The Thai VegFest

by John Keeble

In the soft dawn downpour, the Chinese community in Phuket Town in southern Thailand were stirring, ready for another day of rituals and processions welcoming their gods and asking for a good year ahead. The food stalls outside the Bang Neow temple were already alive with Hokkien congregants, dressed in white, eating a purifying vegetarian breakfast - this was Day 4 of the nine-day Chinese Vegetarian Festival.

And, in the lifting gloom at the front of the temple, were the first of the ma song - the 'entranced horses' whose faces and bodies are pierced in a ritual that lets the gods enter them and take on the ills and problems of the individual and the community.

Within an hour, the temple compound was heaving with people as the blaring discordant music frightened off the evil spirits and the heavy fragrance of incense wooed the nine emperor gods.

Within two hours, the thousands-strong Chinese community was on the streets, either in the parade or lining the route - not just as observers but as eager participants when priests, ma song and mediums gave blessings and symbolic gifts as they passed. In comparison to an English town or village, where few still look to Christianity for their needs, the fervour and sheer numbers of such events are stunning.

Almost every Chinese family and business with a property on the route had put out a shrine - the bank, the size of a high street Barclays, left its junior staff glumly on duty while the smiling senior staff waited at its shrine outside; nearby, a big city centre hotel had set out a huge shrine for itself and a party of Chinese staying overnight for the procession; and along the road a tiny opticians had a modest shrine, with fruit and tea for the holy mmen and women, looked after by one little old woman.

We joined the Bang Neow congregants as dawn struggled against the monsoon gloom and were welcomed into the temple to see the rituals in three shrines deep in the crowded compound. In one, offerings of flowers, candles and incense were being made; in the next, the 'possessed' - the men and women taken by spirits - were being calmed and dressed in ritual clothes for the procession; and in the third, the Chinese heavenly rituals looked like Christian hell with the ma song having their faces and bodies pierced.

It was in the compound that two other rituals began: some of the possessed had swords and they swung them from the ground, over their shoulders and struck their backs with the blades; and others had knives and swords, the blades of which they used to scrub their bloody lips and tongues. Later, after the religious rituals in the town's temples, priests walked on hot coals and young men climbed ladders made from sharp blades. Everywhere, the people - young and old, men and women - were praising their gods and asking for good fortune in the year ahead.

Between the highlights of the festival, the temples returned to their quiet dignity with the faithful making their offerings and receiving the comfort of their religion.

The vegetarian festival first began after Chinese tin miners were impressed by a touring opera company that cured itself of "jungle fevers" in 1825. But the religious practices of that time grew with trade route influences, probably taking the face and body piercing from the Hindus of southern India.

For us, the Chinese vegetarian festival was a few days into a monsoon tour in southern Thailand - a last-minute decision when a cholera epidemic and serious flooding made our planned trip to southern Laos impossible. It was southern Thailand's wettest month and we were not expecting much. We could not have been more wrong, as we soon realised at the festival.

After quite a few good vegan/vegetarian meals, enough deafening fireworks and plenty of human blood, we left the Sinthavee hotel in the centre of Phuket Town by songthaew, but only as far as the bus terminal. In Thailand, buses are fast, frequent, cheap (perhaps 5% of the tourist taxi fare) and a fascinating cultural experience.

As we arrived at the bus station, the ticket office staff asked where we were going and hurried us along. We panted down the row of buses, got the right one just in time, watched as one of the crew grabbed our bags and stored them - and sat while the kindly crew waited for a missing boy. He returned and we were off. The bus eased us out of the town and onto the good main road north, over the short bridge that links Phuket island with the mainland, and eventually carried us into Phang Nga town. As the bus pulled into the straggling collection of private and public buildings, it did not look promising. We turned into the bus station and had an instant decision to make: get off now or stay on for Krabi. We got off. Something would turn up.

And it did. Mr Kean's Tour Company. Mr Kean was there to net new arrivals - though whether that was his real name, we could not decide. As a local Muslim, it seemed unlikely - until you take into account the centuries of foreigners who made their homes and careers in Phuket and, further north, at Takuapa. Anyway, he had a great old jalopy and a huge fund of goodwill and eagerness for business. We wanted a hotel? He would show us. The first was dire even by the undemanding standards of people without a bed for the night. But the second was the Phang Nga Valley Resort - it had bungalows, set in the beautiful limestone landscape, with an open restaurant that could easily seat half the readers of VISA. Like everywhere else in the monsoon month of October, it was before the season had started and everyone was getting the place ready, polishing their acts or training.

We spent four delightful days there - without cracking a system that always delivered three dishes between us for dinner however many we ordered - amid the hilarity of language problems and general goodwill.

One evening, we enjoyed a performance that was better than an impromptu theatre production. A group of German and Austrian cyclists, bravely riding from Phuket to Penang in Malaysia, had stopped for the night. The warm rain was lancing into the lush green landscape; and one of their bikes was being repaired in town. Eight or 10 of them sat together and they ordered. 

Unfortunately, the only experienced staff member was off that night. She had left the new kids in charge. They had no English and probably had never heard German before. It is more than fair to say they did their good-humoured best, but even the laws of chance did not deliver one correct meal to one hungry cyclist. As the dishes came and went back, some started laughing, some looked disconcerted and one got angry. In the end, they took what they could get and swapped until they were happy. We left, having enjoyed our three vegan dishes.

The guide books do not get too excited about Phang Nga town. But, when we got to know it better, we thought it was great for a few days. The first treat was hiring a longtail fishing boat from one of Mr Kean's pals. He took us through the mangrove channels, by the Muslim villages on stilts, and out into Phang Nga Bay with its hundreds of amazing karst islands (including the much visited tourist spot of "James Bond Island" which was used in The Man with the Golden Gun).

True, you can get a quick trip from Phuket to Phang Nga Bay and it must be better than nothing. But a day in a longtail boat, with a local to guide you through the storms and away from the tourists, was a joy. Especially since we wanted to take lots of photographs and the boatman happily responded to "just one more" gestures that meant turning the boat and approaching again.

We went from island to island, landing at several, and on one we ate a pre-packed lunch of fried vegetable rice and fruit before being led with a flaming torch into caves where aeons of shell fish and dripping calcium had shaped it for the local tourist industry. Then, after squalls between the classic calm of almost colourless Asian seascapes, the monsoon finally caught us and we had to run for cover with the boat lurching and the rain battering our umbrellas.



The next day, we got a songthaew to Wat Tham Suwankhuha (Heaven Grotto Temple) and wandered round until we found the entrance to the wat's great caverns guarded by temple staff and a small army of gibbons. Inside the first 300ft-long cavern, eyes adjusting to the dark, we could see an enormous reclining Buddha, gold in the scanty light; above, up steps, was a shrine - and, at ground level, there were perhaps another 15 or 20 Buddha images, some incredibly beautiful, others with their beauty in their symbolism.

Then, one of the "Buddhas" moved. Except that what had looked like another image was not: it was the still form of an elderly monk sitting on a dais in front of the reclining Buddha.

He beckoned me over, indicated for me to sit before him, and he blessed me in words I felt I understood without knowing a word of the Thai he was using. He indicated for me to choose a cotton from a small basket - and tied it about my wrist. When he finished, he gave a similar blessing to my wife who - several months later - was still wearing the cotton (which I had to tie, since the monk could not risk touching a woman).

Later, I read that one of the beliefs associated with the cotton blessings was that they linked the wearer with the dead during their dreams. About that time I had dreamed, very unusually, of my late father. It was an incredibly peaceful dream, such as I cannot remember having dreamt ever before, but, alas, by the time I read about the beliefs of the cottons I could not remember if it had been before or after it was tied about my wrist.

We climbed to the upper cavern, saw the historic stone carvings, and made our way back through the main cavern - and there, waiting for us, were the gibbons. But we were ready. We had bought a bunch of bananas as we left the cavern and they swarmed all over June while I snapped happily away.

A little later, we wandered through the peaceful grounds, chancing on the place where the Abbot was having his lunch. We walked by, found a quiet spot, and sat to enjoy the tranquillity. A little later, the Abbot's cook brought us food and then some more: a delicious coconut jelly with some nutty paste running through it and the whole wrapped in banana leaf, and some peanut brittle. We tackled our unexpected gift slowly, savouring the - wham! A gibbon had crept up and launched himself from the side, grabbed two coconut jellies in a second, and sat there defying us to try to take them back. We took his photo instead.

On the fifth morning, after other days of exploring the town and the nearest waterfall park (happily, on a Sunday when a few hundred of the local people were there), we cast aside the Lonely Planet and jumped on a bus to travel cross-country with the intention of a few days walking and elephant riding at Khao Sok rainforest.

We arrived full of optimism. It was a lovely place. But the monsoon season was not the best time. The main problem - apart from the rain, which had the river outside our hut rising five feet in a night - was small but persistent: the leech. In two days before we fled, we became forever part of the ecosystem through generous donations of blood.

Oddly, in this strange wet place, we picked up the taste of the best creamy green curry we had ever tasted (and now make regularly, to the fascinated admiration of our friends).

We got a bus down the Andaman coast to a five-star resort for a couple of days of rest and luxury. Except, arriving none too clean and by bus, they were not sure they wanted to let them in. Fortunately, we had the necessary passport. Ready cash. And, because others there were straight-faced package tourists and we like the smiley Thai ways, we soon got on good terms with everyone.

 So...we stayed four days; took lots of photos of monsoon days, accepted an invitation from the girls in the kitchen to be taught how to carve vegetables (and, without our specs, glad to get out with the same number of fingers as we went in). By the time we came to leave, the desk staff had no qualms about telling us the time of the bus and getting a porter to wheel our bags out to the bus stop.

And so, as we left Phuket island, so we arrived back - but not at Phuket Town. We thought we would take a chance on Thalang, a town towards the north of the island. But the ever-kindly Thais - this time the bus crew - convinced us that it was not a good idea and dropped us off just south, by the memorial to the island's two heroines.

There was yet another monsoon downpour and again we had no hotel and no idea where to go. June stayed with the bags and I scouted round. A motorcyclist stopped and asked the familiar question: "Where you go?"

The outcome was a local truck-like bus, a series of beaches deserted during low season and finally the Kamala Resort at Kamala Beach - another delightfully friendly place where a night's rest turned into a week while we used local buses to explore the island. It is worth exploring. Besides the attractions in the guidebooks, there are many surprising and fascinating places to discover and enjoy.

For us, one was an incredibly beautiful wat - with vivid colours and exceptional decoration on the temple - and, in Phuket Town, a Sino-Portuguese house with its elderly owner proudly showing his family photographs and paintings, the furniture and glamorous lifestyle in the first decades of the 20th century.

Oh, and one other place we especially enjoyed: the hotels' china wholesaler, thanks to a new friend from the Kamala Resort who had a discount card.

Now we eat our Thai creations from Thai dishes. And dream about our monsoon times in Thailand.

First published in VISA issue 40 (spring 2001).