Tayla Gentle Travels

They burst through the ornate wooden doors in a sea of red.
Hitching up their robes as they spill from the temple, one hundred novice monks kick up a dust storm with their small sandaled feet.

Like schoolboys released early from a math class, they jostle and shout and babble in Burmese, celebrating the end to a morning of still devotion.

“Mingalabah! Mingalabah!” Little hands wave hello as I sit atop an outer wall of the monastery, watching the lively procession stomp their way down the narrow path toward the village stupa.

Trailing behind their teachers, several young monks kneel to trace mandalas in the sun-soaked dirt. A pair of unruly teenagers crash into a line of drying longyi, laughing as they disentangle themselves from the knot of colours.

A huddle of mischievous twelve year-olds share hoarded snacks, delving into folds of fabric to reveal fruit and lollies. Their white teeth flash and shaven heads glisten in the afternoon sunlight.

Past the monastery courtyard, purple mountains loom above rice paddies and kitchen smoke curls in the air, mingling with the scent of sandalwood blowing in from neighbouring shrines.

From my vantage point, highland Myanmar hums with an irrepressible energy.

As the last monk disappears and a passing local splatters the ground with bloody betel, the temple doors creak open. Very quickly and very quietly, a tiny figure darts down the stairs and dives behind the water well.

Looking left and looking right, the novice stealthily scans the courtyard perimeter through squinted eyes. He freezes at the sound of an elderly woman calling to her daughter. A stray dog bounds up to play and is deftly pushed aside. Dust catches in his nose and he barely stifles a sneeze.

This boy is on a mission.

One breath later and he is back on his feet. Pedalling his little legs he sprints up the hill towards me, never once looking back. Drowning in ruby cloth, he swings his body up and over the wall with the ease of an agile monkey and stands, panting.

Shyly, he turns to me and grins.

As he stands sentinel on the high wall, the tiny novice cuts a striking silhouette. And in his small smile, I see the pride of truant ten year-old boys all over the world, cutting class, skipping school and wagging prayer.