October: Jesus and The Rent Boy

October, 1943
Chungkai Camp

And what of the year since my Angel put pen to paper? Has no word got through since then? Have the Nips not told anyone we are here? Goddamn them and Goddamn this war. I am not a soldier. I was never born to this and now I find I am a leader of men far braver than I shall ever expect to be.

Many of the other chaps have received letters and each shrank away into a quiet corner to read in peace, alone with their memories and with the inevitable grief, which we each feel every time we think of home. I could have wept for those who did not receive mail.

Muriel asks how we are. God forbid that she should ever know. How can I possibly convey to my dearest what it is like to be here? How could I do that to her, my sweet Angel? I can't describe to her the hell in which I find myself, or how far life has fallen since the day I waved goodbye to her two years ago, sailing away proudly, ready to fight for King and country. We all thought it would be over so quickly. Now, I'm not sure I will ever see her pretty, smiling face again. I want to believe it to be true, I really do, but part of me knows that fate will defy hope and so I dare not begin even to hope. I cannot face to have that taken from me also.

I have jaundice and a few septic spots but each appear to be clearing. I am thankful for small mercies since I have nothing more. The monsoon lasted a long time in these parts, far longer than we expected. It brought with it disease and death on a scale beyond imagining. One never knows how the Nips are going to react. I thought we'd get used to them, and them to us, but no, they remain a breed apart and reach sadistic depths I could not have believed possible. I know they keep letters for weeks before giving them to us. We see them being delivered and they make us wait, and wait, grinding our souls to pieces. They only give the letters to us eventually because it is decreed that they must.

Today Arthur learnt he has a son, born after we left. He is happy at the news, though his pain is also visible. Like him, we know not if he will see his new son but we are afraid to say what is in our thoughts. But a son! My word, what a blessing. I hope I too will one day have a son and that he is spared the hell of war.

The Nips still refuse to provide the basic medicines to cope with the malaria, which has swept through the camp, and they still refuse to allow us to build better latrines. No latrines but they deliver the mail.

The rains have flooded the camp and we have had to wade knee-deep in the overflow of excrement. For weeks we slept amongst stagnant water which contained the remnants of our own sewage as the rain continued its downpour, the dampness hanging in our lungs with the weary falling into sickness and the sick dying. And still, the Nips worked us, day and night. No work, no food.

Dysentery and fever are rife. The Nips have taken our clothes, our boots, all our belongings and we fall like swatted flies. If we don't bow to the Nips, they beat us and if we try to protect ourselves from the blows, a group of them beats us and we end up in the camp hospital. They stub cigarettes out on us and our flesh grows septic in the heat and damp. Our food consists of a pathetic amount of rice and occasional leaves and if we feint from hunger we are punished, left to stand for hours in the blistering sun, or, of late, left for days in a bamboo cage, drenched in the monsoon rain which beats down on our weary bodies day and night, left without food or water and regularly thumped in the body with the rifle-butt of a passing Nip. This life is breaking me.

I can't tell you all this, Muriel. I can't shatter your belief in the ultimate goodness of man. I can't shatter your belief in God. My own belief has not been shattered. Shattered is not the word. My own belief has been slowly and painfully peeled away like a sun-burnt skin being picked piece by piece from a screaming man until finally, only the raw unprotected flesh remains and the man is left at the mercy of every grain of salt, every sting of a whip, every infection and every injustice a living soul could possibly encounter.

Some of the lads go to a service each Sunday in the camp. I am jealous of their faith, knowing my religion is lost. Forgive me, Muriel, for speaking like this, but faith has left me. The inhuman sights I have witnessed, the barbarism we have endured and the relentless stench of death in the air cannot be overseen by any god that I have known. No god I have known could inflict this. No higher plan made by a benevolent being could have included this. Here lives only chaos. Bleak, tortuous, sickening chaos.


October
Wat Pah Chatanan
I’ve been here nearly a month now. I like it here and it’s great to see Antony, if a little odd, but I’m home sick. It’s been hard enough adjusting to Thailand, but being thrown into a monastery as well has been a lot to get used to all at once. I don’t think Antony realises that and I imagine he’s forgotten what life back in England is like. Not much happens here. It’s not a “doing” place, it’s a “being” place and that takes a while to adjust to.

I’m spending time with Antony though, even if I didn't catch him after the meal this morning. When I went to look for him I was told by another monk that he'd gone into the town with the Abbot. Didn’t say why.

I'm slowly getting used to being around monks but they’re so sombre and lacking in expression. They don't smile back when you greet them and most of them don't even acknowledge you are there. I walked passed one this morning, said “Hello”, smiled at him and got nothing in reply, not even a nod. His expression didn’t even change. They’re even worse than the old Yorkshire men back home who might give a slight dip of the head as you pass, if you’re lucky. At least I know what they mean by it. They mean, “Hello, how are you doing, haven’t seen you for a while but it’s good to see you even if I’m too embarrassed to say it, so be grateful I even nodded.” It’s like an ancient code that only Yorkshire folk understand and we ridicule outsiders for being too thick to grasp the finer nuances of it. But this lot? I haven’t a clue what to make of them. They just make me feel awkward, like I'm an alien or something, which is a bit rich since they’re the ones who look like they’ve just stepped off a ruddy space ship.

The other morning, I went for a walk on my own when I found out Antony wasn’t about. Not knowing my way round and concerned that I'd wander into somewhere I wasn't meant to and break yet another rule, I decided to follow part of the route we had taken the other day, round the perimeter wall. On the way out of the gate, I bumped into Mae Li, the Thai woman who’s been looking after my room. She’s been sweeping it most days and yesterday placed fresh flowers on the shrine.

Mae Li was wearing a white blouse, flower-print sarong, enormous black Wellington boots that drowned her knees and ankles, and a crumpled, golden straw hat that looked like it had seen more of life than even Mae Li had. She was beaming her infectious smile at me and her small dark, wet eyes twinkled with life as she chattered away in Thai to me, bowing and placing her hands together, in a greeting which I returned and which only made her smile even more. She grabbed my arm with her wrinkled hands and looked earnestly into my face as she again rattled something off in Thai. I love Mae Li’s face. It’s all happy, craggy and full of laughter lines which gather round her eyes and her cheeks. Wrinkly, twinkly, kind Mae Li.

I assumed she wanted to know where I was going, so I waved in the vague direction of the path ahead.

“I’m going for a walk,” I told her, shouting like an idiot and pointed up the path. This made her turn and look to where I was pointing. Seeing nothing, she looked back at me and grinned again, quizzically this time, twisting her eyebrows and clearly thinking this English woman was mad. Thais don’t go for walks.

“Why are you going up a path that leads to nowhere only to be burnt by the hot sun?” her face said.

But that’s what the British do, isn’t it? Go for walks to nowhere.

Mae Li bowed again, polite as ever.

"Sawat di kha," she beamed as she shuffled away, her straw hat hiding her tight black curls. After a few paces, she paused and turned back to face me. She took a deep breath, giggled endearingly and then, thrilled at herself for summoning up the courage, said in unpracticed English,

"Hello, Miss," and her wide-mouthed grin revealed an array of gappy teeth, blackened from an addiction to betel nuts.

Then she turned, chuckled to herself so her shoulders shook and shuffled off up the dusty path, a vision of fashion in sarong, sun hat and Wellington boots.

Once again, the morning was beautiful and the breeze gently whispered through the rice fields that brushed along one side of the path. To my right was the wall of the monastery about six feet high with long grasses and foliage that had begun to creep over the top. It was not an unfriendly wall, it simply defined a place. I liked Thailand and despite the uniqueness and strangeness of my surroundings, I was enjoying getting used to it all. I still missed friends though and I wished I could phone someone, just to see how they were and to tell them what I’d been up to. I’ve written a few letters but I know they take ages to get through and I haven’t received any from home yet. I was beginning to feel very cut off and the wall running alongside me had reminded me of that.

As I walked, a butterfly chased the breeze in front of me, it’s colourful red, orange and white wings flicking their way through the hot air. I was following its progress when I became aware of the faint sound of someone singing. A boyish, deep voice, trying to sing high and coming from the other side of the wall. The singer obviously thought he was completely alone and he was singing without inhibition and way off key.

"The finger of blame has turned upon itself," he yelled. "And I am more than willing to offer myself."

It was awful and I couldn't help but laugh out loud, having to cover my mouth to stop from being heard.

"Do you want my presence or need my help,” and then for the high pitched finish, "I FALL, at, your, fee - ee - eet,” and with that the singer came flying over the wall and crashed to the ground only missing landing on top of me by inches.

I fell over as I jumped out of the way and landed on my bum in the dirt. I don't know who was more stunned.

"OH SHIT!," he shouted, as he realised what he’d done. He was a monk, I think. He was wearing white Nike trainers on his bare feet and was listening to an MP3 player. The ear-pieces were still stuffed in his ears with the music still playing. Very loudly. It was Amaro in what looked like an orange, off-the-shoulder shift dress.

“JEEZ, ARE YOU OK?!" he shouted, forgetting he was still wearing the ear-pieces.

"I think so," I managed. "Are you?"

He clicked the music off and took out the ear-pieces, a slightly concerned look in his gentle, muscled features.

"What was that?" he asked, more quietly.

"I said are you OK?" I repeated.

"Me? I'm fine. Hey, look," and, to prove the point, he leapt lightly to his feet and jogged on the spot.

"I can't offer to help you up, rules is rules and all that,” he added, playfully in his Australian lilt, his face now full of sunshine, and him still jogging on the spot.

Was it me, or did no one else think that behaviour here was a little weird. Who the hell was this guy and what sort of a bloody monk was it who leapt over garden walls singing to Crowded House when surely he should be meditating in a quiet hut somewhere or sweeping leaves or chanting - or something! He wasn’t like any monk I’d known before.

"I've shocked you, haven't I?" He continued when I didn’t respond.

He was astute.

I remained sitting in the dust, looking up.

"Not what you need, I imagine. This place is rough enough without you being shaken to your boots by a leap-frogging, screeching baldy like me. Am I right?"

I nodded, still unable to make decent conversation with the screeching baldy. He wasn’t as skinny as Tikaro, or Antony come to that, and thankfully, unlike Tikaro, he talked a lot.

And, he was still bloody jogging.
.
"Finding it a little tough, huh? All this “monky” stuff? Hey, you should try living here for keeps!"

He finally stopped jogging.

Amaro moved swiftly between the roles of cheerful clown and caring counsellor. The cheerful clown tended to gesture with his arms a lot and be very animated while the caring counsellor clasped his hands sensitively in front of him, leaning his head on one side, listening with genuine concern. He was in cheerful clown mode at the moment.

Arms open in an expansive gesture that took in the place he now called home, Amaro said, "I'm only teasing. It's hard sometimes here, but I wouldn't change it.” Then, looking directly at me, “You’ve come to spread your Uncle’s ashes haven’t you?” he asked. “At the River Kwai.”

I nodded.

“Wow, what an honour.”

I suppose it was. I hadn’t really thought of it like that. I thought of it as a duty.

“I’ve come here to find Antony first,” I explained. “We’re going together. I’ve been reading about the river and the bridge in my guide book.” And then, nervously, I added, “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“I know,” said Amaro, nodding gently. “Your brother told me.”

For a few moments there was silence between us and I realised how much warmth I felt coming from this unexpected new friend. A young, toned-up, tough boy, living in a surreal world of monks, meditation and monsoons.

"So, you're a monk too, are you?" I mustered the obvious, dying to know how he could get away with the trainers and the music.

"Not strictly, I'm a novice,” he explained in caring counsellor role. “Which means I get to wear the funky robe but I haven't taken all the vows that Thanavaro has. This is my summer wardrobe.” And he gave an accomplished mock-curtsey as he showed off his dress. “I'm supposed to get ordained next Pansa."

I raised an eyebrow, bewildered. More strange words.

"Right," he laughed with affection. "You're new at all this aren't you? Pansa is the rains retreat which we have every year during the monsoon. Three months of strict meditation, routine and achy knees. But, I suppose it's good for me."

"Will you ordain?" I asked as I got to my feet and dusted myself down.

"Straight for the Achilles!" he called out and began to gesticulate again, swiping one palm against the other. "I hope to, but I almost left after Pansa this year. Packed my bags, dug out my old trousers and booked a ticket to Bangkok."

"What stopped you?"

"Your brother."

I'm sure he knew this would surprise me since the arms had dropped and he’d gone into counsellor mode again, watching my reaction with his head on one side.

"He's an angel, your brother. He can see when a hard time is just a hard time and he knew I didn't want to leave really, I'd just had enough."

"Seems a good enough reason to me."

"You are new at this!"

He'd lost me, but I liked him already and felt I'd found a friend.

"It must be hard for you here, “ he said. “I find it difficult too. People expect just because we're all monks and all westerners, that we should get on, but why should we? We're thrown together in the middle of the jungle in a foreign country, each of us with our own individual struggle and journey, each with our own hang ups and insecurities, and then we wonder why sometimes it doesn't seem to work."

"So why do it, then? Why be here?" I offered.

He paused before responding, gently,

"Why not? Is your world any better? Look around you,” he went on. “It's beautiful here, the people are beautiful and where else in the world can you go where all it is the people want to do is to live life with a good heart. Nothing else. They just want to be good. Is that so strange?"

He spoke with an integrity I had not yet come across in anyone, here or at home. So wise yet so young.

"Aren't you breaking the rules by being alone with a woman?"

"Yes,” came the frank reply. “But I wasn't expecting to bump into anyone and, anyway, I'm a novice so they shouldn't be too hard on me."

This I realised straight away, was an endearing, blatant and feeble excuse. I'd rapidly learnt that he was wearing a robe and that was what mattered. He shouldn’t be breaking any rules, novice or no novice.

“And you like Crowded House,” I said.

“Sure do, although some of the other monks think I shouldn’t be listening to music. Not very monky of me.” Amaro was young but the head on his shoulders and his view of the world was very old. I wondered where he’d got it from.

“Why can’t you listen to music?”

“We can, but it’s supposed to be music that’s appropriate to our way of life as a monk.”

“And Crowded House isn’t?” I asked.

“It is for me. It helps me work out a whole heap of stuff but some of the others don’t see it like that. I checked it with the Abbot though and what the Main Man says, goes.”

“And they’re Australian like you,” I quipped, referring again to the band.

“You Pommie!” he fired back, good naturedly. “They’re Irish Catholic New Zealanders! You all make that mistake!”

I managed a smile for him, grateful for his kindness and for his vain attempt to make me laugh.

"I'll let you finish your walk alone, " he said, looking serious again. "But no more motorbikes, eh? Tikaro and your brother got into trouble for that." And he pointed his finger at me, sternly.

"I thought it was allowed!" I protested on their behalf.

"It wasn't the bike thing that was the problem. They missed tea with the Abbot, that was the problem!” and I realised he’d been teasing me. “I doubt "Riding a Harley with my little Pommie sister" is a reasonable excuse for missing one of the Main Man’s invaluable talks to the Sangha."

Amaro rolled his eyes at himself, hands on hips, beginning to jog slowly on the spot again.

"Now that was a bit bitchy of me. Right thought, right speech, Amaro!" and he looked at me with a "you-won't-tell-on-me-will-you" kind of a face. "But hey, I'm still only a novice," he finished.

Before he left, I asked him if he knew when Antony would be back from wherever he’d gone. He didn't but said he and Tikaro would come and visit in the afternoon for tea.

"Don't worry if Thanavaro's gone a while," he reassured me, seemingly knowing something I didn’t. "He will be back."

I wasn't worried, just re-adjusting.

Amaro jogged off after giving me some directions for cutting through the monastery grounds without stumbling into the monks sleeping quarters. He pointed me towards the Outside Sala, a meditation room on the edge of the forest. It wasn't what I expected but I was learning that not much about Thailand was ever what I expected.

The Outside Sala was outside. Strange that. It was a building with no walls, only pillars and a high ceiling. To one end there was the now familiar sight of a shrine from where Buddha looked over me as I knelt self-consciously before him in this mysteriously moving place. The Sala was completely open to the breeze. It had no inside and I felt uniquely vulnerable as I lifted my head to gaze at the shrine and became aware that something other than me had entered.

It felt eerie but safe.

As I knelt there I could hear the breeze in the grass and in the nearby trees and although I was sheltered from the rays of the sun, I could feel its heat as it climbed into the clear sky and began its daily duty of scorching the earth. Apart from that, there was nothing. Just Buddha and me. And still they looked at me, those incredible, penetrating eyes, piercing my soul and cradling my heart as I knelt there for about half an hour. Half an hour that was a lifetime and a fleeting moment.

As I left the Outside Sala, I noticed the shed skin of a visiting snake lying intact by the steps leading away into the forest.

*****


October
Wat Pah Chatanan


Tikaro and Amaro did come for tea. We sat outside next to my kuti for hours and we chatted easily about all sorts. They were lovely company and they’re helping me to get used to being here. Amaro sat like a young, solid oak tree and told tales of a painful, glorious life before Buddhism while Tikaro perched like a quiet willow, listening to it all before calmly interjecting a thoughtful observation on whatever was being said. It was clear that these two liked each other and were friends, but it was also clear that they wound each other up. Amaro would get annoyed because he seemed to think Tikaro was judging him simply by being silent and would get irritated when Tikaro disagreed with something he said, and Tikaro would then retreat further into silence, unable to articulate his frustration at being misinterpreted. And hence, the spiral continued.

“You don’t agree with me do you, Tikaro?” said Amaro to his orange-robed friend.

“About what?”

“About what I was just talking about.” He’d been talking about the life he’d lived before becoming a monk.

Tikaro just looked into the air, trying to remember what it was that Amaro had been talking about when in fact all he’d been doing was sitting and staring into space, lost in his own thoughts.

“I . . . “ he stumbled, trying to think of a reply but seemed to get lost between not wanting to offend Amaro by admitting he hadn’t actually been listening and defending himself against being accused of not agreeing, when in fact he might agree with Amaro, if only he knew what it was he’d said.

Amaro just took offence.

“You lived a sheltered life, didn’t you Tikaro, before joining us here,” he said, sarcastically.

Right thought, right speech Amaro!

Amaro had been talking about the sex trade in Bangkok and how different cultures reacted to it. He’d also admitted to learning a few secrets of that trade himself and clearly felt that Tikaro disapproved.

“S’pose so,” replied Tikaro, looking confused, his mouth closed tight, glumly over his two front teeth, his eyes looking lost through his large, black rimmed glasses.

“Suppose so what?” fired Amaro, more like an unfriendly friend than a clown or counsellor.

“S’pose I did have a sheltered life.”

And Amaro didn’t have a reply.

The sheltered life that Tikaro led before he joined the monastery was spent in Savannah, Georgia, a quaint, straight-laced town where his father was a school head and his mother a school head’s wife. The only challenge that Tikaro had ever made to his parent’s authority was buying a Harley Davidson. It didn’t go down well with his parents who equated the purchase of a motorbike with a pact with the devil and thought their precious son had been brainwashed by the local chapter of Confederate flag-waving Hell’s Angels. All it proved was just how little they knew their son. All Tikaro wanted to do was ride a Harley.

Tikaro was one of two sons. Up until a few years ago he’d followed the path laid down for him at birth. He did what was expected of him, went to high school, went to college and was aiming for medical school when he told them he’d become a Buddhist. They were appalled, thinking he’d joined some strange religious sect. They were worried that he’d been brainwashed and that he’d have to give over the large financial fund they’d set up for him as a child. When he came to Thailand to ordain as a monk, they disinherited him and broke all contact with him.

“Been easier if you’d been one of them there gays,” was one of the last things his father had told him before he left the States. “Thought that was why you ain’t never brought no girl home.”

His mother had said nothing at all and simply wept, silently.

“My brother writes,” Tikaro explained in his drawn out, sad and distant way. “I get to know what’s goin’ on, but it ain’t the same. I’d like them to visit but I guess that ain’t never gonna happen.”

I asked Tikaro what had made him become a monk. I was intrigued by how a boy from Forrest Gump land had ended up being interested in the faith of a completely foreign culture. He looked at the floor for a long while and then at his hands and I began to think that he hadn’t heard the question. Then I noticed that his down turned Goofy Jesus face was a picture of concentration and I realised he was thinking hard about his reply. Amaro sat with me, patiently awaiting Tikaro’s thoughtful answer. When he eventually stirred and lifted his head to look up at us, all he said was,

“I guess I don’t know.”

It was a reply which surprised all of us, not least Tikaro himself.

Amaro however was more sure about what had made him join the monastery. He’d been brought up in a children’s home, where he’d been regularly beaten up and assaulted by the other kids and, just for good measure, sexually assaulted by the staff. At fifteen, he ran away and lived hand to mouth on the Sydney streets for a year, finally ending up as a rent boy. Early one morning, when he’d been up all night and had collapsed on the street after taking too many chemicals, an Australian Buddhist monk on alms round found him and took him back to the friends’ house he was visiting in the centre of the city. The friends fed Amaro and looked after him. When the monk went back to his monastery outside Sydney, he took Amaro with him and in return for his keep, Amaro worked for them, cooking meals, tending the garden and cleaning. He lived with the monks for three years, learned to meditate and soaked up their way of life.

“I learned a whole new way to be,” he explained. “But I still don’t know why it was the Ajahn chose me.”

He became a novice in Australia and the monks sent him to Thailand a year later.

“And what do you know?” he piped, arms outstretched, beaming. “Here I am!”

Jesus and the Rent Boy. What a pair.

"Has the Abbot been enlightened? I asked them, naively as it turned out and I immediately regretted it. Amaro and Tikaro said nothing, they just glanced nervously at each other. It was clearly another rule I’d unwittingly broken. Neither of them seemed to know how to respond to a question that to me seemed perfectly understandable but appeared never to have been asked of them before.

"I thought that was the whole point,” I added, searchingly.

"Enlightenment isn't really talked about," said Amaro with deliberation, his serious counsellor head firmly back in place. "How would you describe it? You can't, it's like explaining what the colour blue is like, or asking you what a banana tastes like. Until you've experienced it you can't understand the description."

"But surely you want to know if your teacher has got it right, is worth his salt?"

Tikaro fidgeted. My question had rattled him.

"But then we'd be looking for fault,” continued the wise Amaro, old for his years. “It’s like looking for a chink when all we should be doing is concentrating on our own practice. Why should I be concerned about what someone else has achieved or not achieved?"

"An' if I find out he hasn't been enlightened," piped up Tikaro, "Does that mean I should stop trying, or stop being a monk?"

I wasn’t convinced by the reply but being the new girl, I went along with it.

Later, on our own for a few minutes while Amaro had gone back to the kitchen to find more tea, Tikaro also confided that he had had a hard time with himself since our Harley ride.

"Y'know, I jus' loved my Harley so much," he drawled. "An' being reminded of that thrill an' all, I didn't want it to end. I craved more, an' that's not good. Not good at all."

I suppose sheer, self-indulgent fun wasn't what they were aiming for here but I could also tell that his Harley had been Tikaro’s only ever taste of independence.

Antony didn't come back to the monastery until late so I didn't see him until the next day. I didn’t really like him not being around, but that was how it was. The boys left after a couple of hours and I sat down with my book, War and Peace, which I was determined to read once in my life, and as I read, I waited for the sun to set. I'd got into a routine of sorts. Getting up early, going to the meal in the morning, seeing Antony when I could, taking a walk, reading, writing cards and then coming back for tea.

I don't need to see Antony all the time but I would like to see him more. I wonder what he gets up to with the Abbot when they’re in town and why so many visits, why him and not the others? I realised I was lonely and so, to kill time, one day I too decided to venture into town myself and caught the bus into Ubon. The bus was a simple open truck with wooden benches in the back. Everyone climbed in and when it got full, they hung off the back or scrambled onto the roof. Often, someone loaded a bale of hay on or some produce they wanted delivering and the driver would drop it off for them. I spent most of the trip sharing a bench with a dustbin full of ice that was being delivered to a local restaurant.

The school kids got on the same bus as me and stared. One small boy stared for a whole twelve minutes. I timed him as he sat opposite me about two feet away, staring into my face, innocent eyes wide, not smiling, not frowning, just staring. They all looked very smart in their white shirts, khaki shorts and black plimsoles and they chattered away, occasionally looking over to me and whispering amongst themselves. Eventually, one of them brokered the courage to speak to me.

"Wat Pah Chatanan," he said, and at first I struggled to understand. I'd only heard westerners say it.

"Wat," he repeated, pointing to where we'd just come from.

"Wat Pah Chatanan," he said again and then pointed at me. "Wat Pah Chatanan."

"Yes,” I replied, assuming, arrogantly, that he could speak English. “That’s right, Wat Pah Chatanan, I've come from Wat Pah Chatanan. My brother is a monk there.”

And then, thinking he was up for a chat and feeling incredibly relieved that I’d found a local who spoke my language, I asked what his name was. All I got in return was a mute, polite smile and a small Thai boy nodding to me, pretending he’d understood what I’d said when clearly he hadn’t at all. I realised, with embarrassment, my mistake and resorted to common ground again.

"Wat Pah Chatanan," I nodded at him.

"Wat Pah Chatanan," he nodded back and smiled, happy to have received a comprehensible response, and was rapidly followed by his school friends who nodded and smiled at me too before all calling out in an overwhelming chorus of grinning faces,

“Wat Pah Chatanan! “Wat Pah Chatanan!”

“Wat Pah Chatanan!” I sang back.

“Wat Pah Chatanan! Wat Pah Chatanan!”

Wat Ba Ba Loo Bop, Wat Bam Boo.

Shake, rattle and roll all the way to town.

Ubon, like Bangkok, was dusty and dirty. Cars screamed past on the pot-holed roads throwing fumes and grime into the shops and onto the many roadside food stalls. I enjoyed wandering round the town and trying to negotiate the prices of things in the shops. It was fun getting used to a different way of life.

As I was leaving the indoor market, a bustling, busy, loud colourful arrangement of stalls selling fresh fruit, vegetables and what seemed like half-alive meat and fish, I thought I caught a glimpse of my brother through the throng of market goers. He was getting out of a mini-bus with the Abbot at the gates of a large, white building down the hill on the far side of the dusty road. There was a group of three Thai men waiting for them on the steps of the entrance and each bowed in greeting as the two monks approached. I blinked as the bright sunlight hit my eyes, not sure if it was him but soon saw from the familiar posture and uneasy way he wore his robe, that it was indeed Antony.

Something however, stopped me from calling out or running over to them. I have no idea what it was that kept me rooted to my spot with shoppers and traders scurrying past me, some bumping into me, some pausing to stare at me, some grinning, but I think I knew that whatever my brother was up to, I was not invited. It was like watching him caught on camera on a silent screen without him knowing he had an audience.

I watched Antony gracefully accept the greetings from the Thai men and then follow the Abbot as they were both shown into the building, a door pulled open for them by their hosts as they entered. The Thais wore some sort of uniform and as they, too, disappeared into the building, the sun caught the glass of the doorway as it slowly fell closed. A Tuk-Tuk sped past kicking dust up at the pavement where I stood and when I was able to open my eyes again, the scene in my own little mini-film had finished. Antony had gone. That brief glimpse into the life he led when I wasn’t around had ended and I was left with my shopping. Two ripe bananas and some watermelon.

Where had they been going, I wondered? And what was that building?

A woman behind me, who had emerged from the market building, loudly spat some juice from the betel nuts she’d been chewing into a plastic bag and it shook me back to the here and now. I’d ask Antony about it later I thought, and wandered further into town, eventually finding a tiny, regional tourist office which sold postcards I could send home, one for Captain Archie, another each to the girls and one to the Boatyard and Joe.

As I wrote, the woman I’d seen at the airport also came into my mind again. I could remember her smile and her dark black hair. I also began to think about going to the River Kwai. It was time to start planning, to sort things out with Antony about exactly when and how we were going to get there and where we would stay.
Strangely, despite the fact that we would be scattering the ashes of our dead uncle, I was looking forward to it. It would be a chance to be alone with Antony and to share some rare time with him. I didn’t get that very often. I knew too, that I couldn’t face scattering the ashes alone. Tough as I have had to be, I would find that too hard.