I’m a little disillusioned. Where was the ancient Chinese secret, the hidden meaning of life or the key to peace and tranquillity. Nowhere to be found – though instead I found a revelation.
It’s far too early for this, and watching the local Monks come get their packed lunches for the day, I’m chain-yawning. As a kid I used to hate Church – why should I be dragged to this awful, boring brainwashing session against my will? I’d rather be back in Geography. And I despised Geog. In Church I’d always do my best to try and subtly wreck the proceedings, whilst stifling my cramp-inducing laughter. Yeah, that’s right Teacher; stick me somewhere you have no right to and just watch me rebel.
Similarly, that’s exactly what these kids do. Yesterday, a novice (baby Monk), instigated conversation with me: “Good morning. Where are you from?” he asks and a little taken back; “London, England” I reply. After half an hour of conversing, I’m asked to come back later in the evening, so he can practice his English further. He’s off to Maths now with Science later in the afternoon. I wonder if that’s in the north or south building of the Quad. Sat patiently waiting for Khum Xin (phonetically), to finish his singing – reminding me distinctly of Assembly – I can see some of the novices play fighting and others giggling to each other. Maybe it’s because that last note was actually an F-Sharp and his mate hit it flat, or perhaps someone just let rip. Either way I’ve discovered the secret – the Temples are all Public Schools.
They’re state – or perhaps
faith – funded. Where’s the tuck shop, I fancy some Nik Naks. Selfishly, they don’t have one, but what they do get is free food, bed, board and the finest education on offer.
That’s real neat Cleetus, ain’t it cute.
Well, not really. The locals all participate in the “alm”; where at 6am each morning, free food is given to the novices and the odd rare and genuine oak-aged Monk. It’s all women participating though – I guess the men are all far too busy working. And here for a male, that tends to mean sleeping. It’s developed more in to a tourist attraction now, as locals ply their trade trying to sell off-food to falang, so they can “get a feel” and join in. It’s a shame really as the kids become ill as a result. Just shows that it’s all about the cheddar here, too.
I’m joined by two of Khum Xin’s friends, who have an excellent command of English. Six years of French at school and I still couldn’t pronounce Croissant any other way but phonetically (Kroy-sunt). That may have been the teenager in me though admittedly. We discuss such meaning of life as; ladyboys, my ex girlfriends, taste in music (he loves hip-hop and especially Jay-Z, having downloaded his latest album on iTunes), whether falang or Asian women are more beautiful and how, in two years he will complete exams and attend University. Dating then reopens its doors and a large grin, accompanied by flushed cheeks, clearly displays his burning desire. Sacrificing hair, dress code and teenage male urges means that Mr. Thumb and his four wives will no doubt be frequently visited.
But back to my revelation – this is single-sex boarding school and these children in their strange exotic uniforms remind me of Etonians. The difference being that here, I don’t want to poke all of them in the eyes and watch as they stagger blindly in to the Thames. Indeed, these Grammar Schools also suffer from the same issues as their Western counterparts.
Crossing the troll bridge and answering with four grand, the bamboo wobbles and creaks underneath me. The other side is NW and heads to the Airport. “Where you going?” says a man to my right as I pass a house opposite a Wat. Around six feet tall with thick black hair to his shoulders, slicked back by days of unwashed grease and a heavy Bavarian accent to match his build, he stands greeting me; thrusting a Dark BeerLao in my hand. Andreas has been here for four years “getting stuck” – as he puts it – repairing and reselling motorbikes. Later joined by an Australian friend of his, we while away the evening drinking and talking of travel; for they’ve both covered the entire globe.
I’m told the Temple opposite has a head Monk; that’d be head of year for us falang. His vices include too much Lao Lao and smoking. So much so that he needed an operation to remove a cancerous intestine, which was funded by local gamblers (if you don’t understand the reference, please find my 45 metres of gold-plated cynicism post). Nice, reminds me of my Physics teacher from College.
I am convinced that the plaque in front of the Temple here should instead read: “Si Bun Heuang Preparatory and Grammar School.” And with that I think I’m quite done browsing Temples – much like looking at the following word, it itself induces
yawning. At least there’s still some immense scenery to both soak up and photograph. Although I’m sure if I really tried, I could probably concoct some cynicism around that too.
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