by Helen Brown
The monk instructed our driver to pull over at a sweet shop for tea. After the internal massage my organs were getting from the road, it was a relief to stop and get my legs moving. Curious faces watched the monk, nuns, Lydia and I make our way to the sweet store.
My eyes took a while to adjust to the store’s darkened interior. The decor was stark, but the ambience was friendly. I felt immediately at home. It was a Sri Lankan version of Spoonful. We chose homemade sweets from a counter near the door and sat down on a bench. Overstaffed by Western standards, the service was impeccable. There was one person to bring our sweets, another to pour the tea, and at least three assistants to watch.
A photo of a stern, handsome man with a handlebar moustache glowered down from behind the counter. An older, even more distinguished version of him stood at the door. I tried a smile. His eyes flashed handsomely back.
We gorged ourselves on strong tea and delicious sweets. Mouth-wateringly nutty, the sesame sweets deserved to be world famous. Jaggery sweets made from unrefined whole cane sugar came a close second. As for the coconut ice, I was an expert connoisseur because Dad used to make it when we were kids. The sweet shop’s version, layered in lurid pink and white sprinkled with fruit, was the best I’d ever tasted.
Back in the van, our driver made a brave assault on the last few hills to Kandy. Though he was willing, the clutch was not. It screeched, clunked and finally expired on a steep bend. Hot and tired, despite all the sugar we’d consumed, we piled on to the side of the road while the van driver and curious onlookers stared into the bowels of the engine.
An amiable cafe owner invited us to sit at tables with red and white checked cloths. We ordered cans of Coke and waited. The monk produced his mobile phone and called a mechanic. Flies circled above our heads and mosquitoes buzzed around our ankles. I reached in my handbag for the high-grade insect killer only to find its pump was missing. I’d brought it all the way from Australia and it didn’t work!
Under normal circumstances I’d have freaked out, wondering: How long would it take to get a mechanic? Would he know how to fix the van? Would we still be in this cafe in three days’ time? Was I going to get one of those mosquito diseases and die? But it was pointless worrying or looking at my watch. I had no control and therefore no responsibility. The sensation was surprisingly liberating. I hadn’t felt this free and on the edge of things since I’d travelled alone in Samoa in my twenties.
As Lydia and I sipped our Cokes and chatted, she was warmer and more open than she’d been for years. She wanted to hear about everyone at home – how Annie’s crawling was coming along, and if Jonah’s ‘little problem’ was still driving us nuts. Heartened, I realised that if she was going to become a nun and live in this country she’d still want to stay connected to us.
More time passed as we sat in the cafe on the road to Kandy. Hours and minutes, lateness or earliness, became irrelevant. If we were still stranded there at nightfall, the owner might be kind enough to let us sleep on the floor. And that would be okay.
The mechanic miraculously showed up and managed to fix the clutch with minimum fuss. In the meantime, the monk had been busy on his phone. He’d just found out he had important business in Kandy. A car collected him and he disappeared in a plume of dust, leaving the nuns and us to complete the final leg to the monastery with our apologetic driver. I’d hoped the monk might spare some time so we could have a serious discussion about Lydia’s future. Maybe tomorrow.
Sri Lanka is remote by many people’s standards. A lot of those living in Colombo regard Kandy as out of the way. I was soon to learn that most people in Kandy would have difficulty locating the simple forest monastery that was our destination.
Once we’d passed the turn-off to Kandy, the road became even narrower and bumpier, winding around the edge of a river canyon.
‘Just pretend you’re on a four-wheel-drive tourist excursion for this part,’ said Lydia as we veered off the main street up a perpendicular track. I gripped the side of the van as it carved through dense jungle. We were rocking so violently, I wondered if my abdominal scar might spasm. But anxiety would be counter productive. People in this country had far greater concerns.
The driver beeped his horn for a woman with a child on her hip, a man in a sarong and another carrying a sack of flour on his head. Their smiles lit the dark green gloom. We passed a sign for ‘Computer Repairing’ which seemed incongruous in the depths of the jungle. After we’d negotiated a hairpin bend and lurched over a particularly large hump, the senior nun turned to me, her eyes ablaze.
‘Look, Sister Helen!’ she cried. ‘There’s our mountain!’
If we’d been in a movie, heavenly voices would’ve surged over the background music just then. The heroine (Doris Day? Julie Andrews? No, Meryl Streep!), her eyes sparkling with tears, would have raised her face to the clouds.
Monastic
Old people bring many blessings
Laden with tropical growth, Boulder Mountain rose sharply above us. Its slope appeared to be held together by enormous stones, many of them larger than elephants. While a few creepers had the audacity to scramble over them, most of the rocks were bare and lined with age. Immovable sculptures of the forest, the boulders were both beautiful and forbidding in the heavy shadows of evening.
Other monks had tried to make a home here in the past, the nun explained, but they’d been frightened away by evil spirits. The current monk, Lydia’s teacher, was made of sterner stuff. Meditating in the cave near the summit for several years, he claimed the place.
Though the mountain air was cooler than it’d been at sea level, it was still and lifeless. I longed for a breeze, especially knowing 200 steps were hiding in the forest. My suitcase was ludicrously large. I wished I’d settled for a backpack.
As we slid out of the van, the driver gallantly hoisted my suitcase on his shoulder and disappeared up some mossy steps. We followed him, climbing and climbing. Jungle plants wrapped themselves so voraciously around the path that there was no view of the valley below. All I could see was the next set of steps ahead. Soon my eyes were stinging and my chest pumping. Stopping to catch my breath, I waved the others to go on ahead. To my relief, they vanished into the folds of the jungle. Only Lydia remained, waiting patiently behind me. I apologised for holding her up. She said not to worry, she felt like a breather herself.
When my lungs returned to normal, Lydia shadowed my footsteps with no sign of annoyance or frustration. Dad, who’d been an enthusiastic mountain climber, had a saying: ‘Always let the slowest go first.’ With gratitude, I realised it’s exactly what Lydia was doing. I made an effort not to count the steps, concentrating instead on scaling one set at a time without worrying how many more might be lurking on the slope above us. It was a good exercise in living in the present – perfect for the ascent to a Buddhist monastery, really.
Shadows grew longer as we reached the plain two-storeyed building that was the nuns’ quarters. I slipped my shoes off at the door and stumbled into a harshly lit room.
‘Sit,’ said the senior nun in a tone that wasn’t to be argued with.
Dusty and sweaty, I lowered myself on to a plastic chair covered with gold fabric. Not a word was said, but I later found out that seat was reserved for monks only.
A ginger kitten trotted toward me and rubbed against my ankle. As it gazed up at me through amber eyes, I thought of Jonah and wondered how he’d enjoy monastic life. Jonah’s personality was so pervasive I saw him everywhere these days, even in the eyes of racehorses and wild animals. His beauty and intensity seemed to be part of every animal.
‘What a lovely kitten!’ I said.
‘It’s not a kitten, it’s a cat,’ Lydia explained quietly. ‘The nuns found her mewing in the forest eight years ago. She’s had several litters, but none survived. She’s vegetarian.’
A vegetarian cat? I didn’t like to say anything. Maybe she was a high-minded feline. Or she was just conforming to monastery rules.
‘What
’s her name?’
‘Puss. Just Puss.’
The van driver said goodbye and bowed deeply to both nuns. To my great embarrassment, he then turned and bowed just as deeply to me. Heat prickled up my neck. I must’ve been blushing.
‘It’s what we do for the oldest person present,’ the senior nun explained.
Looking at her, it was impossible to tell how old she was – thirty or forty? She had one of those unlined ecclesiastical faces. I later discovered she was just two years younger than me – we were closer in the walking-frame stakes than I’d thought.
Bow to people – just because they’re old? It was a complete reversal of cultural priorities.
‘Old people bring many blessings,’ she explained with a radiant smile.
My first day in Sri Lanka had been filled with so many unfamiliar experiences I was beginning to feel like Alice in Wonderland. Strangest of all, coming from a culture that worships youth and detests grey hair, was to be actually revered for having a few wrinkles. Not that I liked to think of myself as ancient, just mature with a chance of wisdom.
Once the driver had handed over my suitcase, apologised again for the van breaking down, and left, Lydia escorted me up some outdoor steps to our rooms. Too weary to take much in, I registered apricot walls, a bare light bulb, a table with a white plastic chair and a bed with a blue mosquito net hovering over it.
The air was thick and warm. Lydia opened the windows, saying she hadn’t had any trouble from mosquitoes in her room next door. Just as she was about to explain where to find the bathroom, we were plunged into darkness. The senior nun glided into the room with a lit candle creating a halo around her.
‘It’s just an electricity cut, Sister Helen,’ she said, placing the candle on the table and floating out the door again. The candle promptly went out and fell on the floor.
‘Did you bring a head torch?’ Lydia asked.
There was a dull thud. Lydia assured me it was just her tripping over the candle.
Once our halogen lights were strapped around our heads we lit up like glow-worms. I followed Lydia’s silhouette outside on to the balcony, then around a corner over a potentially treacherous hump to what she tactfully described as a ‘French-style’ toilet – i.e. tiled floor with a hole in the ground, plus a bucket and scrubbing brush; flushing mechanisms non-existent. Compared to this, the lavatory in Kuala Lumpur had been the pinnacle of hygiene technology. What a prissy, screwed-up fool I’d been twenty-four hours ago!
I decided the hole in the ground was manageable providing it wasn’t a breeding ground for scorpions. Actually, even if it was I wasn’t about to go and pee in the jungle among snakes and whatever else was lurking out there. For the next few days it was going to be my hole in the ground – and Lydia’s and whoever else had claim to it. I was simply going to have to learn to use a bucket and scrubbing brush.
Back downstairs I showered under a dribble of tepid water with a large cockroach for a friend. As the grime of the day trickled away, I decided it was one of the best showers of my life.
It was intriguing to see how simply Lydia had lived for weeks, sometimes months, at a time. My bedroom was identical to hers, the bed just a mattress on plywood about the right length for a ten-year-old boy. Once smoothed down with sheets from home and the travel pillow it looked incredibly inviting. After a day playing human tumbleweed inside the van, I was grateful for its stillness.
Lydia brought mugs of tea, so hot and strong they almost passed as soup. With trepidation, I produced a small parcel from my suitcase and handed it to her.
‘Wow!’ she said, holding up the singlet top so the diamonds twinkled in the shadows. ‘Calvin Klein! How exciting!’
Her delight at the crass glitziness of the garment was wonderful.
After a while, Lydia kissed me goodnight and said to knock on her door if I needed her. Alone in my room with my head torch, I smiled at the electronic bleeping coming from her room. In these strange surroundings it was reassuring she had the same old quirks – like forgetting to turn her alarm clock off, and tripping over things.
Outside, the night had turned black as onyx. I’d naively assumed darkness in the jungle would mean silence, but a hypnotic chorus of male chanting echoed across the valley. The sound resonated through me, carrying me back through generations to anonymous forebears who lived before the Industrial Revolution, the Age of Enlightenment and the Renaissance.
After the chanting ended, other more insistent noises took over. Lowering myself on to the bed, I heard crickets (several types), birds, frogs, dogs and an unidentified range of creatures that trilled, squawked, honked, clicked, whistled, quacked and chirped. Competing loudly against each other, they took me back still further to a time when the prospect of evil spirits was feasible.
After a while, unnerved by the spooky symphony, I sprang off the bed and reached for my iPhone. A clearly pixelated image of Jonah draped like a beret over Philip’s head flashed to life once I pressed a button. I was relieved it still worked. For a moment I’d imagined I’d slipped into another century.
By the light of my head torch, I dug my earplugs out of my toilet bag, thanking whoever was CEO of the heavens right now that I’d remembered to bring the orange plugs of sanity. Next, I counted out my nut bars. Two for each night. I hoped they’d get me through. If not, I’d just have to regard the monastery as a fat farm.
Sifting through my carefully thought out luggage, I felt ridiculous. Almost everything I’d brought for ‘protection’ was proving useless. I draped the pesticide-soaked net over the window in case Lydia was being optimistic about mosquitoes. As for the silk liner, mozzie bands, Marcel Marceau gloves, knee-length white socks and hat net – I needn’t have bothered. The blocking and unblocking pills languished inside their packets. I was almost hoping I’d meet a tic so the tic remover hadn’t been a waste of cabin space.
Still, I thought, easing cautiously back on the bed in case it was more fragile than it looked, the trip wasn’t over. There was plenty of time for things to go wrong. Even through the earplugs, I could hear the screeching jungle – but was too tired to care.
I’d hardly fallen asleep when I was woken by the sound of a woodpecker drilling a tree. After a while, I realised it wasn’t a woodpecker at all, but a drum roll – the monks’ morning wake-up call. Soon after, their eerie chanting began. Using harmonies even Schoenberg couldn’t have dreamt up, their mahogany voices drifted across the jungle canopy. The sound was from another world – music a shoal of fish might make if they could sing.
Pink light filtered through the curtains. Over more than three decades, motherhood had taken me to all sorts of places – from pinnacles of joy in maternity wards to utter desolation at a graveside. Through all those years I’d never imagined it would bring me to a remote monastery in Sri Lanka.
I was relieved that the monks hadn’t issued an invitation to attend the pre-dawn chanting. Maybe it was a male-only thing. Monastery life didn’t seem to encourage mingling of the sexes. The monks were housed across the hill well away from the nuns’ accommodation.
Getting back to sleep was impossible. I lumbered out of bed and wondered what Trinny and Susannah would recommend under these circumstances. White trousers and a mostly white long-sleeved top seemed logical – and of course I was happy to take on the role of student, whatever that might mean. Pale clothes deflected heat and kept insects at bay. Pulling on the knee length white socks, I toyed with the idea of the Marcel Marceau gloves – and put them back in my suitcase.
Lydia escorted me downstairs to the dining room, which was a simple space with two small tables covered in plastic tablecloths, a sink and a microwave. A wall of windows overlooked a mass of plant life glistening happily in the sun. I recognised a banana tree and some coconut palms, but they were squashed together, bigger and greener than anything I was used to, as if they were on growth hormones. Most of the trees and plants were unfamiliar. Not for the first time, I felt overwhelmed by ignorance.
The table was laid out with flat bread, dhal, delicately flavoured rice balls and bananas. There was also a tub of garishly labelled margarine and a jar of Vegemite. Apart from these two imports, almost all the ingredients were fresh from the monastery surrounds. The breakfast was wholesome and filling. When I commented it felt health-enhancing Lydia explained it was based on Ayurvedic principles of food being medicine.
Approaching the day ahead with an open mind, I wondered if Lydia’s teacher might hold some classes I could sit in on. It turned out he’d had to stay in Kandy on business overnight and sent his apologies. Lydia offered to show me around, and suggested we could maybe go into town with the nuns later on. Oh, she added, and a fortune-teller was coming up from the village mid morning.
After we’d washed our dishes and put them away, Lydia showed me the meditation hall further up the hill. She’d spent many hours alone there, sometimes more than twelve hours a day, doing sitting and walking meditation. The room, largely unadorned, was steamy and still.
Trying to understand what she’d been doing there, I asked her to give me a short, guided meditation. Perched on a blue cushion on the floor, I closed my eyes and listened to her voice. Sounding strong and authoritative, she urged me to concentrate on my breathing; I tried but a river of sweat trickled down my back and I started to feel dizzy.
Like an unco-operative school child, I interrupted to ask if she’d mind if I stretched out on the floor. She nodded graciously. Even horizontal I was still uncomfortable. My right leg twitched and my throat was dry. Maybe it was jet lag, but I was relieved when the session finished.
Lydia showed me her teacher’s house, a pleasant cottage with a view over the valley. We then wandered past the monks’ quarters, where maroon garments were draped over a clothesline. Nine monks currently lived there, she said. Most of them were teenage boys ranging in age from twelve to nineteen. We strolled past the classroom – an open-sided hall with benches and a whiteboard – where she taught the young monks English and Neuroscience. Neuroscience?
