok’s canals as an opportunity cool down in the 40°C heat, made worse by the killer humidity.
Of course, there are no crocodiles. If there ever were, they would have been killed long ago by the filth.
A kilometre further down the current is another local landmark, which has been relatively spared by the tourists – Jim Thompson’s house. He is the most important American in the history of modern Thailand. Before he vanished without a trace in Malaysia’s jungles in 1967, Thompson revived the local production of silk – that heavy, slightly rough, deeply-coloured fabric, which in the 1950s became an absolute hit from New York’s Broadway to San Francisco’s Market Street and is, until today, a key part of Thailand’s tourist industry.
Before Jim Thompson came along, the hand production of silk had almost died out. Over a few years, he turned it into an industry, imprinting everything along the way with his immaculate taste – from the texture through the ornaments. Very few people realize the extent to which today’s idea of a traditional national aesthetic was influenced by his “western” interpretation of the authentic culture he found here at the end of the Second World War.
His estate – six antique wooden houses, scattered about a lush tropical garden, is one of the most beautiful reserves in the city. In 1958, when Jim Thompson built it, transportation on the canals was more widespread than on land. That’s why the official entry is from the Khlong Saen Saeb. It has been sealed off a long time ago, but the two high poles to which the boats were tied are still here. From the ceremonial staircase, you can see the long line of shanties on the canal’s other bank. Bangkok’s Muslim community used to live there – a relatively small group of people who became the main executers of Jim Thompson’s “silk project.”
I go across and start walking on the wooden dock that sticks out over the river, in front of the dingy wooden huts. From here, it is possible to reach Chao Phraya on foot, but this is certainly no promenade along the Venetian canals. If there ever were Muslims here, they must have moved to other regions of the city after getting rich off of the American’s industry. The path, which initially goes in front of the huts, after a while turns and starts winding between the hovels, which – at points, have been replaced by more substantial houses with wooden doors. Cats and dogs, inflicted with striking skin diseases, and impassionate elderly people follow me with slow movements of their eyes, as I struggle on to the west.
If there is a change here since Jim Thompson’s time, it is the multiplication of objects made of brightly-colored plastic: wash basins, buckets, bowls, left by the doors and containing leftovers from lunch, strips hanging on doors to prevent flies from entering. In some places, I see washing machines, even though doing laundry by hand with canal water is a common sight in this kind of neighborhoods. Plumbing has been introduced here recently, as is apparent by the still pristine blue pipe, which passes through the houses as if through a camping ground.
The path takes me back to the water and, as I walk along it, I watch it turbidly flowing down towards Chao Phraya, dragging along the garbage of around eight million people. At that moment, I feel grateful that the monsoon season is already over. It takes a few downpours to raise the canals’ level by more than a metre, which then clears off the homes along the banks like Augean stables.
Many of the front line hovels have been turned into uncomely little stores and repair shops. I pass by a restaurant serving two kinds of soup; a tailor shop where an old man runs a pair of white trousers through a foot-operated sewing-machine; and a drug store, whose exhaustive list of supplies consists of about a hundred tiger balm jars and pink nail polish.
Then, the houses retreat, opening up a square-like space: in the back, there are mangy roosters walking around; some women with children sit on a bench by the canal and chat; a man is cooking on a gas hot plate, offering food of dubious cleanliness to anyone who would dare eat it. The scene would be idyllic, if wasn’t unfolding right underneath the highway. Raised about 20 metres above their heads, there is a constant roar coming from it – intercepted only by the intermittent bursts of squibs, thrown by two children on the opposite bank.
I sit on a vacant bench to watch the square’s life for a bit, when I notice a five or six year old child swaying in a hammock. He catches my gaze and livens up. He starts laughing and swinging more and more wildly, throwing his head back. The top of it misses a protruding root by millimetres every time, and I seem to be the only one who’s bothered by the fact.
In order to show him that there is no need to impress me any more, I get up and walk away quickly. I feel like I’ve had enough of the “Venetian” experience. I catch a tuk tuk – a locally-designed motorised rickshaw, in order to get to Wat Saket, the Golden Mountain temple – the last point on my route.
In contrast to the well-hidden previous stops on my journey, this one is visible from afar – a giant grey hill with a blinding golden dome shining on top of it.
Bangkok is as flat as the bottom of a cooking pot and this elevation comes as a surprise. It was created when a giant chedi fell to the ground while it was being built. The remnants were covered with earth and a newer, smaller one was built on top. To make sure it wouldn’t crumble as well, a concrete wall was built around the hill after the Second World War. Now, it’s painted in grey oil paint and it looks quite… Thai, especially combined with the unnatural golden lustre of the dome on top.
The elegant chedi was built in the nineteenth century. It consists entirely of a labyrinth of white walls, but its centre houses a relic of Buddha (a gift from India under British rule). The small altar, where it is kept, is covered in a thick layer of gold, added on by worshippers over more than a century.
Wat Saket’s greatest advantage turns out to be the views from its terrace on top. In 1871, they impressed the American writer Frank Vincent, who described them in The Land of the White Elephant: “From the summit… may be obtained a very fine view of the city of Bangkok and its surroundings; though this is hardly a correct statement, for you see very few of the dwelling-houses of the city; here and there a wat, or pagoda, the river with its shipping, the palace of the King, and a waving sea of cocoa-nut and betel-nut palms, is about all that distinctly appears. The general appearance of Bangkok is that of a large, primitive village, situated in and mostly concealed by a virgin forest of almost impenetrable density.”
A hundred and thirty years later, Bangkok still seems as impenetrable, but this time from the density of the skyscraper developments. The areas that can be seen from the top of the Golden Mountain are the city’s oldest neighborhoods, and today they make up one thirtieth of the megapolis, which merged a long time ago with the nearby settlements and, through Samut Prakan, now reaches the Gulf of Thailand, located 30 kilometres from the centre of the city.
At the foot of the Golden Mountain flows the Khlong Saen Saeb, here renamed to Banglampu. It flows further to the west for about a kilometre before reaching and merging with the wider Chao Phraya. One can see clearly the brown water turning before heading south to the delta. More or less the same as the way Rio del Duca flows into Canale Grande. In the tour guides’ heads.
Tour guides should be forbidden by law to make up metaphors and use poetic comparisons. This is confirmed again as I walk along Khlong Saen Saeb – the brown, high-water canal that crosses central Bangkok and merges with the Chao Phraya River to the west. Calling this Asian megapolis of futuristic skyscrapers and concrete bunkers blackened from the humidity “the Venice of Indochina” is like trying to compare a fly and a computer. You’re bound to find some similarity. Both emit a buzzing sound, for example.
Bangkok, and especially its canals, not only have nothing in common with Venice, but – rather the opposite – they clearly demonstrate the numerous aspects which make Asia and Europe two distinctly different worlds.
Khlong Saen Saeb is the thread of my route through a few of the city’s old neighborhoods. However, it is only an approximate thread – I am forced to deviate from it many times, as there is no transportation on the canal itself and it is not always possible to walk along its banks. For example, I have to reach my first destination– the temple with the phallic symbols, by car.
The cheap and widely available taxis are one of Bangkok’s considerable advantages. There’s an abundance of them even in January, at the height of Thailand’s tourist season. After a short ride, during which I note that the OUTSIDE of the windows is getting covered in frost because of the fully-blasted air-conditioner, I find myself in front of the lobby of the Hilton.
The Chao Mae Tuptim temple is in the hotel’s backyard and it’s probably the temple with the least traditional approach in the world. A white-gloved doorman offers his hand as I climb out of the taxi and I accept it with a benevolent nod. But instead of heading towards the doors, courteously held open, I turn towards the parking lot. Past a series of service rooms and a dumping ground, at the alley’s turn I come upon a surreal sight: a small garden, surrounded by multiple phalli. Their bright colors bring up associations with a children’s playground but their forms are so realistic that a closer look erases all traces of innocence. Even though they are starting to become outmoded, phallic symbols – known as palad khik, are among South Asia’s oldest amulets. Their powers are summoned for all kinds of purposes, ranging from the protection of young boys from drowning to the casting of a spell on the jury of a beauty pageant. And that’s not even mentioning some of their more mundane functions.
While I look, stunned, at some larger specimens with small feet and pigs’ tails, a motorcyclist parks by the fence. He leans his bike against a tall red phallus and unhooks a plastic bag from the handle. From it, he takes out a box with food and steps towards the altar (consisting of complexly intertwined phalli made of ivory), venerably offering it to his god, whoever he is.
Beyond the wall behind Chao Mae Tuptim, the canal continues. The water looks still but, every 30 seconds or so, it is shaken by a kind of a tidal wave, which splashes hard against the canal’s edges, threatening to flow over the wooden barracks hanging over them.
Probably because of the densely brown colour of the water, suggesting four-metre crocodiles lurking about, nobody considers Bangkok’s canals as an opportunity cool down in the 40°C heat, made worse by the killer humidity.
Of course, there are no crocodiles. If there ever were, they would have been killed long ago by the filth.
A kilometre further down the current is another local landmark, which has been relatively spared by the tourists – Jim Thompson’s house. He is the most important American in the history of modern Thailand. Before he vanished without a trace in Malaysia’s jungles in 1967, Thompson revived the local production of silk – that heavy, slightly rough, deeply-coloured fabric, which in the 1950s became an absolute hit from New York’s Broadway to San Francisco’s Market Street and is, until today, a key part of Thailand’s tourist industry.
Before Jim Thompson came along, the hand production of silk had almost died out. Over a few years, he turned it into an industry, imprinting everything along the way with his immaculate taste – from the texture through the ornaments. Very few people realize the extent to which today’s idea of a traditional national aesthetic was influenced by his “western” interpretation of the authentic culture he found here at the end of the Second World War.
His estate – six antique wooden houses, scattered about a lush tropical garden, is one of the most beautiful reserves in the city. In 1958, when Jim Thompson built it, transportation on the canals was more widespread than on land. That’s why the official entry is from the Khlong Saen Saeb. It has been sealed off a long time ago, but the two high poles to which the boats were tied are still here. From the ceremonial staircase, you can see the long line of shanties on the canal’s other bank. Bangkok’s Muslim community used to live there – a relatively small group of people who became the main executers of Jim Thompson’s “silk project.”
I go across and start walking on the wooden dock that sticks out over the river, in front of the dingy wooden huts. From here, it is possible to reach Chao Phraya on foot, but this is certainly no promenade along the Venetian canals. If there ever were Muslims here, they must have moved to other regions of the city after getting rich off of the American’s industry. The path, which initially goes in front of the huts, after a while turns and starts winding between the hovels, which – at points, have been replaced by more substantial houses with wooden doors. Cats and dogs, inflicted with striking skin diseases, and impassionate elderly people follow me with slow movements of their eyes, as I struggle on to the west.
If there is a change here since Jim Thompson’s time, it is the multiplication of objects made of brightly-colored plastic: wash basins, buckets, bowls, left by the doors and containing leftovers from lunch, strips hanging on doors to prevent flies from entering. In some places, I see washing machines, even though doing laundry by hand with canal water is a common sight in this kind of neighborhoods. Plumbing has been introduced here recently, as is apparent by the still pristine blue pipe, which passes through the houses as if through a camping ground.
The path takes me back to the water and, as I walk along it, I watch it turbidly flowing down towards Chao Phraya, dragging along the garbage of around eight million people. At that moment, I feel grateful that the monsoon season is already over. It takes a few downpours to raise the canals’ level by more than a metre, which then clears off the homes along the banks like Augean stables.
Many of the front line hovels have been turned into uncomely little stores and repair shops. I pass by a restaurant serving two kinds of soup; a tailor shop where an old man runs a pair of white trousers through a foot-operated sewing-machine; and a drug store, whose exhaustive list of supplies consists of about a hundred tiger balm jars and pink nail polish.
Then, the houses retreat, opening up a square-like space: in the back, there are mangy roosters walking around; some women with children sit on a bench by the canal and chat; a man is cooking on a gas hot plate, offering food of dubious cleanliness to anyone who would dare eat it. The scene would be idyllic, if wasn’t unfolding right underneath the highway. Raised about 20 metres above their heads, there is a constant roar coming from it – intercepted only by the intermittent bursts of squibs, thrown by two children on the opposite bank.
I sit on a vacant bench to watch the square’s life for a bit, when I notice a five or six year old child swaying in a hammock. He catches my gaze and livens up. He starts laughing and swinging more and more wildly, throwing his head back. The top of it misses a protruding root by millimetres every time, and I seem to be the only one who’s bothered by the fact.
In order to show him that there is no need to impress me any more, I get up and walk away quickly. I feel like I’ve had enough of the “Venetian” experience. I catch a tuk tuk – a locally-designed motorised rickshaw, in order to get to Wat Saket, the Golden Mountain temple – the last point on my route.
In contrast to the well-hidden previous stops on my journey, this one is visible from afar – a giant grey hill with a blinding golden dome shining on top of it.
Bangkok is as flat as the bottom of a cooking pot and this elevation comes as a surprise. It was created when a giant chedi fell to the ground while it was being built. The remnants were covered with earth and a newer, smaller one was built on top. To make sure it wouldn’t crumble as well, a concrete wall was built around the hill after the Second World War. Now, it’s painted in grey oil paint and it looks quite… Thai, especially combined with the unnatural golden lustre of the dome on top.
The elegant chedi was built in the nineteenth century. It consists entirely of a labyrinth of white walls, but its centre houses a relic of Buddha (a gift from India under British rule). The small altar, where it is kept, is covered in a thick layer of gold, added on by worshippers over more than a century.
Wat Saket’s greatest advantage turns out to be the views from its terrace on top. In 1871, they impressed the American writer Frank Vincent, who described them in The Land of the White Elephant: “From the summit… may be obtained a very fine view of the city of Bangkok and its surroundings; though this is hardly a correct statement, for you see very few of the dwelling-houses of the city; here and there a wat, or pagoda, the river with its shipping, the palace of the King, and a waving sea of cocoa-nut and betel-nut palms, is about all that distinctly appears. The general appearance of Bangkok is that of a large, primitive village, situated in and mostly concealed by a virgin forest of almost impenetrable density.”
A hundred and thirty years later, Bangkok still seems as impenetrable, but this time from the density of the skyscraper developments. The areas that can be seen from the top of the Golden Mountain are the city’s oldest neighborhoods, and today they make up one thirtieth of the megapolis, which merged a long time ago with the nearby settlements and, through Samut Prakan, now reaches the Gulf of Thailand, located 30 kilometres from the centre of the city.
At the foot of the Golden Mountain flows the Khlong Saen Saeb, here renamed to Banglampu. It flows further to the west for about a kilometre before reaching and merging with the wider Chao Phraya. One can see clearly the brown water turning before heading south to the delta. More or less the same as the way Rio del Duca flows into Canale Grande. In the tour guides’ heads.
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