Spring 2011
Gavin and Viktor left Vienna after a couple weeks, but I stuck around. I sought work in the University’s Economics department, only to find it was full of the same Keynesian quackery. More spending, more debt, lower interest rates, and money printing would solve everything type of stuff. I questioned the faculty on Austrian economics and they claimed that it was no longer supported research. Praxeology, the study of human action, wasn’t considered useful they said. Econometrics was the altar of the new religion and mathematical models were the oracle. I had no patience for this and proffered my resignation after receiving only my third stipend check. I didn’t have anywhere to go, but a Buddhist training course in Kathmandu caught my attention. A month spent in seclusion might help me determine my next move.
Sadly, I only managed to last a week. It was an inauspicious start to my Buddhist training, but it proved to be an informative one. I arrived for the meditation course in March, designed to give visitors an introduction to the Gelug Tradition, a strain of Buddhism that puts intense focus on the study of philosophical texts. I suppose I should have done more research before I signed up, because an intense meditative and studious experience was the last thing I was looking for at the time. I thought a monastery stay would be a relaxing retreat, with the added bonus of interesting accommodation, figuring it would make for a good story. And I suppose, in a way, it did.
When I first arrived at the beautiful hilltop location of Kopan, I was awed by the lush green grounds surrounding the ornate temples. A large Bodhi tree served as the center piece of the decorated plateau which surrounded the dormitory. I stopped to take a picture and this annoyed the monk who was leading me to my accommodations. He grabbed me by the elbow and urged me to follow. The judgment on his face was clear: it read tourist. I remember thinking at the time, well that’s not very Buddhist, now is it?
He led me into the room, which was sparse as expected, with a minimalist cot and thick rough blanket.
The rules said no alcohol, but right away I was glad to have packed away a bottle of Glenmorangie in my luggage, it would come in handy on what were sure to be cold, lonely nights. At this point, my knowledge of Buddhism consisted of a single reading of The Way of Zen by Alan Watts. My mistake was that I broad brushed Alan’s laid-back interpretation of Zen Buddhism to the totality of Buddhist thought.
I quickly realized my error when I saw the course schedule and was informed by the Venerable Chogyam Trungpa of the course rules. You would think a monk named after the so called, bad boy of Buddhism, would be a little more indulgent, but he was a true despot. Attendance at all classes was mandatory, and we were to remain on the monastery grounds for the duration of the course. Silence was to be observed from 10pm until lunch the next day, we were forbidden electronic devices, and were warned to avoid all other distractions. About the only rules I knew I could abide for certain were the first two of the five precepts: no killing, stealing, lying, sex or drugs.
Prostrations and morning meditation began at five in the morning, with several more meditation sessions interrupted by focused study of ancient texts and some writings of the instructors themselves.
The morning prostrations were meant to cleanse the soul’s accumulated bad karma, and I was sure I’d inadvertently collected my fair share, so I went about them with enthusiasm. The feeling of cleanliness one attains after an hour of prostrations at dawn, ranks up there with the most gratifying of sensations.
This was the high point of each day. It brought to mind the wise words of Dean Martin when he said: “I feel sorry for people who don’t drink. They wake up in the morning, and that’s as good as they’re going to feel all day.” Well, I drank, but the days still didn’t get any better as the sun made its way through the everclear skies of Kathmandu.
We would then move on to studying different spiritual topics. The teachings themselves were mostly simple, and often relatable, but the rigorous schedule wore me down quickly. The constant studying, prayer ceremonies and meditation were far removed from my vision of a tranquil reprieve and worse, by the end of the fourth day I was out of Scotch. The three or four hundred others at the monastery seemed to be doing just fine under the strict regiment, and that bothered me even more. What was wrong with these hyper-friendly, good-natured dharma seekers that they didn’t even show an ounce of discomfort under these conditions?
My fifth morning at Kopan, I awoke harboring an inescapable drowsiness and braced myself for the bitter cold that I knew would assault me as soon as I left my warm cocoon. What was I doing here? The thought infected me in bed and circled my head through morning prostrations. I went through the motions, hands clasped at Namaste near the forehead, down to the chest, knees to the floor then hands and head on the ground, before rising up and repeating. It was the first time I thought there was no way I would make it through this program. So why was I here in the first place? Because I thought it would be a good story, and a cool way to learn about Buddhism. But why Buddhism? What good would that do?
Think, what brought you here.
There was a slight ache in my lower back, my vision clouded around the edges with sweat. The discomfort lead to a semi-delirious clarity. My consciousness floated back a number of years and I recollected a scene of a plane flying into the World Trade Center. It was many years after the actual events, sometime in the spring of 2009 when Viktor motioned me over to his screen. He was sitting next to me at the large restored picnic table that was the center piece of our home office in San Francisco. I leaned over to see the video he was playing, it was a view from the cockpit of a plane flying towards a building, the World Trade Center. It took a second to realize it was not real footage but a Hollywood production.
I interrupted, “What about it? Some movie they’re making about 9/11?”
Viktor paused the video and turned around, “It’s from the pilot episode of a TV show called The Lone Gunmen. The plot is that agents of the US government remote control a plane into the World Trade Tower to blame terrorists and start a war.”
“So what? There’s been conspiracy theories like that for years,” I said, losing interest and returning to my screen.
“This episode aired in March, 2001.”
My initial reaction was the obvious one and I remember saying, “It’s just a coincidence. These types of things happen all the time.”
Viktor just shrugged and went back to his screen.
“You don’t actually think that our government could have staged something this big do you?” I asked.
“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time they did. Maybe not quite this size, but audacity grows with success.”
I replied with incredulity, “What do you mean it wouldn’t be the first time?”
He put his hand to his head in a false gesture, pretending to remember something that was at the tip of his tongue, “Well there was Iran in 1950, when the CIA paid Iranians to pretend to be communists and bomb a cleric’s house to turn the Muslim population against the Mossadegh government. Then of course there’s the Gulf of Tonkin incident where the NSA admitted that they manipulated data to make it look like the North Vietnamese attacked their boats to justify the war in Vietnam—“
“Well, American foreign policy isn’t pristine, but everyone else isn’t exactly playing checkers either.”
“I know, I’m not singling out the Americans. Japan blamed an explosion in 1931 on China so they could justify invading Manchuria and a Nazi general admitted that they started the Reichstag fire and blamed it on communists. Stalin executed thousands of Polish army officers and civilians and blamed it on the Nazis. They all do it. It’s a method that works. Like they say, why fix it if it ain’t broke.”
The scene was cut short in my head as the venerable teacher signaled the end of their karma cleanse. I put away my mat and followed the class outside for a short break and tried my best to clear my head, and enjoy the cool breeze. I avoided looking at the shanty town that wrapped around the monastery grounds, focusing on the immediate surroundings. Chirping birds provided relief from my internal dialogue for a brief moment. But at the next meditation session, my mind returned to that day. It was that day, as likely as any other, that the slow anger took hold. I had long possessed a learned distrust, augmented by a casual cynicism, but it was always vaguely directed, almost ambient. In the days that followed, I felt my fury consolidating towards the forces that sought to make chattel of humanity. As my anger grew, so did my collective feeling of helplessness. Viktor sensed this and pulled me aside one day.
“Everything all right, Rohan?”
“Yeah, we pulled in thirty grand this week, things are better than ever. Why, what’s up?”
He looked at me unconvinced, “I don’t mean the business, I mean with you.”
“What would be wrong with me?” I replied defensively.
“Nothing would be wrong, I’m asking if everything is all right. You don’t seem your normal self these days.”
I tried to explain honestly how I felt.
“That anxiety you have, that nothing you do will make a difference in the end, imagine how the subjects of your own anger feel. Theirs is the ultimate impossibility, like containing water in a cardboard box, something despite all their ingenuity they’ll never be able to accomplish.”
“Things seem to be going pretty well for them so far,” I countered.
“That’s just because everything is cyclical, from freedom to restriction and back again. No matter how hard anyone tries, it will never rest at one end of the spectrum. Just try to relax and enjoy the dance.”
I sensed the borrowed wisdom in his words as he handed me a book, The Way of Zen, beginning my search for answers in the ancient traditions of the East. It seemed maybe Buddhist thought could reconcile my collected disparate notions of life and existence as we know it. Possibly even give life some meaning. That’s what brought me to where I was seated now, on my prayer mat in the large study hall of Kopan. But I had already received the lesson I sought, years ago during that first flight above Medellín, I just never understood it until now. After my feverish, stress-induced epiphany, I felt suddenly liberated from all external restrictions and obligations.
That night I left the monastery grounds on a high, determined to find some nightlife in Kathmandu. I ended up at Purple Haze, the only rock bar in Kathmandu. I had to jump an 8 foot wall and walk 3 kilometers from the grounds, in order to hail a cab to the shabby street on which the bar was situated. A lousy rendition of Blue Monday was being performed in the background when I entered and I proceeded to drink myself silly. I remember almost nothing of the night but I somehow made it back to the monastery and woke up to bright sunlight pouring in from the single high window in the room. I checked the time and it was 9:30, somehow I’d slept through three shrieking alarms. Knowing the consequences of missing any of the sessions, and without a good excuse forthcoming, I went straight to the lobby.
There was guilt in my voice as I reported my transgression and an old monk granted my exit from the program with disdain. No refund was given.
Shortly after I left Kopan, I regained access to the internet and I resumed my blog Sotto Voce. I had started it to document our trial against the Federal Government, but continued it as a sort-of personal journal. By the summer of 2011, several publishers expressed interest in a memoir, incorporating the stories documented on the blog itself. I had previously told myself I would never be so vain as to write an autobiography, at least not before turning 30, and yet here I found myself. Short of cash and running out of ideas for what next?
Well, dear reader, I suppose that is a question we must all ask ourselves. I haven’t a clue, but I also wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve written the book I was tasked with and soon I will send it off for final editing. Then I’ll wait, as we all do at critical junctures of our lives. Having never written anything longer than an essay before, I am at a loss for how to end this, as you might be able to tell from the faltering conclusion. But in typical millennial fashion, when at a loss for words, rather than shut up, I chose to borrow someone else’s. I leave you with the introduction from Dostoevsky’s The Adolescent, which I find fitting.
"Unable to restrain myself, I have sat down to record this history of my first steps on life's career, though I could have done as well without it. One thing I know for certain: never again will I sit down to write my autobiography, even if I live to be a hundred. You have to be all too basely in love with yourself to write about yourself without shame. My only excuse is that I'm not writing for the same reason everyone else writes, that is, for the sake of the reader's praises. If I have suddenly decided to record, word for word, all that has happened to me… than I have decided it out of an inner need: so struck am I by everything that has happened.
I am recording only the events, avoiding with all my might everything extraneous, and above all— literary beauties. A literary man writes for thirty years and in the end doesn't know at all why he has written for so many years. I am not a literary man, do not want to be a literary man, and would consider it base and indecent to drag the insides of my soul and a beautiful description of my feelings to the literary marketplace."
And the passage ends with what I have always found to be a winning toast.
"To business; though there’s nothing trickier than getting down to some sort of business—maybe even any sort."