Losing Track of the Night Sky

by Kamil Skwarek (United States of America)

Making a local connection Thailand

I sat cross-legged on the floor of a small room with the quote, “Love is when the other person’s happiness is more important than your own'' on the wall next to me. The meditation teacher, Mr. Harano, suggested I come to Wat Arun Ratchavararam, a Buddhist temple, the following night for New Year’s Eve. I walked by myself from the hostel to the iconic 70m central prang with colorful porcelain tiles and seashells. I yelled out “Sawatdee Pi Mai!” to multigenerational Thai families sitting, laughing, and dancing in the streets I thought about how my own family, which I hadn’t seen in two years, would celebrate back home in the US. I wished to give them a call, but they all slept. Solo travel is a constant inner struggle between choosing to meet other Western travelers and giving space for something else to fall into place. I entered the temple grounds and observed thousands of laymen dressed in white chanting in a ceremony called Buat Chee Phram. When I bumped into Mr. Harano, I asked him about his life story. Twenty-one years ago, in his previous life, he worked as a CEO. However, Mr. Harano couldn’t continue down that path due to stress-related health problems. His mother wanted one of her five sons to become a monk. None of her sons volunteered. With his health in decline and harboring guilt from his past behavior towards his mother, he promised to become a monk for two years. Mr. Harano and his mother traveled to an uninhabited jungle island to meet a monk. The monk told Mr. Harano to wait on the island while he brought his mother back to the mainland. He promised to return soon. The monk didn't return for two years. Mr. Harano’s possessions included a straw mat, an umbrella, and a mosquito net. He meditated each morning until he heard the distant sound of a rumbling engine. A fisherman brought him to the mainland. He then walked 6km barefoot to the nearest village for alms-food. One time he didn’t hear the engine for three days in a row. For the first six months, he cried himself to sleep until he learned to stop eagerly awaiting the sound of breakfast and the monk’s return. I asked him about my own struggles to sit still long enough during meditation without pain in my back. He shared the same initial pain, but on the island with his eyes closed and snakes and spiders abound, he didn’t dare move. Over time his mind grew powerful enough to decide whether or not to react to physical discomfort. Mr. Harano may have sensed my craving for human connection on a night of celebration because he gave me his undivided attention from 10 pm until after the night sky grew peaceful again. Today, he’s no longer a monk, but he runs a community learning center for the development of humanity. Every year, he goes into the slums of Bangkok and rescues young girls that are bound for sex trafficking. He promises them a home, schooling, and a job upon graduation. More than his words, Mr. Harano showed me the power of living his life for others. Dozens of past and present girls he’s saved were volunteering that night. I’ve never seen a man command as much respect and admiration as we walked around the temple. He never asked for anything, but on a steamy night the girls brought us water, created makeshift fans, and pulled up chairs. To give, because they’ve been given a new life. His parting words were, “What are the daily things you do to nourish your body? You eat food, drink water, and sleep. Meditation is as essential to your mind as those actions are to your body.” I didn’t know what to expect when I left the hostel. Although solo travel can be lonely sometimes, it’s signaling to the world you’re open to chance encounters your mind can’t yet grasp.