The Three Doors into the Temple of Chua Bai Dinh

We enter the temple beneath the big wooden swastika

Stepping carefully over the huge threshold.

(To step on it is bad luck).

'You will notice', our guide informs

'That there are three doors into this temple.

But only one is ever opened.

They represent Heaven, Earth and Hell.'

An American man laughs nervously

And wants to know which world we have just stepped into.

Our guide looks unsure

But then brightens and tells us this is Earth door.

He points ahead to a big bronze statue

Of a rather fierce looking gentleman

With long beard and long spear

Glaring down at us.

'That is Zhong Kui, the God of Death

You will meet him after you die

And he will decide where you will go,'

Our guide says.

'Heaven or Hell,

Depends on what you have done in your life.'

I have included a photo below

Of the throng passing before Zhong Kui

Though I don't know what his judgement was

Their faces are of not those 

On their way to Paradise.

His knees worn black from the hands of good luck wishers

The Temple at Chua Bai Dinh

In days bygone, temples and churches were built

By kings and wealthy merchants who figured that

A little investment here on earth

Would pay handsome dividends in the afterlife

And perhaps wipe the slate clean

And cause the gods to overlook

The misdemeanors undertaken

To get their wealth in the first place.

And so temples and churches

Pleasing to the eye, awe-inspiring to the spirit

Serve first for holy men

Then later as time goes by

As people look no longer to future heaven world's

The rich men's monuments become tourist attractions

And entrance fees are charged

Souvenirs sold

And the present day owners settle for monetary rewards on earth

Rather then uncertain heavenly ones.

A private company in North Vietnam

Perhaps at the sharp end of such matters

Have done away with the first step

And with ten million dollars spent

Have created a vast temple complex

Using reclaimed materials and local craftsmen

To harvest the proceeds of second step.

The result is pleasing to the eye

And awe-inspiring to the spirit

For as Art imitates Life

People come here to pray

And bow down to the hundreds of statues

Of Buddhist arahuts and Chinese gods

And burn incense

And the bronze knees of the patient saints

Are worn smooth and black

By the hands of the pilgrims.

On the road to Bai Dinh

The clouds lie heavy
Oppressive and grey
And the dust rises from the concrete
To meet the surly sky.
Outside the bustling city
Life is lethargic and stifled
Like a blade of grass
Trying to grow up through tarmac.
Our bus driver sounds his horn incessantly
As is the custom here
And fellow road users
(Mostly big trucks)
Blare back at him
But the poor in their flat conal
hats walk quietly
With slow steps along the dusty roadside
Or pedal their rusty bikes
Carrying their meagre wares
Or simply sit on the verges
With 2 or 3 pineapples
Spread before them.
The houses are small and ramshackle
Built of stone with terracotta roof tiles
Like medieval village houses in Europe
Or they are 5 or 6 stories high
But curiously never more than a room width wide.
A shiny black Mercedes S class
Overtakes our bus
The driver in a tearing hurry.
The suffering of the poor
Is a slow, weary acceptance
Of what is now and probably will be tomorrow.
But the suffering of the rich is a hot quick thing
Of what isn't, of what should be
And of what MUST be tomorrow.

Hanoi Social Club

Hanoi Social Club
A place where Social means
That it helps society
In this case, they help people
From disadvantaged backgrounds
And train them to become exceptional chefs and waiting staff
And the result is,
Some of the best vegan food
In south East Asia.

Hanoi (Old Quarter)

One thousand years of being a capital
Of countless foreign invasions
From East, from West.
And still the old trees
Line the narrow streets
And the people, polite and courteous
Drink endless cups of tea
Outside crumbling doorways
And drivers sound their horns
For no apparent reason
And sidewalks are for parking motorbikes
And street vendors to place their wares.
I step inside an ancient Chinese doorway
To a mysterious Chinese temple
And find myself in a leafy, shady courtyard
Where the constant din of the street
Fades away.

Arrival on Koh Samet

Our boat clears the rough stone harbour,
Past dirty fishing boats
Sitting motionless in the sick tropical heat.
Heading out into the open sea
We leave the old world behind
A breeze picks up,
The water clears to turquoise green
And we move slowly but steadily
Towards a different world
A heaven world of clean and green.

The sea smells of fresh water melon,
Fish swim in the clear water
A speedboat rushes past
It's white wake making our big boat sway
And ahead on the horizon
The island draws nearer
With gigantic trees towering above the low forest
And concrete pier below
There is a charge to enter the pier
(To keep it clean, they say)
There is a charge
(Quite reasonable, it seems)
To ride on the back of a covered pick up truck
To the beach of my choice
And there is a charge to pass the rangers checkpoint,
At the top of the dusty road
That leads to the island's beaches.
There is no explanation for this charge
But I am thankful that, as a Thai
I pay only a fifth
Of what 'foreigners' do.
But although John might have said
That the best things in life are free
Heaven comes at a price
Especially if it's an earthly paradise.
And 15 short minutes later
It is paradise indeed
With white, soft sands
And gently swaying palms
And the people of my resort
Smiling a welcome to me.
As I walk to my wooden bungalow
A hornbill flies in the forest above
And lands heavily on a flimsy branch.
Intrigued, I follow it towards the next bay
A small,secluded bay
Where the rich green forest
Goes down to meet the ocean
And a strip of white sand
Is the only thing that separates them.
Here, a rustic wooden cafe
Calls itself Rumin's Mystic Mountain
Promises Vegan and Vegetarian food.
Although there is no sign of any staff
And a sign at the bar declares:
'Your vibe attracts your tribe'.

The Boat to Koh Samet

A ramshackle wooden pier
Leads over polluted warm water
Greasy with spilt engine oil
And teeming with the plastic rubbish
From yesterday's takeaways
Cast thoughtlessly over the side
The endless legacy of man
Who dull and uncomprehending
Of where he came from
Has an unhealthy addiction
Of throwing stones
Inside his own glasshouse.

The ramshackle wooden slats
Lead to a ramshackle wooden boat
And here I board
Via a swaying wooden plank
Along with a few Chinese,
Some Germans, and an old French couple.
It is very quiet for high season
Thankfully the boatman does not wait
For any more people
Who may wish to escape the polluted chaotic city
To a paradise island.

The big diesel splutters into life
Black smoke gushes forth
And off we chug
In search of clear seas
Tropical breezes
And white sandy shores.

The Road to Ban Phe

My taxi lurches, darts and crawls
Through the Bangkok morning rush hour
Amongst thousands of other worker ants
Hurrying slowly and painstakingly
To glass, over air conditioned offices
Where they will stare at screens
Move paper about
And shorten their lives with stress
And money worries, and sales targets.
With such relentless forward motion,
How can my destination be any different?

But then my driver does a sharp left
Down a little side soi
Past Chinese shop houses
Stuffed with wares
Their Chinese owners
Sitting reading Chinese newspapers
On cardboard boxes outside.
Another destination then.

Then another sharp left, a right
A U-turn. 
A quick dart to the opposite side of the junction.
Past a new condo which promises
'The exclusive luxury lifestyle of Mayfair'.
Past the 'Knightsbridge Condo - opening soon. Starting price 18 million baht.'
Surely not this destination?

Luckily my wallet does not contain
Enough cash to gain entry
Into such lofty prisons.
Instead it is Ekamai
Bangkok's Eastern Bus terminal.

Exactly 151 baht later, I am on my way
In a 1980's bus which boasts such luxuries as
A bilingual TV
Which thankfully is not working.

The  city soon gives way to industrial suberbs,
Then to green fields of tall sugar cane
To low rolling hills and prickly pineapple plantations.
And with such restful colours of nature to soothe my eyes,
I fall asleep.

The 15 baht boat ride

You can't buy much with 15 baht (35p)
You can't buy a coffee
You can't see a movie
You can't buy a book
Or a seat at the opera
But you can buy a boat ticket
At Saphan Taksin
Under the frowning giant
Of the BTS SkyTrain station.
You can buy a 40 minute ride
Along the rushing darkened river
With the bird like shrill whistle
Of the boat man at every stop.
You can buy a ticket to phra artist
Past golden temples and palaces
Past dark and sinister ruins and slums
Past flashing faces half lit in the gloom
Past churches and mosques.
Past giant trees that still crouch by the river bank
Slowly devouring the concrete to get to the earth beneath.
Past expensive shopping malls
And soldiers barracks.
You share the ride with other faces
Of tall beautiful Germans
And bearded Spaniards
Excitable French and the ever present Chinese.
You rush past hospitals and under majestic bridges
Until finally, with one long last blast of the whistle
You step off towards Khao San road.

Meditation singing bowl from Northern Thailand

https://youtu.be/j9yoBXc8dOw

Listen to the sound,
Like a continuous bell
Coming down from the peaks
Of Doi Sutep mountain
That stops the mind
And makes the listener still.

Listen to the way
The single peal
Splits into two
Oscillates in harmony
Jars the ear
Allows the duality of its tone
To make the listener realise
That there is really only one
And there is no listener here

Viewed from the swimming pool

 Grey river flowing by

Reflects the grey-blue sky above.

Green frog in long grass below

Hides easily from potential foe.

Bright butterfly, brilliantly coloured

Stands out against green and yellow flowers.

The pleasure seekers delight in contrast

The survivors in conformation.

The brown poet in turquoise swimming pool

Only his blue shorts conform.

Sukothai

A ruined golden city surrounded by a moat. 

Undamaged stone Buddas sit meditating

Under open skies.

Amongst the crumbling pillars

Of the now roofless temples

A few (barely a handful) of tourists

Wander through the bricks and stones

Gazing up at the many statues and carved figures 

In the walls.

While high above

On the chedis and columns

White doves play unknowing

And uncaring about the story of a people

Who toiled so hard to build this city

Then left it all to the jungle.