"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establishing several monasteries and his influence on both monastic and lay practitioners make this work an important historical document as well as a spiritual guide.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.

My ordination ceremony took place on July 11, 1937 at 4:19 p.m. The ceremony was held inside the ordination hall at Chanthanārāma Monastery, which was located on the banks of the Chanthaburi River, not far from Sai Ngaam Forest Monastery where I lived. Chanthanārāma Monastery was the administrative headquarters of the Dhammayut Monastic Order for the provinces of Chanthaburi, Ranong, and Trat, and was the designated ordination center for the whole area. In those days, a stand of large canda sandalwood trees, from which the monastery got its name, grew beside the well on the monastery grounds. Presiding over my ordination was my preceptor, Venerable Ajahn Sian Uttamo, the monastery’s abbot. The Venerable Ajahn Cheui Thongkhamdee was my kammavācācariya chanting instructor and the Venerable Ajahn Lee Dhammadharo was my anusāvanācariya teaching instructor. I was given the Pāli name “Cundo.” I was one month and five days into my twenty-second year, and I was the first person for whom Ajahn Lee Dhammadharo chanted a part in a monk’s ordination ceremony.

I still remember Ajahn Lee’s instructions to me on that occasion, “You are a meditation monk. The primary work of a meditation monk has been assigned to you today at your ordination. It is given simply as five meditation objects to be memorized and reflected on in forward and reverse order: kesā—hair of the head; lomā—hair of the body; nakhā—nails; dantā—teeth; and taco—the skin that enwraps the body. It is up to you to contemplate the significance of these physical features in your meditation to the best of your ability. This reflection underlies the true work of those monks who practice according to the principles of Dhamma that were taught by the Lord Buddha.

“These five body parts are to be contemplated at length until you become aware that the body’s true nature is neither inherently beautiful nor desirable; but instead, that it is fundamentally unappealing, changeable, unsatisfactory, and thus should not be seen as belonging to you. These five parts form the external, visible features of the human body, the appearance of which can arouse lust and attachment in the mind. Only when the body is properly dissected and analyzed does the mind gradually develop a strong sense of dispassion toward the human form, causing the desires associated with it to begin to weaken and dissolve away. The mind is then free to devote itself to subtler aspects of meditation in search of more lasting and worthwhile forms of happiness.”

Following the ceremony at Chanthanārāma Monastery, I returned with Ajahn Lee and Ajahn Kongmaa to Sai Ngaam Forest Monastery where, from 1937-1939, I spent my first three rains retreats as their student. Those two ajaans had been Dhamma friends for many years. Before they first met, Ajahn Lee had already ordained as a monk at the temple in his home village. When he heard that a wandering dhutaṅga monk was camping out in the local cemetery, he went to pay his respects and ask him some questions. Ajahn Lee was inspired by the dhutaṅga monk’s demeanor, which was so different from the other monks he knew. Ajahn Lee asked the monk who his teacher was. He replied that his teacher was Ajahn Mun Bhūridatto, who at that time was staying not far away at Burapha Monastery in the city of Ubon Ratchathani...

In early July, 1939, Ajahn Kongmaa called a meeting of five local Chanthaburi monasteries. The purpose of the gathering was to cultivate unity and harmony among the monks, novices, and lay people to ensure that Buddhism would continue to prosper in the area. Primarily, he wanted to make the practice of the monastic rules consistent so that monks residing in all five monasteries would be observing the monastic code and practicing proper etiquette to the same standard. After the meeting adjourned, Ajahn Kongmaa delivered an inspiring Dhamma talk to raise the spirits of the monks and novices and stimulate the development of their meditation practice.

At the outset of the rains retreat that year, Ajahn Kongmaa established the daily routine to be followed by all monks residing at Sai Ngaam Forest Monastery. He mandated that silence should prevail after dusk and throughout the night—no one should disturb the quietude. Monks must strive to maintain a calm body and a quiet mind. At 7:30 p.m. every evening, a bell announced the time for evening chanting. Ajahn Kongmaa’s nightly Dhamma talk followed the chanting, after which the monks remained seated in meditation until 11:00 p.m. Ajahn Kongmaa stressed that anyone who fell asleep in the hall before that time had to make up for his lapse of concentration by meditating throughout the night until dawn.

At precisely 3:00 a.m., the first bell of the day woke the monks and novices, calling them to rise from their sleeping mats and begin walking meditation. The bell sounded again at 4:00 a.m., summoning the monks to the main hall to practice seated meditation, and at 5:00 a.m. sharp the morning chanting began. Upon the conclusion of chanting, the monks stood up in unison and quickly focused their attention on their assigned chore of preparing the main hall for the morning meal. Each monk spread a sitting cloth at his appointed seat on the dais, readied water for drinking and washing, and helped sweep the hall clean of dust. Once all the tasks were completed, the monks knelt at their seats and bowed three times to the Buddha statue and then did the same to Ajahn Kongmaa. Only then were they ready to walk to the village to receive alms.

After returning to the monastery with food offerings, the monks ate their meal in silence. The bowls from which they ate were then washed, thoroughly dried, and returned to each monk’s hut where they were put neatly away for the day. By 9:00 a.m. the monks were seated, meditating in the solitude of the forest. Both sitting and walking meditation continued until 3:00 p.m. at which point the paths around the monastery were swept of leaves and twigs and the main hall’s floor was again dusted and polished in keeping with a long-standing tradition of Thai forest monks...

Ajahn Kongmaa trained his students to uphold the high standards expected of forest monastics. In addition to studying the ancient Pāli texts, meditation—aimed at both meditative calm and wisdom—was practiced daily. Ajahn Kongmaa stressed that samādhi and wisdom were like the two wheels on a cart: Only when both wheels worked in unison could the cart move forward. The calm and concentration of samādhi enabled wisdom to reach deeply to remove mental defilements; the intuitive insights that uprooted defilements, in turn, deepened meditative calm. In this manner, the two worked together to lead a practitioner along the path to enlightenment. Besides study and meditation, attendance at the fortnightly recital of the Pāṭimokkha rules was mandatory for the whole community, as was attendance at Sangha meetings and Ajahn Kongmaa’s frequent Dhamma talks. Monastics were obliged to perform pūjās and chant devotional verses on all important Buddhist holy days.

Because the Dhamma is sandiṭṭhiko—experienced and understood within oneself alone—I did not talk to anyone about this incident in my meditation, not even Ajahn Kongmaa. I simply kept it to myself. I didn’t tell Ajahn Kongmaa about the profound experiences that happened in my meditation because I suspected he wouldn’t take them seriously. After all, I was still a very junior monk at that time. I was reluctant to speak openly about my meditation in Sai Ngaam Forest Monastery for I feared that talking about it would only lead to differences of opinion among the senior monks and give rise to unnecessary misunderstanding.

Instead, my thoughts were drawn toward the Venerable Ajahn Mun, whose great renown as a meditation teacher I had long been aware of. I’d heard about the extraordinary courage and determination he displayed in practicing the forest monk’s way of life and the uncompromising strictness he used in teaching his disciples. I considered Ajahn Mun to be the highest authority on meditation. Although the ajaans at Sai Ngaam Forest Monastery were disciples of Ajahn Mun, I was convinced it would be better to question the great master himself. Indeed, I felt sure that Ajahn Mun was the only person I could trust to interpret the significance of my recent meditation experience. I resolved to seek him out, prostrate myself at his feet, and request his guidance. I intended to tell him everything, beginning with the day I started meditating and continuing step by step up to the dramatic events I’d recently experienced in my body contemplation practice. I hoped to have him confirm my belief that my meditation was firmly on the right track.

In December of 1939, I made the decision to take leave of Ajahn Kongmaa and make the long trek to the northern province of Chiang Mai, hoping to meet up with Ajahn Mun there. When Ajahn Kongmaa learned that I intended to take his leave to search for Ajahn Mun, he asked me in a very serious tone, “Tan Jia, how can a monk like you possibly stay with Ajahn Mun?”

Did he really think I was that inept? Even if there was some truth in what Ajahn Kongmaa implied, I had no intention to abandon my resolve. I answered him as diplomatically as I could. “Why is it wrong for me to go see a monk of such high virtue? A rough person like me needs to find a tough teacher to straighten him out. The venerable teachers here are certainly competent. I don’t underestimate their ability. But continuing to stay at Sai Ngaam Forest Monastery means I’m living too close to home, too near family and friends. I need more seclusion from the distractions caused by their frequent visits. Living nearby, they can easily drop in and chat about whatever’s on their minds. Friends and neighbors try to drag me into their worldly affairs, which makes it more difficult to focus on meditation practice. As soon as my mother heard that I planned to leave for Chiang Mai, she showed up and broke down in tears. Emotional outbursts like that disrupt my calm and concentration, which becomes very tiresome. I left the home life with all its worries and concerns in a deliberate attempt to pursue a life of renunciation. I now feel that facing the challenge of living far away from home will keep my mind sheltered from mundane concerns and greatly benefit my practice. That’s why I humbly seek your approval.”

Ajahn Kongmaa’s curt reply was, “Well, Tan Jia, if you learn something good up there in Chiang Mai, don’t forget to come back down to enlighten us old folks, okay?”

Hearing the mocking tone in his voice, I thought, “What the… What the hell does that mean?” and I became more determined than ever to leave...

Ajahn Mun established a monastic routine at Daeng Forest Monastery that laid out a monk’s daily duties and responsibilities beginning from the moment he rose in the early morning until he retired late at night, and his disciples conscientiously followed that schedule. Rising in the early hours before dawn, the monks got up quickly, washed their faces in cold water to liven up, then stepped onto their meditation paths to pace back and forth until all drowsiness had been dispelled. As dawn broke, each monk descended from his hut carrying his bowl and robes and hastened to the dining hall. The gathered monks began their chores by scrubbing and sweeping the hardwood floor and railings, after which they placed their sitting cloths on the clean floor, rinsed out their alms bowls with cold water, and set the bowls at their seats in preparation for the day’s almsround. In the time remaining before the walk to the village, they swept the grounds around the dining hall in all directions.

When the early morning light was bright enough to leave for almsround, each monk reentered the hall, put on his upper and outer robes, slung his alms bowl over one shoulder, and started walking with the others toward the village to collect alms. Upon returning to the monastery, he hung his outer robe in the sun, put on his upper robe, and attended to the food he’d received in his bowl. Once all the monks were seated, Ajahn Mun led them in chanting the blessing—rejoicing in the generosity of the givers and wishing peace and happiness to all living beings. Before beginning the meal, each monk focused on the food he was preparing to eat, reflecting on its nature and its purpose as follows: “The food I am about to consume is eaten simply for the purpose of maintaining the body’s health and longevity and relieving its various afflictions. Eating this meal as a support for living the holy life, I will conduct myself blamelessly and live a simple life.”

After finishing his meal, each monk carried his empty bowl to the washing area outside, scrubbed it clean, dried it in the sun, put it in a carrying case, and returned it to his hut where he placed it neatly in one corner. The bowl’s lid was left slightly open to allow any residual food odors to escape. The monk took time to pick and brush his teeth and attend to his toilet needs. After that, he might take a short rest, but would not fall asleep. When he felt refreshed, he rose to pay respects to the small Buddha statue in his hut and sat down to begin meditating on his preferred meditation theme. If he continued to feel drowsy, he would step outside his hut and onto his walking meditation path to focus his attention on the body in motion. Invigorated by walking, he later returned to a seated posture—the right foot placed on the left thigh, the left foot placed on the ground and tucked under the right thigh. Firmly grounded in body and mind, a monk could pass many hours absorbed in mindful awareness.

Every day at 4:00 p.m., the resident monks put aside their formal meditation practice to participate in the afternoon chores required of all members of the community. They began by sweeping the grounds of the entire monastery compound. Having closed their bowls’ lids tightly to keep out the dust, they swept leaves and twigs from the area around their huts and continued sweeping the path that led from their huts to the main hall...

I had attended on Ajahn Mun for six months at Pehr Forest when he received a letter from Venerable Chao Khun Dhammachedi, the abbot of Bodhisomphon Monastery and the chief administrative monk of the entire Northeast province of Udon Thani. In his letter, Chao Khun Dhammachedi, who had been a disciple of Ajahn Mun since his youth, invited him to return to Udon Thani and settle in that region for the benefit of his many disciples there. Ajahn Mun had been born in the Lao-speaking Northeast region of Thailand, of which Udon Thani is a part, and had spent many years wandering through its vast wilderness areas that border the Mekong River. Known colloquially as Issan, Thailand’s Northeast region was the homeland of many forest monks of that era and the birthplace of the Thai Forest Tradition.

By the time he received Chao Khun Dhammachedi’s letter, Ajahn Mun had been living and practicing in the northern province of Chiang Mai for over twelve years. Interestingly enough, a short time before the letter arrived, he had expressed a desire to return “home,” citing a wish to make his teachings available to a larger group of forest monks. Due to the remoteness of the northern region, only the most intrepid monks had managed to find him there, and their numbers were fairly small compared to the many devoted disciples he had left behind when he moved to the North. Ajahn Mun felt the time was right to reconnect with them in order to consolidate the Thai Forest Sangha and ensure its longevity as a beacon of hope for future generations.

In the past, Ajahn Mun had received many such invitations from Chao Khun Dhammachedi, but he had never answered those letters or accepted the requests. He was still considering this new request when Chao Khun Dhammachedi suddenly showed up at Pehr Forest to invite him in person. He had traveled from Udon Thani to the isolated region where Ajahn Mun lived to speak with him personally and thus give Ajahn Mun a chance to answer all his previous letters.

Ajahn Mun smiled and said, “I’ve received all the letters you sent, but I didn’t answer them because they were small and insignificant compared to your arrival here today. Now I am prepared to honor your request.”

Chao Khun Dhammachedi then formally invited Ajahn Mun to return to Udon Thani, a province where he had once lived many years before. He informed Ajahn Mun that he was offering this invitation on behalf of his disciples there, who missed his inspirational presence. Having received Ajahn Mun’s consent, Chao Khun Dhammachedi suggested they set a timetable for his trip to Udon Thani. Due to Ajahn Mun’s age and declining health, they deemed it wise that he travel the long distance by train. After a brief discussion, they decided on a departure date at the beginning of May that year—1940.

Ajahn Mun laughed like a lovable and distinguished elder statesman after the agreement was reached. Despite his obvious physical frailty, in that moment his appearance had an ageless quality. A master of the unconditioned Dhamma, he radiated warmth and vitality, while his demeanor displayed sublime elegance and grace. By his very presence, Ajahn Mun lent a clear sense of spiritual purpose to every occasion. People from all walks of life were naturally attracted to his aura of compassion and wisdom, which beckoned them to approach him and engage in conversation. These distinctive qualities are what I call “aging gracefully.”

People who never attempt to practice meditation usually feel distraught when they recognize the telltale signs of aging and decline in their bodies and minds. They are unsettled when facing a loss of physical strength that leaves them unable to manage their own affairs...