Travelers' Tales Thailand: True Stories (Travelers' Tales Guides)

by James O'Reilly

  After what seemed to be ten minutes of silence, I noticed the Abbot’s face beginning to twitch—just as it had done earlier in the day. Then he spoke, softly and haltingly in English with long pauses. I sensed that it was difficult for him to speak English. As he talked, I entered the following in my notebook.

  You should learn what the Buddha taught. Buddha taught that life is dukkha—suffering or unsatisfactoriness—caused by wanting, desire, craving, clinging, grasping. Birth, illness, old age, and death are dukkha.

  He taught that sukkha—happiness or lack of suffering—is the elimination of all desires, including the desire to cling to life itself.

  He taught anicca—impermanence—a constant decaying and changing that is common to all things. You, the moon, this desk, all things are changing constantly. Happiness does not come from liking or not liking things which are impermanent.

  To see all this, Buddha taught us to meditate—to clear our minds, to abandon the bad and develop the good. To do that we must purify and develop our minds. That can be done through meditation.

  For example—sound. Think what the mind is doing. Hear the boys playing outside. Think what the mind is doing; it’s hearing.

  We must develop mindfulness, sati. Sati is memory—opposite of forgetting; it is to be awake—opposite of sleep; it is to know, to comprehend—opposite of ignorance.

  The truth comes from one’s self. One’s self is the big book.

  When the Abbot looked in the direction of the monks, they responded in unison with a wai and bowed their heads until he looked away.

  There followed another long pause. Again it was as though he wasn’t in the room. His brown skin seemed warm against the subtle saffron of his robes—the man and his robes merged.

  Then he began again, so softly.

  We must develop mindfulness. To develop mindfulness, or sati, we must concentrate on air, our breathing, to get the feeling or knowing of sati. In this manner we should have memory—mindfulness.

  There are four places to fix the mind: 1) body 2) feeling 3) mind 4) phenomena. Use these to develop the mind, make it mindful.

  I wrote it all down, but I had little understanding. I was too shy to ask a question. After another lengthy silence, he spoke again and I recorded:Breathing—be aware of the air touching your nostrils as it passes in and out. For beginners, it helps to count. One for the in-breath and two on the out-breath. Or count one-in and one-out, then two-in and two-out. Count up to ten breaths and then begin counting again from one.

  Be mindful, but don’t force your mind. When it wanders gently bring it back to being mindful on your breathing. Be patient.

  Body—sit in a half-lotus position or with legs folded. Be certain to have a comfortable position. Use a cushion if necessary between the buttocks and heels in Japanese fashion. Keep your back straight. Fold your hands right over left with thumbs touching. Bend the body forward and sideways to make the body comfortable. If you can’t sit still for thirty minutes, it’s all right, but don’t disturb the others.

  Another period of silence followed before a bell rang somewhere and the two temple boys appeared. The Abbot motioned his hand to the upstairs and they disappeared. It was difficult to believe that an hour had passed since I had entered this small room.

  As the Abbot rose, the students waied to him as he left the room. This time, I waied, but felt uncomfortable because I was not certain just how to do it before this important monk or why. One farang girl, who spoke English, whispered, “We go upstairs now to meditate in the Abbot’s meditation room.”

  I tagged along. We dropped our shoes at the dark door and waited until a temple boy opened the screened door and motioned us to enter. Inside it was dull dark. Eventually a pinkness pushed away the dullness as the monks began to light candles and incense at the front of the room. I searched for the girl who had whispered to me, but before I could locate her, a young man handed me a pillow. “You might be more comfortable if you use this,” he whispered.

  “No,” I replied. “I don’t need it.”

  “Then sit on these little rugs,” he suggested, pulling one closer.

  I suddenly realized that everyone was kneeling on the rugs, I quickly got down on the floor. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something. All eyes were on the Abbot and the monks who were sitting in front of an altar in the front portion of the room. The room seemed to have two distinct sections; one for the religious and one for lay people.

  As those in the saffron robes began prostrating themselves three times before the Buddha image, the meditators joined in. I remained rigid in a kneeling position, watching. After prostration, everyone maneuvered himself into a lotus or half-lotus position. I kept my eyes on the girl in front of me—trying to duplicate her every movement.

  One temple boy entered and turned on an overhead fan of Somerset Maugham vintage, then plugged in a small electric fan, pointing it so that it blew directly on the lay meditators. As the first breeze passed over me, I was glad, for not only would this gentle breeze relieve some of the evening’s oppressive heat, but it might prevent most mosquitoes from sampling my blood.

  Mystic Thomas Merton spent 25 years as a Trappist monk in Kentucky before going to Thailand to study Buddhism. After a short time in Bangkok, he accidentally electrocuted himself with an electric fan.

  —JO’R and LH

  Prior to departing for the wat, not knowing that there would be fans in the wat, I had doused myself heavily with Sketolene, a powerful Asian mosquito repellent.

  Finally I maneuvered my legs and body into a tolerable half-lotus position. I was glad that my loose dress didn’t seem to touch my body anywhere. Its fullness gave me sufficient room to sit cross-legged in a modest fashion. I reminded myself always to wear something too big for me when I came here.

  At last I seemed ready to begin. Mind on my breath, I began bringing in large amounts of air. I could tell that my breathing was abnormal, but it was interesting to feel the air, cool and tingling rush along the hair follicles inside my nose. Now to be mindful—to concentrate on nothing but the air coming in and coming out. I started to count—one-in, one-out; two-in. Then my mind was gone. It skipped to the powerful smell of the mosquito repellent, then it jumped to wonder if there would be mosquitoes in my room tonight, and then flitted to review my afternoon meeting with the Abbot. I started to count again—and again—and again. But each time my mind escaped, to rapidly climb a mounting thought only to flit to another, or to touch on a past event, or to stop to rest momentarily on a really stupid, mundane episode like the taxi driver who overcharged me.

  This made me nervous. I could not hold my mind still for even a matter of seconds. Then I remembered the Abbot’s words of warning, “Don’t force it.” When your mind wanders, gently bring it back. Maybe I was trying too hard. If I could only relax. But I could not. It was such a new experience for me and for some reason I seemed to be very emotional about beginning this adventure.

  Finally I gave up the struggle and opened my eyes. I looked at my watch. About fifteen minutes had passed. The other meditators remained motionless in the dim light. The Abbot was no longer there, but the four younger monks were still meditating, immobile.

  As my eyes became accustomed to the soft light, I noticed beautiful Chinese-style porcelain bowls and plates displayed in ornate cabinets along the walls. I wondered about their origins. Monks were not supposed to own anything. Later I discovered that the faithful had donated them to the wat—a way to make merit, to do a good deed.

  Deep red and maroon colored rugs, with intricate designs, which the monks were sitting on, appeared to be Persian.

  I slowly moved my hand to touch the floor; it was cool, hard, and, made of teak. The candles sputtered dramatically in the man-made breeze sending erratic tongues of light over the silent monks and the image of a sitting Buddha atop the altar. No matter where the flickering light fell on the image’s face—whether the eyes, nose, or mouth, there was a sense of rest-fulness or tranquillity, or
was it peace?

  Smoldering incense defied the flopping fan to hang heavy in the air. It smelled good—or was it the jasmine flowers adorning the altar that piqued my senses?

  This room was becoming friendly.

  Ordination is not something that can be performed on a whim. Usually, the applicant is expected to memorize all of the Pali recitations to be used in the ceremony. To prepare, foreign applicants can study a copy of the English language Ordination Procedures (available at the Mahamakut Buddhist bookshop opposite Wat Bowonniwet in Bangkok or at the office of the World Fellowship of Buddhists). This book explains ordination in detail and gives both the Pali and the English for the necessary recitations.

  —Joe Cummings, The Meditation Temples of Thailand: A Guide

  After another twenty minutes, meditators began to stir—very slowly at first, maybe only the lifting of a head or the moving of an arm. Then they began shifting their sitting positions. I sat very still, pretending my eyes were closed, mainly because I did not know what was to happen next.

  The monks came to life slowly. One by one they prostrated themselves three times in front of the Buddha image. Soon the lay meditators did the same.

  Quietly, and without any pomp, the lay meditators arose and tiptoed out to the door to search in the dimness for their shoes. With their shoes on, they walked away silently into the darkness. No words had been spoken. I followed, but a bit more slowly. My right leg had fallen asleep.

  I limped out of the quietness of the wat compound into the noise of traffic and the din of a Chinese cloth market, and headed for my room, several blocks away. I wanted to think about the past two hours, but it was too noisy. Later, as I walked down my dimly lit lane, the sweet smells from the flower market oozed out into the tropical night air reminding me of the jasmine smell in the Abbot’s guti and I began to wonder if I would ever be able to hold my mind still past the count of two? I was doubtful.

  Besides, in the past I had always found it most exhilarating to allow my mind to roam wildly. Some of my best ideas came when my mind raced like the wind through and over myriads of recollections, images, and fantasies. Did I really want to change all this?

  As I walked the final dark yards to my room, I reflected on the evening. Suddenly, I realized that the whole class had been directed to me. The Abbot had obviously gone back to the beginning precepts of meditation—just for me, the newcomer. A rush of warm feeling for this man came over me. “I must try,” I whispered to myself as I unlocked the door. “I must practice his instructions again and again.”

  I sat down on the floor in the darkness of my room and began to try to be mindful of my breathing. I began counting—one-in, one-out; two-in. I began over and over—one-in, one-out; two-in—And thus it went for almost an hour, although I never legitimately went beyond two without my mind rebelling from the task at hand.

  Tired and disillusioned, I crawled into bed. Across the floor, moonlight, distorted by the heavy tropical vegetation, danced in fleeting images—as did my mind.

  Jane Hamilton-Merritt grew up on a dairy farm in the American midwest, flew as a bush pilot in East Africa, and was a war correspondent in Vietnam. She has published two books for young adults on the peoples and cultures of Southeast Asia, Boonmee and the Lucky White Elephant and Lahu Wildlife.

  The mind is like a monkey, say the Buddhists. It hops from place to place, restless and wild. We have no control over it. Our sensations, perceptions, memories, wills and thoughts chatter erratically in our heads. There is no peace. The aim of meditation is to learn first how to control the monkey mind, then to be free of it. This is not how the West views the mind. The scientific and artistic traditions of the human race are not erratic chatter to us. We exalt our minds. We raise our consciousness. Our sense of self is our most important possession.We cannot comprehend what the Buddha taught.…

  I sit on my porch and concentrate on the trembling sensation of breath in my nostrils.The ease of absorption begins to come at last. Hey, now I’m getting somewhere! This is meditation! Concepts spring into awareness, shattering the calm. One word, one thought leads to the next. The chattering left brain takes over like a bully. Yes, I’m finally meditating. Well, almost there for a second. Sure is hot now. When’s coffee break? Remember coffee break back on the rigs? Fudge brownies. Damn mosquitoes.

  —Tim Ward, What the Buddha Never Taught

  THALIA ZEPATOS

  In the Akha Village

  Living in an unfamiliar culture offers countless lessons about life. It can even change your diet.

  WE RODE THE BUS FROM CHIANG MAI THROUGH THE LUSH GREEN hills of northern Thailand into the heart of the Golden Triangle. A couple of hours after leaving town, the Dutch traveler sitting beside me waved the driver to stop at a wide place in the road. We got out beside a small thatched shelter.

  “Now what?”

  “We wait. ”

  “For what?”

  “A truck that may be going a few miles up toward the village. The road is muddy during monsoon season, so the truck will take us as far as it can go. We’ll walk the rest of the way up.”

  Short, dark people emerged from the shadows and joined us in the little shelter. Some of the women were dressed in Western trousers and t-shirts. Others wore homespun jackets and pants the blue-black color of indigo, trimmed with red and white appliquéed designs. Then a woman walked straight out of the pages of National Geographic. I tried not to stare at her magnificent headdress. Rising from her head like a conical tower, it was crafted from row upon row of silver coins and beads, red and white buttons. Tassels fashioned from dyed fur and feathers hung from its sides.

  Geert saw me watching the woman. “Wow,” I said in a low voice.

  “Just wait,” he responded.

  I’d met Geert on the tropical beach of Koh Samui, an island off the southern coast of Thailand. I’d told him that my traveling partner, Mary, would soon be leaving for other adventures and described my dream of traveling alone and visiting remote villages. He offered to take me to the hillside village of the Akha tribe where he’d spent the previous three months.

  Geert would help organize my stay in the village and remain available for advice and support the entire time I was there. He was enthusiastic about my goal—to make friends and live as independently as possible.

  Two men arrived in a small green pickup truck. They pointed uphill and motioned to the group that had gathered at the thatched bus stop. The Akhas piled into the back. I followed their lead, taking a seat on the open side, placing my pack between my feet on the truckbed. The pickup revved its motor and sprang up a dirt track into the hills.

  The truck careened from one edge of the muddy track to the other, swerving wildly as the tires bounced out of deep ruts and spewed mud into the air. Akhas and foreigners crisscrossed arms, holding on to each other to keep from getting bounced out. The rear wheel below me skidded off the road and hung for a breathless eternity in thin air; my gaze was sucked down the steep jungle ravine to the twisted wreckage of a Land Rover 100 feet below. Two silver teeth punctuated an Akha man’s smile once we regained solid ground. A red pom-pom atop his wool beret marked time as he sang a low tune.

  Truck wheels chewed deeply into mud until they could go no farther. I welcomed the chance to get my feet on the earth. The diminutive Akhas walked gingerly atop the crusted mud; my foot broke through on my first step and I sank to my ankle in the slippery goop. Everyone laughed.

  After an hour’ s climb, we reached the village, perched below the crest of a hill. We stopped at a sort of central square, a flattened piece of earth with benches on three sides. I circumspectly looked around. Three main streets radiated from the square, following the contours of the land. Bamboo houses stood neatly along wide avenues, each house built on a platform jutting out from the hillside with one end propped up on stilts. Children carried wood in baskets and water in large gourds; no one was idle. An Akha man who had come up with us spoke some English and would negotiate my stay with a villag
e family. Geert would remain as interpreter; even though he knew but a dozen words of Akha, it was twelve more than I knew. We walked together down one avenue and entered a fenced compound through a bamboo gate.

  I was introduced to Azo and Apu. Azo was the headman’s brother, and a respected elder of the tribe. About forty years old, he was lean and strong with a distinguished face. Looking into his calm eyes was like gazing down a well a century deep. Apu, his wife, sized me up with awe. She pantomimed an observation that she was half my height, then motioned me into the house with a high-pitched laugh, displaying her red, betel-nut-stained teeth and lips to full advantage.