Wat, Ho!

Yesterday we did a walking tour of Vientiane, focusing largely on Wats, or temples.  Which, for the record, is a not-so-challenging task.  In these parts, you can’t hardly swing a cat without making contact with the Buddha--or, rather, a facsimile thereof. 

I was feeling a bit low, having woke with a slight fever.  Achy and off balance, I took a couple of Tylenol before heading out the door.  Rebecca, true to form, was having none of my pain.

“It’s your turn to carry the pack,” she said, dangling it like a dead squid before my listless gaze.  We carry a small Eddie Bower backpack for things like umbrellas, water bottles, and the camera.  It also serves as a convenient carry-on for short flights.  There’s nothing to it, weight-wise, probably topping out at something like three ounces empty.  More of a purse with two straps, really.  Yet it grates, and invariably serves as a pebble in the shoe of our otherwise perfect union.  Here in Vientiane (and all of Laos) the temp and humidity regularly top 100—as in Fahrenheit and percent.  Even a small bag on one’s back generates enough sweat to (I’m not making this up) actually wring out one’s shirt.  Even with no impediment to the flow of hot vapor off my body, the sweat puddles and pools along my chest and belly, works its way bug-like down the crack of my ass, spreading a dark half-moon of sweat below the line of my belt where my pants fan over my butt. And I’m not even sure it is my turn to shoulder the load.  Rebecca has this old fashioned notion of division of labor, blah blah blah…which is-I’m sure-intended to evoke the gallant and selfless in my otherwise self-centered, childish—and mostly comfortable-world.  Not that it’s working, but I slung the bag over my shoulder without so much as a whimper and out the door—Wat,ho!-- we went.

We started in our neighborhood, checking out the local, everyday Wats.  Places where monks live and go about their monk duties, which by no means makes these more utilitarian Wats any less impressive.   To fend off the deadening effect of the growing heat, I forced myself to look really closely at the various artifacts and sculpture, the yellow and red dragons adorning the stairways, the stone, jade, wood, brass, and gold flake Buddha’s, all telegraphing their invariable Buddhistic calm through the years of human touch and worship. Many a Wat displays various Buddha’s who have not stood well to the winds of time, their faces oddly compromised though still composed. We worked further and further afield from our air-conditioned guesthouse, paying our fee (10,000 Kip per Wat : approx. a buck and a quarter) and taking in the red, gold, bronze, wood, etc. I hung in there as best I could, aware of how much Rebecca enjoys an outing with a purpose-- did I mention I wasn’t feeling all too well? –until the heat got the better of me.   It seemed to shimmer snake-like from the pavement, distorting any sense of awe and respect for the revered deity I might otherwise conjure.   Though I must say, in this regard I was a bit of a loner.  In Wat after Wat I watched as pilgrims gathered before his somnolent gaze, prostrating their barefoot bodies into a place of spiritual bliss before searching their pockets for precious Kip notes to stuff into the invariable offering box.  I’d typically park my sweaty ass in front of a fan and cultivate something like jealousy at this seemingly simple and pure devotion.   This level of love and contrition would tumble like a house of cards before the faintest whiff of doubt—something I seem particularly talented at mustering.  The 50,000 Kip notes tucked securely into the Buddha’s upturned palm didn’t help to bolster any optimism I might otherwise hold. Under the heat-filled, incensed air of Wat Si Saket I watched helplessly as my thoughts slipped from that of veneration and awe to something more akin to disgust at the venal weakness of man and his quixotic efforts at grace.  The Buddha fell from a symbol of aspiration to one of a dude.  As someone who, say, has to deal with a sweaty ass, bunions, hemorrhoids, and gas.

“Sitting like that has to hurt.   Do you think it’s healthy?”   I was, of course, referring to the famous cross-legged pose, hands on knees, palms up, back straight.  It all fits together neat and clean, with the legs lying almost flat, and the feet turning at the ankles in a way that makes sense if, say, one had no bones in their ankles. I reflected on my own attempts at the same pose, where one knee goes for the ceiling while the other is ground into the floor, causing no end of discomfort to ankles, groin, and even my back.  I can hold the pose for something like eight seconds on a good day, after which I let my legs spool out on the floor before me like the tired dogs they are.  “Do you think the Buddha actually sat like that, or is this the sculptor’s idea of what a hot-shot God-like dude should be able to do?  Maybe he was more into, you know, comfort.” 

I admit: I was throwing stones. Whenever I initiate discussions like this, Rebecca does a quick check to see that I haven’t been overheard by someone who might find it offensive—in which case she’ll step slightly away and act as though she doesn’t know me.  But if we’re alone, I can sometimes get her to think about it.

“I think the point of the whole thing is discomfort.  To be able to rise above the suffering.”  I considered the statue before us—the Mona Lisa/Sphinx-like gaze.  Clearly the dude was not showing any signs of distress.

“So, he creates a world of pain, just to show he’s able to not be bothered by it?”  I couldn’t help but reflect on my own rather wimpy response to pain that very morning, its ability to suck the life right out of me, and silently thanked God for giving us Tylenol. 

This wasn’t the first time I was confounded by Buddhism and its deceptively simple message.  After a good two and a half months in Southeast Asia, we’ve probably racked up in excess of two thousand Buddha sightings…enough to take it for granted.  And many other things as well: food roasting on the streets; tuk tuk drivers asleep in their vehicles under a late afternoon shade; brilliant curries and stir-fries; blood-red sunsets; monks in saffron robes.  The beauty of it all grows less startling, more abstract.  Easily quantified.  And so the tendency is to pack it up and search for new and more startling/exotic destinations. Different towns, faces, flora and fauna.  Places off the beaten path, less predictable.  The world beckons drug-like to try just a bit more; the next high will surely turn the key, and we’ll find ourselves able to bow before its many splendors in abject rapture.  Or not. It’s all potentially very discomfortable.

I awoke this morning without the need for pain killers and set off rather shakily for an early morning walk.  A couple of blocks from our guesthouse was a kiosk with the day’s papers stacked in front.  I didn’t see anything in English, but the man behind the counter ran into an adjoining building and came back with today’s Vientiane Times.  He followed me across the street to a small coffee shop so I could get him correct change, where I ordered a cup of coffee and decided to have a seat.  He sort of hovered around my table, and in broken English finally asked if he could sit down.  “If,” he stressed, “I do not disturb…”  He then went on to explain how much he wishes to improve on his English skills but lacks the chance to talk with foreigners like myself.  As we spoke, he kept looking across at his small kiosk, weighing, I suppose, the work waiting for him on his return, but deciding, rather, to continue with this enjoyable exchange.  Our talk was simple, centering on elemental aspects of personhood.  How many kids?  What is your work?  I sipped my coffee and enjoyed this man’s open curiosity, his desire to communicate. There was no rush, no objective, per se, other than this chance to celebrate the moment.   Finally, his phone rang and he excused himself.  We shook hands, and I watched as he made his way back to the kiosk.  After paying my bill, I continued down the street, oddly buoyed by the experience.

The writer John Steinbeck invokes a story (one which serves as a metaphor, I’m sure, for many a human foible) of a marine invertebrate so sensitive to the forces of its world that to gather it up requires the careful placing of a glass slide in the space just preceding its path.  Then to exercise patience while it crawls onto the plate before being lifted with care and placed in the jar.  Any rush or force on the part of the collector causes the organism to disintegrate, literally shattering this delicate creature’s world.

Just down the block from the coffee house I saw a mother and her young daughter patiently sweeping up a carpet of yellow flowers which had fallen through the night onto the sidewalk in front of their stall.  They slowly gathered them into a white plastic bucket and took turns dumping them into the street, the little girl carefully mirroring her mother’s actions, a most meaningless and startling sight.  But helpful.  A smile came to my lips as I looked out over the Mekong River, at Thailand on the far bank, and took in the early morning air. There were no monks in sight, no ornate red and gold temples, no Buddha’s.  Yet somehow, something fine and precious had crawled onto my glass.  I just hope I have the patience to gather it in.