Nepal and Tibet

We arrive a little before the debating session. We are ushered into a courtyard, which is covered in pebbles. Trees are dotted throughout the courtyard offering shade. Before long, hundreds of young monks in their bright, fuchsia robes come into the courtyard and settle themselves on the pebbles in groups. Older monks, who are obviously their teachers or older students, stand before them. We are told that they have classes all morning and these debating sessions are times when the students are given the opportunity to debate points of scripture that they have covered in the morning's lessons. The masters begin to shout at the students and, as they put forward each point for argument they clap, raising their hands high above their heads and taking a skipping step forward as if to intimidate the student. The students attempt to argue the point and the whole thing is repeated. Dozens of raised voices can be heard at once. The courtyard has come alive. There is noise, movement and colour! We are totally enthralled. Who cares that we don't know what they are talking about? We have never seen so much enthusiasm in our lives. Perhaps I'll introduce this unique teaching strategy into my classroom. The kids would really think that poor Mrs Sullivan had really lost it this time and should be put out to pasture. I am secretly pleased when I see two young monks misbehaving, picking up pebbles and pelting them at one another. After all they are not much more than primary school age. Kids will be kids!

Tonight we decide to go back to the Jokhang Temple, to listen to the monks chanting. We were so impressed with the chanting we heard in Bodnath, that we want to hear some more. We set off down through the Tibetan quarter, fighting off the beggars, who are usually children, and the hawkers and finally find ourselves back in the quieter Bakhor Square. The square is as usual, busy with pilgrims and shoppers. A familiar scent is in the air this evening and I can't quite put my finger on what it is. On investigation, we find a group of women selling fresh rosemary. It is there, on the ground, in huge, peaked piles. Dried rosemary is thrown into the huge incense burner near the entrance to the temple. I have a feeling of nostalgia when the scent wafts across the square. It reminds me of the smells of our long-forgotten formal ceremonies in the Catholic tradition before the mid-sixties.