First Days

4:30 am is what Matt, the young Brit in the room next to mine, calls monk-o’clock. First are the deep rumbling sounds of chanting voices then slow drum beats begin followed by a crescendo of blaring horns and symbols smashing together. I lucked into staying at one of the nicest joints in Boudha outside the high-end budget traveler’s lodges. Tharlam Guest House is swanky for a monastery, with 24/7 hot water and consistent internet access. The guest house is less than a quarter mile walk to the Boudnath Stupa (left) and just around the corner from the Garden Kitchen. The one place in town with truly reliable meat dishes and a good cup of “filtered coffee” (i.e. not Nescafe).

So far my days consist of walking tours around the Katmandu Valley. Day 1 walked across town to Kopan Monastery. Stopped at a nearby tea stall and talked to some of the locals about politics regarding potential fracturing of Nepal into numerous Nepalese states, there is currently anxiety about a Federalist move to split the country and even more concern that such a divide would occur along ethnic lines. We also discussed America and the great king of Nepal who brought the country to new prosperity two hundred some years ago. Day 2 walked the Gokarna circuit, which runs through the frantic streets around central Bouda to the town of Gokarna and then through the blessedly tranquil hills overlooking the Katmandu valley. The route climaxes along a bamboo lined track below the Kopan and Pulahari Monasteries and finally returns to the little island of Bouda. Gokarna is home to an old Newari style pagoda temple (above) reverencing Lord Shiva’s incarnation as Mahadeva (lit. Great God). I have come to expect that such temples are never as the guidebook portrays. They generally offend the old Anglo sensibility of “preservation as a virtue” and hold rather to the modo, “all things must pass, decay and generally fester.” Despite this, the architecture is stunning and the metalwork simply brilliant. A yogi sits in an alcove by the temple amidst a jumble of offering bowls, ritual substances and objects. By him stands a bronze lock box suggesting donations in Nepalese and English. An adjacent shrine holds the footprint of Lord Vishnu, embedded in some doubtlessly dramatic decent to earth.

Thanks to India most of the false mystique of Asia has been drained from my imagination. Consequently, Nepal comes through more vividly, a rich mixture of intense devotion, mild fatalism, unabashed capitalist tendencies, relentless pre-monsoon heat, and a maze of cultural diversity. Yesterday (Tuesday, June 15^th), I met a group of fellow students who will attend Rangjung Yeshe this summer in Sanskrit, Tibetan, or Buddhist Studies. We walked out to Pashupatinath, a vast Shaivite temple complex on the banks of the Bagmati river (above). Chris, our guidebook, took us along a side route that among other things avoids the 500 rupee entrance fee. Our first stop, a magnificent three foot orange shiva lingam. These protruding rocks are occasionally painted (as in this case) with vivid colors and graphitied with Sanskrit characters. The lingam represents the power and virility of Lord Shiva and is worshiped as the tangible manifestation of the Godhead. In this small section of the complex, isolated from the larger structures that run along the Bagmati, a kind faced priest officiates, walking here and there amongst visiting devotees with a constant gentle smile radiating from his taut, narrow face.

We meander our way down to the main complex past a deer park enclosure, along the centuries old stone steps to the river. Sadhus (Hindu renunciates or spiritual entrepreneurs in some cases) recline against small shrines, “Hello! Photo!” they call out. Sadhu photos generally run 100+ rupees. We pause by the bridge running across to the large, Hindus only, pagoda temple. To the east, burning ghats (below center) stand above the Bagmati. These ghats are the classic disposal method of the Hindus of India and apparently Nepal as well. Large piles of timber are stacked carefully on top of the square stone platform. The body is laid on the timber and a tepee shaped bundle of dry hay is placed over the corpse. At the time of our arrival a cremation was nearly concluding, a pile of smoldering ash all that was left. From the mourner’s balcony an elderly man gazed down fixedly, though too far away to disclose any emotion. Beside the ghat a man with a ten foot long steel pole beat the remaining ash and a young boy enthusiastically bundled water from the green Bagmati and hurled bucket loads across the steaming stone. Just up the banks of the river stands the hospice, alleviating any doubts for its guests of what the future holds.

Malinowski classified societies between two poles, those who seek through funerary rights to preserve the corporeal form and those who desire its annihilation. Psychologically, Malinowski believed we produce elaborate funeral rituals and corresponding belief structures (specifically those of immortality) to counteract our deep seated fear of death and an insatiable desire for life. Despite witnessing just the tail end of the cremation process, the nonchalance and general resignation, the lack of pomp and ceremony seems to suggest more complexity than obliteration, fear and trembling.

Moving on from this bit of tangential self-indulgence. We walked from the ghats up to the supposed caves of the great Buddhist Saints Naropa and his Teacher Tilopa. Monkeys cannonball off the stonework structures along the Bagmati and the stench of the river rises to the nostrils. We’re at the end of the dry season with the monsoon rains just about to set in to wash the ash and filth from the beleaguered river. Two gaudy painted caves surrounded by ragged sadhus signified arrival at the site of holy pilgrimage. By a raught iron gate barring Tilopa’s cave stands a militant looking sadhu, dreadlocks stretched round his shoulders in a dingy brown shirt and camouflage pants. As I take a picture of the brilliant orange cave he stairs at me exuding a emotion halfway between disgust and fascination. I can’t help wonder, would it mean something to him if I asked to take his picture rather than clicking a shot of this misplaced cave. Perhaps the whole dynamic strikes us both with simultaneous revulsion and curiosity. Below us in the Bagmati a half naked renunciate pounds his shirt on a river rock spreading thin white veins of soap into the dark green water.