Nun too happy: A contemplation of the holy path

After our drunken night on the tiles with Zoe, Matty and I were in need of some contrition, so we visited Arrequipa's Monasterio de Santa Catalina. Dating from 1579 and formed from the white volcanic rock, sillar, the convent is an expansive warren of narrow streets, passageways, leafy courtyards and claustrophobic nun's chambers (not to mention chamber pots. Snigger). Despite significant earthquake damage over the years, Thirty holy women still live at the convent, and what is a beautifully maintained if somewhat eerie, but mainly fascinating museum of the anachronism that is all that nunning business. One of the highlights of the Monasterio for me was the clay jar laundry, probably because the act of washing my clothes has become a thing of rare luxury, no longer a chore. The laundry has a lengthy trough in the middle and giant clay jars on either side. The jars have a drain that is plugged with a potato (we haven't seen any other evidence of plugs in South America) and a tap that can be used to fill up the basin by cupping one's hands to redirect the water from the trough. Bloody remarkable. Another diverting pastime was standing and laughing at the numerous examples of bedpans and shitters that had been placed on display, and then marvelling at how utterly miserable all the nuns in the pictures looked. Maybe they were so sour-faced because of the uncomfortable chamber pots. Or maybe this outsize, suggestively cultivated cactus can be seen as a symbol of the nun's disgruntlement. Some kind of cry for help? I'm only speculating. Sparking up a fag and heading to the nearest bar, I left the cloister, confirmed in my existing belief that me and holy orders would never work.