Saying Goodbye: The Walk Back-day 2

Finally Off our Feet


After a lifetime of eleven hours walking down the steep mountains, we got to Sunil's house, just in time before my feet and knees staged a coup and refused to move forward. Our spirits though were somewhat restored. I had been picking up heavy pissed off vibes for press-ganging everyone to march on after the Shaman's, but now that we were in a clean guesthouse, with  smiling hosts, a warm cup of tea in our hand, dinner on the way and only a three hour walk to the bus tomorrow to look towards (not forward to, definitely not that!), Robin and I were once again  chattering happily, whilst unfurling our sleeping bags and making the room ours for the night, by strewing around clothes, shoes and whatever came to hand out of our backpacks.


As on my last stay at Sunil's, the villagers came in throngs around dusk to buy cigarettes, rice, dried noodles and other provisions from his one- shelf grocery store. Although he has no demand for bottled water, Sunil went off somewhere and soon came back with  four bottles for Robin and me.


Aaahhh...the clean taste of that water! No sootiness from the wood-fire like our water in Bigu. And the safety in drinking it! So unlike the constant worry at the back of our minds at Bigu when we drank the spring water off the mountain. We guzzled it, luxuriating in its silk, cooling wetness at the back of our throat and forgetting that although Sunil's is a clean guesthouse, the toilet is still outside. The thought of having to traipse down the stairs, into the yard and into the squat toilet cubicle, at least probably twice in the middle of the pitch black cold night, was not welcome.


Thankfully, I had a brainwave based on a previous trip to the Everest, with my inventive husband. Take two empty water bottles, slice off the top to make a large enough opening and hey, presto you have two pee-receptacles. We designated a part of our room as the privy, opened the windows to be able to empty the bottles whenever needed and in the interest of convenience and comfort, we banned both shyness and embarrassment from the room.


Feeling pleased with ourselves we walked downstairs, or in my case, hobbled downstairs, trying to keep all contact off my toes. Believe me, it is not easy walking without using your toes. Try it. It's a duck-like waddle that threatens to topple you over at every step. I was in my socks, having left my flip flops with an admiring nun. I sat down, marvelled at my multiple blisters' shape and size and ministrated to them by applying those lovely Compeed plasters at various strategic angles.


The Chicken's Revenge


Whilst I was sitting on the porch,  sorting out my feet, a customer walked into Sunil's shop. He had a dirty and very bloody rug around his thump. He sat down and contributed to the lively cacophonous discussion and cigarette smoke haze. A while later, Tashi came out and asked if I had any bandages. The man had sliced off a chunk off his thumb. He had been slaughtering a chicken and the knife bounced off the chicken's neck bones and took a slice of his thumb. The bleeding hadn't stopped yet. I got my medical kit out and handed over a bottle of sterillon and a roll of bandages. I really don't know what Tashi thought when I very clearly said that I wasn't touching the bloody hand and nor should he. He ignored me and cleared the man's would and bandaged it up. I felt bad. This was a human being in need and I wouldn't touch him. Yet, the drill about HIV in our society is too strong to ignore. 


Later on the man complained of pain. I gave him a painkiller and wondered about leaving the packet behind. I didn't. I had visions of him taking too many or with alcohol or leaving them in reach for children to take. I thought about how vulnerable these people are. They have no medicine, not even a plaster or a simple painkiller. The nearest doctor is half a day's walk away. They have no way of dealing with simple wounds, what do they do in real emergencies?


Sunil's customers hang out to observe the two foreign women eating their dhal and rice. Over dinner, the injured man re-told the story of slaughtering the chicken and added that it was the bad karma of killing it that caused him to almost chop his thump off.  


The Last Three Hours

I had hoped that my toes would heal miraculously overnight. Though I winced when I put on my walking shoes that morning, I was sure that after half an hour's walk my toes would go numb and I would be fine. 

We had a quick breakfast of roti and asked Sunil and his wife for photos. Photos are a serious business in Nepal. Sunil and his wife have beautiful warm smiles. Yet, like a lot of the little nuns and most people in these mountains, the minute you ask them to pose for the camera, they become serious, unsmiling and stilted. Take the snap and the smiles return!


We started the walk under the auspices of a weak gold light from the early morning sun and a freshness in the air. We walked on a sandy, dusty road, encountering villagers collecting firewood and cutting vegetation for their animals. Children played and shouted "hello, hello", "hello,namaste". It was a fine day to be walking the final three hours to our bus ride to Kathmandu. Robin and I re-affirmed how right we were to have done the long walk the day before, leaving the tail end for today. 


We walked past many villages and many houses. We said many Namaste. The sun got stronger and we got hotter and finally joined an endless series of steps taking us steeply down into the valley and to Barharbasi, the dirty, polluted, bus -stop- of -a -town. 


After half an hour, I could not even pretend that my toes didn't hurt. They screamed at me, they moaned and winged their outrage for my abuse of them. They throbbed and ached. They felt like sharp needles were being stuck in them after a good sanding by ground glass. My toe nails added to the general misery. I tried to oblige by changing my gait and trying to tread lightly...but how lightly can you land 60kg  going down relentless steps: one, two, three...fifteen...sixty...a hundred...five hundred...STOOOOP! I stopped and discovered that starting was harder every time. 


A little longer in and my knees joined in the chorus. Step, ach...step...ouch..step...why did I ever want to do this...step...this is agony...step...I just want to sit down and cry...step...think of something else...step...it really hurts...step...I am getting old...step...why did I do all those step classes and jogging that buggered my knees...step...I wonder if my toes are bleeding...step...my heels are rubbing...step...step...step...


You'd have thought the last half an hour would have been a relief. Well, no, it most certainly wasn't. Seeing the town finally below and hearing the hooting and general bedlam, only made me more desperate. I wanted to just be there but I not to get there. I really just-wanted-to-sit-down-and-cry-bitter-tears. I really wanted Scotty to beam me up. I wanted my torture to end. I responded to no Namastes, I said nothing to no one. I just winced in agony and miserably I tried to not feel or think anything.


With the final step onto the town road,  I winced again and stopped. We had to traverse through town to get to the bus. I just couldn't do it. I blindly walked to the first shop I found, randomly picked a pair of flip flops and handed the man the amount of money he asked for, not even registering the ridiculous price or even entering my mind that I should bargain. In the middle of the road, I took my shoes and socks off, purposefully avoided surveying the damage, donned my sky blue Angry Birds flip flops and waddled through town to the bus stop.


On the Bus to Kathmandu


We got there in time for the bus, except that it was full. We had to stand.  No way was I going to stand. Besides the fact that my legs were like jelly, I could put no pressure on my blisters and I was not going to run the high certainty that people would trod on my toes. "When is the next bus," I demanded of Tashi. He mumbled something and said we should take this one and started loading my bags on. My mind went into overspin. I was in pain, frazzled, hot, thirsty and very, very bothered. "I am not getting on this f**** bus", I roared. "We'll catch the next one". And we did. We boarded the bus that was right behind the full one. It was completely empty. A few more people joined us and soon we were on our way. I settled smugly in my seat, sending triumphant text messages saying that I survived the walk down and joking about "...if all goes well, we'll be in Kathmandu in four hours. But, of course this is Nepal! ha ha..."

Was it just a coincidence or fate punishing me? 10 minutes into the journey, the bus came to a standstill behind many other cars, busses and trucks. After lots of hooting, our driver and most passengers went off to go see what the problem was. I was going absolutely nowhere. Putting my feet up, I got comfortably resigned to a possibly long delay. Wild horses would not have enticed me to move. Robin and I were the only ones left on the bus. We were told that a bus and a truck tried to get through a narrow part of the road and got wedged. 1000 people were trying to unwedge them. I had  no desire to go see and an overwhelming need to sleep.


Around an hour later, a random man came and said "Come, another bus".  Nooooo...I got out, made him take my backpack and did my toe-less waddle slowly behind him. We met up with Tashi who told us he had a fight to get us on the other bus that was somehow ahead of the wedged vehicles. After a bit of arguing about whether my bags should go on the roof or the boot, we boarded the new bus and found two seats in the back. I plonked myself down relieved we had seats, only to realise that our seat was over the wheel, which meant that our knees were around our necks, with no space to stretch them at all. Oh, that, and the fact that the bottom of our seat was broken, requiring Ronin and me to regularly count one, two, three and push it hard backwards, so we could sit up straight again. Other than that, only the back of my seat was a bit dysfunctional, falling on the man behind me, whose toes incidentally would slip between my seat back and bottom, wedging themselves in my bottom, until I'd yelp and glare at him...and off we'd go again.

All considered, the journey was not too bad. I couldn't sleep, so I just observed the dusty, dishevelled market towns with stalls selling colourful fruit, green vegetables, bright clothes, cooking ware, tyres....At every stop, enterprising young Nepalis would circle the bus or board and squeeze themselves in the overcrowd of standing passengers, selling water, coke, sliced cucumbers with spicy relish, samosas, sweets, or crisps. 











The towns were interspersed with dusty mountains and verdant terraces and the trip was made all the more interesting by the decrepit busses, overloaded trucks, motorbikes with whole families astride and falling apart cars, all speeding and testing each other's nerves by holding onto the middle of the road for as long as possible, before abruptly one or both parties dropping on the road side ditch, whilst hooting loudly. I saw all this mayhem, I heard it and I smelled and tasted it in the dust and fumes that these confrontations raised. 


In Kathmandu, we got off the bus, crammed ourselves and our bags in a taxi and soon we were once more cocooned in the welcoming volunteer house.

Mingmar and Kaela

Scrubbed up and with the first make-up my face had seen in 16 days, I spent that evening and the next day before my flight, at Thamel, the swanky backpackers paradise, eating pizza and shopping with Robin, Kaela and Mingmar. All hardships were forgotten. Well..except from my toes still suffering despite being able to breathe in their Angry Birds flip flops. 














A Promise Fulfilled


As I mentioned in my last blog entry, I didn't want to write the final part of my walk. I invented all sorts of excuses not to bring the trip to an end. On and on the excuses went...and would have probably still be going on if I hadn't had an email from the nuns at Bigu a couple of days ago. You see, I made a promise at Bigu. When I realised how poor the nunnery is, I committed that I would post the Bigu bank account details on my blog site and encourage my friends  - if they want to and only if they really do want to- to send some money to Bigu Gumpa to support the nuns.

Doing the washing up

So, here I am doing something I really hate. I am asking you for money! I know that these days you get asked to sponsor lots of causes. I know that you have your preferred charities. If you however, you have been moved even a bit by my stories and pictures of the little nuns at Bigu and if you can spare a few euros or dollars, then please send it to them. A euro or a dollar in Nepal is the equivalent of around 100 rupees. 100 rupees buys you a good lunch dish in a local restaurant. 

A bowl of rice

I copy below the email from Bigu:

" Dear Elena,

We thanking you in advance.  We all (staffs and nuns of Bigu) wish you Many Tashi Delek. We also thanks to introduce the actual situation of the Bigu Gonpa to other peoples to get supporter and well wishers around the world. Currently we needed food expenditure and shortage of living  rooms for nuns.Therefore please introduces these real condition of the nunnery  to the people and request them their kind support. Presently nuns are performing 16 days fasting practice. 

Thanks and we are looking forward your kind mail.

                                                         Your sincerely Geshe Lobsang Gyaltsen and office of Bigu nunnery "

Learning Tibetan at the entrance to the temple

The email is an understatement. When I was there the nuns were eating rice and potato curry on a good day. Mostly, it was rice with a watery lentil gravy.  Some evenings their meal was a watery rice porridge with nothing else. No vegetables, no protein of any sort. They never have fruit. They can't afford a teacher that can teach them anything beyond Nepali and Tibetan. 150USD a month can hire them a qualified teacher to teach them  Nepali, Tibetan, English and Maths perhaps. They have no classroom and take classes outside or at the entrance to the temple. 

Inquisitive minds

My request for a bank account number created a bit of a stir. The nuns didn't know it, nor knew if they had a bank account at all. It has been confirmed now that the monastery has not got bank account. I asked Volunteer Nepal, the charity that organised my trip, if they would be willing to receive money for Bigu into their PayPal account and pass it on in cash to the nuns. They graciously agreed. The details are posted on the right hand side on my blog under Bigu Donations. 

The rest, I leave to you.


Tahi Delek-Namaste

Dinner time

An ocatgenarian nun

Cooking

Saying Goodbye: The Walk Back- day 1

The Last Chapter

It is now three weeks since I returned from Nepal. Three weeks, a weekend trip to Beijing, a week-long trip to The Netherlands for work and lots of catching up with friends, work and chores. Yet, Nepal, or to be more precise, the people I met there, are still with me.

I run out of all -but -one-story to tell of my time there. And I have been resisting telling it. It is about my walk down the mountain from Bigu and on to Kathmandu. For the last two weeks I have been telling myself to go write it and every day I find reasons not to: the story is told and done with no need for the last walk,  I need to move on to China stories, I am too busy, too tired, not inspired enough, need to do "real" work, I can't remember those two days clearly...Deep down I know that I don't want to write about that last walk because it signifies an ending, the close of a chapter that I am reluctant to close.

But last night, at 3am, in my very lucid jet lag sleeplessness, I realised that closing the chapter does not mean I have to close my heart to Nepal or to the little nuns. I realised too that I do need to close this Nepal story, to enable me to start on another thread, perhaps China, perhaps something else. I'll only know where my imagination takes me once I release this last part of my trip to the Nepal Himalayas.

So here it is....

Leaving Bigu Behind

On my last night at Bigu Gumpa, I lay for hours, wide awake, in my sleeping bag. I was wondering if I should just change my mind and stay a few more days. I was thinking of all the little nuns' faces; their innocence and mischievousness. I was grateful for the hospitality of the head nun, the warmth of Nwang, the head teacher, and her tangy fresh lemonade which we drank in front of her room by her beautiful  sweet peas and the belly- filling kindness of the cook with the big smile and sadness behind the eyes.

I looked around the room in the darkness. A tiny cell with two cots, two tiny windows letting in the star light. I got up, padded quietly outside and stood on the narrow wooden balcony. The night chill gave a  caress to my exposed face and then seeped through my thin sleeping clothes. I ignored it and breathed in the mountain breeze. I looked up at the sky canopy and gasped. Zillions of stars clamoured for space in the vast dome above the mighty mountains. They twinkled like precious brilliant diamonds. There were so many that my eyes could not decipher the space between them. I tried to find the most brilliant ones and looked at them in awe. The moon, half crescent, played shadows with the stupas and the gently fluttering prayer flags in the square below me. The door to the monastery temple was closed. All I could hear was the sound of profound silence and I fancied that the energy around me was gently vibrating with peace, generated by the soul waves of all the sleeping nuns. I asked myself to store this feeling for times of trouble and I returned to my bed refreshed, feeling safe, peaceful and very alive.

I am not sure if I slept at all that night, but  by the time I got up I felt positively energised. I waited for the 4am morning puja conch to boooooo its way around the valley and bounce off the high peaks and I smiled at the predictable outraged barking of the dogs.

At 6.30am the nuns took a break from their puja to say goodbye to us. They came out into the morning light and we all posed for group photos and hugged. Robin and I had to promise again and again that we would go back: "Come back miss", "Miss coming back, please miss", "When you coming back miss?" It was hard to hold back the tears of both happiness, for having the precious opportunity to experience such love and acceptance and of sadness, for living them behind. Would I return? I wasn't sure I knew how to answer that question.





The head nun and the visiting monk presented us with long white long Buddhist friendship scarves, wishing us safe travels and good speed. With a large entourage of nuns we walked to the monastery gate.

One step over the threshold and we were on the wide mountain slope. We looked back, with tears in our eyes and smiles on our lips, at the waving nuns until we couldn't see them any more.








































With Spring in our Steps

The mood changed. We were on our way back. Robin was chattering, telling me stories from her intriguing life. I was grateful for that. We were both wary of the walk back and this was keeping our minds off the road. I was also grateful for the trust that she was placing in me and felt privileged for the intimacy. Our experiences here cut through the niceties and pre-ambles of new friendships and created a closeness that I hope will last a lifetime and will override geography and time differences.

The morning air was fresh and soon we were walking through a pine forest that strangely reminded me of the Ionian Islands, so much so, that though absurd, every time the trees opened up a little to offer views of the valley below, I was expecting to see the Greek blue sea, dotted with white sails sliding across it. The smell of fresh pine was invigorating and the carpet of thick brown pine needles cushioned our steps.

There were four of us. Robin and me, Tashi and our new porter, Gopal, a twenty three year old stroppy youth, that shouldered my heavy backpack. We were walking downhill at a steadily fast pace, knowing that after an hour or so we would hit a very steep relentless upward slope, which would last for at least 3 hours and would take us back to the plateau at 3,300 feet.














Through our laboured breathing and the weight of our backpacks, we carried on talking, as we started our steep upward climb. My admiration goes completely to Robin who opted for carrying her own bag, whilst Gopal carried my heavy load as if in a breeze in the park!

















Soon we were stopping for photos. In the week that had passed since my descend on this road on the way to Bigu, the mountain slopes and deep crevices had bloomed riotously. Giant white magnolias, red, pink and white rhododendrons and a sweet smelling purple bush with a strong sweet aroma reminiscent of lilacs, delighted our senses. We were lucky that the sun was hiding behind the clouds and the cool mountain breeze gently trailed our skins, bringing relief from the heat we were generating in the effort of walking uphill.

At a beautiful roadside waterfall we stopped for photos. My crazy American companion shed her shoes and top and stood under the cold freezing water cascades, whilst I enviously looked on, the shackles of sensibility (yes, sometimes I am sensible...no heckles please!) keeping me dry. Next time, Robin, I am joining you!

When a silence descended, each in our thoughts, walking at our pace,  I alternated admiring the views with hatching plots again on how to ambush Tashi and minimise our time at our lunch stop, the dreaded 3,300m inn. I felt like Baldrick, with a cunning plan, in Black Adder. I wanted us to stop only very shortly at the dreaded high inn, so that we could walk on to the Photang Shaman's house early enough for me to suggest that we should push on to Sunil's house. Sunil's house, was only three hours away from the bus to Kathmandu, whilst the Shaman's was six hours away. I wanted an easier day's walk to the bus the next day. Besides, Sunil's house was cleaner than the Shaman's. Robin agreed with me, but I still had to reckon with Tashi.

Eyes Locked at 3,300m

After four hours we were at the inn at 3,300m, where the toddler was more benignly behaved than at my last visit. The lady welcomed us with large smiles.

Sitting at the hearth waiting for my instant noodles soup, I felt watched. I turned my head to the right and through the doorway of the kitchen, across the narrow hall corridor and past the threshold to the bedroom, my eyes locked with those of the inn keeper's husband. He was sitting up in bed and was staring at me. I met his gaze unflinchingly. I am not sure what the stares were really about. But it felt  like a combat of sorts. A combat of wills? A measuring of strength of opponents, waiting for a gauntlet to be thrown? Perhaps we had met in a previous life with scores to settle. Or maybe, he was just responding to my "watch out dude, you don't fool me, nor do you scare me" vibes. He got out of bed, put his pants on and walked outside.

We slurped our noodles and 45 minutes later we were on the road again.

Down the Long Slope

From this point on it was a continuous descend. You might think, like I did, that this would be good after the hard climb. Well, it did feel good. Letting gravity take its toll, speeding as fast as my legs would allow, I slowed down the momentum that would have had me tumbling down the mountain in a heap, by applying 3 break systems: holding my body backwards as parallel to the decline as possible, controlling the angle of my knees and applying pressure with my toes. I left Tashi, Robin and Gopal behind, taking  pride in my manic speed, even though I knew I would pay for it with knee pain and toe blisters. Yet, the exhilaration was great and at that point, and fool that I am, I was prepared to pay the price.

Eventually, my pace evened out and Robin, Tashi and I played a game of taking the lead, being overtaken and catching up to put the worlds to rights on issues ranging from the environment to NGOs and our futures. We walked at our own speeds, stopping to check  if the others were ok, to chat and then moving on again.

We still stopped  on the way to make photos of children and flowers, Robin dispensed her English children's books and gracious love at both young humans and young sheep and goats.

There was fun and there was intimacy and there was soltude on that walk. The mountains and the flowers brightened the spirit. The children and young animals seemed hopeful. There was spaciousness and a special energy that talked directly to your soul.

By the time we were approaching the Shaman's house in Photend, we were all tired with weary legs, so when I said: "We'll be at the Shaman's by three. If we have a break and are on our way by 3.30, we'll make it to Sunil's by 6.30, just before nightfall",  Tashi stiffened. Robin looked from him to me, trapped between our wills. I steeled myself for a confrontation.

The flags approaching the Shaman's house

As it happened, no confrontation was necessary. Close by the Shaman's we were greeted by loud socialising coming from the kitchen and a tall, shaggy haired German in a loose shirt, opened to his navel, revealing a long necklace of thick beads. Aha! A Shaman-to-be, I thought remembering Tashi's information about the German group wanting to learn Shamanism, on our way up the mountain. "You comin' from up ze mountain? Brave legz". I was delighted! Tashi would definitely not want to stay around drugs and god -knows -what -other- imagined and real depravities.

We sat on the low wall in front of the house and unlike last time I was here, no one bothered to come and greet us. Nepali guides, both women and men, flitted self-importantly past us completely ignoring us.  We could hear the voices of foreigners laughing and mingling with home grown accents and we caught the occasional glimpse of a blond woman in a wooly hat and a strappy tank top, tightly fitted around her heavy breasts.

Finally, the Shaman's wife, came out to replenish the jugs of rakshi, the frothy alcoholic drink favoured in these parts. Tashi and she exchanged a few words and soon we were on our way again, looking at three more hours of leg- numbing, mind- bending walking.

Part of me was intrigued by the foreigners at the Shaman's and as we walked away I wondered a few times if we should have stayed. Might have made for interesting stories.

The mood now was glum, everyone in their own world, weary and fed up. Tashi was trying  and failing to ring Sunil by phone, worrying if he and his wife might not be there. I was feeling alternately guilty and defiant for making everyone walk the extra hours to Sunil's house, but mostly I didn't care. I was happy to be moving on.

The macho stomping down the mountain finally caught up with me to collect its toll on my, by now sore toes, and the shortcuts became steeper playing havoc with my fear of falling. I was thankful to Tashi for his kind consideration and helping hand with getting down the sometimes vertical steps.

On and on we went, trying to keep up with the changing light that would soon fade. We passed more houses and more villagers, more often than higher up. The terraces were now planted with the luscious lime green of spring wheat and corn. The sun that had caught up with us after the Shaman's house was  shedding orange hues across the houses and in the yards people were gathering to rest and chat with their neighbours after a hard day's toiling in the fields. The mountain peaks were gradually casting their shadows and a chill was starting to surf the atmosphere.

And three and half hours later, at 6.30pm, just as the light was being replaced by a purple grey dusk, we arrived at Sunil's.

Eleven hours after leaving Bigu, our new hosts, Sunil and his wife, graciously welcomed us.

The final walk to the bus bound for Kathmandu to follow....

               

Soul Thoughts on Flying

So, here I am in another airport. Impersonal places where we live hours of boredom, anticipation and loss. Places where everyone is in transition; from here to there. Leaving loved ones behind, going towards a new life, going home, leaving a miserable life for one full of hope. Going or coming back from yet another meeting, looking forward to a holiday break or coming back from one. Going to a lover or leaving one...Crowded places, full of people in their own cocooned world waiting for the entrance to the next step in their lives.

Soon, in an amazingly ridiculous display of trust in a tin box that floats on air, I will be above the clouds, being transported thousands of miles from where I’ve just been. Thousands of miles and thousands of experiences ahead of what I would have had to go through if I were to go by land and sea, as the old explorers and travellers used to do.  

Flying. Our bodies get frazzled…our minds get confused.  And what of our souls? Do our souls get left behind? Or do we render them in limbo in places that we loved, people we belonged with, even people we loathed and places we never fitted in?

Do we, every time we fly to new lands and new experiences, leave a bit of our essence behind? Do we lose a bit of ourselves? And if so, is it so that we can make space for new experiences and weave an extension to our soul, a new part that alters who we are and who we have been? Or does the loss leave a gap? A vacuum that can’t be filled and ultimately leaves us empty and hungry for what we were and what we could have been? 

Maybe it's none of the above. Perhaps, unlike our body and mind that hit the foggy wall of jet lag, our soul just floats in space and time unperturbed. It may just glide on the wings of time and space, unflustered. After all, it is reputed to defy death. 

Exercising Choice

Choice?

Last full day at Bigu Gompa. I feel a little wistful.  For 5 days I have been easily and generously accepted as a member of this community of nuns. Would I want to stay here longer? I am not sure. I am tired of the dirt and grime. I want a clean western style toilet, a hot running clean shower, food I can eat without wondering if it will give me stomach cramps. I’d like lots of clean drinking water without the fear of getting sick from drinking it.

I am dreading the walk back, but I know that I’ll make it. A- step- at- a -time. I’ll huff and puff and be miserable and will curse myself numerously for choosing to go through these hardships. But, every step will be a step  closer to getting home, as my friend Sheena reminded me. 

At 6.30am tomorrow Robin and I will start the 2 day walk that will get us to the  crowded and decrepit bus bound for Kathamandu on Monday afternoon-if everything goes to plan. And next day at midnight I’ll board the flight back to my life.




How has this trip changed me, I wonder again? In what ways will I carry these mountains and the people I met with me? Sunil the porter, the first Shaman’s little boys and his iron-willed wife, the inn keeper and her toddler on the high pass, the second Shaman and his 10-children bearing wife and of course the wonderful nuns; especially the little ones.

Washing up

I get to thinking about the nuns. I have mostly interacted with  the young novices. The youngest, 7-year old, Tenzin Sangmo is a tiny girl with a big smile, who although likes to pose for photos as much as every other young nun there, given a choice she much prefers to be taking them. Her eyes light up if you offer her the camera and she seriously focuses on taking the pictures. Neema is a nine year old cheeky tomboy, full of life and laughter.

Tenzin taking photos

Neema

Some of these young nuns, like Tenzin and Neema, are so sweet that I want to take them with me, away from dirt and hardships. As soon as this thought hits my consciousness, it gives me pause. Is it true that they are experiencing misery? They seem happy. They run about and play, smiling and laughing all day long. Still, they hardly get any education, apart from Tibetan, Nepali and haphazard English. Their diet consists of rice, dhal and potato and lacks any form of nutrition that their young bodies need to grow strong and healthy. They hardly get any affection from the older nuns and they work hard at washing the dishes by the stream water, cleaning and cooking in medieval conditions. I am not being a critical Westerner. Or at least, I try not to be. I just try to notice and think through what life will be like for them in the future. 

I try to imagine the years ahead of Tenzin and Neema, ahead of all the novice nuns I met here. I wonder the same questions I wondered when I met the baby monks in Boudha. How many of them will stay nuns? How many will stay nuns happy and knowing that this road is the one for them? How many will be unhappy enough and brave enough to leave? How many will be unhappy, but not brave and will stay in a life they don’t want and most likely didn't choose? 

I thought monasteries are pious places. I don’t find this place very pious. At puja you only see the young nuns. They are obliged to attend. Some of the adult nuns attend, but not many. There are around 70 nuns in Bigu Gumpa I am told. I am sure the number is an exaggeration. I have seen the odd old nun here and there, but hardly any of them go to Puja or to the kitchen for meals. Apparently, the old ones tend to stay in their rooms to pray and meditate and they even cook there, preferring not to interact with others much. The Rinpoche is hoping to build a community of nuns at Bigu on the foundations of the new kitchen he has commissioned. The rest of the adults, like the Head nun, the Head teacher, the Cook claim too much work and skip Puja.


My sensibilities are offended; I find it “wrong". After all, didn’t they become nuns to pray? Isn’t it their job?And praying in your room is not really the same thing, is it? Besides how about giving a good example to the new nuns?


In truth, I am in no position to judge them. I have spent 5 day here and if I am honest, I know nothing of their lives. Beyond the common reason offered "I wanted to pray and be a nun", it would a take a long time to build enough intimacy and find out how they feel about it now. It would certainly require the absence of an interpretor, or at least a really skilled female one, to get to the real answers that I glimpse flashing momentarily in their eyes, before they give me the socially acceptable responses.

I find myself repeatedly asking each of them (and every monk I come across) why they became a nun and why they stay one. In my questions I notice a judgement and catch the shadow questions behind the ones I ask out loud. Do they stay nuns because they really like it and want it, or because they know of nothing else and have nowhere else to go? Did they become nuns because their lives outside the monastery offered nothing more than hopelessness and unhappiness? Did they escape a life of abuse and misery with this choice? I realise that the deeper question I want an answer to, is why anyone would choose to live such a life. I ask if there are statistics on how many of the little ones remain nuns once they are old enough to understand and make a choice for themselves. Of course there are no statistics and even if there were they wouldn’t tell me.

Embarrassed at my own judgemental closed-mindedness, I probe further into what I really object to. It is this: The choice for the young nuns, like Tenzin, like the baby monks in Boudha, is made for them; and it is made for them, at a very early stage in their lives. I wonder if that is so different for Western kids. Parents and teachers and the education system drive their choices for them: what school they will attend, what exams they’ll take, what sports they’ll do. Yes, I know, somehow there is a difference. Or is there...? 


I reflect some more and realise that the main issue here for me is “choice”? Then I laugh at myself. We are so conditioned in the West about “having” a choice” and about “exercising that choice”; about taking the "responsibilty of our choices”. How appalled was I when Grandpa said he was happy about not having the responsibility of earning a living, of having property, of dealing with desire! Yet, a little voice nudges me, how many people in our so called "civilised" society would very much like to abdicate (marvellous judgemental word) their “choice,” in exchange for no responsibility? 


My head hurts from these musings. I have no answers. I still have an unease about these children being herded (judgemental again!) into the monasteries at such an early age, but I don't know enough about their lives. Really, I don't know enough about the monastic life to make a sensible judgement. Maybe in time I'll go looking for more answers. 


For now I let go and give in to the positive energy of the place. It suddenly occurs to me that maybe, this energy is what brings and keeps these children and women here. 


I am going to the afternoon Puja. I have asked the Head nun if they would pray for my family and friends, the living and the dead. She happily said yes and adds that Pujas for the Dead are done in the afternoon and for the Living in the early morning.


A Puja for my Dead

5pm.  The conch boooooo-ed and the gong gong-ed. 

Going to Puja

The littles nuns are busy running around, posing for photos and playing.The patient nun ringing the gong, rang it again and again, well beyond the call of duty, until the nuns started to treacle into the monastery temple.

The chanting is well under way and still little burgundy whirlwinds rush in, stop abrubtly at the entrance, press their hands in Namaste,  kneel and prostrate to the Buddha, get up up again and repeat the process 3 times, before hurrying to their pre-assigned seat and picking up the chant.

The butter tea urns arrive. The kitchen novices pour cups of butter tea along the long rows of nuns, having first of course made tea offerings to the Buddha and the Rinpoche's photo. The older nuns are praying using their rosary beads to keep count. The young ones are chatting  and looking over my way. I wave and they wave back giggling behind their hands.

The big drum

The chanting stops and silent praying and meditation starts. Occasionally you hear a voice, often very young, very quietly reciting Om Mani Padne OM...

I open my eyes from my own meditation. The afternoon sun is streaming through the windows on the polished blond old knarled floorboards. Shadows play on the painted Buddha wall images and the smell of the newly applied vermillion paint of the wall skirting is strong.

In the monastery temple

More big pots of tea arrive, carried aloft above her head by tiny Tenzin, struggling under the weight.

Time passes and the room begins to chill and darken in proportion to the weakening sun rays outside.

Silk hangings in the monastery temple

There is a peace sitting here in this room full of young spirits who by whatever route have devoted their lives to cleansing the sins of this world through prayer. There is a peace in the atmosphere, in the immobility of the hanging tapestries and the Buddha images and the big Buddha statue. There is a peace in the wisperings of the mantras. There is a peace in the slowly dimming light. It brings a stillness inside that lets you know that you don’t need anything and that the world is as it should be. 


There is an intangible something, a spaciousness, an openness that goes far beyond the four walls of this room and the vastness of the mountains and plains surrounding us. There is a presence that is not present and can't be seen or touched but is palpably felt. A presence that fills you up and yet leaves you empty of sorrow and sadness. it  is a longing already fulfilled. Here in this room, there is peace of mind. 

Puja for the Dead

In the monastery temple

The chanting has restarted. The Head nun approaches me and says “your Puja just started”.  I am a bit disoriented and not sure what I am meant to do. She extends her arm and I get up and join her in bowing to the Buddha 3 times, just like I have seen the nuns do. We then approach the main altar where she gives me 2 ghee candles to light. "Say a wish for them" she says and I wish that "May they be at peace wherever and in whatever existence they are".

The candles' flames sputter as the Head nun flicks some liquid on them  from a tiny urn. "To remove any obstacles"  she says and she then pours a bit of it in my palm, instructing to sip. It is bitter, overstewed, cold sage tea. Then, she takes a stack of rupee notes, converted from the offering I gave her earlier, and passes a white scarf over them. She hands me the scarf and a few notes to place on the altar and indicates I should bow to the Buddha. We do the same to the Rinpoche’s photo, as well as to the photos of a couple of, what I assume to be, earlier Rinpoches or important Lamas.

Then we move along the rows of chanting nuns. I put notes infront each one of them and I bow Namaste. They Namaste back and bow their heads. Some of the little ones smile and say thank you. All of a sudden they don't look like children anymore. I notice a focus and a solemnity in their chanting. Their faces are intend in saying a prayer for my Dead souls. As I move along, I feel my tears welling and my breath catching. I sit back in my place and remember them all, one by one. The ones long gone and the ones that are still recent; and the tears come and run freely. The little nuns opposite me look alarmed. I smile through my tears and they smile back with relief. They are still children...

Their chanting has now changed to melodic singing. To my ears it sounds joyful and light and matches the release that I feel inside. I get lost in their singing and forget myself in their voices; i am not aware of any thoughts or feelings.

I can see little Neema, 7 years old and tiny beginning to sway. Her pretty little head moves from side to side, turns a semi circe and back. She seems floppy and far, far away…I watch amazed and I am sure that this young child has dropped into a trance. She gives a big yawn and sits up…I try not to laugh at my fanciful mind. No trance, just a tired sleepy child that has been up since 4.30am that morning! The day is drawing to an end and probably only her growiling tummy is  standing between her and bed.

Now, the nuns are back to their rhythmic monotonous chanting. We’ve been in puja now for 2.5 hours. The soleminity is now fast seeping out of the nuns.Their childishness is gradually returning. They are begining to chat and be restless once again.

The older nuns begin wrapping their scripute books in saffron coloured cloths and all nuns start clapping rhythmically as their chanting becomes more and more of a deep mumbling. The clapping stops and starts again 3 times.

The chanting and clapping stops abrubtly and the little nuns scamper to the kitchen for their last meal before bed.


At the Head nun's
I head for the kitchen too in search of some warmth and tea. I sit and chat with the cook who is making momo dumplings for our goodbye meal. The Head nun comes in and motions me to follow her. We go to her room. Tashi and Robin are already there. She hands me a mug of milky coffee. I understand this is a luxury here and I don't have the heart to tell her that I don't drink coffee. I sip it slowly and relish the love and care that was poured into it. We have a snack of hard boiled eggs and fried bread dough. 


I feel a pull to stay a few more days. There is pace here and there is friendship and an acceptance that goes beyond words. I felt the same earlier that afternoon when Nwang, the Head teacher, took us to her room and offered us deliciously tangy-sweet lemon tea. And when Tenzin and a few other nuns came to our room to play memory game with little picture squares of things they'll never see or know about, like ice-cream cones, castles and diamond rings.


I don't know in what ways I will carry them in my heart, but carry them I will.

Tenzin

Doing the washing up

Making momos

Playing the memory game

Making momos

The generous Head nun