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If 'The Spiritual Tourist' Is Any Kind Of Travel Guide, Westerners Don't Have A Prayer.
By Leigh Rich
The Spiritual Tourist: A Personal Odyssey Through The Outer
Reaches Of Belief, by Mick Brown (Bloomsbury Publishing).
Cloth, $24.95.
THIS MAY BE A "personal odyssey" for British
author and journalist Mick Brown, but for the rest of us it's
a trip through hell.
This "new age" book supposedly about Southeast Asian
philosophies and personal enlightenment suffers not only in content,
but also in style (or lack thereof). Brown purposelessly meanders
from one trite, '90s-style spiritualistic anecdote to the next
in a lackluster quest which only pretends to delve beyond the
superficial. The author demonstrates a giddy enthusiasm but very
little respect for his lofty, timely subject.
"Spirituality," Brown writes in his introduction, "has
become a kind of buzz-word of the age. The spiritual search, whatever
that may mean, has become a dominant feature of late 20th-century
life." This five-page preamble, the only redeeming element
in the book, legitimately whines that "spirituality"
is a concept we loosely use and pass around until it advances
toward the absurd.
What is a spiritual life? The question may be addressed from
several angles, including a cross-cultural look at religiosity
in non-Western societies. Brown attempts this, but his flimsy,
interminable narrative focusing on the Westerner's insular view
into a culture he doesn't understand butchers the concept, thus
moving spiritualism from a sincere, religious realm--something
special and cherished whether private or shared--to page one of
a supermarket tabloid.
Brown begins his journey in London, interviewing self-ascribed
"messengers" and "associates" of Lord Maitreya,
the "great redeemer" who "manifested himself on
earth through his disciple Jesus" 2,000 years ago and apparently
now resides in London's East End. These messengers, according
to Brown's contacts Benjamin Creme, Patricia Pitchon and a pharmacist
named Mr. Patel, are proselytizers for Maitreya as well as prognosticators
of upcoming world events.
Their stories, however, seem straight out of an Oh, God
script: "Patricia had duly contacted Mr. Patel, who told
her he was a disciple of Maitreya, and that she had 'work to do.'
This work, it seemed, was to make public the prophecies that Mr.
Patel received from Maitreya." The prophecies, moreover,
appear no more than well-educated guesses formed from diligently
watching cable TV. Patel, a guru who drives an Austin Allegro,
is "any age between 35 and 70," and rambles at length
on "abstruse philosophical points," sits around in his
sari each day, and watches CNN. Yet he claims, "When
your eyes are open by the grace of the Lord then you can see what
is happening in Kuwait, India, in all places."
The spiritual leaders Brown describes are neither illuminating
nor uplifting. They're merely laughable. Creme even publishes
a newsletter, Share International, which regularly reports
Maitreya "sightings" with the same verve and fetishism
that Southerners have for Elvis. ("But these miraculous appearances
were never, it seemed, recorded anywhere else.")
From here, Brown travels to North London to see Mr. Shah, a follower
of the "legendary Indian swami" Sai Baba, who's been
"producing" vibhuti (a kind of holy ash) on portraits
of himself in the Shah's home. This purported "miracle"
has the great effect of causing Shah to abandon his dream to have
his very own snooker table, and instead place a shrine to Sai
Baba in the spare room. At no point does Brown comment on these
fantastic and ludicrous stories, nor does he ever suggest that
perhaps Shah just needs a maid.
A hundred pages into the book, Brown finally makes his way to
India, where he journeys to Dharmavaram to see Sai Baba, to Sera
to visit with a child lama, to Dharamsala to discuss reincarnation
with the Dalai Lama, and to Pondicherry and Madras to investigate
important spiritual female leaders. In snippets, Brown reflects
on his travels in India, a country of mystery and poverty, regrettably
brushing past topics that might have proved interesting and educational.
But even the most engaging story wouldn't rescue this lost "spiritual
tourist," for he has no central figures, no plot, no theme
or organization to hold his protracted, embarrassing chronicle
together. Brown, like so many of the individuals about whom he
writes, has absolutely no direction. He jumps from one topic to
the next--and back again--in a matter of pages. One could skim
paragraphs at random and be just as informed (or confused) by
the book's content.
And he fails to root any of his discussion on Indian and Tibetan
philosophies within their cultural contexts. Sai Baba, Ganesha,
the Dalai Lama and Buddha are integral parts of these societies'
cosmologies. But Brown and his book's intermittent players, rather
than learning about these cultures as outsiders, excerpt quaint
ideas and mold them into their own Western, ego-bloated, Christian-oriented
perspectives, as if sacred components of any belief system could
be plucked from one culture and appropriated into another. At
times, The Spiritual Tourist resembles a Tom Clancy novel:
If you know nothing about the subject--be it military reconnaissance
or religion and spirituality--you might willfully suspend your
disbelief; the author sure as hell isn't going to any length to
educate you, though.
Every so often, Brown does manage to throw in a pleasing tidbit,
like the hoax of the "crosses of light" which appear
in the windows of a church in Tennessee; or the spiritual charlatans
Guru Maharaj Ji and Chogyan Trungpa, who once lived in Denver.
Trungpa, though now known for excessive drinking and coercing
his female followers into sex, founded America's "first Tibetan
meditation centre in Colorado, and later, the Naropa teaching
institute." One of his pupils also happened to be the poet
Allen Ginsberg. Maharaj Ji, in a similar vein, amassed such a
personal fortune he owned 93 Rolls-Royces, and owed the Indian
government $4 million in back taxes. However, these textual "treats"
(interspersed through the last 50 pages) hardly add to Brown's
search for spirituality. They more curiously resemble articles
the National Enquirer might publish.
Are we really so desperate to find meaning in our mechanized,
Western lives that we'll adhere to any rhetoric that plagiarizes
other cultures and unconditionally condemns science? Why are "saviors"
like Maitreya the most likely candidates to swoop in and solve
the problems of the world that we've created? Must spirituality
be the blind (and dumb) faith that someone else will clean up
our mess?
Perhaps this is why these "spiritualists" condemn science:
Scientists reveal our problems and mistakes, and begin the dialogue
about how we're to solve them right here in the material world.
Scientists take responsibility; spiritualists wait passively,
nursing themselves with cable news.
If the difference between humans and chimps is signification
(that is, our ability to signify and symbolize), then The Spiritual
Tourist would seem proof that as often as not, we grasp frantically
for meaning only to end up looking like a bunch of monkeys.
Until the long-awaited end, the book conveys a sense of faith
and hope--hope that the author will go somewhere in 300 pages
with his mindless chatter. One need not read past page 88, however,
where Brown sums up the whole of his work in three sentences:
"Once again, I found myself feeling almost envious of somebody
else's certainty. 'I feel as if I'm in a washing-machine,' I said.
'Everything just keeps churning round and round and I can't get
a focus on any of it.' " At last, a point on which we can
agree.
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