"Gold Wrapped in Rags" is the compelling autobiography of Ajahn Jia Cundo (1916-2004), one of Thailand's most respected Forest Tradition Buddhist monks. As a direct disciple of the renowned meditation master Ajahn Mun Bhuridatto, Ajahn Jia provides a rare, firsthand account of the austere practices and profound teachings of Thailand's Forest Tradition. The narrative follows Ajahn Jia's remarkable journey from his early life as a village boy to his years as a wandering forest monk. With candid detail, he describes his struggles and achievements in meditation practice, his encounters with tigers and other wild animals, and his relationships with some of the most revered figures in Thai Buddhism, including Ajahn Mun and Ajahn Lee Dhammadharo. This autobiography is particularly valuable for its intimate portrayal of life in the Thai forest monasteries during the mid-20th century. Ajahn Jia's direct, often humorous style brings to life the day-to-day challenges and triumphs of forest monks practicing in remote locations. His accounts of meditation experiences and spiritual development offer practical insights for contemporary practitioners. The book also documents important historical events in Thai Buddhism, including the preservation and continuation of the Forest Tradition's teachings during a period of rapid modernization in Thailand. Ajahn Jia's role in establishing several monasteries and his influence on both monastic and lay practitioners make this work an important historical document as well as a spiritual guide. Through its vivid storytelling and profound teachings, "Gold Wrapped in Rags" offers readers a unique glimpse into the life of a master practitioner who embodied the essence of Buddhist practice while maintaining a down-to-earth approach to teaching and living the Dhamma. Readers are welcome to email us to request hard copies of our printed publications. Forest Dhamma Monastery 255 Snakefoot Lane Lexington Virginia 24450 USA info@forestdhamma.org © 2024 Forest Dhamma Monastery. All Commercial Rights Reserved. "I reckon I got better results meditating for the short time it took me to urinate than those lazy bastards did meditating all night!" — Ajaan Jia Cundo Chapter 1... Rags Rags When my father was in his early twenties, he traveled by ship from China to Thailand seeking a better life. He didn’t bring many possessions with him, only some extra clothes that he stuffed in a Chinese traveling case, a woven bamboo shoulder pack. When he finally made his way to Thailand, he settled in the province of Chanthaburi, where he lived in Klong Naam Khem district in the coastal town of Laem Sing on the Gulf of Thailand. That’s where he met my mother, who was born in Chanthaburi province to a Chinese father and a Thai mother. After they married, they moved ten miles north along the main Chanthaburi Canal to live at Nong Bua village. My whole family, including my parents and grandparents, had a strong faith in Buddhism. After all, we were all born Buddhists. My father adopted the Thai name Sunchae Pothikit. My mother’s name was Fae Pothikit. My parents made their living as merchants, operating a general store from the ground floor of our home, selling local produce such as fruit, rice, and fish. In those days, there were no motorcars, so people traveled from one place to another on foot. My dad used to walk the length and breadth of Chanthaburi province collecting the rent from his rice fields. His trekking covered long distances: three miles from Nong Bua to Priw, six miles from Priw to Dong Ching, and another six miles to Srijomthian. He walked the whole route and then returned home straight after finishing his business. My dad was a strong and diligent man who worked very hard to build our family business. As for me, I was born on June 6, 1916 in Tambon Khlong Naam Khem, Laem Sing district, Chanthaburi province...

Imagine for a moment the desperation felt by ordinary peasant farmers in southeastern China during the first decade of the twentieth century, when living conditions had become untenable for poor farmers throughout the region. During extended periods of drought, the land lay parched; when the rains returned, the rivers flooded the lowlands. Either way, year after year, the conditions for harvesting crops were disastrous. Without rice to eat, life became desperate. To make matters worse, the general lawlessness of the region gave rise to raids by marauding gangs of armed men looting depleted grain supplies.

Sia Eung, the eldest son of an ethnic Hokkien family, grew up in a village in Fujian province alongside a river which flooded its banks so often that the rice crops frequently failed, leaving his family to survive on a meager harvest each year. As typhoons swept in over the mountains and onto the low-lying countryside, storm winds blew without respite, and dense, lashing rain fell steadily for months, drenching everything. When water levels rose until they overflowed the river’s banks, the rushing current started devouring the embankment, pulling the land into the surging torrent. The river swelled and flowed faster as its momentum grew, gobbling up everything in its path and spilling over so far that it inundated the rice fields.

The ensuing floods washed everything away, not just the family’s fields but their home as well. Everything the family owned ended up floating in the middle of the river. All that remained of their house above water was the thatched roof stubbornly hanging on against the floodtide. Half-starved farm animals clung to the debris floating in the water, and human corpses, beginning to bloat and rot, bobbed in the swirling eddies. When the rain stopped, the sun beat down, and wafts of stench drifted off the river. The scenes of destruction were reminiscent of what the Buddha realized on the night of his enlightenment: that the cycle of birth and death resembles an ocean of suffering.

After the flood, the young man’s family packed what few possessions they had left and trekked across the high mountains into the next valley to stay with relatives and try to start their lives anew. There, they built thatched huts in the open fields and eked a living out of the land. The following year drought descended, scorching the land and shriveling their crops.

When he could no longer endure the feelings of despair, Sia Eung reached a pivotal moment in his young life. One morning, as dawn broke across the barren fields, he bid a tearful goodbye to his parents and left home in search of a better future. He set out on foot over the parched floodplain south of his home, hiking through the flat, hard landscape scarred with the stubble of a drought-stricken rice crop. Full of youth, he was strong and capable of walking long distances without tiring. He took few possessions with him, only some extra clothes stuffed in his Chinese traveling case, a tall, rounded basket made of woven bamboo that he carried suspended from a shoulder-pole. Sia Eung was twenty-two years old and on his own.

Like so many young men of that era, he joined a mass migration fleeing the severe hardships of southern China in search of greener, fresher pastures in the lands of Southeast Asia. He had heard from the tales of previous migrants that lands to the far south were peaceful and plentiful. His plan was simple: keep walking south until he reached the sea, then stow away in the hold of a merchant vessel sailing southwest and plying its trade at cities and towns along the eastern coast of the Southeast Asian mainland. When a favorable opportunity presented itself, he intended to disembark and seek employment on the mainland...

When my father was in his early twenties, he traveled by ship from China to Thailand seeking a better life. He didn’t bring many possessions with him, only some extra clothes that he stuffed in a Chinese traveling case, a woven bamboo shoulder pack. When he finally made his way to Thailand, he settled in the province of Chanthaburi, where he lived in Klong Naam Khem district in the coastal town of Laem Sing on the Gulf of Thailand. That’s where he met my mother, who was born in Chanthaburi province to a Chinese father and a Thai mother. After they married, they moved ten miles north along the main Chanthaburi Canal to live at Nong Bua village. My whole family, including my parents and grandparents, had a strong faith in Buddhism. After all, we were all born Buddhists.

My father adopted the Thai name Sunchae Pothikit. My mother’s name was Fae Pothikit. My parents made their living as merchants, operating a general store from the ground floor of our home, selling local produce such as fruit, rice, and fish. In those days, there were no motorcars, so people traveled from one place to another on foot. My dad used to walk the length and breadth of Chanthaburi province collecting the rent from his rice fields. His trekking covered long distances: three miles from Nong Bua to Priw, six miles from Priw to Dong Ching, and another six miles to Srijomthian. He walked the whole route and then returned home straight after finishing his business. My dad was a strong and diligent man who worked very hard to build our family business.

As for me, I was born on June 6, 1916 in Tambon Khlong Naam Khem, Laem Sing district, Chanthaburi province. This date was equivalent to Tuesday, the sixth day of the seventh lunar month in the Year of the Dragon. I was the fourth child of a loving family with two older sisters, one older brother, two younger sisters, and one younger brother. My parents adopted our eldest sister, Pim, who was adored by all of us.

Initially, my parents called me Ow Jia, which means “black stone,” because I have a large black birthmark on my back. Later they shortened my name to Jia, which means “eat” in Chinese—maybe I used to eat too much! The black birthmark, which stretches from the center of my back across my shoulder blade and down toward my waist, was said to be a very auspicious sign. I wasn’t aware of that when I was growing up, but after I became a monk, I met a man in the south of the country who told me that it was very rare for anyone to be born with a black birthmark of such size on his back.

It is claimed that people who have this type of birthmark tend to be as solid as a rock. They can endure anything. Whether it’s extreme heat or extreme cold, ecstasy or misery, they can cope with every situation and overcome every obstacle. This makes for a good Dhamma teaching, reminding us to be emotionally firm, strong, and stable as a rock. When somebody pours filth on it, the rock is unmoved; should someone pour perfume on it, it’s equally unmoved. There is no reaction from the rock.

My childhood home was a two-story shophouse located at No. 82, Unit 7 in the Muang district in Nong Bua near where the main canal empties into the sea. The house stood on the canal side of the road with its back to the water. The front of the house faced a hard, earthen street crowded with many homes and small businesses. The rear of the house backed right up to the main canal which flowed down to the sea. A small area on the side between the house and the water, hugging the canal’s edge and cordoned off by a fence made of driftwood slats, contained a dozen enormous, round earthenware jars used for storing fresh rainwater. On the other side, a narrow bamboo walkway along the back of the house provided access to the landing pier where our boats were docked. Where the pier jutted out into the slow current, the tall wooden post that anchored it stood out distinctly against the rows of neatly moored boats that lined the canal. Tidewater filled the canal at high tide each day, raising the boats to the level of the pier as water flooded the wide basin in all directions. The long island that formed the opposite shore of the canal was sparsely populated. Only a few dwellings were visible from my house. For the most part, mango and lychee orchards grew all the way to the water’s edge.