Budha's Birthday

Festival Location: Hong Kong, Hong Kong

Festival Type(s): Religious Events, Traditional Festivals, Cultural Festivals

Budha's Birthday Celebrations in Hong Kong

By: © Dan Coxon 2009

I balanced my umbrella in the crook of my arm, trying to keep my feet out of a large puddle at the same time. Carefully lifting one of the wooden ladles from its bowl, and feeling rather foolish, I trickled the thimbleful of water over the Buddha's head. Within seconds it had vanished, joining the puddle at the statue's base.

Hong Kong usually summons up images of crowded inner-city streets and soaring skyscrapers. At the Po Lin monastery it felt peaceful and serene, if a little damp. As I replaced the ladle in its stand I thanked the Lord Buddha for creating this calm oasis - it was just a shame that he couldn't influence the weather too.

The Lord Buddha's birthday falls in early May on the Chinese calendar, and since 1999 Hong Kong has celebrated it as a public holiday. The day is marked not only with the saying of prayers in Buddhist temples, but also by the ceremonial washing of Buddha statues, the reason behind my juggling act with the umbrella and ladle. The guide I'd picked up from the information centre referred to this as 'Buddha-bathing', a piece of linguistic creativity that suggested bizarre images of bathtubs and soapy sponges.

Despite an early start from central Hong Kong it was midday by the time I reached the Po Lin monastery. As our bus wound through the hills on Lantau, my back sticking to the vinyl seat beneath me, the clouds descended upon us. From a distance they had looked light and unthreatening, a far cry from the black thunderclouds I had seen over the city a few days before. As we rose into the hills and they began to descend, however, visibility was reduced to a few metres. I crossed my fingers and hoped our driver was more skilful than those I'd seen careering around the city centre.

When the bus finally stopped with a hiss of pneumatics in what appeared to be a large tarmacked turning area I assumed that we'd arrived. The driver nodded curtly to my questions and I stepped reluctantly outside into the persistent drizzle. Beyond the confines of the car park stood a wall of grey fog. Of the monastery there was no sign.

A cluster of small buildings barely visible on the fringes of the car park turned out to be a gift shop, and the lady there directed me to the steps for the Tian Tan Buddha. I paid the entry fee, receiving a small pin badge for my bundle of notes, and began the long trek up the stone stairs.

I forced myself to struggle up them without a break, having heard from a friend that it was bad luck to falter halfway. With the weather the way it was, I figured that I could do with all the luck I could get. Apparently the statue could be seen as far away as Macau on a clear day, but today he wasn't even visible from the monastery car park.

The Tian Tan Buddha, known affectionately as the 'Big Buddha', sits majestically on top of the Muyushan Mountain. If its location isn't impressive enough to attract you, it's also the largest outdoor Buddha statue in the world. Including the pedestal it stands over 100 feet tall, and cost approximately HK$68 million to build.

I had to take this information at face value, as by the time I reached the base of the statue the clouds had dropped even lower. I could just about make out the ghostly outline of his hand hovering above my head, but his face was lost in the fog. Before long my shoes began to make sucking sounds with every step, and I felt water seeping between my toes. I had no option but to seek refuge inside.

Fortunately the Buddha's pedestal is more than just a comfortable seat for him to rest on - it houses a three-storey exhibition hall, packed with displays on the construction of the giant statue and on Buddhism in general. I managed to spend a good fifteen minutes wandering through its galleries of traditional paintings and religious artefacts, but eventually I reached the top floor and had to emerge again into the rain. From the doorway it seemed to have eased off, but as soon as I set foot outside the water began to seep through my outer layers. It looked like I was destined to get wet.

Once I'd made it to the foot of the steps again, my foot squelching all the way, I looked around for the monastery. The fog was still making it hard to navigate, but I could just see a clump of buildings at one end of the car park. It was hard to be certain, but my internal compass suggested they were different from the buildings I'd visited before. I slowly made my way towards them, trying to avoid the larger puddles that were accumulating on the tarmac.

It turned out that I'd taken a wrong turning somewhere in the grey murk, and I eventually emerged into the central courtyard of the monastery via what looked like a truck loading bay. Apart from a few monks striding purposefully from building to building under the shelter of black umbrellas I was the only person to be seen. The trickle of rainwater making its way down the back of my neck made me keen to find some shelter. I set off along one side of the quadrangle looking for something under cover to occupy me.

It didn't take me long to discover where everyone had disappeared to. Double doors to one side opened into a large, modern banqueting room, and even before I reached it I could hear the chatter of an excited crowd. To my dismay the room was reserved for visiting tour parties and I stood out as the lone Westerner in the crowd. A perfunctory conversation with one of the security guards, punctuated with hand gestures and words of broken English, secured me a chair at the back. Perhaps he took pity on my leaky shoes.

The show began with a gymnastics display, performed on a small stage at the far end of the room. I was too distant to be drawn into the group atmosphere and the gymnastics themselves were fairly basic, but I was glad to be out of the rain. A tentative finger pushed down inside my shoe revealed that my socks were sodden, distracting my attention from the balancing acts on the stage. I'd need to visit a shoe shop when I eventually made it back to the city.

After the gymnastics there was a brief pause, and I wondered whether the security guard might turf me back out into the rain. Then the next act took to the stage and we were all too enthralled to do anything other than clap and grin like children. Even this cynical Westerner was able to forget his sodden shoes for a few minutes.

Bianlian, or face-changing, first appeared in the early Seventeenth Century as part of the Sichuan Opera. Today it is an attraction in its own right. I watched transfixed as our performer's face changed from one second to the next, becoming a cat, or a dragon. His gestures also reflected each mask, a paw reaching up to stroke his whiskers one moment, then clawing at the air as a dragon the next. With a twitch of his hand, barely visible to the naked eye, his face would suddenly change again. It was a compelling piece of theatre, and undoubtedly a complex and dextrous art.

I later discovered that the masks are painted on to thin damask and applied to the face one by one, building up layer upon layer before the performance begins. A well-practiced movement could remove the mask, revealing the one beneath and creating the illusion of face-changing. Even with this knowledge my enjoyment of the spectacle wasn't lessened. The skill and precision involved requires years of training, and like any good sleight of hand it's almost imperceptible, even at close range. Like a magician at work the face-changer kept us all captivated, and helped me forget the sorry state of my clothing.

Eventually the show finished as the actor removed his final mask and revealed his true face to the crowd. It was time for me to venture back outside. The rain seemed to be easing off, so after a quick vegetarian lunch in the monastery's café I set out in search of the Buddha-bathing ceremony. A slightly bemused monk politely endured my strange miming routine, meant to convey the Lord Buddha taking a bath but probably suggesting nothing of the sort. Finally he shrugged and left me to my own devices.

I had almost lost all hope of finding the ceremony when I stumbled across it by accident. The three statues at the foot of the monastery steps were only about a foot high, and the ladles next to them were smaller than eggcups. It was certainly less impressive than I'd imagined, but their purpose was clear. I balanced my umbrella, took up one of the ladles, and began my own private ceremony.

It might just have been fortunate timing, but as I replaced the ladle in its bowl, having 'bathed' all three statues, the rain finally stopped. I folded my umbrella away and looked about me. The clouds were definitely lifting, and the monastery was slowly emerging from the fog. It might not have been a miracle, but it was certainly a relief.

Unfortunately the change in the weather wasn't enough to dry out my socks, so the time had come to return home, if only for a change of footwear. As I waited in the car park beneath an incongruous concrete shelter I caught a glimpse of something in the distance. I had to step outside to make sure that my eyes weren't deceiving me.

Sure enough, there was the Tian Tan Buddha in all its glory, a few wisps of mist still curling around it as the sun struggled through. His right hand was raised palm outwards, representing the removal of suffering. His left hand lay open on his knee, signifying the happiness of man. There were few men happier than me as the sunlight began to dry my damp clothes.

A minute later the bus pulled up, blocking my view, and I was forced to take my return seat back to the city. At least I'd had a chance to see the largest outdoor Buddha statue in the world, even if it was only for a few minutess. I vowed to return one day to this haven among the mountains of Hong Kong and see the statue again, if only for some relief from the bustle of the city. And next time I'd bring a spare pair of socks.

by Dan Coxon