Vat Hoxieng

We got a call from Andy's friend Phet, yesterday morning (Sunday) in Luang Prabang. He arranged a service for Andy and wanted us to meet him at the Wat at 10:30 am.

We met Phet three years ago. He was a monk at the Wat. One of our favorite photos of Andy was taken that day, as Andy, Phet, Chip, Disty, and I sat around the porch of the Wat, Andy and Phet chatting in Lao. The photo is a close up of a smiling Andy and his monk-friend Phet. We cherish the picture for many reasons: the happiness of Andy, the spiritual overtones, the memory of the day, and the pleasing colors and composition of the image. Two days after taking the photo, we waited in the van for Andy as he went back to the Wat to give Phet a dictionary and some money, but he had left, and Andy was sad that Phet disrobed. But Phet went on to finish school, majoring in English studies.

Phet is now a travel agent in Luang Prabang, arranging tours into the villages, elephant rides, kayaking on the river. He also sometimes leads them. He knows a great deal about the villages, as he comes from a small village a few hours north of Luang Prabang. He and Andy went there and harvested rice together, Andy meeting his family.

Phet had been trying to reach Andy's cell phone and email, with no success, so he emailed Disty, recently, and she told him the unfathomable news: Andy had died. This was very hard for Phet. It is always difficult to understand the relationships of people, more difficult to understand when one is no longer alive. But Andy had meaning for Phet beyond the weeks they spent together, no doubt the reverse was true. Two wonderfully alive people coming together, with dreams of achieving what the other had.

Phet wanted to do something for Andy and himself and us, and Disty, whom he calls Mum, told him we would be in Lao this month and we would get together with him in Luang Prabang.

On Friday night, Phet met us at our guesthouse on the motorcycle that Andy helped him pick out a few years ago. He was not wearing a helmet. He looked smaller than he did in robes, with slicked hair, an Ed Hardy jacket, and designer jeans. He knew the woman at the desk; they had gone to school together and were friends of friends. We left and walked around the city to get some dinner, Phet occasionally passing friends and explaining to each in Lao what he was doing. He was clearly very popular. We ended up at a grouping of tables surrounded by paper lights. We were the only ones at this restaurant overlooking the Nam Khan river and, on the opposite shore, the airport side of the river, a new spectacular guesthouse lit up in the night, with long steps toward us winding down to the river. We had dinner together, or should I say, we had dinner while Phet spoke and watched. He ate nothing but water. Every once in a while, interrupting the stillness of the warm evening, as we talked we would hear a splash, as if a huge carp were playing in the river. At the time, I disregarded it as an interruption in an otherwise still night, but after yesterday, I now think it was Andy.

***

The morning was foggy and chilly. We arrived at the Wat exactly at 10:30. It is on the south side of the night market on Chao Fa Ngum Road. There are long stone steps up to the top. On the banisters of the steps, one on each side, mouths open to the street, are a pair of silver-painted Nagas. These were in disrepair when we were here last. Now they were shining and newly painted, a sign of the city's prosperity and progress which has been focused on preserving the Buddhist heritage.

Phet was standing about 20 meters in from the top of the stairs and he greeted us quietly and took us up the rickety and dangerously banister-less wooden steps to the dormitory to his room which has since been occupied by his younger cousin. We went in and the five of us stood in the 50 square foot space, filled with a white board with English lessons, a WWF poster, a calendar with a pretty Lao or Thai woman, and a low single bed on the floor with a saffron monkish decoration around the base. Phet's cousin was wearing a knit saffron cap, as the morning was still cool and cloudy.

Phet prepared our offerings, which he put all in a plastic bag, and I took in the space, wondering what it would be like to live here. It felt a bit like a college dorm. The young monks here in Lao are there mostly to get an education, and most, I believe, will move on, like Phet, to enter the world. For me, right now, this pragmatism about being a monk does not quite fit my idealized notion of monasticism, but it is definitely the reality of the Lao culture.

We left the dorm, down the rickety steps, upon which Chip gently helped Disty and, then, me. We crossed the cement grounds of the Wat and came to the door of a building at the rear, in which the Abbott was seated cross-legged, and we sat with our legs folded under us, facing him. Phet's cousin brought some glasses of water for us for the ceremony. The Abbott began to chant quietly, and we put our hands under the offerings for him. At one point he turned to Phet and asked Andy's name, and Phet told him, in Lao, a bit about the circumstances and pronounced Andy's name, which the Abbott repeated a few times and then went on chanting for a few minutes. It was over rather quickly and we took our glasses outside to pour the water into the roots of the trees.

I chose my tree carefully, thinking all the while of our Wat back home and the kindness of our monks and Ajahn Mongkone's loving community. I thought about how we were half a world away, now connected through this love, in a place we remembered warmly through the experience and photo. I began to pour the water: four beautiful brown and red chickens and a rooster rustled in the leaves. I poured more and the clouds disappeared and I could feel the warm air surrounding us. I poured more, a nun in white appeared at the Wat next door, removed her sandals and sat and watered the flowers. I poured some more, and at that moment, as I emptied my glass and stood up, a lone bell at the top of the temple was blown by the wind and rang. The three of us gathered and, facing the trees, our backs to the Wat, we cried for our lost Andy and this connection a world away.

We asked Phet about Andy's ashes, some of which we brought. He disappeared and ten minutes later came back with a proposal that we build a stupa among the others into which we entomb the ashes. None of us felt then or now that we wanted to confine Andy to such a place, that, rather, we should pour him into a river, let him flow into the sea, play with the carp, the seabirds, the sunlight, so that we can find him, again.

We left and thanked Phet, knowing we would see him again.