Man, Cart and Car Mingle in the Beautiful Chaos of Bangkok

BANGKOK It's 3:30 p.m. and Yommarat intersection is its usual frenzy of heat, smoke and mechanical din. Four avenues, three railway lines and two expressway ramps converge here, their myriad trains and vehicles menacing one another without letup, somehow never quite colliding.

It's a three-dimensional maze, topped by a concrete bridge that carries a lucky few motorists up and over the confusion, past an outsize red billboard that announces a sweepstakes by Tops Market, a local supermarket chain.

Vehicles rule this space, but pedestrians have by no means surrendered rights to it. At curbs, corners and traffic islands, a diverse collection of activity thrives on foot. This is a fundamental part of Bangkok life, blithe coexistence with the internal-combustion engine. Breathing exhaust fumes, shouting to be heard over the roar of diesel buses -- millions do it daily without a thought.

A few yards from the railroad tracks, Yanyong Suwan is selling shrimp, live and squirming, off the back of his Toyota pickup, as he does most afternoons. He's hauled them from outside the city to supply hawkers -- women who are gathered around him now, waiting their turns at scales he's put on the ground. The women will resell the shrimp to market shoppers.

"Some days we move 100 kilos, sometimes 120, 130 -- like that," says the 51-year-old man, who wears two Buddhist medallions around his neck. ". . . Any shrimp that are left over we sell ourselves direct to the shoppers."

Ding, ding, ding. It's 3:35 p.m. Orange lights flash. A train is coming. Red and white barrier poles descend to block the avenues, bringing on a few minutes of expectant near-calm. Engines idle, drivers relax, motorbikes methodically make their way to the head of the line. There, they gather in packs of five and 10 -- if the riders were atop horses, they'd look like members of posses set to go after Jesse James.

The train rolls through, seeming to take its time, passengers gazing distractedly from windows at the paralysis they've caused. Then the barriers rise, and it's time for a drag race. The motorbikes are first off, their tinny engines whining out their very limits. Taxis, cars and buses bring up the rear.

By the track is a two-story white tower from which the railroad barriers are controlled. A Thai flag flies from a balcony. A motorbike rolls up, ridden by a man in the brown uniform of the State Railways of Thailand. Here for a sort of changing of the guard, he disappears up a flight of stairs, relieving a man who comes down and rides off on his own motorbike.

Here and there around the intersection are improbable patches of foliage, nurtured by city workers. Chantana Seupsohn, 30, looking relaxed in shorts decorated with Disney characters, has claimed a bit of the shade under one of them. "It's hot in the house, so I came out to sit for a while," she explains. Traffic whizzes by a few feet away.

At 4:05 p.m., Thongbai Jaidee finds himself stranded in the middle of the main avenue with his pull wagon of fruit. He waits patiently for traffic to clear, then makes a break for it. Thongbai, 40, has bought fruit in one market for sale in another -- this is the direct route between the two.

Ding, ding, ding. Another train. The driver of a taxi risks damage to his roof by hitting the gas to pass under a descending barrier pole. As the train draws near, another man shows similar devil-may-care impatience. He guns his motorbike past the closed barrier and heads straight across the track. The train engine gives off a blast of its whistle.

Trains approaching from Hua Lampong, Bangkok's main rail station, either go straight here, to points north, or curve off to the right on an easterly route that passes immediately into a slum of wood and metal houses built just a few feet from the track.