The Bow Cannot Always Be Relaxed: The Third Journey (Part 18)

John Wittenberg gives a number of personal reflections on his journey through Thailand, which were previously published in the short story collection 'The bow can't always be relaxed' (2007). What started for John as a flight away from pain and sorrow has grown into a search for meaning. Buddhism turned out to be a passable path. His stories appear regularly on Thailandblog.

The Little Palace

After finally getting my Chinese visa after a long wait, I have become hungry due to the long test I have to undergo in trying the Asian angelic patience. Is it arrogant of me to think that they should actually roll out the red carpet for this tourist because I'm pumping thousands of euros into the economy? Anyway, I have the visa now and I'm leaving for China in a few days. Looking for lunch now. The streets here are lined with stalls selling everything your heart desires. Freshly squeezed oranges (smaller than mandarins, somewhat greenish and cloyingly sweet). I can clock back a liter and have vitamins for a week. And also delicious fresh pineapple.

Deep fried delicacies galore, small pancakes and freshly grilled fish. Some noodles in an iron sieve, fresh vegetables, some herbs, a minute in a large boiling pan and you have a delicious meal. I always keep a close eye on them to make sure they don't flash clotted blood, because that's a bit too much of a good thing. And all this baking and roasting is done in the street, from which the fumes fly.

When I walk down the street from a late night adventure (more on that another time), I see all the stalls covered up, bored with doing nothing and eager with impatience to soon burst into full activity again. But there is always a stall open in the street for the hungry night owls. Put some chairs and tables on the street, a container with boiling water, some ingredients on a cart and you have your own restaurant. No idea how the permits work here, but probably not like the narrow-minded rules in Holland.

I usually look for a stall that has a few tables inside to relax. You choose from different pans some dishes with fantastic sauces, some rice, you grab some cutlery and with your plastic plate you sit down at a shaky table. You pour lukewarm non-tap water from a jug into an iron mug filled with ice and it is immediately cool. The portrait of the king is never far away, sometimes only in a calendar sheet and with his serious look he constantly looks at you. There is usually a small dollhouse for the ghosts in the house. Be good to them, because once they're out of their temper, the turnips are done and they're going to ghost.

With glasses of lemonade and a plate of food you seem to put them in a good mood. If you don't have a house, you put a meal, some lemonade and an incense stick at the foot of the tree next to your stall. It is a persistent non-Buddhist superstition, but fully incorporated; a noodle figurine can easily go next to it. Compare it with the Germanic Christmas tree in the church.

Meals are usually prepared next to your table. Vegetables are cut, picked, meat chopped into pieces and a large washing-up tub is ready and the whole family participates. Sometimes I give treats to the children who are just playing along. Pets roam freely everywhere and make a happy impression. Everyone is kind to animals here, Buddhism has a great respect for all living things. That it is not just a theory is shown by the simple fact that the dogs here are not frightened, but look at you with a wonderfully pleading, sometimes naturally sad look. So different from the stray dogs in southern European countries, not to mention the Islamic countries where dogs are kicked out as unclean.

The toilet is always a great adventure in these restaurants. After you open a barely closing door, creaking at the seams, you usually discover an immense brick container with a liter or a thousand water and a toilet bowl with a non-working flushing mechanism. I even wonder
whether it ever worked. You take a jug of water to rinse everything and to wipe your buttocks, because toilet paper is rarely available. The floor is therefore extremely slippery. Although everything looks reasonably clean, I prefer not to eat off the floor. A flower in a corner represents the feminine element of the Thai. For a pee it's all no problem and I suppose women are more resourceful than me. For the big work I choose a nice hotel and with my white, bold step I am recognizable as a five-star hotel guest.

It has always amazed me that I can eat everything here without getting sick. The Thai are known for their excellent personal hygiene. That will be different in China, I am told. The only time I've gotten sick turned out to be a food allergy from an otherwise delicious fish soup in an expensive establishment. So I enjoy my meals in simple Thai restaurants, a little party every time. I look forward to everything that happens. The joy of following an industrious line of ants up the wall in search of food teaches you that the small details of your journey can be just as big a part of the fun. That makes this restaurant a little palace for me.

A gay soldier and a buxom stewardess

A group of soldiers, in spotless white uniform with glittering insignia, march at a goose pace past the king's palace. Passing a changing guard, the rear one drops out and marches towards the tired soldier. The rest continues. The changing of the guard, as everywhere in the world, is accompanied by tourist folklore. In Russia in tight docile ranks, in England with perfect flowing precision, in Holland pacifist without too much fuss and in Italy with bombastic ceremonial.

Each country portrays its stereotypical character to the outside world in its alternation of the guard for the royal palace or not. Most men here in Thailand walk around swaying their hips, even outspokenly gay by Dutch standards. Waiting for a bus stop with the hand on the side, the legs slightly folded, a bright bag with a small teddy bear gently clasped in the hand with stretched fingers. A nice smile completes the picture of a sweet gay man.

If I had to play an old cousin in a movie as an actor, I would do it like this! If I were a sergeant, I would visibly struggle to turn these Thai soldiers into real men, let alone cannon fodder. They do not march messily, immaturely and indifferently like the Dutch, but elegantly put their graceful feet forward and make a funny sideways movement with their outstretched hands. Once face to face at the relief, the soldiers smile at each other, jerk their rifles, straighten the medals and slide the gold braid back into place. And with almost voluptuous dance steps they change places.

It is clear that you cannot win a war with these soldiers. And that does my peace-loving heart good. No macho behavior here, so that the strongest get the most beautiful women. And that does my gentle nature good. No serious and gloomy looking people here. And that does my Roman heart good. No rude stumbling and badly dressed people here. And that does my vain heart good.

I am writing this little story on the SriLanka Airways plane, on my way to Beijing. All Sri Lankan flight attendants are - to my horror - round-bellied. Even in the promotional video. They stagger down the aisle and without any hesitation they leave the lobes of fat around their waists uncovered as the highest temptation.

I have never drunk such delicious tea on an airplane, handed over by sturdy Dutch full-figured arms. The flight attendants in every country have to laugh, even when three engines have failed and the plane is in a downward motion. They do not differ in that. But I have never experienced as voluminous as that of SriLanka. They serve the meal with browned apple cheeks and I suspect they gobble up the excess snacks themselves.

Assuming globally that the selection of flight attendants is representative of the national beauty ideal, I postpone my visit to SriLanka for a while. In the meantime I just rogue in the warm interest of the Thai.

The Thai woman also wants a real man sometimes, I think in my overconfidence. And my Dutch plump and coarse macho behavior is well received here. Without having to change much about myself, I play that role with verve. And it leaves me wonderfully delusional that I am far behind the Thai gay male competition.

Half a bowl of soup

First foot on Chinese soil. In Beijing now. The sky is gray and the temperature a pleasant twenty degrees. At first I was surprised that the trees were covered with a gray veil, but the taxi windows had not been washed for months, fortunately.

Booked a good hotel again via the internet. It is important that you find a hotel in the center, northeast of the forbidden city, because the distances are enormous. The territory is almost as large as Belgium, with more than twenty million inhabitants.

For fifty euros a nice room, a decent price for Asian standards, but I don't feel like skimping and sitting in a taxi for a long time. After a lovely bath, explored the area around the hotel for an ATM, internet shop, laundry and restaurant. Because I never use the hotel's restaurant, which is usually mediocre in quality, expensive and, above all, very uncomfortable.

I discover a nice dining tent, glass plates on the table, lots of red lanterns, two lions on guard and a menu without pictures. I point to some dishes on adjacent tables and a bottle of beer and for a few euros I see food appearing on the table for an entire orphanage in a matter of seconds. After a deep sigh, just start eating.

It's still a lot of juggling to eat with chopsticks. The sticks must always be equal, otherwise it will bring bad luck. And even with the courage of desperation when you can't get the food stuck between the sticks: never stick the sticks in the food! This is really tempting the evil spirits to cause hell and damnation. Just grab it with your hands. Scoop some of all the plates on the table into a small bowl. Shorten the distance and therefore increase the chance of keeping everything on your stick by holding the bowl just under your chin. And shove it inside.

Napkins are for kids. The Chinese make a lot of noise while eating and rattle that it's a delight. Without any embarrassment they look at you with a generously filled open mouth and make you part of their first round of digestion. They taste like they're at a wine tasting. And strictly speaking they are right, because you taste better it seems. The staff yell at each other like fog horns. Rumbling noises reverberate from the toilet all the time.

It takes some getting used to, but it has the advantage that no one is surprised when I try to gulp down a bowl of soup and lift the pieces of meat with chopsticks, which - before reaching the harbor - splash back into my mouth with a big splash. fall back soup.

The Chinese beer tastes like nectar, four percent alcohol and even fermented with some rice. It is as expensive as water, so the choice is quickly made. Except for the rice, all dishes are different from our Chinese.

After peeing in an echo of gurgling colleagues, I leave this place with a soup-stained shirt over a round tummy. In my wake I spot the obliging Chinese who cleans my glass plate from half a bowl of soup with an extremely messy cloth.

To be continued….