Ayuthya

This is not a story it’s an excerpt from my diaries written a couple of decades ago. Last year I revisited Ayuthya and was dismayed to see that the modern town of Ayuthya has engulfed the ancient city ruins, which is lamentable, and to the shame of modern Thailand.

I was not sorry to leave Bangkok. After six days in the Banglamphu traveller’s district you feel that you have had enough. I travelled to Ayuthya by public bus service which I caught a short walk from Kao San Road. Later I reach the
Northern Bus Station and transferred to an Air conditioned bus service. I sat back and felt the relief as my over heated body cooled down. It had been 40 degrees centigrade on the local public bus. I just sat and fried whilst my perspiration threatened
to form a puddle on the floor. The Thai passengers were visibly amused. However, I found their plight funny to. Many of them had covered their face and no doubt other parts of their bodies with prickly heat powder which gave them faces like clowns
all white save for the brown of their eye sockets.

I arrived at Ayuthya around 2.30 in the afternoon. I’d trudged through the streets looking for lodgings. It was hot. Very hot! It was a relentless sweltering heat that bounces right off the pavement into your face. At last I found
the Thong family. This humble Chinese family offered a room with a bed for 120 Baht (five dollars) per night. The room was basic, eight foot square, one window with a dirty sheet nailed over it, a bedstead fashioned from scrap wood upon which
there was a straw mattress covered with a clean white sheet. The cement floor bore the stains of many before me. A frayed twisted cable hung from the ceiling sporting a lamp which gave off a pale yellow light. There was no catch on the battered
door which had once been painted. Some faded patches of green hinting at its original colour. Outside there was a cement patio though which a deep trough passed. The patio boasted two standpipes, a tap on each. The whole ensemble made up the bathroom,
laundry and kitchen sink. Above the patio someone had stretched several strands of string, presumably to hang washing on. Beyond this multipurpose ablution arrangement there was a shed with two half stable doors behind which there was a hole in
the floor to receive unwanted body waste.

Later I smiled to myself as I knelt on the patio cement washing my smalls like a coolie. I soaked the clothing at one of the taps, rubbed my block of soap all over and then bashed them about a bit on the side of the trough before rinsing
them under the tap and hanging them on one of the many strands of string. Satisfied with my labour I went to the front of the building. There, raised above the road, was a wooden platform which was furnished with six tables and perhaps a dozen
or so chairs. At the back of the platform was a rusty coke machine. Its mechanism had long since seized up. The key was in the lock and a hand written notice in pidgin English, invited visitors to help themselves and enter what they had taken
in ‘The Book’. It was dark now and the mosquitoes were up and biting furiously. I rummaged in my backpack and withdrew some fragments of mosquito smoke coil. I carefully lit the largest piece and placed underneath one of the rickety
chairs upon which I sat with some relief. Now, secure in my territory I looked around waiting for another guest to appear. I’d not long to wait, A young American man teetered onto the platform and fell into a chair beside me. We started
to chat and I soon discovered that his outward appearance told no lie; indeed he was a real ‘Cheech & Chong’ type. He told me in a thick southern accent that he was American and that his name was Joseph. He couldn’t remember
how long he’d lived in Thailand. As he drawled away my lids became heavy with boredom and an ever pressing need to sleep. That’s when Mike arrived on the scene. Mike was English. Well mannered and well spoken. That is, he was until
the tubes of beer got the better of him. I did discover that his full name was Mike Heffer, or at least that was the name he was using then. It dawned on me that these two were not strangers to one another. I said nothing about this insight. Now
that I’d seen these guys getting beer from the antique coke machine I knew where the book was. As I withdrew a coke from the machine a tall blonde women appeared and sat at a vacant table. Soon she was joined by an equally tall blond man.
I walked over to the stable door counter and wrote carefully 7.50pm, David, One can of coke. I turned and decided that I would sit at the table with the new arrivals. As it turned out they were Post graduate Norwegian Doctors. The woman told me
that her name was Turid and that she and her husband were on a budget holiday exploring Thailand. She told me that her hobby was anthropology and that she had spent many months in the North of Norway studying the native tribes that follow a nomadic
life there. She was surprised to hear that I was aware of the ‘Sami’ tribe’s people and their constant struggle to protect their customs and language. This has been particularly difficult in modern times due to the Norwegian
government insisting that all Norwegian children be schooled in the Norwegian language. The ‘Sami’ are related to the Laplanders and subsist by herding reindeer. These strange and isolated people speak a tongue that is derived from
Finno-Ugric. Ugric is very similar to Hungarian. Today the Norwegian government recognises their culture and their right to raise their children in the Sami traditions. We talked into the night and only paused when Joseph fell off his chair and
was helped away to his room by Mike. She chatted on with great enthusiasm, though her husband only interceded occasionally with some reluctance. I related my experiences in the Canadian Arctic with the Inuit people. How the Inuit hate to be called
Eskimos and how jealously they protect their ancient lands, language and customs. At last we had to end the discussion and retire. I was saddened because this was the first intelligent conversation that I’d had since I arrived in Thailand.
During the long conversation with Turid and as I listened intently my eyes were fixed on the dusty road leading up to our guest house. She appeared from nowhere. Right out of the setting sun. I shuddered as she negotiated the pack of feral dogs
that had pursued me when I’d passed by a few hours earlier. She was young, tall and slim. Her long red hair fell about her shoulders. As she drew near I could see that her back pack was very heavy yet she did not bend under its weight.
Her long green dress reached to her ankles and as it swung with her stride I could see her walking boots were caked with mud. She climbed the steps straight up onto the platform where we sat her green eyes flashing a weak smile when Mr. Thong,
the owner appeared to take her reservation. She spoke with an Irish lilt, dancing through her enquires of Mr Thong as though she were dating a graduate. Her face was blushed with exposure and her lips a little cracked. She was no more than twenty-five,
perhaps younger. Now that she was closer I could see that the long green dress clung to her perspiring body and that the shoulder straps of her backpack were biting cruelly into her shoulders. I saw Mr Thong nodding gently as she handed him the
paltry sum that it costs to stay in such humble establishments. With that she disappeared into the building her sylph like form barely disturbing the air as she brushed by. What is her story I wondered? I was enchanted by the mystery of her arrival.
I relished the thought of asking her on the ‘morrow.

I went to my room and removed my boots trying hard not to break anymore of my blisters. It was no good my feet were a mess, there’d be no walking tomorrow. I deployed the mossy net over my bed having difficulty completing this simple
task before I fell asleep. When I woke the sun was already high. It was late. I washed at the trough and went to breakfast on the balcony. In the distance I could see the mysterious woman walking away with determined stride. Now I’d never
know her secret, I mused to myself. The soup was barely warm and the rice cold. I ate it anyway. At least the tea was hot, though it could be much improved with the addition of milk. As I ate I considered my dilemma. There were three objectives
that I’d planned to fulfil before moving down the Thai peninsula. I wanted to see the ruins of the ancient city of Ayuthya, which would be easy because they are nearby. I wanted to visit Chiang Mai and I wanted to visit Kanchanaburi to
see the bridge over the river Kwai. The problem was that Chiang Mai and Kanchanaburi are in opposite directions from Ayuthya. Due to my delay in Bangkok time was now a problem. I flipped a coin and decided that Chiang Mai would have to wait for
the future. Satisfied that with the trip to the North out of the schedule I could now catch up I planned my departure for Kanchanaburi and set about a tour of the Ayuthya ruins. I finished my hot sweet tea a pondered how to get round five square
miles of ruins with my blistered feet. Mike appeared and suggested that I rent a bicycle. Apparently Mr Thong had a couple of bikes that he rented out. I claimed my two wheeled steed and set off toward the ruins. The ruid city was just less than
one kilometre from the town limits. When I reached my quarry the immensity of the ancient ruined city of Ayuthya took my breath away. Ancient relics in every stage of decline everywhere; into the distance I could see many Prah standing tall above
the lesser buildings and Buddha images. No officials or busybodies to interfere with my exploration, no fences, no entrance fee, nothing at all to interfere with my enjoyment of this the greatest archaeological site that I have ever seen. Amazingly
there were no people around. I was alone. I imagined the throngs of residents that wandered these streets more than a millennium before. What did I feel? Privileged, enormously privileged to see this ‘eighth wonder of the world’
and to have it all to myself. I spent the entire day bicycling around and marvelling at the skill and ingenuity of the original builders. I could not understand why this marvel was not’ A World Heritage Site’ Or why major restoration
work was not in progress, I just couldn’t understand. If it hadn’t been for the ‘Lonely Planet Guide’ I would not have known of the existence of this wonderful place.

Stickman's thoughts:

Brings back memories of being a budget traveller.