Salon Wanderlust | The rabbis of Bangkok

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R E C E N T L Y
This week in travel
A new U.S. passport, a fictitious country in the South Pacific and a buyout of Reno Air
(11/20/98)
Body talk
By Dawn MacKeen
Sometimes what our gestures say is not what we mean. International business traveler Roger Axtell has learned that the hard way
(11/19/98)
On the road with the Smokejumpers: Part Three
By The King Teen
Sold out in San Diego, boffo in Bakersfield -- the band's odyssey ends on an up note
(11/18/98)
Orchid ice cream
By Eric Hansen
An aficionado journeys to Turkey to discover the birthplace of this aphrodisiac treat
(11/17/98)
Another Africa
By Chinua Achebe
Beyond the stereotypes and clichés, a photographer and writer journey into the heart of the continent
(11/15/98)

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THE RABBIS OF BANGKOK | PAGE 1, 2, 3
- - - - - - - - - -
"That's right," Yosi says. "We're the Tel Aviv Band. It's nice to finally meet you."
The rabbi's face is red from rushing, or maybe from being on the back of that motor scooter in the toxic, choking Bangkok traffic. "You made it," he puffs, in English that is half Brooklyn, half Tel Aviv. "Good. Here, take this."
He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a letter-size white envelope bulging with paper money. "Half is in Thai bahts," he says. "You could probably use some spending money?" He smiles, first at me, then at Yosi, then his cell phone rings again. "Ya?" he says into it before half-turning and lapsing into a long stream of Hebrew, the gist of which appears to be another problem.
It's always a problem, because of the Law of 2J/3O = P. If you have two Jews you will have three opinions, and when you have three opinions you have a problem. But how many Jews can there be in Bangkok? So far we have seen only two: Rabbi Karpas and Benny, the Hasidic teenager who picked us up at the airport. Apparently all the rest are Buddhists, Muslims, Hindus and Cath-a-licks.
And yet Rabbi Karpas answered us immediately when we sent a flyer to Jewish groups all over the Far East, using a list we got from the Israeli embassy in Los Angeles, announcing that our small band of two -- Yosi, the guitar player, and me, the piano player -- had just been hired to play for a Jewish wedding in Singapore, and would therefore be available to perform other places in the area as well. We thought we may hear from New Zealand or Australia, but never in our wildest imaginations did we expect a call from Thailand, even though Bangkok is less than two hours by air from Singapore.
Rabbi Karpas e-mailed us offering $1,000 if we'd play for his community, and sealed the deal just now by paying us, in advance, in cash. This is something that never happens. He doesn't even know who we are and he's paying us, in cash, on Tuesday, two days before the gig on Thursday? This says something wonderful to the most jaded musician.
There seem to be a ton of bahts in that envelope. A rhyme pops into my head about a famous American Buddhist:
Even Alan Watts
Couldn't spend all these bahts.

Now another Hasidic hat moves through the potted tropical trees and wainscoted walls. Under the hat is another rabbi, whose steps are lighter than Rabbi Karpas', as if he is taking the time to look around a bit as he moves. He sees us, smiles and addresses us in Hebrew. Yosi answers him. He says the same thing to me and I stare. "Oh, you don't speak Hebrew?" he says in Brooklynese English. I shake my head. "Sorry, no."
"No problem," he says. "I'm Rabbi Chrane. I am pleased to meet the Tel Aviv Band. You are ready?"
"Yep," we say, ready but not knowing what for. They've wanted to meet us when we arrived, and now, after 22 hours in the air and two plane changes, we're here. They're taking us to Chabad House, a restaurant and hostel that they operate somewhere in this vast and impenetrable city. Yosi and I will go in one taxi with Benny, while Rabbis Karpas and Chrane will travel on the motor scooter. The thought of two Hasidic rabbis on a motor scooter in Thailand gives me a quick smile, but I squelch it. I'm also aware that Yosi and I will now be carrying a lot of cash through the impoverished streets of Bangkok. Rabbi Karpas reads my mind. "Don't worry," he says. "This is not Los Angeles. It's safe here."
So it's settled, and for a brief moment we face each other in the lobby: two vaguely Jewish musicians from California in jeans and three Hasidic Jews in hats, two of them rabbis, all three extremely Orthodox followers of the late Lubavitcher Rebbe, a Russian rabbi whom many believed to be the Messiah himself until he died in Brooklyn a few years ago. Many still believe it is only a matter of hours or days until he rises and announces himself. I will be told several times in the next week about the Hasidic congregation in Melbourne who, when told of the Rebbe's death, dressed in their finest clothing and went to the synagogue to await the blowing open of the doors to the covenant of the Ark and the Lubavitcher Rebbe's stepping out into the New Millennium. The depth of love for and belief in this man cannot be overestimated.
Our Thailand Jewish moment is being shared with some interest by the pretty concierge, a half-dozen lavender-uniformed hotel clerks, two slight Thai chefs in very tall white hats from the buffet in front of whose entrance we are standing and a small gaggle of German tourists in brown shorts and black knee socks, seemingly the only other guests in this small hotel, whose absolutely blank stares and guttural German commentary as they observe the rabbis give me a hard shot to the stomach and a case of the willies. I look at Yosi and see he feels it too.
The moment is broken by the short staccato ring of Chrane's cell phone, and he turns and speaks into it in rapid-fire Hebrew, mixed with what sounds like pidgin Thai. Chrane is short, balding, with a long brown beard and eyes that are fixed in a permanent smile. I like him immediately. Karpas is more guarded, and I like him too, but Chrane is obviously the comic in this organization, to Karpas' straight man. Now Rabbi Karpas' cell phone rings again, and he too is engaged in another animated Hebrew conversation. The rabbis stand with their backs to one another, like two small neighboring islands, tossing vociferous Hebrew into a calm sea of Thai.
Yosi takes this opportunity to lower his head and ask the concierge: "Do you recognize what language the rabbis are speaking?"
"German?" she says.
"Oooh, wrong answer," Benny says, and then: "C'mon. Those two'll talk forever. We'll meet them at Chabad House, in Khao San." As Benny passes Rabbi Karpas, the rabbi lays two 100-baht notes for the taxi into Benny's hand. We walk out onto the street and Benny's nightmare is waiting for us.
N E X T+P A G E | "Maybe tonight you want see Live Sex Show?"


	T A B L E_T A L K Ever picked up and moved cross-country or overseas? Share your stories in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y This week in travel A new U.S. passport, a fictitious country in the South Pacific and a buyout of Reno Air (11/20/98) Body talk By Dawn MacKeen Sometimes what our gestures say is not what we mean. International business traveler Roger Axtell has learned that the hard way (11/19/98) On the road with the Smokejumpers: Part Three By The King Teen Sold out in San Diego, boffo in Bakersfield -- the band's odyssey ends on an up note (11/18/98) Orchid ice cream By Eric Hansen An aficionado journeys to Turkey to discover the birthplace of this aphrodisiac treat (11/17/98) Another Africa By Chinua Achebe Beyond the stereotypes and clichés, a photographer and writer journey into the heart of the continent (11/15/98) Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner S A L O N E M P O R I U M FREE! 12-ounce bag of Salon Blend with a purchase of $30 or more. While supplies last.		THE RABBIS OF BANGKOK \| PAGE 1, 2, 3 - - - - - - - - - - "That's right," Yosi says. "We're the Tel Aviv Band. It's nice to finally meet you." The rabbi's face is red from rushing, or maybe from being on the back of that motor scooter in the toxic, choking Bangkok traffic. "You made it," he puffs, in English that is half Brooklyn, half Tel Aviv. "Good. Here, take this." He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a letter-size white envelope bulging with paper money. "Half is in Thai bahts," he says. "You could probably use some spending money?" He smiles, first at me, then at Yosi, then his cell phone rings again. "Ya?" he says into it before half-turning and lapsing into a long stream of Hebrew, the gist of which appears to be another problem. It's always a problem, because of the Law of 2J/3O = P. If you have two Jews you will have three opinions, and when you have three opinions you have a problem. But how many Jews can there be in Bangkok? So far we have seen only two: Rabbi Karpas and Benny, the Hasidic teenager who picked us up at the airport. Apparently all the rest are Buddhists, Muslims, Hindus and Cath-a-licks. And yet Rabbi Karpas answered us immediately when we sent a flyer to Jewish groups all over the Far East, using a list we got from the Israeli embassy in Los Angeles, announcing that our small band of two -- Yosi, the guitar player, and me, the piano player -- had just been hired to play for a Jewish wedding in Singapore, and would therefore be available to perform other places in the area as well. We thought we may hear from New Zealand or Australia, but never in our wildest imaginations did we expect a call from Thailand, even though Bangkok is less than two hours by air from Singapore. Rabbi Karpas e-mailed us offering $1,000 if we'd play for his community, and sealed the deal just now by paying us, in advance, in cash. This is something that never happens. He doesn't even know who we are and he's paying us, in cash, on Tuesday, two days before the gig on Thursday? This says something wonderful to the most jaded musician. There seem to be a ton of bahts in that envelope. A rhyme pops into my head about a famous American Buddhist: Even Alan Watts Couldn't spend all these bahts. Now another Hasidic hat moves through the potted tropical trees and wainscoted walls. Under the hat is another rabbi, whose steps are lighter than Rabbi Karpas', as if he is taking the time to look around a bit as he moves. He sees us, smiles and addresses us in Hebrew. Yosi answers him. He says the same thing to me and I stare. "Oh, you don't speak Hebrew?" he says in Brooklynese English. I shake my head. "Sorry, no." "No problem," he says. "I'm Rabbi Chrane. I am pleased to meet the Tel Aviv Band. You are ready?" "Yep," we say, ready but not knowing what for. They've wanted to meet us when we arrived, and now, after 22 hours in the air and two plane changes, we're here. They're taking us to Chabad House, a restaurant and hostel that they operate somewhere in this vast and impenetrable city. Yosi and I will go in one taxi with Benny, while Rabbis Karpas and Chrane will travel on the motor scooter. The thought of two Hasidic rabbis on a motor scooter in Thailand gives me a quick smile, but I squelch it. I'm also aware that Yosi and I will now be carrying a lot of cash through the impoverished streets of Bangkok. Rabbi Karpas reads my mind. "Don't worry," he says. "This is not Los Angeles. It's safe here." So it's settled, and for a brief moment we face each other in the lobby: two vaguely Jewish musicians from California in jeans and three Hasidic Jews in hats, two of them rabbis, all three extremely Orthodox followers of the late Lubavitcher Rebbe, a Russian rabbi whom many believed to be the Messiah himself until he died in Brooklyn a few years ago. Many still believe it is only a matter of hours or days until he rises and announces himself. I will be told several times in the next week about the Hasidic congregation in Melbourne who, when told of the Rebbe's death, dressed in their finest clothing and went to the synagogue to await the blowing open of the doors to the covenant of the Ark and the Lubavitcher Rebbe's stepping out into the New Millennium. The depth of love for and belief in this man cannot be overestimated. Our Thailand Jewish moment is being shared with some interest by the pretty concierge, a half-dozen lavender-uniformed hotel clerks, two slight Thai chefs in very tall white hats from the buffet in front of whose entrance we are standing and a small gaggle of German tourists in brown shorts and black knee socks, seemingly the only other guests in this small hotel, whose absolutely blank stares and guttural German commentary as they observe the rabbis give me a hard shot to the stomach and a case of the willies. I look at Yosi and see he feels it too. The moment is broken by the short staccato ring of Chrane's cell phone, and he turns and speaks into it in rapid-fire Hebrew, mixed with what sounds like pidgin Thai. Chrane is short, balding, with a long brown beard and eyes that are fixed in a permanent smile. I like him immediately. Karpas is more guarded, and I like him too, but Chrane is obviously the comic in this organization, to Karpas' straight man. Now Rabbi Karpas' cell phone rings again, and he too is engaged in another animated Hebrew conversation. The rabbis stand with their backs to one another, like two small neighboring islands, tossing vociferous Hebrew into a calm sea of Thai. Yosi takes this opportunity to lower his head and ask the concierge: "Do you recognize what language the rabbis are speaking?" "German?" she says. "Oooh, wrong answer," Benny says, and then: "C'mon. Those two'll talk forever. We'll meet them at Chabad House, in Khao San." As Benny passes Rabbi Karpas, the rabbi lays two 100-baht notes for the taxi into Benny's hand. We walk out onto the street and Benny's nightmare is waiting for us. N E X T+P A G E \| "Maybe tonight you want see Live Sex Show?"