Loy Krathong

The Loy Krathong song begins, “In the twelfth month on the full moon…”
By the Western calendar, the festival actually takes place in November, but by the Thai lunar calendar it’s the twelfth month. Not only are the months counted differently, but here in the village it’s actually 2542, since the original Year of the Buddha occurred 500 years before the first Year of Our Lord. I feel as if I’m a time traveler who has been transported 500 years into the future.

Loy Krathong วัน ลอยกระทง is the second-most important celebration on the Thai calendar, and this presumably means the village will go all out. But when the celebration begins, I’m surprised at the dignity and restraint of the celebration. Unlike the prolonged and frenzied partying of the Songkran holiday, this harvest festival chiefly involves launching floating candles across the water to carry our sins away. No Las Vegas-like stage shows, no throbbing outdoor movies, no wobbly carnival rides.
Instead, after dark, we carry our modest krathongs (floats made of banana leaves and bearing flowers, candles and incense sticks) down to the village reservoir. The vast, placid reservoir is already fringed with flickering krathongs, which are bobbing near the shores from which villagers have launched them. It’s a windless night, so not many of the village’s sins have floated out into the middle, except where villagers are splashing and making waves to send them on their way.
Floating our boats of sin away is actually only one of several explanations I’ve heard about this festival. I’ve also been told that the festival involves giving thanks for the rains that irrigate the paddy fields. And in a combination of those two strains—expressing gratitude for the rains and asking forgiveness for sins--I’ve heard we are specifically asking pardon from the water gods for polluting the water. That’s a tad ironic, since the festival involves littering the waters with dozens of krathongs, some of which have come to include Styrofoam.
Still, it’s undeniably a lovely sight when the rivers and lakes of Thailand become oceans of flowers and fire this one night of the year. Perhaps the most spectacular celebration takes place in the ancient city of Sukothai, but the nearby Mekong River becomes a stream of candlelight as well.
But for this festival, the village has plenty of water and floating beauty. And of all the different explanations I’ve been given for Loy Krathong, it’s the asking-for-forgiveness explanation that I like the best. For me, this makes the ritual of Loy Krathong something like a sacrament, a visible expression of God conferring invisible grace. Or, as one definition says, “a rite in which God is uniquely active.” Amen to that. So I silently ask Jesus to forgive my sins before launching my krathong. My Buddhist friend, Maliwan, is crouched beside me, and she pauses before launching her krathong as well. “Now,” she murmurs, “we pray.” She also bows her head. Our candles burn with remorse, our incense sticks send up a fragrant plea for forgiveness. Our sins set sail softly, sadly, but when our sin and regret stall a few feet from shore, we smack energetically at the water, sending the floats outward on concentric ripples of water. All my students are milling around, exchanging greetings and smiles. The whole village is out, and the feeling of a fresh start, a new beginning, is in the air. It’s a beautiful sight, as dozens of candles flicker on the dark water.
Later, three of us from the village straddle a single motorcycle and ride to Ban Dung, where a krathong contest is being judged. Here is the lavish celebration I have grown to expect in Thailand. These krathongs are not modest—they are huge and elaborate, constructed of hundreds of tightly woven banana leaves, sculpted into royal birds and royal palaces and bedecked with festive lights.
But not only are the floating beauties of the water being judged—local beauties of the human variety are also competing for a crown. Beauty contests are another feature of Loy Krathong, and one young woman after another parades across the stage. As she crosses, pauses, and twirls, each woman’s measurements are pronounced over the loudspeakers to fervent applause. Also posted on Writers Rising

Night of the Grasshoppers

The night of the grasshoppers begins at Khruu June’s house. Villagers start showing up with lamps strapped to their foreheads like miners, hauling empty bamboo baskets. We climb into a pick-up driven by June’s husband and set out through the deepening dusk. The sunset is spectacular, with thunderheads glowing an icy pink-and-blue in the darkening sky.
The truck rattles past the reservoir, leaves the lights of the village behind and heads out into vast, dark fields. After a while, even in the dark, I can see that the fields we have reached are full of sugarcane. Abruptly, the pick-up shudders to a halt and everyone pours out. A gate that leads into the sugarcane fields is tightly padlocked. The truck can go no further. Everyone begins to climb under or over the gate, so I do, too. On foot, we pass a shack with no electricity. The three children who live there are standing out front in the pitch dark, silently watching us slip past by like a throng of ghosts rustling the sugar cane. We pass a pond, and we are still tightly clumped together. And then, as if a secret signal has been given, the group scatters in all directions.

The sugarcane towers above us. Most people wear headlamps or carry flashlights. Some carry flickering candles, which they hold up to the sugarcane stalks, in search of grasshoppers. When a grasshopper is spotted, it is plucked from its perch and thrust into the basket. Sweat pours down my body and heat lightning flickers in the distance. The basket I carry grows noisier as the night goes on, rattling with the sound of grasshoppers hopping madly inside. Somebody’s candle starts a small fire which somebody else stamps out. Among the boys, there seems to be a competition for who can capture the most grasshoppers. We roam the fields, which seem endless. After a couple of hours, I begin to feel claustrophobic, trapped among the towering sugarcane, yearning for open space, for a place to stop moving, to rest, and cool down. I’m wondering if we will ever find our way back out again.
Then a quiet young village girl comes and takes me by the hand. She leads me gently and doesn’t bother speaking, as if I am a deaf-mute. Now she parts the sugarcane stalks, bends over and peers inside. She turns and smiles up at me, beckoning. I bend over and peer into the thicket of stalks. Three baby birds are nestled in a row on a stalk, serenading us in the night. We pause in our attack on the grasshoppers and listen to their delicate, trilling chorus.
The reward for all this labor comes later, back at Khruu June’s house. It does not involve money, but food. Baskets upon baskets of grasshoppers are dumped into woks sizzling with oil. The taste is salty and crunchy, similar to popcorn. Some of the villagers won’t eat the grasshoppers until they’ve pulled their stomachs out, because the stomach tastes bitter. I learn, after a few tries, that I won’t eat them until I’ve plucked off their razor-sharp legs. Also posted on Writers Rising

Night of the Raining Stars

Today in the village I hear discussion among teachers about a star that’s falling on Thailand tonight. I envision a giant meteor racing toward the earth, headed straight for--by coincidence--this tiny village. It can’t be true. No star is going to slam into Boonsong tonight. I’m sure I’ll still be here, trying to teach English, tomorrow.
“Oh, yes, it’s true!” Khruu Aria insists. “It’s coming tonight. Everyone is going to stay up and watch for it. It happened last year, too. We saw it with our own eyes.”
Wait a minute. You mean this meteor has crashed into Boonsong before?
“Yes,” Khruu Aria replies. “Stay up tonight and watch for it with the rest of us.”

It’s midnight, and I’m ready to rise and join the rest of the village. They have made a believer out of me once again. Ghosts, dragon fire, hurtling stars—the villagers are usually right about all of it. The problem almost always lies in my incomprehension. In this case, it’s my incomprehension of Thai grammar—in particular, the lack of plural nouns. Fon tok means rain. Daw means star. Khruu Aria wasn’t telling me about a single falling star. She was telling me about a night of raining stars. She meant the Leonid Meteor Showers. It really is Khyyn Fon Daw Tok, or the Night of the Raining Stars.
I shuffle across the wat grounds like a ghost. It’s completely dark and silent. The entire village is supposed to get up and watch this, but I don’t see signs of anybody else up but me. I step onto the dirt road, and a single dog in the nearest house barks. I walk past the next house, and that dog barks, too. Soon my steps are accompanied by a chorus of frenzied barks. I have awakened every single dog in the village, but where are all the people? I feel a strange tingle on the back of my neck. Why have all the people—though, oddly, not the dogs—disappeared? Or maybe I’ve disappeared and I don’t know it yet. Maybe the dogs are barking at me, and I can’t see a living soul, because I am now a ghost, ala The Sixth Sense. What a fate that would be, to join the throng of ghosts that haunts Thailand—underwear ghosts, banana tree ghosts, dead lovers, dead snakes--and hang around the village, in spirit, forever.
I arrive at my friend Yooping’s house and knock lightly on her door. She opens the door, carrying a flashlight. No one anywhere seems to be stirring for the impending firestorm. We climb down the ladder of her house together and walk to her sister’s house. I’m tiptoeing and trying to whisper, already feeling sheepish about having agitated the dogs, but Yooping begins to bellow: “We’re here to watch the raining stars!” She thunders repeatedly, at the top of her lungs, “We’ve come to watch the raining stars! We’re here! Come down! We’re here to see the stars fall!”
Gradually, lights flicker on and we hear voices. A small crowd filters down, armed with pillows and blankets. They turn on the outside fluorescent light and settle down beneath blankets to socialize. The glare from the fluorescent light makes it difficult to see any stars falling from the sky. I follow everyone else’s lead and kick off my shoes before stretching out with blankets on the raised wooden platform beneath the house. We wait patiently, chatting, but nobody sees a single falling star. All I can see is the humming fluorescent light. After two hours of this, I give up. My ears are tired of trying to track the conversation, and I’m cold. I reach under the platform for my shoes, but they’re not there.
“My shoes are gone,” I complain. This news leads to a flurry of exclamations and an excited search. Did my hosts move my disgusting sandals—which are rotting here at the end of the rainy season and which stink to high heaven--to a more suitable place for shoes? Maybe I still don’t understand everything about shoe protocol. But the other star-watchers search dutifully and discover their shoes are missing, too. We’re all confounded. Finally, one lone shoe—mine—is recovered, half-gnawed, from a dog’s mouth. While we gossiped and stargazed, industrious dogs carried away our shoes. Why they would do that, I have no idea. I stand to leave, too tired and cold to care. Strangely, in the distance, other dogs begin to howl. Everyone chuckles and says to me, “When the dogs howl, the ghosts come out.”
I limp home wearing only one shoe. I’m unafraid of ghosts, but glad to be living in a village that dispenses warnings about them. We will all live to see another day without being crushed by a meteor, and I’m glad about that, too. And at last, as I reach home, I see one bright shining star streak across the sky.

Also posted on Writers Rising

Mystery Island

Somehow, in the middle of this wide, landlocked plain, we have made our way to a tropical island.
An Italian volunteer named David is visiting the Thai village where I teach English, and he has come with Pen, Kanjana and I in search of this strange little island. I’m on the back of Pen’s motorcycle and David is riding with Kanjana. We’re tearing along back roads, surrounded by acres of rice paddies. We’re like ants struggling to cross vast, green tracts of earth. Pen and Kanjana have both been trying to explain the significance of the island to me, and I am struggling to understand their Issan-laced Thai as they shout over the sound of motorcycle engines and wind. David, meanwhile, is shouting to me in his Italian-accented English. I’m shouting back to him, in American-accented English, passing along whatever spotty information I can glean about this elusive island we are racing toward.
Kanjana and Pen shout a mile a minute over the wind and flood me with tantalizing, incomprehensible details about the mysterious island. David says to me, “What did they say?”
I reply thoughtfully: “I have no idea. Something about an island.”
Pen steers her motorcycle off the road and we putt-putt to a stop. Ahead of us is a small wooden bridge, which we’ll cross on foot. And I see that all that they have been shouting about is true: In the midst of this barren plain sits an oasis, floating like a dream. We dismount the motorcycles at the edge of a serene green lake. In the middle of the lake is tethered a compact little island, every square inch of it bristling with towering palm trees. The palm trees that cloak the island are unique, Pen and Kanjana explain. They grow only here, on this small island, in the middle of this desert, in the middle of nowhere.
“This is the only place these trees can be found,” Pen insists. “They won’t grow anywhere else. They have tried to transplant them elsewhere, but they failed.”
The impossibly tall trees look thick and ancient and strange, nothing like the youthful, slender coconut trees I am used to seeing scattered gracefully across the rice paddies. What they are trying to tell me, I realize, is that this island is a mystery. These trees are a miracle. Why does this thicket of trees grow only here and nowhere else on earth? Of course, I have no way of verifying the fact that the trees grow nowhere else. It seems a little suspect, but I cheerfully agree with them and enter the realm of the mystical.
We leave the motorcycles in the parking lot. We cross the footbridge whose handrails on both sides, I notice, are a long, unfurled serpent complete with scales. But serpent handrails are not an uncommon sight in Thailand when leading to temples. The naga (which I believe was a 7-headed cobra) is widely revered for sheltering the Buddha while he meditated on his way to enlightenment.
Pen lowers her voice and passes on another mysterious bit: A story about a Thai man who was hired to show outdoor movies on the island all night long. The crowd who gathered to watch the movie was silent and odd. The man showing the movies had to be out by 4 a.m., he was warned, or he might never leave the island. When the man went to leave the island, he had trouble finding his way out. He eventually made it off the island, and the strangely silent movie fans, he learned afterward, were ghosts. I’ve heard many American versions of the encounter with the stranger who turns out to be a ghost, but I like this Thai twist on it.
We step onto the island and instantly sink into hushed, dense forest. The light above us filters weakly down. A Buddhist monk slips silently past us, and Pen, the lone Buddhist among us Christians, leads us reverently along a twisting path deep into the trees. At the heart of the island pulses a silent spring. Here is the heart of the mystery. The four of us lean over the deep, green pool and peer in. The water is murky, and the well is, perhaps, bottomless. I can’t be sure, but I am looking for the giant snake that dwells therein. In Buddhism, of course, snakes don’t have the sullied reputation that they have in Christianity. In fact, they often represent the sacred. A giant, sacred snake dwells in this pool, and there is a whole, elaborate story about how it got here. Pen is unraveling the tale and I’m struggling desperately to understand her Thai. I hate the way the details escape me. Who knows what I’m missing?
But I understand this much: This is why the miraculous trees thrive in this arid plain. And this is why the water in this well contains curative powers. Because of the special, sacred snake coiled down below. Pen leans forward and cups some of the water in her hands. She drinks it deeply, and anoints her own head as well. She urges us to do the same. But I can’t help it: I’m not afraid of the snake—I’m afraid of the murky water. Pen’s immune system is up to the challenge of local water, but mine is not. Maybe the waters really are mystical. But I am not Buddhist or even Thai. So will these opaque waters heal me or afflict me? One part of me is intrigued by this spooky spring, and the strange story, and the unsettling possibilities that this whispering island contains. But I am also feeling intensely practical, so I decline to drink.
Long after leaving the tiny island and the village, I learn (or confirm) the details. We had visited Wat Kham Chanot วัดคำชะโนด. It’s considered an “entrance to the water world”, or maybe the underworld--the dwelling place of a sacred serpent. The monks inhabiting the island are devoted to revering the special serpent, and the locals do indeed consider the area sacred. My memory of that day is that almost no one else was around except a stray monk or two. The flat rice paddies surrounding the island were also empty. There was indeed something otherworldly in the air, although maybe the moody atmosphere was due to the dense forest and deep well.
Some say the serpent has a “hiding place” on the island. On that day, Pen and Kanjana clearly believed the snake was hiding at the bottom of the well. Or was the well the entrance to the underworld? No matter—I comprehended their Thai well enough to get the picture, and the eerie locale is still with me to this day.

Dragon Fire Festival and Other Thai Mysteries

The full moon often scalds the Thai landscape with strange surprises, and I find myself holding my breath to see what crawls from the shadows. Who is this emerging from the fields at this dead hour of the night? What is that strange shriek, in a place where no shriek ever has an innocent explanation? I have become a believer--the countryside is riddled with ghosts. And in a small town not too far away, dragon fire erupts from the Mekong River, but only in October, and only when the moon is full.
The fire-breathing dragon apparently spends the entire year resting on the bottom of the Mekong and emerges just once, to show off, on the banks of the chosen town of Phon Phisai. Thousands of locals turn out to wait for the dragon’s breath to rise from the Mekong River. Pink lights burst out of the river on this one night and arc silently into the sky. The town celebrates the dragon’s spectacular display with Bung Fai Payanak (บั้งไฟพญานาค) or the Dragon Fire Festival. The Dragon Fire Parade drums its way down Main Street during the day, and at night a river parade of lighted bamboo floats glides past, to keep the dragon company. This legendary spirit, which some say shielded the Buddha from the rain and sun while he meditated, stirs to life each year at the end of the Buddhist Lent, breathing celebratory fireballs into the sky.
TRAIN TRAVEL
Our journey began on the overnight train from Bangkok to the city of Nong Khai, in a second-class air-conditioned berth. A ticket buys you a private, curtained berth with a reading light, pillow and blanket, and the joy of waking in the middle of the night to clacking train wheels and a star-spangled sky shimmering through your window.
For those who want a tad more adventure and a little less comfort, try the second-class berths with a fan. I enjoyed the warm wind and smells of cooking food and burning wood as we rolled out of Bangkok and into the dark night, but porters came round soon to pull an ugly metal grating down over the window which obstructs all view. I also woke the next morning covered in a fine layer of soot, and the restrooms, which are only marginal to begin with in the air conditioned section, are even less appealing in second-class fan. First-class compartments are perfectly affordable for many western travelers, but a cautionary note to women traveling alone: One woman I know who traveled in a first-class compartment spent the night listening to some drunken male passengers rattle her locked door. Second-class air conditioned berths are quite comfortable and much less isolated. Of course, third class also is available for the budget traveler or truly adventurous—it’s cheap, it’s open-air, and you sit up all night.

LODGING
When I visited, there was only one hotel in Phon Phisai, the aptly named Hugs and Kisses, which favored hourly rates to nightly ones. To be fair, more extensive options may now exist. But a better option for sleeping accommodations is in nearby Nong Khai, where we de-boarded after our overnight train ride from Bangkok. Nong Khai has numerous guesthouses and even luxury hotels. My favorite is the Mut Mee Guesthouse on the Mekong River, one of the secret pleasures of the northeastern Thailand experience. (www.mutmee.com) My room was simple and un-air-conditioned (fan only) with a communal, cold-water bathroom, although air conditioned rooms with a hot water bathroom are also available. Even if you don’t get your reservation into the Mut Mee in time (and with thousands of people descending on the area to watch the dragon rise, you’d better plan ahead), it’s still a great place to stop for a few hours and rest. Travelers gather round wooden tables in the outdoor dining area beneath thatched roofs and ceiling fans, surrounded by tropical foliage and an expansive view across the wide Mekong River into Laos.
Visitors to the Mut Mee can choose from numerous excellent Thai dishes, and the delicious western menu can be hard to come by in this part of the country, providing a welcome break from the sticky rice and searing spices of northeastern Thailand. In particular, the banana pancakes, French toast and thick, crisp bacon are a welcome sight for many travelers who have been living on rice soup or noodles for breakfast.
By day the atmosphere at the Mut Mee is languorous, with travelers dozing in hammocks or reading paperbacks with feet propped up while the river moves sluggishly past. By night, the dining area takes on a more festive air as more travelers pour in, order beer and swap tales late into the night about the islands in the south, the elephant treks in the north, and the perils and rewards of venturing into neighboring Laos. It’s also an excellent place to gather advice and information from other travelers and the friendly staff about where to go and what to do. When you’re ready to depart for the Dragon Fire Festival, a shuttle service will take you to Phon Phisai, 40 kilometers away.

DRAGON FIRE!
When we arrived in Phon Phisai in the afternoon, the boardwalk along the river was already bustling with people. Vendors hawked dried squid, speckled bird eggs, cotton candy, balloons, grilled chicken, soccer-sized grapefruit, roasted bananas, beer and soda. Wooden boats dotted the tranquil waters of the Mekong, and opposite us shone the lush green coast of Laos.
We ate at the Khaw Soi 18 Restaurant, which offers virtually every Thai favorite imaginable, from the spicy Issan peasant dishes of som tam and laap muu to the northern red curry dish known as khaw soy, to the well-known staples tom yam and pad thai. Seven of us ate there around tables beneath thatched-roof gazebos overlooking the Mekong River.
After eating, we staked out a spot to sit on the riverbanks, and at dusk we heard a piercing whistle. Was it the sound of the dragon rising from the murky Mekong to breathe fire into the sky? No—it was only the introductory fireworks for the evening. In fact, the entire evening was filled with fireworks, from start to finish—enough to frighten any lurking dragon away. Once it was dark, the river parade of floats began (this also can be viewed in Nong Khai). White lights, and in some cases dozens of candles, covered bamboo structures designed to look like ancient Oriental sailing ships and other marvels. Vendors moved through the packed crowd selling noisemakers and coiled dragon puppets with red battery-powered eyes. Paper lanterns drifted higher and higher into the night until their fiery glow vanished. To add to the mystery, the electricity powering the vendors’ stalls along the river kept going off throughout the evening.
I asked one Thai woman if she “believed” in the dragon fire we all were waiting to see.
“I believe,” she said cautiously, and then cracked a sheepish smile.
A group of Thai schoolgirls handed me a survey in English. Do you believe it’s a spirit? the survey asked. Do you think it’s fireworks? Natural gas? Do you think it should be researched?
“By all means, research it,” I agreed.
An excited roar suddenly rippled through the crowd. People stretched and craned their necks to see.
“Mai mee arai,” people murmured all around me in Thai. “Nothing, it was nothing.”
“Do you believe?” a Thai woman inquired, turning the tables on me.
“When I see it, I’ll believe it,” I replied, and everyone around me burst out laughing.
It was wall-to-wall people and this was a genuine local event, nothing Westernized about it. Moreover, it was fun. The real spirit of this festival lies in the spirited roar sweeping through the crowd every time a light—any light at all—feebly flickers.
And now a deep rumble began to grow in the crowd as people pointed and cried out. At last, I saw it—small red lights, arcing into the air like emergency flares or Roman candles, minus the sparks or smoke or sound. I zeroed in on a tall American with a camera.
“Oh, sure, I believe,” he said enthusiastically. “It’s definitely something.”
“You mean those little red lights?” I asked skeptically.
Were the lights coming from the shore of black, spooky Laos? A controversy erupted one year over the claim that Laotian soldiers firing machine guns into the air created the lights. But the fireballs look too big to me to be tracer fire, and besides, where is the sound? More perplexing, why did I suddenly see the lights of a motorboat in exactly the spot where the fireballs were a moment before?
“Police inspectors,” one Thai solemnly assured me. “They are making sure no one is out there. They are inspecting for fakes.”
This charming detail seemed completely in keeping with the zany, good-natured spirit of the evening—police inspectors in motorboats racing from one spot to another, to ensure that the dragon fire erupting from the deep waters was the real thing. And in the end, it’s authentic local culture and an as-yet-unexplained mystery.

OTHER AREA EVENTS
Numerous other events take place in Nong Khai in October, as the weather cools and the rains subside. The Thai-Lao Rowing Festival in mid-October includes a street festival and parade of illuminated boats on the Mekong River. Later in October, the Chinese Dragon Festival sports a parade of Chinese dragons, bamboo-pole climbing contests, Chinese opera, and a five-night festival at the local Chinese school.
And for tourists willing to extend their stay into November, the festival of Loy Krathong is the second-most important celebration on the Thai calendar. This harvest festival involves giving thanks for the rains that irrigate the paddy fields by releasing floats of banana leaves, flowers, candles and incense on the water. There are more spectacular celebrations in cities such as Sukothai, but if you’re already in the area, the Mekong River in the city of Nong Khai becomes a river of candlelight for this one night of the year.

THE WASAMBE BOOKSHOP
Push open the screen door of this little shop, and the aroma of incense along with exotic strains of Oriental music fill the air. Around the corner from the Mut Mee Guesthouse, the Wasambe Bookshop is tucked into a quiet sidestreet, next door to an art studio and across the street from yoga classes. Inside the bookshop, colorful batiks in bold reds and blues adorn the walls. Outside, a rooster crows though it’s midday, and somebody is cooking rice.
“The idea for this bookstore came to me in a dream,” explains the tall, serene African-American named Michael (born in West Virginia, raised in Detroit) who wound up in this remote part of Southeast Asia, selling books to wayfarers. “From conversations with travelers, I’ve made choices about what to buy.”
What travelers favor includes an eclectic and thoroughly satisfying mix of classics (Anna Karenina), thrillers (Hannibal, The Beach), Agatha Christie and Patricia Cornwell mysteries, biographies (the Dalai Lama) African-American literature (Malcolm X), as well as books on yoga, meditation, Buddhism, adventure and travel (Into Thin Air, Swimming to Cambodia, Riding the Iron Rooster). There’s even a children’s shelf with folk tales from around the world.
“I believe our outward journey is a reflection of our inner journey,” Michael explains. “Why do we leave our own country? What are we looking for?”
If you’re looking for more than books, the store also features incense and body oil from India, beautiful Chinese tapestries, Thai clothing, postcards and e-mail service. It’s a pleasant, peaceful place to browse for a book, which you can then read over a pot of hot tea or a pitcher of cold beer at the Mut Mee Guesthouse on the banks of the Mekong River.

WAT PU THOCK
I’m trying to picture barefoot Buddhist monks dangling from rope and bamboo scaffolding at dizzying, deadly heights to construct the narrow, winding walkway that I find myself on.
Near the city of Bungkhan, in Nong Khai province, visiting the Buddhist temple of Wat Pu Thock involves an unnerving hike up a mountain on wooden planks seemingly suspended above nothing but air.
The temple is situated on a massive sandstone outcrop that juts up from the surrounding landscape.
The outcrop contains an intricate network of caves and offers increasingly stunning views as you climb. The mountain is climbed via a seven-level series of stairs representing the seven levels of enlightenment in Buddhist philosophy. Rustic monastic residences are sprinkled around the mountain, tucked away in caves and on cliffs. As you make the somewhat strenuous climb, each level feels cooler than before. Indeed, when my friends and I, hot and perspiring, reached a resting place, we were enthralled by the fresh, cool breeze blowing over us. Across the plain, I spotted a waterfall that was miniature from this distance.

The hike definitely gets your blood pumping, but isn’t overly arduous. If you’re afraid of heights, this isn’t the outing for you, but if you’d like to combine a vigorous nature hike with an authentic Buddhist meditative experience, this is well worth the effort.
(also posted on Writers Rising)