Travelling the Road to Ordination on an Elephant

By the time April gives way to May, the heat in Surin begins to loosen its grip. There’s a pause before the monsoons arrive—a brief moment in the agricultural timeline when the fields are left waiting. In Ban Ta Klang, a village about 40 kilometers from Surin town in Tha Tum District, that pause is filled with the Elephant Ordination ceremony – or Buad Nak Chang.

For locals in Ban Ta Klang, the annual Elephant Ordination is a kind of homecoming.

People begin returning from the cities; houses that have sat quiet fill once more, and the temple grounds grow busy. No single moment marks the beginning, but over a few days, the village shifts, gradually gathering around Buad Nak Chang, taking place this year from 29 April to 1 May.

Ordination itself is very common in Thailand’s Buddhist communities. For many families, it’s an expected passage: a son entering the monkhood, even briefly, to make merit and honor his parents. But here, the way it unfolds feels totally different. The elephant plays a role in the rite as the man enters monkhood.

Ban Ta Klang is home to the Kui people, a community that has served as mahouts for centuries. The relationship between people and elephants isn’t something easily explained from the outside. It’s not just about training or labor.

People here grow up with elephants. They learn their moods, their habits, their rhythms. Communications between the two living forms are often quiet, almost invisible. Watching closely, you can feel it’s a strange family of human and elephant.

During Buad Nak Chang, that closeness becomes part of a religious act.

April 29 is the beginning. At Wat Chaeng Sawang, the village temple, the ordinands gather for the initial rites. Heads are shaved. It’s a small but significant gesture—the first step in leaving behind ordinary life. This is followed by the khwan nak rite, a melodic reciting and singing to recall the spirit of the ordinands (nak). It reminds them of their parents’ grace – especially their mothers - while guiding them in the proper conduct of monastic life.

The next day opens things up.

On the morning of April 30, the village is already in motion. Elephants are being washed and decorated. Their skin is marked with hand-painted patterns—white and ochre, sometimes uneven, clearly done by hand. Cloths embroidered with bright colors are draped across their backs. Nothing feels overly polished; the details are adjusted, readjusted, left slightly imperfect.

Nearby, the ordinands are being dressed. Silk garments, bright and intricate, transform them into figures that seem almost theatrical—something between princes and ritual participants. Yet when they mount the elephants, that theatrical edge softens.

The procession doesn’t begin with a flourish. You hear it first—a low drumbeat, then the faint ringing of bells. Gradually, the sounds gather. Then the elephants appear.

They don’t march in strict formation. The line shifts and loosens as they move, each animal finding its own rhythm. The pace is slow, unforced. There’s no sense of urgency. The ordinands sit high above, shaded by parasols, their posture composed and still.

The route starts at Wat Chaeng Sawang and winds through the village and empty rice fields towards Wang Thalu, where the Mun and Chi rivers meet. Along the way, musicians drift alongside the elephants, their drums and cymbals occasionally slipping out of sync. Dancers move in and out of the procession, adjusting to the space around them. It’s lively, but not tightly choreographed.

At the roadside, people gather in small clusters. Some press their hands together in prayer. Others call out—names, greetings, brief moments of recognition as someone passes. Children run alongside, having fun with and wondering at the elephants. It looks and feels communal.

Partway through, the procession reaches water. This time of year, the river is shallow, its surface broken easily by the elephants’ weight. They step in without hesitation.

Bringing the elephants and ordinands to Wang Thalu is a key part of the Kui community’s Elephant Ordination in Ban Ta Klang, Surin. At the confluence of the Chi and Mun rivers, a ritual is performed to ask forgiveness and to acknowledge the resident spirits—San Pu Ta and Nya Chu (ancestral spirits)—believed to dwell there. Conducted before the ordination, the Kui believe, it seeks blessings for both people and elephants.

By the time the final day arrives, 1 May – everything draws inward again.

Back at Wat Chaeng Sawang, the mass ordination takes place. The brightness of the previous day—the costumes, the elephants, the movement—begins to recede. The ordinands change into simpler clothing. The elephants, so central before, are led away and gradually disappear from focus.

Inside the temple, the ceremony is restrained. Vows are spoken in steady tones. Heads are bowed. The transformation from layperson to monk happens without spectacle. It’s formal, structured, almost austere in comparison to what came before.

And yet, the earlier images stay with you.

Not just the sight of elephants moving through the village, or the color of the procession, but the way everything connects. The ordinands don’t arrive at this moment alone.

They’re carried into it—by their families, by the community, by the animals that have been part of their lives for years.

What Buad Nak Chang leaves behind isn’t just the memory of an unusual ceremony. It’s a way of understanding how closely different parts of life and beings can gather together—people and elephants, ritual and routine, the sacred and the ordinary.

IF YOU GO

From Bangkok, you can reach Surin by train (6–8 hours) from Krung Thep Aphiwat Central Terminal or by public buses from Mo Chit Bus Terminal (6–7 hours). Visitors can also fly to Buriram and continue overland from the airport, a journey of 70 kilometers, to Surin.

Photo Credit: Thanissorn Luckchai and TAT