Vanishing Tattoo -- Trip Updates
A Tribal Diary -- Bangkok

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Update 13

November 20th, 2000

Vince Hemingson from Bangkok

Monday, November 20th, The Tattoo Monks

Thomas and I rouse ourselves at dawn. The clock has not yet hit 6:00 a.m. Outside our window, a covey of caged doves has been cooing for over an hour. Shades of the roosters along the Skrang. The rising sun is beginning to chase the shadows from the room. I am already breaking a sweat in the heat of the early morning.

Tom staggers out of bed, and sounds as if he falling apart. Last night both of us had collapsed into bed, Tom too tired even to brush the contents of his overcrowded pack onto the floor as he flopped down onto his mattress. During the night coins, stamps and various other bits and pieces had become stuck to his body. Now vertical, he was leaving a trail of debris behind him as he made his way to the shower.

Yesterday the saintly David Norman Abbott had recommended our current lodging when Tom's favorite hotel in Bangkok, the Malaysia Hotel, had turned out to be fully booked. Staying at the Madam Guest House was like stepping into a time chamber. The place was cool and dark, lined with deeply stained rich wood paneling, silent fans slowly pushing the air around. This was what Saigon must have been like in the fifties I thought. Better yet, the rooms were only six dollars a night. Of course we had to make do without amenities like hot water, but it was ninety degrees outside...

I groaned as I sat upright but noted with relief that my various wounds looked for the first time in weeks like they might actually be healing. On my first night in Kuching I had had an altercation with a trio of fellow Commonwealth members who had taken exception to our tattoos, ability to consume alcohol, demeanor, personal character and appearance in general. 

When the dust settled I had removed a fair amount of the hide off various parts of my body. Those parts that weren't bloody were bruised. Thomas had watched as my various wounds had bled and oozed for days, refusing to scab up in the heat and humidity of the jungle up the Skrang River in Borneo. I ended up being surrounded by clouds of flies and other unidentifiable insects that were determined to make a meal out of me. Tom could scarcely conceal his glee at the idea of filming maggots emerging from my flesh. He still seemed kind of crushed that it hadn't happened. The Bastard. Thomas kept referring to the filmic quality of such an event...

After washing a breakfast of eggs in hot sauce down with an ice cold beer we head for the nearest Cyber Cafe to get David's e-mail. He had told us all about an article that was written about the Monks who tattoo at the Wat Bang Phra monastery.

Eureka! David is as good as his word. He's even given us what appear to be pretty good directions to the Wat. "From BKK's southern terminal catch a bus west to Nakhon Pathom. Several km's before the town is the road on the left of the highway that leads to Wat Bang Phra. Tell the driver to let you off at this road and catch a tuk-tuk to the Wat. It takes a little over an hour." This was going to be a walk in the park after Borneo.

Tom and I wave down a taxi to take us to the Southern Bus Terminal in Bangkok. It takes us about forty-five minutes. We get into the terminal just in time to buy tickets on the bus we want. Ten minutes after we've hit the terminal we're on the bus to the Wat. It's not even 10:00 a.m. yet. We should be there before Noon. Tom goes to the front of the bus and spends at least ten minutes explaining to the Bus Driver that we want to get off the bus at the road that leads to the Wat. The Bus Driver grins and nods and tells Tom he knows exactly where we're going...

The bus is unbelievably hot. In lieu of air-conditioning, every window on the vehicle is wide open. I feel like I'm stuck in a convection oven. Beat from all the traveling I promptly pass out.

The next thing I know Thomas is shaking me awake. I feel like I'm drugged and have a hard time shaking off the cobwebs. Thomas tells me I've been snoring for over an hour, the lying bastard. But there is no denying that I've been drooling like Homer Simpson. Groggily I stare at my watch. It's noon. I ask Thomas what happened to the tuk tuk connection but he's already stepping off the bus.

I get off the bus and I'm stunned to see an immense golden dome right before us. That was easy I comment to Thomas who's turned to ask someone where the Monks do the tattooing. No one speaks English, so Thomas and I head for the Monastery.

The Monastery is immense. We enter and pass through a dozen different corridors and huge, airy domed-ceiling rooms. There isn't any sign of tattooing anywhere. There are dozens and dozens of young acolytes being schooled by older Monks, all of them arresting in their bright saffron robes.

Thomas and I finally stop a man wearing a uniform. WE don't know if he's in the army, the police or a theatre usher but we hope the uniform means he has some connection to someone in authority. We brandish our e-mail, circle the words Wat Bang Phra a dozen times and get no where. The man in the uniform smiles and leads us to what can only be described as the Monastery's Gift Shop.

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