CHINA
The Secrets of
TONGREN Words and Photo by ALEXA FIRMENICH
I don’t consider myself to be a particularly spiritual individual. I had a Catholic upbringing, but always read the Bible more as a collection of interesting short stories than a set of divine instructions from above. Then, in university, I discovered Buddhism; if, for nothing else, I was attracted to it for its ideas on oneness, on the fleeting reality of time and of dissociation from material pleasures – it seemed to be more of a philosophy than a religion, a set of guidelines on how to live your life that you could choose to follow as you pleased. I tried meditation, but failed for lack of patience. I read its scriptures, but no transformational epiphany ever came. I’ll admit, I became frustrated. And then, as is the nature with these things, my connection with Buddhism came completely unexpectedly through one of the most absurd situations I have ever found myself in — cross-legged on a prayer mat, with a group of thirty monks chanting at me. Tongren is a remote region of China usually left off most tourist maps — far, far West, bordering with Tibet, the English here is non-existent, the faces leaner, the mountains dusty red. After 136
SUITCASE MAGAZINE
graduating from university I had decided to take a few months off to travel through a part of the world I had never been to before, South East Asia. China was the first stop on my itinerary and I ended up in Tongren by chance. I learned about it through a family friend from back home who, a Buddhist himself, would spend weeks on end in the monasteries there, meditating and taking a step back from hectic Beijing life. Tongren became so important to him that he set up a foundation to provide aid to the area, which neglected by the central government, had left many children without basic resources or education. One day we visited the Longwu Monastery, set in a valley of rocky Himalayan ranges. There were around 600 monks living inside the complex but you would never have known it, for the complete stillness inside its stone passages. Echoes would reverberate off the perfectly silent passages that led to dozens of exquisitely decorated temples that were bursting with colour, betraying their age by crumbling at the slightest touch.
The only other people we saw that day were pilgrims dressed in traditional gowns, headscarves and beads; their clothing matched the temples. Deep in prayer, they mumbled under their breath and clenched their palms together, touching the top of the head, forehead, chest, middle body, and prostrating themselves over and over again, leaving worn patches on the wooden ground. The interiors of the temples were expanses of empty space and darkness, save for the ornate pillars, enormous forms of the Buddha and dragon statues and the golden cups and incense, illuminated by the pale light that seeped in through the open doors. On my final day in Tongren our friend told me that he had asked the monks from his monastery if they would agree to perform a ‘Long Life Ceremony’ on me. Now, I don’t know what your first reaction would be on hearing those words, but mine definitely involved an image of myself lying on a stone slab, eyes heavenward, taking in my final breaths. We drove into a valley a few kilometres away and I was greeted by a group of around five smiling monks, standing on the stairs of a bright white temple. Smiling shyly, I followed them inside and removed my shoes, entering a large hall where another twenty monks were seated in two wooden pews facing each other, between them a deep burgundy carpet. They were chanting, the guttural sounds of their voices resonating off the walls and making the inside of my body vibrate with the rhythm. I followed the head monk in walking around the room and kneeling in front of different Buddha statues, lighting candles and incense. I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to be thinking, what I was even doing, if it was a desecration to be going through the motions of prayer without saying the words inside. I was told to sit on a bench behind the monks and close my eyes. I tried to focus only on the sound of the monks, emptying my mind. One boy was chanting at a particularly high pitch, his
voice rising out of the mass, and I focused on his words. Another monk, seated directly in front of me with his back turned, would carry on the chant every time it faded away; his was the most powerful voice, almost inhuman, rhythmical and enchanting. At first, I couldn’t calm my thoughts. My head was dancing around in circles: how should I sit, were the other monks watching me, empty your mind, think of a beautiful place, clear your thoughts, dammit you’re thinking, on and on and on… But after a while, the individual voices faded and all I could feel and hear was the flowing rise and fall of the chant. It was like being swept up in a tide, but not in the physical sense — that’s the best way I can describe it. After an indeterminate amount of time (it could have been two hours, maybe five; but actually the ceremony lasted only 30 minutes) our friend tapped me on the shoulder and brought me outside, squinting into the dazzling sun. It was strange to be back in the ‘real’ world, the small universe I had just experienced now closed off to me forever. I was consumed by a very powerful emotion, almost to the point of tears. I looked back at the monks still chanting in the same fast-paced pattern, never ceasing, and locked eyes with the monk who had been sitting in front of me. We exchanged a silent nod of acknowledgement, mine of complete gratitude. To have had that tangible connection with one of the monks changed the experience for me – otherwise, I fear I may somehow have felt alienated from the whole thing. I think what I learned that day isn’t that you necessarily need to travel to some far-away land in order to encounter that clichéd moment of ‘spirituality’, if I should even really call it that, but rather that sometimes it takes a setting so profoundly different to everyday life to learn how to reach a different part of your being. It’s about being truly in the moment, wherever or whatever that may be. 137