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Published: January 23rd 2009
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The sun is setting on my Buddhist sojourn, as I reload my bicycle to continue onward in the morning, over mountains and along sandy beaches and into the bay of plenty. While at times it was fun playing Buddhist for the past two weeks, I must admit I am a little relieved to be leaving Mahamudra centre behind and having a little bit of freedom in my life once more. As the lamas say, expectations are one cause of suffering, and perhaps my expectations of what a Buddhist center would be like were misguided. Instead of a bunch of openminded hippies, what I found was a group of serious and oftentimes strict monks and lay persons. While the head nun whom ran the place was always quite jolly and appreciative of our work in the garden, the two women under her, whom we had the misfortune of always getting orders from, where quite stern, impersonal, and treated wwoofers as if they were more trouble than they were worth. Another unexpected aspect of life at a Tibetan Buddhist Centre has been that every time a retreat is on, we must observe complete silence. In other words, that means 48hours of no speaking,
followed by a two day break in courses where we can talk again, then another 48hours of silence, and so on. The reason being that the retreaters are in a meditative state and any noise will be disruptive and break their concentration. While I can appreciate the merit of a 48hour silence, having to do it over and over again when you aren't even taking the courses is not fun.
But just as in the garden, I've been able to find the flowers amist the weeds. The other wwoofers here have been amazing to get to know (that is, during the times we don't have to communicate through gestures) There's another American who is getting ready to set out and teach English in Tibet, a sweetheart of an Aussie who practices Reiki (energy healing) and has taught me a thing or two, an older German woman whom we all affectionately call 'Auntie', she has studied Tantric yoga in Ashrams all over the world, and, by three miraculous degrees of seperation, a girl who taught english in the very same small town out in the rice fields of Japan where I taught, is friends with all the same people, but happened
to leave the very time I had arrived, missing me by just a few days. Only a few weeks together have brought us very close, as despite our varied reasons for showing up at the centre, we've all helped each other make sense of the teachings here, and nurtured hearty laughter to cut through the sometimes negative vibes despite such gorgeous surroundings.
We have been allowed to attend some of the guided meditations and lectures at the centre, which has varied from helpful to a bit strange. One lecture was on the topic, "Conquering the Demon of Anger" in which we were instructed in the Dalai Lama's five golden steps in dealing with anger, which mostly involves recognizing that we are the causes of our own suffering and finding a way to change situations through patience and compassion. Some of the stuff here gets a bit preachy, but some of it is solid advice. If everyone practiced a little Buddhism, or did a little meditation just to take stock in your life, the world would for sure be much better off. The strangest thing we've had to do here was probably the scorpion butter burning ceremony. We were given a
hunk of butter and a bunch of seasame seeds, and told to sculpt a scorpion out of it, which was supposed to represent all of the little nasty bits in our lives. Then, as the monks lead us in some mantras, we had to chuck the scorpion into a fire, letting go of all the negative in a delightful sizzle. While I found the engagement to be quite amusing, again, others seemed to take it just a bit too seriously. One meditation I really did like though, was the 'death meditation'. Basically, you're supposed to sit there and think about dying. Ok, yes it sounds morbid, but it is considered one of the most impotant analytical meditation techniques, because only through acknowledging that your body will one day be feeding the flowers can you come into a realization about what is really important in life, and how to make the most of it (kind of like when good old scrooge woke up on christmas morning). Its a good exercise I would suggest trying.
Being a penninsula, this region of New Zealand is a bit cut off from civilization, offering mostly beaches that vary from calm inlet to wind blown coast,
gravel roads and thick native bush ripe for exploring. Less than an hours hike through the bush and over stream crossings lies a secluded waterfall, which gracefully spouts clear cool water down slowly sculpted rocks, playing its tune for an audience of wide green leaves. I discovered it on my day off, when I was trying to hike away from the centre so I could enjoy a forbidden cold beer and some dark chocolate. With the sun shining through the leaves and the rush of sugar and intoxicants through my veins, I was able to scale the whole of the waterfall, delighting in its beauty and its vigilant performance despite lacking the audience to appreciate it. After that, my daily routine became exploring the trails, scaling the lowlying mountain ranges, and delighting in beauty that is unaware of itself. During one of the silent retreats, we wwoofers slipped out together to enjoy a picnic lunch under the refreshing falls.
At night time, only the stars offer light in the region, and activities are limited to reading in the dorms or star gazing. One night, we heard music being carried over to Mahamudra by the wind. It lead us over the
hill and onto the property of the neighbors; a bunch of middle aged hippies living out of their rusted vans. As it was Friday night, they were having a 'jam session' in a shack they assembled out of tin and decorated with oven wrap. A friendly lot, they invited us to join them in 'jamming', offering me a tamborine and my friend a base guitar. The leader of the group, a woman with the tan lined face of a cowboy who goes by the name Rusty, lead us through various cover songs, all while balancing a pet chicken on her shoulder. They were a very nice and hospitable bunch, and I got the impression that this might be the lifestyle of many New Zealanders; living on boats or in campervans, not particularly concerned about life outside this bubble.
I've also come to the conclusion that all you need to do if you want to come to New Zealand is load up on suncream, strap a tent to your back, and hop on a plane. The overwhelming majority of backpackers I meet here simply hitch hike around the country, pitching camp where ever suits them. Hitching a ride seems to be
the kiwi rationale, and you don't even need to put much effort into getting a lift. While the whole system is still tainted by taboo in the states (too many bad teen movies and campfire stories), it makes sense in a country lacking the population density that would make any sort of infastructure worthwhile.
Although Australia gets the credit for the phrase "No worries, mate", it seems that the kiwis uphold it. I like reading the New Zealand Herald, their main newspaper, because it exemplifies this creed. The main headlines have thus far centered around puppies, a local wine festival, and historical research that has uncovered that the reason so many Americans (versus other nationals) survived the sinking of the Titanic was that the American passengers shoved their way onto lifeboats while the British politely queued.
Well, thats all for now, wish me luck on my five day ride, and I'll be back soon with more tales from down under.
-lisa
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michael
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dance band on the titanic
the english were too polite to leave until the music stopped. the irish would have been selling tickets "unter vier augen"