Call of the Bell Bird

by Jennifer Kavanagh

  While we were in New Zealand we had been invited to go to an evening run by the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom (WILPF), whose guest speaker was to talk about East Timor and the work she was doing there. Anna was, off her own bat, making an attempt to help the beleaguered inhabitants of East Timor after the end of the civil war. Finding that one need was for water pumps, she had advertised for them, and tracked down so many that she had to ask the New Zealand navy to take them out. Her current search was for cattle. The retreating armies had burnt and destroyed everything in their path, so much of the livestock in East Timor had been destroyed. She was sending out a bull and several cows, and was looking for funding for it. All gave without hesitation, and Stephen and I, captivated by her independent spirit, asked if we might be of any help.

  We discussed teaching English, and the possibility of microcredit. We worked out that by skipping the next stage of our journey – Thailand – and breaking in to our time in India, we could spend perhaps 12 weeks there. We did a lot of research, emailing contacts – Quakers and others – in East Timor, and found that the overland journey to Darwin would actually cost us more than the flight from there to East Timor and the change to our existing flight plans – going via Bali to India. Anna had been scathing about the bigger agencies, especially the UN, whose staff she said lived luxuriously and expensively and who operated bureaucratically, and we found a similar negative response from official channels that we approached. East Timor had, we were told, chosen Portuguese as its official language, so English was not wanted, and in any case the agencies were beginning to withdraw. We did, however, have a warm invitation from a junior minister in East Timor, who asked if we might teach at his daughter’s school. This research took up a lot of time and emotional energy during our time in Australia, but in the end we decided that we would not be able to go for long enough to make a real difference – the drawback of the kind of travel that we were doing. Easy to feel that we might go there for a longer time once we got back to England, but it’s a very long way.

  It was a reluctant decision, and we both felt upset about it. I wondered if we had succumbed to caution partly because, after nearly three months, we had got too used to First World comfort. I had certainly been apprehensive about the idea of East Timor; felt we had less energy – was I getting tired of travel? With some of the most exciting places to come – India and Mongolia – I hoped not.

  Stephen said as we left that our time in Australia had been like a course at Woodbrooke, the British Quaker study centre: a concentration of time with Quakers – perhaps that’s right. It certainly accounts for the feeling that we were not in a foreign country. The time in Canada, New Zealand and Australia, loving though it was, didn’t feel like being abroad.

  Chapter 10

  Silence in Bangkok

  There is nothing in the world that resembles God so much as silence

  Eckhart

  Chiangmai was probably the most tourist-ridden town of our journey.

  We had taken the train north from Bangkok in my perennial search for tranquillity, but had found a town full of bars and restaurants with English names – home from home with cheap beer – and young people who, a generation ago, would have been found on a Greek island. Though we did manage to find little stalls selling noodles and a workshop where a man painstakingly rewound armatures, such traditional sights were squeezed in among a myriad signs for guest houses, treks and tours. Even in the wats (temples) there was little tranquillity to be found; rarely any garden in which to sit. On one occasion after a tentative approach, in suitably modest garb, I was chased out of the grounds of one by an irate elderly monk, whether because I was a visitor or a woman I didn’t gather. It didn’t say much for his loving kindness. That night I read in the journal of a young woman who came to live in Thailand the comment by an Australian monk: “The connections you don’t see are the deepest.” Well, they felt pretty deep at that moment.

  It was also the first time we had come across a dirty hotel: despite pretty teak rooms, the bedding was filthy, and the pillow under the slip unspeakable.

  So, after a day or so, at odds with both the place and with Stephen, I was catapulted into action and took off on my own, heading for Wat Phra That Si Chom Thong, a Buddhist monastery I had read about which was a couple of hours away by bus. I had not booked; I was unsure whether I would be accepted. I had read that the course in Vipassana meditation required visitors to attend for a minimum of ten days, and I could only stay for four. Thankfully, I was accepted without question.

  I worshipped Him the oftenest that I could, keeping my mind in His holy Presence, and recalling it as often as I found it wandered from Him. I found no small pain in this exercise, and yet I continued it, notwithstanding all the difficulties that occurred, without troubling or disquieting myself when my mind had wandered involuntarily. I made this my business, as much all the day long as at the appointed times of prayer; for at all times, every hour, every minute, even in the height of my business, I drove away from my mind everything that was capable of interrupting my thought of GOD.

  Brother Lawrence

  So, another world, and peace and quiet at last. The wat boasts a gilded Burmese chedi (stupa) built in 1451 and a sixteenth century Burmese-style bot (sanctuary) with lovely carved wooden eaves. The compound also contains a meditation hall, a dining area and dozens of little meditation huts, in one of which I was billeted. I had a sleeping mat on the floor, a fan, even a chair, plus my own bathroom. There were several Westerners in the wat, together with about forty nuns, in white, and as many monks, in orange robes, all with shaved heads. I was taken under the wing of Jodi, a Canadian lay woman who was based at the wat much of the year, shown where to go, and lent a timer for my meditation.

  It was to make contact with a Buddhist culture that I had come to Thailand but these were some of the toughest few days of my life. Dressed in the white trousers and tunic of novice nuns, we were required to rise at 4 a.m., breakfast at 6, lunch at 11.30, and eat nothing further till the next day, though drinks were allowed. We were requested not to sleep during the day, not to read, write, make phone calls, listen to the radio or music, and to talk as little as possible. Certainly meals were in silence. There really was little that we could do except meditate, and it was in fact the case that any conversation I had did interfere with my attention during meditation.

  The aim of the training was mindfulness: to live in the present, pay attention to what we were doing: in the words of Brother Lawrence, the seventeenth-century monk whose book I carried round the world: follow “The Practice of the Presence of God” in all that we did. An active title for an active expression of our faith. The form it took in this temple was individual repetitive and timed meditation, walking or sitting slowly and mindfully, stopping to acknowledge any distraction such as an awareness of the senses or a movement of thought. Ten minutes walking; ten minutes sitting, then starting all over again. Gradually the sessions were built up until each was for half an hour and included some variations. Each morning we met alone with a supervisor, in my case a kindly but meticulous young Canadian man. Slow mindful activity, trying not to notice out of the corner of the eye the other white-clad wraiths moving slowly around the meditation hall. I often found it easier to do it in my room.

  All the meditators acknowledged the toughness of what we were doing – the aching back, constant sleepiness, despair at achieving anything, the wish to run away. After hours of meditation, I found myself deeply resistant, pushing myself further, through a barrier, and sometimes into mystical awareness: an intensification of normal life. One morning, falling about with tiredness, I forced myself on, coming to a point when I cried and wanted to give up altogether. Forcing myself further, I found myself in a timeless place, breath quickened, gold covering all. This time I cried with gratitude, knew experientially what I have read about so often. I immediately began another round and the walking exercise was imbued with a new intensity. Then all faded and was as b
efore. When I reported the experience the next morning, I was reminded of the importance of transience, that I must not hang onto it. Indeed, I had already returned to the humdrum and the fatigue.

  The experience was painful not only because of frustration and the stamina, patience and humility that was demanded, but because I had done my knee in on a hired bike in Chiangmai and was finding kneeling or sitting cross-legged – the required postures – well nigh impossible. By the end of the four days, my knee was seriously disabled, painful even when I was trying to sleep, and caused me a good deal of trouble for several months.

  Despite the cold, lack of sleep, lack of food and the general strangeness – being worried that I would inadvertently offend some sensibility – I did not feel edgy or anxious, but quite tranquil much of the time. Though usually rather dependent on food, I didn’t actually get hungry. Jodi, the guardian angel of the visitors, made it her mission to bring us each a hot soya drink from one of the stalls outside the wat each night, even in the pouring rain.

  I learnt a lot about myself, and was able to learn a good deal about Thai Buddhism too. I did find it sexist: the monks, even the young boys, were arrogant and the nuns barely considered. When we had a general gathering one evening, the monks sat on a raised dais; at the front sat the male visitors, behind them the nuns, and behind them, the female visitors. We were there to repeat eight precepts including one against the use of bad language. So unmindful was I on leaving that I slipped down the wet marble steps, swearing “Shit” as I did so, and left my key in the door all night.

  I also had a problem with any form of chanting – I do not repeat words that do not come from my heart – and especially with obeisance. On one occasion I was invited to share the leaving ceremony of another visitor. It took the form of an audience with the head monk, a much revered man called Ajahn Thong. To my horror, everyone began to prostrate themselves. I sat with eyes cast down, my hands together in a wai, and hoped I would not be noticed, though it was plain that the abbot’s eyes were on me.

  I later explained my predicament to my supervisor. I explained that Quakers have a testimony to equality which means we will not bow to any person, and that people had gone to prison in the seventeenth century for not taking their hat off to the king. My explanations were accepted – they would not have been happy with an explanation that spoke of mere pride on my part (though I confess now that pride did play a part!), and at my own leaving do I simply sat as I had done before. We were asked to reaffirm the eight precepts, but, since I was expected to carry away with me obedience to those principles, I only repeated those I was happy to live with. I did not, therefore, swear not to sing or dance, nor did I agree not ever to sleep on a high bed. But I did agree not to harm living creatures. I have since become a vegetarian and avoid killing insects, though I was interested to find that some of the monks and nuns ate meat.

  Beth was an English nun whose cheerfulness and friendly smile came as a welcome contrast to the often sombre and reserved natures of the others. Her shaved head distinguished her from other Westerners, and her white skin from the other nuns. Although we were bidden to speak as little as possible, she entered freely into conversation with me on several occasions. She told me that she had originally come to the monastery to teach English, and had been invited to stay on to take orders. Her obedience as a nun did not lead her to be uncritical of what she found in the monastery. She felt that the sexism I had noticed was not inherent in Buddhism, but was an overlay from Thai culture. In Thailand nuns are not able to profess to the same level as the monks. She was hoping for a transfer to Singapore or elsewhere where she could take further vows. Ajahn Thong was her direct supervisor, and she found the division between human being and establishment figure fascinating. She had little time for externals. She was also attracted by Daoism and planned to learn Mandarin, and see if she will be permitted to mix Buddhism with Dao.

  I asked why she was attracted to Eastern religions. She said she was suspicious of anything smacking of Romanism, that the Eastern religions and languages had lasted for thousands of years and, while they were still there, she wanted to explore them. We talked of the authenticity of texts, of reincarnation, and made a brief mention of non-attachment – I had been astonished to discover that some of the nuns and monks were buying up new houses at the back of the monastery. Beth said darkly that that was not the only thing that would astonish me.

  She had come across many Quakers among her parents’ friends and had high regard for them. I, in my turn, could see the attractions of her monastic life. In many ways I am drawn to such a life, though as a hermit rather than in a community. I found the contact with her refreshing and important: an example of adventurous living at a profound level.

  The only contacts we had in Thailand were on a list of isolated Friends that had been given us by Linley in New Zealand, and visiting them became our principal aim. As with all such lists, it was seriously out of date. Most people no longer existed at the addresses we had been given, though we did track down one, Don, by speaking to his ex-partner in the north of the country, who informed us he was now in Bangkok.

  We had also promised to visit a friend of Stephen’s Canadian cousin Marion. Karol, also a Canadian, lives in the north east, the poorest part of Thailand, in its second city, Nakhon Ratchasima (Khorat), where she teaches English at a Catholic school. The trains from Changmai had been fully booked for days so Stephen and I travelled on an overnight bus and met her at the school. She had been trained in acculturalisation by Franciscans and had been in Khorat for five months when we arrived. She was feeling very isolated, having no one of like mind to talk to, and being gently bullied by the local Thai women, who had a persistence beyond what we are used to, and to whom it was almost impossible to say no.

  Karol feels called to live and work as a volunteer in the same conditions as her Thai colleagues under a draconian regime. They teach seven days a week, the only day off in a year being Christmas Day. The head teacher, a Catholic nun, pays them on a whim, sometimes at the end of the month, sometimes half way through the next one, and the staff have to receive their pay on their knees. Karol lives in a flat among other teachers, without even a cooker. We slept on her settee overnight and held a Meeting for Worship with her, just the three of us. We had not realised that she had in the past attended Quaker Meetings, but it turned out that when she lived in Honduras she flew over to a local island once a month, so great was her need to participate in Meeting. We told her of the International membership which exists to support isolated Friends, and advised her to apply.

  Karol had on her dining room table a framed quote from Isaac Penington, one of the early Quakers:

  Give over thine own willing

  Give over thine own running

  Give over thine own desiring to know or to be anything

  And sink down to the seed which God sows in thy heart

  And let it be in thy heart

  And let it be in thee

  And grow in thee

  And breathe in thee

  And act in thee

  I learnt more from Karol about Thailand in a few minutes than from elsewhere in days. She confirmed the sense of unease I had been feeling with stories of appalling poverty, abandoned children and an epidemic of AIDS. She herself was feeding a child who camped out in a local shed. She talked of the complacency of the middle classes who know that such poverty exists, and take it as a given. She spoke of her own affluent married life on a large estate in Canada and how for many years after the break-up of her marriage she missed it. Now, in her totally changed life, she said she feels at home anywhere. She talked too of how she used to be content to “do good” then go home to her comfortable middle-class existence. Her life now is quite different, and difficult but, as she said, unlike her Thai colleagues, she has choices.

  This conversation shook me. I was reminded of my unease at working in the East End while living comfortably elsewhere, an unease that I have never really resolved. Perhaps an as
pect of this journey was a need to divorce myself from that comfortable home; to spend time alongside people in poverty, not cut myself off from them. In the meantime “home” was a rucksack and a hostel room – and that seemed OK.

  “Glistening golden temples”

  Bangkok, a city of seven million people and busy, noisy, traffic-ridden and vibrant, was more attractive than we had been led to believe. It was much cleaner than Cairo, for instance, and there were glimpses everywhere of glistening golden temples. We soon learnt to travel by boat, fast and cheap, on the wide muddy river. We stayed in a scruffy but clean and atmospheric guest house up a little cul de sac in an unfashionable part of town. A hang out for young backpackers, the area also had a reputation for drug-dealing, and a number of the women serving at one of the local cafes were dressed in a way that is far from respectable in Thailand, in strappy tops and high heels. The alley or soi, dark and potentially dangerous, was fascinating in its cheek-by-jowl guest houses with ambiguous names, such as “Madam’s”, with rooms for “daily rent”. I liked it: it was a community of women and children, with washing hung out in the street, a bird in a cage, and a couple of little shrines, which the owners tended and prayed to at sunset.

  Noodles and rice were our staple diet, three times a day, plus fruit. Plenty of green veg with the noodles, breakfast usually soup at a local market stall which typically cost 45p for the two of us, mine 5p less because I didn’t have chicken. It was good to be in a developing country again, and I liked the energy of Bangkok: especially China Town with all its stalls of smoking delicious-smelling food, and the streets of mechanics, mending machines of all descriptions. Work-a-day life.

  But there is also an upwardly mobile section of the population that is leaving the others way behind, suggestive of a country in uncomfortable transition. On sale at a smart branch of Boots the Chemist in Bangkok were many of the items one would expect to find in Oxford Street or Leeds at prices way above what most Thais would be able to afford. As we left the shop I saw a young man pushing several cats and his obviously mentally deranged mother in a wheelbarrow with her few possessions. The gulf between such sections of the population was exemplified by the air-conditioned skytrain, clean, speedy, efficient and elegant. The carriages were full of smart uniformly dressed young men and women going to work; the train itself sped along rails high above the squalor and destitution of the other Bangkok.