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Date: July 16, 2003
At five in the morning, a booming gong carried on the dense, monsoon
air passes through my body, more palpable to my skin than ears,
it sets my nerves atingle and the monastery dogs ahowl. Due to heat
exhaustion my body feels as if it is floating in a void like a singular
planetoid and the chorus of dogs seem like a sphere of stars chiming
a celestial fantasia. The gong tolls twice more and I can feel it
vibrate the planks of the floor of the rectory approaching like
a wave and washing through me. I flop on my stomach and drag my
shirt over my eyes and pad my ears.
Yesterday, my dinner hosts were concerned that I would sleep in
the temple. "Ghosts." Thai people build spirit houses,
elaborate miniture shrines containing offerings of food, bottled
water, flowers, incense, and candles, intended to lure the troublesome
spirits away from the residence of humans. Many times I have seen
the spirits take the shape of cats, rats, ants or flies to accept
the offerings. Last night, the spirits were reincarnating as the
same mosquitoe over and over to feast on my sweet "farang"
flesh. And, I smashed it into oblivion over and over, the Wheel
of Life, wondering if I were reducing the karmic debt of an unfortunate
soul or commiting a sin. The monks sat unmolested in their cloud
of cigarette smoke watching gameshows.
A smaller gong tolls, this one painful to my ears, like a snooze
alarm. I prop myself up on the floor next to the dozens of golden
statues of Buddha and underneath the portraits of the benevolent
protectorates, the king and queen of Thailand.
Several monks come to me. They are very excited. "Buddha.
Buddha."
"The Buddha? Is here?" I wonder if they are talking about
ghosts or statues.
They nod exicitedly grabbing their robes and pantomiming photography.
I grab my camera. No, no, they hold up three fingers. This is how
they communicate, "Eight o'clock."
As the morning aches leave my body and mind, I remember that any
enlightened individual can be refered to as The Buddha. Still I
am uncertain of the Thais version of Buddhism. Later, a wiry man
who has grown stronger with age like a withered stalk, explains
in slightly better English, "Did you see The Buddha this morning?
He walked past you." I shake my head sideways in a combination
of disagreement and disbelief. "He come again later."
"Where is he now?"
"In the village with his family."
"He come eight o'clock. Turn into Buddha. You wait. Take picture.
Okay."
"He turns into The Buddha at eight o'clock." A smirk
curls my lips. "How does he do that?"
"He changes from the white robes to the yellow [golden] robes."
"What is he now?"
"Human." I can't get a more specific answer as to why
this entity transmogrifies between God and man, in this case, for
three months, other than his obligations are balanced between his
family and community. I thought enlightenment was a one-way road.
"Where did you learn to speak English?" I ask while we
wait.
"I flew in the helicopters with the Americans in Vietnam."
He pantomimes firing a large gun.
"You were a Thai soldier in the Vietnam War." He agrees.
"And now you are a monk." He agrees smiling, giving me
the impression that he finds his monastic life a humorous quirk
of life as opposed to a penance.
On schedule, a parade of dancers escort a young, handsome man in
white silk robes embrodiered with flowers, and shaded by a large,
lavish umbrella with more patterns and fringe. "Do you dance?"
the veteran asks me.
"No, I don't dance."
Five minutes later, I am manhandled to the front of the parade,
wedged between two Thais with bottles of Thai rice whiskey. "Drink,
drink."
"No, thanks. I have to drive bicycle."
"Try, try. Buddha." And, I fall victim to the fear of
offending the local customs. Luckily, we circumabulate the temple
only five times, drinking whisky, wiggling hands in the air and
bobbing up and down. I feel as if the whole universe is watching
but it is only one small village and The-Buddha-to-be, who glances
furtively at me everytime I pass, as if he is breaking diety protocol
acknowledging the bacchanals.
The-Buddha-to-be bows before a stone monolith in front of the doors
of the temple and repeats verbatim from an elder man kneeling beside
him what I imagine are the spells meant to transform him to Godhood.
Then he rises and begins throwing gifts of oragami lotus flowers
to the revelers. The first fistful strikes me like throwing stars
in the face and upper body. My fans swarm to scoop the presents.
"Money." They inform. The-Buddha-to-be seeing I didn't
get any chucks another handful, pricking and jarring my skull. But,
I forgive him; he is still only human at this point.
The-Buddha-to-be and the monks enter the temple and close the doors.
Everyone disperses and I refuse two invitations to breakfast (the
monks have already fed me rice and chicken) and two invitations
to more bottles of whiskey. "I must go. I have one-hundred
kilometers to ride today."
I am left alone to repack my belongings which are drying in the
sun. The monks are hanging out the windows of the temple smoking
cigarettes watching me. Becoming The Buddha takes about three hours
and, apparently, is a tedious process. I want to get a photo of
them lollygagging -- monks love to have their photos taken -- but
as soon as they see a camera they hide their cigarettes and turn
into religous zombies.
They invite me into the temple during the ceremony for more photographs.
The-Buddha-to-be seems as disinterested as any young man would be
with raging hormones and a vow of celibacy and, consequently, confirms
my suspicion that this is only a figurative ceremony. The monks
ask me to stay, "You can talk. Ask questions. Buddha sleep
same place you."
"I must go to Laos today." Each syllable drops from my
mouth heavier than the last while I simultaneously think, "I
should stay." My visas are stacked like dominoes; if I don't
accomplish my budget of kilometers, I will be packing my bicycle
on a bus. Racing visas and the weather (this time, the monsoons)
is a perpetually problem while bicycling around the world. I have
been skipping past nearly all the national parks, waterfalls, caves
and historical sites and drop exhausted at the end of the day.
I chug past the villagers, waive goodbye, decline more invitations
to breakfast or whiskey, and turn north onto the highway hazy with
humidity and fumes. Only one kilometer down the road, I regret my
actions. Nonetheless, I continue chugging forward reminding myself
that I set the goal of bicycling around the world eight years ago
and I am nearly finished. I will never have this chance again.
In another few kilometers, after I finish kicking myself, I realize
the amazing feat I have just accomplished: I wasn't inspired to
play my game of 20 Questions with The Buddha: Is there a God? What
is the meaning of life? How does one be happy? Who am I? Why am
I here? Blah? Blah? Blah? Ages back in India, I spent considerable
effort arranging to pester a local guru, another enlightened indiviudal,
with questions.
Since then, the answers seem so obvious (or the questions irrelevant)
that I feel like the dumbiest person in three-quarters of the world.
(I haven't seen the other quarter yet.) I don't profess that they
are the right answers but they are sufficient answers for me and,
I believe, the beautiful and mysterious quality of life allows for
the questions and answers to evolve, just as life, the universe
and, even, God evolve. Their is no plateu to spiritual evolution.
It tickels me to think of all my past existential squirming: What?
When? Where? Who? Why?
Still, I recommend that if you meet The Buddha you should at least
ask one question, "How are you?"
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