-CHAPTER NINE-
Saigon Again

After the Tet (New Year according to the Vietnamese Lunar Calendar, the first part of February) offensive by the Viet Cong in 1968, I returned to Saigon, and stayed a few months, more or less incognito. I rented a room from a Catholic family, and saw Saigon from bottom up, as I had never seen it before. I wore a civilian suit that I had had made for me in Hong Kong. No one recognized me in the teeming streets. I wore dark sun glasses and a French beret, so that most thought I was a Frenchman. The poverty in Saigon had actually worsened in the past years. Three million people were crowded together here in the city. Everywhere one could see rows of cardboard and tin shacks, inhabited by half starved war refugees. It was difficult to pass them without being besieged by beggars, including children and the elderly. A group of Swiss Buddhists had collected ten thousand Piasters, and sent them to me for distribution to the refugees. I wanted to insure that the money was distributed evenly to the needy. Most money given to the "Official" charities never reaches those who need it so desperately. I distributed fifty and one hundred Piaster notes inconspicuously, not informing the press or radio, as was usually done here. The majority took the money without comment or thanks. But there were some that bowed and folded their hands in Buddhist fashion. The ten thousand Piasters were soon gone, only a small drop in this sea of poverty. American Soldiers, many in rumpled uniforms, strolled down Tu-Do (Freedom) Street. I thought of the famous street in Hamburg, the Raperbahn. Here, as was the case there, one found a profusion of night clubs and bars, and prostitutes. Small boys stood on the corners selling the "Stars and Stripes" (the American Newspaper), and other English Language papers. I even saw a newsstand that was selling the National Geographic. Many of the boys were secretly selling pornographic magazines and photos. The Black Market was thriving, despite being forbidden, and survived occasional half-hearted raids by the police. Here one could buy almost anything; I saw fresh milk with American labels; Medical supplies that were obviously stolen from the military; canned goods from the U.S.; American cigarettes, everything was to be had...for a price! I even saw fresh butter labeled "Butter, Donated, US". Many beautiful prostitutes stood in the open doors of the bars, trying to lure passing foreigners. Many wore "see- through" blouses, so that one could see their shapely breasts without hindrance. I am certain that most of them had had silicon injections, or by other means enlarged their breasts, as the Vietnamese are not normally large breasted. Well, I thought, in a few years they will regret this! I also saw many straight noses, where small pug noses are the norm in Vietnam. Actually, this does make a Vietnamese girl more attractive. As I passed a bar named "Les Roses", a small group of bar girls were standing by the door. One had a "super bust" as large and well shaped as any I have ever seen. I was amazed, and couldn't help staring at her. I looked away, however, and tried to sneak past the group. The girl saw me looking at her, and as I wore civilian clothes, none of them knew I was a Priest. She put on her best professional smile, showing her perfect teeth; the other girls giggled, as they surely thought they had another victim. As I tried to get by, they grabbed me by both arms, and said "Come in and have a drink." I pretended not to understand. They blinked their black painted eyes, and said contemptuously Oh! You Francais, you no money, you number ten! The street people of Saigon class their victims as either "Number One", or "Number Ten". A generous person that buys them drinks, and pays them liberally is a "Number One", while a cheapskate, or such is classified as a "Number Ten", or "Cheap Charley". There are no classifications in between. Alas, I was a "Number Ten!". I walked farther down Tu-Do Street. At the Majestic Hotel on the right side of the street I wanted to cross again, but sensibly stayed on the left side of the street, and passed "Les Roses" again without incident. Watching safely from the other side of the street, I saw two American GI's dragged into the bar by the girls. Here and there I could see many traces of the aborted Tet Offensive of the Viet Cong; destroyed houses; walls full of bullet holes, etc. Mute evidence of the terrible struggle of Vietnamese against Vietnamese. During that offensive, my good friend, Freiherr Hasso Von Rudt, was murdered in broad daylight on the street between Saigon and Cholon. He was simply and brutally shot in the neck. His car (a sports car) was halted by the band, he was ordered to get out; his red diplomatic pass was to no avail. They tied his hands behind his back and shot him in the neck. Of course, there were no Policemen or Vietnamese soldiers to be seen. Freiherr Von Rudt was an intelligent young man; he was Charge d'affairs in the German Embassy. I had met him on the German hospital ship "Helgoland", which was anchored in the Saigon Harbor and gave free treatment and care to the Vietnamese. Just before his death Freiherr Von Rudt had given a substantial check to a Buddhist Convent and Orphanage. The murder of this beloved German Official caused a great stir in diplomatic circles; all feared the terrorist vengeance of the Viet Cong gangsters. During the earlier occupation of Hue, the former Imperial Capitol of Vietnam, six Germans, including a Communist, were murdered by the VC. Their bodies were found in a mass grave. Also, more than thirty journalists of various nations were killed. It is ironic to me, that shortly after the Tet massacre, an American Senator visited Hanoi, and said that he "Had never met finer people than the Viet Cong!" Communist propaganda was very effective, much better than the American or South Vietnamese. The Reds understood the Anti-war sentiments of unknowing Americans and other Westerners, and profited immensely from their naivete. The Viet Cong did not win the war with weapons, rather the American people won it for them. The Reds had an easy victory after the Americans left the country. My Buddhist friends in Singapore begged me to return there, and settle in the Phor Kark See Temple. As my mission to Vietnam was over due to the downfall of the Dictator Diem, I acquiesced, and returned there in 1969. During this time I gave my student, Willie Tan, the Ordination as Layman (Upasaka). I had met Willie Tan in McDonald's bookstore as he was about to buy a book by the so- called Lama Lobsang Rampa. I warned him about these books, and informed him that Rampa was not a Tibetan, but rather an Irishman from Dublin that had settled in Canada. His books were interesting, if one considered them "Science Fiction", but were worthless as text books on Tibetan Buddhism. Willie Tan seemed to be inspired by my words, and drove me back to the temple in his car. Here I gave him a further look into Buddhism, and the young man begged me to accept him as a disciple. Overjoyed by his honesty, and his eagerness to follow the Buddhist Path, I accepted him, and gave him the first Ordination on the eighth of April. Since then Willie Tan has been true to his teacher, and helped me many times when I was in need. The German born Lama Anagarika Govinda, my personal Guru, visited us on the eleventh of April, and I introduced Mr. Tan to him. Lama Govinda was on the way to a lecture tour in the USA. Finally, on the nineteenth of April, I returned to Saigon, as my friends there had begged me to return, and offered to build me a temple in the resort city of Vung Tau. In June of 1969 my Vihara was finished, and I moved in. Vung Tau was formerly called Cape St. Jacques in French Colonial times; in ancient times it had been a pirate's nest. A good paved road led from Saigon to the Bien Hoa crossing; then we turned right and things got bad. The road deteriorated and became full of pot holes and craters. The Viet Cong had a practice of mining the road nearly every night, and blowing up sections of bridges and culverts. Once again I saw bombed out houses and bridges; burned plantations and palm forests. Only charred stumps and bare trunks rose out of the swampy ground: this was the "Forest of Murder", the "Rung Sat." The Americans had bombed the forest with high explosives and napalm. We encountered military patrols every few kilometers, and there were also many American and Vietnamese check points. Traffic going in the direction of Saigon was inspected very thoroughly; bus passengers were required to dismount and clear through the check point. All luggage and packages were opened and inspected for weapons or explosives. Americans and Europeans were not bothered, not even required to show their papers. On the left of the road near Vung Tau was an immense statue of Quan Am standing on a dragon. Quan Am is the Vietnamese version of the Chinese "Goddess of Mercy", Kuan Shih Yin, who is actually the personification of the Buddha's Compassion. The original concept comes from India. In the seventh century there appeared in India the Bodhisattva (Bodhi=Wisdom, Sattva=Being) Avalokitesvara, whose name means "He who looks down from above" (and sees the misery of the world). In China, this male Bodhisattva, or future Buddha, was, and is, worshipped in the female form. A Bodhisattva is a heavenly being who is actually neutral; they can appear in either male or female form, or in any other guise, as is necessary for the aid of suffering beings. A legend arose in ancient China that Quan Yin was originally a Princess who refused to marry a Prince that had been chosen for her by her parents, as was the custom in those days. Enraged by her refusal, her father had her buried alive, sealed in a cave, where she died of starvation. The Chinese say that the cave where she died is on the island of Pu-to Shan; many Chinese pilgrims visit the site, even to this day. They say that anyone that prays to Kuan Yin at the cave will have their prayers answered. The Buddhist Scholar and Author John Blofeld has written an excellent book titled "Bodhisattva of Compassion" which I recommend to all interested in this lovely tradition. Back in 1954, when the French were fighting the Vietminh, the forerunners of the Viet Cong, a French Officer fell from a cliff in the jungle. As he fell, he called on Kuan Shih Yin. A projecting limb caught in his belt as he fell, and he hung there on the sheer wall. He took refuge in the Bodhisattva, and prayed for her help. Suddenly a thick vine fell from above. The vine was strong enough that the Frenchman climbed up it to the top of the cliff. The Officer vowed then and there to have a temple built on the spot, which he did. Many of my friends have seen the temple, which is still standing there in the jungle of central Vietnam. There is another story current in Vietnam. It seems that there was a young man of very evil temper who lived with his mother, who was quite well to do. The young man was a frequent gambler, and soon ran up a considerable debt in the Chinese gambling halls of Cholon. He badgered his mother for money to pay his debts, but she refused to give him anything. The argument became heated; he grabbed a large knife, and threatened to kill her if she didn't give him money. The mother ran from the house, with her son in pursuit. She called on the Bodhisattva Quan Am, and her son was stricken with paralysis, and couldn't move from the spot. They say that he stood there, completely paralyzed, for three days before he fell over, stone dead! I have no reason to doubt these stories, as many people of unimpeachable character have related them. There are many tales of this nature current in China and Vietnam. We passed by a small pagoda, all decorated in Chinese style, with soaring eaves and prancing dragons, many decorative tiles and calligraphy. As the bus stopped, a horde of women and children descended upon us, all selling fruits, sweets, sugar cane and other refreshments, including soft drinks in plastic bags. In spite of the war, there was enough food for all in the country, provided one had money. We passed hills and cliffs on the right and left of the road, which seemed to rise directly out of the flat plain. This was the territory of the Viet Cong; here they ruled. In these mountains and swamps the war continued. In the distance appeared the South China Sea; it glimmered bluely in the sparkling sunshine. Our journey took less than three hours from Saigon to Vung Tau, and we passed through two rather large towns, Baria and Long Tanh; both had been fought over for years. In Long Tanh we passed a movie theater that had a large hole in one wall, the result of an artillery shell which had struck the theater and exploded inside, completely gutting the building. Suddenly a woman pointed out of the window and screamed; the driver slowed the bus. To my horror, I saw some twenty bloody corpses lying on the side of the road; Viet Cong that had supposedly been shot in the early morning by Vietnamese soldiers. I thought otherwise; it was apparent that the torn and bloody bodies had all been killed by artillery fire. Many were headless, and all were torn and had arms and legs missing. This was the gruesome reality of the war. The Vietnamese peered anxiously out of the windows. No one spoke, only an old woman who folded her hands and prayed "Namo Adida Phat!" A pretty young student dressed in a white Ao-dai sitting next to me said in English : "They are Vietnamese too!" I nodded in agreement, but cautioned her to say no more, as there are always Government agents on the busses, and there was no such thing as free speech in Vietnam. As we drew nearer to Vung Tau, I noticed a huge white Buddha Statue sitting on a lotus throne. The statue appeared to be new, and, while large, was much smaller than the famous Buddha of Kamakura (in Japan). The Sinhalese monk, Narada Mahathera, who is very popular in Vietnam, had inspired the project, and the area has become a popular pilgrimage site with visitors coming from all over Vietnam. Vung Tau is a charming Provincial city of French style. It lies on the point of a large peninsula with the village of Long Hai on the other side of the bay. Huge shady Tamarind trees, planted by the French, stand everywhere; lining the streets and alleys, and gracing the many parks. There are many ponds and lotus tanks, and quiet arms of the river where one can go in small sampans. Banana trees grow in profusion in every garden, and along the streets. But the first thing one sees when entering Vung Tau is the immense round antennas on the top of one hill. They can be seen for miles, and belong to an American Communications Unit. From the bus station, we took a taxi to the new Arya Maitreya Vihara, which lay towards the end of the cape. My friend Xinh, with the Buddhist name Minh Hao, and Madame P., the owner of the land on which the new temple stood, went along with me in the taxi. We had to go the last fifty meters on foot along a path, and there, on the side of a hill, was my new temple; it was not large, but adequate for me alone. I could always enlarge it later. My Buddha statue, which had been stored in a friends house during my absence, was brought to Vung Tau in a truck , with all the workers riding along with it. After its arrival everything was quickly unpacked, and all took part in the consecration ceremony which I conducted as soon as it was in place. After a quick cup of tea, all of the workers returned to Saigon, as most had other jobs which they had left for &quotA few minutes" in order to bring the statue to the temple. In Vietnam, time is flexible; a few minutes can mean a few hours, or half a day; the concept of time is much more relaxed than in bustling Europe or America. The Vihara, built of concrete with a tin roof, nestled against the slope of the mountain. Behind the building a steep slope rose in terraces to the peak, upon which stood the ruins of a French fort, its rusty cannons still pointing out to sea. From the Vihara I had a wonderful view of the steel blue sea, and the white strand of foaming surf. I thought : "Here I will stay for good, at least as long as the war permits." I was actually prepared to spend the rest of my life here in this enchanting spot. My friends had spent a great deal of money to build the Vihara, and I promised them I would remain there. The Vietnamese are very generous; they are hospitable, and make wonderful friends, if one takes the time to know and understand them, something which, unfortunately, very few Americans or French have done. I had to prepare my own meals in the new Vihara. Usually breakfast consisted of French bread (sometimes with butter), and coffee at five in the morning, before Mass. Butter was readily available and inexpensive in the first few years, later it grew scarcer and more expensive, as did everything else. The Vietnamese bread was excellent, but I saw only white bread, no rye or black bread. At noon I usually ate carrots and potatoes, which had been grown in Dalat, a mountain village some 250 kilometers north of Saigon. Dalat and Vung Tau are the favored resort areas of Vietnam. I visited Dalat in January of 1965, with some of my Vietnamese friends. This city, too, had a French Provincial air about it. The only thing native being the pagodas of Chinese and Vietnamese style. The entire area was mountainous, and looked somewhat like the Black Forest of Germany, with pines and firs rising with the steep mountains. Because of the terrible heat in Vung Tau, I had to leave the windows and doors open. I didn't have an electric fan, and had no electricity to run it if I had one. I had to get things done one at a time, and electricity had to wait. The Vihara was not painted as yet, and it would be very expensive to have it done; so I decided to do it myself, provided I could get someone to donate the paint. This soon happened: the friend of a friend owned a paint store, and he donated many cans of good imported oil paint, mostly red, blue, white and yellow. I plunged in and painted the Vihara three times; it took me three months.

-CHAPTER TEN-
A Confrontation with a Ghost

At the beginning of the third month, as I was just finishing the painting of the Vihara, I had a most unusual accident. I had no ladder, so I placed a chair on the kitchen table and pushed it against the wall so that I could paint around the skylight. I glanced up, and saw a disembodied face peering at me through the glass; no body, just a grinning face! I was startled; the chair fell off of the table, and I went flying. I landed on my right knee on the cement floor with such force that I dislocated it. A terrible pain shot through my leg, and I lay on the floor for a long time, unable to get up. I looked towards the ceiling; the apparition had disappeared. I managed to get up with great difficulty, and collapsed into my cane chair. What could I do? I needed help, but the nearest house was more than sixty meters down the hill. There was a Vietnamese Military Police compound at the foot of the hill, but they could not hear me calling for help. With great effort, I managed to get the knee back into its proper socket. Sweat popped out from my forehead, but I held out and did not faint, though I was giddy from the terrible pain. Then, suddenly, I saw the ghost again; in my room, not two meters away! This time I saw the entire figure: he was an old man with a long, thin beard, much like that of Ho Chi Minh. He wore a turban-like hat on his head, and a blue Ao-Dai. I noticed that he wore old fashioned sandals on his feet. I then thought : "This must be a ghost from an earlier century." I wondered if I was dreaming, but the pain in my knee reminded me that I was fully awake. The ghost spoke to me in French; I didn't actually hear his voice, it was as if he was speaking inside my head. He said : "Good day, Venerable, please excuse the disturbance, and the fall that I caused you; I actually did not mean to cause you any harm." I answered him the same way, that is, not by vocal speech, but by beaming my thoughts at him. I asked him : "Who are you, and what do you want from me?" He answered : "I am former official of the Emperor, and I was very corrupt during my lifetime. Therefore, I must wander as a ghost for a long time, until I have atoned for my evil deeds." "Where did you live before?" I asked him. "In Long Tanh, and in Phuc Long District." He answered. "Why are you here bothering me?" I asked. "I only wanted to warn you not to paint the temple, as you will not be here for long; the war or the Viet Cong will drive you out. I advise you to leave this country soon. There is evil in your future; what exactly, I cannot say. We ghosts are not all-knowing, I have only the gift of foreseeing." With that the ghost disappeared; he simply faded away. Ghosts were not new to me. I have sensed them around me several times before, and seen them dimly, as if through a veil, but this was the clearest and longest lasting manifestation that I had yet seen. I hoped that the old man would visit me again. The next day my wish was fulfilled. After my noon meal I strung my hammock on the veranda, and tried to take a short nap. I could not sleep, however, as I was pestered by the many flies and mosquitoes that had also sought the shade of the veranda. I looked up towards the mountain, where it was covered by a grove of gnarled trees. One tree caught my attention; it appeared as if there was a person standing by the trunk: it was the ghost of the old man! He waved cheerfully, and I waved back. Suddenly he was standing beside me. Once again I heard the voice in my head: "How goes it? How are you getting along?" He said. "Not so good." I answered. "Why not?" "Because I have a great deal of pain in my knee, and my leg is swollen." "I am so sorry", he replied, "I beg you once again to forgive my stupidity; but as you know, many ghosts have no better enjoyment than frightening people." "You did not frighten me", I replied, "It was your sudden appearance that startled me so that I fell from the chair." The old spirit seemed to be in a chatty mood, so I decided to ask him some questions. "Please answer one question for me", I said. "Of course, gladly, if I can answer it." "Do you have a sense of time and space? And can you go where you will?" He replied : "We only have a vague sense of time, sometimes none at all. As for space, we are confined to a certain area. This area is determined by our Karma, that is by the power of our former deeds, good and bad. I can, for example, only travel in this area, and in Phuc Long Province." "Can you travel over the sea?" No, I cannot. Perhaps another, more advanced ghost can." "Why do I see you, and no other ghosts?" "Simple: your intellect and mine are on the same wave length; otherwise contact would be impossible." "Do you see other ghosts near you?" "Yes", he replied, "some, but not all; many are visible to me, but some are not. This is also due to development." "In Europe and America", I said, "there are many people, scientists and such, that firmly deny the existence of ghosts, gods and demons: what do you think of this?" He laughed, and said : "These `Scientists' will have a bad shock coming after their death, when they stand as a ghost next to their corpse, and pass confused and lost through the 'In Between State,' that is, between death and rebirth. Actually, I find myself in this condition, but I am not disturbed, as I know that nothing is permanent, not even this condition." "Have you seen God, Buddha, Jesus, or any other great personality?" I asked. "No," he replied, "I have seen no one; probably because they are all on a higher plane. After all, what we call God is also only a spirit; and the Buddha has passed into Nirvana long ago, and is thus beyond the reach of gods, demons or men." I asked him : "How do you see your in between state? Do you see the entire world, lands and people?" He answered cryptically: "Also not entirely. Rather I see different lights in all colors, rather like a rainbow. I see great fires in red, gold and green. I see other fires and lights somewhat weaker, like fog, or mist." "And how can you manifest? How do you take shape?" "Honestly, I don't really understand it myself, but I think it is through my concentrated thoughts; then often what a ghost wishes to happen takes place, but not always." I noticed that the figure of the old man was fading; he seemed to be turning into mist. Then he disappeared. I hoped that he would come again; I felt that there was much to learn from him. The time flew by, and people came and went. I had many visitors, mostly on Saturday and Sunday, when they came from Saigon to Vung Tau in their autos for picnics, or to go to the beach. Vung Tau had several fine beaches. I used to sit on the veranda with my binoculars; I could see the beaches, with hundreds of Americans and their Vietnamese girl friends swimming in the ocean, or sailing. Shortly after I moved into the Vihara, it was a Sunday, a Viet Cong rocket flew directly over the temple, and landed in the middle of a fleet of American sail boats. The rocket exploded in the water, sending a huge geyser of foam skyward. All of the boats ran together, and raced as one towards the shore. Their Sunday sport was ended. That afternoon another rocket went over, but I could not see where it landed, as it went over to the other side of the cape. I heard later that neither rocket had done any damage. Actually, Vung Tau was one of the few cities that had suffered little war damage. Perhaps because the Viet Cong also went there for their vacations. I told my friends about the visit from the ghost. No one laughed, or showed skepticism. To the contrary; they swore to me that there were many ghosts here, and this mountain was considered haunted according to local folklore. It was named "Ghost Mountain", although officially it is called simply "Smaller Mountain". They also told me that, during the French rule, the ruined fort higher up on the mountain was the "Deuxime Bureau" (that is the "Second Office") of the French Secret Police. Many Vietminh and their sympathizers had been tortured and killed there. The ghosts of those murdered are supposed to still be haunting the ruins, along with the ghosts of former pirates from earlier centuries. This was one of the reasons there were no houses on the mountain; no one wanted to live there due to the fear of ghosts. This was all very interesting to me, but my friends warned me to be careful; there were some very evil entities on that mountain. No doubt some of my readers will scoff at this; all I can say is I have seen these things, as has my Disciple Taranatha who is writing this account. If you don't believe, go there and see for yourself! Mr. Phung, who owned the land that the Vihara was built on, a very educated gentleman, had absolutely no fear. He said with confidence : "Ghosts are absolutely powerless against a righteous person." Many monks and nuns from various temples and Viharas visited me, but very few spoke English or French, and my Vietnamese was atrocious. I had great difficulty with the language because of my hearing problem. Vietnamese is a tonal language; the same word can have vastly different meanings depending on the tone used in pronunciation, and my hearing was not good enough to detect them; thus I had great difficulty in understanding people, although I could speak some. This was unfortunate, as I had intended to make this land my home. Perhaps I would learn the language over a period of time. All of my friends either spoke English, French or Esperanto. There was an Esperanto club in Saigon, founded by the former Australian Ambassador Ralph Harry, who had made a great effort to promulgate that international language. He soon had a group of students in Saigon. On the Vietnamese New Year of 1970, the young Esperantists from Saigon visited me, accompanied by professor Paul Simonet from Paris. Paul spoke fluent Esperanto, having learned it from his parents. I donated 10,000 Piasters to help the club, as most of the members were poor students. Their text books had to be imported from Europe, and were very expensive. The young people sat on the veranda that afternoon and sang songs in Vietnamese and Esperanto. I thought : "Enjoy life while you can!" The gruesome war waited only eight kilometers away; here we had peace and happiness. My guests left to return to Saigon around three that afternoon, and once again I was alone; or should I say practically alone; I had a small black cat that was very affectionate, and kept the mice and rats away.

-CHAPTER ELEVEN-
A Giant Serpent

One day, as I was just fixing my lunch, I glanced aside to see if the cat had eaten her vegetarian dinner that I had fixed for her. I was startled to see the giant head of an enormous snake slowly creeping towards her, its tongue flickering menacingly! It was a python, which had crept through the open kitchen door, no doubt to hunt for rats. Now it was after my cat! The python lay on the floor, with its head under the cabinet where the cat had fled. The snake had no room to strike at the cat without harming itself, so there was a stalemate. My little cat had finally seen the snake, and fled to the other end of the cabinet, out, and behind me. What should I do? Kill the snake? No, by no means. First, I am a Buddhist priest and monk, and, secondly, I have always been a friend to animals, without exception. I remembered the advice the Buddha gave to his disciples concerning such cases: the monk should not flee, rather he should stand quietly and direct compassionate thoughts towards the animal. I did that, and, believe it or not, the python crawled past me without even a sideways glance. It was a large animal, four or five meters long (twelve to fifteen feet).
The snake crawled down the three steps into the reception room, turned left into my bedroom, then into the library, where he tried to crawl behind a bookcase. Half of his body was under the bookcase; my cat suddenly became endowed with courage and bit the snake on the tail. I laughed in spite of the perilous situation, and the cat seemed to laugh with me. She bit the snake again! This time the snake turned and glared at us with angry eyes, its tongue flickering with anger. Now things were becoming dangerous; but rather than attacking, the snake turned and crawled into the shrine room. The situation was becoming more perilous; I had three little kittens, scarcely three weeks old, in a basket under the Arya Maitreya shrine. The snake crept toward the basket; I grabbed a broom and tried to shoo the great snake out of the temple, where he could escape into the brush. He wouldn't cooperate! Instead, he raised his head a meter in the air, and hissed like a steam engine. My cat was a black streak as she ran back to the safety of the kitchen cabinet. I hit the snake on the head with the broom; this frightened him, and he tried to escape through the window, which was closed; then he hissed at me again, turned, and fled through the open door into the jungle. "Well, he won't be back" I thought. But, much to my surprise, I found him on the veranda the next morning. I quickly grabbed my broom and ran outside; the snake, however, ran as soon as he saw me. He wouldn't trouble me again, or so I thought at the time.
I could tell many more snake stories, particularly about the almost daily visits by poisonous cobras which came in and out of the temple, hid under my bed, or coiled around my teapot in the hopes of surprising a gecko or rat. During the more than six years that I lived in the Vihara, fourteen cats were killed and eaten by snakes.
Every morning, as I circumambulated the temple, I would find two large black cobras sunning themselves behind the Vihara. I took to carrying my broom with me, and had to shoo them out of my way. Luckily, they were very timid, and, after a show of their hoods, always fled.
One day a young man came to the Vihara, and boldly stated that he was a member of the "National Liberation Army", and that he hated Americans for fighting against the Vietnamese people. The lad had courage; perhaps bolstered by the pistol he carried tucked into his belt. When he found that I was German, he said: "That's better, you can stay here, but no contact with the Americans!" I said: "When an American comes here, I, as a foreigner myself, cannot throw him out, I would be deported immediately myself if I did."
Then the fanatic laughed, and ran down the path into the weeds; he never came back.
Until around 1972 one American had actually visited me. One day a monk came with an American civilian, an Official of the United States Aid Organization (USAID). He offered to enlarge the Vihara. I immediately refused, as I didn't want to be in debt to the Americans, and have them make political capital from such an association. I made it clear that I was very happy with the small Vihara, as I lived here alone. A larger building would mean more work for me. Both were astounded; they no doubt had never had someone turn down an offer of American dollars.
Previously, I had had two housemaids; a mother and her daughter. They were very lazy, only wanting to eat; sit around and smoke; work did not interest them in the slightest. I sent them home after a month.
Another maid was hired by my friends, a woman about thirty. She and her husband were laborers; they had built the large cement tank that I used to store rainwater in. I had the tank built as there was no source of water on the mountain, and water was expensive if bought in the market.
Her husband, some ten years older, did not trust his wife; he was constantly spying on her, not without reason. The plump, brown woman was by no means beautiful, but she had been taking an interest in me. She was constantly pressing against me as I worked in the small kitchen, etc. She was making me nervous! I didn't want to simply fire her, however, as they were poor and needed the money. Then, one Sunday, she didn't show up for work. She only worked four hours a day, and expected payment for eight. When she didn't show up, I simply fired her on Monday. From now on, I would do all of the work myself, even though I was handicapped, and had difficulty going into town.
Mr. Thieu, a Vietnamese friend, volunteered to do my shopping for me.
Until 1973 I hadn't had to buy anything for myself; my supporters in Saigon and Vung Tau brought everything to the Vihara. But, as the Piaster fell more and more, my visitors came less frequently, and brought less with them when they did come. Some didn't visit at all, as they were ashamed to come with empty hands.

-CHAPTER TWELVE-
A Small Miracle

Early one Sunday morning Mr. Phung visited me from Saigon. I was walking around the Vihara, as was my custom, when he joined me. We walked around the back, keeping the Vihara on our right side, as is the ancient Buddhist custom, when I suddenly became aware of the burning sun's rays reflecting off of the stony cliff. I said, spontaneously: "My, the poor animals. Where do they find water in this wasteland?" I had scarcely spoken when a stone fell from the cliff face, and a stream of water gushed out, pooled at my feet, and ran into a natural basin. We were astounded: we gaped at each other, not wanting to believe what we had just seen. It was, no doubt, only rainwater that had seeped into the cliff and nothing unusual; but the little spring kept running for several months, becoming a watering place for the animals and many birds around the Vihara. Water is a precious commodity in all tropical countries, being the first thing one is offered when visiting a friend; it is a sign of great prestige for one to own a refrigerator. I hadn't one, and did not want one. I don't like ice water; it only gives me a stomachache.
That night there was a severe thunderstorm over Vung Tau; thousands of lightning strikes and cannon-like peals of thunder surrounded the temple. Fritz, my cat, who had never experienced a thunderstorm, looked at me questioningly, put his ears back, and fled to my bed, diving under the blanket. He stayed there until the next morning. One lightning bolt struck so near that the entire building shuddered. It must have struck the cliff behind the Vihara. I went out the next morning, and found black mark two hands breadth wide where the bolt had struck the cliff. I could see that the stone was actually petrified wood; there must have been a large forest here in ancient times.
During the many thunderstorms that I experienced, giant boulders would often become dislodged and roll down the mountain, but most of them did no damage. Eventually I had sort of a concrete moat built around the Vihara to catch the stones as they rolled down, and also to channel the rainwater into my cistern. During my first year there,1969, I had much trouble during the monsoon
Season, when rainwater ran into the temple almost every day. I had to clean the shrine room of mud almost daily.
An old man, who lived at the bottom of the hill on Phan Chau Trinh Street, planted ten banana trees in front of the Vihara. The stand was young, but things grow fast in this tropical climate; the next year I had a nice miniature banana plantation. Every tree grew a nice stem of bananas. Bananas are harvested while green, and it seemed that as soon as I would cut one bunch, another was growing
In its place. This surprised me, as the ground around the Vihara was very poor and stony. Only two-meter high elephant grass grew around the hill, except for some jungle lianas that produced lovely pale pink flowers.
One day, as I sat on the veranda, I heard a coo-coo sing in a nearby tree. He sat on a branch to the left of the Vihara, He called for hours. My cat lie innocently at my feet, but his interest was plainly on the bird. He crept nearer and nearer to the trunk. I shook my finger at him, and he, knowing that he was being warned, rolled over on his back and stretched, inviting a scratch.
The other four cats had disappeared, probably the meal of a cobra or python.
One day Fritz came with his girl friend. She was frightened of me, and would not come into the Vihara, preferring to take up residence under the water tank. Later, when I gave Fritz his dinner (fried potatoes) she deigned to come up on the veranda, but remained ready to flee at the first sign of danger. Fritz sat, as usual, on his hindquarters like a dog. I did not teach him this; he developed it on his own. As I ate his eyes followed every mouthful, and his face took on a disappointed look as the potatoes disappeared into my mouth. I fed him very well, of course, and he was soon the fattest cat in the neighborhood, though he ate only vegetables, rice, potatoes and cheese. His lady friend, however, would only eat cheese and potatoes, refusing all other vegetables.
The cuckoo lived near the Vihara for a time, then fell victim to Fritz, the master hunter. I noticed Fritz slinking up the stone stairway one day, with a guilty look on his face. The cat understood exactly that he had done something wrong. He had tried many times to bring dead rats and mice into the Vihara, and when I caught him I always threw him and his victim out. As Fritz crept up the stairs with the dead bird, he looked at me with guilt written all over his face, and, when I didn't say anything, crept past me, and laid his victim at his lady friend's feet, who thereupon snatched the dead bird and fled into the brush. Fritz didn't follow her; rather he crept into the reception room and lay down on his pillow, totally exhausted. What should I do or say? Fritz was an animal and followed his instincts. He, of course, had no concept of morality; but he was a gentleman. Why else would he give up fat bird that he had been stalking the entire day? Fritz killed everything that crept and crawled, however; mostly geckoes that crawled all over the walls after flies, and also other lizards who were not so skilful and had to remain on the ground, making themselves easy prey. Once Fritz caught a chameleon, a large lizard with a face likes a dragon. I freed the hapless lizard, and slapped the cat as he fled. The chameleon was not dead, but was badly frightened. I held him for a while as he played dead; after a bit he opened his big eyes as if to say: "Please let me go!" I sat him on a large flowerpot on the veranda, where he stayed until the evening, then disappeared.
We had built a bathroom and European style toilet outside the Vihara, but I couldn't use it at night or in the early morning due to the many snakes around. I had no electricity for a long time, and this was frightening. Finally Mr. Cahn from Saigon put in an electric line when his mother in law moved in to the small house down the hill. The elderly lady wanted to spend her last years as a Buddhist hermit, without actually becoming a nun. She was an interesting person; she was Chinese, but born in Vietnam. Her daughter was half-Vietnamese and half-French, as her husband was a French man who had become a Buddhist. He had passed away a few years earlier.
A few days after the lady had moved in to the house, she came into the Vihara, evidently very upset. She buried her chalk white face in her hands and stuttered:
"There....there is...is...are...angry GHOSTS in my house!"
I smiled and answered:
"Why angry ghosts, have they done anything to you?"
"No, nothing, but they have frightened me."
"Madam, you speak of ghosts, so far I have seen only one here."
"What? You have seen the ghost?" she stammered.
"More than once," I replied.
"Are you not afraid? I will go back to Saigon if I see it again."
"Don't worry, I will speak with him so that he will leave you in peace; anyway he is a friendly ghost, and you have nothing to fear from him."
The old lady went back to her house shaking her head. I laughed behind her back, and suddenly the old man appeared beside me stroking his beard and chuckling silently. I asked him to leave the lady in peace, as she might have a heart attack if he kept on frightening her. He promised on his honor to only appear to me. Then he began to fade, but first he said goodbye, and said that he
Would go to Phuc Long province and visit his relatives, whether they wanted him or not.

The ground around the Vihara often shook wildly due to the explosions of American artillery and bombs striking the Vietcong hideouts in the area. The Communists put no aircraft in the air, claiming that they did not want to bomb any villages and harm innocent people. The truth of this is; however, that they were not capable of any air operations, as their miniature airforce was too poorly equipped to undertake such missions, and would have been quickly annihilated by the Americans. Only over North Vietnam were there short air battles between Russian built Migs and American fighters.

I founded the Bodhisattva Csoma Institute for Buddhology with the idea that I would, after the war, make it an institute for the education of Buddhist Monks and Nuns. In the meantime, I concentrated on the translation of Buddhist texts from Sanskrit, Pali, and other languages into English, German, and Esperanto. I published, in spite of the war and its attendant difficulties, such as the bad economy, censorship, etc., three works. First I published "Tiel Parolis La Buddho Kaj Liaj Disciploj" (Thus Spoke the Buddha and His Disciples) in 1971. This small book (in Esperanto) contained a sampling of the best sayings of the Buddha and his Disciples. It was rapidly sold out. Next, Mr. Frederich Moyse, Frankfurt am Main, published my manuscript "Jainism, the Religion of Harmlessness" at his own expense, and in the name of our Institute in Vung Tau. Mr Moyse was a fervent Buddhist, and very active in the German Tibetan Aid Project. Unfortunately this good friend passed away on 26 June 1976, He was 68 years old. The Tibetan refugees in India and Germany, and we European Buddhists, had lost a good friend. May his rebirth be a favorable one.
Further, I published my translation of the Dhammapada (The Path of the Dharma) under the title "La Vojo Al Nirvano" (The Way to Nirvana). The Dhammapada consists of 423 stanzas, and the tradition is that the Venerable Sariputta, on the instructions of the Buddha, recited the entire scripture. At the end the Buddha declared that it was the authentic Buddha word.
I also wrote many manuscripts and works on the Vajrayana Buddhism of Tibet, and on the activities of Christian Missionaries in India and Vietnam. These last manuscripts were lost, being confiscated by the Vietcong. Over 500 copies of La Vojo Al Nirvano, and my entire library were also lost. More about that later.