Shanghaied By the Buddhists: A Cynic's Lament

Look: I didn’t even want to go to Bodh Gaya, and I certainly didn’t want to get mixed up with some crazy Tibetans with their incessant chanting and (ugh) discipline. I was in India strictly for the drugs and girls, kicks, you know, good times? Not some hippy-dippy spiritual experience, no thanks; I’d givenBuddhism a spin back in the late 80's in the States, and found the whole deal confusing and, for me, guilt-producing. I’d practiced at the Zen Center of San Francisco for about three months, rising before dawn to sit zazen, walk pinyin, and seek liberation, and frankly all I found were a bunch of semi-comatose people who found ordinary conversation an awkward trial and a mean roshi who always seemed to be accusing me of some vague & indeterminate crime (hi Anderson-roshi!). So I felt like I’d been there, done that, and endeavored to avoid any and all woo-woo crap as much as possible while bouncing around Thailand, Nepal, and finally India. And for a long time I succeeded.

My traveling companion from the states Steve and I had only been in India a month, but we had already recognized a truth in other travelers: if one started to have a “bad” time in India, it was best to leave. India takes a certain slackitude, a readiness to go with the flow, and the minute it seemed some traveler got uptight (usually about some trivial shit like a mixed up breakfast order or missed train) things only got worse, fast (like losing one’s passport or contracting some horrible tropical disease). We’d noticed this in others, and made a pact that if either of us felt things souring we’d just hightail it back to Thailand and heated swimming pools, etc: civilization and at least a semblance of Western logic, cause & effect.

So it came to pass that Steve “got the fear” and decided to exit stage left, leaving me alone for the first time in the wilds of Southeast Asia. We were in Varanasi (Benares) when Steve decided to split, and was having a whale of a time- Varanasi is a very holy Hindu city, right on the Ganges where they cremate the devoted 24/7, and is something of a tourist destination even for Indians. Steve & I made fast friends with a motley crew of other young, male, international hellraisers, and the gang of us made trouble on those few occasions it didn't find us itself. At one point I took a casual inventory of all the drugs in our room there for my journal, and came up with heroin (scary good China, what we called “matchstick” cause that’s all it took), hash, weed, pharmaceutical speed (Dexedrine tabs), Valium, LSD, something posing as DMT that was scary but mercifully brief, mushrooms, and a few I’m sure I’m forgetting. There was Nandu, the cook/masseuse who would pause during his expert backrubs to hold & light a chillum of hash, there were plenty of traveler girls looking for fake husbands and easy action: fun town. We got into this flirty waving thing with the young girls who lived across the way from our hotel roof, and came back one afternoon to a lynching party looking for us, and we had to promise the manager we would ignore these flirty sari-clad beauties from now on, no matter how much they waved or sashayed. Their relatives had brought machetes & god knows what else, and after a little baksheesh changed hands and our lack of any intention whatsoever was transmitted we all retired for beer & weird German porno (the Indians, at least some of them, dig their porno, and I suspect this informs their low regard for the morals of Western women).

But even with all this fun and adventure Steve decided he’d had enough of India(one could see it in his eyes, we'd come straight overland from a six week Bataan Death March around the Annapurna circuit, and had been ripped off twice since hitting India- he needed clean sheets & a good long rest), and I had a decision to make. On the one hand, I was excited about traveling by myself: I was 19, foolhardy, it was my plan all along since leaving the states & it seemed a challenge I was up to. I was eager to sever all ties to familiarity and see what happened. I had vague plans to travel Westward toward Agra & Delhi, continuing the direction & momentum Steve and I had began when entering India overland from Nepal at Patna, the capital of Bihar to the East (only after we were on the bus on our way to Patna did we bother to read the guidebook and discover that, “there is nothing of interest in Patna, and best avoided by travelers…”- an excellent, hellish debut to India - I remember bringing a whole busy thouroughfare with taxis, tuktuks, elephants, cows, you name it- all come to a screeching halt beneath our hotel balcony. Our one-handed "namaste" salute went ominously unreturned by all, and between the hash & weird staring mobs we began to question the wisdom of India altogether).

Then there was Rolf, the Danish hipster and a prominent member of our impromptu gang, and his crazy story & related invitation. Rolf, who spoke better accent-less English then Steve or I, told this tale of breaking up with his American girlfriend yea about a year ago and had found himself cast into a pit of despair and lovesickness ever since. The liberal Danish welfare system being what it is, Rolf decided to have his generous dole sent to him around the world where he would try and outrun or at least distract himself from his shattered heart. He told tales of overland adventures through Turkey & Iran, Pakistan and finally Nepal. The point, Rolf said, was that none of this rambling really worked- he still thought of his ex daily, and was just as miserable as ever, only miserable far from home now. He had it bad.

So Rolf ends up in Kathmandu, Nepal, and fell in with some pleasant enough Western monks, adherents to one of the Tibetan sects, though he (this Rolf guy), like me, was dubious of spiritual solutions and promises and so was skeptical when these Westerners mentioned their Rimpoche, or guru, was returning from some trip to Europe, and invited Rolf to attend the welcome home party and meet said Rimpoche they were all gaga over. Apparently this Rimpoche was a young, Playboy-type lama who related well to Westerners, wore Armani & got laid like a fresh egg, and (long story foreshortened) Rolf was convinced finally it would be worth his time to delay his departure and at least meet this cat.

So. The day comes where the young, groovy Rimpoche showed back up, and sure enough there was much merriment and hugging, the guy reacquainting with his old students and merrily meeting new folks, strangers and well-wishers. Rolf said the guy did seem interesting, funny, and worth meeting, and Rolf followed him around the party, trying to attract his attention. At first Rolf said he sensed nothing odd: there were a lot of people, and the Rimpoche was busy glad-handing and guffawing, and always seemed to just miss Rolf, like turn just as Rolf was about to intersect his field of vision. Then, as time passed, Rolf said he began to get the irrational impression that this guy, this go-go Rimpoche, was purposely ignoring him: just as he’d maneuver into the Rimpoche’s line of sight the guy would turn and greet someone else. Rolf said the longer this went on the surer he was being purposefully ignored by this guy, and his anger grew and grew. Who was this guy to ignore Rolf, turn the cold shoulder every time he was on the verge of meeting him, and why? Rolf said finally the guy had greeted everyone else at the party and was begininng round 2, and Rolf, convinced now of a purposeful (though irrational) snub grew even more infuriated.

Rolf's ire was not confined to this snobbish (if fashionable) guru, but the whole scene, the sycophantic followers, the hipsters and hangers-on, and the way Rolf told it his chronic depression over his breakup coupled with (and perhaps even fed) the ire, hatred, impatience he felt for the whole happy hippy scene. He reported finally reaching a blinding peak of rage, and had just decided to tackle the offending Godlet Rimpoche & give him a bit of the what-for when the Rimpoche beat him to the punch and suddenly whirled to face Rolf and wordlessly embraced him. Rolf was a bit hazy about the rest, but remembered initially shaking uncontrollably and losing all energy, finally passing out altogether. When he awoke he found himself cradled in this Rimpoche’s arms like a baby, weak and confused but somehow relieved of all his rage and grief over his ex, and when gently asked whether he’d like to take refuge in the Buddha wisely said yes. The Rimpoche whispered his secret Buddhist name and gave him his mala, or prayer beads, and a knotted string necklace that served as a souvenir of their meeting. The Hipster Rimpoche then informed Rolf that there was nothing more he could do for him, and bade him to travel to Bodh Gaya in India (the traditional site where the Buddha was said to have gained enlightenment meditating under the Bo tree, a descendant of which still stands) and seek out a man called Kalu Rimpoche for further instruction.

So this was the story Rolf related, and the dilemma I faced: on the one hand Bodh Gaya was back in the direction I’d come (right below hellish Patna as it happens), and I had a strong inhibition against reversing direction and was eager to travel alone at last, but Rolf’s was a hell of a story, and I was more then a bit curious to see how it would turn out. I mean, a cranky soul such as mine can *always* coccoon, hide out somewhere, but the opportunity to follow some odd Danish cat on some vague spiritual oddysey seemed worthwhile, and besides I was curious about this Kalu Rimpoche who by all reports was pushing 150 & knew every card trick known to the planet. So, as was my habit with all dilemmas regarding complex decisions I threw coins and consulted the ancient Chinese I Ching, or Book of Changes, often a vague and frustrating oracle, but always better then nothing. I had never before or ever since received a response so unambiguous and clear: the hexagram stood for “Gathering Together,” and went on to say how forces were being mustered to gather like-minded and that these forces were good and should be submitted to. I had never received a hexagram that was so unambiguous before or since. I remember writing in my journal, “Well, looks like I’m going…”

The significance of the I Ching toss only deepened once we arrived in Gaya. It turned out that Kalu Rimpoche, the Big Poobah we (Rolf) was bidden to see was releasing some vital oral wisdom to a team of translators who offered to put everyone up in Switzerland or New York, somewhere a bit more convenient and closer to medical resources that the apparently ancient Kalu Rimpoche might need to avail himself of, but no dice. Kalu insisted it had to be there, Bodh Gaya, and then, Nov 1987, and could not be wavered. Some hippie told me it was somehow connected to the close of the "Harmonic Convergence" that was apparently going on, but you now hippies: unreliable sources by nature. Upshot, incidentally, was that the town was mobbed with Tibetan translators from the world over (interesting lot, btw, as anyone who spends the time & effort learning such an obscure language is bound to be) and, naturally, Kalu Rimpoche was extraordinarily busy releasing precious oral wisdom to the West according to some Tibetan astrology timetable . Pilgrims were pointed out to Rolf & I who had been seeking an audience with Kalu daily for over 30 days, to no avail. We weren’t hopeful, then, but decided to try our luck, about which more later…

First, the town. India, if you've never been, is much like you probably imagine, all hustle-bustle, psychobeggars, stressful, yes? But in the middle of these crazy towns one could find settlements on what is termed the 'Buddha trail,' starts in Lumbini, Nepal, old Siddartha's birthplace, on to some caves maybe 15 minutes out of Bodh Gaya where he faced the final demons (himself- the scariest kind), and then of course Bodh Gaya itself, the Deer Park where the B began his teaching, formulating the dharma if you will, and anyway it's amazing what oases these mainly Tibetan-run towns are in the standard chaos of everyday India- people are centered, polite, the towns seem quieter, quite nice breaks from the mad parade that characterizes the most serene parts of India.

Bodh Gaya was no different, and if anything,, better. Being where Prince Sid attained no-mind & freedom from suffering, with the actual tree and all, it should be no surprise that the small town serves as a one-stop shop for all the various flavors and variations on Buddhism, each sect with at least one monastery, and if you're into that kind off thing one can conveniently shop from interpretation to creed until settling on one most suited to the seeker's mood, tolerance, and foibles: seriously, a flavor for ever type. And that I Ching throw that led me into town proved more prophetic then originally interpreted (often the case). For it seemed the streets were jammed with not only odd brief acquaintances one had shared, say, a bottle of Thai rum months earlier with but also those types of people that one would,say, see across the tarmac at the Kathmandu airport and think to oneself, "Hrm- Shit- those people seem pretty cool- if we had more time I bet w'd get together and get into all manner of monkeyshine & guffaw, just on looks and vibe alone you could tell, given the opportunity you'd get along. Members of what WS Burroughs (and [the original] Jack Black & countless hoboes before them) deemed members of the Johnson Family... Anyway, for weeks one would hear happy re-acquaintances on the street, all quite unplanned and unexpected ("What are you doing here?"), so it was a "Gathering Together" in this sense as well.

And what a vibrant, varied, vivacious mob it was: everyone came from different backgrounds, disciplines, and invariably were experts in some abstruse field (philosophers, physicists, geologists, poets [big-time shall remain nameless poets, too, no moody college girls], famous rock musicians, art historians, classicists, and the amazing thing was everyone seemed to be saying the same thing, albeit from a different perspective. There was the excitement of shared revelation, manic mental jotto until the wee hours (plus just about everybody was practicing, sitting or doing the 100,000 + 1 prostrations before the Buddha and refraining from even hash, much less beer- it was kind of like a sober Dead show, were such a thing imaginable). I learned more about string theory, Akkadian worship systems, jet propulsion & a nifty quasi-shiatsu I impress women with to this day then I ever wanted... played some good chess games as I recall, too.

Anyway, back to Rolf and his impossible mission. Everyone at the local cafes assured us we were screwed and likely would never set eyes on Kalu, much less consult about Rolf's immediate spiritual future. We figured what the fuck, tho, and set out our second day in town for the monastery they had him tucked away at with an absurd, embarassing offering of fruit, sat in some antechamber for about an hour, and sure enough an English-speaking Tibetan nun came out and expressed regrets Kalu would not be able to receive us this day, but bade us return the next. We had heard that this was SOP, and we could expect weeks of futile visits, always with the "come back tomorrow" shtick and so weren't surprised or even miffed. The waiting room had a small complement of chanting kids & groovy thankas to examine, and I might as well get it out now: the Tibetans (at least out of Tibet) are some of the jolliest people on the planet, always horsing around & ready with easy smiles... A more naive soul might think there was something to this crazy, disciplined (almost anti-Zen) practice.

So Rolf & I went back the next day at the appointed hour (with a much more reasonable offering this time) and, expecting less than nothing tooled thru the main door maybe two minutes late.

Imagine our surprise when the King's English-speaking Tibetan nun from the day before rushed out and took us firmly by the elbow, chiding us as she led us huriedly along this maze of a monastery, "Where were you? You're late! Kalu has been expecting you, please hurry..." and through a dizzying Alice in Wonderland series of rooms with monks busy at all manner of practice, painting thankas, chanting, dinging their little cymbals, incense everywhere, left turn, right turn, we were quickly discombobulated, it seemed as though we might be going in circles but we stayed close on the heels of our nun guide when suddenly! Boom!

We were in some corner room, relatively small, occupied mainly by a bed covered with what looked like pounds of colorful quilts and, supported by equally psychedelic cushions, reclined the oldest;looking man I've ever seen. He was tiny, wizened, and wrinkled beyond all reason but, and this was an immediately noticeable "but," his eyes were like planets, lit from within with a sparkle that was kind of scary to stare at too long. These eyes were wide open, smiling, and seemed in the strange surroundings to emanate something not exactly visual... it truly seemed to me on first encounter that those eyes were the only thing holding this guy alive- he really looked ready t give up the Bardo, bodywise, and indeed his voice was raspy and barely audible. Besides the nun there was a young monk in the red robes whose job it seemed to be to lean close and hear what the old-timer was emitting, which the nun would then translate from Tibetan.

Rolf explained his story, the breakup, the Playboy Rimpoche, and asked what he should do next, and all the translation gave me time to look around- there were thankas and skulls, weird boxes of god knows what, and either their was a hidden subwoofer or the old man was chanting from like his pelvis. I observed the exchange between Rolf & Kalu (short version was he was bidden to begin his nundro, or aforementioned 100,000+1 prostrations before the Buddha (basically slow motion push ups & stretches with chants for each step [you could always tell people in the middle of their nundro because they were cranky & irritable- they said all that exercise got rid of whatever surface character armor one clung too, usually for good reasons]) and to find yet another Rimpoche because this one, Kalu, had scheduled his own death for early the next year- go figure.

So anyway, I'm there in the background sort of taking all this in when all of a sudden I have the certain feeling that this old man is reading my mind. I don't know how I knew, I guess I noticed the company, but my nnitial reaction was anger: how dare this guy, attained may though he be, how dare he violate my private inner dialogue(s). He was sort of smiling at me creepily now from his bed, we had a sort of staring contest (he won), and as I apprehended the smile I realized it wasn't so much him reading my mind as, say, the two of us sitting on a tree branch above my quotodian, ridiculous stream of consciousness, looking down on thoughts that suddenly seemed like dogs chasing their tails. I laughed & he laughed, and for a moment I really appreciated the perspective, a view I had never been privy too before, and suddenly the translator was addressing me.

"Rimpoche asks why you are here?"

"I, uh, am just here to support my friend..?"

"Rimpoche says for you, for now, zazen is enough..." How he knew I sat zazen is still beyond me-- "but don't leash the dogs." Which meant something then, damn if I can remember it now. Then he asked if I would like to take refuge and, impressed enough & well enough unhinged to squeak a quiet, "Yes, please," and the nun bade me approach Kalu's bedside where he mumbled my Buddhist name (which I'm embarassed to admit I never really got a handle on), fumbled in a big wooden box of tchotchkes and produced a nice Lotus seed mala I wear to this day, and gave both Rolf and I the statusy-spiritual-materialism little knotted string that indicated that we had been in to see the old man, blessed our white silk what we brought, and bim bam boom we were hustled out a side door into the glaring sun.

I kid you not, both Rolf and I were literally high, so happy to be alive and so in love with the world for two, three days after just being in the same room as this guy. Talk about inspiring.

So Rolf did his pushups for the Buddha & I freaked people out with my not-quite-closed-not-quite-open zazen eyes under the tree twice daily, Rolf attended services at the Yellow Hat folks, and I opted for the more low intensity Burmese Vihar (mainly because the abbot smoked, and I figured if he could, well hell...). The worst faux pas one could make in Bodh Gaya was to smack a mosquito on one's arm or leg (and there were millions)-- the noise would be enough to get a handful of people glaring at you-- the correct response was to blow the buggers gently from one's corpus. It was funny that way, all these silly rules, I had to appeal to the Head Burmese Abbot to back me up that nicotene was not a drug prohibited in the 5 Baseline Rules (Don't Kill, Don't Steal, Don't Lie, Don't Do Drugs, and Don't Have Weird Sex [You Know What It Is When You're Having It].

Sad epilogue is that Rolf & I both spent the next three months forgetting everything we learned at that very small place during that short period of time, were soon carousing & smoking hash like saddhus, actively seeking out weird sex. Still, the experience is in there, and years later I met a new Roshi who sat with me a bit and said, "Ah, you've met the Tibetans..," which through me for a loop.

And get this and I'll shut up: I was in rehab years later in Marin with a guy who drove Kalu Rimpoche around Taos, NM, the 11 year old reincarnated Kalu. His books (more accurately transcriptions of closely guarded oral tradition) are available with a little hunting, and I can recommend them highly.

On Behalf of the Buddha, the Dharma, & the Sangha,
I Salute the Divine Qualities Within You (Namaste)!

(Oh, and special props out to David, the Cult.Author for crackin the whip & getting me typing again. One Million Salaams.)