According to some of Temporarily Thairish’s more reliable sources, there’s a Buddhist monk in Thong Sala who’s best buddies with Jay Kay from Jamiroquai. Apparently the pair met when the pugilistic pop star was holidaying on Koh Pha-Ngan a few years back. They struck up a lasting friendship when it started to rain, and Jay loaned the (shaven-headed) monk one of his furry hats.
Nah, I’m joking about the hat, but fully serious about their association. Jay Kay and a Buddhist monk sounds like a pretty mad notion, but it’s not really so insane when you stop to think about it. After all, musicians and religious types have often made strange bedfellows over the years - think George Harrison and the Hare Krishnas, Michael Stipe and the Dalai Lama, Bono and the Pope, Shane MacGowan and the Popes (Shane’s never content with just one of anything), and Mike Scott and whoever the hell they were.
Furthermore, ‘monk’ does rhyme with ‘funk’ (not to mention ‘skunk’ and ‘drunk’). A talented lyricist like Jay probably figured he could make something out of that.
According to local legend, this monk has even visited Jay’s country mansion in the UK, and ridden in both his Porsche and his beloved Bentley – and he supposedly has many photographs to prove it. Apparently he’s quite a relaxed, friendly and media-savvy character; kind of like the Buddhist equivalent of Father Brian D’arcy. I’ve been hearing about him for a while now, and so, last week, I decided to try and meet him for myself. Maybe he could help organise a Jamiroquai interview for me. Or at least a spin in one of Jay’s cars.
I’ll continue with this story in a moment, but first a few words about Buddhist monks generally. Although money is most definitely the new Thai God, and religious influence is somewhat on the wane, they’re still quite revered figures over here, especially in the countryside, where they often educate poor farmers’ kids.
You can see them everywhere and at all times, but they’re most visible at dawn. Each and every morning at 6am, thousands of yawning, orange-robed monks take to the streets throughout the entire kingdom, walking in single file procession with their heads bowed and their alms bowl held out. It’s like trick or treat, Thai-style. Lay Buddhists “make merit” by donating food and money, putting it directly into their bowls (the food is usually in a small, transparent, plastic bag). Having taken a vow of poverty, monks generally survive on their alms, and they’re forbidden to eat after midday. I’ve yet to see a fat one.
Towards the end of their teens, most Thai males become novice monks for a brief period – usually about three months. My landlord Mr. Pong became a novice when he was 18, but only lasted fifteen days. He remembers it as a time of terrible, terrible hunger. “Me too lazy to get up in de morning,” he told me. “If you have nutting in de alms bowl, you cannot eat. Me always hungry!”
Now, I’m not a religious type, but if I had to choose one fast on a crashing plane, I’d definitely go for Buddhism. It’s our planet’s fourth largest religion, and if it’s good enough for the likes of Richard Gere, Leonard Cohen and Roy Keane, then it’s good enough for me. It has many advantages over the other big religions. For a start, Buddhist worship is primarily an individual and personal activity. There’s nobody judging you, or telling you what to do all the time. There’s no compulsory mass or calls to prayer, and you don’t have to attend any regular services. There’s no dress code either. You don’t have to wear a burka or a beard. You can go to give thanks to Buddha whenever it suits you, and you can eat, drink and chat with your friends in the temple. You can even smoke! Try sparking one up in a church or a mosque. God himself wouldn’t be able to help you.
Also, there are only five commandments, which immediately makes it only half as much hassle as being a Christian. And if you break any of them, you’re certainly not required to get down on your knees and confess it to some sexually frustrated guy in a dress.
The basic commandments (or precepts) of Buddhism are: (1) Do not take life. (2) Do not steal. (3) Do not commit adultery. (4) Do not tell untruths. (5) Refrain from intoxicants. That’s all! As unpalatable as commandments Three and Five undoubtedly are, there’s none of that honouring-your-parents rubbish. And you can take the Lord’s name in vain all you like. Buddha! Buddha! Buddha!
Of course, those are just the everyday Buddhist basics for laymen, laywomen and ladyboys. Follow those five precepts as best as you can, and your next life will probably be marginally better than this one. Break them too regularly, though, and you could well find yourself working for Ryanair or Louis Walsh next time round. Or, if you’ve been really bad, getting reincarnated as a gecko. Monks, however, have a minimum of 227 precepts to learn and, even more importantly, to follow. No wonder they believe all life is suffering.
Of course, while they may be actively seeking true enlightenment, they’re still only human, and monks tend to fuck up just like the rest of us (just not as often). The Thai media frequently features reports about messy monky business. About six months ago, there was national outrage (and also much amusement) when the cops busted a temple, and found a big crowd of monks listening to loud music, drinking whiskey, smoking weed, and jerking off to pornographic magazines. A few were arrested, but the more sober ones escaped.
Just at the end of last August, three monks and ten novices hit both each other and the front pages when they engaged in a vicious machete-wielding brawl in the district of Phimai. The row was over a girl. They were all swiftly defrocked (except for, maybe, the girl).
And, in my opinion, the religion has its share of hypocrites amongst its leaders also. I read somewhere that it was one of Thailand’s leading Buddhist monks who assured Prime Minister Thaksin that to kill a drug-dealer was “of as little consequence as swatting a mosquito.” Over the following three months, the authorities reportedly killed more than 2,500 people in a seriously bloody anti-drug blitz. I’ve often wondered how that squared with (1) Do not take life.
Anyway, I’ve digressed enough. Back to my Jamiroquai story. I paid an early afternoon visit to the Thong Sala Wat, where I had been informed this funk lovin’ monk lived. A Wat is the name for a Buddhist temple in Thailand, and, as with pubs in Ireland, there are literally thousands of them scattered throughout the country. These temples range from huge, architecturally ornate and elaborately decorated buildings, to small, modest, do-the-job establishments. As with pubs in Ireland.
There are lots of Wats on Ko Pha-Ngan and, while the one in Thong Sala isn’t the nicest or most elaborate, it’s still fairly big. Even so, there was only one monk there when I arrived – a friendly-looking, middle-aged Thai, sitting idly outside his wooden hut with both the sun and a beatific smile warming his face.
I approached, gave him a respectful wai, and decided to come straight to the point. No need to beat around the bush. If he was the monk I was looking for then he’d know what I was talking about immediately.
“Excuse me, I’m just wondering if you know Jamiroquai?”
“Wat?” he said.
“No, not a Wat. A funky English singer with a big furry hat named Jamiroquai!”
“Sorry,” he shook his head. “Me Buddhist monk. Only into Nirvana.”
Well, at least I think that’s what he said. He answered me in Thai, and mine’s still not great. . .
A few weeks ago, I wrote about the controversy surrounding Koh Pha-Ngan’s world famous monthly Full Moon Party, and the recent political calls to close it down. While the island has a whole lot more going for it than just the FMP, it’s still a serious money spinner for a lot of people. Most locals benefit from it in some way or other. Not least the “cheeky boys” (as the Thais call all gobshites and juvenile delinquents) who sell 500baht tickets to any just-off-the-boat farang dumb enough not to know that it’s a free event.
Seriously though, it’s a small place, and the economic benefits of having ten or twenty thousand mad-for-it backpackers arrive en masse every four weeks are obvious. For two or three days each month, almost every guesthouse and beach bungalow is full, the bars and restaurants are packed, the roads are busy with taxis, rented motorbikes and traffic accidents, and the sweet sound of buzzing tattoo needles echo incessantly around the island. Many partygoers stay on and clear their hangovers with a diving or snorkelling trip, while others go on boat rides or guided jungle excursions. It’s also an extremely lucrative time for thieves, prostitutes, masseurs, corrupt cops and drug dealers.
Coconut farming and calamari fishing aside, the island’s economy is more or less totally built on tourism, and the FMP is its biggest international draw. Stopping it would make as much commercial sense as Dingle getting rid of Funghi the dolphin, or Kerry ostracising Jackie Healy-Rae.
Even so, this September’s FMP almost didn’t happen. Three days prior to the event, the government-owned ferries that operate from Samui and Suratthani were simultaneously taken in for “maintenance” – thereby severely limiting the number of travellers who could cross the water over. The same day, “major work” on the island’s power system began. Initially, the electricity was on and off more often than Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson. Then it was just off altogether.
Very few places have generators here and the contents of almost every hotel and guesthouse fridge and deep-freeze were quickly spoiled in the tropical heat. The only consolation was that there were no guests to eat the food anyway. The cyber cafes remained optimistically open throughout, but electricity being the petrol of the information superhighway, did absolutely no business.
The Thais were still smiling, as always, but it didn’t take a genius to work out that a lot of people were worried. The Double Duke had only three other guests, but my landlady Mrs. Pong wasn’t overly concerned. “Some munts is good for business, and some is not,” she shrugged philosophically. “Dis munt is not good.”
Thankfully, the Pongs can handle a rough month (though I was briefly concerned that they’d call in my bar bill). However, apparently a lot of local Thais are already heavily in debt – and not just to banks. Materialism is rife, pride is high, and competition for social status is fierce. Many people have expensive mobile phones, big satellite dishes on the roofs of their primitive wooden huts, and brand new pick-ups or motorbikes parked outside.
I once asked Mr. Pong how a simple fisherman or coconut farmer could afford these things. “Mafia give dem de money,” he said simply. Money-lending is big business here, as it is in the rest of Thailand. The reef sharks around the island are fairly harmless, but the loansharks certainly aren’t. If the FMP didn’t go ahead, a lot of payments would undoubtedly be missed. What would happen then? “Maybe dey shoot you,” came the reply. “Maybe you kill yourself.”
Rumours were flying as to the reasons behind this fairly blatant attempt to poop the party. Two men had been killed at August’s event, and some people said that was the reason the government had decided to try to close it down. Enough bad publicity for Thailand!
The War on Drugs was another possibility. Under serious pressure from Bangkok, the Surrathani Drug Suppression Unit are cracking down heavily on Koh Samui and Koh Pha-Ngan at the moment, and stopping the FMP would hurt a lot of dealers. Of course, some of the DSU’s own officers would also be financially hurt. No more party would mean no more frightened farangs desperate to bribe their way out of a dope bust.
Some people spoke bitterly of a prominent member of Thaksin’s cabinet, who apparently has serious property investments in a holiday resort on another Thai island. It would be within that person’s best interests to stop the FMP, and also within his power.
A serious terrorist threat that the authorities didn’t want to make public was also being whispered about. It was a definite possibility - though that’s sadly true of everywhere nowadays. Still, the headlines over here are sadly reminiscent of Irish newspaper headlines of the 1980’s. Violence in the deep South is intensifying by the half-day (the death toll since January 2004 passed the 1,000 mark last month), and the Muslim separatists recently threatened to take their inglorious fight “all the way to Bangkok.” Koh Pha Ngan is about a third of the way up.
Of course, these were all rumours, and there was a lot of bullshit being put about as well. Somebody told me that all of the bins had been removed from Hat Rin beach so no bombs could be planted in them. I went to check. They were all still there.
At the very last moment, on the day of the party itself, the ferries went back into service, the electricity supply was switched back on, and the place finally began to liven up. The FMP went ahead, though there were only around four or five thousand people there. Although I try to avoid parties these days, I still went to check this one out. The music was less loud than usual, there were no big open fires lit on the beach, and there were uniformed cops all over the place. There were even some cleaners-out. The party was obviously on its best behaviour. Nobody died, although Sam – a crazy young Dubliner who went along with me – had both his shoes and digital camera nicked. Some things never change. (Advice: Never bring more to a FMP than yourself and just enough money).
A few days later, somebody told me what had happened was actually the result of an official investigation into last January’s party, which was apparently one of the wildest ever. It was also tragically marked by the deaths of eight people in a speedboat accident the following morning (18 according to some people). When the full report finally made its way to the top, many months later, the authorities made the decision to stop the party. Representatives from the island’s tourism and business communities had a series of angry meetings with government officials in the days coming up this one, and it was finally agreed to give it another chance. The event could go ahead, and they’d take another look.
When they saw this one, they were a lot more impressed. Apparently they suggested, “Could you not do two of these a month?” The reply came that it’s called a Full Moon Party for a reason. The sky’s the limit. And the sky’s limit is one full moon per month.