At the temple, Phra Maha Nikhom was greeted with respectful wais by groups of chattering old ladies, while most of the men squatted around the fringes, smoking cone-shaped cigarettes.  He seemed very happy to be home once again in his village. 

“Boy, you okay now?  Happy?” he asked.

“It’s nice to finally be here, yes.” I replied.

“No problem. You wait here, monk go home, see mother.  Okay?”

“Okay,” I replied.

The villagers, apparently in shyness, also retreated, and left me to sit on the steps of the sala.  It was quiet—a still, dusty silence.   The other monks, if there were any, had yet to make themselves known.  I began to wonder if the temple had been abandoned.  It appeared to have been.  Perhaps that’s why the people were so glad to see Phra Maha Nikhom.  They at least had one monk.  At that moment, I saw three old monks at the far end of the grounds, making their way through a tangle of dilapidated huts.  They seemed to be heading right for me but made no indication of acknowledgement.  I, too, made no indication, but as they grew nearer, I happily waied them and said, “Hello.”   One of them, with a very kind face of frosty stubble, immediately began to address me in halting English and leaning in for emphasis, he said to me, “I love you!  I . . . love . . . you!”

This monk then abruptly displayed a sheet of paper that he produced from the recesses of his robes, on the front of which was a colorful advertisement featuring kittens and a ball of yarn.  The old monk then pointed proudly at the kittens, smiled, and said, “I love kitten, hmmm . . . I love you!”

“Thank you!” I replied.  “I love you.”

“Sesechechee love you.  Love kitten,” he continued proudly.  I assumed Sesechechee was his name because he repeated this several times while pointing at himself.  Except for grunts and nods of approval, the other two monks said nothing but stood on, beaming with delight.

Sesechechee then proceeded to dig through his robes, this time producing a soiled legal size envelope containing several battered and filthy king sized cigarettes.  Unfortunately, one of the conditions set forth regarding my stay was that I quit smoking, so I reluctantly, and with great pains, declined.

Satisfied with the exchange, the three old monks grunted something in Thai, to which I responded cheerfully with, “Okay!” and they left me lingering in a marvelous cloud of stale, acrid smoke.

Alone again on the steps, I watched the chickens peck around the fringes of the village.  Along the temple wall, there were several concrete game tables with crumbled checkerboard tops, and the broken benches set around them were propped up with chunks of other decaying tables.  I watched as a small plastic bag skidded across the ground, snagging the underbrush and flapping in protest.  I contemplated the dirt under my nails, the mingled filth of the journey from Bangkok.  There was a yellowish stain on my ankle from the seven hours in the back of a pickup.  Highway dirt and now the fine dust of Isan , which coated my feet, stuck to my brow.   I imagined the amount of mud my sweater could produce if wrung out.  I stunk, and I really wanted Sesechechee, or whatever his name was, to come back so I could smoke.