Tran Quoc Pagoda, Part 2

(please see below, Tran Quoc Pagoda, Part 1, first-- t.t.w.)

I returned to Tran Quoc Pagoda in the afternoon. There were many more monks and laypeople there this time. In addition, there were two laymen, of whom was Chinese, who were there to help out with the ceremony.

One of them played dan nhi (a Vietnamese version of the Chinese jinghu, a two-string fiddle related to the larger erhu) and a shawm (sona), an extremely loud, wailing oboe-like double-reed horn. The other, who was proficient in classical Chinese, helped with some of the chanting and also played drums. The two men were dressed in black lay robes.

I had a hard time understanding the context of the ceremony. I expected to stay only a short while, but when I left, over three hours later, the ceremony was still going, with no sign of stopping.

I was directed to sit on the tile floor, about twenty feet from the altar. The hall on this level was much more complex than the one downstairs. There were paper pendants and flags hanging everywhere with Chinese characters written on them, and the altar itself was huge, with four or five levels extending back another twenty feet. On the altar were of course the requisite Buddha images but also about a dozen life-size statues of men sitting in Chinese mandarin chairs with long beards and traditional imperial headgear. Upon closer inspection, I realized that one of the figures was King Tran, a medieval monarch of Vietnam who lated abdicated the throne, took on the robes of a monk, eventually becoming a Zen master and an important patriach of Vietnamese Buddhism.

Before the ceremony began, an elderly monk donned formal robes and a silk Chinese crown. He also carried a large staff and stood solemnly in front of the altar. The rest of the monks and the two laymen, sitting behind him in two rows, began to chant and play their instruments. One of the monks had a mircophone that was hooked up to a speaker system that was turned way up, so the chanting was rather loud, especially in a tiled room where most of the materials reflected the sound. And with the wailing shawm and drums, bells, and cymbals played at a high volume, it became extremely loud. But the chanting and the music that accompanied it was beautiful and had a centering quality, and all of the men played together exceptionally well.

The opening chants, sungs from books or from memory, lasted about an hour, at which point my last had fallen asleep and probably were dreaming, though I'm not sure. Then the elderly monk began a complex, esoteric dance before the altar, employing highly stylized mudras (hand gestures) and intricate footwork. Hen then took a carving knife and a red pair of scissors (supposed both remplacement for more expensive ritual items) off the altar and continued his dance with them, as if he was holding a Tibetan bell and vajra.

The monk danced rapidly around the hall, stopping by the walls and pillars to hack off various pieces of paper and cloth imprinted with Chinese characters, which he wound into a ball. The characters were the names of deceased people associated with the temple and this ceremony, I think, was a way of remembering, honoring, and transfering merit to them, and marking the impermanence of all things. The monk held the ball with the knife and scissors, brought it to the altar, bowed low, set the ball on fire, and continued the dance around the hall while holding this ball of fire, which he eventually placed in a bucket of water at the front of the altar.

Midway through the ceremony, a candle accidently set a paper flag ablaze, which prompted several monks to set about trying to put the fire out. At this point, I realized that there were no smoke alarms in this temple! Occasionally the elderly monk would lead us in a quick-paced circumambulation of the altar as a way of further honoring the dead.

A little after six in the evening, I realized I needed to leave to meet a friend, but the ceremony (and the deafening music) was still going strong after three hours. I quietly bowed and left, hoping that I would return one day to talk to the monks again.

Although I experienced only a small part of Vietnam, I am thankful that I had the chance to experience that part deeply and meaningully. Everyone I met was warm and friendly, and many wanted to talk to me. Earlier in this blog, I mentioned how I thought that joyful and honest interactions with strangers were a good measure of the health of a society. And while I don't know to what extent the Vietnamese wlecomed visitors from within their own country, I did always feel welcomed here, in a way that went beyond simple means of securing their income from my wallet. For example, I don't recall the same friendliness in China or Japan, and only on occasion in the States. As I was writing this on the plane to Cambodia, I am sad to leave but very excited to settle more long-term in a new culture.

To all of you who read and don't read this blog, I extend my best wishes to you and I would love to hear from you anytime.