I'm leaving Chiang Mai this afternoon for my most arduous journey so far - a 24-hour bus drive to Angkor Wat. Having snubbed the Taj Mahal a few months back (too much agro in Agra), I didn't have the heart to turn my nose up a chance to see another nearby world wonder, and am too tight-fisted to pay for a $200 air-ticket for three days of sightseeing. It's the rainy season in this part of the world, and not only has my tan faded, but much of the topsoil is being washed away too, so it promises to be an exciting trip all round. Those of you who are fellow Tomb Raider addicts, or who saw the movie, will be familiar with the vast Cambodian temple complex, where, over the centuries, roots from the huge fig trees have penetrated the buildings to such an extent that it's now impossible to separate them. That pic's linked to someone else's travelog, if you're wondering who the girl is. So thanks to them for that!
That's all for now. If I survive the trip, I'll write you all about it.
Michelle and I bonded immediately - so much so that everyone we meet assumes that we've known each other for years. She looks like a cross between Sigourney Weaver and Ali McGraw, and has one of those smooth sweet, Californian anchorwoman accents that can deliver a dose of bad 'n bitter news with a spoonful of sugar and a wide, white smile. But when she's mad she looks MEAN! Those things we have in common. We also share the same sense of humour, and spend most of our time laughing. Last weekend, we headed up to Wat Phra That, one of Chiang Mai's most impressive temples, perched 3,000-odd feet above the city. At night, it's visible from my bedroom window but, because there are no buildings on the mountain beneath, it appears to float eerily in the sky. We hired motorbikes and drove up there, also visiting the King's Winter Palace and its sensational gardens, filled with thousands of plants, a miniature jungle, hundred-foot bamboo trees planted together so they spring forth like sheaves of wheat, a huge India Rubber Tree with twisted roots, like this one, and the most extensive and extraordinary collection of rose-bushes you could ever imagine. Breathless (one whiff leaves you that way), Black Tea (smells like.. yeah, you guessed it!), and a host of other absurdly camp names and colours. With vast, bat-sized butterflies fluttering around them, and fountains trickling into ponds full of steroidal carp. A kind of Thai Wonderland.
While browsing the temple's fine collection of bodhisattvas, our intrepid heroine attracted the attentions of a fellow American who, in a manner entirely reminiscent of Inspector Clouseau, blundered straight into the middle of the photograph I was framing. In plaid shirt, shorts, and knock-knees. I lowered my camera and, reminding myself that I was in a sacred place, dressed modestly in long sleeves and an electric-blue lunghi, gently asked him to give me better access to the bougainvillae. As I did so, I noticed that he bore a striking resemblance to someone, but their identity was on the tip of my tongue and was refusing to budge. "Bruce" introduced himself, I took the shot, and left them to chat while I carried on my business with the flowers and the buddhas.
He was so camp, so cocky in his khakis, we were sure he was gay. Absolutely. And that she, naturally, was safe from any unwelcome advances. How WRONG we were! With that bonhomie and esprit de corps peculiar to Americans abroad, she gladly gave him my(!) cell-phone number so we could "all hang out". We would rue this decision. Very soon. As soon, in fact, as we returned to our guest house, and I saw that someone had attempted to call me four (4) times. Wow, I thought. I'd already forgotten that my number had fallen into the hands of a potential lunatic, and assumed that one of my Bangkok beaus was coming up to Chiang Mai for the weekend. So, so wrong. It was Bruce, who rang again during one of my calls home. "Put me on to Michelle, please." My gaydar had been way off, but my control-freak klaxon sounded immediately. "Please call back in ten," I replied. "I have London calling." So I switched lines, finished my call and, clutching my little phone, ran next door to Michelle's room, where she was examining the business card Bruce had pressed into her hand earlier. Our eyes were drawn immediately to the caption below his name - "God of Detail." Naturally, being an American, one would emphasize the second syllable. Detail. As we sat on her bed, rocking with laughter, the telephone rang. Or beeped, my current tone being, funnily enough, the five notes from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Giggling softly, she answered the phone with her best call center voice:
Michelle: (M) Hello
God of Detail (G.o.D.) Hello? Hello? Is that Michelle?
M: Yes, this Michelle.
G.o.D.: Hey Michelle. Where have you been? I've tried calling you. What have you been doing?
M (coolly): We're just hanging out. I haven't eaten, or even taken a shower.
G.o.D.: Oh. I was gonna invite you to a proper dinner, but now I'm eating without you. So, what are you doing later?
M: Simon and I are heading into town to meet up with some friends then going to a club in town.
G.o.D.: You have friends? (yes, he really did say that, Ed.). Well, what time are you meeting?
M: I'm not sure. We're probably heading out late, say eleven, and meeting up at a club.
G.o.D.: That late? Uh, ok. Here's what to do. First, have a shower, then call me when you have a plan (sounds like God, right?)
M: Ok. We'll do that. See you later..
G.o.D.: OK. Bye...
(conversation ends)
So we get ready, go eat thali at a vegetarian restaurant, get to "Bubbles Discotheque" at the Porn Ping Tower (really!) at around 11pm, as promised, having SMSed Bruce to let him know we'd be there. He was there already, lurking in the shadows, and it wasn't 'til we were seated that he found us. Dressed for strobes 'n sashaying, in plaid 'n shorts, his knees loomed towards us in the half-light, followed milliseconds later by the rest of him. We cringed. In the darkness, his resemblance to Billie Jean King hit me in the eye like a 100-mile-per hour ACE! I gasped, Michelle leaned towards me, breathing into my ear as she did so"DON'T LEAVE ME!" I've been in this situation so many times now, I've an autopilot session. So, I hovered discreetly like a valet while Bruce attempted, in strobed slow motion and a safari outfit, to seduce Michelle:
- G.o.D.: So, I was gonna take you for a proper dinner and offer you a hot shower and dip in my pool at the Lanna Palace hotel, in return for a massage.
M: (reeling from a gust of warm halitosis) Oh, OK. (thinks, "shit, can't you just offer me some freakin' money? Do I really have to hang out with you?)
(Awkward silence ensues. Bruce gets up, moves a few tables away, sits down.))
Five minutes pass. Michelle and I deconstruct events of the last few minutes. I ask her if she remembers BJK. We sing a few bars of Michael Jackson, and work out that the G.o.D (God of Detail, remember?) has assumed that she's a backpacker, needs a hot shower coz she's probably filthy, and hasn't seen a pool since she left California, other than the occasional puddle of rat urine at the cheap dives she's been crashing at. Suddenly, he returns.
- G.o.D.: Hey, this place is kinda loud. And the people are kinda unfriendly. Even the working girls (some of whom, he hadn't realized, were in fact gay boys with good taste) wouldn't dance with me. (Pauses) I'm gonna step outside, get some air.
M: OK, see ya in a minute.
G.o.D.: Uh, why don't you walk me out?
(ed. watches all of this carry-on in complete amazement. Takes copious mental notes.)
M: (American deep-level programming prevents her from saying "Get ter f***")Hey, Simon, he wants me to walk him out.
S: What on earth for? Does he need support? (Remembers the rape scene in Thelma and Louise and follows dutifully.
(G.o.D. walks to exit, followed by S&M.)
M. (rallies, and in sugar-sweet anchorwoman accent announces):You know something? I don't want to walk you out.
G.o.D.: Oh, well, then, goodbye.
M: Oh, goodbye.
(They shake hands, their relationship nipped savagely in its bud)
Simon and Michelle return to the dance floor, contemplating the strange behaviour of male Americans on the loose. They watch the crowd dancing, a bunch of revellers freshly tanned from the islands, oiled skin gleaming, writhing ecstatically. Suddenly the music changes, and they are both gripped by a sense of prescience as the beat changes, and the smoky air is filled with a melody from two decades past....)
"Do not try to bend Simon. There is no Simon"
0 Comments Published by totallygone.com on Friday, June 13, 2003.

"This is my ship, the Nebuchadnezzar. It's a hovercraft..."
Suan Mokkh comprises two complexes; a forest wat, or temple, and a teaching center where the meditation courses are held. I noticed, upon arrival, a sign leading to the "Dharma Boats", and set off to investigate. It was of course, a boiling hot, steamy day, the forest was wet and creepy, huge lizards appearing as if by magic, climbing vast trees, llianas dangling. I reached a clearing, a sunlit glade, in which the bows of a what appeared to be a large white concrete ferry soared forth from the forest floor. Housing the wat's library, the building's architecture is inspired by the metaphor of Buddha's dharma as a boat whose purpose is to ferry humans across the ocean of suffering; the root of suffering being the mind's imprisonment in an illusory world, ignorant of the true nature of reality.
Reality Bites. But in small portions
It wasn't until I reached the other part of the complex, however, that I realized that I was entering a very different world from the one to which I have become accustomed! Ascetism is, at Suan Mokkh, the plat du jour; the idea being that sensory pleasures are a major, major distraction, and that spoiling oneself means just that. This we know already - by the time I left Bangkok last I could barely remember my own name. Accommodation at the meditation center consists, therefore, of small cells, no fan, no A/C (with humidity at 80% and temperature peaking at around 90F/35C), sleep on a concrete bed (no mattress, just a thin straw mat), wooden pillows, lights out at 10, out of bed at 4am (no, that wasn't a typo. 4am), inspirational reading at 4.30 followed by breathing meditation. Yoga at 5.15 for 90 minutes, more meditation, then breakfast at 8am. Remember that stuff they served up on the Nebuchadnezzar? A colourless barley gruel? The very same!!! Lunch was good - rice 'n a kind of rough green curry, coconut, spices, tofu, soya etc. But on day 9 there was only one meal. Lots of mutinous expressions. The only luxuries were the hot springs - a choice of two large pools drawn from subterranean wells. The water was hot, slightly salty, and very hard - leaving a coating of limescale on the skin and especially the hair. Only when I returned to Bangkok and had washed it a couple of times did I realise that I'd been wearing a Brillo pad on my head for a week. So, as you can see, I wasn't distracted by luxuries - the distractions all came, unsurprisingly, from my own side.
Lust in Space
Silence is golden. Not like an ingot, I discoverd - more like a desert. So, during my 9 1/2 days of silence, I found out why both the Buddhist and Christian canons feature stories in which their heroes undergo major temptation during their tests of solitude. Because you do! What happens when you try to still your mind for a few minutes is that it leaps for a pleasurable distraction, whether imaginary or real. It continues to do so, even when obstacles such as disturbing thoughts get in the way. So when you're having a disturbing compulsive thought, your mind is actually attempting to break through it to a pleasant thought, and getting stuck. That's all. Most of the time, distractions is easily available. In the American, European and major Asian metropolises, you can realize your desires immediately, they're never more than a phonecall or mouseclick away - sex/drugs/rock 'n roll/pizza/pasta/foie gras/deep fried crickets - you name it. But things are different out there in the inner desert. You just CAN'T GET NO SATISFACTION! Christ, according to the gospels, was tempted (and taunted) by Satan with food, invincibility, and limitless worldly kingdoms. Buddha, beneath the bodhi tree, was visited by both the armies (representing the force of anger) of Mara, Lord of Evil, and his delectable, voluptuous daughters, Tanhi (Lust) Raga (Desire) and Arahti (Aversion) - representing the three poisons, according to the buddhist system of ethics, that affict the mind. From my own experience, the Buddhist canon is undoubtably more credible. As if Christ wouldn't have thought about sex. In that heat? Maybe in the wastes of Antarctica, but not in Asia. Try it yourself. Still your mind for a few hours, and you won't need a phone or a computer - your imagination will deliver your every desire at the speed of thought. In vivid colour, with superb special effects. All sorts of wonderful things and beings morphing into each other. Read that last preposition again, it's important. So, my 9 1/2 days were, for a major part, like 9 1/2 Weeks - the movie. This wasn't helped by the fact that some of the young men on the course had obviously stepped straight out of an Abercrombie and Fitch commercial. It's very interesting indeed - when you want, and you can't have, the object of your desire, you're in hell. The Dis of Disatisfaction. Buddha's solution, which I recommend HIGHLY as a cure for intrusive thoughts of a lover/lovers - real or imaginary - is to meditate on the most enduring aspect of the human form - its frailty. Visualize the beauty of the love object, hold that thought, then, in your mind, watch it decay with the (inevitable) onset of sickness, old age, and death. Or acne, if you're feeling squeamish. This all sounds a bit harsh, but it's a sure-fire method if you're feeling lovesick. Or if you're too horny to get your jeans on. So, after a few days of wrestling with my libido, I moved on to the next demon. Myself.
"There is no spoon"
Suan Mokkh was the brainchild of Buddhadasa Bhikkhu (the name means "Monk who is Slave of Buddha). His ultimate goal was to relieve human suffering, the basis of which is ignorance of the true nature of reality - the most important aspects of which are that all phenomena are a) impermanent and b) void of inherent existence. Item a) is simple enough - you don't need to be Heraclitus to work out that there is nothing (i.e. no thing. Not one) that doesn't change. But b) is a bit more complicated. Unless you've seen The Matrix and Matrix Reloaded, whose fundamental cosmologies and metaphysics derive from postmodern theories which, in turn, were imported largely from buddhist philosophy and applied to late 20th and early 21st century culture (Did you notice all those buddhas? All that stuff about cause and effect? More from Keanu on Buddhism, with Richard Gere, is available on the FPMT's new "Discovering Buddhism" series?) Postmodern theories of reality also recognize that cognitive experience of external phenomena is mediated by the senses, interpreted by consciousness, and that the existence of such phenomena is also contingent upon causes and parts - those of both object and subject. The essence of Buddhist philosophy is identical - nothing has inherent existence, including and especially the self. At Suan Mokkh, these philosophies are used as the basis for a meditation practice that liberates the mind from conceptual thought and, in particular, the concept of such a thing as "I" or "mine."
In the I of the beholder
So, the idea is this. When we come into contact with an object - any object, whether it a potential beau, a bottle of wine, a pair of Manolo Blahniks, or that irresistible deep-fried Mars Bar, our mind creates not only a mental image of said object, but also an identity with which to consume the object. Which is why you can see/drink/eat/wear/date the same thing twice (or so you think), but on one occasion you'll hurl and the next you'll salivate. Not just because nothing's ever really the same thing twice, but also because you're never really the same person twice. We take for granted the fact that we have different personas for work, family, date, life-partner, bit-on-the-side, etc. The buddhist philosophy of self pushes that envelope into a different dimension, stating that not only does the persona fail to exist, not being the true "core" of the self, but that, being entirely dependent upon external causes, conditions, upon its constructions of memory and experience, no such self exists at all, but is created from moment to moment. This happens with such speed that we perceive these selves a narrative, much as we see separate shots played at 24-frames-per-second as a movie. So, ultimately, nothing is what it seems, at all. That's life. And then you die. And then you do it all again.
It's all enough to make you wonder what the hell is going on and, more importantly, who in the hell you are, anyway. Never mind. Take a cookie...