Up on the hill

(Day 1)

Have I made a huge mistake coming here? For one thing, they don't let you speak. Complete silence is the rule. And after 5 hours of not speaking, something I am not accustomed to, I'm sort of beginning to freak out a little bit. At this very moment, I'm sitting up on a hill looking down on the compound or the farm or whatever it is. I can see nice little buildings, rows of tilled fields, a pond, trees and some other agricultural clutter such as rain tanks and a windmill. All of this connected to the outside world by a gravel road. I had to sneak up here to get a little perspective on things. I find there is something slightly hostile and strange about fifty people coinhabiting, walking around all day in complete silence. Glib, if you like. They expect you to sit around meditating for most of the time. Or to help out in the fields. This is all voluntary mind you. I've done this to myself. No one marched me out here with a gun to my head. I was supposed to come here to get my head together, figure a few things out.

And my escape? What exactly does this say about me? The kind of person I am? It's been a mere five hours and already I'm going stir crazy. Now I'm off by myself, hiding out with my little phone (A big no-no. At orientation they specifically say, no phones, no screens). Not that it really matters; being out in the middle of nowhere there is no reception. I can't even use it. So what am I doing? Modern world tech-junkie that I am, I'm making this extended audio recording which I can't even send to you. I'm probably just blathering away into my phone in order to hear the sound of my own voice. It's sad really, how these little devices have come to rule our lives. Whats the alternative? Chucking them away? regressing back to some primitive state?

Overhead, hundreds of metres above, I can see the twin vapour trails of an aeroplane drawn taut across the empty sky. The sound of its engines is out of synch somehow, arriving late to my ears, somehow after the fact. God, I would love to be up there on that plane. A cheesy movie to watch. A drink. A little plastic cup containing ice and vodka and tonic. No, make that a double vodka, please. Even one of those shitty aeroplane meals would suffice. Fish or chicken, sir? All the basic requirements of civilization miniaturized and shoved into a tube. How ingenious. Not only that, the promise of a new destination at the end of that tube. That alternative version of me, the one way up there in the clouds, could be on his way to somewhere far more interesting than this. Somewhere cheap and hot.

But no. I'm here. In the zen retreat. Hanging out with a bunch of masochistic wankers from Sydney. You know the type: perfect blonde wife, kids, a place in Paddington, another place in Byron probably. Looking for something groovy and 'real' to do on the weekend when they're not sucking on the teet of Australia's resilient economy. This decision of mine, to come here, to become a weekend monk, started because Jane, my partner and I were embroiled in one of our epic arguments. Much to the neighbour's amusement, she had run alongside the car, smashing her hand against the driver's side window, her wedding band striking the glass smartly as I pulled out of the driveway. I was being petty. She needed the car for work and I was storming off, driving away. I feel sorry for my part in the argument but I just had to get out of there. It was too much. If felt like the house was about to shake apart from the angry we had mutually generated.

(Day 2)

I'm back on the hill. Just like the Beatle's song. (And of course, in this oppressive silence, without a steady stream of external stimuli and diversion, this Beatle's song is on endless repeat in my head, spinning round and round). This is the thing about not being able to vocalise your thoughts....your thoughts start to cannibalise themselves. It's like you're sitting in an iron cauldron, sweating over the flames, merrily basting yourself). Last night was terrible. After eating a completely tasteless kale and quinoa meal, we all shuffled off to our respective dormitories to get some to sleep. You know the problem with a bean-based, high protein meal? Mass flatulence. Not pleasant in a confined space. It was like a grim summer camp for the forty-year-olds.

It's now 9:46 am. In the morning. I have another 10 hours of daylight left of introspection and communing with nature. I'm back up on the hill after a sleepless night and already having failed at morning meditation. I almost got there. As instructed, I sat very still, staring a spot on the wall. There was a moment when I could feel myself shimmering as if all the molecules in my body were beginning to vibrate quicker than usual. I was going for it. Oh yes, nirvana was within reach. But then? Then all the usual thoughts came crowding in. The inner voice of doubt. The monologue of me. I was defeated by the monkey mind, chattering away, directly into my ear. Having said all that, is that mad monkey voice really such a bad thing? I mean you are born with this running commentary in your head, it is part of you and now these people, these experts, expected me to expel it, to take a huge spiritual step forwards in a matter of hours. Anyway, as nirvana began to slip through my fingers, and I returned to this woeful plane, instead of sitting there and faking enlightenment, like I'm sure plenty of them do, I decided to go for a walk. At least this way I could avoid pulling onions out of the ground in their passive-aggressive volunteer labour camp.

(Later, that same day)

I made a little friend. A woman found me on the hill. She was the one who approached me. Grew from a distant figure in the landscape to an up close and personal encounter. I thought I was just gonna get the same wistful, sanctimonious smile the others give you but no, she broke the silence and started talking. A quiet voice. In no rush to get her ideas out. It was a shock and a relief to hear another human voice at that moment. We talked for about ten minutes and then a plan began to take shape. An escape plan. Avoiding detection by leaving the cars behind, we decided to walk the three kilometres into town. I had my bank card on me. It was only a little country town, gentrified to some extent but quite basic. A post office, a few craft shops for the tourists, a war memorial and a pub. There was no decent coffee so, after our hike along a dusty track, we went to the pub and had a few cold drinks. Her name was Rita. (Yet another Beatles reference). Rita and I drank our beers and got to know each other quite well. I have to say, she had led a pretty interesting life up until that point. Lived in numerous countries, had several different types of jobs. She had also been married twice. 'I was worshipped like a glass statue', she said. 'Do you know the problem with being glass statue? You can be picked up and smashed into little pieces against the mantle'. I would never have thought to talk to somebody like Rita, someone that mature, back in my real life. It made me think guiltily about the female perspective, something I rarely did, especially when it came to Jane. Suddenly I was re-examining my own actions. Anyway, Rita....Rita might have been fifty years of age. You could see that she had been a stunner back in her day. The bone structure and the eyes. That kind of beauty doesn't fade. The confidence as well. She told me that she was at an age where she'd given up trying to please other people. 'I spent too many years conforming to someone else's idea what I was supposed to be.' she said. In some ways, it's my own fault. You see I attract or am attracted to men who aren't necessarily good for me.' She was looking at a stocky farmer type at the bar. A man who was commanding the room with drunken assurance.

So why did you come here? I asked.
It seemed like a good idea, she said. I mean, I felt like this place would be good for me. But now, after a little rest, I feel like…more expansive about things. I'm not sure if this place and all its rules is going to works for me, she said.

We had a few drinks. Maybe more than just a few. By the time we got back, we had missed dinner. The compound was quiet, incense wafting out of the main hallway. After my afternoon of freedom, I couldn't quite figure out why I'd bothered to come back at all. Of course, my car was still parked in the lot and I would need to pick it up eventually. I could do that. I could go. Then again, the better part of me was determined to see this thing through. The recommended minimum stay was three days. Any less was deemed sort of pointless. As the main monk had said during my brief induction, less than three days wouldn't have the desired purging effect. That meant I had 24 hours left to go. You can do this, I told myself.

(The following morning, sometime after breakfast)

I'm up on the hill again (where else would I be?), just sitting there, the wind moving dead stalks of grass around in unison, stirring the trees. I woke up this morning with a slight hangover. Nothing a bowl of breakfast gruel and a cup of chai tea couldn't fix. I fear I am attracting attention. My neighbour gave me a sour look to match the sour and yeast odour of beer coming from my person in the cafeteria line. I just smiled back. Euphoric with inner peace or frazzled by a mid-range hangover, in terms of your outward appearance, it's about the same thing. The cynic in me is beginning to get the distinct impression there is the form of competitiveness happening in this place. Some of these people meditate for up to seven hours at a time. I still don't understand why there can't be a separate discussion area, a conversation nook. What is wrong with a few conversations throughout the day? How can these people switch off for that long? It's like being reduced down to a vegetable existence. But still there is that other voice saying, why are you being so resistant to this? It's three days.
My co-conspirator Rita appears shortly after kitchen clean up. She wears her hangover well. A pro. It's barely detectable. We end up doing the exact same thing: the three km walk into town, along with the track, past the decommissioned rail bridge and the tree tangled gullies through which the river runs, to rejoin the road on the outskirts of town. Then along the main strip, past the petrol station to end up at the pub. 'It's my shout', says Rita, producing her own Visa card. Music to my ears. The barmaid welcomes us back as old friends. We sit at the same table, near the window, watching the town people and tourists amble by on the street outside. We talk and we forgot to eat. We drank too much. Again. But it was that kind of day, wasn't it? An easy, slow drinking day in a quiet town. And look, it was all innocent at first: we were simply attempting to correct the damage inflicted from the previous day. Unfortunately, we went past that point and in the final summation, we definitely drank too much.

(Some hours later)

Rita and I thought we would just ramble back and then slip into the compound undetected. Like a couple of prisoners of war who are trusted to wander off during the day as long as they make sure they return at night. Once again, when we got back the camp was quite. Insects bumped around the lightbulb hanging over the latrine block. We crept in, stealthy as one can be after the second day of heavy drinking and sun exposure. My sanctimonious bunkmates had me figured out. It wasn't difficult. I was well marinaded by that point and, not being able to find my headlamp, I stumbled around in the dormitory, trying to find my toothbrush but I kept encountering painful, shine smashing objects in the dark. Muttering ensued. A light came on. Several people broke their stints of silence. And when you're pissed, your attempts at re-establish equilibrium only end up making matters worse. Eventually, the head monk appeared and asked to speak to me in the main office. She got right to the point, saying, 'We can't permit the use of alcohol here. I'm afraid you're going to have to leave'. Feeling a bit like a naughty schoolboy, I nodded solemnly, accepting my expulsion. Thank god, I thought. Again, there was that niggly part of me that felt quite embarrassed that I was being kicked out. I'd almost made it. I can't drive, I said. To the monk credit, she took this onboard. Alright, first thing in the morning, she said, you must leave. And please don't disturb the other guests.
Thank you, I said. And off I went to sleep in the flatulent dorm. The vibe was not good when I returned. A cricket had set up in the rafters above and was singing like a shrill car alarm.
I left the following morning. I drove past bucolic scenes of people bent over in the fields, pulling vegetables up out of the ground. It was like driving through a Bruegel painting, the effect disturbed only by the inclusion of modern farming machinery in the distance. Past the meditation building and the office. I saw the monk standing in the doorway and I waved to her. She waved back. I'd decided to leave head held high. I wasn't going to skulk away. I went up the gravel access road and out through the gates. Next time I looked up, there was a car in my rearview, its windshield glinting with the sun as it pushed on through the cloud of dirt I was kicking up. It had to be Rita. I pulled over, gravel popping beneath the underside of my car.
You too? I asked.
My time was up, she replied, through the driver's window.
I see.....they kicked me out, I muttered, leaning against the roof of her car. Don't worry...I didn't snitch on you.
How embarrassing, she laughed. Kicked out of school.
That's exactly what it felt like, I said. So what's next for you?
She was heading home to write about the experience for her blog or whatever. Then she would move onto the next thing. Some work on the house.

We talked for another five minutes, the conversation, having begun with such conspiratorial excitement, started to lose stamina, to stagger under the weight of our true lack of familiarity. We were back in the real world. Or at least on the edge of it. The two-night stand, while not sexual in nature, was coming to an end. I liked that woman immensely but I had my own problems to be getting on with. Our intimacy, the thing we had in common, was dependent on our escape from Zen jail. After that, we went through the usual, modern-day equivalent of the slow, noncommital brush off: we exchanged facebook details. She contacted me a few times. I responded.

I drove down from the hills into the wineries and then the flatlands, back into the congestion of highways still under construction and the shopping centres and the outer suburbs. Being back in all that static and confusion, I was a little bit overwhelmed for the first hour or so. Even though I'd failed at the retreat, I had gotten used to the silence and the peace. I drove home intent on trying to patch things up with Jane. I pulled into the driveway. I sat there, the car ticking around me. All I had to do was go inside.