Natural Disasters by Elizabeth Geoghegan

Author:Elizabeth Geoghegan [Geoghegan, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: She Writes Press
Published: 2014-08-18T00:00:00+00:00

The length of the Khaosan was bathed in neon and pulsing and had more than a deep whiff of desperation about it. The short stretch of road was crowded with clubs and cafés, music blaring from each of the venues with competing riffs, but the same drum ’n’ bass thud all along the length of the strip. Vendors hocked surf shorts and bikinis, chopsticks and incense, or pushed carts laden with small propane tanks and woks slick with oil, surrounded by stacks of blue plastic colanders full of cilantro and hot red peppers. Small metal bowls brimming with colorful curry paste. Rows of dried squid, pressed flat and hanging from wires, looking like sad relatives of those cardboard air fresheners you see suspended from certain rearview mirrors.

As she walked, she came upon the omnipresent Holy Trinity repackaged and sold in tourist destinations the world over: Bob Marley, Jimi Hendrix, and Che Guevara. People never seemed to tire of purchasing and bearing their likenesses, she thought, and Bangkok was no exception. Passersby from every provenance were snapping up the T-shirts with an intensity that bordered on cultish devotion. But clearly the real crowd pleaser here was Buddha, dominating the scene in every size and shape imaginable.

Violet stepped inside what she thought was a clothing shop only to find still more Buddhas. Picking up a minuscule figurine, she admired the surprising weight of it in her hand. It was a scrawny rendition, roughly the height and size of a cigarette, and for all intents and purposes, this particular Buddha looked like he’d been fed a diet of tobacco and little else. Still, she was drawn to the statue. The figure stood with one arm at his side, the other arm bent at the elbow, palm facing out, his fingers stretching stiffly skyward. He reminded her of a miniature version of the Ken dolls she used to play with whose arms and wrists never flexed in a natural fashion.

The boy in the shop came over to her, pointing at the statue.

You no fear, he said. But it sounded like a question.

As a matter of fact, I do know fear, she told him.

She had to admit the truth: she was terrified. She had been terrified when she agreed to make this trip. She had been terrified when she packed, and terrified on the plane. And now, in the wake of the tsunami, she was terrified times ten.

No, he said. This Abhaya Mudra: make fear run away.

She looked at the Buddha with renewed interest. Violet had conflicting feelings about her Catholic upbringing, and she’d spent the better part of her time in Colorado kidding Jane about being one of those faux Buddhists who flocked to Boulder, first attending the School of Massage, then on to the Naropa Institute to study who knows what. It irritated her when friends from Jane’s meditation class would hover over their table at the Trident, dropping the words “Rinpoche” and “Shambala” into the conversation. It all felt so taped on.

Her

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