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Here a Monk, There a Monk...

by Carol J. Nash

368 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #05-1230; ISBN 1-4120-6319-1; US$29.00, C$32.83, EUR23.50, £16.50

With six weeks to spare, return tickets to Thailand, a change of clothing and accomodation booked for the first night (or so they thought!), two intrepid, middle-aged, would-be backpackers boarded the plane...

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About the Book      About the Author      Excerpts      Catalogue Information

About the Book

With return tickets to Bangkok, a change of clothing and accommodation booked for the first night (or so we thought!), two intrepid, middle-aged, would-be backpackers boarded the plane…

With six weeks to spare, a couple of guidebooks and a craving for an adventure, we…

…travelled Thailand by boats, trains, planes, motorcycles, jeeps, buses, elephants and Shank’s pony…

… slept in tribal village huts, guesthouses, a hospital ward, the jeep, and found a home-away–from-home in a bamboo beach hut on the Andaman Coast…

…had close encounters with elephants, monkeys, snakes, birds, crocodiles and spiders, but missed the egg-laying turtle and the small furry thing that feasted on our fruit…

…met a diversity of people: the masked conductor; Long Neck women; Big Eared woman; tribal village chiefs; Mr. Happy; Terrible Tony; Dr. Doom; Supa the Silent One; the King President’s nutter and Evan the hungry monk…

…having had our fill of waterfalls, temples, caves and mountains, and overdosed on a surfeit of greenery, I fell in love with potbelly bins…

…Graham burnt in the sea; we sweated in the cities, froze in the mountains and survived a frenzied attack by giant hailstones…

… boiled eggs in the hot springs; ate dinner cooked by the opium-smoking village chief; dined on the beach; grazed from night markets and roadside stalls, and forgot all about sandwiches…

…discovered that Thailand is where distance means time; tea means anything from boiled up tree bark to chocolate-flavoured coffee; where anything we ordered meant chicken fried rice, and where ‘yes’ means ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘I don’t know’, or anything else in between!..

…from the beaches to the mountainous jungle regions; from the Himalayas to the mighty Mekhong River, we had an adventure almost every day…

…saw a profusion of golden spires; gleaming white marble; smoky incense; dragons; Buddhas of every size, in gold, emerald, stone and plaster, and came across monks where we least expected them…

old monks, boy monks, tall monks, short monks, Here a Monk, There a Monk... and I never, ever, touched a monk!

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About the Author

I was born in London, in 1954, and spent my childhood on a farm in Kent. Married to Graham, we have 4 grown-up children and seven grandchildren. In 1987 we left England with our four children, and all our worldly possessions, in a small yacht. We arrived in Gibraltar, and settled there for 12 years before relocating to Spain, where we currently live and work, operating a dolphin-watching business.

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Excerpts

Page 21 – 22

"What d’ya mean, I can’t go in?"

"Ohh! Gowwon, lemme in! Please? Look, I’m a tourist!" he tried, openly flaunting his Steven Spielberg sized movie camera right in front of the guard’s face.

"Oh, gowwon! Just for a minute? Please? I’ve come a long way to see this!"

The guard didn’t relent, and I was irrationally pleased that Mr. Big Gob wasn’t allowed in!

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Page 26 – 27

The toilet was easy to find. I just followed the smell to find a queue of people waiting outside a rickety, slatted wooden door whose plank ends were broken and rotted. Pinned to the door was a scruffy hand written notice,

Toilet

5B

The top of the door leaned inwards, and the bottom edge leaned out. The door was attached (just!) to an old slatted wooden hut, thatched with a roof of dried leaves. A plentiful supply of slurried mud abounded within a radius of about ten feet of the door, and the smell was appalling. Having spent most of my childhood on a small mixed farm, it would not have surprised me to see an old sow barge through the doorway, leaving splintered wood in it’s wake! As each successive person entered, 5 Baht was handed to the sprightly old lady who darted into the toilet after each third or fourth person, and threw a pot of water around!

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Page 156 –157

Although the travelling salesman had no postcards of the town that we were in, he managed to sell us one with a night photograph of somewhere that we couldn’t visit; a major town hundreds of miles away! I thought I would post it to our home address just to prove that we had visited Myanmar.

"Do you also sell stamps?" I asked.

"Yes, of course! I am prepared for every eventuality!" he answered, seriously. From the breast pocket of his shirt, he withdrew a few stamps and proceeded to try and separate them. The humidity had done its damage, the stamps had stuck together, but he was apparently quite skilled in matters such as this, and finally succeeded in peeling one off for us. Seeing that our stamp had now attached itself firmly to his clammy fingers, we suggested that maybe it would be best to stick it straight onto the postcard.

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Page 209

As we approached the wooden huts, and stalls, I relaxed; I could see something normal. Daily village life was happening: young, dark haired, dark eyed children were playing, running around and squealing; mothers called to them, keeping tabs on their whereabouts, while draping blankets over washing lines to air. A woman was pumping up water with her baby tied to her in a sarong. Although dressed traditionally, her neck was normal. A man dressed in a dark tee shirt and sarong was coming towards us, a toddler trotting to keep up with him. In front of him, the man pushed a long pole, with a wheel attached to the end. As we drew closer, we saw a sarong tied to the pole, attached like a hammock. A baby was swinging snugly in this primeval baby carriage: Daddy was taking his kids for a walk!

Normal life continued in the centre of the village where women stopped and chatted to each other in passing. Then I saw one, and another, and another! Women dressed in colourful costumes, wearing polished brass coils, one above the other, forming elegant, giraffe-like necks, representing something exotic and mysterious. They weren’t posing for us; they were doing ordinary things; cleaning, laundry, shopping and looking after kids! I let out an audible sigh of relief; I no longer felt tormented about this visit.

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Page 361-362

The brief respite from monkeys didn’t last. Within seconds, more appeared. Monkeys ambushed us at almost every step; they appeared from nowhere and everywhere. Why us? Why specifically me? We reached the bottom of the steep flight of 417 steps, and I vowed to count them just to check. One, two, three… try to shake off a monkey, seven, eight…finally detaching said monkey from my sleeve, but not liking the way it showed me its teeth.

"Get off me!" eleven, twelve, thirteen…

Attempting to shake another monkey off my leg, I hissed "Piss off will you!" seventeen, eighteen…Puff, pant, yes it was a steep climb, and I couldn’t believe I was so unfit. Graham was already some yards ahead, and above me! A steady trickle of monks passed me, some almost rushing up the steps. Some of them were even carrying sacks of cement on their shoulders, and steadily plodding up the steep incline. The monks were all young lads, some merely boys, but even they were strong enough to carry the fifty kilo sacks. Twenty-five? Twenty-six?

"Oh sod it! I give up!" I said, almost under my breath.

"Graham!" I wailed, "These monkeys won’t leave me alone!" He waited till I caught up with him, and snatched the empty plastic bag I still carried, stuffing it in his pocket.

"They think you’ve still got nuts!" he accused me, irritability shining through. "They obviously associate bags with food."

We continued the climb, but the monkeys didn’t give up, and at one stage, while we stopped to fight them off, a passing monk thrust his flip-flop sword-like at one, and then violently chucked his footwear at another! The higher we climbed the fewer, and less persistent, the monkeys became.

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Page 405-406

As we slowly progressed through the people, towards the hotel entrance, the mood seemed to change. Excitement moved through the crowd. Everyone suddenly became animated; crowd noise increased; kids were hoisted onto shoulders; necks lengthened and thousands of dark heads turned to look right.

"Got to see what’s happening!" shouted Graham. "Try and get to the front!"

Easier said than done, but I persisted, and almost reached the barriers at the front. I turned to see if Graham was behind me, but he’d managed to scramble part way up some scaffolding behind, and was getting the camera ready. An excited little Thai man was sitting on the pavement in front of me. He had a front row position that he’d probably queued hours for. He couldn’t sit still, and was squirming and wriggling like a toddler needing the toilet. He turned to me; his eyes alight with excitement, and said loud enough for those around me to hear,

"The King President is coming!"

He sprung to his feet, yelling, "The King President is coming!"

"Oh, yeah? Great!" I replied, grinning and trying to sound half as excited as him. I stood on tiptoes, and looked in the same direction as everyone else, but I couldn’t see anyone special, and I didn’t even know who or what, a King President was. Would I know him if I were to see him? A few people nearest me were giggling, and talking, nodding in the direction of my new acquaintance. I’d found a nutter! Or rather, the nutter had found me!

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Catalogue Information

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