1


The Farang
Wants to Go to a Wat

I TOLD NIMALO, the Australian novice, that they ate deep-fried cockroaches on the bus. I expected him to laugh. “Beetles, not cockroaches,” he told me in all seriousness. Of course. Silly of me. Certainly beetles would be a much tastier snack.

I rode all day. It was dark when the bus neared the city of Ubon Rajathani, less than fifty kilometres from the Laos border. Then I started asking other passengers where to get off for Bung Wai village. The Thais blinked at me, smiled politely and let me babble as if it was for my own entertainment. Finally the driver got it into his head that I wanted off. He stopped the coach and let me out into the night. It was raining. I found a local bus stop nearby.

“This stop for Bung Wai bus?” I said to a young Thai soldier in uniform. He grinned at me.

“Bung Wai bus?” I said to a man wearing glasses and a wristwatch. He shrugged his shoulders, smiled shyly and looked away.

A farmer’s wife controlling two whining children glanced at me nervously. I kept quiet. A bus came. Everybody climbed on board. I put one foot on the steps.

“Bung Wai bus?” I said to the driver. He looked at the ticket girl, a short woman who wore the regulation blue skirt and fat legs. She gave a helpless little smile.

“Bung Wai bus Bung Wai village,” I explained.

She looked wordlessly at the driver. He revved the engine, and looked down the highway. I stood my ground, not getting on, not getting off.

“Bung Wai. Bung Wai!”

The driver gestured impatiently, beckoning me to board. I knew he hadn’t understood. I gave in. Shaking the rain from my rucksack, I sat down next to the most-likely-to-be-educated person on the bus, a student wearing a white shirt with three ballpoint pens in his breast pocket.

“This bus go Bung Wai?” I tried again.

The student looked back at me, polite but puzzled.

I unzipped the outer pocket of my pack and pulled out a small white book. Finding the name I was looking for, I pronounced it several times in various tones, hoping I’d hit a combination understandable to his Thai ears.

“Pah Nanachat. Pah Nanachat. Me go Wat Pah Nanachat, Bung Wai bloody village.”

The young man’s smile turned a bit wary at my insistence. I flipped through the pages, hoping for a picture of Ajahn Chah, but it was in the other book, four hundred kilometres away in Bangkok. I drew my legs up and folded them under me, then placed my hands together in my lap, straightened my spine and closed my eyes meaningfully for a few seconds. I opened them again and looked piercingly at the student. He scratched his head. But the soldier called over to him, and mimicked my posture. The student grinned openly and nodded his head. Everyone on the bus looked relieved. The farang wants to go to a wat.

The bus, however, had reached Ubon Rajathani by this time. My hazy sense of direction told me I would have to backtrack to reach Bung Wai. The student got down with me in the city. Apparently he knew what I wanted, but not where to find it. He seemed determined to help. He was tall for a Thai, almost my height, but skinny and younger than I first had thought: fifteen perhaps. My new guide stopped a group of soldiers on the street. One of them seemed to know the place for which a foreigner like me would be looking. He smiled and spoke in broken English.

“You go farang wat? Wat Pah Pong, Wat Pah Pong.”

“I go Wat Pah Nanachat, Wat Pah Nanachat. Ajahn Chah.”

“Ajahn Chah, Ajahn Chah. Wat Pah Pong. Wat Poh Pong,” he corrected me.

“I see. Why not? Wat Pah Pong then.”

Everybody seemed happy about this decision. The soldiers hailed a tuk-tuk for the student and me. Wat Pah Pong was also mentioned in Ajahn Chah’s books so I assumed somebody there would at least be able to speak English. In Bangkok, one can be lazy. English will get you by. Out here in the northeast you might as well speak Portuguese.

The tuk-tuk driver said he would take us to Pah Pong monastery for thirty baht. The three wheeler drove us east through the rest of the city then out along a muddy dirt road into the jungle. In twenty minutes we arrived at a set of great iron gates. They were locked tight. The student found a small side door in the high concrete wall which was open. It was a black night and still raining. I pulled my flashlight from the bottom of my pack and went through the small entrance with the student clutching my arm. Beyond the wall we found a huge hole in the road about twenty metres wide. My light was reflected by puddles on the bottom. We could see that the sides were smooth, like an excavation pit.

“I guess Pah Pong isn’t here right now,” I said to my guide. He pulled me back through the gate. Outside, our driver was talking with the proprietor of a small noodle shop near the wall. His chairs were all piled up for the night on top of rickety wooden tables. A kerosene lamp flickered. He shook his head as we joined the driver. He pointed to the road leading west from the gates. “Pah Nanachat.” I heard him say.

“Yes, Pah Nanachat!” I nodded furiously. Our driver took new directions and the three of us crawled back into his tuk-tuk. He stuck a dipstick into his petrol tank and muttered something quietly. Then he started the engine. We roared along the slippery new trail until it opened onto a different highway. There the driver hesitated. The student argued with him over which way to turn. Finally we turned right, back towards the city. But the student harangued the driver until he turned around and headed in the opposite direction. When we neared the lights of a small roadside village, the driver stopped and left his seat to get help in a nearby house. He returned, giving us a confident thumbs up signal. Half an hour later we were completely lost. The engine began to sputter in the rain. The driver seemed ready to mutiny, let me off on the highway and go home. He and the student argued loudly. A wooden signpost loomed in our headlight. It was written in Thai and English: ‘Wat Pah Nanachat. Bung Wai International Forest Monastery.’ Together we made gleeful noises. The tuk-tuk followed the turn off. It was only a mud and gravel track. We were soon surrounded by jungle. A footpath appeared through the rain. The tuk-tuk slithered sideways in the open muddy space next to it. The driver left his engine running.

I gave him what he asked, one hundred baht for the job, and thanked them both. I prayed they would have enough petrol to get back to town safely. My student waved at me as the machine swung around. After watching the little light disappear down the road, I clicked on my flashlight, shone it into the dense, wet trail and wondered what comes out at night when the rains flood the earth. Pack slung over one arm, I walked into the black jungle.

I expected a nerve-steeling walk of several kilometres before reaching the forest retreat. It irritated me when the grey outlines of buildings emerged after only five minutes. Ahead I saw lights. The path widened and the tree cover thinned as I reached a large barn-like building. A side doorway was open. It was a temple. At the front was an altar like a stage, dominated by two large brass Buddhas. Smaller brass figures knelt in worship on either side. Lesser images in front of the main idols glittered by the light of two candles. In front of the altar, five rows of red mats had been set out. In the back row sat a young man dressed in white. His head had been shaven. He sat in typical Thai meditation posture, legs crossed with the left foot resting on the right calf. His hands were folded in his lap, eyes closed, still as the Buddha images. He took no notice of me. He was Caucasian.

I bowed three times to the statues, as Tan Sumana Tissa had shown me, touching my forehead to the ground three times from a kneeling position. I took a seat in the third row and folded up my legs, just to try the place out. To the left of the altar stood a glass case containing a complete human skeleton.

I repeated my bows, stood, and left the temple in search of an office. No one was expecting me. In the rain again, I noticed that light was coming from a window at the back of the temple. There was a door. I heard voices inside so I knocked. It opened. A white-skinned man wearing white robes blinked into the dark at me through steel-rimmed spectacles.

“Do you speak English?” I asked.

“I suppose so,” he said humourlessly.

“I’m sorry I’ve come so late,” I stammered. “I took a day bus. The tuk-tuk got lost in the rain. I just arrived.”

“Yes,” he said. He turned to an adolescent Thai boy wearing ochre robes seated next to a tape recorder on the floor of the room, and spoke to him in Thai.

“I will take you to the Ajahn,” said the man, turning back to me.

I followed his white robes across the clearing, into the jungle again. They seemed luminous in the night. The rain had stopped but water dripped everywhere from the dense cover overhead. We came to a small wooden house raised high off the ground by stilts.

“Sawadi krup,” said my new guide, as we walked up towards the dark building.

A dark figure appeared at the railing above. A voice spoke down to us in Thai. When the reason for the interruption so late at night was explained, the figure descended the wide wooden staircase. I shone my flashlight on him and was surprised to see he was another Westerner. The man was tall and thin, perhaps forty years old—but with no hair. He had a ski jump nose. His eyes seemed blue beneath his pink scalp.

“Thank you, Michael,” the Ajahn said. The man in white raised his palms together in front of his face in a wai, the Thai gesture of respect. He turned, and walked back through the jungle like a ghost.

“We can sit down here,” said the Ajahn. He wore the ochre robes typical of Theravada Buddhist monks, a muddy yellow-brown, but his accent was Australian. We sat on the marble surface of the foundation beneath his quarters, he on a low platform, me kneeling in front of him.

I explained briefly that a monk in Bangkok had given me two of Ajahn Chah’s books on meditation and had recommended Wat Pah Nanachat as the best place in Thailand for foreigners to learn how to put the Buddha’s teachings into practice. I said I wanted to stay for three months or so.

The head monk nodded. “I’ve been expecting you. For now you can sleep in the guest room above the kitchen. Once you get to know your way around, you may shave your head. That’s the sign you wish to stay for some time and practise. We will give you a kuti to live in once you have been shaven. You may think it is strange that we attach so much importance to shaving the hair, but people are attached to their hair. Here we teach how to overcome our attachments. This is the way to end suffering. You start with the hair. There’s no hurry though. When you are ready. There’s a lot to learn when you first get here. I won’t say much now. It’s late and you will forget.

“You will hear the bell at three in the morning. Everyone is expected to be in the sala—that’s the main temple—by three thirty for morning chanting and group meditation. The meal is at eight. We eat only once a day. Some people find this difficult to adjust to at first. It’s easy to be attached to old habits. Now, I’ll get some blankets and show you where you will sleep.”

“By the way,” I said, “my name is Tim. I’m a Canadian.”

“Fine. Before you get up you may as well learn it’s customary to bow three times whenever you come into the presence of an Ajahn and whenever an interview is over.”

I did my bows.

“Tomorrow we’ll talk about proper ways of bowing and sitting,” he said.

The room above the kitchen was huge, with a high roof and many windows. I opened them all for the cool. The whole building was made of wood. The floorboards held a dark glow. Painted on one wall was a familiar—but out of place— Tibetan Wheel of Samsara. In the centre of the wheel, a pig, a rooster and a snake chased each other in a circle. They represented ignorance, desire and hatred, the three causes of suffering which bind all beings to the endless cycle of existence. All living beings are continually reborn in the six realms which were shown as radiating outward from the centre circle of the wheel. In each realm there was suffering. The hell beings suffered physical torment; the hungry ghosts of the spirit realm, with their thin throats and huge bellies, were incapable of gratifying their cravings of thirst and hunger. In the animal realm, beasts suffered from fear and ignorance. Amongst the various activities of the human realm, there was poverty, cruelty and pain. The Titan-like asuras, envying the gods, devoted themselves to perpetual war with heaven. But even the gods in the deva-realm of bliss, suffered. All beings will die and take rebirth according to Buddhist doctrine. When gods die, they fall again into the lower worlds. They suffer the fear of death. The entire wheel, the realms of god and hell being alike, was clasped in the yellow teeth and claws of a red-eyed demon. This was the first Buddhist truth: life is suffering. Yet Buddha was also depicted in each realm of the wheel, preaching his message of release.

A bell rang in the dark. The clear tone reverberated through the jungle. I sat up on the floor to listen, to clear the sleep from my head and remember what it was. Three o’clock.

The air outside was cool. I joined the other dark figures coming out of the jungle, moving towards the sala. Inside I sat in the back row with four other men, all dressed in white clothing. The row ahead of us seated three people wearing white robes. One of them was Michael. Ahead of them sat the monks and novices wearing ochre, about twelve of them altogether. The community was smaller than I had imagined, which pleased me. We sat in silence for an hour. A few monks stood up and walked to the rear of the sala where they paced back and forth. I had never seen walking meditation practised before. I closed my eyes and searched for the point of concentration, for the light sensation of air moving through my nostrils, rushing against my upper lip. Here I would learn vipassana meditation, the meditation which begins with simple awareness of natural body sensation, the feel of feet on the ground, of inbreathing and outbreathing, returning the mind to that which sustains it, establishing it there, free of the illusions and fantasies which crowd our everyday lives.

Images whirled behind my closed eyes, though I tried to concentrate. Fresh yellow pineapple wedges eaten on the bus. Sugar cane juice sticking to my fingers. Hair like black raw silk falling down the back of the Tourism Information Officer. Her Thai smile. Phra Sumana Tissa in Bangkok, tickling me when I tried to bow to him. Rambutan, all red and hairy on the outside, sweet and white inside, a most exotic fruit. What could be more disgusting than fried cockroaches, served up in a sterile plastic bag?

A small gong sounded from the front of the sala. The walking figures returned to their seats. Everybody knelt in formal posture, buttocks resting on heels, back straight and palms pressed together at the chin in the wai position. The Ajahn crawled forward on his knees towards a photograph in front of the Buddha statues. He lit a candle on either side of it. In the dim light I could see it was a picture of an old Thai monk. A special mat had been set in front of the picture. Anyone who was seated on it would naturally be facing the monks, not the Buddhas. It was the teacher’s seat for Ajahn Chah. Only his photograph faced us.

The gong rang again. The Ajahn’s voice rose in a strong deep monotone chant, “YO SO,” vowels drawn out, vibrating through the quiet dark hall. The monks, novices and white ones joined their voices to his in praise of the Buddha. “BHAGAVAN ARAHAT SAMASAMBUDDHO. . .” They chanted in Pali, the language of Theravada Buddhist texts, reputed to contain the original words and teachings of Gautama Buddha. Pali was once the common language of northern India where Gautama Siddhartha Buddha lived. In Thailand, Pali is a mystical religious language, chanted by all devotees but understood only by a small minority of educated monks. It filled the sala, creating a rhythm out of long and short sounds. There was some intonation in the nasal hum of it, but it remained free of song, free of the swell of emotion. A severe, a solemn, a detached offering to the silent brass images before us.

Then it was dawn. Outside light leaked into the sala. We sat in silence until the bell rang again. Three times we bowed to the altar. Three times we bowed to the photograph of our absent teacher, Ajahn Chah. In silence the monks and others stood. They rolled the mats and returned them to a shelf at the rear of the hall. We all took small grass brooms from a large wicker basket and swept the floor clean, gathering dust and dead moths together with hundreds of tiny black ants caught while foraging for food. All was brushed into a pile then swept into a dustpan and shaken out of the door. Not a word was spoken, not a sign from anyone that a new face had joined them in the night.

The monks began readying themselves for alms round, cleaning their bowls and wrapping themselves in their outer robes. Although I knew this was an international wat and had expected farang monks, I was surprised to see that only three of them were Thai. I had not noticed this in the dark. In the light the white and pink heads, the tall, ungainly forms and the blue eyes were a shock to see, shrouded in the Thai traditional ochre robes.

I left the sala and went in search of a small open area in the jungle. Finding a suitable spot, I removed my sandals and began to pace, eyes cast down a metre in front of me, head bent, body moving slowly and deliberately, mind concentrating on every sensation of muscle movement. I had never tried walking meditation before. I felt as if I were going to fall over.

A black creature, about eight centimetres long, crawled slowly across my path. My eyes bulged. I knelt to watch. It had claws like a scorpion and the same black arthropod body. But instead of a scorpion’s arced tail, a thin translucent needle like a hypodermic jutted out from the rear of its abdomen, horizontal to the ground. The needle glistened as the creature crawled off the path, and back into the dry leaves. It moved as if it too were practising walking meditation this morning. Straightening, I resumed my pace, more fully aware of the ground in front of my feet.

In the morning light I could see that the wat was beautiful, surrounded by jungle. Between the sala and the kitchen a dozen paths crisscrossed through leaf-carpeted wild patches. Trees almost canopied the sky. Jungle is different from forest as we think of it in the West. Green creepers twined everything together, wrapped themselves up tree trunks, clung from one branch to another. They connected and strangled at the same time. Ferns and palms shot up between broad-leaved deciduous trees. I could recognize only a few varieties. Mangoes. Teak. Nothing from home. Where the pathways were swept the smooth sand was reddish brown.

The kitchen was alive with activity when I returned to the guest room. Actually, my room was above two storage rooms and a large concrete floor space which had water jugs and a few charcoal stoves to serve as a kitchen. Several Thai villagers were busy cooking food, peeling vegetables, washing great white serving basins, chattering and enjoying themselves. In addition to whatever the monks would bring home from alms round, we were served food made for us by whoever showed up in the morning to cook. Traditionally, monks only eat what they collect by begging, but I supposed the extra food was put to good use by foreign visitors. Better than a monk having to carry two bowls. Our breakfast looked as if it was going to be a feast. One must fill up, I thought, with only one meal a day.

I wandered back into the empty sala and noticed a blackboard on the back wall. The daily schedule was written out in English.

3:00	—	Rise
3:30	—	Morning chanting, daily reflection and meditation
5:00	—	Clean sala
Dawn	—	Alms round
8:00	—	Meal
2:30	—	Drink
3:00	—	Chores

Lots of time, it appeared, to sit and watch the body breathe. Or walk back and forth among the scorpions.

A little before eight I went into the kitchen and helped the villagers carry white bowls full of food into the sala. The monks and novices were seated on a low platform against the wall along the far side of the temple. They formed a single line which was continued by the ones in white robes and those in plain white clothing. But the ones in white sat on the floor in front of the platform, not up with the monks and novices. The Ajahn beckoned me, and told me briefly to remain in the sala with the villagers until the monks had begun to eat. Then I could leave and eat in the kitchen with those who had brought the morning food offering. He told me once I had shaved my head and put on the white clothing, I would become a “layman” and be permitted to eat on the floor of the sala.

I watched the monks pass the food along the line, ladling out the contents into their black enamel bowls. Everything they collected on alms round went to the kitchen in white basins. At mealtime they were brought back out and passed around for everyone. There were about twenty dishes, mostly Thai-style curries and fresh tropical fruits. After the monks and others had filled their bowls, the Ajahn led them in a short chant of blessing. The Ajahn began to eat first, using a soup spoon and a knife. After him, the second monk began, and so on down the line, each one waiting until the one seated to his right had begun. Following the villagers’ example, I carried the white serving bowls back to the kitchen. I was hungry after watching all the food go by. I had had no supper the night of my arrival and knew there would be no lunch or dinner. Not for a long time.

One of the village women crouched, setting a huge bowl full of food in front of me on the floor of the kitchen. I had been travelling in Asia for over a year, so the sight of so much food triggered an automatic response to shovel it all in before someone could take it away. I dug in with a little tin spoon.

“Hi, this must be the kitchen, right?” said an American voice above me. Instinctively, I grabbed my bowl, then looked up over my shoulder into a lean and grinning face that matched the voice. It belonged to a tall young male who sat down crosslegged next to me.

“I was told to get something to eat in the kitchen. My name’s Jim; what’s yours?”

“Tim, Jim.”

A Thai villager set a load of food in front of the newcomer and gave him a spoon. Jim dropped a little blue student’s day pack from his back and attacked the food with a meditative enthusiasm equal to my own. It was irritating to have him here. I had lost my unique sheen. Not that anyone had noticed me. But now there were two new guests: a Tim and a Jim. That would make for trouble, I thought. We looked too much alike. Our accents were similar, our hairstyles, features and glasses the same. From the annoying way Jim’s first few words grated on my ears, I concluded that our voices must also sound very much alike.

But the intrusion couldn’t spoil the meal. The food was excellent. The variety of fruit amazed me. I had been given bananas, oranges, pineapple slices, grapes, a mango and a handful of ripe jackfruit segments. There were also small red-skinned rambutans, papaya, lichee fruits and mangosteens, with their purple rind and sweet white flesh. A large pale yellow thing stuck to the side of my bowl like a giant slug. It smelt of sweet creamy garbage. The infamous durian— delectable to all Thais, repulsive to anyone else. I left it alone.

Jim spoke to the villagers in Thai. They came over and sat with him, delighted that this new farang could speak their incomprehensible language. He explained to me he had been studying Thai history, culture and religion for the past year at Chiang Mai University in northwestern Thailand. This was his sophomore year abroad.

After breakfast I took Jim to the Ajahn’s place. The Australian monk seated himself on a cushion on the marble patio beneath his elevated teak hut. In full daylight the ochre robes looked even more out of place on his gaunt and pink frame. He was well over six feet tall but years of living on a monk’s diet had emaciated him. His bald head would have appeared skeletal if not for his nose which stuck out like a beak. He looked at Jim with pale blue eyes and spoke in a halting voice.

“You must be the American. I was a little confused. I thought you had arrived last night.”

“You got my letter then sir?” said Jim.

The Ajahn nodded. “I thought Tim was you at first.”

“Well, he’s not, but I am. As I said in my letter, I’d like to stay for about three months and be ordained as a pakhao.”

“And you?” The monk turned his pale gaze on me.

“I don’t really know much about the place. I said last night I wanted to stay about three months, but it could be two or five. I’m in no rush. What’s a pakhao?”

“They wear robes like a monk, only white. You met Michael last night, didn’t you? Actually, it’s a fairly new development in Thai tradition to ordain men as pakhaos. It used to be only women who became pakhaos since in Thailand there is no longer an order of nuns. Usually Thai men go straight into the monkhood, unless they are very young, even if they are only staying for a few months. Of course because they have grown up with Buddhism it’s quite easy for them to become proper monks. For Westerners who are not familiar with the tradition it’s more suitable for them to be ordained as pakhaos. It allows them to become accustomed to the discipline and practice without the pressures of monkhood. Then when they are ready they can become novices. Eventually they take the vows of a bhikkhu—that’s the Pali term for a monk. Of course, you don’t have to decide this right now.”

“What’s the difference between a pakhao and a novice?” I asked.

“The only real difference is that a pakhao keeps The Eight Precepts and a novice keeps The Ten Precepts. A Westerner usually remains a pakhao for several months before considering being ordained as a novice.”

“Why not just be ordained as a novice and take two more precepts?” I asked.

“It’s a difference in how others will look at you,” said the Ajahn. “A novice is seen by the Thais and the sangha as someone in training for the monkhood. A pakhao is a lay person adopting the basic, temporary vows.”

“Right. Then I want to be a pakhao too,” I said.

“First you both will have to pass some days as guests in the monastery, just to learn the rules,” said the monk. “We are a community here and so we have to have certain rules set down telling us how to live with each other. If we didn’t have rules, we wouldn’t have harmony. The rules we follow are the same ones the Buddha laid down in the Vinaya over twenty five hundred years ago. It’s not just a set of arbitrary rules; it’s an ancient tradition you will be following. The monks follow two hundred and twenty seven training precepts. You should recognize that everything the monks do is laid down as a rule. As much as possible you should adopt the same behaviour. At the present time, I’ll just go through the five precepts laymen and guests must follow and the additional three you will take if you become pakhaos.

“The first precept is to refrain from killing. Most of us are pretty good at not killing other human beings and large animals but you should avoid killing even insects. You may find that hard, especially with the mosquitoes and ants around here. A monk isn’t even supposed to cut plants or dig in the earth, according to the Vinaya. But this is something you, as non-monks, may be required to do.

“The second precept is to refrain from taking what is not given. This is more than just not stealing. If something is the communal property of the wat, you should still ask for it before you use it. Sometimes people take things without thinking or are careless with a limited resource. This can cause disharmony even if they don’t realize they are doing it. So don’t take what is not given.

“The third precept is to refrain from incorrect speech. Lying is only one of the four kinds of incorrect speech. You should also avoid slander, harsh words and frivolous chatter. As you watch the monks, you will notice how calm and silent they are as they go about their daily duties. At least that’s how they’re supposed to be. They do not bother each other with idle words.

“The fourth precept is to abstain from all erotic behaviour. For this reason the women’s section is kept at a distance from the rest of the wat. The real temptation many men face when they come here is masturbation. You are not supposed to do it. Once you have been ordained, if you break this precept you must come and confess it to the senior monk. It’s worse if you are a bhikkhu. Then a meeting of the sangha is required and penance must be handed down. The guilty monk has to sit at the end of the food line. For seven days no one can do anything for him. It’s really embarrassing. I remember one fairly senior monk had a serious problem with this. Whenever the villagers came in to bring us food in the morning, they would see him sitting at the bottom of the line and laugh. It’s a tough penance, but shame is a good incentive to develop will power. Some men get worried about pressure building up if there is no release. But there is a natural release through wet dreams. Since you can’t help having them, they are not an offence. However, if you wake up in the middle of one, you should not actively encourage it to continue. No rubbing or body movements. That’s forbidden.

“The fifth precept is to refrain from taking alcohol or drugs that lead to heedlessness. This has seldom been a problem at Pah Nanachat, even though we include smoking in the list of forbidden drugs. I suppose if an addicted smoker came here I would permit him or her to smoke outside the monastery grounds. But alcohol is definitely not allowed. Actually, there is one small loophole I’ve been indulging in during the last two years, and that’s chewing tobacco . . .”

“But Ajahn, I’ve seen monks all over Asia chew betel nut,” I said.

“And in Thailand a lot of bhikkhus do smoke,” Jim added.

“But the point is to stick to the rules as they are laid down, even if interpretations vary in different places. Chewing tobacco is not forbidden here. Smoking is.

“Now, the sixth precept is to refrain from taking food at improper times. That means any time after noon and before dawn. Here we take this to mean one meal a day, which we have in the morning. You may be surprised that we sometimes take chocolates or candies with our afternoon drink. The definition of food in the Vinaya is not what it is in the West. Sugar, honey and chocolate are actually hardened liquids, not solids. We are permitted these any time of day. Since we share all offerings though, we only eat these together at drink time. So we may have fudge with our cocoa, but we can’t use milk in it, because milk is considered a good according to the rules.

“The seventh precept is to refrain from singing, dancing, listening to music, watching shows, wearing perfumes, garlands or beautifying cosmetics. This precept isn’t much of a problem here. The previous Ajahn used to bring in video movies sometimes, saying they were about dhamma, and so were allowable. But some of them had a pretty shaky connection to dhamma, I think.

“The eighth precept is to refrain from sleeping on a high or luxurious bed. We have no beds here, other than the one in the Ajahn’s quarters, so this isn’t a problem. You’ve both got your sleeping mats? Good. Any questions?”

Jim and I looked at each other. Neither of us dared to ask about the bed.

“What are the other two precepts for a novice?” I asked.

“Actually, there’s only one more precept. The seventh precept is divided in two parts to make ten. A novice must refrain from touching gold and silver. That means money. Sometimes you may be asked to go into town with a novice or a monk to carry money for them if they have any business to do.

“In addition to the eight precepts and the two hundred and twenty-seven precepts you will catch on to, you should also learn the Thai traditions and customs which we follow at Pah Nanachat. Most of us here are not Thai. As guests in the country we take it upon ourselves to blend in properly. The local people support us and we try not to offend them. A little courtesy goes a long way in Thailand. This is a much more formal culture than our own. It usually takes Westerners a while to adjust. I’ve been here twelve years. For me the adjustment is pretty well complete. The Thais appreciate this. It makes for a harmonious relationship with the lay community. For example, Tim, the way you are sitting now would be considered rude by Thai standards and an insult to me as a monk.”

“Sorry,” I said quickly, uncrossing my legs, not knowing where to put them.

“And if you were wearing pakhao robes right now, you would have just exposed yourself. So you see you must learn to pay attention to all the details of life. This way you will develop mindfulness. That is the key.”

“Tell me, Ajahn, how should I sit?”

“Look at Jim. He is sitting perfectly, with both legs folded back to one side, away from me. You should never point your feet at anybody in Thailand, especially a monk. It is also incorrect to cross your legs when facing a senior monk. Jim, your letter said you have spent a year in Thailand.”

“Yes, sir, at Chiang Mai University. I felt it wasn’t enough to study Buddhism. I needed to come and practise in a monastery too. I’ve done some meditation before but nothing formal with a teacher. I guess that’s why I’m here.”

“And you, Tim?”

“Theravada Buddhism is new to me but I spent three months last summer in a Tibetan monastery in Ladakh, in northern India.”

“Mahayana Buddhism?”

“Yes. It’s about as far from what I’ve seen of Thai Buddhism as the Catholic Church is from the Salvation Army. But I’m open to learn whatever Pah Nanachat has to teach me.”

“We don’t give much by way of formal teaching. There are just two things to remember: follow the rules and be mindful. So much of the bad kamma we build up in this lifetime is due to ignorance of the precepts. Keep them and you will find your meditation will follow naturally. Be mindful of all things. Mindfulness makes your meditation practice a twenty-four-hour-a-day effort. Pay attention to what you are doing in the present. Don’t think about the future or about the past, or about some resentment or longing that you feel. If you are walking, walk; if you are sitting, sit. Apply this to everything you do, from eating to defecating. The rules themselves are really just a tool for mindfulness. Some of the rules seem foolish in a modern context. They seem more trouble than they are worth. We want to throw them out. This just reveals a lack of patience, a lack of willingness to submit. So every rule has a teaching for us. I remember when I first came here twelve years ago, thinking I would just stay for six months, get enlightened and then move on. I couldn’t stand all the rules. They seemed to slow everything down. Of course that was their purpose. I just couldn’t accept it at that time. I was in too much of a rush. Only in the last year or so have I begun to see just how important the rules are. Follow the rules. You will be surprised how everything else fits into place.”

“But what about meditation?” said Jim.

“It has a place. But there isn’t a lot one can say about it. I suppose at the beginning you need some guidance. Usually we start visitors off just with practising concentration on a word as they breathe. The word we use is ‘bud-dho,’ breathing in on the ‘Bud’ and out on the ‘dho.’ The word itself isn’t important. You can use any word you like. It’s just something to help get the mind established on the breathing. As soon as that is done, you can drop it.”

“What about walking meditation?” I asked. “I tried it this morning and kept feeling as if I were going to fall over.”

“You shouldn’t walk so slowly. We think walking meditation should be done at a normal pace. In this way no barrier is set up between the meditation and normal walking. Let everything be your meditation. Any more questions?”

“One more, sir,” said Jim. “What’s the condition of Ajahn Chah? Is he still able to give any teaching?”

The Ajahn turned his gaze on Jim. “He’s in Bangkok right now. Doctors say his condition is stabilizing. The stroke left him completely paralysed three years ago. He has to be fed intravenously. They can’t determine if any of the personality is left inside. They hope to bring him back to Wat Pah Pong eventually.” He sighed. His words were spoken heavily.

“You were one of his disciples, weren’t you, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think there’s anything left of him?”

“I have no view. Now I’ll get you some blankets.”

Jim and I bowed three times to the man who had just become our spiritual teacher. I mimicked Jim’s bows well enough not to draw further comments from the Ajahn and withdrew.

I wandered back to the sala. Inside I met a young Thai woman writing in English in a notebook. She told me her name was Dukita, a nickname that meant “Dolly.” She said she lived in the nearby town of Ampher Warim. During school vacations, she stayed at the wat. She had a round face and cheerful dark eyes and looked more like a thirteen-year-old than a high school senior. We chatted easily.

“Where did you learn such good English?” I asked her. “I haven’t met anyone in the Northeast half as fluent as you. Did the monks teach you?”

“Oh no,” she laughed. “I went to school for a year in America. I got a scholarship to go back and study there at university next year. You just arrived this morning, didn’t you? You’re from America, right?”

“No, you must be thinking of Jim. I’m Tim, from Canada.”

“Pleased to meet you, Tim. Have you seen my mother yet?” she asked with a beaming smile.

“No, does she stay here too?”

“I’ll show you.” She led me to the front of the sala, next to the altar. I thought maybe we were going to look at one of the miniature figures on the glittering side tables in front of the Buddhas. Instead, Dukita crouched down near the glass case containing the skeleton. The bones hung from the top of the case by a metal wire so that the toes dangled just off the ground. In front of the skeleton’s feet was a black and white portrait of a Thai woman. She had short hair and a sober expression on her lips. Her face was boyish but beautiful.

“This is my mother,” said Dukita, a smile on her round young face. She turned to me and said in a cheerful voice, “She shot herself,” as if she were conveying a trivial but curious detail of her mother’s life.

“What?”

“Through the head, see? Here’s the bullet hole.” She pointed to a perfect black hole in the right temple of the skull.

“I’m sorry,” I said feebly.

“It’s okay. She had cancer. It was really bad so she shot herself.”

“How did she end up here?”

“In Thailand it’s not permitted to burn suicides like we do for everybody else. They have to be buried. My daddy gave the monks permission to use her skeleton for the sala.”

“A reminder of mortality, right?”

“I guess so. Mother used to spend a lot of time in the wat.”

“I’m pleased to meet her.”

Dukita looked at me a little strangely. She smiled.

“Will you be staying here for long, Jim?”

I winced. “I’m Tim. Jim is the other one. I’ll be here between two and five months.”

“That’s good. What other one?”

“Jim.”

Dukita looked confused. “Well, I hope you like it here. See you.”

“See you, Dukita,” I called after her as she bounced out of the sala, leaving me alone with her mother.

Mother of Dolly,

suicide

is not a ticket off the wheel of rebirth

nor an end to suffering.

What does your pretty face have to teach me?