The Bow Can't Always Be Relaxed (Part 22)

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.

A tear and a shiny feather

Strolling in Wat Umong, I crave at least one monk from the good old days. Then it suddenly occurs to me that I occasionally had a short chat with an old man who laboriously teaches English to young monks. Despite the fact that it is damn hard to talk to this teacher because his memory is bad due to an accident, I still cling tightly to this last straw from a glorious past of the time when I was a monk here.

His memory has not improved because he looks at me kindly and does not recognize me. I list some names and a curious young student who is also present gives me light in the darkness by actually knowing Vichai. And believe it or not, within a few moments I'm talking to Vichai on my cell phone and meeting him the next day.

It is unusual for you to hug a monk, but we do it anyway to express our happiness. We bring back warm memories and I feel completely happy because I can share it. Together we go, arm in arm, looking for Juw, the monk with the jam jar glasses. And we find him in another cottage. Now at the edge of the forest, where the game (well, if you mean game, obedient squirrels, cuddly deer and dazed piggies) meditate with him in the morning.

Juw is genuinely pleased to see me. He rarely speaks to anyone, talks very slowly, patiently searching for words and his elongated fingers sometimes point upwards, imaginatively grasping the words that float before his mind. An old spirit in a still young body. The radiating tranquility gives me a harmonious feeling, so that I can get a small step closer to the answer to the key question of my life. The uncertain search that now points to Buddhism. In him are united the qualities that are so underexposed in me: devout, modest, introverted, meditative, vulnerable, loving, patient and Buddha-oriented. I like him so much because he is a pure monk. I look at him lovingly and with his almost translucent weak body he is stronger than me. In him I feel a liberation from the turmoil. Diligent wandering in search of some happiness finds a final destination in his character.

But at the same time I have the knowledge that this bird of paradise has a different beak than the sparrow that I am. A little sparrow can never sing so beautifully as a bird of paradise and never wear such beautiful feathers. But it can discover the beauty in itself by mirroring itself to something wonderful. Where have the jam jar glasses gone? They have been exchanged for a frame similar to mine. That has been my influence during the conversations we had. I didn't foresee this vanity in Juw, but it unerringly indicates the middle way we can walk together.

“Thank you, beautiful, sweet bird of paradise”. And the little sparrow flies, chirping, with the occasional pure note, from branch to branch uncertainly on to the horizon. With a tear in his eyes, but a shiny feather richer in his dull plumage.

Blissfully muddy in a pool of decay

These days in Chiang Mai are largely devoted to Buddhism. The conversations with Juw and Vichai and the warm memory as a monk drive me in this direction. I find mental peace for meditation and read a fascinating biography of Buddha written by the departed nun Karen Armstrong (“A history of God” and “Through the narrow gate”). For a moment I want to float faster than the wreckage around me, but after a few days the pool of destruction beckons.

Enough piety now, on the way to Pattaya! A place two hours south of Bangkok, on the Thai gulf. It flourished as a retreat for American soldiers during the Vietnam War, between two bombings. Recovering from the massacres for a while. And not with a sacred word, but with drink and women.

After the lost war, veterans in Pattaya reminisce about the good old days, leaving their wives at home. “Men among themselves”, so to speak. And thus picking up the old thread of the unbeatable combination of drink and women to this day. With this fertile soil it is good to sow and Pattaya grew like a cabbage, establishing a name for a lustful sex industry.

Letting your husband escort you here is like taking a stack of sandwiches to a good restaurant. This is where the poor, naive and stunningly beautiful peasant girls settle, as well as the more savvy whores. Both extremely adept at undressing ugly, fat and heavily tattooed men, hung with gold chains. Here in Pattaya everything that God has forbidden is possible. Mister Pastor (if he is there) benevolently turns a blind eye, because he eagerly plays the game himself. Stumbling men who soon see their end of life approaching can indulge their slowly ticking heart here with a feigned adoration of a stunningly beautiful Thai of twenty.

I often see them walking here, with one hand in another (shaking) hand. Her gaze fixed on the check she sends to the poor family each month. And his gilded face focused on the almost extinguished flame, which can still be awakened for a while. This is Pattaya in its entirety and I quietly dream of having my cold bones warmed here in my old age. Just like King David.

But for now it is not so far and I walk like a young god in the prime of his life with a fiery flame that can lead the children of Israel through the wilderness. In this case one of the many bars in Pattaya.

Sometimes immense halls with about twenty bars, where lonely pathetic men like me, seek their last refuge for some attention. Melancholy leaning forward on a grubby counter with a bottle of beer in a tight cool box as the only company. But not for long!

For Alras, like a lithe serpent, wraps a Thai around your body and makes lustful movements, which is so beautifully called in ancient jurisprudence: "as if she were married". Only a few thin layers of fabric (I estimate three) separate me from the act. I put up with it for a few moments and then make it clear that I'm not looking for sex for money. And as quickly as she came, she disappears, looking for another lone wretch.

I sometimes think that I make it difficult for myself. I don't have any moral objections to sex for money, but the knowledge that dozens, maybe hundreds, have preceded it makes me wary and impotent at the same time. Plus, her feigned lecherous shrieks will probably make me laugh, which again potentially won't work out. And for “a good conversation” I have my friends. Then just another bottle of beer and sure enough, I see something new approaching meandering.”What is your name?” “Where do you come from?”

Doing a pee is also quite an adventure here. Standing in a row with whining colleagues in front of a splashing large urinal, I suddenly notice a clammy cloth on my neck and massaging hands over my back. I am a liberal minded man and don't easily get scared in androgynous Thailand anymore, but two sensually massaging hands on my lower back and hips in a public toilet is a bit too much for my tolerance. And I give him a blow.

Very unkind of course, because it is apparently the most normal thing in the world, because pissing men next to me put up with it. In the meantime they squeeze out the last drops and give the boy a tip after a job well done. I now regularly experience this, also in neat tents and restaurants. They won't get any more blows from me, a gentle rejection will suffice.

I want to be able to pee in peace. Supposedly one of the few moments for yourself. Thailand is a beautiful country, it sometimes takes some getting used to.

The modesty itself

Christmas in Bangkok does not come out well. Colossal, imaginative and numerous illuminated fake Christmas trees (you don't find real ones in the tropics) and echoing Christmas carols that tell stories about a white Christmas. Because Buddha's birthday passes silently in the West, there is no day off at Christmas. I therefore decide to celebrate Christmas in the rich Catholic life of the Philippines. In this country the crown has been exchanged for a mitre, the ermine mantle for a chasuble and the scepter for a bishop's crosier.

His Excellency the Bishop drives around Manila in a shiny Mercedes and resides in a veritable palace. The President of the Republic requests a humble audience and the bishop receives magnanimously and is firmly seated in a majestic seat. The head of the state humbly asks the bishop's clerical permission for many obscure things, which do not make them any worse. Legitimacy is obtained by throwing to the people from the consecrated hand some crumbs of the booty. State and Church have merged here into a Roman refined sludge of patriarchal dominance and gullible people. Here you can see the paradise envisioned by the Renaissance popes. Centuries of Roman cunning strategy finds its perfection in this country.

Every boy dreams of becoming a pilot or a firefighter, to me the cardinal's hat seems more suited to my talents. And not in pope-hating Holland, but in the midst of the Philippine adoring glow of the simple believers, afraid of hell and damnation if I am not sufficiently served at my beck and call. Here I can flourish stately and excel ceremonially, and at the same time merge the interests of the church with my own.

Here, during the pontifical mass, all humble eyes are fixed on my exalted countenance. Here I allow myself to be appropriately led out in a gold-shiny greenish chasuble by a hundredfold echoing choir, reverberating in all corners of the cathedral. Here, surrounded by a dozen innocent-looking altar boys, I follow the cross as a sign of my great sacrifice.

Here I follow my way to the lavishly laid table and I will wash down the refined dishes donated by the poor in gratitude with the wines that are drunk. Here I lay my weary head in a baroque-carved four-poster bed under silk sheets, covered by a graceful young nun. This is where I let it go as usual.

In short, who can think of a more humble reason to celebrate Christmas in Manila, my diocese?

- To be continued -