Agarwood: The Journey

Rashimi pulls over at the side of the road. He reaches for a rag on the dashboard and wipes the sweat from his face. ‘Time for rest,’ he says as he clambers out of the truck. From the back of his truck he produces a straw mat. He spreads it out on the dusty floor before returning to the truck for some food. He insists that I sit and eat. I oblige willingly and thank him. I am grateful for the invitation. I just want to reach the distillery before it gets too late.

‘Early to the tamu,’ says Rashimi with a cheeky grin as he delves inside the large bag. ‘That’s good,’ I reply. ‘The early bird catches the worm.’  Rashimi looks puzzled. Perhaps the expression is unfamiliar to him. The humidity is stifling. I take the bottle of water from my rucksack, wash my face and take a drink. I offer Rashimi the bottle but he is busy preparing our food. ‘Drink later,’ he says. ‘Early worm.’  And laughs…

Rashimi presents me with a squirm of plump, creamy-coloured, worms. He is watching my face with childlike enthusiasm. I do not want to burst his bubble. I smile, nodding and raising my eyebrows. He is still grinning from cheek to cheek. He lifts a worm, rips off the head, throws it aside and pops the juicy delicacy into his mouth. It is now or never. And so here is my cue to join in.

The stifling humidity prompts an afternoon siesta. I climb back into the truck leaving Rashimi fast asleep under the shade of a nearby tree. Trees are a blessing in disguise. I contemplate all that they provide for birds, animals and human beings. I clutch my rucksack and think of the aloes wood. I pray we will reach the distillery soon.

The insistent ringing of the telephone brings me to an abrupt state of consciousness. I was just enjoying a peaceful afternoon with Sheikh Ibrahim on the Ain Sefra River. A small crystal bottle bobs up and down at the water’s surface. There is some writing on the bottle but I cannot read it. I turn to Sheikh Ibrahim to ask if he can decipher the inscription. His lips move but I cannot hear what he’s saying. The persistent ringing has taken me far from my dream. I answer the phone with a sigh of discontentment.

I replace the receiver and perform the noon prayer. It is almost time to check out. I reach for the beautiful set of prayer beads given to me by Imam Zafran. They feel at home in my hand. I sit quietly for a few minutes letting the wood move slowly between my thumb and finger. I thank Allah Most High for all that he has given me and I get ready to leave the room.

When I reach the reception desk I find that my bill has already been paid. I question the receptionist. He shrugs his shoulders as he walks over to the ringing phone. ‘Iban man,’ he says. ‘Iban man give money and go.’

Question after question run through my head. This is from Allah. Only He knows the answers. I can only assume that Nasir has been here and that Imam Zafran has something to do with it. May Allah the Almighty reward their kindness. May Allah keep us always under His Mercy. I look around the foyer. Rashimi is waiting by the doors. It is time to go.

The Front Office Manager offers me a room on the fourteenth floor. ‘Breathtaking views’ he says reassuringly. He smiles and hands me the key. It is the kind of smile that is reserved for crazed foreigners; the kind that hang out in rainforests with the local crocs and wildlife. The concierge looks relieved to find I have no luggage. I have been travelling without luggage ever since the accident in Burma. I take the elevator to my floor. It is six o’clock in the morning. The room is a comfortable haven for the weak and tired. I order some breakfast. I can’t remember when I ate a morsel last let alone a meal. My mind is tired and weary. A lethal recipe to procrastinate. I decide to shower and pray. I cannot switch off just yet.

Breakfast is an array of culinary delights. Perhaps my shoddy appearance prompted some extra TLC. I savour each mouthful, sip my orange juice and pick up the phone. It really is time to check-in.

The phone rings forever in long overseas tones. I am about to hang up and try again when I hear a click. ‘Maryam’ I shout ‘Can you hear me?’ and thus we commence an hour long conversation. My dear family are all well. There is so much news to share. I listen patiently and talk to each of my children. I listen to their stories and updates. Zainab reads a poem. Junaid tells me that he has been studying the Far East. Maryam finally takes the phone from them. I am mentally and physically exhausted. I am barely able to give salam before I pass out on the bed.

The slopes are slippery and precarious. Traversing them is more challenging than I’d imagined. I now wonder how my father felt during his retreats on the Atlas mountains. I can hear the stream up ahead as the heavy rainfall hits the water. Exhausted from the climb I wade warily upstream in knee deep water. I am met by some fallen trees, logs and huge boulders. A monitor lizard leaps across the logs and into the stream with a splash. The lizard has spotted its prey; a large snake hunting right behind me. There are dozens of fireflies hovering around yet again. They are a welcome presence here. The rain is unrelenting and I can hear the heavy roar of thunder. I stay still and raise my hands to the sky and say, Glory is to Him Whom thunder and angels glorify due to fear of Him. There is no time to waste. I climb the boulders, tread the fallen trees and wade through a kinder stream. I can see the forest floor up ahead. The stream flows into a serious of rock pools. Almost home and dry – soon I hope!

The forest floor is home to many a moving creature. I quicken my pace constantly scanning the trees for an opening. My enthusiasm is wading considerably as another loud cry of thunder bellows in the near distance. Something crunches under my feet. I shine my torch on the floor below. A creeping cast of huge red crabs are making their way through the trees. It hadn’t occurred to me that the entrance might be concealed. I follow the scuttling carpet of crabs down on my hands and knees. They disperse immediately. Their fate lies in consecutive random splashes. We have reached yet more water. Through the rain I can just make out the noise of a waterfall. I follow my instinct and head towards the noise of flowing water. Suddenly I stop dead in my tracks. The familiar smell of sweet, fragrant fruits permeates the air. I am sitting with Imam Zafran in his humble home on the blue lagoon. I am walking the nameless streets of Burma. I am praising the Prophet Muhammad, may Allah bless him and grant him peace in a room blessed with the presence of Arifeen. I am telling my story to great men who already know who I am. By the light of Mustapha I am ready to unearth that which is deemed Secret.

I am now at a small set of falls. I tread them with great care. The stones and rocks are small and not at all secure. At every few hundred yards of water I come across a small fall. The source of the Secret is almost within my reach.

Something flies past me and grabs my attention. A huge bat indeed! I lose my balance and drop my torch. I retrieve it from the water’s murky grip only to find the batteries have set themselves free. I wonder if the Ancient Romans ever encountered such problems. I am glad my torch isn’t an emblem of enlightenment and hope. This would definitely be the journey’s end.

I am well and truly in the middle of nowhere. It would appear the last of the falls is just up ahead. Another bat flies past my head. Human echolocation would be most useful right now. In the far distance I can see a very small light. I quicken my pace almost running towards it. The water below is a mere trickle now and I am soon treading forest floor again. At last, there is light. Bats are swirling around the man made lamp as they devour mosquitoes and other flying insects. On the beaten track below are a series of bent twigs and neatly folded leaves. I have seen these signs before. I engage in some ‘goodly breathing’ and compose myself. I inhale the sweet woody fragrance. I believe I have finally reached the cave.

By his feet lie a six foot keleput (blowpipe) and a rattan bag. He sits between two rocks wrapped in an animal hide. I open my rucksack at once and hand him the package from Imam Zafran. He holds it to his chest for a moment before placing it in the rattan bag. He nods his head and reaches for my hands. We sit like this for a few moments as he closes his eyes. My hands feel painstakingly warm. I look at the Penan Headsman again, he is deep in meditation. Just as I think I can take it no more he raises his hands above mine. To my sheer delight the Secret now lies in my hands.

We travel in silence under a vast and almost dark, unsettling sky. Lofty treetops form an immense canopy of protection as we propel down the river. Nasir, my Iban companion senses a change in the weather. He holds his hand out to gage if the rain has begun. He gestures towards the long houses on the forest covered slopes. I am tempted to accept his kind offer but politely refrain. Time is of the essence.

Hundreds of fireflies hover around the boat anticipating the downpour that is about to begin. The beam of Nasir’s torch reveals a pair of bright eyes in the water. It is not the only pair present here. We scan the water from left to right as we make our way to the mangrove river bank.

The rain beats down on the canopy above. I bid farewell to Nasir. He insists that he stay with me and warns me of the dangers ahead. I give him the small package that Imam Zafran has entrusted me with. He shakes my hand and says what I believe to be a prayer. He turns and leaves.

I open my rucksack, take out my torch and secure my rucksack firmly back in place. I stand under the trees and remind myself of why I am here. As always I place my reliance with Him who has placed me here. I reflect on a saying of the Prophet Muhammad, may Allah bless him and grant him peace. He renounced the world saying that he is like a rider who stops under the shade of the tree for a short time and, after taking rest, resumes his journey again, leaving the tree behind.

I follow in his noble footsteps and leave the trees behind and embark on yet another journey. I pray the Secret will manifest itself before very long.

I stride the boardwalk by the lagoon and remind myself that everything is from Allah. I must be satisfied with the station wherein God has placed me. I reflect on Sheikh Ebrahim’s wise words on tawakul or putting all one’s trust in Allah. I walk with these thoughts until I reach the Golden Gate.

I arrive to find Imam Zafran standing by the door to the surau, welcoming all who enter. He is a man of great wisdom, honour and intellectual integrity. He is held in high esteem by all who are fortunate enough to know him. He gestures towards the auspicious straw mats that cover a large area of the room and the men sit down slowly and quietly in what appears to be seiza style. I observe their etiquettes with interest and kneel onto the mat using similar mannerisms.

A silent hush fills the room as Imam Zafran sends blessings on the Prophet Muhammad, Allah bless him and give him peace. His voice resonates off the walls and the ceiling filling every corner of the room. A plate is placed on some smouldering coals and some fragrant aloeswood is placed on the plate. The wood gives off a nostalgic fragrance that transports me to the foothills of Assam. I recall the brother in the zawiya who had swiped my wrist with the Oud that had once been in the hands of a Malaysian Prince. I cast my eyes toward Sheikh Zafran, who nods his head with the reassurance I’ve become accustomed to.

‘O Allah, perfume his noble grave with the fragrant scent of blessings and peace…’

The congregation raise their hands in unison and a chorus of ‘Amins’ permeates the air engulfing those surrounding us. I find myself walking through the colourful markets of Burma with Zainab’s necklace wrapped around my wrist. It is early morning and I walk past endless shops with my ‘lucky money’ tucked away in my back pack…

Another silent hush fills the room and Imam Zafran asks me to begin the story of my journey.

The Imam of the mosque, Muhammad Zafran has invited me to dine with him tonight but on the condition that I get plenty of rest before meeting him. This is a condition that I have no qualms in fulfilling, so I submit to the comfort of my futon.

I wake on the call to the sunset prayer, make my ablution and head for the mosque. After the prayer, I leave the mosque before the Imam notices that I am gone. Suddenly, I am aware that I haven’t a gift to take to his home, so I head towards the village shop that I noticed on the way in. There are some cupcakes and pastries on display by the counter. I choose a good selection and reach for my wallet which is not there. I am thankful to find some kyat  in my pocket and hope there is enough to cover the cost. I hand them to the shopkeeper who looks at me in bewilderment. ‘No kyat,’ he says shaking his head, ‘only dollar’.  I make my apologies and leave the shop. Why would I need dollars? I was told that kyat would suffice for my trip to the market… someone told me, I’m sure.

I walk back to the mosque and find the Imam making his way home. I want to ask him about the kyat and why I can’t use it here but I decide to wait as he appears to be in a hurry. We walk in silence until we reach his home, a humble dwelling resting on stilts above the lagoon. An intriguing combination of seafood and stewed fragrant fruit wafts from the lagoon.

The Imam gestures for me to sit at a low table laden with platters of sardines, salmon and herring, luscious leafy greens and cooked blueberries. The smell overwhelms my senses. ‘Food for the mind and soul,’ says the Imam and with that in mind we embark on our gastronomic adventure…

…My mind is suddenly swimming, I feel out of breath, there is an immense weight on my chest. I am struggling to breathe now. I look around me, my vision is blurry. I close my eyes and I hear the sound of waves. I am in complete darkness, with nothing but the sound of waves crashing in my ears. That same smell of fragrant fruit fills my senses again and I slowly become aware of my surroundings. I look at the Imam who is sitting in front of me now nodding his head reassuringly. I sit up and look him straight in the eye, ‘Why am I here? How did I get here?’

Doors open and close unobtrusively with the deference one would expect as the call to prayer resonates from the towering minaret above. Humble footsteps patter across the boardwalk and the cool lagoon breezes that intoxicate my nostrils are infused with the infinitely opulent scent of sweet fragrant fruits.

The ripples of the water below crash ever so gently upon the rocks and I watch a lonely blue lotus drift to the water’s edge. ‘How the ancient Egyptians would have made an offering of you,’ I whisper quietly as I contemplate its Divine fragrance. Intoxicated by the scents around me I feel that my dreams of discovering the Secret will manifest themselves here. Beneath this vast canopy of peace and contentment I hurry along the boardwalk with conviction placed firmly in my heart. I am standing in front of the mosque with the golden dome in this Venice of the East.

After performing my prayers I reach into my pocket to retrieve Zainab’s necklace and to my despair discover it is gone. I am saddened at my heedlessness and try hard to remember where I had possession of it last but my thoughts are interrupted by an awe inspiring presence in the room. ‘Welcome to the Abode of Peace,’ says the voice. I turn towards the handsome, well-bred man who is donning the kind of robe that is fit for a king, his beard is still wet from ablution and he carries a pair of sandals in his left hand.

‘Whoever will be patient with Us will reach Us,’ he whispers as if reading my mind, and with that he extends his right hand gesturing that I take the extraordinary prayer beads from him.

The man in the robe crosses the room in a few humble strides and looks out of the window overlooking the village. ‘Everyone is facilitated in that for which he has been created for.’ He opens the window as if to reveal the ancient secrets held in the waters of the lagoon. ‘And who could be so lucky? Who comes to a lake for water and sees the reflection of moon.’ And with that he smiles and retreats to the coolness of his prayer.

As I walked into the Buddhist temple, the Oud smoke was pouring out of the front door. The sky was overcast, with strong winds. The red and yellow flags on the front porch of the temple blew in the wind and boldly contrasted the gray sky.

I saw Ashoka as soon as I walked in. He quickly greeted me with a smile and a slight bow, and told me he was looking for me. I shook his hand and smiled.

Ashoka is a gentle, bald monk in red robes. He has tan skin and is about 5′5 in height. Our appearance contrasts dramatically, as I am 6′1 with a thick black beard, full sleeve shirt, long pants, and kufi. As I noticed our differences, I thought how Oud is what has caused us to cross paths. Fragrance is something that has no material limits, and is beyond all six directions.

He extended his arm, indicating that I should proceed to the main hall. Like yesterday, I saw the massive statue of the Buddha. Today there were more monks at the temple than lay people and all were engaged in prayers. I asked Ashoka what was the reason for this and he told me that this is a “ceremony for non-violence”. These monks gather every two months at this temple to pray for peace around the world.

Some of the monks were holding incense braziers and others were holding incense sticks. From the front of the hall, there was a sheet of slow moving smoke that swayed with the movements of the monks. There were deep sounds of different chants that caused me to ask Ashoka what language they were speaking. He told me that they were reciting traditional prayers for peace in the Sanskrit language.

The aroma was overwhelming. If the world could smell it, there would be world peace. I asked where the Oud was from. Ashoka told me that it is mostly from Malaysia and Indonesia. I asked him how the temple could afford this high quality Oud. He told me this is an endowment from the religious councils who give it to the praying monks.

Ashoka offered to give me an incense stick, but I declined. I had come simply to observe the ceremony and understand the position of Oud in their traditional rituals. Certainly, this ancient Far Eastern bark has a position in their society that is alive and well. The cost and abundance of their Oud indicates that. Also, since it is a symbol of virtue in their religion, it doesn’t seem that this society will lessen its love and passion for Oud any time soon.

This certainly indicates that there will have to be an increase in Oud cultivation. This is done by taking an Aquilaria from the region and injecting it with the fungal infection. As a response, the tree will begin to produce Oud. Each tree will produce its own kind of Oud and emanate its own distinct fragrance.

Tomorrow I will go the city and discover the Oud found in the markets of Burma.

Tags: Buddhism, temple

Today I visited the Buddhist temple next door to my hostel. From the outside, I could see it’s a modern building with a traditional temple façade. The sides of the structure are cement with square windows scattered around from the two interior floors. From the front, it is wooden with traditional ornate etchings with red and golden colored paint that fills in the etched flowers and patterns. There were sheets of deep yellow and red hanging from the roof of the front porch that blew with the wind.

In the front of the temple there was a large white cement courtyard. From the street there was a semi-long marble sidewalk that was perfectly aligned with the front door.

I was an obvious tourist, if not a totally out of place foreigner. Wearing my Muslim cap, I was clearly not Buddhist. Some people were watching me as I crossed the long sidewalk to the entrance of the temple. I intentionally walked slowly and calmly. It was my intention to show respect for their place of worship and to be as kind as possible.

As I reached the front door of the temple I could smell the wafts of incense smoke from the two burners on either side of the main entrance. The scent was potent and powerful – but light. There was an element to it that reminded me of water and gave me a light easygoing feeling. I wanted to look into the burners to see if they were electric or from burning coals, but they were placed too high for me to look inside.

Finally, I entered the temple. I wondered if there was a particular way of entering that is traditional and religious. My custom is to enter the Mosque with the right foot and exit with the left. Instinctively, I entered with the right foot. I exhaled has I entered. I felt nervous, never having been in a Buddhist temple before.

As I entered, I saw a main hall with a large statue of Buddha and scattered monks in red robes all around it. The monks were holding incense sticks and braziers and waving them around as they meditated. I stood close to the entrance in wonder as I took this all in.

A thirty-something year-old man with a shaved head and red robe came up to me, saying “Hello” in English. My first thought was that he was hired by the temple to greet the tourists, but later I realized he was just a simple Lama trying to make me feel comfortable.

I replied to him, “Hello”. He asked me where I was from and I told him Algeria. He politely welcomed me and introduced himself as Ashoka. I asked him if this is the prayer time and he told me that Buddhists pray at all times. He said that the worshipers were meditating to express gratitude to Buddha and that the burning incense is to remember the importance of virtue. I asked him what kind of incense they were burning. He told me, “Sandalwood”. I asked him if they burn Oud. He smiled and said, “Yes, we burn Oud at our holy ceremonies, marriages, funerals and other significant occasions.” I asked him where the Oud is from. He told me that some is from Burma, and other kinds are imported from Malaysia, Indonesia, China, and also from India.

He invited me to attend a traditional ceremony where they will burn Oud tomorrow. I will look forward to this, though I am feeling a bit uncomfortable as the outsider.

Tags: meditation incense