A Book Case for the Monk
If they were to make a movie about my life (and I doubt it will happen), I would want the opening scene to be this:
It is raining. It has been raining all day. The air is thick with mist I am helping three old men carry a new heavy steel book case, with sliding glass panels, down the side of a steep hill through a forest down a rocky, muddy path that makes every step a near misstep. They are wearing only flip flops and rubber boots. I am sweating. They are holding their breath to muster as much balance and strength as possible with this cold steely mass. We pass the bamboo thickets, we cross a stream using two planks, then another with two bits of bamboo, past a freshly planted peanut field. There are crickets, birds that have come out with the rain. We come upon another stream and two men step down into the water to keep their grip steady. One man cuts his finger on a sharp edge and is bleeding. I cannot ask if he is alright because I don't speak his language. Such an impossible sight! A Canadian and three elderly Thai men ferrying a new book shelf into the hills, far from the road where we picked it up. I am laughing at this moment to myself, at the improbability. We hit a dirt path again, to steadier ground. We walk slowly up another gentle hill where the monk in saffron robes watches us approaching from his home, all of us muddied and/or bloodied.
It is for this monk that be we bring this new shelf, the person that set in motion this impossible scene. But this is the not the first of the impossible thing that he can make happen, of which I will explain later.
This monk is Chinnaworn Jarin a Thai Buddhist monk that I have known for seven years. We met the last time I came to Thailand as a wide-eyed 24-year-old backpacker. He had invited me to his village, to see life of the Karen people. We stayed in touch by letter. And now I have returned here to visit him at his temple, seven years later at Wat Pang Term. I am neither Thai nor Buddhist, but we have formed a friendship that has brought me 14,000 kilometers to pay him a visit, to talk and even to carry book cases in the rain into his new home. Why does he need a new book shelf? I will explain that later too.
The Road to Wat Pang Term starts in Chiang Mai, heads west towards the mountains of Samoeng in northern Thailand. The only way there (without your own vehicle) is in the back the covered pickup truck that groans its way from the busy city market, until it hairpins through the hills up where the air is colder. Crowded streets fade away to thickets of bamboo, terraced mountainside fields where farmers burn the old crops in preparation for planting anew. You can smell the smoke in the air, see it hang over the forest like a haze. There are fewer and fewer signs in English, fewer internet cafe. The truck makes quick lefts and rights and suddenly you have no idea what direction you are heading in, or what village you just passed. It here here and now that you put faith in the good forces of the world that you will be delivered safely. Just sit back.
There are other people on board with you, with bags of groceries, a can of oil under their legs which they are bringing home. These people will stare at you, talk to you and all you can do is nod and grin. Or you can say, "Chinnaworn, Wat Pang Term," and they all nod their heads. "Ah, Chinnaworn, Chinnaworn." The name passes from person to person. And they are done asking questions.
Everyone knows Chinnaworn.
For the next two hours I look out the back of the truck, watching this world scroll by, the countless farms, bananna groves, dusty depots with scruffy dogs and a water tower. The air get cooler as you climb up the hills, far from home.
Finally, I am alone on the back of the truck. It keeps pushing further east as the sun begins to fall into evening. The road is now gravel, the dust is in my teeth, I can taste it on my lips. But with one final upward push, the truck slows and we have arrived at Wat Pang Term. I do not know this because there is a sign. I know because the driver is taking my backpack from the top of the truck. I pay and get out. He leaves and I am alone. I see the temple, with its pointed roof and white walls. I see brilliant flowers blossoming from the trees around the courtyard. There are heat beetles whirring madly. And there I stand with my bag in hand. And no one to greet me. I look around. Nothing. No Chinnaworn.
Sawatdii Khrap! Shouts someone. An old man is approaching, a huge toothless grin. He is in rubber boots, a white shirt. He has been working on something.
"Chinnaworn?" he says.
"Chinnaworn." I reply.
He points far into the distance, through the trees. That is where Chinnaworn lives. Not at the temple but in the hills behind it. The reason for that I will explain later. For that is the most important thing.
For now, the man takes my bag and we start walking down a steep muddy hill, over two streams, past a field, and up to a mud hut which in a few days I will do with a book case in hand. In the rain.
More to come....
It is raining. It has been raining all day. The air is thick with mist I am helping three old men carry a new heavy steel book case, with sliding glass panels, down the side of a steep hill through a forest down a rocky, muddy path that makes every step a near misstep. They are wearing only flip flops and rubber boots. I am sweating. They are holding their breath to muster as much balance and strength as possible with this cold steely mass. We pass the bamboo thickets, we cross a stream using two planks, then another with two bits of bamboo, past a freshly planted peanut field. There are crickets, birds that have come out with the rain. We come upon another stream and two men step down into the water to keep their grip steady. One man cuts his finger on a sharp edge and is bleeding. I cannot ask if he is alright because I don't speak his language. Such an impossible sight! A Canadian and three elderly Thai men ferrying a new book shelf into the hills, far from the road where we picked it up. I am laughing at this moment to myself, at the improbability. We hit a dirt path again, to steadier ground. We walk slowly up another gentle hill where the monk in saffron robes watches us approaching from his home, all of us muddied and/or bloodied.
It is for this monk that be we bring this new shelf, the person that set in motion this impossible scene. But this is the not the first of the impossible thing that he can make happen, of which I will explain later.
This monk is Chinnaworn Jarin a Thai Buddhist monk that I have known for seven years. We met the last time I came to Thailand as a wide-eyed 24-year-old backpacker. He had invited me to his village, to see life of the Karen people. We stayed in touch by letter. And now I have returned here to visit him at his temple, seven years later at Wat Pang Term. I am neither Thai nor Buddhist, but we have formed a friendship that has brought me 14,000 kilometers to pay him a visit, to talk and even to carry book cases in the rain into his new home. Why does he need a new book shelf? I will explain that later too.
The Road to Wat Pang Term starts in Chiang Mai, heads west towards the mountains of Samoeng in northern Thailand. The only way there (without your own vehicle) is in the back the covered pickup truck that groans its way from the busy city market, until it hairpins through the hills up where the air is colder. Crowded streets fade away to thickets of bamboo, terraced mountainside fields where farmers burn the old crops in preparation for planting anew. You can smell the smoke in the air, see it hang over the forest like a haze. There are fewer and fewer signs in English, fewer internet cafe. The truck makes quick lefts and rights and suddenly you have no idea what direction you are heading in, or what village you just passed. It here here and now that you put faith in the good forces of the world that you will be delivered safely. Just sit back.
There are other people on board with you, with bags of groceries, a can of oil under their legs which they are bringing home. These people will stare at you, talk to you and all you can do is nod and grin. Or you can say, "Chinnaworn, Wat Pang Term," and they all nod their heads. "Ah, Chinnaworn, Chinnaworn." The name passes from person to person. And they are done asking questions.
Everyone knows Chinnaworn.
For the next two hours I look out the back of the truck, watching this world scroll by, the countless farms, bananna groves, dusty depots with scruffy dogs and a water tower. The air get cooler as you climb up the hills, far from home.
Finally, I am alone on the back of the truck. It keeps pushing further east as the sun begins to fall into evening. The road is now gravel, the dust is in my teeth, I can taste it on my lips. But with one final upward push, the truck slows and we have arrived at Wat Pang Term. I do not know this because there is a sign. I know because the driver is taking my backpack from the top of the truck. I pay and get out. He leaves and I am alone. I see the temple, with its pointed roof and white walls. I see brilliant flowers blossoming from the trees around the courtyard. There are heat beetles whirring madly. And there I stand with my bag in hand. And no one to greet me. I look around. Nothing. No Chinnaworn.
Sawatdii Khrap! Shouts someone. An old man is approaching, a huge toothless grin. He is in rubber boots, a white shirt. He has been working on something.
"Chinnaworn?" he says.
"Chinnaworn." I reply.
He points far into the distance, through the trees. That is where Chinnaworn lives. Not at the temple but in the hills behind it. The reason for that I will explain later. For that is the most important thing.
For now, the man takes my bag and we start walking down a steep muddy hill, over two streams, past a field, and up to a mud hut which in a few days I will do with a book case in hand. In the rain.
More to come....
posted by Mike at 11:23 PM
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