The taxi ride is one of the scariest experiences of my life.
We spend the first hour on an enjoyable drive away from the city, traveling deep, deep, deep into farmland. We pass rice paddies full of sleeping cows and a scattering of houses in bright pastels. We pull over on the side of the road to buy freshly picked lychee. We also see the highest statue of Shiva in the world, way up on the side of a cliff.
But as our little car starts to huff and puff its way into the mountains, our wonder condenses into fear.
First and foremost, our path takes us right along the ridge, with no guardrail or fence to speak of, and only a foot of space between us and the valley floor far, far below. The dirt roads become so mottled and rocky that we frequently find ourselves airborne, and from that perspective, one foot looks more like six inches.
There is also only room for one car to pass at a time, despite the fact that traffic travels in both directions. When we come upon an approaching vehicle, we slow. They have the inside, so they pull off as far as they can toward the cliff face as we inch closer and closer to the edge in order to get around. Everyone holds their breath.
The strenuous ride continues for another hour before we finally make it to the top of the mountain, where all five occupants, including the taxi driver, sigh in relief. It is only then that I find out how dangerous the drive really is, which is why so many people choose never visit this place to begin with.
Namobuddha is one of the most sacred Buddhist sites in the world. Legend says that once, a long time ago, there lived a prince. One day as this prince was traveling through the forest, he came upon a starving tigress and her five cubs. Overcome with perfect compassion, the prince followed them to their cave, where he sacrificed himself so that they might finally have something to eat. From this act he was reborn as Siddhartha Guatama, who, upon attaining enlightenment, would later become the Buddha.
Namobuddha is the site of the cave where the prince sacrificed himself, and is also a major point of pilgrimage for Buddhists. Today, along with the cave itself, visitors may also see the monastery, stupa, and various monuments.
We remove our shoes before entering the monastery. We are not allowed to take pictures. When we step inside, there is an immensity of red. Red walls, red ceiling, red floor, red silk tapestries. Overlaid on all this red is a constellation of bright blues, greens, yellows, and oranges. Every space and corner has its own ornately detailed painting: conch shells, lotus flowers, tigers, spirals, fish.
In the back of the hall is a huge statue of three Buddhas, all dressed in their golden best. There are large shrines cradling portraits of various Dalai Lamas. Candles and incense.
The center of the hall is full of rows and rows of small red desks and cushions. This is a place of study, and monks pace slowly and deliberately along the circumference of the room.
As we leave the building two little boys, no more than five years old, race past us. Child monks wrapped in the traditional red and orange garments, they giggle and stumble up the steps to a small gate that reads ‘No entry to visitors’.
They push through, and I watch as they run up to a back door. They knock, and it swings open. An older monk leans out, hands them a few biscuits, then carefully recloses the door. The little monks run off in delight. Despite their clothing, and their shaved heads, and their unusual home, they are still children at heart.
Nearby we see the famous cave, and inside a monk with a large brass bell is praying. He does not look up when we approach to peer inside. There is a stone statue of Buddha sitting cross-legged, and five stone tigers. Ivy and prayer flags drape over the entrance. It’s hard not to feel like we’ve stumbled across a scene frozen in time.
Outside, all around is nothing but the green of the valley and the blue of far-off hills. Thick clouds tumble playfully across the face of the distant Himalayas.
No railings anywhere, just me and the wind and the peak I’m standing on, and the silk scarves tied to the stupa behind me, prayers and wishes. More than any other time in my life, I feel like I am flying. The smell of wild grass and pine is so strong it melts in my mouth.
It is hard, way up here, not to feel something. A shifting inside, right down to your fragments.
I have never been a particularly religious person. While I have always liked the idea of a group of people coming together to celebrate their shared beliefs, I myself never found the proper outlet for this. Not to say that I didn’t feel like something was missing in my life, just that nothing I had been exposed to ever sat quite right with me. While I could find many ideologies of interest, I could never find enough to make me stay.
But here, in this new place, I have discovered something different. Something, in my opinion, worth sticking around for.
Buddhism upholds the inextricable link between the cosmos and our consciousness, harmonizing with my belief in the interconnected. It describes the impermanence of reality and of each moment, providing an answer to my great fear of change. Its argument for infinite, cyclical universes complements science rather than rejects it. Its denial of the self but its understanding of karma and rebirth emphasizes the continuity of compassion in a more real way than I have ever seen.
It is difficult for me to pinpoint in words exactly how I feel when I visit some of these places, and where these feelings are planted inside of me, and what kind of garden they are growing into. The best that I can do is talk about flying, and the smell of wild grass, and some of the doctrines that echo with me the most, and hope it is enough.
Nepal is a country steeped in spirituality. With Buddhist shrines in the middle of the street, Hindu deities carved into doorways, cows roaming free, and countless temples dotting the surrounding hills, one would be hard pressed not to feel it in their bones. I certainly am no exception, and I am changed for it.
