A Zen retreat in Saigon
Meditating in a monastery and a Ho Chi Minh hotel mix-up
I went to Saigon to attend a Zen retreat in a monastery.
Booking the flight in advance to get low prices was the easy part. Preparing for the retreat — meditating everyday for 25 minutes per session for several times — was the challenge. So far, so good.
When I arrived, the monastery allowed me to check into my room promptly and smoothly, owing to its level of service, religious and otherwise. Too bad I can't say the same about my later accommodations.
The other establishments — which were booked previously in advance — incurred delays, including a wrong address in Hanoi and a hotel room in Ho Chi Minh that was occupied by a young Vietnamese woman. When I found her dozing off at the foot of the bed, I tapped her shoulder. She was aghast that someone had the gall to wake her up. The intruder, bearing no resemblance to Prince Charming, flashed an awkward grin no bellhop could trust. She was upset and I apologized. Of course, we both knew that it was the fault of the front desk. They gave me the key to what was apparently the wrong room.
Fortunately, it took her one phone call to set things straight. It turned out Sleeping Beauty was part of the hotel staff. She was either taking a nap or probably enjoying employee fringe benefits, a matter this Beast no longer pursued. After all, my room two floors above was ready.
Nothing as remarkable took place when I arrived at the monastery, run by the Hiệp Hội Tín Hữu MTGKT (the Association of the Faithful of the Holy Cross), based on Google Translate.
Located inside a compound slightly smaller than the Araneta Coliseum in Quezon City, it had a chapel where nuns attended mass in Vietnamese before daybreak, a vegetable garden whose daily harvest helped feed the residents, and a separate three-storey dormitory. It had its own function room, kitchen, dining hall, and laundry area (complete with washing machine).
The self-contained compound was quiet, save for the outside world which occasionally disturbed its peace: neighbors having their way with the karaoke machine and the regular racket from Vietnamese drivers who are as addicted to blowing their horns as Filipinos are to checking their phones.
My room was smaller than a studio-type condominium unit but it had all the comforts needed for a much-needed retreat and reflection. It had a toilet and shower, a split-type aircon, a chair, a desk, and a lamp. Solitary confinement, however temporary and voluntary, never looked so good.
With all due respect to the faithful, I had arrived at the compound without any plans of becoming a devout Catholic, a priest, or, for that matter, a monk. (It was too late for that now.)
The retreat required participants — all previously-trained practitioners — to meditate 25 minutes at a time as much as ten times or more throughout the whole day. During the whole event, talking, gesticulating, and other forms of social interaction are discouraged. After all, the experiences of a practitioner during the retreat are strictly a personal and confidential matter between teacher and student.
The four-day Zen retreat (also known as a sesshin) was led by the group I was part of and hosted and organized by a practitioner in Saigon. During the retreat's last day, the same practitioner put up its own sanga with the help of Filipino teachers.
Suffice it to say that at the end of the sesshin, our Vietnamese hosts served my favorite beverage, a practice generally discouraged during events like these in the Philippines.
In any case, fresh from the intense sessions, I popped open a can or two and said to myself: With retreats like these, who needs vacations?
To mark our graduation from the retreat, a fellow practitioner and I took a Grab Car to the city and visited the Ben Thanh market.
We later found a makeshift, open-air drinking spot, located at a corner intersection a block away.
For only 25,000 Vietnamese dong each (Php 57), we both got a Bia Saigon beer served in a stainless steel container filled with ice.
We had several rounds, courtesy of the proprietor who was quick on the draw, plying us with a fresh set even though the previous one hadn't dried up yet.
We couldn't blame her. She was making the most of her real estate which afforded a scenic view of tourists, coming and going.
For our part, we sat on stools the size of car batteries, shooting the breeze, and enjoying the ambience.
On our last round, as the beer were getting the better of us, my companion confessed that he had been scammed by a cab driver. He paid US$100 (VND 2.5 million) for the trip from the airport to the monastery, or more than ten times the usual rate.
To console him, I said I bought three small jars of Tiger Balm at the Ben Thanh market at almost twice its regular prices (or for Php 455 each when they were sold for only Php 270.)
We then simply shrugged our shoulders and sipped our beers, thinking that these incidents added flavor to foreign travel. And that, we agreed, was (probably) the Zen way to take it.
After all, we were in another country enjoying ourselves. Why ruin the experience?
❤️