Lizards and Dragons and Angels, Oh my!

Currently, I am watching an NUS student pop, lock, jam and break (yes, that is a High School Musical reference) to the flavorful "beats" of a nearby dj, part of the "entertainment component" during the university's Open Day for prospective students. As this boy publicly gyrates without shame at 3 pm on a Saturday, I am also re-reading a few articles from my new favorite magazine, Meditation & Health, one which I 'borrowed' from a massage parlour during my time in Bangkok.

"Follow your dreams," says meditation guru and evident life coach, Master JinBodhi. This Master, full of sagely wisdom as such, shares his secret to success: "No matter what happened, I never stopped perservering and believing in my dreams." Brilliant! If only I'd lived by the Master's words all along -- maybe I would have been a graduate of Hampden-Sydney by now afterall! (Sadly, from the ages of 9-12, I told people I planned on attending this all male college in the future, unaware that the student body was strictly boys. I imagine this produced the same reaction as when Martha Blair claimed she intended to be the first female member of the NFL).

In truth, it's pretty difficult to remain sardonic, as Master JinBodhi is something of a Buddhist Oprah, and his magazine springs forth with otherworldly genius in every article. The merits of meditation are woven throughout various studies, attributed not to specific institutions nor respected individuals but rather, nouns like "Science" or "The Internet." Quotes across its pages read like this:

"When we cry, we are actually leaking the vapor produced from tiny steamboats floating in our brain fluid. These steamboats are carting our thoughts, which take the form of microscopic smurfs, from the frontal lobe to the cerebral hemisphere." - The Internet

^ That, of course, was a slight misquote, but the effect is the same.

Master JinBodhi answers questions such as "How to Walk Out of a Quandary? and "How to Lead a Purposeful Life" with every generic response imaginable, accompanied each time by a photo of him shot blissfully in an icy tundra, smiling in a garden, or embracing the sunset on a serene mountain. My personal favorite is the photo below, followed by the question, "How can I achieve happiness?"

"Teach your mind not to worry, and start each day with a smile," says the master.

Cue standing ovation.

Here, the Master's beaming face precedes the best article of them all, one titled "Can Water Be Affected by Our Words?" This article, much to my shock and amusement, claims that water, literal water, has feelings.

When words and phrases such as 'thank you', 'grateful', . . . and 'food prepared by Mum' were pasted on glass bottles filled with water samples, with the words or images facing inwards, the resultant water crystals were not only well formed, but were distinctly beautiful! . . . Conversely, negative words such as 'bastard', 'you're no good', 'disgusting', 'unfortunately' . . . or [exposure to] heavy metal music produced water crystals which looked dejected and listless.

Dejected and listless? How does water look dejected? Or listless? Thoughts churning in my head, I read on.

The study then purported that a "scientific" experiment proves that strawberries wilt and rot as a result of "negativity", or, to be precise, children yelling at them. In said study, Dr. Emoto (a newaged Einstein, it seems), instructed a group of youths to "be mean" to a group of strawberries sitting on a bench, shouting degrading things as a part of the 'hate experiment'. The result? A batch of rotten strawberries, of course! The "worsened" fruit was found as such after three days on the bench in the hot sun, but hey, what does a detail like that matter when "Science" is involved?

The woman massaging my knees (which was also odd) probably thought I was experiencing a bout of insanity as I snorted and laughed throughout Meditation & Health, but it couldn't be helped. The advice, the studies, the "facts" provided were all so outlandish, so absurd, I couldn't help but appreciate Master JinBodhi for his misplaced sense of self-importance.

You might be thinking, "Why is she blabbering on about this stupid magazine?" Or, "well I don't find Dr. Emoto's fruit claims to be completely ridiculous . . ." or even, "Damn, Master JinBodhi's lookin' good . . ." To these, I respond: a) Keep reading; b) I hope to stumble upon you cooing to your fruit one day in attempts to keep it ripe. "You've gone 'bananas'!" I'll say with glee; and c) Agreed, eager reader. The gauchos really offer an extra 'air of mystery', don't they? (My friend Meg just said, "But how does he plan on 'Walking out of a Quandary' in those pants?" Well said, Meg. Well said).

I share the knowledge of Master Jinbodhi with you as an example -- a current incarnation, really -- of the type of story telling I encountered in my most recent trip to Thailand. I was in Bangkok for one week with my Thai Drawing and Painting class, spending ample hours touring various Buddhist temples, drawing in said temples, and of course, identifying the "stories" that are so central to the murals. These stories, on a larger scale, are also central to the culture of Thailand, as Buddhism is the primary religion and the 10 Lives of the Buddha are key to understanding his ultimate enlightenment.

And much like Dr. Emoto's assertions that strawberries feel emotion, Buddhist legends have a similar air of *absurdity*.

[For those with a justified expectation that I will include pictures to break up the prattling, here are a few of my favorite mural scenes before I carry on:]

From Wat Sampasiw in Suphanburi province, the featured "magician" looks just evil-crossed-with-grandmother-ly enough to capture my heart. I hope one day to pull off a head of curls with as much grace as this cross-wielding Dr. Faustus. The temple depicted was really vibrant, the product of one artist's work (finished 8 years later). He also included paintings of Ben 10, Angry Birds, and Doraeman cats hidden in strategic locations across the walls.

I don't know what drew me to this sinister looking man with either a bald spot or hole in his head. Perhaps it was his resemblance to the boxtrolls? Or Varys of Game of Thrones? He seems to be full of secrets, regardless. (Taken from Wat Kok Kaew Sutharam, of Phetchaburi province).

^ This guy is striking the same pose as one of my favorite moments in Zach Galafinakis's career, a few mere seconds in his farm rendition of "Can't Tell Me Nothing" by Kanye West. See here for the video. (Above right for comparison). Taken in Wat Bangyikan, just outside of Bangkok.

These photos are just small pieces, fractions from entire walls filled with scenes of Thai monks and laypeople and cows and kings all interacting with one another -- and the Buddha -- to tell the history of the one man who achieved what all Buddhists attempt, nirvana.

And while these stories are fascinating and very purposefully told, like I said, they tend to err on the side of the ... bizarre.

As the trip was mainly focused on Thai/Buddhist temple art, we spent most of our days (as a class of 38) busing to and from various temple sites, viewing and learning about th

e painting styles of different eras under different Ramas and other influences. Some days we just observed, and some days we actually drew. During one, we even got to visit a Thai drawing school, where we learned the "tricks of the trade" (and what very specific tricks they are. The man on the right was drawing a Thai head with both hands simultaneously, and the symmetry was nearly perfect). However, regardless of our agenda, rarely did a busride pass when our transit-induced slumbers weren't interrupted with announcements like this:

(My professor): "CLAAAAASS!"

*Heads roll as people attempt to inhale their drool or re-focus their glassy eyes on the vehement Thai man standing before them.*

Professor: "WHAT is the name of the Lizard King that was pushed over the balcony by his wife, and how many evil brothers did he have?!"

Me: ". . . uhm . . . (to my friend, Rags) what are the details of this story again?"

Professor: "Does your silence imply that you don't KNOW?" *Slaps hands together* "C'monnnn this is the Lizard King! Everyone knows this story! Unless you are soo stupid or something!" (How I love the Thai tendency for subtlety).

Rags: "I think it's the story where the King's wife fell in love with the man with no arms or legs who was floating down the river one day? She put his torso in a basket and then attempted to kill the king by pushing him over the balcony? But he landed on a giant lizard instead of the ground? And then forced the wife to marry the torso in the basket while he ruled the kingdom happily forever... and then there were some evil brothers in there somewhere. Like 6 of them. I think."

Do you see what I mean? These tales, abundant with sorcerers and water queens with hair that soaks up floods, monkey gangs and dragon angels -- they are fascinating, but they are also undeniably, plainly just odd. Similar to my questions after reading the water/fruit piece in Master Jinbodhi's magazine (God bless him), after hearing these legends, I was consistently left wondering and puzzling over who came up with them. And why. How did they decide on dragon angels and lizard kings? And what, above all, were they smoking?! They remind me of my own dreams, only these folk tales are taken seriously.

(Sidenote: Two nights ago, I literally dreamt that Darth Vader was trying to steal an Indian baby that was in my possession. I had to hide it in the wall of a hotel while my nemesis wheezed through his black mask until I rode away on a horse drawn escape-carriage).

Now, bear in mind that I am not ignorant. I know most myths are concieved as analogies, admonishing or advising fables meant to resist the tests of time. But something about Thai myths feels surreal: discordant details are connected and accepted with a shrug, almost as if the concept of a king's life being saved by a giant lizard standing just beneath his death tower is the most natural notion in the world. This surrealism, the dream-like quality to the stories of Buddhism, well, I would say it not only applies to the temples. It applies to Bangkok as a whole.

Singapore, despite all of its splendor, is completely intentional in every aspect. The buildings, the culture, the vernacular -- they're all linear. The city is clean. It quietly advertises its own sterility in every which direction, even in the more "chaotic" areas like Little India. All of the pollution and gritiness and back-alley characteristics that one would expect of a big city are suppressed here, muted into invisibility. Bangkok, on the other hand, is like an implosion of Singapore's smothered bedlam. The dirt and grime and genuine shadiness erupt from the city-scape, and Bangkok seems to own them with pride. You may be exiting a glamorous spot like the Sky Bar (pictured below), awash in penthouse allure and buzzing from silky cocktails only to have a rat run over your foot on the ground floor as 6 taxi drivers shout "PING PONG SHOW?!?" at you with greedy urgency.

Ping Pong shows. Those I'll expand on in a bit.

Bangkok may be chaotic, but it is also undeniably cool. While our days consisted of art, art, and more art, our nights were free-for-alls, in which we as a class were left to our own devices in the wild of the capital.

During a few of the nights, we ventured to Khao San road, the popular backpacking district with shops, food, live music, and beer. We went to the previously mentioned Sky Bar, the same location from which Mr. Chow gets helicoptered off the roof in "The Hangover II." You could see the golden dome of the bar from my hotel, which was conveniently River Front and offered great views. We got massages, went to a traditional Thai dance production (full of lewd jokes in Thai that none of us understood), ate curry, watched sunsets . . . the list continues. While all very fun and amusing, the Bangkok of movies, of heresay -- that was yet to come.

Like I said before, the city wears its unruly nature with pride. However, it flies another flag with perhaps even more pride, a flag bedecked in flashing neon, loud music, and of course, red lights. Like that subliminal scene in the Lion King, I felt like "Sex" was written in stars above the city, raunchiness flown at full mast regardless of the circumstances. (And yes, the inuendo there is intentional). Which brings me to the Ping Pong shows.

Though cringe worthy and definitely misogynistic, I don't think I could have left Bangkok without visiting the red light district at least once, and of course, seeing one of these legendary "shows." On the eve in question, we were approached by a man who promised to take us to "a good one" (which, let me tell you, is ridiculously dishonest regardless of which 'one' you're being taken to). Our group of 5 was swiftly whisked to a seedy, dimly lit location where we were told to pay $15 each (a high price for Thailand). Then, we were escorted into an even seedier basement, where music full of bass vibrated from the floors. As we sat, the show began. The crowd was gathered around one stage, and for the next hour or so, we were meant to "enjoy" the entertainment. "Enjoyment", I would say, is a far cry from my reactions during these 60 minutes. If you're unsure what I mean by all of this, I'll send you here, and if you want to hear more details from me, I will happily divulge upon personal request. However, my grandmother reads this, so for her sake, I will remain elusive in my description. Let's just say I went from grotesquely impressed to mildly disgusted to absolutely appalled, and I now have a few mental images that no amount of hypnosis could ever erase. I think the rest of the audience felt the same, for as the lights rose at the end of the show, everyone looked like they had just been forced to eat Spam while watching Honey Boo Boo's mother give birth. Also, they just looked sad:

It made me sad, too, but much like my sentiments after seeing the Karen Longneck Village (which I wrote of in my last post), I don't see these shows being terminated any time soon. The money flow is too strong and popular interest too piqued. Tourism has a very destructive side, and the more I travel, the more impossible it is to ignore this reality. I'll elaborate on all of these thoughts in my next post about my trip to Vietnam. (Wonderful!, you're probably thinking. I can't wait to read more of her novel opinions! Trust me, I know that most of my assertions are far from original. I just can't write about my semester here without acknowleding some of the darker truths to "ex-patriotism." I do not apologize.)

On the second of the two Nights of Debauchery, we went to "Soi Cowboy," one of the more famous Red Light districts of Bangkok. I didn't take any pictures because I am still sans phone and lugging a camera there felt a bit much, so the best I can offer is the photograph below.

As you would imagine, the street was lined with Thai women, waving coyly at male pedestrians while batting their eye lashes and wearing next to nothing. It was the sort of place that required a complete shut down of one's mental faculties, otherwise it would just reopen the pit of despair brought on by the Ping Pong Show. I had to shove my inner feminist into a neglected, stone cold corner of my brain, where she was forced to consort with the likes of Calculus and Hand-Eye Coordination. A grim evening for her, I imagine. Anyway, Soi Cowboy certainly saw no shortage of cringe-worthy old men, and in general, the scene provided very obvious evidence of the easiness with which the underground sex trade persists across Asia and the world.

After a brief look-around, we ventured into a Lady Boy bar, and for about the 5th time this month, my jaw dropped into the molten core of the earth; on occasion, you could genuinely tell that the strippers were *genetically* male (as they wore, ahem, two pairs of shorts), but in general, I have never been more pursuaded of someone's false identity in my entire life. It was as if they had all swallowed Polyjuice potion, morphing from boys into contestants from Miss Thailand with very convincing curves. (I suppose Estrogen pills would be the muggle equivalent, really). They were not modest, either. The ladyboys danced on an elevated platform, as expected, but the bar also had mirrors lined across every wall, so the dancers could stare at themselves as they swished their luxurious hair and pursed their lips. It was comical, surprising and somewhat upsetting. I have never felt less personally feminine in my entire life. (That said, I also own crocs and two separate masks with beards, so I'm not working with much to begin with. And yes, Sam and Robbie, I am also thinking of the denim-suit picture in front of your American Flag. ugh.) The three of us (above) might as well have been cans of powdered milk sitting at our table; the eyes of the club owners swept over us with marked disinterest, and had one of us keeled over and died whilst sitting there, we probably would have had to pay 200 Baht to get any help. By comparison, every time a man walked in, it looked like flies drawn to the light, with a ratio of 8 ladyboys to 1 male customer quickly established. The entire experience of Soi Cowboy was undoubtedly my closest encounter with the prostitution industry, and I think I've had enough to last me quite a long time. We spent the rest of the night playing pool with some girls from my art class, so it ended up being really fun, but not before a whole lot of peculiar sex-posure (ha!).

Regardless of the moderately traumatic ping pong show, I truly loved the week. My classmates were great, the art was beautiful, and the city was . . . an experience. I learned a lot of information I never imagined even existed, and whats more, I think that information may become relevant to my life. Should you ask, I could tell you with full confidence that the Lizard King did, in fact, have 6 evil step-brothers. Then I would lie and tell you why they have anything to do with the story. Today, I swear I even saw a tear trickle down my banana's face when I wrinkled my nose at its bruise. Master Jinbodhi does know everything, afterall!

In conclusion, here's a picture of a "door guardian" holding an iPad. Apple products have not only saturated the global market -- they've even taken over Buddhism!

Thank you all (or thank you few) for reading once again. Pretty soon, I'll release The Sweaty-Palmed Tales of a Penniless Idiot [Part III]. If you think the last few stories have been bad, hold on to your britches! My most recent trip to Vietnam tops them all, leaving (to say the least), a devastating deficit in my bank account and a haughty little question mark in the place where I used to store "intelligence". On the plus side, my head's a whole lot lighter now! Woooooo!