One morning last week, Bruce and I arose at 5:15am in order to observe the Buddhist monks collecting alms. It's part of the tradition of being a monk. Each morning long lines of teenage boys dressed only in orange robes, each carrying a metal bowl, emerge from their temples to proceed on a route where observant Buddhists, mostly women, are ready with food to donate to them. If I understand correctly, this tradition allows the monks to devote themselves to meditation and study without having to earn a living. It also demonstrates their vows of poverty and humility. For the devout, it means that they can "make merit" which brings goodness into their lives. It is a somewhat serious, quiet, and meditative process which has been rather sullied of late by disrespectful tourists who intrude by taking photos, talking loudly, etc.- you know, all the things that tourists are known for.
Bruce and I were sure that we could maintain a respectful distance from the process, taking only the most subtle of photos. It was dark when we slipped out of our bungalow garden and across the bridge spanning the Nam Khan River. The occasional street food vendor was beginning to light her fire for the day. A few motor scooters with headlights on zipped past us. The air was cool, and I was glad that I had my long sleeve shirt on top of my blouse.
Right in "our" own neighborhood, just beyond the bridge, we first encountered middle-aged women with sticky rice baskets, sitting in neighborly clusters along the sidewalk. I was rather excited at this evidence that the ancient tradition really did still take place. We pushed on, not knowing for sure at what time the monks made their rounds in the center of the city, where most of the temples are located.
As we scurried down the nearly empty main street, still in darkness, a Lao woman scooted up beside me, asking if we were looking for the monks. Thinking that she wanted to be helpful, I quickly said, “Yes.” Bruce was trying to ignore her, and he had not slowed his pace. In the next instant, I realized that she wanted to sell me some rice to give to the monks, as she deftly pulled out a basket already full of warm sticky rice and a plastic platter with bananas. I was holding them both by the time that she asked for several thousand kip. I told her that I had only Thai Baht. No problem! She shot back with a price of 100 baht. I did the math surprisingly quickly, for me, and calculated that I was being pulled into this experience for only $3US Dollars.
Bruce was far down the sidewalk by now, frustrated at my fast collapse to the sales pitch. Meanwhile, my alms-giving mentor was ushering me across the street, pointing to where the monks would pass. She pulled out a large rattan mat for me to sit on, added a few banana leaf-wrapped treats to my platter - and then fluttered around close by, trying to make another sale. We waited about ½ hour. The sky turned pink. The café across the street opened its large French doors and turned on Western music. Minivans began parking nearby, emptying themselves of tourists. A small group of Chinese tourists, with their well-informed guide, settled on mats not far from me.
Getting ready to give alms in the early morning dark.
I sat quietly for a while, wondering if what I was doing was respectful and basically ok, hoping that I wasn't overstepping my bounds. I said a prayer for God’s blessing on ALL of His children, especially those who are looking for themselves, for love, for personal peace. After a while, I spotted Bruce directly across the street from me. Soon four small, ragged children with empty plastic baskets sat on the curb nearby, clearly waiting for the monks. I decided that they needed bananas as much as the monks and got up and quickly put a banana into each of their baskets. In a few moments, I caught a glimpse of bright orange just beyond the Chinese tourists. I was a bit nervous. Would the monks feel that I was an interloper?. However, I told myself that it was ok to be doing this, that giving food to anyone who is hungry is a good thing. I stood up to make it easier for the monks to reach the food. Almost immediately, my smiling mentor gently indicated that I should kneel and reach up to place the food into the bowls as the monks passed.
I carefully dropped a small handful of sticky rice into each bowl, looking into the face of each young man, which is probably also verboten but did not seem all that disrespectful to me. After all, the previous day a couple of monks had approached Bruce and begun a conversation in a peaceful wat compound.
In front of me, the children held out their baskets and plastic bags to the passing monks, obviously hoping for their own small supply of food. A bedraggled old man had joined them. Out of that long line of devout young men, only a very few shared their food with these needy neighbors. I guess their own grumbling adolescent tummies got in the way.
Collecting alms
Before long, the bananas were gone from my platter and my sticky rice basket was empty. My mentor tried to sell me more banana leaf bundles but I protested firmly and she stopped. I returned the basket to her with thanks and found Bruce across the street. We watched together as more groups of monks filed by until, finally, the line seemed to end with a boy of about 10 years old. I hope that other merit-makers had some food left for him.
Bruce and I were sure that we could maintain a respectful distance from the process, taking only the most subtle of photos. It was dark when we slipped out of our bungalow garden and across the bridge spanning the Nam Khan River. The occasional street food vendor was beginning to light her fire for the day. A few motor scooters with headlights on zipped past us. The air was cool, and I was glad that I had my long sleeve shirt on top of my blouse.
Right in "our" own neighborhood, just beyond the bridge, we first encountered middle-aged women with sticky rice baskets, sitting in neighborly clusters along the sidewalk. I was rather excited at this evidence that the ancient tradition really did still take place. We pushed on, not knowing for sure at what time the monks made their rounds in the center of the city, where most of the temples are located.
As we scurried down the nearly empty main street, still in darkness, a Lao woman scooted up beside me, asking if we were looking for the monks. Thinking that she wanted to be helpful, I quickly said, “Yes.” Bruce was trying to ignore her, and he had not slowed his pace. In the next instant, I realized that she wanted to sell me some rice to give to the monks, as she deftly pulled out a basket already full of warm sticky rice and a plastic platter with bananas. I was holding them both by the time that she asked for several thousand kip. I told her that I had only Thai Baht. No problem! She shot back with a price of 100 baht. I did the math surprisingly quickly, for me, and calculated that I was being pulled into this experience for only $3US Dollars.
Bruce was far down the sidewalk by now, frustrated at my fast collapse to the sales pitch. Meanwhile, my alms-giving mentor was ushering me across the street, pointing to where the monks would pass. She pulled out a large rattan mat for me to sit on, added a few banana leaf-wrapped treats to my platter - and then fluttered around close by, trying to make another sale. We waited about ½ hour. The sky turned pink. The café across the street opened its large French doors and turned on Western music. Minivans began parking nearby, emptying themselves of tourists. A small group of Chinese tourists, with their well-informed guide, settled on mats not far from me.
Getting ready to give alms in the early morning dark.
I sat quietly for a while, wondering if what I was doing was respectful and basically ok, hoping that I wasn't overstepping my bounds. I said a prayer for God’s blessing on ALL of His children, especially those who are looking for themselves, for love, for personal peace. After a while, I spotted Bruce directly across the street from me. Soon four small, ragged children with empty plastic baskets sat on the curb nearby, clearly waiting for the monks. I decided that they needed bananas as much as the monks and got up and quickly put a banana into each of their baskets. In a few moments, I caught a glimpse of bright orange just beyond the Chinese tourists. I was a bit nervous. Would the monks feel that I was an interloper?. However, I told myself that it was ok to be doing this, that giving food to anyone who is hungry is a good thing. I stood up to make it easier for the monks to reach the food. Almost immediately, my smiling mentor gently indicated that I should kneel and reach up to place the food into the bowls as the monks passed.
I carefully dropped a small handful of sticky rice into each bowl, looking into the face of each young man, which is probably also verboten but did not seem all that disrespectful to me. After all, the previous day a couple of monks had approached Bruce and begun a conversation in a peaceful wat compound.
In front of me, the children held out their baskets and plastic bags to the passing monks, obviously hoping for their own small supply of food. A bedraggled old man had joined them. Out of that long line of devout young men, only a very few shared their food with these needy neighbors. I guess their own grumbling adolescent tummies got in the way.
Collecting alms
Before long, the bananas were gone from my platter and my sticky rice basket was empty. My mentor tried to sell me more banana leaf bundles but I protested firmly and she stopped. I returned the basket to her with thanks and found Bruce across the street. We watched together as more groups of monks filed by until, finally, the line seemed to end with a boy of about 10 years old. I hope that other merit-makers had some food left for him.
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