The sun had just come up on Saturday morning. We hadn’t slept much, driving through the night to Wat Phrasonkaew in Petchaboon from our respective cities, Bangkok and Chiang Mai. The temple (“wat” in Thai) was about halfway between the two.
At first my work looked wobbly compared to Moey’s. I wanted to blame the cement but I knew better. I focused on my breath and gradually found a rhythm. My arms stopped wondering when it would be time for a nap. I thought to myself, “We’re applying the Buddha’s teachings to daily life. Practicing dharma by practicing a trade.”
Religious observance varies in Thailand, as everywhere. Some people here practice dharma routinely, through daily offerings, prayers, or meditation. Others get around to it when they need to. Some do it when their friends are doing it.
When we took a break for lunch, it struck me that this temple was packed with friends. Surrounding us in the large common eating area were groups of youngish, urban, middle-class women, chatting excitedly about the mosaics and gardens that have put Wat Phrasonkaew on the map. Its artistic exterior and beautiful natural surroundings have made it a “destination temple.”
Destination wats compete for clients, and so it helps to have a hook—a stunning physical plant, for instance, or a rock-star abbot. Wat Phrasonkaew has both. Part Ludwig’s Castle, part Chagall installation, it has generated several glowing articles in slick women’s magazines, as well as soap-opera episodes filmed on location. The head monk projects an air closer to a starting quarterback than a religious leader. I watched him give guided tours of the grounds, carrying himself like a man who expects to have groupies. His second-in-command regularly stopped by our construction site, but the abbot himself never showed up there. He seemed to understand that spreading himself too thin would undermine his appeal.
Moey had been to Wat Phrasonkaew before. She explained that the small volunteer group that she and I were part of was only a small fraction of the weekend population. Most of the people staying the night had come for a retreat of some kind. Those following “the course,” a series of mindfulness and chanting exercises, would spend three or four days there. People with a bit more time chose the “tudong”—a comparatively wilderness experience that takes full advantage of the national park bordering the temple.
Since the time a few years ago when the wat’s many unique buildings first began to blossom in Petchaboon, Moey was attracted to the area. She had tried both flavors of retreat. This trip, she was content to simply help with construction. We were staying just a day and a half before returning to our homes.
After lunch we went back to spreading cement. Our group worked inside the most striking of Wat Phrasonkaew’s iconic structures: five successively smaller Buddha images, sitting as if in each others’ laps, lined up on a spectacular ridge. About fifty feet tall at the highest point, the group of images can be seen from miles away. Our cement reinforced and smoothed the inner walls. Soon it was hard to tell which sections were mine and which were Moey’s. I felt at peace. My arms didn’t hurt anymore and my head was clear.
By mid-afternoon everyone was ready for a break. We trudged up a long staircase in the dormitory for a shower and a rest. About 200 other people would be joining us in sleeping on mats in the building that night. There were three floors for women, one for men. My roommates, three men from Bangkok, told me that they and their pals took these “medita-vacations” two or three times per year. They weren’t the only ones. I looked out the window and counted 22 silver vans lined up in the parking lot.
No dinner was served. The retreat schedule called for two meals before noon each day, mimicking the way Thai monks eat. They told those of us who were there to work that the kitchen held a supply of ramen noodles for anyone really desperate after dark. Moey and I passed up that offer, but we did sit in on the before-bedtime and before-sunrise chanting.
These sessions, at 7pm and 5am, primarily involved recitation. Sitting cross-legged in a large conference hall, everyone was handed a prayer book written in Pali, the ancient language of the Buddha. We all pronounced the sound of the words, thanks to the transcription using Thai characters. I knew that basic Pali was taught in some Thai schools, but I suspected few of the people in the room really understood much of the chants’ meaning.
After breakfast on Sunday morning, we listened to a dharma talk given by the abbot. When he finished, many of the devotees, dressed all in white, lined up to have their picture taken near him.
Devotion, however, didn’t feel to me like the prevailing sentiment. What I saw during my time at the temple was more break-from-reality than search-for-insight. The people I talked to appeared to be looking for an ideal world where climate change has been halted, family strife healed, and the boyfriend found and fully trained.
Granted, in Thailand I’m an outsider who rarely understands more than half of what’s going on. I could have misinterpreted the motivations of these logo-sporting, group-tour Buddhists. Perhaps when they get back to their offices in the city, they’ll share with colleagues profound insights that came to them on retreat. Or, these members of Thailand’s first digital generation will tell others how liberating it felt to unplug for a few days.
But I suspect that more often, the souvenirs of the trip to Petchaboon will be the t-shirts or the tote bags they brought back. The lifestyle approach to religion isn’t about making merit so much as it’s about taking a holiday.
As for Moey and myself, we were happy to have helped beautify a Buddha.
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