Enlightenment on the Two Day Plan
Welcome to the Kopan Monastery, a quiet environment which is conducive to learning and meditation. We ask that you avoid singing, dancing and playing of music (except with earphones). Be mindful of your neighbours who are in retreat or meditating. — Notice posted inside the Silent Retreat cells at Kopan Monastery, Kathmandu
Kopan Monastery sits majestically high atop a steep hill just north of Kathmandu, one of 40 or so such monasteries scattered around the Boudinath (Tibetan) district of the Nepalese capital. Kopan, aside from being home to several hundred Tibetan monks, also opens its doors to foreigners, and seekers of enlightenment, and TV crews such as our crew playing at finding instant enlightenment for the comic enjoyment of possible viewers.
The theme for my role in our TV pilot is “shopping for enlightenment,” a recognition on my part after several trips to Asia, and Nepal in particular, that any sort of true spiritual discovery is not likely to be obtained on a two-week tourist visa, and certainly not on a two-day stay in a monastery. After playing the fool on camera as a spiritual shopper in the Tibetan restrict of Kathmandu for a week, the entire crew and I have moved on to Kopan monastery to practice two days of pretend silence and meditation, also for the amusement and edification of a possible future TV audience. Evidently suffering makes for good TV.
Silent meditation is rumoured to be good for the soul. Why, you hear people talking about it all the time. If practiced on a regular basis it supposedly may lead to some clarity of mind that might lead to some intelligent decisions, and way down the end of the road lies the elusive goal of ‘nirvana,’ defined as a state of existence devoid of pain. Buddhism preaches that all of life is suffering and that the best way to avoid suffering is to practice detachment, which involves such practices as meditation. In order to meditate properly, one requires a certain amount of silence. After all, it’s pretty hard to concentrate in circumstances of utter chaos and anarchy, which pretty well defines all of Kathmandu.
Imagine 500,000 motorbikes and cheap Japanese cars all honking their horns simultaneously while spewing vast volumes of black exhaust (Kathmandu is one of the most polluted cities in the world) and all playing dodge’em with hundreds of thousands of pedestrians while street workers hammer away at projects intended to keep the city’s crumbling brick buildings from collapsing into dust while tens of thousands of dogs bark and police futilely blow their whistles amidst the constant cacophony. And that’s just on a quiet day when there are no riots or festivals.
In our search for instant on-camera enlightenment the decision had been made to restrict four of us in the TV cast to two days of complete silence, largely by confining us in a small cell of the kind usually assigned to keep convicted sex criminals isolated apart from the general prison population. Here in Kopan, we members of the cast are also given strict orders that we may not talk to each other or to anyone else, or use our computers, or make use of any modern technical gear. Hell no, we must try to find our way to heaven.
We should, ideally, achieve a state of enlightenment within 48 hours and emerge nobly from our cells after that to share our profound wisdom with others, especially our prospective TV viewers, if only to stop them from switching over to the Food Network.
There are some obvious impediments towards achieving enlightenment, whether immediate or long term, that manifest themselves immediately upon arrival at Kopan. For instance, there is the fact that the monastery lies directly in the flight path of intercontinental jets landing non-stop at the nearby airport. While the monks living in Kopan on a fulltime basis hardly bat an eye at the ear-shattering blasts, for the two-day seeker after enlightenment it is something of a challenge to ignore 200 decibels thundering right above one’s head every few minutes. However, this jet noise does have the beneficial side effect of rendering any sort of conversation literally impossible, so the “no talking to each other” rule is easy to obey.
Perhaps more annoying is the spontaneous and obscure drumming that bursts out frequently without warning. I am no musical expert but I suspect that the loud echoes that emanate from the nearby Meeting Hall come from a tom tom drum, or more likely dozens of the bastard things. All in all, they have the cumulative effect of creating a migraine headache. Attempting to fall asleep on the first night I thought from the endless pounding that the plumbing system had totally collapsed. The initial barrage lasted perhaps fifteen minutes but then erupted repeatedly throughout the night, leaving the seeker of silence at dawn feeling like you had gone fifteen rounds with Muhammad Ali.
At the robust hour of 5 a.m. the rock concert commenced again, with vigour reminiscent of the rhythm section in Carlos Santana’s latest band. Those not completely exhausted from the prior evening’s concert could have danced the meringue. The drumming continued intermittently throughout the day, drowning out the hundreds of boom boxes of the younger monks living in the dormitories conveniently located right behind those of us ensconced in the Silent Retreat cells.
During the day those of us in the TV cast pretending to practice silent meditation wander around the monastery grounds in a state of utter and abject boredom. The TV crew members, not so restricted, wander around taking photos of cast members wandering around, while disappearing frequently to smoke cigarettes just outside the main gates of the monastery. Given that most of the crew is European, there is a big crowd of chain smokers outside the gates.
I finally wander out the main gate myself, just to break the boredom of wandering around the grounds aimlessly. I stroll down the road a kilometre or so, barely avoiding being run down like a dog by the deranged taxi drivers that transport more western seekers after enlightenment up the hill. Finally, I find a shady spot where I sit and commence to jot down these notes, but unluckily the only shade to be found is on a sharp curve in the road, and any curve in Nepal dictates mandatory smashing on the Kathmandu brake pedal (aka the horn) for all drivers, so my reveries are frequently interrupted.
The alternative to sounding the horn on curves and corners is simply to slow down for a few seconds, an advanced foreign concept not yet adapted by local taxi drivers who prefer to play chicken with the 500-metre drop to the valley below. I accept the obvious and make the long trudge back up the hill to Kopan monastery, watching several jets fly directly overhead in ear-damaging fashion.
I find a bench in the shade in front of the main gompa (temple) and pull out my notebook to catch my wind, but the overwhelming stench from the temple latrine interrupts my thoughts. The disgusting stench competes with the awful odours wafting forth from the dining hall, reminding me that it is close to lunchtime. Last nights’ dinner was a thin watery swill comprised of ingredients that the staff refused to eat accompanied by day-old stale chapatis. This mornings’ breakfast was a thin watery gruel with the same stale chapattis. Now, to break up the monotony at lunch, all the hedge trimmings that the barnyard goats have refused to eat have magically found their way into the cookpot. Really bad food obviously helps expedite the novice seeker to stagger down the road towards nirvana.
The four of us in the TV cast condemned to silence sit sullenly together at one table, studiously ignoring each other like we are foreign tourists, which we are. I have seen all of these cast members either talking together, shooting photos, walking together or working with the crew, all brazen activities supposedly forbidden by the TV producer, and I am jealous. But the alternative is to sit in our lonely cells, look at our feet and go mad. None of us, of course, can actually be meditating in any meaningful fashion because we have received no instructions on the topic. For me, writing serves as a form of active meditation, so I have been scribbling notes all day. In truth, all we TV actors are really doing is trying to get through the day.
Lunch swill over, I wander down to the meditation garden. This is centred around a giant statue representing some Tibetan saint or deity but I lack sufficient spiritual interest to go read the goddam plaque. In front of the statue looms a long wooden bench in the shade, and since no one is sitting there I grab this prime location for myself and commence to look at my foot again, as if the study of sandals somehow holds the clue to the meaning of life.
The moment I sit down and begin to unwind from the awful tension of the lunch table (my bet is all of the TV cast are ready to cash in their chips, call a cab and take off immediately for a beer downtown) when three teenage monks emerge, plunk themselves down on the lawn right in front of me and start to play video games on their phones.
There are several signs posted prominently around the garden both in Nepali and English clearly stating that total silence is required and that no outsiders are allowed, but clearly such signs to not pertain to young boys, because they have all whipped out mobile phones and start to chatter. “Allo,” yells one into his device. “Allo? Allo? Allo? Allo? Allo? Allo? Allo?” Perhaps it is this mindless repetition of the same word over and over again, but I have to suppress a sudden urge to jump up and kick him in the teeth, an emotion certainly not conducive towards achieving any sort of spiritual enlightenment.
But I am not allowed the luxury of verbal protest. Instead I silently wave my arms towards them, as is to say: “Go away you dirty little buggers.” None of them pays me any heed. Phone conversations over, they switch their devices over to video games that emit the usual noisy accompaniment of annoying clangs and whirs. I jump to my feet and approach with a glare, which causes them sufficient alarm to saunter off while giving me looks of pure hatred.
I sit down again, practically in the lap of a man who has stealthily arrived and placed himself right on my personal space on the bench, causing me to move. He stands up and faces me with a smile as I sit down, and I begin to pantomime with a finger to my lips that I am practicing silence, but he pays me no mind at all. He inserts his own finger into his nostril up to the second digit and begins to mine for gold most vigorously. I assume he must be a garden worker, but the only shrub on which he is working is the cauliflower of his big red nose. I watch him, hypnotized, from my immediate vantage point. It appears that my silence has rendered me invisible because he continues his work diligently on his nostrils from a distance of two feet while ignoring me completely.
This worker, perhaps the same individual responsible for installing the “total silence” signs, begins to shout lustily down the hill to three other garden workers, all engaged in the time-honoured Nepali worker practice of sitting on the ground and doing nothing. One of them has a transistor radio that he starts to crank up very loudly. This causes all the workers to shout loudly to be heard above the caterwauling of the horrible Nepali pop music that emanates from the radio.
A small commuter jet flies directly overhead and I wonder for a moment if it is going to land right on the monastery roof. In order to achieve some sort of mental discipline I close my eyes and begin to make a mental list of all the sounds I can hear. There are three different workers hammering nails. Someone else is cutting sheet metal. A car alarm has been ringing non-stop for five minutes in the parking lot. Hundreds of dogs are barking in the valley below. An ambulance klaxon shrieks forth. A tourist bus wending its way up the road to the monastery pounds its horn non-stop.
Refreshed, I open my eyes. A Tibetan monk in full regalia has taken the place of the garden worker on the other end of the bench. He offers a smile. This looks encouraging. I smile back. He pulls out an electronic device and fiddles with the knobs. Out of his boom box comes a hideous noise, some sort of Tibetan lovesick cowboy caterwauling not unlike the shriek a cat would make if you tried to pull off its tail. In what is beginning to become a tradition of this particular bench, he also inserts a finger up his nose and pulls forth a plum, rolls it into a little ball, inspects it carefully and flicks it casually on to the lawn. I am mesmerized.
Finally, I experience a small nugget of enlightenment and come to accept the truth; the only silent retreat to be found in Kopan is back inside my jail cell. Perhaps an afternoon nap might work? I lay down on my humble cot and as if there is a switch hidden under my mattress a baby goat begins to bleat pitifully right outside my window. Its mother replies with a maternal bleat, and then the whole bloody flock begins to bleat. So thoughtful of the monastery to locate its barnyard underneath the silent retreat cells, I think. But a roll of mighty thunder quickly drowns out the bleating; this time it’s not a transcontinental jet but the return of the mad tom tom drummers from last night.
Thankfully the drum rolls prove only to be warning shots for a future cavalcade and blissful rest finally arrives, but the profound surprise of actual silence allows me to notice a multitude of other background noises that until now had been drowned out by the volume of the drums. Apparently there is a new batch of enlightenment seekers who have arrived on my cell block, opening and slamming doors along the cellblock like some sort of prison break, along with the obligatory shouting back and forth to each other like the children in the playground.
As that uproar subsides the cleaning lady arrives to take up the slack, shouting down the hall outside my room to the man cleaning the filthy toilets. But their voices are drowned out by yet more commanding shouts and I am so inspired by the amazing uproar I spring up from my humble monk’s cot and open my window to look.
There, right underneath my window, five workmen have arrived to construct a new path around the building. Two of them have shovels and are attempting to break the stony ground and the other two are breaking up bricks with their picks. The only thing louder than their smashing of bricks is their constant yelling. One of them turns on a ghetto blaster. Another intercontinental jet flies directly overhead. I jam two fingers in my ears, lie down, try to breathe steadily, and count the minutes towards dinner.
No one from the TV crew shows up for the dinner meal. I am not surprised; I am tiring of this stupid farce myself. I dutifully consume my bowl of pigswill and sit on the outdoor deck to watch the sunset, a wonderful view towards the Himalayas which would be terrific if you could see the mountains through the thick pollution, which you cannot.
I sit and write in my notebook. The dining hall attendant, an old lady who has an amusing habit of hovering over the tables and snatching plates from people’s grasp the instant the instant their swill has been consumed, immediately interrupts my reverie. “Closing,” she barks harshly. If hospitality is part of the philosophy of the monastery, surely that message has not yet reached as far as the kitchen staff. To emphasize her command, the cleaning lady attacks my feet with a broom with some gusto.
I wander over to the café in a state of defiance. I don’t care who from the TV crew witnesses my outrageous breach of the rules of retreat but I am determined to order something to eat that does not taste as if it has been flushed down the toilet just before being served. After all, from time to time a person needs something to eat other than a bowl of hot water with some gunpowder tossed into it. I opt for the mushroom pizza at 160 rupees, an enormous sum in Nepal, and wait patiently for the better part of an hour for the meal to be presented. I content myself that those of us in the process of obtaining pure enlightenment are patient creatures to who time means nothing. Besides, I have squat all else to do besides jot down my notes and starve.
In the due course of time something resembling a large wad of used Kleenex is tossed contemptuously on the table in front of me, fresh from the microwave and colourfully adorned with soggy green beans and last week’s celery, but with no hint of mushrooms and little evidence of any cheese either. Sitting alone in a small pool of light facing this culinary disgrace I immediately attract a large swarm of flying creatures, some the size of baby condors. My departure is heartily encouraged by the waiter who makes good theatre of slamming shut all the iron gates and windows, even though it’s hot as hell and closing time is still an hour away. In the kitchen some monk is smashing plates like it’s a Greek wedding.
I slink back to my cell suitably chastened to sit on my bed and listen to another jet roar overhead. As night falls the first of a hundred thousand wild dogs begins to howl; soon the first of many dogfights will erupt. I light a candle and search for wherever my earplugs have disappeared. I remind myself that enlightenment is a slow process, and that Rome wasn’t built in a day. I lie back down on my meagre cot and brace myself for the inevitable mad drumming that will surely erupt again.
Nepal, India, Japan, Taiwan, Indonesia and many other Asian countries are full of temples, monasteries, schools, gurus and instructors eager to teach western seekers about various forms of yoga, tai chi, meditation and other forms of self-discipline that may lead eventually to some level of contentment. Tibetan Buddhism, in particular, is a popular discipline among westerners, no doubt to the example of happiness personified by the Dalai Lama.
It is amusing to reflect upon the fact that Tibetan Buddhism emphasizes that all of life is suffering, and the way to overcome suffering is by achieving detachment. If all of life is suffering, then Kopan monastery certainly is a prime location for learning detachment, the constant roar of intercontinental jets in particular serving to emphasize that message.
There are those jaded and cynical western observers who claim it is hypocritical to entice gullible western tourists to endure such suffering with vague hopes of actually learning in a week or two what normally takes a life time to discover, but apparently those critics are not aware of the escalating costs of new technology. Mobile phones, video games and boom boxes cost money and need to be paid for somehow.