“Who are you going to believe, me or your own eyes?” Groucho Marx

            Initially it was quite dark in this eerie, silent, dead marketplace, but over time I witnessed it all come to life as the dawn slowly emerged. Whoever was in control of the lighting sure had a nice touch with the rheostat. It grew almost imperceptibly but steadily and, always, when I wasn’t looking. All of a sudden new shapes and objects came into view, and the variety of colors gradually brightened and became more vivid. The sounds of voices and clatter intensified as my surroundings came more into focus.

            Goods and produce were brought to wooden stalls on women’s backs, by wheelbarrows, wagons, carts, and bicycles. Colors and outlines continued to sharpen with the developing sunlight. Next to me a woman unloaded her handcart filled with dozens of pairs of sandal-thongs that she proceeded to carefully arrange on the table as if they were bouquets of flowers.
            It felt like the post in the wall behind me was solid enough to lean against. I needed it: I was exhausted. After the long drive riding in a cramped, un-air-conditioned car through the night to this town on the Gulf of Siam, we searched for this particular marketplace in the smothering, groggy-inducing heat and humidity. This in combination with my odd diet and abnormal sleep as of late; I required something dependable to prop me up.

            The last few months I’d been staying in Hong Kong. My host there had been extraordinarily generous and helpful. I quickly agreed to his request for a favor. I was headed to Thailand on business for a few weeks, and he asked if his eleven-year old daughter could accompany me for a portion of the time.

            She had been suffering from acute asthma since she was a little girl. They had taken her to specialists in Seattle, Chicago, Los Angeles, Singapore, and Hong Kong: all to no avail. Her parents had learned of an extraordinary Thai Buddhist doctor with unique practices and unbelievable abilities. They thought it was worth a try.

            This would in no way interfere with my business plans, and it sounded like an intriguing venture. I was happy to help. Their poor daughter was pale, thin, frail, and she wheezed and struggled all night for breath. She had never been able to run, jump, skip and play like the other kids. A flight of stairs was something for her to conquer.

            My host was not able to leave Hong Kong at the time, so plans were made for his daughter and me to meet some friends in Bangkok, a Thai couple, who would drive us down to the coast town on the Gulf where the doctor was located.

            We arrived early in the darkness in hopes of ensuring a meeting with the doctor at some time during the day. His residence was a fenced white structure right in the middle of this busy market place.

            There was no queue. As dawn became more evident, the nurse stepped out from the house, into the yard and handed out wooden chits with numbers painted on them from one to thirty-three. She distributed these randomly to the crowd of hands reaching across the white picket fence. Those lucky enough to obtain a chit were to be the doctor’s patients for that day. She went back inside.

            It wasn’t long before the amah re-emerged from the house and called out “nueng!” A person handed her the little piece of wood with the number one on it and followed her through the door. The patient who received the lucky number nine felt fortunate and hopeful.

            We were unfortunate and none of our outreaching hands acquired a chit. We waited nearby in the marketplace in hopes that Boon, the Thai husband in our party, could attract the amah’s attention and plead our case.

           I returned to my leaning post where a deaf and dumb boy with the look of a total madman caught my eye.  A questionably secure six-foot square cage of spaced bamboo bars contained a dusty heap of a very forlorn black bear. As the market came to life the boy believed he was entertaining me by slipping his arm under the bars and onto the floor of the cage. His hand held a half of a coconut shell. With this he would continually clap on the wood flooring, seemingly, irritating the creature to no end. The boy’s mouth would contort in futile efforts to make a sound. I couldn’t imagine the sounds he would be making if he were able.
      The bear would grunt and occasionally and half-heartedly take a swipe at the skinny, filthy arm. Any action from the bear caused the boy to turn his head and look at me for approval with this insane silent laughter at which time a glop of drool that had formed in his mouth would pour out, land in the dry dirt next to the cage, and cause a puff of dust. I certainly didn’t want to encourage him by any means. It looked like the bear had enough to deal with without this lunatic tormenting him.  

            There were patches of missing fur on his hindquarters revealing cracked, calloused skin. Dried, yellow mucus was caked around its nostrils. I expected to see in the bear’s eyes a resemblance to the crazed look of the boy. But I was startled to find quite the opposite. The bear possessed a gaze that was deep, tranquil, most benign, patient and composed despite its conditions and the constant clop, clop, clop made by the harebrained boy and his coconut shell.            

            They were the most distinct, disturbing set of eyes I had ever encountered; disturbing because they were so profound, steady, calm, and independent of the reality they inhabited.

            Just then Boon nudged me and told me in his limited English to beware of this suspicious character nearby that was likely on some drug or was maybe sniffing glue. He sat off to the side of us by a stall. He was nervous; eyes darted with a wild, dangerous look on his sweaty face. Perched on the railing he looked like a bird on a wire ready to fly off at any second; or I considered him quite capable of quickly attacking someone like me with the makeshift dagger I imagined he had concealed in his rags. 

            While keeping my eye on this fellow, I was taken aback by what appeared to be a seventy-some-year-old tiny woman walking by with a sixteen-foot-long plank on her back. She was bent at the waist, had it balanced, and her head was cocked under the board so she could see where she was going. People made way for her. I was startled by her appearance and disbelieving of her strength and ability.

            Right then a well dressed, slick, middle-aged modern Thai male strutted by, and he pointed with his chin at the old lady. With a glib smile he said to me, “Wimmin lib”.

            When the amah returned to the porch to call out “sarm”, for the third patient, Boon got her attention and explained that I had come all the way from the United States with my daughter to see the doctor. We hadn’t got a chit, and he asked if there was any possible way the doctor could fit us in to his day’s schedule. She told him to wait, and she would find out.

            It wasn’t long before she came out to the fence to tell Boon that the doctor would see us after lunch at 1:00. Thanks to Boon altering the facts a bit and making our case more appealing, we felt lucky and excited. So we had about six hours to occupy before our doctor’s appointment.

            “We go see special, village temple. One-two hour drive,” Boon told me.

            Ahhh, we would soon be relieved of the sound of clop, clop, clop, of that half coconut shell. It wasn’t giving rise to any benign gaze in my eyes. I noticed the boy had found a new victim to be his audience, and I suspected this activity just might continue incessantly throughout the day.

            We drove northwest away from the Gulf, buildings, people, and traffic congestion. It wasn’t long before dusty, red dirt was blowing up from behind our car as we traveled on an unpaved narrow road past rice fields and through the occasional small village. 

            In due course we pulled over by a house with an array of things for sale set up to make a store. There were some benches, coolers of soda and various items on display. Boon and his wife and the girl walked on to the temple to see if the monk was able to receive visitors while I rested a bit. I sat on a bench drinking cold juice from a young coconut through a bent straw. 

            I relaxed and surveyed the surroundings. It was very quiet and things were in slow motion in the heat. After drinking the cold juice from two young coconuts I decided to walk on to the temple.

            Three Thai women came by and walked in the same direction I was headed. Balance poles on their shoulders held loads dangling from each end that gracefully bounced to their cadence. Their bodies were wrapped in colorful cotton, and they wore the traditional Thai lampshade hats. They swayed to the beat of the hot sun, and I found myself naturally falling into their rhythm in the heat as I followed them along the path that soon divided. They went to the left, and I remained on the main trail.

            But I shared their listless sleepy pace as we made way on parallel paths that headed toward the temple. Their course eventually veered off, and I continued toward the spire.

            As I approached, the temple and its grounds appeared as a shimmering oasis. The scene was tranquility personified: no wind, no sound, just stillness and silence with an intense golden and green metallic sheen. The air was soaked with mysticism and spiritualism. There was an absolutely still green pond; palm trees stood with nary a frond in movement, and quiet bungalows were tucked amongst thick green foliage.  

            Boon was just coming out to get me, and I met him on the trail. He handed me a small brochure printed in Thai and oddly translated English that told about the temple and the old monk. I read that he was orphaned as a very young boy and lived in the streets of Bangkok on his own until he was about twelve. At this time monks at a temple somewhat adopted him. He soon decided to become a monk and has remained so for the last eighty-some years. He was well known and highly respected throughout the country for his “extraordinary meditations, his fasting as well as his ability to listen and provide people and other monks with succinct, prudent responses”.

            He had lived alone as a forest monk in the north for many years. He devoted decades to study, became an expert on Pali and could translate the original Buddhist texts.  

            Boon explained, “Now his body is very sick; he is in lots of pain, but his mind is clear and his thinking alert.” He and his wife had finished their meeting with him.

            I entered the temple and found him sitting on a platform amongst some cushions near the huge statue of Buddha. I could see that he was crippled and unable to walk. His crossed legs were skin-covered bone. I knelt, bowed, brought my hands together and wied as politely and as properly as I knew how, then looked into the face of this most distinguished, impressive, aged monk.

            I was staggered when I met his eyes. It was not my imagination or any exaggeration. They eerily had a remarkable resemblance to the eyes of the bear in the market place. It was more than haunting. They possessed the same detachment from his physical being: the same patient, tranquil, steady gaze. They were even the same shade of brown with the same deep black pupils, and they were intensely alive.

            This certainly provided me some things to ponder. Seemed I had nothing I wanted to say to anyone: no desire to explain or relate anything to another soul. I juggled thoughts concerning strength of will, poise, detachment, inner peace and suffering. With the reality before my eyes, it didn’t seem at all like a phony, contrived, banal thing to do. The combination of the mystical temple grounds, the beauty of the Buddha and the quiet, gold room, and my considerations of the eyes of the frail, imposing, aged monk and the eyes of the tormented bear caused me pause and has remained within me ever since. 

            Lunchtime was nearly over when we returned to the market place, and I was still recovering from my encounter and my personal revelation and thoughts. The heat of the day approached, water dripped from the plastic blue awnings shading many of the stalls, and people went about their business: a daily occurrence for them, fascinating for me.

            As we neared the doctor’s home I cringed as I disappointingly detected the clop, clop, clop sound amongst the din of the market place. I could well-understand the behavior of Poe’s character in The Tell Tale Heart. I was about ready to confess something to anybody just to make that clop, clop, clop stop! 

            While Boon stood by the doctor’s white fence to let the amah know we were there and ready, I once again found my leaning post vacant there waiting for me. I returned to my special place and enjoyed observing the life of the market. I was reluctant to look into the eyes of the bear and see the eyes of that monk then plunge into my new dark cave and get myself all rattled before going in to see the doctor. A voice caught my ear from across the way and saved me.

            “Krueng kilo, jet baht leow!” the lovely Thai woman announced from the stool she was perched on behind her table and baskets of goods. This lilt continued steadily, interrupted only by a question or a purchase from a customer. So, for seven baht you could get a half of a kilo of whatever fruit or vegetable she was selling; but you’d better hurry she sang.

            She fanned her gold-tinted face as she chanted this catchy phrase while smiling the most beautiful of smiles. I had the fleeting, fanciful desire to request her hand in marriage then and there, be her fifty-fifty partner in her enterprise, and live nearby in one of the wooden houses on stilts with glassless windows where we would enjoy frugal and healthy meals together as we peacefully aged.

            My warm dream was interrupted by Boon calling my name. The girl and I followed the amah through the gate, up the stairs and into the dwelling. The entry had floor to ceiling shelves filled with thousands of statues of Buddha of all sizes and of various materials. There were hundreds of lit candles, clusters of burning incense, and colorful silk pillows with embroidered birds and fish posed neatly about. We walked through this large room, down a hallway lined with Buddha statues to a darkened area.

            The robed doctor sat on a stool behind a partition. My “daughter” sat on a stool facing him. She could see and speak with him through an open window in the dividing wall. As instructed, with two hands, she set on the counter in front of the doctor a piece of paper with an explanation written in Thai of her illness. 

            He closed his eyes. Amidst his muttering and chanting, he suddenly raised his arm. Then he brought it down and quickly scribbled the information he received from somewhere.

            Three graceful women behind him squatted on the teak floor in bare feet. They mixed, counted and sorted medicines that were spread out all before them. Colorful tablets; reds, yellows, pinks and baby blues; white and lavender capsules were softly shuffled like muffled marimbas creating background rhythms to the doctor’s quiet chanting.

            He held the girl’s arms at the wrists for a minute and then he released her. His eyes rolled back in his head. He sat quiet and still before resuming his chanting.

            A few moments passed then he turned to the women on the floor behind him. He instructed them what to do, and they searched through some drawers in a cabinet and gathered some pills and herbs that they placed in a small rattan basket. It was actually a beautiful little model of the fish traps used in the waters nearby. He set this container of medicine on the ledge for his patient along with a piece of paper listing things in Thai that she should and should not eat.

            We were dismissed. Just like that. Before I knew it we were in the sunlight walking through the market. It happened so fast. It was a perplexing experience. The sound of clop, clop, clop, echoed in my ears but thankfully grew faint and finally disappeared as we made our way to the car.

            It was an uncomfortable long ride back to Bangkok, but I had some things to think about. When we arrived I left this little group of friends, found a hotel, and set myself in motion to take care of my business dealings.

            Two and a half weeks later, back in Hong Kong, my host picked me up at the airport late one night. When we got inside his flat he motioned for me to come and look. He opened his daughter’s bedroom door and pointed at her in bed sleeping like a babe in arms, breathing steady and clear and all cozy.

            The next day he brought me out onto his balcony. I looked down at the parking area and there his daughter was with some friends. Two of them turned a long rope while she skipped as they sang a rhyme. After a bit they started running around kicking a soccer ball on the asphalt. She appeared to have gained a few pounds, there was color in her face, and she was aglow with healthiness and energy.

            Her mother and father were relieved, so thankful and very happy parents. They were astounded at her transformation. A miracle had occurred. On the sidelines, I had experienced private inner adjustments as well during my sojourn with her and the Thai family. But it wasn’t me in the spotlight, their daughter certainly was, and I celebrated her fortune.

            I bore witness to this doctor’s healing of a seriously asthmatic young girl who could not be cured by a multitude of conventional doctors in various cities around the world. It is difficult to deny something witnessed by one’s own eyes. I saw what happened, and I was certainly impressed and filled with incredulity. What other inconceivable deeds and cures could this man conjure?

            Undoubtedly this doctor was aware of the bear and the pitiable, mad young boy in the marketplace. I’m sure he knew the waif was beyond hope and healing. There was nothing he could do for this lad to bring him closer to any kind of normalcy. No magic, no trance, no potion could help.  

            There was something I sure wished he would do though. I would be most pleased and most satisfied to learn that this mysterious doctor used his wisdom, power and influence to, at least, arrange for that coconut shell to be forever taken away from the little lunatic for the sake of that poor, dusty bear no matter how detached that animal’s eyes were from his circumstances.