Every morning, I was awakened at dawn by the ringing of bells summoning Muslims to prayer at a nearby mosque. A tiny old man on a rusty Schwinn used to ride throughout the neighborhood, calling out into the darkness, just in case anyone missed hearing the chimes. Walking down Soi 24, a twisting side street leading to one of Bangkok's main avenues, I would see the faithful leaving their shoes at the threshold before entering the mosque. Already, the streets were alive with vendors hawking T-shirts and students breakfasting on rice porridge at sidewalk food stalls. Miniature squid dried on open racks, warmed by the rising sun, while the pungent smell of fish sauce lingered in alleyways.
Pollution controls are haphazard and much of the city's sewage ends up in the canals.
But this does not deter the commuters dependent on the klong, not even the petite businesswomen in silk suits and spiked heels who would lunge from the rickety piers onto the passing boats with briefcase under one arm and purse slung over a shoulder. Wat Po, an enormous stone complex that resembled a walled city. From the canal pier, I could see the temple's gilded spires rising above the surrounding neighborhood, the patterned mosaics of the ancient skyline growing more detailed as I neared the front gate. I would pass through the main hall where the reclining Buddha was and immediately feel the noise and stress of the city leaving me. The soothing aroma of burning incense filled the room.