I arrived at Bigu monastery on Wednesday around noon. The cups of tea and warm welcome by the nuns restored my bright eyed and bushy tailed attitude. The serene atmosphere in the temple and the nuns' chanting in the afternoon puja opened the path to my spirit again. I slept like a baby that night and when the conch blew at 4.30am, I happily attended the early morning puja.
By 8am, I was again ready to go with the flow in search of stories. And stories I got! Not sure if they count for Oral Histories of any significance. Nevertheless, they are significant to me, because they are the stories of these courageous, interesting people that live in this remote place.
“ Where do you come from?’
“Pizza?! Pizza not Indian food!”
“No miss!!!!!! Lama! Monk! You like monk? You like Rinpoche?”
Interview with Grandpa
After managing to extricate myself from the throng of my budding super models, I headed for my interview with Grandpa, who, I think, was tickled that the foreigner taking photos of anything that moved, wanted to listen to his story. So, we found ourselves sitting side by side, outside the monastery temple, in the mid-morning gold sun and fresh mountain breeze, with Tashi being the portal that connected my curiosity to Grandpa's life.
His real name is Topgyal; everyone
calls him Grandpa. He lives in the nunnery and is always busy with chores like
cutting wood and peeling potatoes.
The little nuns squabble with him. He squalds them and they answer back disobediently and irreverently. His bad hearing does not help him in these battles of will; he more often than not loses and laughs them off.
In Nepal he grew up in Youmo, in the Langtang region. His aunt brought him up. As a boy he herded goats and sheep. At age 17, he entered the monastery
as a monk. It was life he already knew about from living with his aunt, still a nun.
Although it was her that offered him
to the Rinpoche of her monastery, he nevertheless, wanted to become a monk himself. It never occurred to him to get married or have
children. He never fell in love.
Then ten years ago, his Rinpoche, who is also Rinpoche of the nunnery at Bigu, bid him to move to Bigu. The nuns needed a handyman to help around the place. His past living with his aunt prepared him well to living with nuns; it was easy for him to adjust to Bigu nunnery.
And he doesn't drink any more.
Conversation with the head-teacher
From the entrance to the monastery temple, where she is sitting cross-legged teaching small groups of burgundy clad young nuns, Ngawang sees me basking in the sun, ruminating on my chat with Grandpa. She is having a break between classes and glides down the steps to talk to me.
Her big smile and open brown eyes warm my heart. We speak in English. A welcoming prospect for both of us. An opportunity for her to practice her already good English and a respite from translations for me.
She entered the monastery at 17 years of age. When I ask her why , she giggles. “What’s better outside than here at the monastery?”, she asked me giggling.
As we talk a little nun skips by and says something clearly very cheeky. Ngwang laughs and shakes her head. The young nuns, she says, are a little naughty. They skip classes and don’t study. All they want to do is play. But then again they are just children, she smiles indulgently, displaying the tolerant attitude that characterises the way the children-nuns are treated here .
What do they learn here? Nepali, Tibetan so they can read the scriptures and English from the on-off volunteers; no maths, no science. The monastery is very poor and has no money to pay a teacher for other subjects.
All of a sudden, she returns to my initial question of why she became a nun. She kept finding herself all the time worrying a lot about both her present and future life. What would become of her? She was afraid of death and about not having a choice about her karma. So, she became a nun.
Ngawang's ambition is to spend the next 7 years in deep prayer and meditation. That will take her to the next level of spiritual awareness. For that to happen however, the monastery needs to find funding for another teacher and Ngawang needs to find funding for her living expenses.
We gave a detailed report to the
police. We want them caught. They must have a nice (nice?)punishment. Already the
police identified 3 of them. They must be nicely punished. (and he laughed roaringly again)
By 8am, I was again ready to go with the flow in search of stories. And stories I got! Not sure if they count for Oral Histories of any significance. Nevertheless, they are significant to me, because they are the stories of these courageous, interesting people that live in this remote place.
By the early evening on Thursday, when I sat down to write up the bounty of the day, I was exhausted with listening, with trying to understand, with trying to get behind the words and the facade. There was Grandpa’s story and the
story of the visiting monk. There was the story of the robbery of the ‘off
road express” and the story of the young nun from India. And, let me not forget the story of the Bigu Shaman, a colourful character keen to demonstrate his skills.
At times durning the day I felt sorry for poor Tashi. He had to put up with me
pushing him during interviews to get more details and more clarification and to cross-reference. It doesn’t come natural to him and I guess and I must have been embarrassing to him with my indiscreet questions and probably culturally insensitive questions.
I wondered again at the end of that day, how being here changes me.
What does it add and what does it take away from me? In what ways will my
experiences in the mountains of Nepal, be reflected in my life, back in my world?
Dialogue with a 13 year old nun
My morning started with joining in to Robin's English class for the teenage nuns. They introduced themselves wonderfully well: My name is Tenzin, I am years 14 years old and I come from Darjeeling....
We sat in the sun near the entrance prayer wheels, chatted and then took a small walk.
I got chatting to a nun that arrived from Darjeeling just the week before.
Dialogue with a 13 year old nun
My morning started with joining in to Robin's English class for the teenage nuns. They introduced themselves wonderfully well: My name is Tenzin, I am years 14 years old and I come from Darjeeling....
We sat in the sun near the entrance prayer wheels, chatted and then took a small walk.
 |
| Robin and her crew |
I got chatting to a nun that arrived from Darjeeling just the week before.
“ Where do you come from?’
“India, Darjeeling district miss”
“ How long have you been here?”
“One and half weeks”
“How long have you been a nun?’
“One year”
“Why did you become a nun?’
“I like religion. It is my ambition
always to become a nun”
“You like Nepali or Indian food?”
“Indian food miss”
“What Indian food do you like?”
“Pizza”
“Pizza?! Pizza not Indian food!”
“Pizza Italian miss!!!!!!! I also like puri”
“I like puri and chapatti too”
“I don't like chapatti. I like puri.
You like Lama miss?”
“Lama? Lama is a food?”
“No miss!!!!!! Lama! Monk! You like monk? You like Rinpoche?”
“Yes, I guess I do like monks. Do you? You want to be a Rinpoche?”
“ Nooo! Not this journey…Maybe next
journey”
“You mean next life you want to be a
Rinpoche?”
“I don’t know...I have many sins”
“Sins from this life or the next”
“This life; I kill many insects”
This dialogue was conducted entirely in English
This dialogue was conducted entirely in English
To begin with, these children, just like almost everyone else that "posed" for me, lost their big smiles the minute they stood in front of the camera. Clearly photos are a serious business here.
But once the little nuns lost their inhibitions they became boisterous, climbing the blooming plum tree, pushing each other and vying for the camera's attention. "Miss, miss...one more photo miss", "Miss, miss, here miss with flower", "Miss, one alone miss"... And they insist on seeing every picture the moment the shutter clicks shut. "Lookey miss lookey"!
Interview with Grandpa
His real name is Topgyal; everyone
calls him Grandpa. He lives in the nunnery and is always busy with chores like
cutting wood and peeling potatoes.The little nuns squabble with him. He squalds them and they answer back disobediently and irreverently. His bad hearing does not help him in these battles of will; he more often than not loses and laughs them off.
Despite his dishevelled appearance, Grandpa has a beautiful face. His eyes are bright and alert. Well, that is, when he is not snorting a
beige powder, out of a plastic snuff bottle, that makes his eyes glaze and gives
him a beautific smile.
Born in Kirong, in Tibet, 67 or
70 years ago, he was brought to Nepal by his nun aunt, who carried the still suckling baby, through the mountains and over the border, in
her arms. He never knew his parents or other family and has never found out
what happened to them.
In Nepal he grew up in Youmo, in the Langtang region. His aunt brought him up. As a boy he herded goats and sheep. At age 17, he entered the monastery
as a monk. It was life he already knew about from living with his aunt, still a nun.
Although it was her that offered him
to the Rinpoche of her monastery, he nevertheless, wanted to become a monk himself. It never occurred to him to get married or have
children. He never fell in love.
He saw being a monk as a refuge from
having to think about the loss of his family, earning a living and desire.
His life revolved around prayer, meditation, working in the fields and collecting wood, followed by more prayer and more meditation.
His life revolved around prayer, meditation, working in the fields and collecting wood, followed by more prayer and more meditation.
There was only one problem he faced in his life. Grandpa liked to drink. He had his first taste of alcohol at 6 years of age and as
he grew up, as is the custom in Nepal, he drunk more and more with the men after a hard day's work.
I am not sure at what point Grandpa felt that drinking was contrary to his vows and I don't know what battles he fought with his daemon of choice, but twenty years after he was ordained, he decided to stop wearing the monk’s robe because it gave the wrong example to the younger monks. He remained a monk and observed all obeyances of a monk, but in the clothes of a layman.
I am not sure at what point Grandpa felt that drinking was contrary to his vows and I don't know what battles he fought with his daemon of choice, but twenty years after he was ordained, he decided to stop wearing the monk’s robe because it gave the wrong example to the younger monks. He remained a monk and observed all obeyances of a monk, but in the clothes of a layman.
Then ten years ago, his Rinpoche, who is also Rinpoche of the nunnery at Bigu, bid him to move to Bigu. The nuns needed a handyman to help around the place. His past living with his aunt prepared him well to living with nuns; it was easy for him to adjust to Bigu nunnery.
And he doesn't drink any more.
Yet, like all good Buddhists, Grandpa is ready to die. He has no regrets about this life. His
biggest hope? To be reborn in a similar life.
Conversation with the head-teacher
From the entrance to the monastery temple, where she is sitting cross-legged teaching small groups of burgundy clad young nuns, Ngawang sees me basking in the sun, ruminating on my chat with Grandpa. She is having a break between classes and glides down the steps to talk to me.Her big smile and open brown eyes warm my heart. We speak in English. A welcoming prospect for both of us. An opportunity for her to practice her already good English and a respite from translations for me.
She entered the monastery at 17 years of age. When I ask her why , she giggles. “What’s better outside than here at the monastery?”, she asked me giggling.
She is 38 years old and teaches
Nepali and Tibetan. She gives six classes a day, to different groups of nuns, varying in age. She really enjoys teaching. Nevertheless, it does stop her from having more time to pray and meditate.
 |
| Ngwang teaching |
 |
| Huddling to learn |
As we talk a little nun skips by and says something clearly very cheeky. Ngwang laughs and shakes her head. The young nuns, she says, are a little naughty. They skip classes and don’t study. All they want to do is play. But then again they are just children, she smiles indulgently, displaying the tolerant attitude that characterises the way the children-nuns are treated here .
What do they learn here? Nepali, Tibetan so they can read the scriptures and English from the on-off volunteers; no maths, no science. The monastery is very poor and has no money to pay a teacher for other subjects.
All of a sudden, she returns to my initial question of why she became a nun. She kept finding herself all the time worrying a lot about both her present and future life. What would become of her? She was afraid of death and about not having a choice about her karma. So, she became a nun.
Ngawang's ambition is to spend the next 7 years in deep prayer and meditation. That will take her to the next level of spiritual awareness. For that to happen however, the monastery needs to find funding for another teacher and Ngawang needs to find funding for her living expenses.
The bell rang and she ran off to
teach another bunch of naughty little girls.
The visiting monk's story and the robbery of the Off-Road-Express
Good Luck? Bad Luck? Who Knows?
Sitting in the sun all morning, reinforced a need that I had been trying to ignore. Musky odours wafting off my body though, do not allow me to postpone washing anymore. So, I set off with Tashi to organise my hot shower at the neighbouring eco-lodge-a minsnomer for a shack with solar energy hot water.
As we walk past the nun’s quarters, I notice the visiting monk , the Head nun and three or four other nuns sitting on the patio floor, deep in conversation. Tashi tells me that that is the group of nuns that got robbed on the “Off Road Express". It is a jeep that runs from Barbhesi town, 3 days walk away, to Bigu.
Good Luck? Bad Luck? Who Knows?
Sitting in the sun all morning, reinforced a need that I had been trying to ignore. Musky odours wafting off my body though, do not allow me to postpone washing anymore. So, I set off with Tashi to organise my hot shower at the neighbouring eco-lodge-a minsnomer for a shack with solar energy hot water.
As we walk past the nun’s quarters, I notice the visiting monk , the Head nun and three or four other nuns sitting on the patio floor, deep in conversation. Tashi tells me that that is the group of nuns that got robbed on the “Off Road Express". It is a jeep that runs from Barbhesi town, 3 days walk away, to Bigu.
I was offered that same jeep ride when I was planning my trip. At the time, I declined it in favour of walking and I did curse myself for not considering it during the trek, when the going was tough and there were no tough to get going.
The Express, in fact, caught up with us on the second day of the walk. It was full of nuns, monks and locals; 3 seating up front, 4 in the middle row and 4 seating sideways on each side of the jeep in a third row of seats. The roof rack was laden with suitcases, carton boxes and sacks. The driver stopped for a quick chat with Tashi. I namaste-d to the nuns and monks and they all smiled back. I was offered a lift. This time it was more tempting.
But, I had seen how perilously it held the road, how it slid around the curves close to the edge, how it bumbled over boulders and how angrily and ineptly it tried to navigate sandy patches. I preferred to take my own chances with heights than put them in the hands of a driver in an over-loaded and probably under-maintenanced vehicle on perilous mountain tracks. Besides, I preferred the fresh air, than the confined space of a nausea-inducing sardine tin. I declined again, but this time, wistfully, cursing my cowardice. I thank my cowardice now. Had I taken that ride, I would have been robbed that same evening, along with all the other passengers.
The Express, in fact, caught up with us on the second day of the walk. It was full of nuns, monks and locals; 3 seating up front, 4 in the middle row and 4 seating sideways on each side of the jeep in a third row of seats. The roof rack was laden with suitcases, carton boxes and sacks. The driver stopped for a quick chat with Tashi. I namaste-d to the nuns and monks and they all smiled back. I was offered a lift. This time it was more tempting.
But, I had seen how perilously it held the road, how it slid around the curves close to the edge, how it bumbled over boulders and how angrily and ineptly it tried to navigate sandy patches. I preferred to take my own chances with heights than put them in the hands of a driver in an over-loaded and probably under-maintenanced vehicle on perilous mountain tracks. Besides, I preferred the fresh air, than the confined space of a nausea-inducing sardine tin. I declined again, but this time, wistfully, cursing my cowardice. I thank my cowardice now. Had I taken that ride, I would have been robbed that same evening, along with all the other passengers.
Let’s go ask them about the robbery, I said to
Tashi. He put on his very best unsmiling face and said that it was not a good thing
to ask about. This was not a day that I was prepared to be fobbed off. I was getting stories! I will go ask them then, I said. Ignoring me he walked
on...
My hesitation was so brief that it didn't even register on the clock of wasted time. No, indeed, this was not a day to be fobbed off. I smilingly moved in on the group, sitting under the blooming pink plum tree, in the glorious morning sun. I sidled up to them and squatted on the edge of the group. They carried on talking for a minute, then the Head-nun offered me a cup butter tea. Anticipating my reaction, they all laughed when I said that I found it too strong for my Western tastebuds...and the ice was broken.
The Lama's Return Home
The visiting monk spoke reasonable English. He told me about his childhood, living in a Sherpa house above the monastery. The Rinpoche, at the time, told the villagers that the monastery was running low on monks and in the future there would be none to say prayers and death rites. Dutifully, many, including his parents offered their children to the monastery.
He joined the monastery at 6 years old and was sent to India to study Buddhism. Was he upset? Was he scared? No, he didn't really understand clearly what was happening to him. It was his parents that were upset and worried about a little boy going off to another country, another world.
For 30 years he was based in Mysore, a small, beautiful village in South India. This endeared him to me even more, Mysore, was my entry point on my first trip to the Subcontinent, 14 years ago with Frank. My first backpacking adventure.
I learned from him that there are 3 moments when monks give an oath to observe the code of monkshood.
At 10 years old, he went to Bodgaya for a month to take teachings from the Dalai Lama. His parents' letters told him how lucky he was to have the Dalai Lama's blessings. This was when he took his first oath.
At 13, he took his second oath at Gyaltsul Dompa. By this stage, he said, you know a bit more and you begin to understand a little of what you are promising and what it means.
At 25 years old, he took his final oath, this time in Dharamsala.
He admits that at times it is difficult being a monk. "Those are times when you are family is in trouble and you can't help them. Then, I do wonder what life would have been like had I not been a monk. But, when those times pass, I revert to knowing that this is the right life for me".
Now, after 30 years of absence, he returned to his home village for a short visit, to pay homage to his parents and the Rinpoche.
Bad Karma on the Off-Road- Express
I hear you were robbed, I boldly said, ignoring all of Tashi's implied cultural faux pas. As if waiting for this opportunity all morning, he gave me a blow-by-blow account of their day, leading to the robbery.
My hesitation was so brief that it didn't even register on the clock of wasted time. No, indeed, this was not a day to be fobbed off. I smilingly moved in on the group, sitting under the blooming pink plum tree, in the glorious morning sun. I sidled up to them and squatted on the edge of the group. They carried on talking for a minute, then the Head-nun offered me a cup butter tea. Anticipating my reaction, they all laughed when I said that I found it too strong for my Western tastebuds...and the ice was broken.
The Lama's Return Home
The visiting monk spoke reasonable English. He told me about his childhood, living in a Sherpa house above the monastery. The Rinpoche, at the time, told the villagers that the monastery was running low on monks and in the future there would be none to say prayers and death rites. Dutifully, many, including his parents offered their children to the monastery.
He joined the monastery at 6 years old and was sent to India to study Buddhism. Was he upset? Was he scared? No, he didn't really understand clearly what was happening to him. It was his parents that were upset and worried about a little boy going off to another country, another world.
For 30 years he was based in Mysore, a small, beautiful village in South India. This endeared him to me even more, Mysore, was my entry point on my first trip to the Subcontinent, 14 years ago with Frank. My first backpacking adventure.
 |
| The visiting monk in his puff jacket |
At 10 years old, he went to Bodgaya for a month to take teachings from the Dalai Lama. His parents' letters told him how lucky he was to have the Dalai Lama's blessings. This was when he took his first oath.
At 13, he took his second oath at Gyaltsul Dompa. By this stage, he said, you know a bit more and you begin to understand a little of what you are promising and what it means.
At 25 years old, he took his final oath, this time in Dharamsala.
He admits that at times it is difficult being a monk. "Those are times when you are family is in trouble and you can't help them. Then, I do wonder what life would have been like had I not been a monk. But, when those times pass, I revert to knowing that this is the right life for me".
Now, after 30 years of absence, he returned to his home village for a short visit, to pay homage to his parents and the Rinpoche.
Bad Karma on the Off-Road- Express
I hear you were robbed, I boldly said, ignoring all of Tashi's implied cultural faux pas. As if waiting for this opportunity all morning, he gave me a blow-by-blow account of their day, leading to the robbery.
"We left Kathmandu at 6am the day
before yesterday. The bus was full of people but the trip was fine and after four hours we got to
Bharbesi where we were catching the Off-the-Road- Express. We spent the extra hour waiting shopping. We bought 3kg
tomatoes, 2 cases of onions, 1 teapot and 3 cases of fruit for the Rinpoche.
Eventually, we got on the jeep and set off for
Bigu. Near Photeng (this was on day 2 of my walk, after my stay at the Shaman's house) we saw you and you put your hands together and did Namaste
to us (somehow he finds this hilarious and laughs his head off). We offered you
a lift and you declined.
Some time after that, the jeep broke down. The wheel broke. We all looked at it for half an hour (more laughing) and finally the driver said that he needed a spare part from Kathmandu to fix it. We all walked downhill to the next tea-house and settled down to have tea and a snack of boiled potatoes. We were going to stay there for the night until the spare part arrived the next day.
Some time after that, the jeep broke down. The wheel broke. We all looked at it for half an hour (more laughing) and finally the driver said that he needed a spare part from Kathmandu to fix it. We all walked downhill to the next tea-house and settled down to have tea and a snack of boiled potatoes. We were going to stay there for the night until the spare part arrived the next day.
Soon after, a group of four men
arrived on two motorbikes. They ordered tea and beer. They were talking very
roughly and loudly. We just kept to ourselves. The men asked how far the
monastery is from the tea house and the manager of the tea house told them around
one day by foot and probably an hour by motorbike. The men soon left and
we all felt relieved. They didn't seem to be good people.
But at 8am we saw them again passing
by the hotel and disappearing off into the hillside, only to re-appear again at
10pm. This time there were seven of them. At first nobody said anything. They ate some
food and drunk beer and chang (a foamy alcoholic home brew). They loudly announced they were staying the
night and went off to the sleeping quarters.
They immediately came back to the
main room though and said that they found a piece of sandalwood in one of our
bags. Saying that this is illegal, they
told us that they were undercover policemen and had to search all our bags.
They ordred us to show them anything of value that we might have with us. They took
everything...even the earings off the ears of two grandmothers. They pulled out
knives, held them to our throats, ordered us to be very quiet and stripped us of
everything of value: watches, mobiles, rings, money… The women were very afraid.
I told them they could take everything as long as they didn’t kill us.
 |
| One of the robbed grandmothers and the visiting Lama |
Well, I said, it is bad
karma to rob people, right? Especially monks and nuns? Will they return as something lowly and despicable? Like a worm?(I thought I might have pushed my luck one step too far with this possibly insensitive comment, but he laughed even more)
Bad luck and bad karma, he finally said seriously. The old bad
karma of all of us people on the jeep and now their bad luck and bad karma.
If you plant a seed of potato, you get a
potato plant. If you plant a seed of bad you get bad luck. They will have bad
luck, but we also want a good punishment for them by the police."
At that moment two young nuns came to fetch me. "Lunch miss" they said impatiently. I hastily said goodbye to the Lama, before being dragged laughingly to the kitchen for rice, dhal and saag, a green spinach like vegetable, stir fried in the wok.
I hungrily devoured it all and was ready to tackle the Bigu Shaman, right after lunch. Watch out for the next blog post on that!
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| Preparing saag |
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| The lucky ones that slave in the kitchen get extra portions |
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