“My car is parked outside,” said Matthias, with a shrug. “You’re welcome to join us.” A simple offer, but after three nights of sleeping on the floor of a hut filled with fire ants it felt like The Shawshank Redemption. In spite of its idyllic mountain setting and friendly abbot, life in the monastery was driving me insane.
I had come to Wat Pa Tam Wua, a Buddhist enclave in the hill country of Northern Thailand, with such high hopes of enlightenment. I was familiar with the practice of mindfulness meditation from a short course back in England, but I always wondered how my mind would react to a sustained retreat. I’d also just finished reading Waking Up by Sam Harris and was intrigued whether I could experience the escape from the ego he describes.
Parts unknown
So it was with visions of nirvana that I hoisted my backpack and took the bus north from Chiang Mai to Pai. From there, I went on over the serpentine mountain roads tracing the border with Myanmar. I knew little of my destination, only that one could simply show up and be welcome to experience life alongside the monks. There is no bus stop for the monastery, but the driver nodded when I mentioned the name and set me down alone on a nondescript roadside. The afternoon sun beat down and turned the air over the tarmac into a shimmering haze. As the sputtering engine faded from earshot, I took a brief inventory of my depleted water reserves and set off on foot into the hills.
“These are your clothes,” said the attendant, as she handed me a blocky pair of white trousers and a shirt. On arrival at the monastery, I dropped my rucksack at one of the communal sleeping huts and then it was time to change into the attire of the novice. The lawns were dotted with my fellow pilgrims in identical garments, studiously sweeping up stray leaves and twigs. This was the work hour of the timetable, dedicated each day to the upkeep of the monastery. I felt like I was surrendering a little of my individuality as I swapped my western clothes with their emblazoned logos for the blank uniform of the collective. Soon though, I was contentedly sweeping with the rest of them.
A monk’s life
Life in the monastery revolves around the meditation hall, an open-air structure supported by columns. There is a raised dais at one end for the orange robed monks and serene, golden Buddhas. Each day follows a steady pattern of morning, afternoon and evening meditations at two hours apiece. Mornings and evenings are usually in the hall, under the watchful gaze of the six or so monks who reside there permanently. The youngest was a child of scarcely ten who accepted the hours of silent stillness each day with remarkable good grace. Only once, I saw him reprimanded for the audacity of skipping down a path.
Meals are served at long tables beside the hall and I was dismayed to find that after an 11am lunch there is no more food until the following morning. I eked out the Banh Mi baguette I had brought from Chiang Mai for the first evening and awoke ravenous to find that a protracted rice offering ceremony takes place before breakfast. Each novice is given a bowl of steaming, sticky rice and the monks drift down the line of kneeling students with glacial serenity, receiving a small spoonful from each bowl. My stomach growled resentfully throughout this process and I was having a hard time escaping the desire, which, according to the Buddha, is the root of all suffering.
All in the mind
The suffering continued with a walking meditation after lunch. Although nothing may sound nicer than a tranquil stroll through lush forest, I had not reckoned on the intense sunshine which had heated the path until it was ready to fry an egg. No shoes are worn at the monastery and the walking meditation is to be done at a snail’s pace, carefully placing each foot and lingering over the sensation of the sole touching the ground. My feet began to sizzle almost at once and, far from a calming state of pure awareness, my mind was filled with visions of a yelping Bugs Bunny hopping over white-hot sand.
Removed from the constant stimuli of the outside world, the life of the mind takes centre stage. There is a library, but it contains only Buddhist texts. These I browsed in the lethargic heat of the late afternoon, lost in a labyrinthine hierarchy of heavens and hells. Talking is permitted outside the meditations, but most people seemed surrounded by an aura of beatific calm that brooked no disturbance. I increasingly found myself craving sensation or distraction of any kind, whether food, or media, or simple human interaction.
On my third day, I was wandering the grounds in a state of listless despondence, ruefully reflecting that it was still over sixteen hours until the next meal. Then, I rounded a sleeping hut and found a group of novices gathered beneath one of the lychee trees that dotted the grounds. The tallest among them held a long, upright wooden pole and was using it to bash the branches, knocking loose the ripe, red fruits. The crowd immediately scooped these up and began peeling back brittle cases to reveal their juicy centres. The rule of no eating after midday was out the window, as a horde of ravenous westerners joined in this Bacchanalian carnival of spurting juices and discarded husks.
Final straw
That night the electricity went off. The fans, which were our only respite from the oppressive heat in the sultry watches of the night, ground to an agonising halt. I lay on my token sliver of foam atop the wooden boards and felt a sheen of sweat coat my entire body. I was naked to the underpants, but still I could not shake the remorseless humidity. The air seemed pregnant with a febrile, aquatic foetus that was pushing its way into every pore and turning my thoughts diffuse. Then the fire ants started biting me.
By dawn my skin was marked with angry red welts and a cluster of squashed corpses lay about my sleeping roll. I felt like something of a corpse myself as I sat up bleary-eyed in the grey morning light. My companions in the hut had somehow fallen asleep, all except one shaven headed ascetic who already sat in the lotus position. How he could appear so composed after such a miserable night was beyond me. I thought the ants would have tested the resolve of the Buddha himself. In that moment, I decided to leave.
I met Matthias and his girlfriend Paula at breakfast. We bonded over our difficulties in adjusting to monastic life and, when they revealed they had driven to the retreat in a hire car, it felt like divine deliverance. Or perhaps it was karmic correction. By mid-afternoon we were zipping through the mountains, with the air conditioning cranked to maximum and the stereo belting out a soothing stream of Bob Marley. Soon, I would be headed south to the hedonistic islands that give Thailand its reputation for tropical debauchery. My earthly desires had resisted monastic intervention. It was time to yield to them.
End note
Although I didn’t have the best time at Wat Pa Tam Wua, I would still consider a meditation retreat again someday in a cooler climate. The monastery is a protected bubble away from the busyness of 21st century life and it is a privilege that the monks to invite westerners to practice with them. If you are curious to pay them a visit, just mention Wat Pa Tam Wua to the bus driver on the route from Pai to Mae Hong Son (or vice versa) and he will drop you there. White clothes are provided, but you can pick them up from one of the markets in Chiang Mai if you prefer. Food and lodging are also free of charge, though it’s good to donate to help keep the sticky rice flowing.
For more details, check out the monastery’s website here. Or, for more tales from south-east Asia, read about my encounter with world’s most controversial fruit here.
Photo credits:
Forest ants: Maksim Shutov