The Pishu nunnery and Padmasambhava's healing chant*

On our first day out of Padum, Mum and I marched along a dirt road while other trekkers zoomed past in their sparkly white jeeps; as more road is laid it is becoming common for people to drive the paved parts of the journey.

Along the road from Padum

Changing terrain as we enter a new valley - leaving Zanskar behind

The distance was shorter than expected and we were taken by surprise when the first village we came across was Pishu, our destination for the night. It was only lunchtime and so we decided to follow the advice of a sign, which read something like:

Pishu Nuns welcome you to visit our gonpa

Behind Pishu village

Donations welcome

We walked up through the village, noticing that the irrigation channels had all dried up and the crops looked stunted in growth. We later heard that the river bringing water into Pishu had run dry the previous September and the whole village was living off one small spring a twenty-minute walk from town. It seemed to us as though it was only a matter of time before the people of Pishu would have to move on.

There are lots of quirky old stickers like this one plastering weathered windows and walls

The Man with the Prayer Book. He sat carving stones with mantra symbols for hours on end.

Passing through a pea field we came across an old lady and her six-month-old granddaughter, sitting on a blanket playing with faded toys and eating peas from tiny pea pods. The woman laughed when she saw us and gestured for us to pick some for ourselves.

Grandma and little one soaking up the afternoon sun

 

Behind the town stood a compound bordered by a tumbledown white wall. An old palm tree grew from within. From up close the place looked abandoned. We pushed through the broken gate and entered into what might have one day been a beautiful and well-kept gonpa.

It was odd to enter a silent gonpa; crowds of cheeky kids and friendly monks have greeted me on every other occasion. We walked around the empty mud brick residence buildings, wondering where all the nuns had gone, when we heard a couple of low voices. Approaching them we found two village women dressed in their farming clothes and speaking by the wall. They looked to be checking on the compound and smiled, gesturing that we were welcome to explore.

On the dusty ground before a small mud brick room at the back of the compound we came across a nun. She was wrapped in layers of orange and magenta robes, wore a triangular orange beanie on her head and spun a prayer wheel as she chanted a mantra under her breath.

om ah hung benza guru pema siddhi hung

She was old, her face weathered and traced with laughter. Spinning a khor (prayer wheel) and chanting a mantra under her breath, she sat with her eyes closed, face tilted up to the afternoon sun. After a minute or so she stopped, opened her eyes and grinned at us.

The Laughing Nun from Pishu Monastery and her Khor

The nun chatted to us in Ladakhi, laughing and seemingly delighted to have guests. She showed us the khor she was spinning. Its wooden handle worn into a smooth imprint of her hand, it looked to be older than her.

She gestured to her feet, which were encased in hard, pod-like leather booties that she had laced tightly over a pair of old worn socks. She then pointed at our own feet. After a few repeats we realised she was asking us if we could give her our socks. It seemed as though she only had one pair.

Over our trek it became clear that monasteries for nuns receive less visitation and less funding by the local community than those that are for monks. Monks most commonly live in comfortable conditions; the community donates food and money, the compounds are kept looking bright and colourful, gonpas are maintained and tourism provides another source of funding.

The nunneries are a different story. I do not know all the reasons behind this but it is in part due to gender inequality and the sexism that is ingrained in the Buddhist tradition. Nuns are most often subservient to monks, are less respected by society and not guaranteed the same level of education given to monks. Having a monk in the family is more respectable and more like an investment and therefore society has more incentives to contribute to their monasteries.

The disparity was clear in the living conditions of the Pishu nuns and the state of their gonpa. After some time with the Laughing Nun she called a slightly younger nun to show us the gonpa. Unlocking it, the woman ushered us into a dark, old room of musty scents and peeling paint. It was small and so were the deities. These factors were not diminishing and I felt a strong sense of spirituality entering that room.

Up the steps to the gonpa

The nun sat Mum and me down before a shrine and handed us each a biscuit from the altar. She gestured we stay seated and began to chant. The Laughing Nun joined us and soon Mum and I were repeating the mantra with them. They found it hilarious and for the next half hour we sat in the candle-lit gonpa being guided through each word of Padmasambhava’s mantra:

om ah hung benza guru pema siddhi hung

I was later told that the Vajra Guru mantra is used for healing.

It was evening before we headed back over the pea paddies to our camp by the river. The younger nun didn’t want me to go and by the end she was jokingly holding onto me and gesturing that Mum should leave me with her. For a moment I pictured myself living a life of sockless solitude out there with those two laughing nuns. Then I was back at camp, preparing for a big day of climbing ahead.

As we left the next morning we gave one of our only pairs of woollen hiking socks to a villager. He promised to see them safely to the gonpa when he went for prayer. 

I wonder if our pair of woolly socks now sit snugly under those booties...

*Updated title - due to an unintentionally irreverent nickname I gave to the nuns in the first post

Back home and happy

The past few weeks of my life have brought new changes and a welcome new climate. From living in the concrete drug den that is Sanitas, in France I have migrated across rolling lands and oceans to wind up once again in Melbourne. I was initially as surprised as you are to hear myself say I was going home, but after much tossing and turning the decision began to settle and feel right.

There were a number of reasons for my decision to come back, from financial concerns to a need to look after my spirit. I was dissatisfied with the quality of the university, I felt increasingly depressed by my neighbourhood. I began to crave the intellectual stimulation I get in Australia, the lifestyle I lead here and the company of my close friends and family. All these factors combined, it seemed that Australia was the best place for me to be this year. Stepping foot back on our Sacred Lands reminded me of how important it is to feel enlivened and energised by the place in which you live.

I am reading Tim Winton’s Dirt Music at the moment. In it he says Australians are riddled with this kind of physical patriotism. Love of the land. The climate. The ocean. Winton’s words really ring home for me: stepping foot outside the airport, smelling the eucalypts and the earthiness on the breeze as I drove home, taking my first dip in the brawny Pacific Ocean, running along the beach with my dogs, feet in the sand. The more I go away the more I realise how much I live and breathe off these simple facets of my Australian life.

Back in Melbourne I am making an effort to fully appreciate the things that make this city the place I’d rather be. Tours gave me an appreciation of how open and accepting our society is. I won’t speak for the whole of Australia but in Melbourne I get this real feeling that I can be whoever I want, dress however I like and not be condemned for it. At uni I can talk to my professors and tutors as equals; challenge their views and engage them in debate. Out in the city I can comfortably be vegetarian and gluten free. On weekends there is always some activity or event that appeals to a whole range of audiences: I went to Seven Sisters, a women’s festival, over the weekend, the Comedy Festival keeps me laughing, tomorrow there is a free postcard workshop in solidarity with children in our detention centres, in a few weeks the Human Rights Film Festival begins.

I often find myself viewing Australia through a very critical lens. I was almost tempted to extend my trip when Abbott was elected. Our Prime Minister sucks; our government is more interested in short term, profit-driven projects than, say, the future of our environment, healthcare, our education; there is too much racism and sexism; it is so expensive… These things are all real! But my time overseas and arrival back in Oz have reminded how important it is to stop and be grateful for what is great; we are so lucky in so many other ways. If we appreciate what we have and not always think about what is missing, I think these things become easier to preserve and nourish.

Three months in one and welcome to my new home!

After a regrettable three-month’s absence from my blog I return to tell you all of my new home. I do plan on writing more about my time in India and Nepal last year, however for now I will give you a brief update about my new home.

I have spent three months hopping between cities and countries, not having stopped anywhere for over a week since November. Term finished at LSR and I went for 2013-trek number two in Nepal. Trek number two finished and I went to Bangalore with my friend Nee, Delhi for a colourful three-day wedding, Kolkata to visit the kids at Future Hope (where I previously volunteered for six months), onwards to Thailand where I visited family and swam in the clear blue sea with the lovely Anu, then to the UK for a whirlwind one week of visiting more family. It was then time to start my new life and my next semester here in Tours, France.

Everest sunrise in Nepal, Nov 2013

Mum and I at the end of our 2 week Nepal trek

Cooking with Neeharika in Bangalore - yum!

Anjali's sister's wedding: colour, sarees, music and all-nighters

View from our Thailand bungalows

I baked an apple pie for Khun Yai before Christmas
('Did you forget the sugar?')

Dad and Brother

Thong repair number 2: Kolkata

Sunset on Church Farm

To start I live in Sanitas, the dodgier part of town, in an 18m2 room. My window overlooks the parking lot, in which I am able to observe daily drug deals with satisfying anonymity. In my room is a very single bed (the mattress is smaller than the single frame), a wardrobe, shelf, desk and bedside table. In the entrance to my apartment is a counter equipped with two electric stove rings and a sink. Off to the side is a small bathroom. It feels a bit like an old hospital, the floors being plastic, the walls all white and the hallways dark and haunted, yet it is reassuring to know I have a place that is my own in this very foreign city.

My first French ad - Please save me from Sanitas!

I arrived in Tours three weeks ago today, on the 12^th of Jan. My date of arrival was supposed to be four days prior to that but I managed to (rather dramatically) miss my Wednesday morning flight; let’s just say I am in no way a fan of the security staff at Stansted Airport.

In the Ryanair boarding queue I stood bemused as people pushed and shoved in order to reach the front of the line; the prospect of acquiring the best seats on an aeroplane evidently leads many Europeans to abandon pleasantries and politeness. Happy to have made the boarding gate and relieved I’d got away with my overweight baggage, I wasn’t fussed about which seat I would get.

I was busy thinking about what my Couchsurfing host in Tours would be like and whether I would have enough blankets to keep me warm as I curled up on his leather sofa when someone in front of me turned and said,

“Do you need help with all that?”

That was how I met Marie, a fun French woman on a family visit to Tours, who speaks with a very British accent (‘innit?’) and has been wonderful to me since that moment in the crazy queue. Marie was unsure I would be let on the plane with my four (rather than the specified two) items of hand luggage. Of course I was confident I would manage – I am masterful in the art of hand luggage disguise – but as Marie offered I gladly let her take one of my bags and from then on we became good friends. I ended up standing up my Couchsurfing host and being driven back to Marie’s family home, where a hot dinner, king’s pie, and delicious cheese platter awaited our arrival. Marie’s family was kind and welcoming and I stayed for the next two nights.

Place Jean-Jaures

The town square

Over the next few days Marie drove me around, translated for me and showed me the city. We went for drinks in Old Tours, wolf-whistled at tall French men, disapproved of the tea at Ikea, ate croissants and discussed starting a coffee shop in the city. On day three I moved into my apartment and Marie helped me get settled here over the next couple of weeks.

Of course, some of the first friends I found here were other Australians. We seem to have magnetic qualities that draw us together with impressive speed and my first night out with other students ended up being surprisingly patriotic. I was surprised by the number of exchange students in Tours – contrary to my expectations of it being a tiny, unknown French city Tours turns out to be quite a popular destination for people all over the world. Besides the Aussies I have been spending time with Canadians, Italians, Spanish, Polish, Irish and Greeks. The mix of languages, traditions and food makes dinner parties and nights out all the more fun.

A bit about France and the lifestyle: Well I feel like the discussion must start with food. The French love their food, I love their food and therefore it makes sense to start here. To begin I will confirm that all the clichés are true. French people riding old fashioned bicycles with baguettes in their woven baskets, delicious croissants in every second shop and featuring in most breakfast spreads, and of course CHEESE. It is delicious and cheap and is eaten in sandwiches at lunch and with baguettes after dinner (before dessert). This area is known for its goat cheese and wine and I can see why – there are endless selections, each as delicious as the last. I could go on forever about cheese.

A traditional crepe evening with my new friends

Vegetarianism in France is something unexpected and rarely accepted. Most of the French people I inform I am a vegetarian first clarify, “So you eat ham and fish?” When I reply that they also count as meat in my eyes I receive looks of pity and admonition. Eating out is not easy (goat cheese salad or a goat cheese crepe?) and I usually just end up getting a goat cheese and walnut sandwich from the boulangerie instead. Supermakets and markets are stocked with a lot of fresh produce and I therefore find cooking for myself easy. I have to say I think it is about time the French culinary scene embraced vegetarianism and came up with a few more dishes.

Tours in a glass

University. I am now in my official third week at uni and am still struggling to find out what subjects are on offer. The faculty is astonishingly disorganised and I am surprised the students manage to discover what classes they are in. Scarce funding appears to have gone into employing an artist to paint swirly signs and bendy postmodern people that appear beside doorframes and are swallowed up by the vast white corridors. On a positive note the classes I have attended have been interesting and my teachers are from all over the place – American, British, African, French. My plan for now is to attend as many classes as necessary and hope a timetable designs itself for me.

Our local cathedral - 5th Century BC

In general I like Tours and find myself settling into lifestyle here quickly. I swim in a nearby Olympic-size pool a few times a week, have found a great Iyengar yoga teacher, and am now in possession of a hip, leather-seated bicycle on which I cruise the cobble streets and with which plan to embark upon many explorative ventures. I am still struggling to adapt to the strange opening hours of French shops (all shops closed for lunch, after five, and on Sundays and Mondays) and the pool, which opens only for two hours most days of the week, but suppose it is just a matter of time (excuse the pun).

Since I began writing this blog I have given notice and am on the hunt for a room in a more pleasant neighbourhood. My French is already improving and I manage to get my message across most times. Ask me in a few weeks and I’ll be living in a beautiful apartment in central Tours speaking fluent French to the boulangeri owners across the rue.

Voila – you are up to date. Expect to hear more from me soon!

A bientot!

My broken Havaiana and the Mochi

Today I was walking to LSR along the highway, in a bit of a rush to get back to class after a sneaky salad break with Chrissie, Anjali and Emma. We were dodging parking cars, swerving scooters and an array of mechanics that line the main road doing their work on the sidewalk. We passed people waiting to jump on the next bus. Getting on buses is an admirable skill in Delhi; half the time the bus barely comes to a complete stop before it is off again.

I was busy musing over bus-boarding skills and delicious, fresh salads when my thong (flip-flop for all you Brits) broke. I stumbled and didn’t know quite what had happened. Then I realised my shoe was dragging behind my foot. The little round plug was gone and it didn’t look like there was much hope for repairing my three-year old, fake Havaiana. I tried dragging my foot along, plastering it to my thong for a few metres, yet the attempt was clearly futile. How was I going to tackle the last five hundred metres back to Lady Shri Ram without walking bare foot on the rather dirty road? We were now five minutes late for class.

At that moment a helpful autowala (auto-rickshaw driver), seeing my plight, pointed to a shoe repairman and said,

He’ll fix it.

The mochi was sitting on the street right beside where my shoe had broken. When I handed him my Havaiana he turned it around, upside down, set it down and got to work. He passed me his sandal before he began and I stood there watching, wearing a big rubber sandal, on the side of the highway, next to the bus station. He found an old piece of suede, sewed it to the rubber part of the thong that was now missing a plug, poked it through the hole on the sole, stitched it all together and handed it back to me. His speed and skill were impressive. My Havaiana has been given new life.

I asked him how much it would cost, Kitna lagega?

He looked up at me from his cross-legged position on the pavement and said,

Jo aap khushi se de. Whatever you give with happiness.

Day One, Take Two

My subsequent impression of LSR was vastly different to the previous day’s experience. What was an empty college with echoing halls and hostile looks on the twenty-second became chaotic, loud, colourful and welcoming on the twenty third of July.

'Svaagatam'. Welcome.

Feeling slightly seedy, as is common to a 2pm wake-up, I walked in through the front gates of what seemed a different college. A constant stream of girls flowed in through the gates next to me, wheeling person-sized suitcases and being trailed by their family retinue. All the newcomers were looking around just as curiously as I felt, pointing out the big, faded-red ‘LSR’ sculpture and the lawns of freshly mown grass. I strolled along beside them in the same outfit I had worn the day before (I had washed it and hung it up to dry under the fan in the B&B dorm at 5am that morning): a flowy Anokhi skirt over my Solomon trekking boots, a plain blue t-shirt and my fake Ray-Bans. Not that you could see much besides my boots as I was all wrapped up in my front and back trekking packs, which I had to peer around to see where I was going.

Through the front gates

Again I made my way to the reception office and this time I was met with clear instructions to find the college Hostel – my home for the next six months. I had begun walking when two girls, Charu and Avanika, came up and informed me they would be my guides for the day. It was a relief to have friendly and welcoming faces that knew what was going on and were willing to spend time helping me figure out how things worked. Charu took me into the Hostel and managed to squeeze me past the hordes of freshers waiting to find their new room numbers and parents queuing up to officially relinquish the supervision of their beloved daughters for the next three years. Charu showed me to my room, which turned out not to be my room but one shared between Chrissie, the other Aussie exchange student and myself.

As I walked into the room Chrissie stumbled off the top bunk bed looking sleepy, happy to see me and apologetic; both of us had been under the impression we were to have our own rooms. Looking at the four by three metre space, the two tiny desks and neighbouring wardrobes, the pull out bunk beds that would clearly take up the whole room and block the front door when we used them I wondered how Chrissie and I would make it work without killing each other. We would be living on top of each other for the next six months. Our initial conversations went something along the lines of:

How about we alternate times for going out for walks, that way we’ll have more space,

We will have to make sure we won’t be in the same tute classes,

Or if we are in the same classes…we could sit on the opposite sides of the room!

and so on.

Babin' babes Chrissie (my wonderful roomie), Jordy and Emma. The other exchange students from Aus.

Looking back on those conversations I am impressed by how easily we coexist. We have transformed our twelve metres into a pretty awesome home, complete with Tibetan prayer flags from Leh, chalk boards, magazine cuttings of sexy Indian men and a couple of cool monkeys. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

Welcome to the Hostel.
Featuring Oshin.

This is our room.
How to turn 12m of space into a wonderful home AKA Mandir de Chruby.

Top right featuring my new Indian crush.

Our study coves. I have to shut the door to sit at my desk. My desk is my place; I referred to it as 'my room' by mistake the other day.

This cupboard contains the contents of my life in India. And displays more of my cool Indian model man.

We recently purchased what we see as essential additions to our family: Dory, Frank and Elma (left to right).

There are always new sand mandalas created for festivals and other special occasions. This one is for Diwali Mela.

Opening assembly by MG (Principal). Welcoming in the new year and using many metaphors to inspire us newbies.

Opening dance performance

The march of Indian Independence.

LSR National Service girls escorting the principal to the Indian flag

The view from LSR's hallways.

Monsoon in the courtyard.

No classes in the pagoda today.

A Monsoon classroom

Puri the neighbouring cow!