The cloth doesn't make the monk, but it adds a touch of charm

No one ever prepared me for living with monks. By the time I realized it, they were already part of my daily life. So I had to learn the rules of etiquette of this dynamic, through trial and error - and there were many: from sweeping dirt over the head of someone downstairs, to splashing water from the sink on another while washing dishes. I've lost count of the bad karma I've accumulated on this trip...

My first experience was at a retreat in Thailand, where I lived for three months, as a volunteer. Fortunately, it was a place that welcomed many lost Westerners, like me. Upon arrival, there was a detailed list of rules to be followed in order to avoid misunderstandings with our orange-clad companions. 

Under no circumstances were we to touch the monks - a challenge for my hug-happy Latinity. If a female wanted to hand something to one of them, the recommendation was to place the object on a surface, such as a table, so that he could pick it up without the risk of touching someone else, reminding me of the early days of the pandemic, when we felt like we could die by pressing the elevator button. 

If you just wanted to have a chat, you couldn't be at a higher level than the monk, like you standing up and he sitting down, you had to bend down - that's a lot of thigh muscle work. If they were in the same vehicle, the monk wasn't allowed to sit next to a woman - which was quite challenging for my job as a driver, as the retreat car was kind of a pick-up truck with an open back, and in my lack of driving skills I almost threw a few of them out of the way when I hit potholes on the road.

There were Eastern monks, but most of those who interacted with the guests were Westerners. They talked openly about their life stories, challenges and sufferings with work, family, relationships, and how they came to the decision to radically change their ways. It was great to listen to, because it took away a bit of the aura of superiority, giving a human component to those beings who initially seemed like demigods. 

As we got to know each other, we discovered that there were more things between heaven and earth than our vain philosophy could have imagined. Such as the monk who enjoyed the company of women more than was recommended for his vows of abstinence, and a pair of them who almost came to blows in a fight over the disappearance of a special food from the fridge. Maybe it's that sign from the universe in big letters to meditate on detachment... 

In Nepal, I experienced another view of living outside a retreat, meeting monks in ordinary activities. As a friend put it, you think they're meditating 24 hours a day, and then you don't have the maturity to see them in any other situation. And so I was surprised every day to see monks chatting in cafés, taking buses, driving motorcycles, going to the market (I couldn't help but snoop around) and even open-mouthed in the dentist's chair when I left an appointment. I've often heard complaints from foreigners in Asia about the fact that the locals stare at them ostensibly, and now I've realized that I do the same with them, fascinated like someone following a reality TV show about people I still know very little about. Where's a monastic Globo Reporter [an traditional documentary program in Brazil]: “How do they live? What do they eat? How do they reproduce?” Oops, skip that last one.

The reality shock began in the first place I stayed. My roommate next door, who was actually a lama (technically different from a monk, but with the same kind of appearance for a layperson), came out with a towel wrapped around his waist on his way to the communal bathroom. I deserved an Oscar in the “poker face in unexpected situations” category. 

One of my favorite activities here is attending the pujas, ceremonies that take place daily in the monasteries with prayers and music. Unlike the Buddhism I experienced in Thailand, which is minimalistic and silent, the Nepalese version has a Tibetan influence (thousands of refugees came here after China invaded the land of the Dalai Lama). The monasteries are richly decorated, super colorful, with various images on altars, walls and even the ceiling - I've never been in a samba school shed, but my mind always made the association. The sound is made up of long trumpets, bells and a drumbeat that seems to resonate within the chest, contrasting with the monotonous repetition of words, whose meaning I may only learn in another incarnation.

There are so many monasteries in Kathmandu that you can choose one each day and gradually get a feeling for which one best suits your energy. In the first one I entered, in the more touristic area, one of the monks immediately asked me to sit in front of another, who made a blessing and tied a bracelet on my wrist. Then he asked for a donation. Even though I was miles away from Bahia, I felt like I had been hit by the ”Senhor do Bonfim ribbon” [a traditional scam on tourists in Brazil]. On another occasion, when I went to see a puja, one or two monks were chanting, while the others were looking at their cell phones (one was wearing a headset), chatting and trying to invite more tourists in. I put it in Buddha´s hands.

In one of my favorites, there was a group of about 100 monks, mostly teenagers, with the typical thin mustaches and a few pimples, spread out in long rows. I was usually the only foreigner, and every time I entered the room, there were several heads turning back, smiles and whispers. Once the initial thrill had passed, they forgot about me, but they didn't necessarily focus on the prayer. As the place for visitors was behind the last rows, I had a privileged view of the group. Some yawned and tried bravely to fight sleep, dozing off intermittently while sitting up. Others spent the whole puja more interested in chatting to their colleague next to them, with occasional nudges, laughs and hugs - there was even a quick back massage. Ah, the back-row seaters, that phenomenon that crosses oceans and cultures. 

Two nice young boys walked around the room serving typical Tibetan tea: a mixture of black tea, milk, butter and salt. Yes, SALT. The first time I drank it, I thought of the first noble truth of Buddhism: there is suffering. It feels like you've dropped your bread into the cup and the flavors have mixed in a strange way. But you get used to everything, and as the guys were so smiley, I couldn't refuse the offer and drank my cup (almost) happily.

In fact, many of them dipped their side dishes into the cup. There were two short breaks for them to eat, but some continued nibbling like there's no tomorrow. Once my eyes caught sight of a boy in the front row, chewing with his mouth open, one cookie after another, with seemingly no connection to what was going on around him. I don't know if I was more fascinated by his ability to concentrate on tasting, or jealous of the snacks.

Of course, there were also the more focused ones. They use a rectangular prayer book with loose pages, wrapped in an orange cloth. One day, as the ceremony was ending, one of them spent an eternity concentrating on carefully arranging the pages in the most symmetrical way possible before putting the pad away, very Virgo with OCD. I thought that my love life was deserted because the soul mate I was looking for was there dedicated to spirituality.

The end of the prayer coincided with the time when the younger monks went to play outside. The energy and noise were the same as any schoolyard at playtime. With the difference that they were wrapped in their burgundy clothes (the most common color of robes here), so it made my brain knot up to see them playing ball, cricket or hanging from trees in that beatitude look. 

At a puja I attended with only children, there was a boy of about five who was pure cuteness, - I considered whether it was permissible to squeeze monastic cheeks. He arrived late, with his clothes a bit rumpled, and the boy on the drum jokingly hit him on the head with his drumstick. The other boy next to him also slapped his bald head, and the three of them laughed until an adult came to straighten the little one's clothes and put the mess in order, trying to show that a habit can make a monk, but sometimes it needs an extra hand.