1. PREPARATION FOR THE WAR ZONE
“Listen up!” hollered Roger. The Danish shaved-headed organizer for the month-long walk through Cambodia stepped forward to get the attention of the 25 pilgrims gathered on the southern Thai-Cambodian border for the orientation.
“I have been on two of our previous three Dhammayietra (Cambodian Walk for Peace and Reconciliation), and I know from experience the challenges you will be facing walking through Cambodia. Each of you must make the decision tonight as to whether or not you feel called to undertake the most difficult portion of the entire pilgrimage, the very dangerous first ten days. It is imperative that you are fully aware of the risks ahead. Consider six important factors.”
(I took a deep breath as Roger began.)
“Number One: This will be the fourth annual Dhammayietra through contested Cambodian territory. The first ten days are through a war zone. Last year, we came under heavy fire and two walkers were killed and five injured in crossfire between the Khmer Rouge and government troops. Any government troops we see are not, I repeat, NOT there to protect us. Our pilgrimage is a peaceful, nonviolent one, and walking nonviolently means not taking sides.”
(How brave we are, I thought, and then pictured myself defenseless on the road.)
“Number Two: Because we are traversing a war-torn zone that has been in conflict for decades, the area has been heavily land mined. Supposedly the roads have been cleared, but there is no guarantee that new mines have not been planted.”
(I recalled hearing of the international efforts to ban landmines. Cambodia had the largest amputee population in the world because of these hidden dangers. I remembered seeing the Red Cross poster that pictured victims of all ages, which read “The military can’t tell us where they left the landmines, but these people can.”)
“Number Three: May is pre-monsoon time, when combatants often have final shootouts. It is also the hottest time of the year, with temperatures around 100 degrees Fahrenheit. We will be walking approximately 15 to 20 kilometers a day through deforested areas in the blazing sun. Wake-up call is 4 a.m., with a 5 a.m. departure, which allows for a three hour rest at lunchtime before proceeding to the next temple.
“Number Four: Sanitary conditions are primitive: very few toilets and little running water. Regardless of how many inoculations you may have had, the viruses are so exotic here that no one will be fully protected from disease. If someone does get ill or injured, or is a casualty due to gunfire, evacuation to a hospital can only be done by way of helicopter. The cost to the victim is in the $4,000 ballpark. It will be wise to share ICE (In Case of Emergency) information with a fellow pilgrim.”
(I started to shake with growing anxiety. What would I tell my family?)
“Number Five: One small backpack per person is allowed for transporting your personal mats and mosquito nets required for sleeping on temple grounds. You must downsize. A truck accompanying us will transport these packs from temple to temple along with non-potable water. Please team up to share responsibility for filtering the water to meet your needs.”
(Dehydration was a real danger, especially in the heat. And I already carried next to nothing in my backpack. Could I get along without my journal, my book of Rumi, family pictures, address book, passport, first-aid kit, changes of clothing, toiletries?)
“Number Six: The Cambodian farmers living along the way welcome pilgrims every year and provide us with food from their larders. You can expect dried fish and rice for lunch, and a simple hot meal at night provided by our hosts. Since our interfaith group is joining over 500 monks and nuns on this journey, conditions are crowded and resources scarce.”
(Oh my God, what if the cooks don’t wash their hands! I knew we would be accompanied by others, but 500 of them? Fearful of scarcity and feeling so insignificant in such a crowd, self-pity arose in me.)
“Those are the facts,” Roger concluded. “Each of you must decide for yourself whether you will cross the border or not. Any questions?”
Feeling so disturbed by what I’d just heard, and disappointed in myself for being weak and weepy, I reactively put up my hand and admitted, “I can’t do it. I’m too soft. I don’t feel strong enough.”
Others expressed their concerns and intentions, and one attempted to console me. I felt even worse when he said, “I understand, Laurel. It’s OK. You can rejoin the pilgrimage in ten days or when we get to Vietnam.”
The room quieted down when Sasamorishonin, our brave leader, stepped forward to beseech us.
“Search your soul and look deep within your heart to know if you really are ready to risk your health, your emotional fortitude, perhaps your life, on this portion of the pilgrimage. Go to bed now. Tomorrow morning we will make final preparations, after I have spoken to each of you individually.”
I left the room in tears, anxious to hide my shame and wallow in my regret. The full moon kindly lit up the area surrounding the meeting hall. I stumbled to a grassy knoll by the river where I had laid out my mat and tied my mosquito net between two perfectly spaced trees. Not even bothering to undress, I curled up under the sheet in a fetal position, fretting and fuming about being such a coward.
This pilgrimage was important to me as the mother of a son who chose to be a military man. I knew my son had made the decision to join, as many young people do, to have his higher education paid for. He committed himself to nine years in the Air Force. I had not succeeded in instilling pacifism in him, and was determined to amend and balance that out by committing these nine months to peace.
So much for intention. I couldn’t convince myself that it would be OK to just skip out when the going got tough, even if that was ten days in a war zone. I started crying again.
After forever, the sound of the rushing river consoled me and I stretched out. Becoming conscious of my breathing, I started to meditate. My thoughts quieted down. My breathing slowed. I asked for help; I surrendered; and dropped off to sleep. Some time later, I felt myself being gently roused, and opened my eyes to a bright light, too bright to be the moonlight filtering through the trees.
I became aware of a voice addressing me and heard, “Cross the border, Laurel, for you are divinely guided and protected. You have set an intention and you will complete the pilgrimage as you have planned. All is well. All will be well.” There were no more words as the light faded to moon glow.
Awestruck, I pondered the reassurance I had received in a manner completely foreign to me, and rested in gratitude.
The next morning I met with Sasamori as he requested. I told him about receiving higher counsel regarding my next steps.
“Now I know in my heart that it is not the personal ‘I’ that is undertaking this portion of the pilgrimage, and that it won’t be the egoic me that completes it. All this is a meditation, and I can and will do the entire walk through Cambodia and beyond. I am feeling confident and unconflicted.”
Our dedicated leader nodded in agreement and bowed as the Japanese do. I bowed back.
Others also had second thoughts. Some decided to take a different route to Battambang City, the capital city at the other end of the war zone, and departed that day with plans to rejoin the pilgrimage in ten days’ time. Two of the Vietnam vets who were most excited about going the distance were denied permission by Sasamori, who recognized that they had been too conditioned as warriors to be able to walk defenselessly. They were most disappointed, but accepted his decision and left with the others.
The committed 14 of us, ten westerners and four monks, met to form teams to fulfill the filtered water requirement. Dan and Elizabeth Turner invited me to buddy up with them. I was so grateful to have this former priest and nun, longtime activists in nonviolent encounters, be my support team. Their calming presence had often reassured me in the past few months. We vowed to take care of each other, exchanged emergency forms, and shared about our families. It made me realize how much I missed my children.
Taking advantage of an opportunity to use the one public phone at the wat, I decided to call my daughter in Boston to tell her of my plans. I got to use the last minutes of a friend’s international phone card and waited my turn to make the call. It was around noon, her Eastern Standard Time, when we connected. Delighted to find my first-born at home and hear her voice, I melted into motherly concern for her before relating where I was, and what I felt I had to do.
She cried as she said, “I don’t care about peace. I just want my Mommy safe.”
I had to trust that telling her about the Voice and the night-time message reassured her. Promising to call again from Battambang, I requested she relay the message to her sister and brother. I then asked about what was going on in her life.
“MOM, you just told me that you are about to start walking in a war zone. You may be killed and you are asking me what I am having for lunch?”
Interested, I asked, “What are you having for lunch?”
We both laughed, and she opened up about her plans, delighting me with stories of simple pleasures and big ideas. As the operator did the minutes’ cut-off countdown, we lovingly said goodbye after reciting together, as we had done so many times before: “May all beings be happy, may all beings be free, may all beings live lives of peace and harmony.”
2. FIRST FOOTSTEPS IN CAMBODIA
It was noon the next day and 110 degrees Fahrenheit, as we waited at the border while immigration officials processed our passports. Two hours later, we were allowed to proceed with the Thai exit stamp, cross over the invisible line, and then move on for the Cambodian entrance visa. Once on the other side, the energy was high as we were joined by the other Cambodia walkers, some 500 Buddhist monks and nuns. We were energized as we got our first look at the “Gandhi of Cambodia.”
More than a thousand eyes were focused on the Venerable Maha Ghosananda, the 1966 Nobel Prize nominee, who was the momentum behind the movement. This revered monk, wearing a Buddha smile on his round face and a saffron robe over a rather frail body, blessed the retinue, and gave his heartfelt message to welcome us as the international delegation on the Dhammayietra VI.
“Our journey for peace begins today and every day. Each step is a prayer, each step is a meditation, each step will build a bridge.” It was a privilege to be in his presence and to know that he would be walking with us for at least part of this pilgrimage.
“Peace is always a part of departure and arrival. That is why we must always begin again, step by step. Panna (wisdom) will be our weapon, metta (loving-kindness) and karuna (compassion) our bullets, and sati (mindfulness) our armor. We walk until the whole world is peaceful.”
After this mission statement, our first footprints in Cambodia were with Maha and Sasamori. Our international delegation led the way around a rotary, away from the border. Stronger, younger pilgrims took turns carrying the peace banners for visual impact; the rest of us offered the beating of the hand drums and/or chanting to attract the ears of onlookers (and God, just in case S/He didn’t notice).
Our multinational presence of 14 was dwarfed by the hundreds of Cambodian monks and nuns who were the impetus behind this Dhammayietra. As we wove our way into Poipet, it was reassuring to look back at those local spiritual practitioners who would be our companions as we walked across Cambodia.
Never having been much of a history buff, I knew little beyond hearing there was a movie called The Killing Fields about the atrocities the Khmer Rouge (the name given Cambodian communists) had committed in Cambodia. More than 1.5 million people were starved, worked to death, or executed under the Communist dictatorship of Pol Pot. The leadership specifically annihilated the educated and the religious orders, killing those who wore glasses or had soft hands. These acts throughout the so-called Year Zero had as their goal the return of Cambodia to its agrarian past, which nevertheless failed without proper irrigation or educational practices.
I had read next to nothing about America’s part in setting the stage for the Khmer Rouge takeover. My country, in its bombing efforts to destroy North Vietnamese military installations and supply lines along the Ho Chi Minh Trail, wreaked havoc on what remained of Cambodia’s rural border population and agrarian economy.
Even with the spraying of the poison Agent Orange in this over-spilling of the Vietnam war, the “Blood Road” continued to function. On the quest to eliminate so-called Vietnamese Communists, even more voracious US bombings destroyed marketplaces, rice fields and villages in neutral Cambodia, causing further social disintegration, which later turned into a civil war.
Maha Ghosananda, in petitioning for peace, said he did not question that loving one’s oppressors – the Cambodians loving the Khmer Rouge – may be the most difficult attitude to achieve.
Nevertheless, “It is the law of the universe that retaliation, hatred and revenge only continue the cycle. Reconciliation means we see ourselves as the opponent. For what is the opponent but a being in ignorance? And we ourselves are also ignorant of many things.” I sighed as a being in ignorance, and tried as a pilgrim to be present with peace and reconciliation.
Arriving at Poipet, the border market town with its shops pockmarked by shelling, I turned my attention to the Cambodian pilgrims: perhaps 300 saffron-robed monks, mostly teenaged, and a couple of hundred nuns who were much older women, mostly widows, many toothless but nevertheless firm-limbed. The nuns were all wearing white blouses and black skirts; their uniform was part of the spiritual sisterhood. All had shaved heads.
These were the oppressed whom Maha Ghosananda had brought back to the solace of Buddhism, the religion that their families had embraced before the Khmer Rouge desecrated 3,600 of their Buddhist temples. Only 3,000 of the 60,000 Buddhist priests escaped being forced to disrobe (renounce their priesthood), or be tortured or murdered.
The revival of the religion began in 1979 when, as a Theravaden monk from a Thailand forest hermitage, Ghosananda trekked from one refugee camp to another along the Thailand border, and ministered to the disheartened Cambodians. He chanted ancient and familiar sutras, and distributed photocopied Buddhist scriptures. Against the orders of the Thai military, he rebuilt historically established wats and ordained new monks.
By 1988, he was known as the supreme Buddhist patriarch who inspired all without taking sides, putting himself only in the lap of the Buddha. Living up to his name, which means “great joyful proclaimer,” Maha Ghosananda made teaching about the Buddha very much a part of his mission to the masses. (Hence, many locals joined us for his lessons each evening at our stops along the 74 miles between Poipet and Battambamg.)
Standing out in every crowd towered the six and a half foot tall, red-headed Bob Maat, an American monk who had served in Cambodia for years working on behalf of the victims of the conflict. Present with us in Auschwitz at the beginning of the pilgrimage, he encouraged our efforts for peace as pilgrims, and bid us to join him in his adopted homeland. I had doubts when we learned that the year before, he had been taken prisoner by the Khmer Rouge, questioned and released. I sincerely hoped that that would not be anyone’s fate this year.
Here we met again. Wearing a T-shirt and jeans and the same size 12 flip-flops he wore in the snow in Poland, he flashed a big smile on his sunburned face and stated how happy he was that we had come so far. I was equally pleased to see him again, greeted him personally, and then rejoined the women.
Using lots of sign language on our part, and the little broken English known by the nuns, a few of us got somewhat acquainted on this, our first night in Cambodia. A small round faced nun named Asvina offered me one of her white blouses to wear over my brightly colored rayon dress.
Take it, she gestured, thinking that we should wear white tops like they wore so as not to stand out. I was most touched and gratified by her generosity. We exchanged addresses and I promised to write when I returned home. I did as promised, sending money and pictures to Sister Asvina as the correspondence continued. (I later had to write and ask Bob Maat to intervene, to apologize to the nun for me, and to convince her that I really could not continue to honor her requests for dollars.)
We five western women were assigned a ramshackle dirt floored dining hall as our dorm. It was full of wooden picnic tables, which we used as platforms for our sleeping mats. We hung our mosquito nets from the rafters before going out again.
We lined up with the nuns waiting to share a curtained-off shower head for washing up while our feet got rinsed in the runoff. They stared at us curiously as we smiled awkwardly. After some time, a translator appeared and invited the five of us elsewhere to use a bathhouse. Gratefully and a little sheepish, we accepted and were led to what turned out to be the residence of a better-off woman in this impoverished community. Although still primitive by western standards, the facility was an upgrade from the muddy area we had just left, and we soaped, shampooed and showered in hot water. We never met our benefactor, so my curiosity about her life was not satisfied. I attempted to forgive my judgmental thoughts about this house, and the reputation I imagined it had, as I relished in its comforts and fantasized the owner’s right livelihood.
Clean and relaxed, we retired early to our platforms, but it was impossible to sleep because of the revelry of the locals. I crawled off my camping mat, out of my mosquito net, slipped on my dress and new-to-me blouse, strapped on my tevas, and went outside to see what was going on.
I followed the bright lights and piercing sounds to a huge open area. Maha Ghosananda was seated on a platform teaching the dharma, perhaps the Four Noble Truths, to the multitude gathered at his feet. These peasants, living isolated lives with few educational opportunities because of the war and the murder of bespectacled and soft-handed professionals, were hungry for the spiritual messages of hope and this yearly change of pace. It was a festive occasion. Music was broadcasting from scratchy loudspeakers set on poles, blaring out the ten top tunes of the time. Often a message interrupted: repetitive requests to the villagers to bring food for the pilgrims to the wats where we stopped for lunch or overnights.
One of the goals of the pilgrimage was to bring attention to the serious problem of landmines, and to efforts to help those affected. Booths set up by grassroots Non-Government Organizations had displays to educate us all.
“Mines fight on long after those who laid them pass on. Grandchildren of combatants can be victims of their grandfathers’ wars.” There were picture posters of a skull and the words in English and Cambodian which read, “Every twenty minutes, someone somewhere in the world is killed or maimed by a landmine!” Videos were played and materials were available on how to spot landmines, and how to contact minesweepers to clear the fields.
The NGO was also recruiting sweepers to remove mines, a painstaking and dangerous job. For each inch of dirt swept, an indentation had to be made with a stick to test it for mines, before moving on to the next inch to be inspected, and cleared if necessary. Each monsoon season, with one fast approaching, brought more of these persistent civilian-killers to the surface, hence the removal was never completed. Still more discouraging was the fact that even though millions of landmines had been removed, twice as many were currently being laid down by warring parties somewhere.
Some 20,000 signatures were collected on a petition to promote the International Campaign to Ban Landmines, an effort started in 1991, aimed at eliminating anti-personnel landmines in use since World War II.
Since Cambodia had the highest number of amputees in the world, even more had to be done. The Red Cross had videotaped programs which drew the most interest from these amputees and their families. They revealed good news: help was available for them to acquire prostheses. There was new hope and much joy as arrangements were made to bring the affected parties together with the medical suppliers. Was it enough?
Maha Gossanda reminded us all that “To make peace, we must remove the landmines of hatred, greed and delusion from our own hearts, which keep us from making peace.”
It was still difficult to sleep when I returned to the women’s quarters. I admit I was annoyed by the loud scratching noise until I learned that the sounds which disturbed our rest that night and for the next nine nights were purposeful. The broadcasted music and videos from the speakers also served as a means of protection. They informed both sides that it was a truce time, as the Dhammayietra was on site. The noise came with the hope and a kind of unspoken contract: there would be no attacks or shelling during this period from either side such as had occurred in previous weeks in these areas. Better to hear loud music and videos droning on through the night than the sound of artillery at these yearly gatherings, a time of nonviolence as well as an opportunity to educate. I fell asleep with Maha Ghosananda’s words in my mind:
“Peace begins with you. The suffering of the Cambodians has been deep. From this suffering comes great compassion. Compassion makes a peaceful person. A peaceful person makes a peaceful family. A peaceful family makes a peaceful country. A peaceful country makes a peaceful world. May all beings live in happiness and peace.”
3. BUDDHA ON THE BATTLEFIELDS
It was 4 a.m. and my companions’ flashlights beamed around the platforms at wake-up call. Pull off nightie, drape on dress; mindlessly habitual by now. Disengaging the mosquito net took two thoughts. While folding my mat, sheet and net, I had three consultations in my half-awake, half-asleep state: there was no need to put on makeup, just sunscreen; a rest stop was scheduled in the afternoon; and this sacrifice of mine would surely save the world.
By 5 a.m. we set out to tread on a road made visible only by flickering candles held by farmers and villagers who lined it on both sides to light our way. Families ventured miles down the hills to receive a blessing from Maha Ghosananda and celebrate our arrival. As their supreme patriarch approached leading the pilgrimage, devotees knelt beside buckets of water decorated with flowers while holding smoldering incense sticks, a symbol of war, as well as their candles. Using a palm frond which he dipped into the water, the Cambodian Gandhi showered the faithful with waves and words of peace. He always smiled. The children squealed with delight when this loving father figure, in a playful cooling act, picked up the whole pail and dumped it over their little heads. Two monks assisted by dipping the incense into water to symbolically put out the fires of war.
The pilgrimage moved along at this pace for the few hours that Maha was with us for ten days in the war zone. First in line after the honorable one and his helpers was Sasamorishonin, along with the three Nipponzan monks who took turns carrying a banner with the mantra Na Ma Nyo Ho Ren Ge Kyo (“All life is sacred”) written in Japanese. I felt carried along as one of the ten internationals who continued to drum and chant, following Sasamori, who led the call and response. Walking through and among the hundreds of Cambodian precept takers doing their walking meditation last in line was their much loved Brother Bob Maat, who supported and encouraged his adopted countrymen as he had done for many years. Those watching our walking statement of hope and nonviolence seemed to enjoy our presence, our attention, our intentions for their safety and happiness. It was as if peace had come. And so it was here and now.
I took my turn drumming in the early morning hours before putting up my sun umbrella, then continued to chant and drift in a kind of daze. By 11 a.m. I was glad to collapse and rest, sometimes on temple land, often just roadside where we shared what little shade there was on a stretch declared free of landmines. There were very few trees, as the extent of deforestation meant miles and miles of only fields to pass, which nobody worked, where no animals roamed. A few narrow paths had been cleared through those barren lands, which were potentially full of landmines. These single file lanes led into the hills where most of the farmers lived and worked their small plots, which they hoped were mine-cleared. While welcoming the monsoon season, they also feared that the rains would bring to the surface more of the indiscriminate weapons which had maimed so many of their neighbors.
On days when we spent the 11 a.m. – 2 p.m. lunch and rest stop on temple grounds, I usually napped, but others didn’t. I honored the stamina and willingness of Heidrun from Germany, a veteran of many peace marches across the US and Europe, who interacted most of the time with the children, teaching them to fold the origami paper peace cranes. She was magnificent, as was Peter from New Zealand, who took the opportunity to entertain those surrounding him with his juggling.
Our noon meals most often consisted of a bag of white rice flavored with dried fish, perhaps a fried insect or two, gifted to us by the farmers. We saw them walking down the trails to meet us carrying their donations, which they put into the truck for later distribution. I first blessed and then ate whatever was offered, with gratitude. We pilgrims would end our 15-20 kilometer days at host wats just before the sun set.
Since the monks slept in the temple proper and the nuns in the dining hall, the rest of us would scurry around the unfamiliar grounds to find a place for our mats and mosquito nets. At one site the only open space was in the burial grounds. The Asians had fearful ideas about the spirits in such places, thoughts which we didn’t share (or have the luxury of entertaining that night), as we set up our bedding between the mounds. This also happened to be one of the few nights we heard persistent sounds of artillery shells booming across the countryside from a distant battle between the army and Khmer Rouge guerrillas. A chilling night that was…
To speak of a lack of toilets was an understatement. Three-sided walls around holes in the ground did provide one level of privacy, but the stench was enough to risk constipation. Having to relieve oneself while on the way was tricky business. Nothing to do but squat in plain sight on those roads with shoulders declared landmine contaminated. They were marked with a black skull and crossbones image on a hot red coloured background. My semi-flared skirt provided the only degree of modesty.
Interesting, the water bit. We never had to filter water as expected because our luggage transport truck carried cases and cases of plastic bottled water. This gift showed up as a donation from a well heeled Cambodian who walked along with us for part of the week. Being western educated, he befriended the English speakers and updated us on world news. He also invited us to share the sumptuous evening meals delivered to him for the three days that we had his company. Lots of vegetables, even desserts, were served on porcelain plates with proper cutlery; purified water arrived in glass bottles.
The plastic water bottles gifted to the walkers were emptied and immediately dropped along the way. Such disposal was a problem only for those of us conscious of littering and recycling. We tried to exemplify saving the bottles by collecting as many as we could and putting them into the back of the transport truck, but to no avail. A trail of plastic bottles was left like litter on a wave’s wake on the side of the road by the pilgrims. Perhaps the locals found a use for them. Later, I noticed streamers of them hanging from flagpoles.
“A boy has been killed.” This sad, bone-chilling news was related to the intermittent shelling we’d heard the day before.
“He was wounded by a shell fragment and died while being driven to the hospital.” This tragedy brought to mind the fate of the two pilgrims who were killed the previous year. It served as a reminder that we were still in the war zone, which made our actions and interactions even more poignant.
In spite of this loss and the deaths of his family members, friends and fellow monks in the war, Maha, sometimes called the “Buddha of the Battlefields,” was consistent in his message. Whenever he addressed the gatherers, this genuinely peaceful monk preached from Buddha’s words of love, the Metta Sutra:
“With boundless heart
Shall one cherish all living beings,
Radiating love over the entire world,
Spreading upwards into the sky,
And onward into the depths…”
The leader’s aura of peace and calm reinforced his messages: “Hate can never be appeased by hate; hate shall only be appeased by love.”
The peace march arrived in Battambang, the capital of this western province, on May 12th. We were greeted by thousands of people and six interfaith colleagues who rejoined us there, and were given an amazing reception by the locals who had waited for hours in the rain for our arrival. They lined the roads to receive the ritual blessing of peace as they had in the previous three years. Everyone wanted peace. Even armed military men here put down their guns as Maha passed, just as we had seen other soldiers manning roadside defenses do. They bowed for his blessing and to declare their wish for the end of conflict as well. In speaking of them later, Maha said, “The soldiers pray with us. They pray that their bullets will not kill the Khmer Rouge because they are their brothers.”
I found it more difficult to walk through the noise and tuk-tuk traffic as we entered the business district. Battambang, once the prime target of the Khmer Rouge insurgency, was now repopulating and reclaiming some of its riverside charm. We passed some faded but still lovely buildings in the French colonial architectural style. The population just wanted to get on with normal lives, which included feasting on the king of the fruits. Mango was in season, and we ate it greedily like sheep at the trough, not just to boost our immunity, which it did, but because it was plentiful and exotic and sweet and juicy and ad-picture perfect.
We stayed overnight at Wat Kanthal before launching into 11 more days of walking through rural countryside en route to Phnom Penh. For three days, the wide roads were shaded by coconut palms which offered fresh coconut water to drink from the road vendors. On the following three days the scenery was the same, but only Coke or Pepsi were available for sale in the stalls. Unaware that Cola Wars were going on internationally between the two soft drink producers, I didn’t realize these liquids were often more available than potable water. Even though I promised myself to take only what was freely given (or offered for sale), I broke the precept and asked a local man for coconut water. He was happy to climb a tree to pick one to accommodate me, and wouldn’t accept money for it. Another random act of kindness among many.
Dhammayietra IV was over. We were all safe. We had completed the 21 day mission across Cambodia, a country still devastated by a killing war. A different reality lay ahead.
Excerpt from the Laurel Ann Francis memoir – Bourgeois To Buddha : My Trials and Errors Across Four Continents – available online at all the usual locations including Ebay, Barnes&Noble and https://tinyurl.com/yrud63tf
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