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Monsoons, Buddha minds
by Amina Baird
March 30
Phuket, Thailand
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It’s the precipice of monsoon season, and the air hangs thick. The sun sets red and we stare it right in the face. We rinse off the day’s sweat and dirt, counting on the water to keep its side of the deal. And even though the undertow barely drags our feet, it seems like we could die in this tide. |
Three months ago, Kai grabbed his little boy and outran the wave. Now he drives Red Cross volunteers from camp site to farm site to beach site. His son blows raspberries on the glass rear-view window and covers his eyes for peek-a-boo.
The news says 5,000 died here. The people say 10,000 and weave plastic handbags to raise funds. They watch oyster mushrooms grow and televisions flash and newly fatherless toddlers play in the dust. They smile and cook spicy food. Remember: this is not vacation. This is real life. Our project leader says it’s their faith that guides them through.
Two weeks ago and what feels like a million miles away from these ruins, little boys came in quietly as we sat on the floor of a temple in Chiang Mai. They pulled mops across the tiles like licking plates clean. They slapped grass mats down, competitive laughter, to see whose could roll the smoothest. A golden Buddha looked down and smiled at his lovely disciples. Brown skin, short hair, and the last day of monastery school.
The older monk told us that most Thai men live at the monastery at some point, many as young boys—it is a part of growing up. He says they must go, not because someone told them to, but because they know it is right in their hearts.
Some tourists ask them to pose, or worse, to go about doing what monks “usually do.” Buddhists in their natural environment.
They do the same at the beach in Phuket. So-called “disaster tourists” funnel through; some come to convert “the hopeless” to Christianity. Wreckage in its natural environment. Nature at its most powerful. People at their most impressionable.
But when they turn to photograph the survivors, they are met with the same serenity as the Buddhist monks up north. Not despair. Mostly just eyelashes and cheeks and chins and smiles. Hands gathering the strands of a frayed rope to wind it anew. Maybe a little tighter this time. Maybe weather-proof.
At the Red Cross farm project they are transplanting seedlings into the dirt this week. Feeding baby catfish and collecting chicken waste from ten new light brown hens to add nitrogen and phosphorus to the soil. They will be laying eggs in two weeks.
The rain bounces like ticks off the dust. Acid rain for the next four days. And then on the 26th of March, the king is sending artificial precipitation to inseminate those dry fields whose plants died of salinity. The volunteers and the survivors pause in their work. This is not vacation. This is real life.
Amina Baird is a Takoma Park resident. Taking a gap year following her graduation from Montgomery Blair in June, she is traveling around the world, working on farms, visiting new lands, learning about the struggles of indigenous people.
To follow Amina in her travels, go to www.livejournal.com/users/aminaalthea.
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