Morning Puja and a Shamanic Ceremony

Morning Puja

The dogs were barking their heads off and an animal was howling. A wolf? A fox? It sounded particularly ferocious. The sound was chilling and it brought me abruptly out of the haze of sleep. 5am. Heart pounding, I asked Robin, also awake, what animal it was that was making such a dreadful noise. She laughed...It was the conch waking up the nuns to attend morning Puja. Every single morning it sets off the dogs and in symphony, I am sure, they wake up even the dead! 

By the time I got myself together and got to the monastery temple, the nuns were already chanting.   The fluorescent light, a rude awakening and a disappointment to my romantic sensibilities, cast its cold light and yet failed to diminish the sacred-ness of the occasion.

I sat on my own  in the far back, left hand corner of the temple. Through still bleary eyes,  I noticed that it was mostly the young nuns that were in attendance, with only a smattering of the older ones here and there. They were all draped in heavy robes, some saffron and some yellow, over their burgundy habits.

The puja lasted 2 hours. At frequent intervals the two young kitchen helpers came in with big teapots of butter tea. Each time they entered the temple, they put the tea pot on the floor, lifted their hands in Namaste  in a one fluid movement from heart to forehead and genuflected. They repeated this 3 times, re-arranged their robes, picked up the teapots and served tea to every nun, in order of seniority, but only after making a tea offering to the Buddha at the altar. I was touched that the second time they came in, they brought a clean mug and served me tea too.

The chanting sounds like a continuous stream of loud murmuring.  It is hypnotic and yet  not melodious in the least. Its endings in particular are discordant and for some bizarre reason kept reminding me of how dough pulls back in random asymmetric ways when rolled out inexpertly.

Punctuating the chanting, comes the sounds of buggles , the conch and the drums. The buggles are played at both high and low frequencies, sometimes lamenting and sometimes triumphant, blaring in a constant ear splitting pitch. 

The drum starts slow and grave and speeds up to a frenzy. I felt its vibrations transmitting themselves through the blond polished wooden floor, through my spine and solar plexus, to my whole body. It was a strangely comforting sensation, drawing me deeper into a meditative state.

The two big white conches, on and off were taken out on the terrace at the entrance to the temple  and were blown hard and loud in a continuous high pitch for a few minutes at a time.

It was like falling and madly twirling in a vat of noise. And then at this cacophony’s crescendo, abruptly all noise would stop and a great silence would follow. The nuns would then meditate or pray silently for as long as 15 or 20 minutes at a time. And the bugles and the drums would resume.

 Throughout the ceremony, some of the younger nuns were chattering and clowning around. At one point, a disembodied, long hooked drum stick, reached out and rapped one particularly lively little nun on the head. The rest around her giggled and carried on being disruptive.They pinched each other, laughed, rustled and generally misbehaved. Am I surprised? Do you know any children between the ages of 6-12 that would sit quietly and obediently  for 2.5 hours at 5am? I think the little nuns do well as it is.

I left the temple a little before the Puja ended. I was grateful  for being allowed to fly on the back of their robes to the peace and quiet meditation brings to the mind.

I spent the rest of the morning taking photos and playing with the young nuns.

...But really, I was getting ready for my second encounter with the Shaman of Bigu. I was looking forward to his demonstration, while at the same time I was anxiously wondering if it would unhinge his mind and what I was letting myself in for. Apparently he was going to perform a ceremony for my health and good luck. I sure hoped that I would not get spat on and blown on, as I did at the Kathmandu fortune teller's.

Shamanic Ceremony

We arrived to find the Shaman in his mere-mortal persona,  laying slabs of  stone to the path leading to him house with the help of another villager.

He dropped what he was doing and ushered us into the courtyard and offered us the obligatory teeth curling local pepsi,  having wiped the inside of the cups first with his filthy shirt.

And then, just like the day before, he started fluffing again. Sit here, move this, bring that, light the incence, re-arrange the flowers at the altar, bring more drinks…His wife and daughter were rushing about doing his bidding. The herbs he threw on the incense burner let off acrid smoke, making me choke. 

For good measure, I asked if this  puja was for good health and good luck. A long animated conversation ensued, to which the answer was a simple“yes" by Tashi.

Finally, the Shaman pointed to my voice recorder and regally instructed me to switch it on. Time for the show to go on…

We were sitting on his terrace in the same formation more or less as the day before. He sat behind his altar with his helper, his little daughter, on his left who holding the vase with the plastic red flowers. His wife sat on his right hand side and I sat at right angles to her on a reed mat. The patio slab layer was all of a sudden part of our ceremony too and sat opposite the Shaman. I designated Tashi the official photographer and we were all set.

The Shaman started to beat his drum with what looked like a miniature Egyptian staff. There was a certain amount of dust lifting off it every time he whacked it.

 He chanted urgently, occasionally barking order, in a completely different tone of voice, to his wife and the patio builder, who was now dipping small pieces of foliage into cups with the local alcohol and then twirling his wrists, flicking the liquid around.

The Shaman handed me one of the cups of alcohol to drink from. I was mortified, but Tashi came to the rescue:"Just pretend you are taking a sip, you don't have to drink. ” I moved the cup towards my lips. The fumes smacked my nose. It smelled like very rough apple snaps. Under different conditions of hygiene I just might have tried a sip!

Whilst I was busy with not drinking the drink, the drumming increased in speed. The Shaman placed  the drum just over my head and continued beating. It was thudding into my skull. He started flicking it from one side of  my head to the other, very close to my ears. It was so LOUD that I could not hear myself think. The handle of the instrument kept coming perilously close to my eyes and I became determined not to remove my sunglasses.

Chanting and drumming all the time, he brought the pointed end of the drum handle down on my spine, throat, arms, chest, belly, knees and toes in rapid succession.

Then he picked up three hollow tiger bones and two sticks topped with a bush of colourful tatty –and yes, filthy dirty- rugs and started to very quickly twirl the whole bizzare bouquet around my head. At the feel of the rugs swirling through my hair I squealed;




His wife and daughter laughed their heads off. I could  see that he was having difficulty controlling his laughter himself under his chanting.

I kept my eyes closed and felt the sting of a volley of  something really small and very hard on my skin. He  had forcefully lobbed a fistful of rice at me. It went everywhere; in my hair, my clothes, my note-book...




His chanting and drumming was now punctuated by blowing air in my face, spitting at me and wagging the tiger bones and dirty cloth bunch around my head. No, not again! How much spitting and blowing can one foreigner take in this country?!



The tiger bone coped me one by the eye! I was so thankful for my foresight to keep the glasses on. The edge of the frame took the blow. Phew!

I was next instructed to pick up the cup of alcohol and hand it over to him. We had to look at each other in the eyes and say “Namaskar." I then repeatd the process with every person present.
That's just polite, right?

The most worrisome part though was still to come.  He and I had to drink from the same cup simultaneously. This sent me off into a panic, wondering if I was  unwittingly in a marriage ceremony. How many wives are they allowed here? Do they have annulment or divorce? Does my consent count? Was this Tashi's ultimate revenge for my insubordination?

Oh, well. Go with the flow, right? So I pretend to drink from the cup. My face was too close to his for comfort....He downed the whole cup and the ceremony was concluded. My miseries were over! 

Or at least that is what I thought. But, no! Had I learned nothing from my fortune teller experience?

Apparently, now came the time that he would be possessed by the Spirits.

I prudently asked if it was ok for me to sit a little further away, so I could take photos you understand. I was thankfully granted that permission.

He started chanting again. He was beating the drum faster and faster. As the beat increased, his knees begun to bounce and in no time he was bouncing crosslegged off the floor. An athletic feat, possession or no possession!

Every time he reached a crescendo, the drumming, the chanting and his bouncing slowed down...only to speed up again. He face was screwed up, with his eyes tightly shut. I thought his face was getting redder and redder aby the minute. He looked very intense and about to burst a vein.

And on and on we went like this…His wife was hiding her mouth with her hand, laughing. His daughter looked perplexed and I...was trying to figure out how to film with my camera. 

Still chanting and drumming, he all of a sudden jumped up onto his feet and begun to twirl around and around. Spinning like a dervish, he begun to circle the group. First from left to right, then from right to left.

Dear gods! He was suddenly standing in front of me. And NO! Here he was again, bashing me on the head and ears with the drum and crooked staff.

He barked an order and his wife handed him something. Busy hiding my head as low into my chest as my neck allowed, I took a quick peak. It was a big bunch of a green wheat-like plant, the type you make brooms with and full of green seeds.

He passed the drum to his friend, who took over the beat, and continuing to chant, he started to blow and spit on in me... from like  2 inches away!  Then horror of worse horrors, he started to drag a low caress across my body with the seedy broom bunch; from my head to my shoulders to my throat to my chest to my arms…all the way to my toes. Green seeds scattered everywhere. My clothes, my notebook and hair were now covered in tiny green seeds as well as rice.

And you'd think that was enough right? No, it was not!  He dipped his forefinger and thumb in some beige, ashy powder and with his whole grimy hand (that probably hasn’t seen a days wash since he was born) really flat across my face, he squeezed my temples. And with a final bout of spitting and blowing  on me the ceremony was concluded.

Why, oh, why did I frigging shower the day before?!!!!

Well, I thought again, my miseries are done. How foolish of me. No. Not done yet. Now his wife wanted me to don on a sari and climb to the first floor of the house to take a photo.  We entered into the dirtiest barn- like place I have ever seen. Years of dust formed thick lichen like layers of grime everywhere. Bundles of dirty clothes were tumbled on the floor next to firewood and drying wheat.  Rats Rats my brain screamed. That and Get me out now.

The wife pointed to a tiny square window. Not getting it, I said that we wouldn't both fit into that frame. But no, that was not the idea.  I was to climb through the opening onto the slade, foot wide legde. I refused point blank. So, she did. Nimbly and with an agility I have never possessed.

And with her on the roof in her best sari and me in the window frame, both carrying brass vases with rhododendrons, the cameras snapped!



I returned to the sanctuary of the Monastery, a little amused, but mostly disillusioned. I had wanted to find substance behind the idea of Shamanism.  I met two Shamen on this trip and one in Thailand last summer. All a sham, if you excuse the pun. Disappointing at best.

Maybe there are others out there that are the real thing. Maybe there are Shamen that do do magic and  work with the spirit world. I am still trying to cling to my hope that there are Shamen  that are the real thing. If I meet them I'll be willing to listen. But after my experiences to date, they'd really have to try very hard to make me believe that any of it is for real.

Yet, I know that the two Shamen I met here mean well. They were thrust in a role via whatever route and they took their responsibilities seriously. Medicine men, bringing hope and cure to whoever believes. In these parts hope and belief counts for a lot and sustain a life that is made hard by the high peaks, the arid land and harsh climate. 

I noticed that evening, as I was writing up the day's events, that I was tired. Time to go home. The next day was my last full day at Bigu.