Vanishing Tattoo --
Trip Updates
|
|
|
Bangkok, Thailand Thomas and I sag. It's now 2:00 p.m. in the afternoon and we know the last bus to Bangkok leaves at 6:00 p.m. The Girl in the Gift Shop confers with the Man in the Uniform. Outside the Wat is the bus-stop where, in theory at least, we should be able to flag down a bus that swings past Wat Bang Phra. The bus we want comes along at three because it drops off school children who live around the Monastery. Thomas and I thank our guides and head back out into the merciless sun. We kill some time in the market, grab some water and Thomas tries to get me to eat some deep-fried insects. Strangely, I am in no mood for bugs. We wander over to the bus stop. The bus stop is filled with young men in bright satin jackets who work as motorcycle taxis. I figure if anyone would be game enough to take a motorcycle taxi, it would be Thomas. I figure we can save some time. Thomas tells me unequivocally that we'd be taking our lives into our hands and that we'd be much better off waiting for the bus. I'm about to argue with him, when a voice behind me pipes up, "Your friend is indeed right, Sir." This is not just said in perfect English, it's said in English with a House of Lord's accent. Both Thomas and I turn to see a man in his mid-fifties wearing the jacket of a motorcycle taxi driver. I can't help myself, hearing this man's perfect English tones in the middle of the Thai countryside, "That's an interesting accent you have", I say. The guy's chest swells visibly, "Thank you, I received my Masters in English Literature from Cambridge." Thomas and I exchanged dubious glances. But for the next half hour until the bus arrives, Masters and I talked about Kipling, Joyce, Yeats, Byron, Shelley and Wordsworth. Old Masters loved the English language. I could see him rolling around vowels on his palate like a fine Cabernet. Thomas kind of shuffled to one side. Suddenly Masters ran out into traffic and started slapping the side of a blue bus. The bus pulled over. Masters spoke in rapid Thai to the driver. Masters came trotting over, slightly breathless. "That is your bus, Sirs. I have told the driver where to take you." I reached in my pocket to tip him, but he waved it off. "Thank you for the opportunity to practice my English." Practice?, I thought. Old Masters spoke better English than I did. Thomas and I clambered aboard the bus. The sight of the bus driver was a shock. Smiling at us was easily the fattest woman in Southeast Asia. This women wasn't big, she was huge. Gigantic. At least three hundred pounds. When she smiled, which was all the time, her eyes disappeared into about a million laugh lines. Thomas asked her if she knew where Wat Bang Phra was and she roared with laughter. She nodded so vigorously that her chins became a blur. We headed for the back of the bus. The bus was filled to capacity with children wearing school uniforms. We walked to the very back and as all the seats were full, sat on a couple of overturned five gallon plastic buckets. Thomas looked at me, "You have to wonder what kind of crime a guy with a Masters degree in English has to commit to end up a motorcycle taxi driver in the middle of nowhere in Thailand. Tom and I were both gun-shy by this point. Masters had said we were an hour away from the right monastery and we feared we end up even more lost and miles away from our true destination. The situation was not helped by the fact that every time Thomas asked her a question, she nodded and smiled and giggled with laughter. The humour of the situation was lost on us. In desperation Thomas tried to question some of the older children who couldn't have been much more than 12 or 13 if they knew where we were headed. The girls were mortified and struck speechless. All the boys could do was laugh. And as our merry little asylum on wheels trundled along, the bus turned East and then South and then North and then West. In fact the bus was turning to every point in the compass and Thomas and I had no idea where we were. The driver kept dropping of child after child until there were just a handful of us left on the bus. Thomas and I had resigned ourselves to spending the night in the Thai country side. Finally, the driver pulled over to the side of the road and indicated to Thomas and I that we should get off. Except there wasn't a damned Monastery in sight. Thomas walked up to her and rolled up his sleeve and pointed to his ink, "Tattoos? Tattoos? Where do they do tattoos?", his voice rising with every word. The woman spoke to a young boy and gestured for him to take us somewhere but he was clearly terrified by us and seemingly stricken unable to move. Silently the woman walked off the bus and motioned for us to follow her towards a marketplace. She walked very slowly, swaying from side to side, swinging each leg ahead of her with an almost elephantine grace and with a dignity bordering on the regal. Tom and I followed. What else could we do? The young boy shuffled along behind us? As we walked around the corner of the marketplace we saw a grove of immense trees in the distance. And behind the trees we could see the setting sun shimmering off the golden domes of Wat Bang Phra. I felt like weeping with relief. The fat woman turned to us and smiled. She indicated the road to the Wat with a majestic sweep of her arm. Then she placed her hands together, bowed slightly and then headed back to the bus. Thomas and I looked at each other, grinning like fools. It was almost as if the Monastery had appeared out of nowhere like magic. By now it was almost five in the afternoon and we hurried forward,
following the boy who now seemed emboldened by the sight of the Wat. And then we could make out Monks walking around the grounds. We had made it.
As Thomas and I approach Wat Bang Phra I forget the heat, forget my
thirst, forget my exhaustion. We walk towards a Monk and before we can
speak a word he has noticed Thomas's tattoos and with a bow of his head
and a broad smile he points us in the direction of one building in
particular. The boy who was with us stops. Clearly he is not coming any
further. We tip him generously, a gesture as much to the Gods of Fortune
who have delivered us to our destination as for our young guide. As we mount the stairs I have no idea of what we will find inside the
Wat. We remove our sandals and leave them outside. As I step in out of
the bright sunshine I have to blink to adjust my eyes to the gloom. The
cool flagstones under my bare feet are like a plunge into an icy stream.
Part of me wants to lay down on the floor and join the soles of my feet
in their bliss. A young women steps forward and hands Thomas and I little pink
envelopes. Behind her is an immense glass box filled with the envelopes.
Other pilgrims to the monastery are putting money in the envelopes so
Thomas and I quickly follow suit. The woman's eyes widen appreciable as
she sees the denominations of the bills we are volunteering. We are
still thinking like Westerners, but if money is any inducement for the
Monks to help us, then we want all the help we can get. The woman takes
us by the arm and we follow willingly, happy to be led The woman leads Thomas and I further into the interior of the
Monastery. The floor is covered with silk Persian rugs, many of them
worn and probably impossibly ancient. The ceiling soars high overhead,
vaulted and magnificent. The air is redolent with the pungent odours of
incense. At one end we see a Monk sitting on what can only be described
as a throne, covered in deep crimson velvet and accented with gold leaf
on the intricately carved arms. He is wearing the orange robe we have
come to expect, behind and to the side of him are many gold Buddha's, The Monk is blessing a pilgrim who kneels before him. He peels off a small square of dazzling gold foil and holds it in his fingertips. After anointing the supplicant's forehead with Holy oil the Monk rubs the gold into the oil until the gold has fragmented into thousands of tiny sparkles. As he does this the Monk chants an incantation in a singsong rhythm, his voice rising and falling hypnotically. As the as the incantation ends, the Monk leans forward and blows on the man's head. once, twice, three times. The blessing is complete. The pilgrim thanks the Monk profusely, his head bowed and hands together as if in prayer. He backs away from the Monk on his knees and then gets to his feet. As he passes me I see his eyes are bright with tears, of joy and gratitude and thankfulness. His face glows. I feel awkward, almost embarrassed to have seen something so personal for someone else, as if I have intruded upon the sacred. Thomas and I exchange glances and I can feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end and I shiver involuntarily. The woman leads first Thomas and then myself towards the Monk. I watch as Thomas is blessed and then find myself on my knees, kneeling in front of the Monk. I want to ask about the tattoos and a thousand other questions but I remain mute. I let myself drift with the moment, content to be swept along in the ceremony and tradition and magic of this time and place. I am surprised how moved I am, how strongly the Monk rubs in the gold and by how long it seems to take. Observed it is over in minutes, experienced it seems as if time is suspended. The woman leads us back to the main entrance and thanks us for coming. Thomas points to his tattoos and motions as if he is hand-poking his arm. The woman blushes and realizes she has misunderstood what we wanted. She summons another young Monk and speaks to him rapidly. I pull out our proposal filled with pictures of tribal tattoos from all over the world. The Monk bows and motions for us to follow him. We step back out into the still bright sun and walk towards another part of the monastery. As we approach a smaller domed room we see a line-up of young men in their mid to late teens waiting outside the entrance in a queue. Most of them are shirtless. I recognize their posture and manner from having spent hundreds of hours in Thomas' tattoo shop. They are waiting to be tattooed. |
|
|
|
|
