YALA WAT, REDUX
By:  Iris P. Concepcion

Yesterday was an ominous discovery of senses once more.  I had earlier listened to imptov classical music in my sleeping wear after a deep slumber filled with good thoughts, gobbling my linguine bathed in deep tomato paste with vegetable meat.  The music was refined by the musical gurus of the olden age.  Bass drums, flutes, lyres and harps had made friends with the often used instrument of choice for orchestras: violins.

I had often wondered where the musical score, Hey Mickey, had come from.  No one might have noticed that the three chords opening the musical piece may have been taken off from Sebastian Bach.

This is Nature Symphony, a musical compilation collected by the ears of people from the Reader's Digest with pictures of elks, deers, emus and other wildlife creatures accompanying the fabulous strings.  With this mystical sound environment greeting my bright morning, I went out to rediscover this city/municipality that I had called home for the past 8 months.

I had ventured past Yala's Provincial Hall.  I had noticed that the temple in front of it had grown a spectre of spring flowers in blinding whites and magentas, coupled with immaculate pinks. They do not have any leaves hanging on them.  I could have sworn these are tulips and daffodils circling out from snow in the Alps.  Their beauties could terrify one's visual senses, if one is used to prawns cooked in hot oil peddled in wheeled stores.

Trodding on, I had walked past Yala's Red Cross building, a blood bank for patients that had likewise embraced the memories of my childhood. I remember fondly its free nylon bag where my mother had placed all of her documents neatly in brown envelopes.  The building has perfectly trimmed bermuda grass.  I had likewise seen blue-collared men in construction gears who are building dams beside the trees with a Camel truck waiting like a motioning donkey in front of the toilers.  The triangled edifices of the structure yarns always bear lawns of bermuda grass, a spectacle that I never reject since it always reminds me of my serene childhood with my father's giant frog leaping on me via the camera lens.

Near this area is where I had dicovered another temple with Pagoda-like designs. Unlike the usual wat building for Buddhists inside Yala, this wat has four dimensional designs on its windows with finely sculptured embellishments, designs very intricate that had looked like juidicial signs from afar.

A perfectly tipped cone temple is under construction on its side that is golden coiled on top. Unlike the usual aluminum-based raw material, this one was woven in gold casting.  It springs itself as a foil to the multi-paneled roof tops of structures beside it.  In fact, this temple is curious as it is supported by huge columns in grey with palatial stairs which reminds me of the gigantic government offices in the United States like the White House. My dog, who had been an unsmiling bear inside a facsimile house earlier, is surveying this conglomeration of house of worships that had the word "supernatural" embedded on them. Inside it is a structure of a fat man, sitting, still swathed in gold. I found it odd since the usual Buddhist notion of non-materialism is exchanged for a more positive outlook of a taken-cared, icon god.

Here, we could marvel at pebbles and marbles that one could utilize for engineering works.  I took a handful of discarded materials for the kids to play during the weekend.  This area could have been a resort beach before that had been washed away by the universal gods as a kind of mortal chastisement to honor the higher, spiritual elements from among us. The roosters here are free to roam around with their heads perfectly razored. These are wonderful fowls; if only they could make their cuckolds louder.  Birds are melodiously chirping nearby, emitting melodies to the roosters' bass drummed tonsils.  If I were to have a flute with me, I could have devised a song on the spot using my herd of singing animals.

I had pangs for fast food at the precise moment I was leaving the temple.  I passed by trhe bricked sidewalk roads that are elevated, a correct building style.  I bought my lunch at the nearby 7-11 outlet (pizza in sausages and cheese with a  blackcourrant flavoured cream-filled wafer, all for 20 baht. I still prefer my mother's delicious grapes than this overtly sour fruit).  The outlet of this convenience store here is practically a miniature store in an outback United States town, with its unique flaming hotdogs and bacons that I had loved as a child which my departed mother had lovingly wrapped for me for breakfast.  Even the jams of pineapples, strawberries and peanut butter are lined up neatly.

I walked away from this quiant but small place with visions of my pretzels, coated in chocolates and packaged in Reynold's foil.

I tried to look for a pined tree area surrounding a lake that I had visited before for boating with bird sanctuaries and windmills. I finally saw the direction towards it in a short cut road. Nestled in the lake are stones of fine make.  I reacquinated myself with my Terrenganu chestnuts and dried leaves that the kids had used to form their lotus gardens.  The pine trees had swayed more beautifully with umbrella tents offering the promenaders their usual fare of fruits and fresh juices. These trees overlook the calm, lake water that had tremendously improved now than my previous visit with its badly constructed road. It now has a pavement in sandy, grey and white pebbles. It cascades its soft ripples, leaving the huge rocks adorning it unperturbed.  I have seen Muslims partaking their lunch in small tables, squatting, but they had the most delectable dishes of chicken and vegetables. They were using the proper utensils (not tin) and were sharing their food silently. I ahd thought then, how regal and cultured these people are. Even their mouth chomps are studied and refined. No loud voices nor cussing words, they had treated their meals like celebrations of life, thanking the Higher Creator for the abundance of resources in their mats, tables and utensils.

I always feel a certain calm and homelike unrestlessness when I am marooned in areas filled with pine trees. Willowy, radiant, subdued and swaying with the wind, there is a disciplined aura to the people who had visited it.  I often wonder how our forefathers had dreamt of a world in greens, exploring the undiscovered places and envisioning how they would look like 100 years from now.

An ode to my generous parents merits another look. To the place they have constructed in safe security for shelter and provisions, for not leaving us alone in times of immediate need, for being the strickler for order and decorum and for honoring their promises that never fail, not a bit of delay, when we had asked then for help.

Bermuda grass, pine trees, fruit jams and juices, tasty porcelain wares, all of these, I had learned to appreciate in heightened awareness yesterday. Queer as it sounds, I am much prouder of my responsible lineage (thinking of Workmen's Compensation Act and pensions way ahead of their time) now more than ever. I would not imagine myself a terrible brute with an insecurity belittling my small steps to your legacy.

Thank you Gauttier and Delia for rearing me with enough candor and civility to tame the rowdy sourpusses. I could not possibly thank you enough, with your stitched gowns and filled rice containers that are never left empty.