Image of Joy Revisited

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Kampot is known for its fragrant pepper and durian, a spikey football-size fruit with divine stinky flesh for which many would spend their last dollar. Every time I look at the large statue of the durian gracing the center of a roundabout in this sleepy town, I remember when I tried durian in a fruit shake while in Indonesia. It stank like puke. Hence I nearly puked.

Every evening the fishing boats motor out to sea on the Kampot River, a calm stretch of water fringed by mangroves. I found a lovely riverside resort with private bungalows and a veranda overlooking the river. From the dock I could jump in the river and swim in its still waters. I was tempted to laze about for several days, take in a massage or two, get a pedicure and facial, and just be. Sounded good enough.

But one morning I rented a bicycle, and resolved to return to the hill where last year I visited with a joy-filled monk. A person at my guesthouse sent me there then, saying that it was a place where people went to send out their wishes.
I had no trouble finding the turnoff from the main road to the hill. However, I forgot how the road climbed, because I had ridden a motorbike last time. After attempting to ride my way up the hill by shifting gears, I finally got off the bicycle and walked. That in itself was no small task. Although I had started out with a cloud cover, the sun was now full and bright. I sought shade where I collapsed every ten minutes on the side of the road, soaked in sweat. A few motorbikes passed me--some drivers acknowledged my effort, others looked straight ahead as they negotiated the incline. I kept thinking, 'it's a pilgrimage, so if I'm not suffering just a little bit then I wouldn't be on a pilgrimage.' That thought really didn't make my ascent easier.

I finally slogged my way to the top, tossed my bicycle in the shade of a tree, and flopped on a bench. I panted and moaned, and a couple monks wandering about in the building nearby glanced at me. A boy monk said hello and sat nearby. He soon brought out a tattered paperback book filled with English conversations and pictures. He was still at the numbers lesson, and so asked for my help in finding the numbers one through ten on a page. I corrected his pronunciation. This young one had a long ways to go to learn English, but I admired his efforts.

After resting, I examined one of the metal sculptures that so intrigued me last year. Workers were transforming its appearance at that very moment. One was cutting sheet metal, bending the pieces into scalloped edges, and another was spray painting the pieces orange and fixing them to the structure. The skeletal layer cake structure of metal was softening into an elaborate petaled tree of sorts.

I walked up the hill, eager to find the joyful monk. I rounded his small shelter, and there he was, seated on the floor, chatting with a half dozen people, mostly well dressed women. He greeted me and invited me to sit. I asked how he was doing, and reminded him that I had come there last year and talked with him for awhile. I don't think he remembered.

That didn't matter. I sat at a nearby table. I felt my body filling with ease, with contentment. It grew bigger and full. I wasn't just content, I was elated. The feeling propelled me from my seat and I walked around the small temple area, noting its dramatic transformation. The clutter was gone, the previous haphazard arrangement of metal coils and springs had changed into ordered arrangements. A concrete pedestal supported the Buddha statues, fresh bowls of fruit and other offerings dotted the area. Nearby the building that had only concrete columns last year was now a big wall, and workers were busily placing rafters and laying more blocks. The monk's vision was materializing. I had seen the initial stages the year before.

I went back to my seat and listened to the women talking with the monk. A man came by and asked me where I was from. He sat down and talked with me a long time while his wife visited the monk. He and his family were there from Phnom Penh to attend a wedding, but they wanted to pay their respects to the monk. He said that people from far away visit this lonely hillside outside Kampot, just to see this monk and to hear his teachings about Buddhism. He told me that the monk at one time became very ill, was hospitalized, gave up his monk robes, but then later returned to the monk life. He adopted a strict diet and has been healthy ever since. He said that the monk's background other than that was elusive. I told him that last year the monk told me he had been at Banteay Srei near Siem Reap for a long time, and that he was well versed in the uses of herbs. I heard the monk praying for some of the women, chanting.

The women left, and more people sat with the monk. I got up for another wander, and the monk beckoned me to his shelter. He held out a small aluminum can of energy drink. I asked if it was for me or the deities, and he said for me. It was a ginseng and caffeine laced drink, which made me shake when I thought about drinking it. I stuffed it in my small bag.

I approached the temple area, and sat on the mat in front of the deities. Happiness filled me. I can say that I rarely pray, and I wouldn't call it praying when I do, but at that moment, I felt compelled to pray. I clasped my hands together, closed my eyes, and gave thanks for being there, for feeling so good, for being blessed by the place, the monk, and the light of joy. The monk appeared nearby, and he indicated that I needed to light incense and put in the urn provided. I did, and I think then that my visit to the temple was complete.

I spoke with the monk again before I left. I asked him his age. Last year he radiated no age. He said he was 53 years, but he could have been 65 or 35 years. He laughed as I struggled to understand his Khmer. I finally understood that the orange "tree" would be hoisted atop a nearby structure that protected a statue of a deity. I didn't think it would be possible. He would need a crane. Perhaps the pure joy that permeated the area would raise it to its new home.

In that joy I coasted down the hill for a few minutes, and pedaled my way back to my bungalow at the edge of the lovely Kampot River.
<br style="-webkit-touch-callout: none; color:� font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 18px;" />Note: See my previous entry, "Image of Joy," for my first story and photos about visiting this hill and the monk.

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Photos

The stiff Christmas tree under transformation
By next year, it will be hoisted atop the structure nearby.

The monk with a vision
He attracts people from far away who seek his teachings.

The monk's meeting place
He sits behind the small table and talks with people. His photo hangs on the wall. I spent about an hour with him last year in his shelter.

The small temple area.
Clutter gone, concrete pedestals

Comments

[Kuan Yin]

Nope, I still don't like durian
I've tried durian pastries, durian chocolate, durian coffee, even durian ice cream. I've given it my best shot, but I still can't stand the stuff. The worst part is that your burbs taste like durian for the next several hours.

[Traveling Terry]

So true!
Don't want any more durian, even to smell.