The Bow Can't Always Be Relaxed (Part 21)

John Wittenberg gives a number of personal reflections on his journey through Thailand, which were previously published in the short story collection 'The bow can't always be relaxed' (2007). What started for John as a flight away from pain and sorrow has grown into a search for meaning. Buddhism turned out to be a passable path. His stories appear regularly on Thailandblog.

How long is a Chinese

“Good morning, my name is John, room number 403 and I would like to stay two days longer in your hotel. Is that possible?”

“Good morning sir!”

“My name is John, room number 403 and I would like to stay two days longer, is that possible?”

“Yes?” "Hello."

“My name is John, room number 403, and I would like to stay two days longer!”

“Good morning Mr. John”

“Good morning! My room number is 403 and I would like to stay two days longer”

“Which room number?”

"403."

“Just a moment.”

“Hello, can I help you?”

“My name is John, room number 403 and I would like to stay two days longer”

“How many days?” “Two.”
“Just a moment.”
"Your name, sir?"
"John."
"Good morning Mr. John." “good morning”

"Can I help you?"
“I would like to stay two days longer” “How many days?”
“Two.”
“Room number?”
"403."

“Let me check, moment please”

"Your name is Mr. John?"

“”Yes. I still am, but can I stay two days longer?”

“Two days?”

"Yes."

“Just a minute…. Please, mr John, pay an additional deposit of five days, because there is not enough money left in your deposit”

“But I only want to stay two days longer, not five.”

“You want to stay five days?”

“No, two days.”

“Just a moment please…….you have to pay an additional deposit of five days, sir.”

“But I only want to stay two days, not five and you have my guarantee already from my credit card”

“You have to pay an additional deposit of five days.”

“But why five days, when I want to stay only two days?”

“Because of the house bar, sir.”

“But there are only two bottles of beer and coke and the water is complimentary.”

“How many days?”
“Two.”
“You have to pay an additional deposit of five days in cash, sir.” “Here you are!”
"Thank you, sir."
“So I can stay two days longer now I have paid for five days?” “We already booked it half an hour ago, sir!”
“Thank you, have a nice day.”
"You too, Mr. John."

An ugly cough and a beautiful memory

Shanghai has a pleasant long shopping promenade, Nanjing Road, ending in a large square (People's Square). This large square has some beautiful modern buildings, the opera (with gypsy baron-like repertoire), a kind of town hall with an exhibition space about the new architecture of the city in a truly beautiful building and the new Shanghai Museum in a brick bunker-like complex with an old-fashioned interior.

What is beautiful is the large hall with very well-arranged departments: calligraphy and drawings, prehistory, folklore, coins (which leaves me cold), furniture (unfortunately closed) and, to top it all off: the porcelain. The very fragile drawings hang behind glass on two large wooden rollers at the top and bottom. When you pass the drawings, the lighting sharpens. To then dim again after departure. Very professional. The porcelain department is phenomenal. What they hide in Beijing (or maybe they don't have at all) they show here in all its glory. With the drool in the corners of my mouth I behold the porcelain, very well-arranged and clearly displayed. I see the most beautiful vase I've ever seen. From the Yongzheng period (1723-1735) during the Qing dynasty. A short time, but an unparalleled period of the most beautiful porcelain ever (very precious, take a look in the attic if you don't happen to have one).

This olive-shaped vase is decorated with a branch of apricots. It is breathtakingly beautiful, tranquil and true. Now that I think about it, my mouth is still watering. A perfect copy (leave that to the Chinese) can be purchased for five hundred euros. I hesitate for a moment, but keep it etched in my unbreakable memory.

Shanghai is located on the coast and has a breeze that blows most of the smoke (from chimneys, cars and cigarettes) to other major cities. Now Bangkok doesn't smell like Swiss mountain air and as an asphalt youth I'm really used to big cities, but the Chinese cities surpass everything in pollution. As soon as I set foot on Chinese soil, I am coughing.

Here you have herbal pharmacists who - on prescription from a doctor or another magician - collect all kinds of herbs or dried plants from wooden drawers on a large white sheet under the approving eye of the customer. A porridge or tea is then made at home and then fingers crossed that it helps against the ailment.

It's a bit too complicated for me to get rid of my cough and I rely on a series of small bottles filled with a cough syrup. With a small straw you drink this magic potion and when everyone around me stops smoking it certainly helps.

There is some smoking here, everywhere you go they puff that it is a delight. And that, in combination with the exhaust fumes, means that I chase a lot of bottles of miracle drink through it. Tomorrow I leave for the fresh air of the metropolis of Bangkok, with an ugly cough and a beautiful memory of China.

Beautiful thoughts with a great scope

An hour's flight north of Bangkok is Chiang Mai. I move into a new guest house, within the ancient walled core. The owner still recognizes me from last year and her ugly daughter has unfortunately not become any prettier.

Cycling in Bangkok is putting your life at risk unnecessarily, not much less in Chiang Mai, but the distances here are at The Hague level, so I'll take my chances. And it's good for my condition, besides I'm relieved of the endless haggling with the tuk-tuk drivers. Because in Chiang Mai you don't have as many metered taxis as in Bangkok. Risking my own life and that of others, I cycle through traffic on my way to “my” temple, with Buddha as my patron saint. Pretty much my Catholic middle ground as a Buddhist.

I pass the route I took every day as a mendicant, the Binthabad. It still moves me and - soft-hearted as I am - I still can't talk about the gifts with dry eyes. Now that the route slides past my retina, I think back intensely to my begging trips. I get tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat.

What is that anyway? Why does it affect me so intensely? It is not sadness but joyful emotion accompanied by the acquisition of a great spiritual gift. Forming a seed that is slowly germinating. Buddha teaches us that his path begins with knowledge, but I first experienced his teachings practically. It crosses my life and I eagerly pick it up.

And yet I still experience the sadness. Maria is still close, much too close. At the same time, I probably would never have experienced this gift without Mary's sudden departure. Because the quest to explain this needless extra suffering brought me to Buddhism.

I smile, because now I see the same languid, imperturbable dog lying peacefully in the street, like a sacred cow in India. Creating a sympathetic obstacle for pedestrians walking around it. I see the place where poor people wait for surplus food from the monk. I think of the kneeling Thai as I receive my prayer of thanksgiving. I think of the shards of glass in the street, carefully avoiding them while walking barefoot.

I think of the offense I committed in encouraging the donations of Thais who offered packages of chocolate milk. And I think of the offense I committed in running away from givers who wanted to pour soymilk with all good intentions. I think of the busy intersection where, like everywhere in Thailand, pedestrians are outlawed except for the monk! I walked quietly, imperturbably and with my head bowed across the intersection and the cars stopped in respect. Without my monk's robes I would have narrowly escaped death every time.

I think of the lovely children who very carefully, accompanied by their parents, put food in my begging bowl and looked with a slanted eye at the white monk. And then kneeling, with the same slanted eye, listened to my gibberish Pali, while the parents closed their eyes very devoutly. I think of that sweet old woman who gave me a banana and before whom I wanted to kneel in pure gratitude. I also think of the silk-clad woman who gave me food and a generously filled envelope from the back of her Mercedes. Which left me completely cold, wrongly of course.

But most of all I think of the man who gave the jacket. In shabby clothes and with his callused hands, very sharply etched in my memory, he placed the coins in my begging bowl. Now one of my greatest possessions, with the immensely immense symbolism that giving, no matter how poor you are, is so much more beautiful than receiving. His gesture has a great scope for me, without him realizing it. He also could not reasonably comprehend that with this gift he had such an impact on my life. Incitement to this act of his was the intention to do good, to show compassion, to help another without preconditions and without expecting anything in return.

So do good, without necessarily wanting to oversee the scope. Because only good can come from compassion.

Nothing is permanent

Firmly pedaling on my bicycle (a Raleigh, of all places) I pass the gate of Wat Umong. I immediately turn left and stop in front of my house. Still peaceful on a mirror-smooth lake, surrounded by wild bushes. And wise old trees, under which it is good to be in the shade and which make you feel sheltered from the evil outside world. I look at the beautiful banana tree, still as proud as before, my fixation point for the countless failed meditation attempts.

Then I walk to my temple. And I'm genuinely happy to be here. So many warm memories! I sit in the place where I am ordained. With the (empty) abbot's throne and his pancake as silent witnesses. The greatest witness is, of course, Buddha himself, a great gold shining statue dominating the temple in all its majesty. I bow three times and am to myself for a moment. Then on the way to the cottage of Dr. Phran Arjan Songserm, my supervisor and teacher. I still have so much to ask him. It had come to my attention that he has succumbed to the sweet enticements of a most charming Thai. Believe me, they are good at that here. And indeed, he has hung up his saffron robe and now enjoys the intense pleasure of embracing a woman in his couch, while sipping on a bottle of whisky.

By the way, nobody who takes offense to that, as long as someone is no longer a monk, is allowed a lot here. He still has his job as a professor at the Buddhist university. That Phra Arjan! Who would have thought. How do you experience that? Not allowed to touch a woman for almost 40 years and then suddenly fall into the butter with your nose every day!

Those are my thoughts now, while of course I originally have very different questions when I would meet him again. And where is Vichai, the monk with whom I was ordained at the same time? And Suree, the worldly wise young monk. And Juw, the fragile monk with the jam jar glasses? The joy of being in my temple vanishes visibly now that I can no longer find my monk friends. I shuffled around with drooping shoulders. Am I forced to go back to one of the core teachings that nothing is permanent? And time and time again experience that this knowledge, however true, offers no comfort?

- To be continued -