Wat Po Infiltration

It was the gross injustice of it that got me worked up enough to do it. I mean, here was one of the most glorious Buddhist temples in Asia, and it was closed to visitors after five o'clock! Any guru worth his salt will tell you that the best meditating is done between seven and nine at night, after your dinner and before the drunks come out. The cool air and dim light make Bangkok stroll-worthy at about that time, and my wandering took me beyond the niche-marketed genXbackpacker bubble that is Khao San Road to the whitewashed walls of Wat Po.

Its poorer, clerical neighbour, Wat Po, had mere fences and doors to stop the eager tourist, armed only with signs in English and Thai. But they were enough, so I walked on until I found the monk's quarters. The long, empty laneway with its doors thrown wide open beckoned, but I paused a sloppily suspicious few seconds until I stepped across its threshold. I blame the pause on the fact that Radiohead's "Karma Police" was playing on my walkman -- prophetically, I wondered? Were they already on my trail?

I meandered through the laneway, trying to look every bit the eager-seeker. Suddenly, from a doorway down the way appeared the enemy! He didn't even cast a suspicious glance my way -- he didn't even seem to notice me. While I didn't look at all like a Thai monk -- they have shaved heads and a bright orange sarong -- I attributed it to the fact that I once had a shaved head and was also walking very slowly.

Sure enough, a little way down the quiet monk's lane was a side entrance to the "closed" temple. Walking confidently into it, as if I not only belonged there but had serious prayers to pray, I penetrated Wat Po.

I immediately made for the building that housed the biggest reclining Buddha in the world, since I had seen it during viewing hours and it just made me sick with envy and desire -- imagine, someone had beaten me to the idea of crafting a two-story-high statue with the story of the Buddha's life depicted in a mother-of-pearl mural on the soles of his feet! I don't know what I would have done if I had reached it, but the locks-and-doors-thing again stifled my impulsive self.

The rest of the temple grounds I remember as a fluid image, tree branches overhead and dimly gleaming buildings passing to each side. The small stone spirit houses had open doors that revealed little demons inside, but I was only able to infiltrate them with two fingers. At every archway I braved, there were huge stone demons, with smooth eyes, swords and crazy hair -- it was the crazy hair that eventually turned me back, since I had images of them exploding to life and using their swords to flick me up and impale me in their torturous locks. Then they would point at my writhing body and laugh about it with their stone guard friends, saying I was some new kind of hair accessory, laughing and laughing and guarding and laughing.

So I made for the exit, seeing one more monk who also ignored me. I began to suspect that these monks weren't the kung-fu variety at all, but rather wussy monks whose asses could be kicked rather easily. I felt more confident and was within a few metres of the door when they brought out the dogs.

Now I'm no dog expert, but they sure looked like Dobermans. The woman who was with them was clapping her hands and egging them on to do something, but all they were doing was playing with each other and barking and smelling each other's butts. I was so relieved I might have joined them in their frolics, except for the woman.

I re-entered the monk's dorm and escaped the walls, never to return. Until the next day, posing as a regular paying tourist, because I just had to see those nutty feet again.

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This is slated to appear in the "Churches" issue of Infiltration.

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