Mongolia: temporal vs spiritual conquests

Grandchild #5, John, has become obsessed with Ghengis Khan and the Mongolians. What planted the seed? I can only wonder. It seemed to be connected, originally, to a computer game. The kids have software that allows them to create their own games, and he wanted to create Ghengis Khan and his warriors on the battle field. But why Ghengis Khan? Well, the obsessed wonderings of a grandma are not much different than those of the grandson! But at least the latter can find clean data, thanks to the internet, and also of course the public library. He spurred his mom to find a movie on the subject.

What John doesn't realize is how close to the heart of his grandmother this whole topic is. His mind is occupied with weapons and guy-kind of things. But grandma remembers how the spiritual pursuits of this Mongolian Khan clan resulted in a major alliance between the Mongolians and the Tibetans. The very name of the Dalai Lama was bestowed by this clan. 'Ghengis Khan' means the leader of an ocean (of people), and so this ancestor claimed the Tibetan spiritual leader to be the teacher of that same ocean. And that is how the diverse Tibetan clans came to be united around a 'god king'.

I don't know how to label the frustration that arises. Could it arise from hubris? And so I brashly said, 'Anything you want to know about the Mongolians, I can tell you.' Wow! Did I take a step into the abyss or what? I want to share my interest and admiration of the Mongolians with my grandson, but his ten-year old mind is only interested in 'cowboys and indians', as it was in my youth. My wild claim did have the desired effect, however. He has been coming to me with his questions about good old Ghengis, and we have sat at my laptop and sought answers. We have researched the Mongolian archery prowess in great detail, searched Wikipedia to know the size of his armies.

The crowning jewel was when he said to me, "Grandma, I like coming to you with my questions. You give me straight answers, instead of all the roundabouts."

dark basement musings

It's early dawn. Last night’s fire threatened to cool around 2 a.m. With images of waking up with a cold nose and the desire to dawdle under the covers until the sun warmed my room (that would be April), after flushing the toilet I opened the stove door and stirred the embers. I fed it a couple of tasty mortals, to tease it to wakefulness. Then I hunkered down under the covers again with a good book, to see if it would take the bait. Absorbed in Aunt Ophelia’s terrible discovery of the reality of slaving, a half hour passed quickly without even a word from Uncle Tom. Nor did I hear the comforting cackle of an awakening fire. Nevermind, sweet Eva was just making the acquaintance of the new slave girl bought from the monsters at the tavern; I wasn’t ready to turn the light off yet.

It took a few more pokes, and inevitably the old fallback ploy of a sheet of newspaper thrown over the embers before the fire finally decided to awaken. It was an hour pleasantly spent, nevertheless. With the roar of it comforting my ears at last, I shut down the draft and tamped down the damper, and let my eyelids pull me back into the dark of slumber.

The book, "Uncle Tom’s Cabin" begins in Kentucky, and takes us back there often. And so that is where I went in my dreams. I visited my old friend David, whose tall lanky frame and loose bones fits the description of a number of characters in the book. I think in fact David’s grandfather was actually born in Ohio, not a slave owner of the 19th century, but nevermind, it was my dream and it was sweet.

On my nightstand I have a silly little frail thing of a clock. When I push down on it, it speaks the time and temperature. As the first light of dawn crept through the window, I nudged the clock and found the room temperature had risen to a tolerable 68 degrees. My taste buds stirred up the image of coffee; my limbs responded. Disentangling from the layers of blankets married to the sheet, I swung my feet to the floor and into the slippers in one smooth move. The water was on to boil almost before the jeans were on my legs. What despots, those taste buds!

And so begins another late autumn day in Vermont. One of the last, maybe a handful left, of leisure days before work at the ski resort begins in earnest. Come next week, the pleasant dawn footfalls on the ceiling above me that now serve to remind me that this gypsy woman is, for a frail moment in time, sheltered in the bosom of the family will actually serve the very practical purpose of a wake-up call to the start of a work day.

Dust off the shoes

It is time to dust off this old pair of shoes which has lain forgotten at the back of the closet.

In my mind, the whole blog thing smacks of ego. As if my thoughts, opinions, experiences should matter to anyone! Life is so one off. Early on, if you are watching, you get a reality check when you compare your perception of an experience with someone else's. Were they watching the same proverbial car wreck?

I was convinced that the conclusion I drew from my experience was Absolute Truth, and that she just hadn't gotten it. Then she traced her experiential steps that led her to draw her conclusion, and it hit me. Her truth is as valid as mine, although opposite. Now, though I sound like I know what I'm talking about, any opinion I put forth is a target to be shot down, and I know I want to pay attention.

Maybe it is only the difference between seeing the cup half empty or half full. But maybe it goes deeper than that.

Having said that, I restart this blog with a whole new concept. In the past, while living in China, it was simply a way to put a postmark on my intellectual property. When I was 16, back in the 50s, I wrote a song. The high school band leader said I could get protection equal to copyrighting if I would write the music down, fold the piece of paper, put a stamp on it and mail it to myself. The official post mark from the U.S. Post Office provided legal proof of creation and ownership. More recently, when I saw that the articles I had written and which were published by my chosen venue, Escape From America eZine, were being 'stolen' and posted on various other sites without my permission, I thought I had better create a collection of them here at my own space, giving them as it were an official postmark.

As if it mattered! It turns out, the subject matter was the point of interest, not what I had to say about it or my special gifts as a writer. If the article I wrote with the word 'Kangding' in the title had been no more than a tally sheet of Kangding's demographic statistics, it would have received an equal number of hits.

That having been said, the next logical thought would be to identify this new concept, the new use for this old pair of shoes.

Logically, this should be a place for me to express my opinions. To lay out my experiences, and the conclusions I draw from them, or my punto de vista, how Life looks from here.

That recalls my worst nightmare. Being naked in the school yard, lining up to go back to class.

Never let it be said that I lack courage.

Oh, wait. In truth, the older I get the more unreliable my body becomes. That includes the courage muscle. Let me rephrase that.

Never let it be said that I lack will to pull together whatever courage I can muster.

Knowing that I am talking to myself, and that Self is not all that interested in listening, I will nevertheless make a commitment to post once a week. Here I am, a sitting target; have at it. Naked in the schoolyard, fast forward sixty years? Oh, not a pretty sight!

Yangsi of Gen Geshe Ngawang Dhargyey

Posted by ChinaSatin

Links to other articles

Hot Day, Hot Pot, Hot Time in Guza
and
A weekend in Kangding

Perilous Passes in Winter

It was Saturday night, I was with the friend I'd driven over the mountains to visit, but this was no restful evening of dinner and a movie. We were in his nephew's van, heading back down the mountain. This day had gone terribly wrong.

***** *****

A couple years ago, during the winter break, I came across a monastery cradled in a small grassland area. There are plenty of monasteries much closer to where I live. Those are either small, or in an urban area. This monastery, 180 kilometers from my home, was large, yet away from any population center. I began to harbor dreams of meditation retreats on three-day weekends, eventually a week-long retreat. I was eager to meet the head Lama, to see if that would be possible. Meeting him, however, was not so easy. Oh, he's approachable enough, a real down-to-earth kind of fellow. But hard to reach. Though the location is not far, 'you can't get there from here'. Few public vehicles traverse the required route, and not at the times suitable for a quick weekend trip. When I did have the time, he was traveling.

When I finally connected with the head lama in May and received a courteous carte blanche for future visits, this getaway spot breathed new life into me. I am passionate about teaching Tibetan college students. Even so, day after day of rambunctious students can wear an older person down. I bought a car last January, no longer dependent on public transport. However, it's been a busy semester; I am lucky if I can free up one weekend a month to travel over the mountains.

From the Tibetan plateau east, the mountains gradually recede in a series of steppes, high mountain passes and grassy plateaus. As the crow flies, it may only be about 600 miles from the western Tibetan border at Yushu-Serxu east to Kangding, the former China-Tibet border. That translates into days of difficult driving on the Chengdu-Tibet highway 318, even when the winter hasn't closed the road off to passenger traffic.

My junior college is at the end eastern end of the road. We are at a mere 4,500 feet, with just one more 7,000 foot pass before the road descends to the Chengdu basin. My students are all from the mountains west of here, right up to the Tibetan plateau.

The school holidays include a month in the winter and six weeks in the summer, when the students return home. I am drawn like a magnet to these mountains. China is a vast country, there are many interesting sights to explore, but I cannot pull myself away. I accept invitations from my students, spending my free time eating tsamba[i], and yak noodle soup, and drinking gallons of salty buttered tea. I learn new Tibetan dances on these trips, drink barley moonshine, and record it all with my digital camera. These families are warm and welcoming. They live with hardship. Harsh weather and high altitudes. No indoor plumbing. Cooking done over wood or dung fires. Telephone service is spotty, mostly available only in the more populous centers of commerce. Farms and most villages are not connected. Cell phones are useless. When a visitor comes to their door, the family circle widens just enough to draw in one more, then closes ranks again.

These people have a reputation as fiercely independent warriors. Over the centuries they have chased out explorers, exploiters and adventurers. The nature of these mountains is more conducive to isolated fiefdoms than a confederated republic. This has left an opening for the Chinese to send banished public servants to set up residence in the towns established along the main road, declaring themselves the occupying government of China. The Tibetans, if they didn't find them too offensive, left them alone. This wasn't much of a problem, until the communists came along.
***
As we headed down the mountain, the three Tibetan men kept up a lively conversation. I felt like a shadow, sitting quietly behind Urgyen, not understanding their Tibetan. I was along for the ride because I had created this mess that they were going to fix. It was almost six when we left the monastery, night would quickly engulf us. There were icy patches on the road. We were in the same kind of car as mine, a minivan with rear wheel drive, no chains, but the nephew, Gondun, maneuvered the icy twists and turns with a practiced hand.

I set out that morning before 8 o'clock. I would arrive at lunch time. I tried a few times to phone ahead, but got no answer. Tried both his land line and cell phone. My friend had proudly given me his cell phone number on my last visit a month earlier, but I had never been able to connect. I was to learn he keeps it off until he wants to make a call. The main monastery phone is in a back room of his residence. In winter it usually rings unanswered, except late at night, when I know he would be watching TV not far from the phone. I knew to let the phone ring at least twenty times before hanging up. But I didn't try to call him Friday night. I was dithering, not sure I'd make the trip on Saturday. I would have to return on Sunday, and that was a grueling trip leaving no time to recover before stepping back into the classroom Monday morning. I had promised to bring some English books and tapes, and I had a movie I wanted to share with him. I didn't want two months to pass without a visit. I missed my friend, and the restful sleep I always had when there. So I set out early, dialing his numbers as I left our village, before heading into the blackout area. No answer.

Rather than taking the heavily traversed highway 318, I prefer the back road. It is a few kilometers shorter, and the mountain pass is lower. The road is a patchwork of pavement and dirt. Man comes along and paves, using gallon drums to build fires and melt tar, and moving fallen rocks using a wire sling hanging from a pole on the shoulders of two men. Fallen boulders are broken down by men with hammer and chisel. Landslides are frequent. During rainy season I pray that enough cars have gone before me to flatten down the mud to two tire tracks. So far I've been lucky, not stumbling onto a fresh slide. When the rain dries up, the road is a mess of rutted dirt, loose stones, narrow lanes. The river rages on one side, the steep mountain rises on the other. In spots, the rock wall hangs over the road, a passage carved out with dynamite.

I had passed the halfway mark in good time, the town of Danba. I filled up on gas, and tried again to call my friend. No answer.

The road was dry. I hadn't come that way before at that time of day, and the play of brilliant sun and shade as I wove through the folds of mountains was dazzling. The sun caught the river spray over a rocky drop; I had to stop and take a picture. No traffic bothered my line of shot. In fact, there seemed to be no one else on the road but me.

I noticed my windows were dirty. I tried the window washer, but it was either dry or frozen. I thought, I should stop and clean the windows with the handy wipes I carry. But I didn't. I kept pressing on. Almost there! Just thirty kilometers more, I won't quite make it by noon, but maybe there will be some lunch left over.

Climbing up into the last pass, the glare of the sun through the dirty windows blinded me, and abruptly I was in shade again as the mountain road twisted. Before my eyes could adjust, I felt the front end drifting left toward the stone retaining wall, the rear swinging out towards the river. Before I could move the wheel I bounced off the wall, the nose coming around, slowly swinging in an arc, nose to the river, then sliding into the wall. The left rear tire rested straddling the ditch, at the edge of the snow covered road. Well! Now what?
I got out to survey the damage. Left edge of rear bumper against the retaining wall. Front left tire flat, rim badly dented. Fender smashed, the headlight wall-eyed. I went to lift the front hood to get the jack, but the impact had jammed it shut. No jack. I noticed liquid seeping from the damaged wheel. It was quickly freezing. Rubbing a drop between fingers, I recognized it as brake fluid.

A big blue cargo truck came around the bend up the road, and stopped. A guy came down to survey the damage. Help had arrived quickly, I thought. He walked past the car, looking at the road. He gave a passing glance at me and the car. He waved the truck on, there was just enough road to squeeze by. Twenty minutes later, the same thing happened again. I tried to engage the men, asking for a loan of a jack. The truck drove past, the scout listened patiently, then disappeared around the bend after the truck. He didn't look back.

Sporadic traffic passed going down the mountain. Nothing moved going up the mountain. A pair of tractors stopped, looking like something out of the Dukes of Hazzard. The most talkative one, dark close-set eyes, long face, cunning gap-toothed smile, offered to help for three times the amount of money I carried in my pocket. But they were headed down to Danba, 60 kms away, and wouldn't consider taking me the last 30 kms up to my destination, for any amount of money. By tying a rope to my car nose and their tractor box, using the hydraulic lift, they raised the car enough to change the tire. But my spare was flat, so it was useless. They said there was more ice on the road ahead. So I asked them to help me put the chains on, maybe I could limp forward. They hooked the chains around the tire, inexperienced; the chains lay loose upon the rear tires. I paid them the going rate for changing a tire, and they went on their way.

I limped forward on a flat tire. Where was I going? The road nearby had no ice, but the rutted road was peppered with large rocks. If this flat tire was still to be any use, I couldn't afford to tear it up over these rocks. As I stood by my car surveying things, another truck stopped ahead of me. A guy came down to scope things out. He wanted me to back up onto the icy edge closer to the rock wall. I tried, but my rear tired slipped on the ice and wouldn't mount the edge. While they waited impatiently, I managed to creep right to a smoother section of rutted road, edging forward to a snow-covered lip on the river side, just wide enough for my car. The truck was able to pass me. I decided the car wasn't going anywhere else on its own. I pulled out my valuables, packed them in my bag. I used the remote on my key chain to lock the doors, and hand locked the rear door which isn't on the remote system. I started to walk. If nothing else, I wanted to reach a side of the mountain that was in sun. It was very cold in the shade.

I reached the monastery around 5 p.m. As I passed the temple back door, on the way to my friend's compound, I heard his voice. He was coming down the stairs. Had someone run ahead and told him I was coming? It sounded like everyone else was still inside chanting, in the midst of evening prayers. He asked why I was on foot; I told him my story. He instructed me to sit
down and rest, and that after prayers were finished we'd go after the car. As he turned away he pulled his cell phone
from his breast fold of his robe. I settled myself in his compound, but I saw no signs of dinner. It was unusual to find not even a thermos of buttered tea. Must have been a long day of temple prayers, where buttered tea is served lavishly.

Forty-five minutes later, his nephew had arrived and we were headed down the mountain.

I hadn't met his nephew before. Gondun was about 5'9", built solidly. His hair was smoothed back, ending in a neat braid down his back. He had already driven to my van, after his uncle called, but without the key he couldn't do more than change the tire. And lock the doors. He no sooner laid eyes on me than began berating me for not locking the car. My language skills deserted me, I had neither vocabulary nor energy to defend myself against this charge. If I simply said, "I did lock it," he would think me daft or an artless liar.

It was dark when we parked my car in Urgyen's compound. His sister and niece arrived, and put together a dinner of noodles. While we waited, I brought out the store of things I had brought for him. A bottle of hand lotion from the States, to combat the very dry winter climate. How often had I seen him use butter on his hands. A few copies of an English text book, and its tapes. His monastery hosts a school for village children, and he has included English in the curriculum. And finally, the videos. I brought a couple of movies that were made with a Tibetan cast, speaking Tibetan. Before dinner arrived, he animatedly berated me for causing such anxiety to his nephew, by having left my car doors unlocked. What shame it would bring him if his guest's car was found the next day by the side of the road stripped. Again I wished to defend myself, but couldn't find the mental or physical energy to do a dictionary-search conversation.

To change the subject, I suggested we watch a video. We fumbled around with the wiring, we old folk don't have the agility of the youth for sorting out all the reds, whites, yellows. After some false starts we finally got the picture and sound on the screen. But the dialogue was coming out in Cantonese! I asked him for the remote control, so we could use the menu to select the Tibetan track. He produced three remotes, none of which worked on the DVD player. I knew the video by heart, so periodically I updated him on what was going on, feeling so disappointed that he wasn't getting the full effect of this delightful movie. He said maybe in the morning he'd be able to find the remote. The warm meal had made me sleepy. I filled my hot water bottle, grabbed my chamber pot, and found the bed that Urgyen had set up for me. I don't know what time his kin left, but my bed was on the other side of the wall, so I know he stayed up late watching his satellite-feed TV.

As is my habit, I rose early. I wrapped myself in the sheepskin coat and went across the courtyard to the kitchen, hoping to find a lit fire. Urgyen's sister soon arrived, finding me huddled in the wool quietly building up body heat. She fired up some coals and carried them up to the house. I savored the quiet hour, communing with the peace and spirituality of the place.

Breakfast of tsamba laced with his wry humor brought me out of the cold gray dawn into a day of brilliant blue sky with the late sun hinting its presence behind the mountains. We talked a bit about the icy roads, and both agreed my life would be safer if I left the car parked in his compound until late February, when the ice begins to melt. He probably doesn't mean to yell, but I've noticed that when he speaks with others his voice is soft, but when he tries to communicate with me, he employs the 'louder is better' method of communicating with someone who doesn't speak your language.

Talking sternly, as a Dutch uncle might, he yet again went on about my leaving my car unlocked. I opened my mouth but the words wouldn't come. The shock I had just experienced, on top of all the pent-up frustrations of this term, the exhausting schedule that choked off normal activity--academic research, language study, writing, sustaining friendships, leisure activities--broke through fortified denial and poured out in tears cascading silently.

He looked on mutely, a man accustomed to managing a staff, directing and instructing monks of all ages from the most tender years, but not accustomed to dealing with weeping women. After a silence he gently asked again, "When will you come back with a week to spend?"

After breakfast I packed my bag and headed out the door, to begin the long journey by public transport back to college. He told me not to worry about the car, someone would take care of repairs, it would be safely parked until the spring thaws.
******************************
footnote:
[i] Roasted barley added to Tibetan (salted, buttered) tea, along with two to three tablespoons of butter and some sugar. Worked with the hands to form a ball of dough. Pieces pinched off and eaten, with sips of buttered tea.

Traditions Alive in Modern E. Tibet

Preparations are in full swing for lhosar, the Tibetan New Year. The teens will gather at 9 a.m. today to practice the dances and songs for the festival.

When I rouse myself to look at my watch, I see it is already quarter past eight. My host, Urgyen, is at puja with the monks, so I will be alone for breakfast. I ease myself out of the warm bed into the frigid air. My mountaineer watch records a room temp of 43°. I use the chamber pot one last time. I fish under the blankets for my socks, then jump into the rest of my clothes layered over the ever-present long johns. Once again under the blankets for the hot water bottle. I dump the still-warm water into a wash basin for the morning face wash.

When I move to the large living room I see Lhamo Tashi has already been here. She has built up the coal fire in the table brazier, and set a pot of hot buttered tea on it. I quickly mix up some tsamba and eat, before heading out.

To reach the home where the teens are practicing, I walk across the monastery grounds, behind the large temple, passing in front of the hall where the young monks are already engaged in debating class. I pass a few yaks nibbling on scraps, before reaching a line of ten stupas, which I pass on the left. They are about five feet at the base, reaching ten feet high. A few feet beyond I reach the monastery wall. There is a gap in the mud wall large enough for passing through to the small cluster of houses beyond. I clamber over the stiles.

Walking about 200 yards, after twists and turns through the wall-lined dirt pathways I arrive at the right gate in a mud-covered whitewashed stone wall. There is a wooden knob about the size and shape of a Campbell's soup can, made of wood. I twist it, and the wooden latch behind the door swings up; the door opens. I walk passed the sturdy horse stalls that are built against the wall, into the sunlit 20-foot wide dirt yard. I see four huddled groups spread out across the yard. I look up and notice an older woman pausing in her chores to glance down from the second story courtyard of the large house.

These teenagers meet like this every day of my week-long stay at this monastery. There are a couple of middle-aged village men taking time with each huddled group. One man moves back and demonstrates a dance step. Another man sings a brief passage. The young people are learning the traditional songs, and the dances that go with them.

On the first day of my visit, they were learning a call and response song. Girls in one huddle, boys in the other, they were each trying to read and sing out their verses. A girl remained seated on a bench, using a stool as a desk, copying out the two pages of Tibetan lyrics. As each set was completed, someone came from the circle to snatch it up. They decide it's time to try it out. They get in a circle, girls together, boys in their own half. The dancers begin, tapping out the rhythm with their dance steps. The tall girl, with a high voice clear and rippling as a mountain stream, lead the girls in the first verse. The rhythmic feet tap out a bar before the boys are to echo their response. Then a second bar, and still no response. So the girls carry on, singing the second verse and the third. They rest and study some more, and try again. This time the boys pick up the echo, but the pitch is too high for the boys. Only one has the range to respond in key, the other boys sing out a cacophony. The girls don't take the hint, however, until a high lama comes by to see how they are doing, and taking the lead girl aside, has a word with her.

A young woman, barely older than these practicing, comes through the gate with a baby strapped on her back. She walks across the forty-foot long yard, giving a smile and a word of encouragement as she skirts the edge of the circle. She stops at the wall of dung patties, five deep and four feet high, stacked against the house. She collects two or three on her way inside the dark house, past the empty cattle stalls, up the narrow wooden stairs into the second story home.

They work throughout the day, resting at noon to take a communal meal of tsamba upstairs. By the afternoon they have three dances roughed out. The words come harder than the dance steps, so that often the only singing comes from the feet slapping down on the dirt yard, sending up tiny dust whirls. I am tempted to join them, these dances are new to me and I want my feet to learn these charming and intricate steps. But I am reluctant, not wanting to interrupt their focus.

Yesterday morning I felt the need for a head wash. I couldn't imagine wetting my hair in that frigid air and waiting for it to dry. In my younger traveling days I did it as matter of course, but I am older now, forced to deal with lesser energy to cope. I got in my car and tried to start it, but the battery groaned as it tried to turn over a frozen engine. Giving that up, I bundled up and went to the main gate. There a helmeted young monk was standing ready with a motorcycle, a child monk was eyeing the saddle to take a ride to the nearby town of Bamei. I helped him get up. Then I asked the monk if I could also ride. He readily assented, and we moved the child to the front, on the gas tank. I climbed up behind.

He was a thoughtful young man. He crawled along the road, not wanting the cold wind of speed to chill his young charge (and perhaps his elder charge, as well). It took us forever to arrive. By then the foot away from the sun was numb with cold.

I found the one beauty salon in the town. I waited my turn for a wash. A woman worked the styling seat with a blow drier. A man did the washing. In the corner with the wash basin, against the wall a bucket brazier supported a big pot of water. These bucket braziers look like concrete poured into a 5 gallon bucket with a hollowed out center, for the pressed coal pellets. The man lifted the heavy pot and poured the hot water into a red plastic bucket hanging high on the wall. A hose snaked from the bucket. Below there was a blue plastic sink with hollow drain. When it was my turn, I sat on a wooden stool and stretched my neck over the blue sink. He lathered and rinsed me three times. He extended me a towel. I squeezed out the excess water as he lifted the bucket from the floor below the hollowed sink drain and carried it outside to the gutter.

When I got back to the dancers, they were finishing up a generous meal prepared by the hostess. The high lama was there, giving encouragement to the efforts of these young people.

The afternoon passed quickly. I was feeling drowsy, so I went back to Urgyen's house, had some tsamba and took a short nap. When I awoke, Sonam Lhamo was there with two young helpers. She was vigorously attacking the wooden floor with a rag mop. I heard clunk clunk as she slapped down the mop. I puzzled it out. There were ice chunks still in the mop after the last use.

Before she left, speaking with me in Chinese, she asked if I wouldn't mind teaching the children an English class. Sure, I said. When, where, and how many. The next day I went to the small school house on the monastery grounds and met with the village children. Forty-five students crowded into the classroom, ranging in age from six to thirteen. For a blackboard, I found that three boards had been fastened together, painted black and put on a easel. I erased the Tibetan that was written there, and wrote out numbers for some drill.

After the 90 minute class Sonam Lhamo invited me back to her office. She offered me a glass of hot water, which absolutely hit the spot. She and another teacher handled all the classes. She teaches 23 hours a week. She teaches Chinese, and the other teaches Tibetan.

Today they are practicing a different kind of dance. I see a worn drum hanging from a wooden frame, with two thick sticks ending in wrapped white cloth. They are acting out a legendary tale from Tibetan history. The drummer beats out a rhythm, ba doop, ba doop, bada bada bada boop, while the dancers act out traveling by foot and on horseback through the mountains and valleys. Then the cymbals come in, clang clang clangclangclang swoosh, like the sound of a coin dancing on its face and coming to rest. The dancers halt, and one of them narrates a part of the tale, sometimes in dialogue with another responding, all in song. During the rest I see a student reading a small paperback of this legend.

By now the young people are more comfortable with me. My friend has told them I would like to learn the dances, so while the circle is paused a girl invites me to join them. I tell her in Chinese that I am not familiar with this kind of dance. She looks at her friend, who says something in Tibetan, which includes one of the Chinese words that I said. Except in Chinese it means 'kind of', and in Tibetan it means 'study'. They are puzzled. And I am intrigued, that they do not know the Chinese language!

Tired of sitting, face glowing warmly in the winter sun brilliant in a deep blue sky, I stand back against the wall. Across the yard I see horse's ears and mane beyond the wall, in the neighbor's yard. A gust suddenly lifts a coat from the wall behind me and plops it on my head. This brings a ripple of chuckles. The girls arrived with these polyester quilted jackets over their usual daily attire of traditional Tibetan dress, and sneakers. Woolen scarves were wound across the nose and chin, and they wore gloves. But as the sun warmed the courtyard, these were discarded and tossed on the wall.

The sad moment comes when I must leave. I am deeply regretting having made other plans to travel abroad during this holiday break. I feel I could contentedly remain through the lhosar festival, picking up a lot of the Tibetan language in this immersion environment. It is late afternoon, the sun has warmed up the engine. I say goodbye to my friend, promising to be back for a weekend after the winter break is over, and the snow is off the perilous passes.

Zhuhai Autumn and a Massage Parlor

There aren’t any leaves to turn bright colors, but there are other signs that autumn has come. For one, the temperature has fallen to 60 and the humidity has slaked.

People stand in the wind at the bus stop in the morning dressed in long sleeve knits, vests and jackets, and shiver miserably. Me, of course I failed to bring any warm clothing from my closet. I have only the BRCC denim shirt gifted to me before I left. On the other hand, I have been totally unsuccessfully in my dieting efforts, so I can’t say the cold has penetrated.

The other morning I was watching ABC Nightly News. At the top of the screen TV station displays the time and the weather. I knew we were in for it when the TV weather bar read 16º 14º. Well, I don’t know either what those Celsius numbers mean, but I figured the arrow was going the wrong way!

Ladies, ladies, ladies (gents look the other way) I just paid a man $2.80 to run his fingers all over my body! He’ll start at the coccyx and won’t stop until he finds that sweet spot at the base of my skull. And he does this every week! At the end of an evening class, when I know I don’t have to work the next morning, I call and let him know I’m coming. I dump my books on the desk, race my students down the school steps out to the waiting van. In five minutes I am there. (Well, on bad days the van is broken, I get off at the wrong bus stop and wind up walking ten hurried minutes. He said he’d wait for me until 9:20, which is the time I got off the bus, looked around and realized I’m still two blocks away.) My face lights up when I reach the top of the stairs and see him waiting for me in his yellow sweatsuit.

This time I forego the foot massage. It is way too painful. He manages to find every pressure point full of toxins, and one by agonizing one he releases all that nasty stuff until I look for an unpeeled banana to clamp between my jaws. No, three times is enough. This is my night for pleasure, not pain. So we go straight to the private room with two massage tables. It’s a weeknight, so we have it all to ourselves.

First, he motions me to lie on my back. He doesn’t speak a word of English. I close my eyes, and he begins to stroke my forehead. For half an hour he works my scalp, my jaw, my ears, the back of my neck, even tries to do something about the puffy eyes! He has this thing he does, where he rubs his hands together and then brings them to me, lays them on eyes and they are burning hot! While he’s working the back of the neck I open my eyes long enough to glance at the clock and pantomime, “Hey, are we going to get to the back?” He answers me, “yi ge *** liang ge”. Whadidisay? I missed a word in between. Maybe he’s saying, one half hour the head, the second half hour the back. ‘Yi’ means one and ‘liang’ means two. But my silence prompts him to repeat it. Ah, he’s asking me if I want one hour or two!

“Yi ge, yi ge” I answer, holding up one finger, thinking, what useless pulp would be left of me if I took two hours of this!

For a tenth of a nanosecond I fret that there won’t be enough time for him to reach the soles of my feet. But why waste this soothed and smoothed head on worry?

A half hour later we were done. He had indeed managed to work my entire back, my thighs, calves, ankles and did some good prayerful whacking on the soles[1]. He cracked bones along the way, shook out tension, stiffness and discontent.

He can’t leave me there on my stomach when the hour is up, because I will fall asleep. So he finishes by sitting me up and massaging the shoulders. Finally he declares the mysterious words that end the session. Mischievously I fumble in my bag for some yuan. I’ve asked my Chinese friends about tipping, and they concur with the guidebooks. No! But deep down I’m a New Yorker, what can I say? So I slip him ¥10 or ¥15. Well, it paid off, didn’t it? I mean, he waited for me tonight even though I was late, didn’t he.

I was led to the front desk where I paid. I sat down for a few minutes before bracing to stand out in the cold night at a bus stop. (Sure I could take a taxi, but we’d have the evening tab run full up to $5 if we weren’t careful, now, wouldn’t we.) I grabbed a banana on the way to the chair, from the overflowing bowl on the counter. He brought me a bowl of my favorite sweet red bean porridge, and signaled for some tea. Now that work was done, he showed me his smile.

I know him only as badge no. 84.

Last Sunday the Chinese Olympics were ushered in with fanfare that rivaled L.A.’s best effort. Students from the Immersion Class invited a few teachers over to their dorm for a barbecue fête. The TV was on, and to my great surprise there was Guangzhou[2] on the screen, showing off her new sports arena. [Now I understand the flower display that was just set up at the major intersection near my home; I recognize the Chinese Olympic symbol now when I see it, but I had wondered what there was to celebrate.] The opening ceremonies went on and on and on. I was there to socialize, but it was hard to keep my eyes off the screen. Helpful people stood in front of it periodically so I could visit.

The nonchalance of our hosts made me wonder if they had known the event would be taking place during their party. I remember opening day of the L.A. Olympics. I was invited to a party at the condo clubhouse of a co-worker. There was food and drinks laid out, but the TV was the center focus. Conversations took place, but always with the head angled towards the TV.

For relief there were occasional helicopter shots of Guangzhou. The ceremony must have gone on for two hours. The color commentary was lost on me, unfortunately, but now and again I was able to interpret the costumed synchronized gymnasts to be green fields, then mountains, then golden waves of grain. The ocean undulated. There was more, so much more, of wonderful music and talented athletes woven into it. Skaters, bicyclists, skate boarders, some gymnastic feats I haven’t a name for, and one extraordinary hoola hoop lady who turned her body into a swirling rainbow. As it wound down, the precision army in yet another costume change laid out the Great Wall across the floor.

Fortunately, the next day was my day off and for background noise I turned the TV on, only to find the complete replay. It filled the morning.

After eating entirely too much Sunday, in a feeble attempt to just sample the tiniest bit of everything, Monday was to be the day of a body cleansing diet of fruits and fresh vegetables. I started out with half a cantaloupe for breakfast. I had a green salad for lunch with a potato added and a little tuna fish. Great, I’m thinking. Then Jill came over and I made us a pot of coffee. It went downhill after that. Jill left, admonishing me not to diet too strictly. She saw how I was leaning against the wall. Then my abdomen complained bitterly, I felt weak and hot. By 4:30 I called the school office and asked if someone could come with me to the doctor. I chose the traditional doctor across the street from my apartment. It was close, and I felt weak.

The doctor listened to my pulse. I was used to this. When I lived in Dharmsala, the Dalai Lama shared his physician with the townspeople. When I came down with hepatitis he took care of me. After that, whenever I wasn’t feeling right, I went to him and he laid his four fingers, three edges each finger, to my wrist and listened. We had no language in common, but he was always able to point to the problem area. Stomach, knee, kidneys, he always knew why I was there and could pantomime my symptoms. Awesome. Here in Zhuhai I walked back to my apartment with enough medication to last me three days. Before I left his examining stool I said that after he fixed this problem up, I’d like to come back and talk with him about arthritis. My right arm has been giving me agony. He smiled and waved me off. You take this first, then see.

I’ve finished the medicine. My right arm has been pain free since Tuesday morning.

My former housemate Jill accepted a long-standing invitation to move in with a Chinese woman who is from the North. The woman’s mother is snowbirding it for the winter, so it is the three of them. In the spring the mother will return north. The school Director said I could stay in this apartment alone without paying extra rent. I must keep the second bedroom available for the next teacher who arrives. At the moment, there is no one in the wings.

Me and my Lili are enjoying the space. She is bored out of her mind, without a playmate and no toys or scratching post! What little furniture there is is caning. I can only hope it survives her! Tomorrow’s another day off, so I’ll have to search around for some post fixins.

[1] Place your hands together as for prayer, with fingers relaxed. Then bring the palm edges down on the desired spot, rapidly, rhythmically, producing a ‘thwacking’ sound.
[2] Formerly Canton

Beggars in Paradise--give or not give?

Paul recounted an experience. At the noodle shop he has become such a regular that one of the waitresses has gotten a crush on him. Her name is Jian Hui. Although she speaks no English, she calls him 'Paul' and can mimic the phrases he uses all the time.

One day as he was arriving he witnessed an altercation between Jian Hui and a 'bag lady'. He quickly surmised that the woman ate but could not pay.

Jian Hui was yelling at the woman. The woman yelled back, and Jian Hui kicked her bag scuttling across the room. Undeterred, the woman continued her wheedling arguments, but Jian Hui turned her back. The woman tried to sidle away towards the exit, but the cook grabbed her by a shoulder and pushed her back. He then went into the washroom to wash his hands. Jian Hui returned a watchful, combative eye on the woman.

The woman wore drab grey trousers under a once colorful quilted silk jacket, now colorless with wear, grime and grease stains. Her hair was hidden under a felt cap pulled down over her ears, but for gray whisps that escaped. Around her ankles were layers of rumpled socks tucked in tieless boots.

The woman made repeated thrusts toward the door. Each time she was pushed back, more and more roughly by Jian Hui, who placed a palm squarely in the chest and shoved, sending the woman flying. The woman bounced against the tables. Jian Hui pushed. They reached the back wall, and held there at a stand off until the police arrived.

After questioning the woman in rough voices, they started to search her for the money she owed. One officer, then the other, took a stab at sorting through the outer layers, only to give up in disgust and go into the kitchen to scrub their hands. The police continued to menace her for long minutes, but at last it was obvious she was unable to pay. With a most severe reprimand and warning, they finally let her go. At about that time, the owner of the establishment arrived.

When the owner learned of the theft, he began to scream at Jian Hui. It seems that the Cantonese language does not allow for calm discussion, but only open throated screaming. At that point Paul called her over to his table.

"Why is he yelling at you?"

In their own sign language, they communicated. The boss put the blame squarely on Jian Hui, and wanted to hold her accountable for the lost money.

"How much?" Paul wanted to know.

"19 RMB."

Paul pulled out his wallet and pulled out a 20 yuan note.

"I'll pay for it. Tell him to leave you alone."

And in a clear voice, holding up a palm, she said, "No, Paul." And she meant it.

Paul was so proud of his brave little friend, totally impressed with her strength and fearlessness. He relished the details of the body slams delivered by his little warrior, and how she did not flinch or weaken at the plight of this pitiful woman. He carefully noted the details of the hand washing, so I might understand the filth and contempt.

Now that the weather is turning cooler up north, the south is receiving more and more of these indigents. The bus stops are a prime begging location. There seem to be two styles of begging. On the one hand, the beggars are bold, and put their begging bowl right into your face. On the other hand, I saw a man with his daughter at a bus stop when I was walking after sunset one evening. The child, about four years old, was lying on the pavement on her back, eyes closed. The father, dressed in a worn gray suit, squatted next to her body, hanging his head down over her. He had his hand in the collection can. It occurred to me that he was asleep, and stuffing his hand in the can prevented anyone from taking the pathetic few yuan that were there already.

Although I have asked, I have not learned of there being anything like the 'Gospel Mission' system that we have in the United States. The homeless and indigent have no where to go.

On my way to work Sunday morning, just 20 yards before the entrance to school, I saw the white bearded old gentlemen that I had encountered before in Wan Zai Sha, near my home. I found myself torn. I wanted to throw a few yuan into his pot. But then I reflected, how did he get this way? Where is his family? Or is he a wanderer, like some of us here, having walked a different path all his life. Has he now reached the last phase having worn out any familial feelings of obligation. Has he so alienated those who once loved him that he can no longer go back? I think of Timothy, an American here so deeply into alcoholism that he has burnt his bridges back home, and has come here to hide. His brilliance and good looks get him jobs and he seems to earn a good living, but his drinking and gambling leave him perpetually broke. How do I feel about him now? Do I want to 'lend' him more money, so he can drink and gamble some more, or do I want to speak earnestly to him and urge him to get help. And if he ignores my help, and winds up an old gray haired man wandering the streets, would I then feel obligated to put a few yuan in his cup?

Volkswagon in Paradise

I have fond memories of a 1986 VW. It is the only brand new car I ever had of my own. I put over 200,000 miles on it, a maroon job with a sunroof. Even at the end it was still giving me 39 freeway miles to the gallon. I drove it from Washington State to South Carolina. It didn’t have an air conditioner. That wasn’t a problem in the cool Pacific Northwest, but in steaming Columbia, South Carolina, a drive up to North Carolina to visit the family could bring on serious heat stroke.

That car was like my second skin. I’m sure it had at least another trouble-free 100,000 miles in it. Still on my first clutch! I was very sad to let it go. A minor fender bender, and the insurance company totaled it. Reluctantly, I took the check and looked for another car. I drove a few more cars in the years following, but I never found its equal.

Do you believe in reincarnation? Well, how about cloning? To my delight, my little maroon Volkswagen has been replicated and covers the streets of Zhuhai! All the cabs are maroon VWs of the same body style as the ’86. There are many, many private vehicles, too, of that description. It delights my heart to see my little bug running everywhere around me. Maybe one day I can find a beat up one that I can afford, and once again put on an old skin.

Perilous Passes in Winter

It was Saturday night, I was with the friend I'd driven over the mountains to visit, but this was no restful evening of dinner and a movie. We were in his nephew's van, heading back down the mountain. This day had gone terribly wrong.

I am a teacher who came into the profession late in life. I am passionate about teaching. Even so, day after day of unruly students can wear a person down. When I found this weekend getaway spot, it breathed new life into me. This semester has been a particularly busy one, having my own teaching load plus added classes to fill in for a missing teacher. I am lucky if I can free up one weekend a month to travel over the mountains.

From the Tibetan plateau east, the mountains gradually recede in a series of steppes, high mountain passes and grassy plateaus. As the crow flies, it may only be about 600 miles from the western Tibetan border at Yushu-Serxu east to Kangding, the former China-Tibet border. That translates into days of difficult driving on the Chengdu-Tibet highway 308, even when the winter hasn't closed the road off to passenger traffic.

My junior college is at the end eastern end of the road. We are at a mere 4,500 feet, with just one more 7,000 foot pass before the road descends to the Chengdu basin. My students are all from the mountains west of here, right up to the Tibetan plateau.

The school holidays include a month in the winter and six weeks in the summer, when the students return home. I am drawn like a magnet to these mountains. China is a vast country, there are many interesting sights to explore, but I cannot pull myself away. I accept invitations from my students, spending my free time eating tsamba[i], and yak noodle soup, and drinking gallons of salty buttered tea. I learn new Tibetan dances on these trips, drink barley moonshine, and record it all with my digital camera. These families are warm and welcoming. They live with hardship. Harsh weather and high altitudes. No indoor plumbing. Cooking done over wood or dung fires. Telephone service is spotty, mostly available only in the more populous centers of commerce. Farms and most villages are not connected. Cell phones are useless. When a visitor comes to their door, the family circle widens just enough to draw in one more, then closes ranks again.

These people have a reputation as fiercely independent warriors. Over the centuries they have chased out explorers, exploiters and adventurers. The nature of these mountains is more conducive to isolated fiefdoms than a confederated republic. This has left an opening for the Chinese to send banished public servants to set up residence in the towns established along the main road, declaring themselves the occupying government of China. The Tibetans, if they didn't find them too offensive, left them alone. This wasn't much of a problem, until the communists came along.

During one winter-break excursion I came across a monastery cradled in a small grassland area. There are plenty of monasteries much closer to where I live. Those are either small, or in an urban area. This monastery, 180 kilometers from my home, was large, yet away from any population center. I began to harbor dreams of meditation retreats on three-day weekends, eventually a week-long retreat. I was eager to meet the head Lama, to see if that would be possible.

As we headed down the mountain, the three Tibetan men kept up a lively conversation. I felt like a shadow, sitting quietly behind Urgyen, not understanding their Tibetan. I was along for the ride because I had created this mess that they were going to fix. It was almost six when we left the monastery, night would quickly engulf us. There were icy patches on the road. We were in the same kind of car as mine, a minivan with rear wheel drive, no chains, but the nephew, Gondun, maneuvered the icy twists and turns with a practiced hand.

I set out that morning before 8 o'clock. I would arrive at lunch time. I tried a few times to phone ahead, but got no answer. Tried both his land line and cell phone. My friend had proudly given me his cell phone number on my last visit a month earlier, but I had never been able to connect. My own cell phone doesn't work there. Perhaps his was connected to a different service, or perhaps he could use it only when traveling. The land line was connected to a phone in a back room of his residence. It usually rang unanswered, except late at night, when I knew he would be watching TV not far from the phone. I knew to let the phone ring at least twenty times before hanging up. But I didn't try to call him Friday night. I was dithering, not sure I'd make the trip on Saturday. I would have to return on Sunday, and that was a grueling trip leaving no time to recover before stepping back into the classroom Monday morning. I had promised to bring some English books and tapes, and I had a movie I wanted to share with him. I didn't want two months to pass without a visit. I missed my friend, and the restful sleep I always had when there. So I set out early, dialing his number as I left our village, before heading into the blackout area. No answer.

The road was a patchwork of pavement and dirt. Man comes along and paves, using gallon drums to build fires and melt tar, and moving fallen rocks using a wire sling hanging from a pole on the shoulders of two men. Fallen boulders are broken down by men with hammer and chisel. Landslides are frequent. During rainy season I pray that enough cars have gone before me to flatten down the mud to two tire tracks. So far I've been lucky, not stumbling onto a fresh slide. When the rain dries up, the road is a mess of rutted dirt, loose stones, narrow passes. The river rages on one side, the steep mountain rises on the other. In spots, the rock wall hangs over the road, a passage carved out with dynamite.

I had passed the halfway mark in good time, the town of Danba. I filled up on gas, and tried again to call my friend. No answer.

The road was dry. I hadn't come that way before at that time of day, and the play of brilliant sun and shade as I wove through the folds of mountains was dazzling. The sun caught the river spray over a rocky drop; I had to stop and take a picture. No traffic bothered my line of shot. In fact, there seemed to be no one else on the road but me.

I noticed my windows were dirty. I tried the window washer, but it was either dry or frozen. I thought, I should stop and clean the windows with the handy wipes I carry. But I didn't. I kept pressing on. Almost there! Just thirty kilometers more, I won't quite make it by noon, but maybe there will be some lunch left over.

Climbing up into the last pass, the glare of the sun through the dirty windows blinded me, and abruptly I was in shade again as the mountain road twisted. Before my eyes could adjust, I felt the front end drifting left toward the stone retaining wall, the rear swinging out towards the river. Before I could move the wheel I bounced off the wall, the nose coming around, slowly swinging in an arc, nose to the river, then sliding into the wall. The left rear tire rested on the ditch ledge, half suspended in air, half straddling the snow covered road. Well! Now what?

I got out to survey the damage. Left edge of rear bumper against the retaining wall. Front left tire flat, rim badly dented. Fender smashed, the headlight wall-eyed. I went to lift the front hood to get the jack, but the impact had jammed it shut. No jack. I noticed liquid seeping from the damaged wheel. It was quickly freezing. Rubbing a drop between fingers, I recognized it as brake fluid.

A big blue truck came around the bend up the road, and stopped. A guy came down to survey the damage. Help had arrived quickly, I thought. He walked past the car, looking at the road. He gave a passing glance at me and the car. He waved the truck on, there was just enough road to squeeze by. Twenty minutes later, the same thing happened again. I tried to engage the men, asking for a loan of a jack. The truck drove past, the scout listened patiently, then disappeared around the bend after the truck. He didn't look back.

Sporadic traffic passed going down the mountain. Nothing moved going up the mountain. A pair of tractors stopped, looking like something out of the Dukes of Hazzard. The most talkative one, dark close-set eyes, long face, cunning gap-toothed smile, offered to help for three times the amount of money I carried in my pocket. But they were headed down to Danba, 60 kms away, and wouldn't consider taking me the last 30 kms up to my destination, for any amount of money. By tying a rope to my car nose and their tractor box, using the hydraulic lift, they raised the car enough to change the tire. But my spare was flat, so it was useless. They said there was more ice on the road ahead. So I asked them to help me put the chains on, maybe I could limp forward. They hooked the chains around the tire, inexperienced; the chains lay loose upon the rear tires. I paid them the going rate for changing a tire, and they went on their way.

I limped forward on a flat tire. Where was I going? The road nearby had no ice, but the rutted road was peppered with large rocks. If this flat tire was still to be any use, I couldn't afford to tear it up over these rocks. As I stood by my car surveying things, another truck stopped ahead of me. A guy came down to scope things out. He wanted me to back up onto the icy edge closer to the rock wall. I tried, but my rear tired slipped on the ice and wouldn't mount the edge. While they waited impatiently, I managed to creep right to a smoother section of rutted road, edging forward to a snow-covered lip on the river side, just wide enough for my car. The truck was able to pass me. I decided the car wasn't going anywhere else on its own. I pulled out my valuables, packed them in my bag. I used the remote on my key chain to lock the doors, and hand locked the rear door which isn't on the remote system. I started to walk. If nothing else, I wanted to reach a side of the mountain that was in sun. It was very cold in the shade.

I reached the monastery at 5 p.m. As I passed the temple back door, on the way to my friend's compound, I heard his voice. He was coming down the stairs. Had someone run ahead and told him I was coming? It sounded like everyone else was still inside chanting, in the midst of evening prayers. He asked why I was on foot; I told him my story. He instructed me to sit down and rest, and that after prayers were finished we'd go after the car. As he turned away he pulled his cell phone from his breast fold of his robe. I settled myself in his compound, but I saw no signs of dinner. It was unusual to find not even a thermos of buttered tea. Must have been a long day of temple prayers, where buttered tea is served lavishly.

Forty-five minutes later, his nephew had arrived and we were headed down the mountain.

I hadn't met his nephew before. Gondun was about 5'9", built solidly. His hair was smoothed back, ending in a neat braid down his back. He had already driven to my van, after his uncle called, but without the key he couldn't do more than change the tire. And lock the doors. He no sooner laid eyes on me than began berating me for not locking the car. My language skills deserted me, I had neither vocabulary nor energy to defend myself against this charge. If I simply said, "I did lock it," he would think me daft or an artless liar.

It was dark when we parked my car in Urgyen's compound. His sister and niece arrived, and put together a dinner of noodles. While we waited, I brought out the store of things I had brought for him. A bottle of hand lotion from the States, to combat the very dry winter climate. How often had I seen him use butter on his hands. A few copies of an English text book, and its tapes. His monastery hosts a school for village children, and he has included English in the curriculum. And finally, the videos. I brought a couple of movies that were made with a Tibetan cast, speaking Tibetan. Before dinner arrived, he animatedly berated me for causing such anxiety to his nephew, by having left my car doors unlocked. What shame it would bring him if his guest's car was found the next day by the side of the road stripped. Again I wished to defend myself, but couldn't find the mental or physical energy to do a dictionary-search conversation.

To change the subject, I suggested we watch a video. We fumbled around with the wiring, we old folk don't have the agility of the youth for sorting out all the reds, whites, yellows. After some false starts we finally got the picture and sound on the screen. But the dialogue was coming out in Cantonese! I asked him for the remote control, so we could use the menu to select the Tibetan track. He produced three remotes, none of which worked on the DVD player. I knew the video by heart, so periodically I updated him on what was going on, feeling so disappointed that he wasn't getting the full effect of this delightful movie. He said maybe in the morning he'd be able to find the remote. The warm meal had made me sleepy. I filled my hot water bottle, grabbed my chamber pot, and found the bed that Urgyen had set up for me. I don't know what time his kin left, but my bed was on the other side of the wall, so I know he stayed up late watching his satellite-feed TV.

As is my habit, I rose early. I wrapped myself in the sheepskin coat and went across the courtyard to the kitchen, hoping to find a lit fire. Urgyen's sister soon arrived, finding me huddled in the wool quietly building up body heat. She fired up some coals and carried them up to the house. I savored the quiet hour, communing with the peace and spirituality of the place.

Breakfast of tsamba laced with his wry humor brought me out of the cold gray dawn into a day of brilliant blue sky with the late sun hinting its presence behind the mountains. We talked a bit about the icy roads, and both agreed my life would be safer if I left the car parked in his compound until late February, when the ice begins to melt. He probably doesn't mean to yell, but I've noticed that when he speaks with others his voice is soft, but when he tries to communicate with me, he employs the 'louder is better' method of communicating with someone who doesn't speak your language.

He launched yet again into a rant about my leaving my car unlocked. I opened my mouth but the words wouldn't come. The shock I had just experienced, on top of all the pent-up frustrations of this term, the exhausting schedule that choked off normal activity--academic research, language study, writing, sustaining friendships, leisure activities--broke through fortified denial and poured out in tears cascading silently.

He looked on mutely, a man accustomed to managing a staff, directing and instructing monks of all ages from the most tender years, but not accustomed to dealing with weeping women. After a silence he gently asked again, "When will you come back with a week to spend?"

After breakfast I packed my bag and headed out the door, to begin the long journey by public transport back to college. He told me not to worry about the car, someone would take care of repairs, it would be safely parked until the spring thaws.



[i] Roasted barley added to Tibetan (salted, buttered) tea, along with two to three tablespoons of butter and some sugar. Worked with the hands to form a ball of dough. Pieces pinched off and eaten, with sips of buttered tea.