FEBRUARY 2017GQ.COM.AU 119resident monks who needed to be fed and
orchestrated.Themonasteryhadprograms
inplacetocombathumantraffickingandto
aid with ongoing earthquake relief, well over
ayearpastthecalamity.
“Inallofusisthedesignoftheworld,”
Sanjeevtoldme.Itfeltlikethebeginning
ofaprimer,orthepartofavisittothe
doctorwheretheytakeyourbloodpressure
beforeyoumeetthephysician.“Wehavethe
abilitytoaccessandunderstand the universe.
To b e c o m e o t h e r f o r m s .”
Everything from his mouth felt like
abumperstickeronanoldVolvo. And
Ikeptnoddingmyhead‘yes’.
“Wethinkwecancontroltheworld,but
it’s99percentchaos,”hesaid.“Wecan
only change our minds about it.
“We’retryingtogetfrompointAto
pointB.Weboughtacartogetthere,
butwe’resofocusedonthecarthatwe
forgot where exactly point B is. One must
understand ‘the think’ behind ‘the thought’.”
Yes,thechaos,thecar,thethinkbehind
thethought.Thatlastoneseemedpertinent.
Andthenwewereontheroad,mashed
together in an old Land Rover. Everything
smelledofaltitudeandthingsburning.
Meanwhile, my monkey mind was
in full tantrum. The sky had turned
ominous, thunder sounding. I’d forgotten
arainjacket.Andwhatwerewegoing
to eat, anyway? What if there were squat
toilets?Withinfiveminutes,I’drevolved
intosuchastatethatIwouldstarveor
freeze, and shit myself on top of it. These
were the gyrations of my mind.
Itwaswetandchillybythetimewefinally
made it to the mountain. The grounds
werelushandwooded,dividedintosteppes
andhabitations.Fromhere,onaclearday,
youcouldseetheHimalayas(Annapurna,
Everest, the Ganesh Himal), but now a grey-
purple murk clung to everything.
Weweregreetedbyamonkinaredpuffer
jacket,wholedusuptheslopetowhatwould
be my temporary lodging, a little rustic hut
aswellstockedasahotelsuite(juicesand
fruitinthefridge,endlessteaandcookies,
myownbathroomandbedroom).Wedrank
tea – Sanjeev, another practitioner, myself –
waiting for Ricard.
Myfirstglimpseofhimwasofashape
movingalongtheportico,ontheother
sideofthevines.Hewastalkingina
friendly hush, chatting with a stray dog.
It was circling him, and they were playing.
Or Ricard wanted to play; the dog, whootherwiseappearedtohavebeenkicked
aroundbylife,wasn’taswilling.When
Ricard appeared in full view, he was
smiling broadly, bare-shouldered in his
saffronrobes.Heseemedunconcerned
bythewetchill,hisnextmeal,thesquat
toilets... unconcerned with Armageddon
andalltherestofit.Hegreetedeveryone,
inroundnesses.Hiseyeswereround,his
shavedheadwasround,hisbodywasround.
I’d soon find there was a roundness to his
ideasaswell,afertility,awatermelon-ness–
juices and pit, flesh and skin. He assiduously
eschewed the New Age-isms of Buddhism.
No bumper stickers around here.
“A h , you’ve m ade it ,” were h i s fi r st word s.
“I’m so embarrassed.” He was embarrassed?
Embarrassed that I’d come 11,000km to see
him.Shouldn’tIhavebeenembarrassed?
Wasn’tmydesperationpalpable?I’dleftmy
family behind to be here. But here we were,
and first, he wanted to warn me that there
weretigersandleopardswithusonthe
mountain, too. The leopards in particular
madeanerve-racking,abrasivesound.
“I have to be very careful,” he said, winking
with both eyes. “Maybe they like goats, and
French monks smell a little like goats. So
what to do?”