It must be lovely to ride the gondolas out to the village of Ngong Ping, to visit the Po Lin monastery and the Tian Tan Buddha. In March, the foliage of the island is lush and full, and gliding above it must offer spectacular vantages of the dramatic landscapes that comprise the largest island of Hong Kong. The 25 minute trip takes riders directly from the terminus of the Tung Chung line directly to the entrance of the monastery. It must be nice.
Alas, as we make our way to the gondola docking station, we are informed that the gondola ride is closed. Maintenance or some such thing; regardless, no one is having a lovely gondola trip today. Three options now face us: turn around and find something else to do (unlikely, as M. Cardwell has made it explicit this is high on his list of interests); pay—and arrange—for some sort of private transportation (also unlikely, given the cost); or take the bus. We decide on the bus.
The bus itself isn’t terrible; but it isn’t the gondola. We get a good view of the flora that carpets the hillsides. The road slithers along, inching us ever higher. It isn’t designed for gigantic buses of tourists, and as a result, we never achieve much speed. As we creep, slowly, ponderously upwards along the tiny winding road, we are passed by private vehicles. I rue our decision not to hire a car. The trip takes almost an hour and a half, and once we arrive at Po Lin Monastery, we spill out of our tiny seats and off of the bus. I prepare my arguments to convince M. Cardwell of the merits of a taxi for the next leg of the adventure, cost be damned.
As we climb the 268 steps to the gigantic statue of the Tian Tan Buddha, it is hot. The air is lazy, unmoving as we climb. I do not understand why I thought it a good idea to wear jeans. I focus on the bronze statue in front of me. It is enormous, with the Buddha sitting serenely, gazing unblinkingly down at those who make the trek towards him. As we move closer, I realize it is best viewed from one of the two or three small landings that break the steps into (almost) manageable sections. I halt at the next landing, catching my breath and looking around.
Once we’ve stopped and M. Cardwell works to capture a picture, I work to breathe, to slow my heart rate. I am still. The stillness unlocks something in my understanding of the place; suddenly I catch a sliver of understanding about the entire landscape—the fixed gaze of the statue, the monotonous climb, the implacable calmness of the statue against the mountain—they are each their own kind of meditation. As we begin to ascend again, I move at a more measured speed. This is a place of extended durations; to rush is to miss the point.
The Grand Hall of Ten Thousand Buddhas is majestic and, in truth, slightly intimidating. The air is hushed in reverence, and in multiple places, there are signs prominently placed admonishing “No Visitors.” As non-Buddhists, I am keenly aware our “Visitor” appearance and M. Cardwell leads me hesitatingly up steps as I crane my neck in search of signs forbidding us to come this way. I find none, but still feel that I am somehow trespassing.
At the top of the steps, I am relieved to see other visitors and the familiar signs letting us know where we should not be; where we are, then, is acceptable. The building is massive and looks impenetrable, but then a group of monks and some people who very clearly are not Visitors emerge from a door I couldn’t see. I wonder how many people are inside; how many people I cannot see, and what they are doing. They round the building and we follow, as there are no signs shouting us away. They enter a room and as it comes into view, we stop.
Everything is glossy gold, including the floor and ceiling. There are five golden Buddhas seated before us. I cannot tell where the lighting is coming from, as the illumination in the room seems to be self perpetuating, the sheer volume of golden surfaces forever reflecting the existing light back and forth, forever. Some women who were on the bus with us, apparently believers, walk up to the railing before the statues and kneel and bend over, and then repeat the movement a handful of times. The signs were unnecessary; we know not to go further into the room. We are not Buddhists, but we can tell this is a special place, and the privilege of viewing it is more than enough. My vision begins to swim with the richness of the place, and I turn away. M. Cardwell is right behind me, and together we descend the steps.
To be continued…
The Galavanteers 
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