The flight to Kansas City was amazingly brief, in contrast with the long and cramped flight from Doha to Washington DC. I set foot in the very familiar airport and almost immediately spotted Elaine, who gave me a hug and drove me to my house. We talked aoubt the trip—particularly Tibet Uprising Day—all the way to Topeka.
I stayed up till past 5 am, finally typing up my handwritten eyewitness account of Tibet Uprising Day, which I e-mailed to the International Campaign for Tibet, Amnesty International, and a bunch of people I know. I also e-mailed a variation to the president of China and the Chinese chair of the Beijing Olympics. I may or may not be banned from China and Tibet. Oh well. I also have reason to believe it will be a challenge to adjust to the time change.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Friday, March 14, 2008
Airports, Continued
Now I’m at the Washington Dulles Airport. I was in a really grumpy mood by the time I finally spotted my suitcase. Too many airports and too many airplanes. Next time I’m definitely only going to one country, unless I’m crossing borders in a tour bus or on a ferry. And my luggage is so heavy—but that’s my own fault, thanks to buying so much in Nepal. On the bright side, I bought lots of gifts. I was doing so well until those last couple days in Nepal.
Because of my flight delay from Kathmandu to Delhi, it was after six when I met up with the driver at the airport, and it was almost seven pm by the time we got to the guesthouse. It was already dark out, even if the weather feels like summer. Not the friendliest of drivers, and he spoke English so fast I had trouble understanding him, but I did mention to him how that I wanted to be picked up again at 4:30 am.
The guesthouse in Delhi was really charming—Lutyens Guesthouse—too bad I couldn’t stay longer and see it in daylight and hang out in the garden. There were lots of seats in the back yard and a garden with a plethora of terra cotta pottery and sculpture and the like. My room was in a little, long building out back, facing the house itself, a white bungalow with a row of numerous French doors facing the back yard. The room would have been like paradise to a college student. It was small with white walls and a slanted ceiling with decorative yellow beams. All the fabric in the room—and there was quite a bit—carried out a blue and green color scheme. The window curtains, the fabric under the glass covers of a couple of small tables, the blankets, and a large pillow, the rug, and the chair upholstery were all in blue and green, mostly stripes. The bathroom was all white, with white porcelain tile, and had a white metal wardrobe that I didn’t use.
I woke at 3:45—that’s when I set my alarm. I did some yoga and got dressed and did what little packing I needed to do—and I rolled up and tossed out the black t-shirt in which I had been sleeping. That t-shirt was the last garment I left behind. Gee, maybe I should go ahead and change my socks for the pair Qatar Airlines supplied me with, even though this is so the last leg of my journey—only one more flight left, and so far it’s on time!
At four in the morning, I heard a bunch of peacocks calling. That was probably the only time I heard peacocks on this trip, and I didn’t seen any. It reminded me of the time I heard so many of them on the grounds of the Taj Mahal.
Was it really just this morning? We were at the Indira Gandhi International Airport at 4:50, and the driver wanted me to pay him, and I said, “Oh, I thought the guesthouse was going to add it to my bill,” and after some argument, I just went ahead and paid it, though I don’t know why the guesthouse would say via e-mail that I didn’t have to pay the driver, if I had to pay the driver. Maybe it only referred to the drive from the airport to the guesthouse.
It must have been about 5 am or slightly later when I got to the Qatar Airlines flight 233 ticket counter. The woman behind the counter said there was no record of my ticket in their system. I asked if she could put the record in the system, and she said she could but she’d need a supervisor and asked me to step back and wait till I was called. So I waited till about 7 am—the flight was scheduled for 8:05 am—and meanwhile I stood and waited and worried and bit my nails. I felt so short-shafted and didn’t even know if I’d be getting on this plane.
In short, I was stressed. Finally after the crowd died down, not to mention after I’d been standing by a trash receptacle and repeatedly thinking, “I was here before all these people,” finally I walked up to the counter and said to a different young woman than the one I previously spoke with, “I’ve been here since five, but your records don’t show me in the system.” Like, I bought the tickets back in October and have records proving it, even exact confirmed seat assignments. Since this was India, I strongly suspected that the word “supervisor” referred to someone male (India, indeed--that’s common in the U.S. too), but this young woman asked me if I had confirmed the tickets, and I said, “No, I don’t think so.” Apparently I was supposed to look up the flight to make sure it was on time and somehow confirm my tickets in the process. I thought confirming just meant you look it up online or on the phone to make sure the flight is on time, but she was able to promptly print out my next two boarding passes. Why couldn’t someone have done that two hours earlier?!
But then I had to wait in the endless immigration line. Then I had to stand in line at security—the electricity wasn’t working or something, and this took some time. Meanwhile a disembodied voice announced that my flight was boarding! I didn’t know if I’d make it on time. I got through security finally, behind a screen with a woman searching me very thoroughly and too slowly with a wand. She had me empty my pockets and was very thorough, as if she knew I was running late. I thought I’d never make it. But I did, just barely! I think I was the last one on the shuttle to the plane.
When I got to Doha, I bought a bottle of water—they only sold those small glass ones—and stood in line for security for a while before a staff member told me I had to go to the other counter and get my passport and boarding pass stamped, so I went over to the counter in question and a guy behind a counter did the stamping in question. I then went back to the line and was almost at the very end of it. I saw the signs concerning bottles of liquid and made a point of gulping down the last of my water and tossing the glass bottle into a trash receptacle; the staff member who had spoken to me earlier noticed this, and she thanked me with a smile. After I got through security, I had to hurry to get on the shuttle on time. Some people came on behind me.
Here in Washington DC, it’s chilly and wet. Not warm and dry like it was in Delhi and Doha. Not cold like in Tibet. Not wet and dark, a week later sunny and warm, like it was in Nepal.
I have just one last flight—it’s supposed to arrive in Kansas City around midnight. I hope I don’t have trouble finding Elaine, and that she doesn’t have trouble finding me. She said she’d be at the baggage claim, and she’s been to the Kansas City airport countless times.
In Kathmandu, strange men accosted me on the street all the time, but they weren’t flirting (with one possible exception, when I told a young guy that I would be going to see a dance with my travel agent, and he did a little boogie in place and said I could go dance with him). Here at the airport in Washington DC, this greybeard with a cane, who’s at least as old as my dad, I swear really was flirting with me, and I found this rather annoying. He first spotted me as he entered the shuttle where I was almost the only inhabitant; the airport is so huge that it has shuttles to take you to different terminals. He said I looked puzzled, or something like that; I had been looking at my boarding pass and feeling so tired but aware that I only had one more flight. After we got off the shuttle, the old guy with the cane asked me where I was going, and I was glad to duck into the woman’s restroom.
I’m waiting at the terminal, and ick, there are a couple of guys talking about football. Toto, I don’t think we’re in the Himalayas anymore.
Because of my flight delay from Kathmandu to Delhi, it was after six when I met up with the driver at the airport, and it was almost seven pm by the time we got to the guesthouse. It was already dark out, even if the weather feels like summer. Not the friendliest of drivers, and he spoke English so fast I had trouble understanding him, but I did mention to him how that I wanted to be picked up again at 4:30 am.
The guesthouse in Delhi was really charming—Lutyens Guesthouse—too bad I couldn’t stay longer and see it in daylight and hang out in the garden. There were lots of seats in the back yard and a garden with a plethora of terra cotta pottery and sculpture and the like. My room was in a little, long building out back, facing the house itself, a white bungalow with a row of numerous French doors facing the back yard. The room would have been like paradise to a college student. It was small with white walls and a slanted ceiling with decorative yellow beams. All the fabric in the room—and there was quite a bit—carried out a blue and green color scheme. The window curtains, the fabric under the glass covers of a couple of small tables, the blankets, and a large pillow, the rug, and the chair upholstery were all in blue and green, mostly stripes. The bathroom was all white, with white porcelain tile, and had a white metal wardrobe that I didn’t use.
I woke at 3:45—that’s when I set my alarm. I did some yoga and got dressed and did what little packing I needed to do—and I rolled up and tossed out the black t-shirt in which I had been sleeping. That t-shirt was the last garment I left behind. Gee, maybe I should go ahead and change my socks for the pair Qatar Airlines supplied me with, even though this is so the last leg of my journey—only one more flight left, and so far it’s on time!
At four in the morning, I heard a bunch of peacocks calling. That was probably the only time I heard peacocks on this trip, and I didn’t seen any. It reminded me of the time I heard so many of them on the grounds of the Taj Mahal.
Was it really just this morning? We were at the Indira Gandhi International Airport at 4:50, and the driver wanted me to pay him, and I said, “Oh, I thought the guesthouse was going to add it to my bill,” and after some argument, I just went ahead and paid it, though I don’t know why the guesthouse would say via e-mail that I didn’t have to pay the driver, if I had to pay the driver. Maybe it only referred to the drive from the airport to the guesthouse.
It must have been about 5 am or slightly later when I got to the Qatar Airlines flight 233 ticket counter. The woman behind the counter said there was no record of my ticket in their system. I asked if she could put the record in the system, and she said she could but she’d need a supervisor and asked me to step back and wait till I was called. So I waited till about 7 am—the flight was scheduled for 8:05 am—and meanwhile I stood and waited and worried and bit my nails. I felt so short-shafted and didn’t even know if I’d be getting on this plane.
In short, I was stressed. Finally after the crowd died down, not to mention after I’d been standing by a trash receptacle and repeatedly thinking, “I was here before all these people,” finally I walked up to the counter and said to a different young woman than the one I previously spoke with, “I’ve been here since five, but your records don’t show me in the system.” Like, I bought the tickets back in October and have records proving it, even exact confirmed seat assignments. Since this was India, I strongly suspected that the word “supervisor” referred to someone male (India, indeed--that’s common in the U.S. too), but this young woman asked me if I had confirmed the tickets, and I said, “No, I don’t think so.” Apparently I was supposed to look up the flight to make sure it was on time and somehow confirm my tickets in the process. I thought confirming just meant you look it up online or on the phone to make sure the flight is on time, but she was able to promptly print out my next two boarding passes. Why couldn’t someone have done that two hours earlier?!
But then I had to wait in the endless immigration line. Then I had to stand in line at security—the electricity wasn’t working or something, and this took some time. Meanwhile a disembodied voice announced that my flight was boarding! I didn’t know if I’d make it on time. I got through security finally, behind a screen with a woman searching me very thoroughly and too slowly with a wand. She had me empty my pockets and was very thorough, as if she knew I was running late. I thought I’d never make it. But I did, just barely! I think I was the last one on the shuttle to the plane.
When I got to Doha, I bought a bottle of water—they only sold those small glass ones—and stood in line for security for a while before a staff member told me I had to go to the other counter and get my passport and boarding pass stamped, so I went over to the counter in question and a guy behind a counter did the stamping in question. I then went back to the line and was almost at the very end of it. I saw the signs concerning bottles of liquid and made a point of gulping down the last of my water and tossing the glass bottle into a trash receptacle; the staff member who had spoken to me earlier noticed this, and she thanked me with a smile. After I got through security, I had to hurry to get on the shuttle on time. Some people came on behind me.
Here in Washington DC, it’s chilly and wet. Not warm and dry like it was in Delhi and Doha. Not cold like in Tibet. Not wet and dark, a week later sunny and warm, like it was in Nepal.
I have just one last flight—it’s supposed to arrive in Kansas City around midnight. I hope I don’t have trouble finding Elaine, and that she doesn’t have trouble finding me. She said she’d be at the baggage claim, and she’s been to the Kansas City airport countless times.
In Kathmandu, strange men accosted me on the street all the time, but they weren’t flirting (with one possible exception, when I told a young guy that I would be going to see a dance with my travel agent, and he did a little boogie in place and said I could go dance with him). Here at the airport in Washington DC, this greybeard with a cane, who’s at least as old as my dad, I swear really was flirting with me, and I found this rather annoying. He first spotted me as he entered the shuttle where I was almost the only inhabitant; the airport is so huge that it has shuttles to take you to different terminals. He said I looked puzzled, or something like that; I had been looking at my boarding pass and feeling so tired but aware that I only had one more flight. After we got off the shuttle, the old guy with the cane asked me where I was going, and I was glad to duck into the woman’s restroom.
I’m waiting at the terminal, and ick, there are a couple of guys talking about football. Toto, I don’t think we’re in the Himalayas anymore.
Airports
I’m at the airport in Doha, Qatar. There’s just a fifteen minute delay on the next flight—it’s scheduled to leave at 11:50—but that’s not going to be a problem—it’s not a drastic enough delay to prevent my getting on the next plane—tap wood.
Yesterday—was it just yesterday?—things went comparatively smoothly at the Tribhuven Airport, or whatever it’s called, in Kathmandu. One of the guys working there asked me how long was my stay in Nepal, and I made the mistake of saying, “Two days,” when really I should have said, “Four days.”
“Why so short?” he asked.
“Oh, I was here for a couple more days, before I went to Tibet,” I said, which really didn’t make it any better. That’s like saying I wouldn’t have gone to Kathmandu if I didn’t have to in order to enter Tibet. So much for my diplomacy. Another male employee asked me if I’d been to Nepal before, and I said yes, and he was happy with that and asked if I speak Newali! He wasn’t the one who was suspicious of my tubular rolled up thangka; but he was fine with it after I explained.
Yesterday—was it just yesterday?—things went comparatively smoothly at the Tribhuven Airport, or whatever it’s called, in Kathmandu. One of the guys working there asked me how long was my stay in Nepal, and I made the mistake of saying, “Two days,” when really I should have said, “Four days.”
“Why so short?” he asked.
“Oh, I was here for a couple more days, before I went to Tibet,” I said, which really didn’t make it any better. That’s like saying I wouldn’t have gone to Kathmandu if I didn’t have to in order to enter Tibet. So much for my diplomacy. Another male employee asked me if I’d been to Nepal before, and I said yes, and he was happy with that and asked if I speak Newali! He wasn’t the one who was suspicious of my tubular rolled up thangka; but he was fine with it after I explained.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Last Morning in Kathmandu
It’s a bit after 10 am, and Naresh called me from the lobby to say that the flight has been delayed one and a half hours. Maybe I should run over to the Internet café and send a message about the delay, although I’ve already checked out and my luggage is at the front door. I went ahead and checked out because when he called my room, I figured this time he was an hour early, like yesterday’s driver with the red car. Oh, yeah, it also turned out that his boss sent a message, saying he’s sorry about the dinner engagement. Whew, I’m glad. I said, “It’s OK—I wasn’t crazy about being out after dark. It’s fine with a tour group, but alone it’d be kind of scary.”
Before that, I had a delicious breakfast (except there was no rice, and the fried bread was overdone and crumbled), went back up to my room to brush my teeth, and set out to wander the streets and possibly do last minute shopping. I used up the last of my 1000 Nepalese rupee bills. Shameless. The Horizon Bookshop was still closed, so I went past them. I picked up a Ganesh and Sarasvati at one stand—they were both very very tiny but with lots of detail. I had told the pushy (male, of course) merchant that I was looking for a Bodhisattva statue, particularly Avalokiteshvara, and he insisted in trying to sell me a Shakyamuni Buddha, and I was refusing, when I caught sight of the two little Hindu deities and said I’d like to get them; he still tried to sell me a Buddha also (and I think he was weirded out that I’d be interested in Hindu deities), but I stuck with my choice, despite the pressure to buy something else (something more expensive).
I spotted Barnes and Noble Booksellers—of all places! It was a tiny store that looked very Kathmandu, not very Barnes and Noble; two sides were open to the narrow hectic street, no doubt with roll-up garage doors, and it was a tiny little shop with many piles of English-language coffee table books on a couple of big tables in the center, and with many books and postcards along the walls. I crossed the gutter and went in because this store had the Dalai Lama postcards I was looking for, so I got them and a couple of extras, but then—naughty me—I started browsing in the books, because a coffee table book about Nepal attracted my attention. Next thing you know, I picked out not only the Dalai Lama post cards, but also the book on Nepal and a big coffee table book on Indian embroidery. Naughty, very naughty.
After that, I headed back toward the Vaishali Hotel, turned, and headed back toward the shop where I bought the two Naga statues, because I really wanted an Avalokiteshvara statue, at least for Elaine, if not for me. After being accosted countless times by wallahs and shoe shiners and a little beggar and before this onslaught continued (I swear salespeople in Nepal are truly pushier than in India), I came to the shop, where a smaller Naga was in the place of the large one I got for Elaine. I went inside and saw two Avalokiteshvara statues with a thousand arms and eleven heads each, and they were about the same size as the big Naga. So I got one for Elaine, and one for me. I definitely have done enough shopping and don’t need to do any in Delhi!
Actually, when I get to Delhi, I won’t have time for shopping and just want to relax at the guesthouse. I get the impression that it has good ambiance and I’ll be happy to hang out there. I also have in mind using the last three or four photos in my second disposable camera.
I’ve gone to the cybercafé and sent a message to the guesthouse, and now I’m back to writing in the hotel lobby. It’s about 11 am.
I have little time to dilly dally in Delhi. Actually, I’ll just hang out in the guest house and get some sleep and a shower. I’ll need these things before experiencing many hours of flights and airports.
Incidentally, I had trouble understanding Naresh’s English (that always embarrasses me), and he was a bit…overfriendly, I thought. I realize that when guys in India or Nepal ask, “Are you married?” it doesn’t automatically mean that they’re flirting, but I was still suspicious. Such as when we were leaving the airport and he had his arm draped across the back seat behind me—little things like that. That was his typical way of sitting in the back seat with me, with his arm draped along the back, and I rather wished he’d sit in the front with the driver. In order to get me to look out the window at something, he would tap me on the shoulder; once he reached over and almost touched my hand in my lap, and I quickly moved my hand away. I think that by the time I left Kathmandu the final time, he knew I didn’t like overly familiar behavior. I hope he’s married and has kids, especially since he has my e-mail address.
Later--
Things went comparatively smoothly at the Tribhuven Airport, or whatever it’s called, in Kathmandu. One of the guys working there asked me how long was my stay in Nepal, and I made the mistake of saying, “Two days,” when really I should have said, “Four days.”
“Why so short?” he asked.
“Oh, I was here for a couple more days, before I went to Tibet,” I said, which really didn’t make it any better. That’s like saying I wouldn’t have gone to Kathmandu if I didn’t have to in order to enter Tibet. So much for my diplomacy. Another male employee asked me if I’d been to Nepal before, and I said yes, and he was happy with that and asked if I speak Newali! He probably wasn’t the one who was suspicious of my tubular rolled up thangka.
Before that, I had a delicious breakfast (except there was no rice, and the fried bread was overdone and crumbled), went back up to my room to brush my teeth, and set out to wander the streets and possibly do last minute shopping. I used up the last of my 1000 Nepalese rupee bills. Shameless. The Horizon Bookshop was still closed, so I went past them. I picked up a Ganesh and Sarasvati at one stand—they were both very very tiny but with lots of detail. I had told the pushy (male, of course) merchant that I was looking for a Bodhisattva statue, particularly Avalokiteshvara, and he insisted in trying to sell me a Shakyamuni Buddha, and I was refusing, when I caught sight of the two little Hindu deities and said I’d like to get them; he still tried to sell me a Buddha also (and I think he was weirded out that I’d be interested in Hindu deities), but I stuck with my choice, despite the pressure to buy something else (something more expensive).
I spotted Barnes and Noble Booksellers—of all places! It was a tiny store that looked very Kathmandu, not very Barnes and Noble; two sides were open to the narrow hectic street, no doubt with roll-up garage doors, and it was a tiny little shop with many piles of English-language coffee table books on a couple of big tables in the center, and with many books and postcards along the walls. I crossed the gutter and went in because this store had the Dalai Lama postcards I was looking for, so I got them and a couple of extras, but then—naughty me—I started browsing in the books, because a coffee table book about Nepal attracted my attention. Next thing you know, I picked out not only the Dalai Lama post cards, but also the book on Nepal and a big coffee table book on Indian embroidery. Naughty, very naughty.
After that, I headed back toward the Vaishali Hotel, turned, and headed back toward the shop where I bought the two Naga statues, because I really wanted an Avalokiteshvara statue, at least for Elaine, if not for me. After being accosted countless times by wallahs and shoe shiners and a little beggar and before this onslaught continued (I swear salespeople in Nepal are truly pushier than in India), I came to the shop, where a smaller Naga was in the place of the large one I got for Elaine. I went inside and saw two Avalokiteshvara statues with a thousand arms and eleven heads each, and they were about the same size as the big Naga. So I got one for Elaine, and one for me. I definitely have done enough shopping and don’t need to do any in Delhi!
Actually, when I get to Delhi, I won’t have time for shopping and just want to relax at the guesthouse. I get the impression that it has good ambiance and I’ll be happy to hang out there. I also have in mind using the last three or four photos in my second disposable camera.
I’ve gone to the cybercafé and sent a message to the guesthouse, and now I’m back to writing in the hotel lobby. It’s about 11 am.
I have little time to dilly dally in Delhi. Actually, I’ll just hang out in the guest house and get some sleep and a shower. I’ll need these things before experiencing many hours of flights and airports.
Incidentally, I had trouble understanding Naresh’s English (that always embarrasses me), and he was a bit…overfriendly, I thought. I realize that when guys in India or Nepal ask, “Are you married?” it doesn’t automatically mean that they’re flirting, but I was still suspicious. Such as when we were leaving the airport and he had his arm draped across the back seat behind me—little things like that. That was his typical way of sitting in the back seat with me, with his arm draped along the back, and I rather wished he’d sit in the front with the driver. In order to get me to look out the window at something, he would tap me on the shoulder; once he reached over and almost touched my hand in my lap, and I quickly moved my hand away. I think that by the time I left Kathmandu the final time, he knew I didn’t like overly familiar behavior. I hope he’s married and has kids, especially since he has my e-mail address.
Later--
Things went comparatively smoothly at the Tribhuven Airport, or whatever it’s called, in Kathmandu. One of the guys working there asked me how long was my stay in Nepal, and I made the mistake of saying, “Two days,” when really I should have said, “Four days.”
“Why so short?” he asked.
“Oh, I was here for a couple more days, before I went to Tibet,” I said, which really didn’t make it any better. That’s like saying I wouldn’t have gone to Kathmandu if I didn’t have to in order to enter Tibet. So much for my diplomacy. Another male employee asked me if I’d been to Nepal before, and I said yes, and he was happy with that and asked if I speak Newali! He probably wasn’t the one who was suspicious of my tubular rolled up thangka.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
The Streets of Thamel
It sounds like a concert is taking place nearby, but it’s not classical Nepalese music: it’s a 1970s American rock song. “Wide world” or whatever—music from my childhood. Eek. I might want to close the window soon. Gary did warn me that I might hear loud rock music from the hotel, although I would have expected ragas or Hindu chants.
Water is something you take for granted in the United States; I drink tap water and shower with steaming hot water. Electricity is another thing we take for granted: in America it’s not an everyday thing to have a generator running or to go for a few hours without electricity or to indeed never have electricity and use a treadle sewing machine. I don’t recognize this song. It’s jamming, whatever it is. I wonder what day of the week this is—I don’t think it’s the weekend.
I left the hotel at 4:30 and wandered the streets of Thamel, perhaps for the final time, unless I do it again early tomorrow morning. It’d be nice to, after breakfast, see if the Horizon Bookstore is open, so I can get the Dalai Lama photos they had with their postcard display. The bookstore was already closed when I went out before five this evening; if they’re not open in the morning, I won’t be heartbroken, because I have three copies of another photo of the Dalai Lama. I’m glad I didn’t get any before I went to Tibet, since they might have been confiscated.
While I wandered through the narrow, dirty, and loud streets of Thamel, I promptly bought yet another fairly large bottle of water, at a little stand run by a Hindu woman in a pink cotton sari. While I was at that stand, a guy bought two cigarettes, not packaged at all but handed to him individually. I kept walking, with the intention of finding the travel agency so that I’d get there this evening, but of course I got lost looking for it. However, I saw plenty of interesting sights and was accosted by many friendly people—all male—most of whom were selling something.
The concert continues. The singer is male, of course—this is such a Boy Land, and I’m so wishing I could go to Herland. If it weren’t for the rock music coming from outside, I’d hear Tori Amos singing in my head: “I need a big loan from the Girl Zone.” The music is distracting from my writing, and I’m a bit on the spacey side; after all, I’m getting on a plane and leaving Nepal tomorrow. Too bad I don’t have a one-way ticket to Herland. (Perhaps I should mention that Charlotte Perkins Gilman wrote a novel called Herland back in 1916.)
Anyway, as I wandered the streets and gawked at my surroundings and dodged motorcycles and rickshaws, an old guy with long white hair and beard and wearing yellow robes and forehead makeup—in other words, he looked like a Shaivite priest—came up and sprinkled marigold petals on my hair and put a red bindi mark on my forehead. I smiled and thanked him profusely, and he asked for money, so I gave him a one hundred Nepalese rupee bill (that’s less than two dollars). As he walked away ahead of me, I noticed a beige-uniformed cop accost him, and that made me suspicious that he was just a beggar rather than an actual priest.
I soon spotted a bookstore that sold postcards, including Dalai Lama postcards, which were displayed at the very front of the store, within reach even if you weren’t on the top step. I took three Dalai Lama postcards and stepped in to the counter. A young woman with a round face and a red shawl stood behind the counter, and a guy in a black leather jacket leaned in front of it. They knew about the Shiva “priest,” whom the guy explained is just a beggar from India. I thought that was pretty funny and laughed it off rather than worry about having been made a fool of. (Apparently the fake priest is well-known, because the travel agent, Naresh, knew about him also.) At the bookstore, I chatted with the pair about other things, like about travel in Nepal, and during the conversation I noticed that the young woman didn’t actually participate in the conversation, although I spoke to her in an attempt to get her into the conversation. There sure are lots of friendly people in Nepal…but they are invariably male, unless they’re foreigners. Of course, my experience would be very different if I were actually living with a family in their house; then women would certainly talk with me.
The musician who showed me the way to my hotel last night recognized me at one corner, or rather in a bewildering square with a big map in the center that was actually quite useless for finding your way around the Thamel. We stood around chatting for a while. He asked if I wanted a cup of tea, but I told him I had to go to the travel agency and wasn’t entirely sure how to get there, but he had never heard of it and didn’t know the way there. I had plenty of time but knew I’d be spending some of it getting lost. It turns out that the musician also gives tours in Nepal, in the country. He said that he doesn’t really like Kathmandu (and I said I don’t like Kansas!) and he prefers rural places like Lumbini, where it’s quiet and peaceful and there isn’t all this pollution. The pollution had brought back a little of my congestion after I returned to Kathmandu, but it hasn’t developed into another cold. I gave the musician my e-mail address (funny, the guy at Bhaktapur also asked for my e-mail address—maybe I’m giving it out too much).
During our conversation, the first female merchant I’ve seen came along. She was young, tall and skinny, and I seem to recall her wearing a red sari, or at least something that was red. She was selling passport bags like the one I have, and I smiled and showed it to her, admitting that mine is worn out and has a hole in it. She pointed out that the passport bags she had had thicker black cloth inside, while the black cloth inside mine was very lightweight and translucent. She asked me where I got it, and I said that I ordered it out of a catalog in the States. The bags are made of colorful striped cotton on the back and brocade on the front, and a narrow string forms a loop to go over your head. My old one is royal blue, but I purchased from her a bright red one for one hundred rupees. She wanted me to buy at least one more, but I didn’t. I suppose, in hindsight, I could have gotten a couple more bags to give friends. Too late now. I feel better buying things from women than from men.
A tall and skinny guy who was wandering the street trying to sell a little wooden travel chess set noticed my purchase and tried to sell me a chess set, but I was firm. It was quite like when I bought pottery in Bhaktapur and other merchants took that as a sign that I spent money easily and would allegedly buy anything. At least one more merchant may have attempted to sell me something there, while I conversed with the musician on the crowded street. People were constantly walking past us, and it was noisy with traffic and voices.
While I stood around at the edge of the narrow street, chatting with the musician, and traffic and pedestrians passed by, a little beggar child came along, even though begging is highly frowned upon in Nepal, and the musician told the kid off, but to no avail. The little boy followed me around and occasionally tugged my sleeve, but I was determined to not give him money, because it’s Nepal, not India, and both of us could get in trouble with the police. The back of the customs form, when you arrive in Nepal, says not to give to beggars, so they mean business. When the fake Shaivite priest was with me, a cop had spotted him and chased him off, right after his little ritual with me. But I felt guilty for not giving something to this beggar child, for the boy was obviously desperately poor, with his dirty clothes and his messy, brownish hair pointed in all directions.
It’s weird, but eventually, after wandering totally lost and confused, I saw the travel agency office with about ten minutes to spare—it was 5:50 pm. Whew. Naresh spotted me through the front window and waved, and I waved and smiled back and went in. We had tea and I paid for the driver and tour that I had in the morning. Naresh said that he had shown up at the hotel at ten and was surprised that the driver and I were already gone. I said I was surprised too, and I asked him if he knew why the driver was so early, but he didn’t understand why. I remembered that Binod had said he was a friend of the driver’s, and it occurred to me that the driver just wanted to make sure Binod gave me the tour. I’m glad he did, because he was a much better tour guide than Naresh would have been.
I was concerned because the manager was not present, and he had invited me to the dinner theater thing, which I imagined would be traditional or classical Nepalese music. I was more nervous than excited about this; if I were with a tour group, or had brought a friend, I wouldn’t mind staying out after dark, but when it’s just me, that seems a little crazy. Naresh didn’t know about the invitation, and the manager wasn’t there, so after I had babbled on awkwardly attempting to make conversation (something I’m not good at), it was a relief to leave at about six thirty. I even headed out in the chaotic traffic while it was already getting dark, and I went back to the Vaishali Hotel with some relief at the prospect of quiet and solitude in my hotel room. I didn’t know how I could fill in the half hour with more awkward conversation, only to find that the manager didn’t show up. I had assumed he would be there when I showed up at six, so that I’d get business done and then head over to the concert. Uncertainty took over, and I left early.
I think part of the reason I get so lost in Thamel is the chaotic traffic. I’m trying to get somewhere or trying to go in the right direction while simultaneously getting confused and distracted by the beeping and zooming traffic and the continual threat of getting hit by a vehicle. In addition, the Thamel district is like Bodh Gaya in that the streets have no names. I have an eye for detail, such as colorful puppets (particularly a demon or deity with a bright green face) hanging from the eaves in front of a cluttered shop, or carved wooden masks lined up in front of another shop, or a doorway filled with brightly painted thangkas. But I’m not getting the whole picture, certainly not as if the layout of the streets were a map. I doubt a map would have helped, since there are no street names.
Here I am in the hotel room and the concert is still going on—it’s a male singer—and I’ve been listening. I’m sure I’ll still be able to hear it when I close the window. Between songs, I hear beeping traffic.
The music stopped, and I hear voices from down below, beeping and zooming traffic, and pigeons cooing above.
It’s almost nine and I’m thinking it’s time to go to bed. What an old fuddy-duddy. Really, being around people exhausts me so much. I started going to bed early in Dharamsala, after I came down with a cold, and I haven’t stopped since. The cold went away shortly after I arrived in Tibet, but after I got back to Kathmandu, I started coughing again; undoubtedly this is pollution-related. That proves I could not live in Delhi; to think that until this trip, I had silly fantasies of living in India for a couple years.
While it’s nice that people are friendly and chatty here, I can’t help but notice that only men are chatty. I haven’t really chatted with any women—they tend to be rather quiet. Very quiet. But who am I to talk? I’m an introvert myself and am not in the habit of talking to strangers any more than I must. Nonetheless, speaking almost exclusively with men triggers a sense of isolation, a sort of loneliness. In India, I was always with female sangha members, unlike here. As Tori Amos put it:
Boys on my right side,
boys on my left side….
I need a big loan
from the girl zone.
In Tibet, I think women would have been chatty if we had shared a common language. It seems that in Tibet both men and women are socialized to be outgoing and to chat with strangers. It would have been a really good idea to learn Tibetan before going, although it was only a one-week visit. The Tibetan Children’s Village teaches Tibetan, Hindi, and English from an early age, so it’s easy to communicate in Dharamsala, but in Tibet it’s a different story entirely. It’s a different world.
Water is something you take for granted in the United States; I drink tap water and shower with steaming hot water. Electricity is another thing we take for granted: in America it’s not an everyday thing to have a generator running or to go for a few hours without electricity or to indeed never have electricity and use a treadle sewing machine. I don’t recognize this song. It’s jamming, whatever it is. I wonder what day of the week this is—I don’t think it’s the weekend.
I left the hotel at 4:30 and wandered the streets of Thamel, perhaps for the final time, unless I do it again early tomorrow morning. It’d be nice to, after breakfast, see if the Horizon Bookstore is open, so I can get the Dalai Lama photos they had with their postcard display. The bookstore was already closed when I went out before five this evening; if they’re not open in the morning, I won’t be heartbroken, because I have three copies of another photo of the Dalai Lama. I’m glad I didn’t get any before I went to Tibet, since they might have been confiscated.
While I wandered through the narrow, dirty, and loud streets of Thamel, I promptly bought yet another fairly large bottle of water, at a little stand run by a Hindu woman in a pink cotton sari. While I was at that stand, a guy bought two cigarettes, not packaged at all but handed to him individually. I kept walking, with the intention of finding the travel agency so that I’d get there this evening, but of course I got lost looking for it. However, I saw plenty of interesting sights and was accosted by many friendly people—all male—most of whom were selling something.
The concert continues. The singer is male, of course—this is such a Boy Land, and I’m so wishing I could go to Herland. If it weren’t for the rock music coming from outside, I’d hear Tori Amos singing in my head: “I need a big loan from the Girl Zone.” The music is distracting from my writing, and I’m a bit on the spacey side; after all, I’m getting on a plane and leaving Nepal tomorrow. Too bad I don’t have a one-way ticket to Herland. (Perhaps I should mention that Charlotte Perkins Gilman wrote a novel called Herland back in 1916.)
Anyway, as I wandered the streets and gawked at my surroundings and dodged motorcycles and rickshaws, an old guy with long white hair and beard and wearing yellow robes and forehead makeup—in other words, he looked like a Shaivite priest—came up and sprinkled marigold petals on my hair and put a red bindi mark on my forehead. I smiled and thanked him profusely, and he asked for money, so I gave him a one hundred Nepalese rupee bill (that’s less than two dollars). As he walked away ahead of me, I noticed a beige-uniformed cop accost him, and that made me suspicious that he was just a beggar rather than an actual priest.
I soon spotted a bookstore that sold postcards, including Dalai Lama postcards, which were displayed at the very front of the store, within reach even if you weren’t on the top step. I took three Dalai Lama postcards and stepped in to the counter. A young woman with a round face and a red shawl stood behind the counter, and a guy in a black leather jacket leaned in front of it. They knew about the Shiva “priest,” whom the guy explained is just a beggar from India. I thought that was pretty funny and laughed it off rather than worry about having been made a fool of. (Apparently the fake priest is well-known, because the travel agent, Naresh, knew about him also.) At the bookstore, I chatted with the pair about other things, like about travel in Nepal, and during the conversation I noticed that the young woman didn’t actually participate in the conversation, although I spoke to her in an attempt to get her into the conversation. There sure are lots of friendly people in Nepal…but they are invariably male, unless they’re foreigners. Of course, my experience would be very different if I were actually living with a family in their house; then women would certainly talk with me.
The musician who showed me the way to my hotel last night recognized me at one corner, or rather in a bewildering square with a big map in the center that was actually quite useless for finding your way around the Thamel. We stood around chatting for a while. He asked if I wanted a cup of tea, but I told him I had to go to the travel agency and wasn’t entirely sure how to get there, but he had never heard of it and didn’t know the way there. I had plenty of time but knew I’d be spending some of it getting lost. It turns out that the musician also gives tours in Nepal, in the country. He said that he doesn’t really like Kathmandu (and I said I don’t like Kansas!) and he prefers rural places like Lumbini, where it’s quiet and peaceful and there isn’t all this pollution. The pollution had brought back a little of my congestion after I returned to Kathmandu, but it hasn’t developed into another cold. I gave the musician my e-mail address (funny, the guy at Bhaktapur also asked for my e-mail address—maybe I’m giving it out too much).
During our conversation, the first female merchant I’ve seen came along. She was young, tall and skinny, and I seem to recall her wearing a red sari, or at least something that was red. She was selling passport bags like the one I have, and I smiled and showed it to her, admitting that mine is worn out and has a hole in it. She pointed out that the passport bags she had had thicker black cloth inside, while the black cloth inside mine was very lightweight and translucent. She asked me where I got it, and I said that I ordered it out of a catalog in the States. The bags are made of colorful striped cotton on the back and brocade on the front, and a narrow string forms a loop to go over your head. My old one is royal blue, but I purchased from her a bright red one for one hundred rupees. She wanted me to buy at least one more, but I didn’t. I suppose, in hindsight, I could have gotten a couple more bags to give friends. Too late now. I feel better buying things from women than from men.
A tall and skinny guy who was wandering the street trying to sell a little wooden travel chess set noticed my purchase and tried to sell me a chess set, but I was firm. It was quite like when I bought pottery in Bhaktapur and other merchants took that as a sign that I spent money easily and would allegedly buy anything. At least one more merchant may have attempted to sell me something there, while I conversed with the musician on the crowded street. People were constantly walking past us, and it was noisy with traffic and voices.
While I stood around at the edge of the narrow street, chatting with the musician, and traffic and pedestrians passed by, a little beggar child came along, even though begging is highly frowned upon in Nepal, and the musician told the kid off, but to no avail. The little boy followed me around and occasionally tugged my sleeve, but I was determined to not give him money, because it’s Nepal, not India, and both of us could get in trouble with the police. The back of the customs form, when you arrive in Nepal, says not to give to beggars, so they mean business. When the fake Shaivite priest was with me, a cop had spotted him and chased him off, right after his little ritual with me. But I felt guilty for not giving something to this beggar child, for the boy was obviously desperately poor, with his dirty clothes and his messy, brownish hair pointed in all directions.
It’s weird, but eventually, after wandering totally lost and confused, I saw the travel agency office with about ten minutes to spare—it was 5:50 pm. Whew. Naresh spotted me through the front window and waved, and I waved and smiled back and went in. We had tea and I paid for the driver and tour that I had in the morning. Naresh said that he had shown up at the hotel at ten and was surprised that the driver and I were already gone. I said I was surprised too, and I asked him if he knew why the driver was so early, but he didn’t understand why. I remembered that Binod had said he was a friend of the driver’s, and it occurred to me that the driver just wanted to make sure Binod gave me the tour. I’m glad he did, because he was a much better tour guide than Naresh would have been.
I was concerned because the manager was not present, and he had invited me to the dinner theater thing, which I imagined would be traditional or classical Nepalese music. I was more nervous than excited about this; if I were with a tour group, or had brought a friend, I wouldn’t mind staying out after dark, but when it’s just me, that seems a little crazy. Naresh didn’t know about the invitation, and the manager wasn’t there, so after I had babbled on awkwardly attempting to make conversation (something I’m not good at), it was a relief to leave at about six thirty. I even headed out in the chaotic traffic while it was already getting dark, and I went back to the Vaishali Hotel with some relief at the prospect of quiet and solitude in my hotel room. I didn’t know how I could fill in the half hour with more awkward conversation, only to find that the manager didn’t show up. I had assumed he would be there when I showed up at six, so that I’d get business done and then head over to the concert. Uncertainty took over, and I left early.
I think part of the reason I get so lost in Thamel is the chaotic traffic. I’m trying to get somewhere or trying to go in the right direction while simultaneously getting confused and distracted by the beeping and zooming traffic and the continual threat of getting hit by a vehicle. In addition, the Thamel district is like Bodh Gaya in that the streets have no names. I have an eye for detail, such as colorful puppets (particularly a demon or deity with a bright green face) hanging from the eaves in front of a cluttered shop, or carved wooden masks lined up in front of another shop, or a doorway filled with brightly painted thangkas. But I’m not getting the whole picture, certainly not as if the layout of the streets were a map. I doubt a map would have helped, since there are no street names.
Here I am in the hotel room and the concert is still going on—it’s a male singer—and I’ve been listening. I’m sure I’ll still be able to hear it when I close the window. Between songs, I hear beeping traffic.
The music stopped, and I hear voices from down below, beeping and zooming traffic, and pigeons cooing above.
It’s almost nine and I’m thinking it’s time to go to bed. What an old fuddy-duddy. Really, being around people exhausts me so much. I started going to bed early in Dharamsala, after I came down with a cold, and I haven’t stopped since. The cold went away shortly after I arrived in Tibet, but after I got back to Kathmandu, I started coughing again; undoubtedly this is pollution-related. That proves I could not live in Delhi; to think that until this trip, I had silly fantasies of living in India for a couple years.
While it’s nice that people are friendly and chatty here, I can’t help but notice that only men are chatty. I haven’t really chatted with any women—they tend to be rather quiet. Very quiet. But who am I to talk? I’m an introvert myself and am not in the habit of talking to strangers any more than I must. Nonetheless, speaking almost exclusively with men triggers a sense of isolation, a sort of loneliness. In India, I was always with female sangha members, unlike here. As Tori Amos put it:
Boys on my right side,
boys on my left side….
I need a big loan
from the girl zone.
In Tibet, I think women would have been chatty if we had shared a common language. It seems that in Tibet both men and women are socialized to be outgoing and to chat with strangers. It would have been a really good idea to learn Tibetan before going, although it was only a one-week visit. The Tibetan Children’s Village teaches Tibetan, Hindi, and English from an early age, so it’s easy to communicate in Dharamsala, but in Tibet it’s a different story entirely. It’s a different world.
Bhaktapur, Nepal
I vaguely know I had a dream in which there was a bunch of people, yet once again I didn’t write it down. I woke at 5 am and haven’t gotten back to sleep, but that’s hardly surprising: I went to bed at about 8 pm, even though I recovered from my cold. I first lay reading a Jataka Tale, until the power went out again. Looks like the power is out now—it happens very frequently, not just afternoons and evenings as I thought before. Oh well; I’m probably not going back to the Cybercafé. Electricity is too unreliable.
I hear crowing, and the sky looks to be pale grey. It’s 6:45 am.
Later:
This morning I was looking forward to sightseeing in Bhaktapur, which is actually a separate town from Kathmandu but still in the Kathmandu valley, to the east of the capital. The driver was already at the hotel at nine o’clock in the morning. Actually, he was there earlier; as I left the breakfast buffet, a guy who worked for the hotel accosted me and asked if I was sightseeing this morning, and I said yes but not till ten, and he indicated a small red car in the parking lot (interestingly it looked a lot like my car back in the States). I misunderstood because I knew for certain we were to meet up at ten this morning. I thought it must be a mistake; that it was someone else’s driver, and I went back up to my room, saw that it was only 8:38 am, and brushed my teeth and all that.
Shortly before nine the phone rang, and a woman at the front desk said that my driver for sightseeing was waiting in the lobby. Puzzled and still believing it must be a mistake, I went down and made sure it was the right driver, the one for Bhaktapur; I pointed out that it wasn’t supposed to be till ten, so the woman behind the counter confirmed my room number, and it was indeed the correct room number. He was the right driver: a short bald guy who probably had a recent death in the family, since he was not only bald but also wore white from head to toe. He was shorter than I and wore a white jacket, white jeans, white polio shirt, and a white cap, Western clothes rather than, say, a dhoti and kurta, and he was indeed the driver for the little red car.
He knew very little English and all the Newari I know is “Namaste,” the same as in Hindi. He didn’t seem to be in a good mood, perhaps because I made him wait, but I could be exaggerating. In hindsight, he probably wasn’t so much brusque or bad-tempered as incommunicative because of the language barrier.
On the subject of language, yesterday not only the crazy streets but the transition from “Tashe delek” to “Namaste” was something of a culture shock. The only thing the guy said to me on the way to Bhaktapur was “This is the Pashnuphati Temple,” referring to an impressive white domed Hindu complex that Naresh had already explained to me while we rode to the Boudhanath Stupa. The driver’s silence was welcome, as I sat gawking out the window at the lively scenes outside the car; it’s nice to not be awkwardly attempting to make conversation.
The car eventually went down a narrow and bumpy street (a common thing in this part of the world), and I was fascinated by the sight of a large group of Hindus gathered at a temple with large black racks full of burning and flickering candles. Someone inside the temple had offerings: leaf plates on which people placed flowers and candles much like the ones I remember the sangha placed in the Ganga River while we were on the boat last year.
Soon the car passed on the left the remains of an old Hindu temple; it had steps with some stone animals on either side of them. Many people were bustling about and plenty of vehicles sat around, and the car turned and parked next to another vehicle. I got out of the car after the driver did, and the first thing I saw was a large white gate in front of us. A tour guide came along, a skinny young man, with his hair in a ponytail, wearing dark Western clothes: jeans, denim jacket, black T-shirt and a baseball cap, as if he were in a park in Chicago.
Actually, it seems like in Nepal Western clothes are much more common for guys than for women; I suspect it’s due to the societal double standard that insists that women practice modesty but doesn’t insist the same thing for men, combined with the assumption that Western women are immoral and that Western women’s clothing isn’t modest. I could point out that if I’m wearing a neckline that shows my collarbone, then it’s a low neckline by my standards, but of course I’m a Virgo personality type and dress more modestly than most Westerners; I don’t even like short sleeves or dresses that stop above my ankles. It occurs to me that Nepalese men might think I’m immodest or at least very bold because I’ve gone by myself to this foreign country and walk the streets alone; I’m really not sure what people here must think of female tourists like me, although in Kathmandu they’re accustomed to us. The thing that makes me weird is that I’m an American at a time when Americans don’t want to come to Nepal because they think it’s too dangerous.
The tour guide, Binod, said I had to go to the ticket booth and pay to get in, so I did so and got a pretty parchment-like ticket as a souvenir, along with a complementary little brochure about Bhaktapur. Since the disposable camera I picked up in Tibet was down to only five pictures, I stopped at a camera shop immediately to the left of the big white gate. What looked like a box containing a disposable camera was in fact an empty display box. The male sales clerk (for everyone I interacted with here was male), another little guy, had to get on his bicycle to go get me a disposable camera! It didn’t take him long, not more than ten minutes.
The guide introduced himself as Binod and said that he’s a student and is studying art and architecture. I greeted this info enthusiastically; smiling and saying that’s very appropriate. After all, I majored in visual art during my first year of college and have always had a fascination for architecture and interior design. This fascination for architecture is what drew me to Bhaktapur.
After we walked through the imposing gate, Binod explained that Bhaktapur has different styles of temples: Pagoda, or Sikara (the steep Indian domes). If you look at the pagoda temple roofs at the right angle, they’re shaped like the Nepalese flag, with two triangles, one above the other.
We headed straight toward a pagoda-type temple with two rows of stone animals flanking the steps, a common theme in Bhaktapur. To the left of this temple hung a huge bell, larger than the Liberty Bell but similar in shape. The bell used to be rung in order to deliver news to the town. As Binod pointed out, “Now they have newspaper, TV, radio, and Internet.” There’s also a golden king sitting on a golden lotus throne high above, stuck atop a metal column. It looks precarious, but he’s sat up there for centuries. Just below the lotus throne, a snake or naga curls around the column and hisses. Further to the left of that is the golden gate that used to lead to a palace; it was largely destroyed during an earthquake in 1934.
Beyond the golden gate, the most fascinating thing to me was the Sundari Chok, which translates as “beautiful courtyard.” It is indeed beautiful, with sculpted mythological creatures all around the edges. In the center of the courtyard is an algae-filled rectangular tank, around the edges of which are realistically carved stone snakes. A tall metal snake was centered facing the tank, on one end, and below it was a shiny gold metal spigot consisting of an open-mouthed fish with a couple of other critters, including a rat, on top of it. A king used to bathe here. The lush detail of all these critters was my favorite part of the appropriately-named courtyard.
From another courtyard we approached a Shakti Temple where photography is prohibited and where only Hindus can step inside, but it was OK for me to stand in the doorway and peak inside. Once a year—I find it shocking that this is still done—but once a year one hundred eight animals are sacrificed inside this temple. I refrained from vocally criticizing this tradition, though I’m sure I widened my eyes in dismay. Coming to think of it, my mouth also dropped open. It’s just the sort of thing that unfortunately is likely to give us Goddess-worshipers a bad name. And Gandhi probably wouldn’t have kept quiet about his disapproval: I remember reading in his autobiography that he was appalled at the bloody goat sacrifice going on when he visited a Kali temple in the early twentieth century. Yet this sort of thing still happens. I realize that goddesses like Kali represent both life and death, but this is an example of misusing religion. A temple should not be a slaughterhouse.
The building has a beautiful façade, and when the architect completed it, the king had his hand chopped off so that he wouldn’t be able to come up with a more beautiful piece of architecture for someone else. I found that shocking also, although the story sounded familiar—perhaps in relation to Shah Jahan and the Taj architect. Above the doorway of the Shakti Temple is a wide and elaborately carved wooden design with figures reminiscent of Boudhanath Stupa and also with Nagas and creatures curving around, also flanking the doorway, not just above it. Above are huge eaves consisting of more carved figures and coming to a point. It was really magnificent. There were the usual elaborately carved wooden windows, and at the jutting corner of a roof I saw a creature facing outward with an open mouth, and below it hung a bell.
Oh, yes, I’d like to point out that while I was on a pagoda-shaped temple, I looked up and saw that hanging from the eves were bells with bodhi-leaf-shaped ringers, just like at the Great Stupa in Gyantse, Tibet. And like that stupa (which was part Tibetan style and part Nepalese style, with the Nepalese big Buddha eyes overhead), we entered the beautiful courtyard through a low door, so that when people go through the door they’re automatically bowing.
Binod gave me a fascinating yet disturbing explanation for the carved wooden latticework that fills traditional Nepalese windows. In addition to the ornamentally carved wooden window frame, the window is typically filled in with elaborately carved wooden latticework. It has to do with the caste system, how women from certain castes were expected to be cooped up indoors most of the time (if not all the time) and it was considered immodest for them to be seen. With these latticework windows, women could peek outside, but anyone looking at the window can only see darkness inside and cannot really see inside the house. I felt sorry for all those women with cabin fever for so many centuries; sure, it’s nice to be inside and work on projects, but it’s also great to go out, walk, and explore. Not to mention raise hell.
It occurs to me that modern Western society still harbors a similar attitude, even if it seems more subtle. If you’re female, you’re brought up to believe it’s not safe for you to go out at night; young males, on the other hand, go out at night and get gunned down on city streets. And if you’re a female walking outdoors in daylight, you can expect to be harassed. If power-tripping white male politicians and religious figures had their way in America, women would be indoors all the time, confined to their houses because they are too busy bearing and raising children and not allowed to have birth control or abortions; that is a disturbing aspect of the world that Bush-supporters are attempting to create. Of course, if they succeeded in destroying the world in warfare, there wouldn’t be any women alive to stay indoors and be baby-making machines, but of course I don’t expect Bushworld to make any sense. I could go on and on about women’s stunted lives over the centuries, but that would fill volumes.
Binod took me to the Pottery Courtyard, where very skinny women in cotton saris set up countless rows of pots to dry in the sun, in a courtyard. I would not be surprised if that courtyard contained over a thousand clay pots. We crossed this courtyard and Binod showed me the huge oven where the pottery is baked after it has dried in the sun. It was amazing, a long mound of what looked like smooth dirt, the oven slanted backward and I could see smoke coming out of two spots at the back. In front of it we had passed people working and displays of more pottery, and one guy was making a pot on a huge wheel reminiscent of the film Little Buddha (which, incidentally, was partially filmed in the complex of temples I visited in Bhaktapur, Binod said). I’m going to have to watch that film and spot Bhaktapur, even though Rachel thinks it’s a terrible movie. Indeed, it put more emphasis on the supernatural stuff, unlike Thich Nhat Hahn’s novel Old Path, White Cloud.
While we stood looking at the oven, a merchant walked up to me and displayed a pottery fish-shaped candleholder that hangs from a string of clay beads, and it occurred to me that it would be a good gift for my parents, so I went ahead and bought it for only 250 Nepalese rupees. The guy led me back to his shop to wrap it, and it turned out that he was also selling clay Buddha statues, several inches tall, for 100 rupees—this was a lot cheaper than stuff you can get in Thamel, and it was all made by hand, with plenty of detail. Purchasing pottery in the Pottery Courtyard supports local families. So I also bought a Buddha, and the merchant gave me a little one-inch tall Buddha for free.
Unfortunately, another merchant noticed my purchasing stuff and was eager to sell me a statue or a singing bowl, and another guy with a pole across his shoulders, from which hung baskets of chives, wanted me to buy from him. Yes, Nepalese merchants are at least as pushy as Indian merchants. The situation struck me as comical, and I laughed aloud; Binod was puzzled and asked what I was laughing at, so I felt silly, but I explained, “I buy something from one merchant, so everyone wants to sell me something.”
We afterward went to the Thangka Lama School of Painting, which has six teachers and forty-five students. Indoors, the corridors were very narrow. We entered a room where male students had the thangkas stretched out on frames and were painting them; it reminded me of the Norbulingka Institute in Dharamsala, but the room was much smaller and didn’t have huge glass windows. We also went into another room, where Binod and I sat on rug-covered benches facing a long table in the center of the room. Thangkas covered the walls. The head instructor, who of course was another guy, gave me a talk while showing me some amazing mandala thangkas.
One of the thangkas was painted by a forty-six-year-old lama who’d been painting thangkas for thirty years already! I hope he isn’t going blind. The painting was an amazing World Peace Mandala designed by the Fourteenth Dalai Lama himself. I gasped when the teacher explained this. The outer rings represent the five elements—and the Dalai Lama added a sixth element, Wisdom, which the outermost ring represents. The teacher also showed me a book on the making of the World Peace Mandala, showing the Dalai Lama beginning the original sand mandala in the same design. I actually bought the thangka—for $540!! But as Binod pointed out, it’s something very special, like diamonds; furthermore, it truly moved me. I intend to hang it in a very prominent location, under glass. I think I’ll carefully break the news to my dad, since I was spending his money, that he gave me for the trip! But the money goes to support not only the artist who painted it, but also the school.
On the drive back from Bhaktapur, I noticed that Kathmandu doesn’t have motor rickshaws but tuktuks, three wheeled vehicles that look a little too big for only three wheels and that have a seat for the driver in front and two parallel benches in back, facing each other, so that passengers are in effect sitting sideways. It looks like they can hold as many as ten really skinny people.
I hear crowing, and the sky looks to be pale grey. It’s 6:45 am.
Later:
This morning I was looking forward to sightseeing in Bhaktapur, which is actually a separate town from Kathmandu but still in the Kathmandu valley, to the east of the capital. The driver was already at the hotel at nine o’clock in the morning. Actually, he was there earlier; as I left the breakfast buffet, a guy who worked for the hotel accosted me and asked if I was sightseeing this morning, and I said yes but not till ten, and he indicated a small red car in the parking lot (interestingly it looked a lot like my car back in the States). I misunderstood because I knew for certain we were to meet up at ten this morning. I thought it must be a mistake; that it was someone else’s driver, and I went back up to my room, saw that it was only 8:38 am, and brushed my teeth and all that.
Shortly before nine the phone rang, and a woman at the front desk said that my driver for sightseeing was waiting in the lobby. Puzzled and still believing it must be a mistake, I went down and made sure it was the right driver, the one for Bhaktapur; I pointed out that it wasn’t supposed to be till ten, so the woman behind the counter confirmed my room number, and it was indeed the correct room number. He was the right driver: a short bald guy who probably had a recent death in the family, since he was not only bald but also wore white from head to toe. He was shorter than I and wore a white jacket, white jeans, white polio shirt, and a white cap, Western clothes rather than, say, a dhoti and kurta, and he was indeed the driver for the little red car.
He knew very little English and all the Newari I know is “Namaste,” the same as in Hindi. He didn’t seem to be in a good mood, perhaps because I made him wait, but I could be exaggerating. In hindsight, he probably wasn’t so much brusque or bad-tempered as incommunicative because of the language barrier.
On the subject of language, yesterday not only the crazy streets but the transition from “Tashe delek” to “Namaste” was something of a culture shock. The only thing the guy said to me on the way to Bhaktapur was “This is the Pashnuphati Temple,” referring to an impressive white domed Hindu complex that Naresh had already explained to me while we rode to the Boudhanath Stupa. The driver’s silence was welcome, as I sat gawking out the window at the lively scenes outside the car; it’s nice to not be awkwardly attempting to make conversation.
The car eventually went down a narrow and bumpy street (a common thing in this part of the world), and I was fascinated by the sight of a large group of Hindus gathered at a temple with large black racks full of burning and flickering candles. Someone inside the temple had offerings: leaf plates on which people placed flowers and candles much like the ones I remember the sangha placed in the Ganga River while we were on the boat last year.
Soon the car passed on the left the remains of an old Hindu temple; it had steps with some stone animals on either side of them. Many people were bustling about and plenty of vehicles sat around, and the car turned and parked next to another vehicle. I got out of the car after the driver did, and the first thing I saw was a large white gate in front of us. A tour guide came along, a skinny young man, with his hair in a ponytail, wearing dark Western clothes: jeans, denim jacket, black T-shirt and a baseball cap, as if he were in a park in Chicago.
Actually, it seems like in Nepal Western clothes are much more common for guys than for women; I suspect it’s due to the societal double standard that insists that women practice modesty but doesn’t insist the same thing for men, combined with the assumption that Western women are immoral and that Western women’s clothing isn’t modest. I could point out that if I’m wearing a neckline that shows my collarbone, then it’s a low neckline by my standards, but of course I’m a Virgo personality type and dress more modestly than most Westerners; I don’t even like short sleeves or dresses that stop above my ankles. It occurs to me that Nepalese men might think I’m immodest or at least very bold because I’ve gone by myself to this foreign country and walk the streets alone; I’m really not sure what people here must think of female tourists like me, although in Kathmandu they’re accustomed to us. The thing that makes me weird is that I’m an American at a time when Americans don’t want to come to Nepal because they think it’s too dangerous.
The tour guide, Binod, said I had to go to the ticket booth and pay to get in, so I did so and got a pretty parchment-like ticket as a souvenir, along with a complementary little brochure about Bhaktapur. Since the disposable camera I picked up in Tibet was down to only five pictures, I stopped at a camera shop immediately to the left of the big white gate. What looked like a box containing a disposable camera was in fact an empty display box. The male sales clerk (for everyone I interacted with here was male), another little guy, had to get on his bicycle to go get me a disposable camera! It didn’t take him long, not more than ten minutes.
The guide introduced himself as Binod and said that he’s a student and is studying art and architecture. I greeted this info enthusiastically; smiling and saying that’s very appropriate. After all, I majored in visual art during my first year of college and have always had a fascination for architecture and interior design. This fascination for architecture is what drew me to Bhaktapur.
After we walked through the imposing gate, Binod explained that Bhaktapur has different styles of temples: Pagoda, or Sikara (the steep Indian domes). If you look at the pagoda temple roofs at the right angle, they’re shaped like the Nepalese flag, with two triangles, one above the other.
We headed straight toward a pagoda-type temple with two rows of stone animals flanking the steps, a common theme in Bhaktapur. To the left of this temple hung a huge bell, larger than the Liberty Bell but similar in shape. The bell used to be rung in order to deliver news to the town. As Binod pointed out, “Now they have newspaper, TV, radio, and Internet.” There’s also a golden king sitting on a golden lotus throne high above, stuck atop a metal column. It looks precarious, but he’s sat up there for centuries. Just below the lotus throne, a snake or naga curls around the column and hisses. Further to the left of that is the golden gate that used to lead to a palace; it was largely destroyed during an earthquake in 1934.
Beyond the golden gate, the most fascinating thing to me was the Sundari Chok, which translates as “beautiful courtyard.” It is indeed beautiful, with sculpted mythological creatures all around the edges. In the center of the courtyard is an algae-filled rectangular tank, around the edges of which are realistically carved stone snakes. A tall metal snake was centered facing the tank, on one end, and below it was a shiny gold metal spigot consisting of an open-mouthed fish with a couple of other critters, including a rat, on top of it. A king used to bathe here. The lush detail of all these critters was my favorite part of the appropriately-named courtyard.
From another courtyard we approached a Shakti Temple where photography is prohibited and where only Hindus can step inside, but it was OK for me to stand in the doorway and peak inside. Once a year—I find it shocking that this is still done—but once a year one hundred eight animals are sacrificed inside this temple. I refrained from vocally criticizing this tradition, though I’m sure I widened my eyes in dismay. Coming to think of it, my mouth also dropped open. It’s just the sort of thing that unfortunately is likely to give us Goddess-worshipers a bad name. And Gandhi probably wouldn’t have kept quiet about his disapproval: I remember reading in his autobiography that he was appalled at the bloody goat sacrifice going on when he visited a Kali temple in the early twentieth century. Yet this sort of thing still happens. I realize that goddesses like Kali represent both life and death, but this is an example of misusing religion. A temple should not be a slaughterhouse.
The building has a beautiful façade, and when the architect completed it, the king had his hand chopped off so that he wouldn’t be able to come up with a more beautiful piece of architecture for someone else. I found that shocking also, although the story sounded familiar—perhaps in relation to Shah Jahan and the Taj architect. Above the doorway of the Shakti Temple is a wide and elaborately carved wooden design with figures reminiscent of Boudhanath Stupa and also with Nagas and creatures curving around, also flanking the doorway, not just above it. Above are huge eaves consisting of more carved figures and coming to a point. It was really magnificent. There were the usual elaborately carved wooden windows, and at the jutting corner of a roof I saw a creature facing outward with an open mouth, and below it hung a bell.
Oh, yes, I’d like to point out that while I was on a pagoda-shaped temple, I looked up and saw that hanging from the eves were bells with bodhi-leaf-shaped ringers, just like at the Great Stupa in Gyantse, Tibet. And like that stupa (which was part Tibetan style and part Nepalese style, with the Nepalese big Buddha eyes overhead), we entered the beautiful courtyard through a low door, so that when people go through the door they’re automatically bowing.
Binod gave me a fascinating yet disturbing explanation for the carved wooden latticework that fills traditional Nepalese windows. In addition to the ornamentally carved wooden window frame, the window is typically filled in with elaborately carved wooden latticework. It has to do with the caste system, how women from certain castes were expected to be cooped up indoors most of the time (if not all the time) and it was considered immodest for them to be seen. With these latticework windows, women could peek outside, but anyone looking at the window can only see darkness inside and cannot really see inside the house. I felt sorry for all those women with cabin fever for so many centuries; sure, it’s nice to be inside and work on projects, but it’s also great to go out, walk, and explore. Not to mention raise hell.
It occurs to me that modern Western society still harbors a similar attitude, even if it seems more subtle. If you’re female, you’re brought up to believe it’s not safe for you to go out at night; young males, on the other hand, go out at night and get gunned down on city streets. And if you’re a female walking outdoors in daylight, you can expect to be harassed. If power-tripping white male politicians and religious figures had their way in America, women would be indoors all the time, confined to their houses because they are too busy bearing and raising children and not allowed to have birth control or abortions; that is a disturbing aspect of the world that Bush-supporters are attempting to create. Of course, if they succeeded in destroying the world in warfare, there wouldn’t be any women alive to stay indoors and be baby-making machines, but of course I don’t expect Bushworld to make any sense. I could go on and on about women’s stunted lives over the centuries, but that would fill volumes.
Binod took me to the Pottery Courtyard, where very skinny women in cotton saris set up countless rows of pots to dry in the sun, in a courtyard. I would not be surprised if that courtyard contained over a thousand clay pots. We crossed this courtyard and Binod showed me the huge oven where the pottery is baked after it has dried in the sun. It was amazing, a long mound of what looked like smooth dirt, the oven slanted backward and I could see smoke coming out of two spots at the back. In front of it we had passed people working and displays of more pottery, and one guy was making a pot on a huge wheel reminiscent of the film Little Buddha (which, incidentally, was partially filmed in the complex of temples I visited in Bhaktapur, Binod said). I’m going to have to watch that film and spot Bhaktapur, even though Rachel thinks it’s a terrible movie. Indeed, it put more emphasis on the supernatural stuff, unlike Thich Nhat Hahn’s novel Old Path, White Cloud.
While we stood looking at the oven, a merchant walked up to me and displayed a pottery fish-shaped candleholder that hangs from a string of clay beads, and it occurred to me that it would be a good gift for my parents, so I went ahead and bought it for only 250 Nepalese rupees. The guy led me back to his shop to wrap it, and it turned out that he was also selling clay Buddha statues, several inches tall, for 100 rupees—this was a lot cheaper than stuff you can get in Thamel, and it was all made by hand, with plenty of detail. Purchasing pottery in the Pottery Courtyard supports local families. So I also bought a Buddha, and the merchant gave me a little one-inch tall Buddha for free.
Unfortunately, another merchant noticed my purchasing stuff and was eager to sell me a statue or a singing bowl, and another guy with a pole across his shoulders, from which hung baskets of chives, wanted me to buy from him. Yes, Nepalese merchants are at least as pushy as Indian merchants. The situation struck me as comical, and I laughed aloud; Binod was puzzled and asked what I was laughing at, so I felt silly, but I explained, “I buy something from one merchant, so everyone wants to sell me something.”
We afterward went to the Thangka Lama School of Painting, which has six teachers and forty-five students. Indoors, the corridors were very narrow. We entered a room where male students had the thangkas stretched out on frames and were painting them; it reminded me of the Norbulingka Institute in Dharamsala, but the room was much smaller and didn’t have huge glass windows. We also went into another room, where Binod and I sat on rug-covered benches facing a long table in the center of the room. Thangkas covered the walls. The head instructor, who of course was another guy, gave me a talk while showing me some amazing mandala thangkas.
One of the thangkas was painted by a forty-six-year-old lama who’d been painting thangkas for thirty years already! I hope he isn’t going blind. The painting was an amazing World Peace Mandala designed by the Fourteenth Dalai Lama himself. I gasped when the teacher explained this. The outer rings represent the five elements—and the Dalai Lama added a sixth element, Wisdom, which the outermost ring represents. The teacher also showed me a book on the making of the World Peace Mandala, showing the Dalai Lama beginning the original sand mandala in the same design. I actually bought the thangka—for $540!! But as Binod pointed out, it’s something very special, like diamonds; furthermore, it truly moved me. I intend to hang it in a very prominent location, under glass. I think I’ll carefully break the news to my dad, since I was spending his money, that he gave me for the trip! But the money goes to support not only the artist who painted it, but also the school.
On the drive back from Bhaktapur, I noticed that Kathmandu doesn’t have motor rickshaws but tuktuks, three wheeled vehicles that look a little too big for only three wheels and that have a seat for the driver in front and two parallel benches in back, facing each other, so that passengers are in effect sitting sideways. It looks like they can hold as many as ten really skinny people.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Back to Kathmandu
The time difference in Kathmandu is like two and a quarter hours from Lhasa, so I’ve gone back in time slightly.
I’m in the hotel room and it’s about 2 pm. I’m exhausted. It’s a culture shock: Lhasa seemed so clean and orderly compared to the chaotic streets of Kathmandu. I don’t think this city is meant to have so many cars! It has lots of bikes and motorcycles, too, but it has so many more cars than an Indian city, or at least it certainly seems to. And the streets of Thamel are medieval—narrow, winding, potholed—and everything’s crowded together.
I met up with the travel agent, Naresh, and he gave me some beautiful postcards to entice me to tour Bhaktapur, and it worked—I came up with 10 am tomorrow as a good time to meet up at the hotel. What the heck, I may as well do a little more touring while I’m in Nepal. I also intend to get a statue or two for Elaine (and probably for myself!) and some Dalai Lama postcards. Elaine, as I may have mentioned, is the coworker who will be picking me up at the airport in Kansas City.
The lights all suddenly came on! I’m tempted to go to the Cybercafé but like Naresh’s manager pointed out, I should take it easy and rest today, because of the transition from Tibet to Nepal. It’s like suddenly returning to India after visiting Tibet. Just the change from “Tashe delek!” to “Namaste!” is startling. However, I might want to just lie down and mindfully breathe for, like, half an hour, because there’s noisy construction going on really close by, like next door, and there’s no way I’m going to sleep through that.
Walking from the travel agent’s office, I got lost again! It’s embarrassing to admit I could be so stupid. It seems like such a simple walk. But the streets are so chaotic and bewildering, and they have no names. After a week in Tibet, Kathmandu seems crazy, chaotic and noisy—I thought the blaring megaphones were bad, but here there’s constant honking and zooming of motorcycles! In Tibet, the steering wheel is on the left and they drive on the right side of the road, just like in America; and although they still honk more than Americans, it’s not like in Nepal and India, where they don’t get a lot of use out of breaks.
A musician showed me the way to the hotel, and I thought I should pay him, and I bought his CD; he tried to sell me his violin-like musical instrument first. He seemed nice, but I was paranoid because of my experience with the rickshaw driver last time I was here, but I’m thinking the musician didn’t rip me off—the CD was $15 or 1500 rupees—Nepalese rupees are less than Indian.
I’ve developed a cough again since arriving in Kathmandu. Clearly I can’t live in a highly polluted city; my respiratory system is too fragile, thanks to all that secondhand smoke my mother forced on me for the first nineteen years of my life. Although Tibet has so much less pollution, many people (mostly women) wear cloth masks like surgical masks. At merchants’ booths, you see them hanging in colorful clusters, for they’re made from a wide variety of colors and patterns. But then, in Tibet I can see how it would be useful against winds and dust storms—certainly, I wouldn’t expect so many germs and so much pollution there.
I spent over an hour at the Cybercafé and forgot to send an e-mail about riding a yak! I’ll have to do something about that.
Now it’s 7:27 pm and I’m thinking I’ll lie down and read Tricycle magazine some more. Oh, yeah, I haven’t mentioned: after lying down and mindfully breathing (but not actually taking a nap), I got up and went wandering to find the Naga statue that I fell in love with and that I’d decided I want to get Elaine. I originally saw it the first time I was in Kathmandu, walking past and totally not in the mood to buy anything, and I saw it again while walking to the travel agency. So I went out…and there it was, displayed on the front left corner of a table in front of the shop. The shopkeeper also had a few Nagas like it but half the size, so I also got myself one that’s half the size of the first. Mine is about five inches tall, and both metal statues are heavier than they look. While in Tibet, I was struck by how often the Nagas appear in temple architecture, as part of the elaborate carvings and murals. That’s not terribly surprising with all the water in Tibet; the Brahmaputra in particular snakes around a lot. Tibet has a lot of sand—something I didn’t think of in spite of all the sand mandalas. Ah, one of which I saw in a somewhat dark room at the Sera Monastery. It was inside a glass display case, like the one at the Tibetan Nuns Project nunnery in Dharamsala, even though normally sand mandalas are destroyed, representing impermanence and detachment.
My Last Morning in Tibet
It is morning and the power is still out. I’m tempted to ask if this happens every March 10.
2
In the morning, I was in the jeep with the driver and my tour guide on the way to the airport. Driving along Beijing Road, we saw many green military trucks and green-clad soldiers, some still wearing riot gear helmets. Gyantzing told me that monks at Drepung Monastery (which we had wandered around earlier in the week) fought with the military, and laymen joined in. The same thing happened at the Jokhang. I had told Gyantzing about my circumambulating the Potala and how many times I circumambulated the Jokhang yesterday, and now I told him that it was around seven in the evening when I headed back to the hotel, so the protest must have started after that. He also said, “Drepung is now closed to tourists.” Wow—that’s the monastery we visited on the first morning.
On the outskirts of Lhasa: a military convoy of at least nine trucks is coming out of the military base.
We passed a rocky mountain, and on one lower corner was a portion of a carved Buddha figure; most of it had broken off the mountain. I wonder if it used to be brightly painted like the others, perhaps decades ago or centuries ago. I wonder if the Chinese blew it up in the 1950s or 60s.
We passed the big Buddha carved and painted on the rocks, right after passing the little summer houses; they certainly have a great view of the Buddha, but I’m not impressed with the choice of making realistic goose sculptures along the edge of the pond, when there are real live geese just like that a few yards away. The real ones are quite enough.
3
I’m at Gate 2, at the airport, and actually eager to go back to Kathmandu, despite how gloomy it was. I’m eager to use the Internet (for obvious reasons, namely my eyewitness account!) and to get a souvenir for Elaine. After several years of eagerly researching Tibet and finding the culture so fascinating, and at least two years of hoping that someday I’d visit Tibet, it is ironic that I’m now so eager to get out of Tibet and back to Kathmandu.
The view at the terminal is gorgeous, through a long, tall glass window. The view is of sharp pointy brown mountains and a bright blue sky. The sky is so big and bright blue in Tibet generally.
The terminal has a little shop, and it includes some books, including The Search for Shangri-La by Charles Allen. Gyantzing had mentioned the book to me, and I said that I’ve heard of it—I think I have a copy of it, but significantly the subtitle is completely different in the American edition than in the version available in Tibet. The subtitle here says something about Western China, whereas the American edition uses the phrase “Tibetan history” rather than pretending as if Tibet were part of China. I spotted a book called Tibetan Stories, which as I expected has folk stories and mythology, but it also has ridiculous anti-Dalai Lama propaganda, very stupid and childish stuff, and as is the Maoist custom calls him “Dalai” instead of “Dalai Lama,” as if he weren’t a teacher. The word “lama” means “teacher.” In my opinion, he’s much more a monk and spiritual leader rather than a politician, and he prefers it that way.
When the customs guy looked over my passport and boarding pass, he chatted with me cheerfully, and I was cheerful too, but I was weirded out when he asked, “Was this your first visit to China?” My first thought was: But I haven’t been to China!
Rather than argue, I said, “Yes.”
“Did you enjoy your first visit to China?”
“Yes, it’s gorgeous!” I said, no longer so shocked. When he encouraged me to “return to China,” I said, “Maybe next time I’ll study the language first!”
I kept it vague, not specifying whether I meant Tibetan or Manchurian Chinese. Who knows, maybe I will take that course on Chinese and go to Beijing some day. But I don’t like mean boys in uniforms, and I don’t like megaphones. I’m sure the Dalai Lama would disapprove of the wagons with megaphones blaring out recorded ads for merchandise, and I rather suspect he’d also not be keen on shops blaring out music, like the same song over and over again in particular.
Maybe the next country I visit will be Thailand. Or maybe I’ll go to Morocco, so I can ride a camel, since I’ve ridden an elephant in India and a yak in Tibet.
In hindsight, it’s too bad I didn’t ask Gyantzing some questions about nuns. The tour was all about boys, boys, and boys—like in Kathmandu women and girls were so much in the background while I wished they’d step into the foreground. Yes, I know, patriarchy is a polluting cloud that’s suffocating most of the world, but in some places it’s more blatant than others, particularly in the extremes of misogyny. Somehow in the USA, patriarchy seems slightly less subtle because it comes not in the way you see people on the street but in the form of such things as nuclear weapons and having a Whiteboyworld government that acts like the world’s bully and that, along with their misogynistic supporters, are doing their damndest to impede women’s reproductive freedom not only in the USA but also globally, what with the evil Global Gag Rule.
Anyway, what I was going to say is that it’s too bad that, when Gyantzing told me boys had to be sixteen before they could become monks, I didn’t ask what age nuns had to be. Also, I should have asked if the nunnery that I’ve read was close to the Potala is open to visitors or at least contains a temple that’s open to visitors. I wish I had thought of that on my free day; I could have taken my Lhasa map with me and walked to the nunnery, and I could have walked up to the Naga Temple, or at least close to it, in the park. Gee, I’ll just have to visit Tibet again someday… I’m more likely to stick to armchair traveling, since I have plenty of books on Tibet, including some books on Tibetan women and the feminine in Tibetan Buddhism.
2
In the morning, I was in the jeep with the driver and my tour guide on the way to the airport. Driving along Beijing Road, we saw many green military trucks and green-clad soldiers, some still wearing riot gear helmets. Gyantzing told me that monks at Drepung Monastery (which we had wandered around earlier in the week) fought with the military, and laymen joined in. The same thing happened at the Jokhang. I had told Gyantzing about my circumambulating the Potala and how many times I circumambulated the Jokhang yesterday, and now I told him that it was around seven in the evening when I headed back to the hotel, so the protest must have started after that. He also said, “Drepung is now closed to tourists.” Wow—that’s the monastery we visited on the first morning.
On the outskirts of Lhasa: a military convoy of at least nine trucks is coming out of the military base.
We passed a rocky mountain, and on one lower corner was a portion of a carved Buddha figure; most of it had broken off the mountain. I wonder if it used to be brightly painted like the others, perhaps decades ago or centuries ago. I wonder if the Chinese blew it up in the 1950s or 60s.
We passed the big Buddha carved and painted on the rocks, right after passing the little summer houses; they certainly have a great view of the Buddha, but I’m not impressed with the choice of making realistic goose sculptures along the edge of the pond, when there are real live geese just like that a few yards away. The real ones are quite enough.
3
I’m at Gate 2, at the airport, and actually eager to go back to Kathmandu, despite how gloomy it was. I’m eager to use the Internet (for obvious reasons, namely my eyewitness account!) and to get a souvenir for Elaine. After several years of eagerly researching Tibet and finding the culture so fascinating, and at least two years of hoping that someday I’d visit Tibet, it is ironic that I’m now so eager to get out of Tibet and back to Kathmandu.
The view at the terminal is gorgeous, through a long, tall glass window. The view is of sharp pointy brown mountains and a bright blue sky. The sky is so big and bright blue in Tibet generally.
The terminal has a little shop, and it includes some books, including The Search for Shangri-La by Charles Allen. Gyantzing had mentioned the book to me, and I said that I’ve heard of it—I think I have a copy of it, but significantly the subtitle is completely different in the American edition than in the version available in Tibet. The subtitle here says something about Western China, whereas the American edition uses the phrase “Tibetan history” rather than pretending as if Tibet were part of China. I spotted a book called Tibetan Stories, which as I expected has folk stories and mythology, but it also has ridiculous anti-Dalai Lama propaganda, very stupid and childish stuff, and as is the Maoist custom calls him “Dalai” instead of “Dalai Lama,” as if he weren’t a teacher. The word “lama” means “teacher.” In my opinion, he’s much more a monk and spiritual leader rather than a politician, and he prefers it that way.
When the customs guy looked over my passport and boarding pass, he chatted with me cheerfully, and I was cheerful too, but I was weirded out when he asked, “Was this your first visit to China?” My first thought was: But I haven’t been to China!
Rather than argue, I said, “Yes.”
“Did you enjoy your first visit to China?”
“Yes, it’s gorgeous!” I said, no longer so shocked. When he encouraged me to “return to China,” I said, “Maybe next time I’ll study the language first!”
I kept it vague, not specifying whether I meant Tibetan or Manchurian Chinese. Who knows, maybe I will take that course on Chinese and go to Beijing some day. But I don’t like mean boys in uniforms, and I don’t like megaphones. I’m sure the Dalai Lama would disapprove of the wagons with megaphones blaring out recorded ads for merchandise, and I rather suspect he’d also not be keen on shops blaring out music, like the same song over and over again in particular.
Maybe the next country I visit will be Thailand. Or maybe I’ll go to Morocco, so I can ride a camel, since I’ve ridden an elephant in India and a yak in Tibet.
In hindsight, it’s too bad I didn’t ask Gyantzing some questions about nuns. The tour was all about boys, boys, and boys—like in Kathmandu women and girls were so much in the background while I wished they’d step into the foreground. Yes, I know, patriarchy is a polluting cloud that’s suffocating most of the world, but in some places it’s more blatant than others, particularly in the extremes of misogyny. Somehow in the USA, patriarchy seems slightly less subtle because it comes not in the way you see people on the street but in the form of such things as nuclear weapons and having a Whiteboyworld government that acts like the world’s bully and that, along with their misogynistic supporters, are doing their damndest to impede women’s reproductive freedom not only in the USA but also globally, what with the evil Global Gag Rule.
Anyway, what I was going to say is that it’s too bad that, when Gyantzing told me boys had to be sixteen before they could become monks, I didn’t ask what age nuns had to be. Also, I should have asked if the nunnery that I’ve read was close to the Potala is open to visitors or at least contains a temple that’s open to visitors. I wish I had thought of that on my free day; I could have taken my Lhasa map with me and walked to the nunnery, and I could have walked up to the Naga Temple, or at least close to it, in the park. Gee, I’ll just have to visit Tibet again someday… I’m more likely to stick to armchair traveling, since I have plenty of books on Tibet, including some books on Tibetan women and the feminine in Tibetan Buddhism.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Tibet Uprising Day
This feels like the coldest day yet—I’ve been in Tibet for nearly a week. Maybe it just seems colder because I had the coldest room yet; maybe I should try harder to turn up the remote-control heater, since like the one in Shigatse it’s stuck on 30 degrees centigrade, whatever that means. No matter how cold my room seems, it’s a lot colder outside my room than in it! I could see my breath in the hotel roof restaurant. I’m sure Tibetans are less sensitive to cold than I am—even most Americans are less sensitive to cold than I am. In the restaurant, I had three cups of tea (they’re tiny cups), and when I was done eating and pushed away my plate, I put my glove back on my right band before I continued drinking tea.
2 Wow—what a morning! It’s now 1:15 pm, and I’m at the Tangyeling Café, which rather caters to Westerners. Not only is the menu multilingual and big, but it even has Indian food, Mexican food (or something like it) and stuff like pizza. Too bad I didn’t find the place when I wandered into the noodle joint my first full day in Lhasa. Here I ordered Indian food that’s hopefully authentic (except it doesn’t have to be as spicy). The café also has really nice ambiance. It has elephant-patterned cloth placemats, pictures and banners and little prayer wheels on the walls and big glass windows. There’s recorded music, and it’s Western, which reminds me of Mc’llo’s in Dharamsala, although it’s much quieter here.
This morning I walked the three long blocks to the Potala, circumambulated once, bought a disposable camera at a little camera shop, dodged the traffic (I swear I can hear Paul McCartney singing “Let it Be”) to the park across from the Potala, took some photos—including two of my stuffed toy owl Dewey in front of the Potala. I got back across the street and circumambulated the Potala three times straight.
After I took pictures of Dewey and the Potala from concrete steps descending into a pond, I headed further toward the left to the big bland square that has a monument to the Chinese invasion of Tibet (still absurdly called “The Peaceful Liberation of Tibet”). I got to the center of the square and stood there very visible, held up the little camera, and took a full frontal photo of the Potala. I heard someone yell something, and I turned. It looked like a Chinese cop in a blue uniform was looking at me, and he yelled again. There was some distance between us, and since I was wearing Tibetan clothing, he may have mistaken me for a Tibetan. I looked at him for a beat, and he was silent, so I shrugged, turned around, and took another picture of the Potala. Nothing happened.
After I took pictures of Dewey and the Potala from concrete steps descending into a pond, I headed further toward the left to the big bland square that has a monument to the Chinese invasion of Tibet (still absurdly called “The Peaceful Liberation of Tibet”). I got to the center of the square and stood there very visible, held up the little camera, and took a full frontal photo of the Potala. I heard someone yell something, and I turned. It looked like a Chinese cop in a blue uniform was looking at me, and he yelled again. There was some distance between us, and since I was wearing Tibetan clothing, he may have mistaken me for a Tibetan. I looked at him for a beat, and he was silent, so I shrugged, turned around, and took another picture of the Potala. Nothing happened.
I turned and moved further up the square, to get a closer look at the Invasion monument and to take a picture of it, when I noticed that a soldier in a green uniform stood on the steps at the monument, so I decided not to take a picture after all. I didn’t want to push my luck that far, although I’d been drinking Tibetan holy water. I got a little closer to look at the monument, turned and got a much more satisfying look at the Dalai Lama’s palace. I headed back the way I came, with the intention of taking the dangerous crosswalk again. But first I stopped amid the bare trees and took a picture of the Invasion monument from a hopefully safer distance. I also took a little walk across a bridge and circumambulated a café in Tibetan style—bright and colorfully painted—and then I went back to continue circumambulating the palace.
This morning as I equanimously lived in the present moment, doing a walking meditation around the Potala and occasionally spinning prayer wheels while I observed the pilgrims around me, I didn’t think much about the fact that today was Tibet Uprising Day. At the back wall below the Potala, I was startled by the sight of a white police vehicle something like an extra large golf cart filled with six cops in full uniform.
After one walk around the palace, I crossed the street and stood in the center of the square, where I took a dead center picture of the Potala. Strangely, a cop seemed to yell at me from some distance, but I didn’t understand what he said. I looked at him for a moment, but he stood perfectly still, so I shrugged, turned around, and took another picture, to see what he would do. He didn’t do anything. Since I wore Tibetan clothing, perhaps he had at first mistaken me for a Tibetan. Later, I had circumambulated three more times and was ready to head out toward the Jokhang Temple, when I noticed numerous blue uniforms standing around the street corner, so I jaywalked and moved on.
Around 4:30, I returned to the Barkhor and began a walking meditation around the Jokhang Temple. I was in basically the same mental state I had been in while circumambulating the Potala. In the past week, I’ve walked around the Jokhang and stood on its roof, and this was the first time I noticed police standing around the Barkhor, the circumambulation route for the Jokhang. That reminded me what day it was, but I remained equanimous and continued my walking meditation while out of curiosity keeping an eye out for cops.
Some of the police wore navy blue uniforms: badges, caps, and all, like airline pilots. At first, those were the only police I noticed. I decided to circumambulate six times rather than only three. Next time around, I noticed not only several uniforms but also cops wearing navy blue, with navy blue windbreakers. Both kinds of police either stood around watching the steadily moving crowd or sat on stools or benches around the Barkhor. I saw more cops than you can shake a prayer wheel at.
After that, I started noticing what I suspected were undercover cops, and one of them said, “Hello!” to me like anyone else. I am so sick of that word, but I smiled faintly and said, “Hi.” (Incidentally, I only saw three other Westerners the whole time I was circumambulating, and they all looked to be cheerfully shopping.)
When I had walked around six times, I was about to depart through the paved square in front of the Jokhang, when a police siren jolted me out of my walking meditation. A small police van drove onto the square, which is normally reserved only for pedestrians. Like many others, I stopped to gawk, as I noticed two white cop cars and a huge crowd of police in navy blue uniforms standing, many of them forming a wall facing the temple. Brimming with curiosity, I joined the growing crowd, in which I was the only Westerner. This would have been a great time to be fluent in Tibetan, so that I could have understood what people around me said. To the right was a white vehicle and a large number of people gathered; many blocked my view, but it looked like most of that crowd was young, perhaps teenagers, and they were just standing around staring. In front of them stood cops in full uniform.
My first thought was that a demonstration had begun, even though I had thought that nobody would demonstrate unless they were suicidal. But as I observed the crowd of cops in the center, most of whom from what I could see formed a line, I thought maybe they were attempting to incite the crowd to riot so that they’d have an excuse to get ugly with the crowd. Finally, I came to the much more likely conclusion that this was all a power-tripping display.
Twice while I was part of this gawking crowd, a cop approached the cluster of people around me and yelled something while holding up his arms as if to push the people in front, and the crowd started to back away and disperse, but other people walked up and took the place of those who walked away. I finally decided that standing around and gawking like this was silly, and I continued circumambulating the temple and observing the police.
I have to admit that at this stage I was no longer feeling equanimous and was more interested in observing the police than in mindfully walking. Cops still stood or sat here and there around the Barkhor. Walking around the left front side of the Jokhang, I saw a cop standing on a wooden bench and holding onto the roof of a merchant’s booth. Eventually I heard a siren again, but this time I was not in front of the temple but rather surrounded by booths and shops. A white police van was moving toward the crowd, counterclockwise, same as the golf cart-like vehicle I had seen while circumambulating the Potala. I have no doubt that this is deliberate, since Buddhists traditionally circumambulate temples clockwise. We all stepped out of the way of the police van and gawked. I kept looking back at the van, and it turned around behind me.
On another round, I saw a couple of young monks and maybe two other people standing in front of a wide and ornate gateway, like the driveways to hotel courtyards in Lhasa. I stopped next to the monks and was quite astonished at what I saw. On the other side of the gateway, two white vehicles were parked with their right sides facing the entrance. A couple of little kids in pale blue school uniforms stood in front of the headlights, and next to them stood a military officer in a green uniform. Facing the children and the officer were at least four rows of green-clad soldiers, all squatting close to the ground, as if frozen in that position, and wearing helmets like motorcycle helmets but apparently used for riot gear. This was too bizarre. After gawking with my mouth hanging open, I looked up in search of sign over the gateway and soon spotted a little square one overhead. It said “Police Station” in three languages.
I circumambulated a total of twelve times, not stopping till it was about seven in the evening and merchants had begun to take down their merchandise from the booths. I truly did not expect a demonstration to take place.
I have a theory that the real reason the power is out is that it’s Tibet Uprising Day—like the Chinese authorities did this on purpose. Maybe the lights will be out till midnight. I’m glad the heater works even though it runs on electricity—it probably has a different connection, I don’t know. There’s a light on in the hallway—I can see it from under the door—and there’s some sort of big room facing the courtyard and with lots of shelves—the lights are on in there. It’s now 9:06 pm.
4
Who cares if the lights don’t work: for once, I had a hot shower! It’s probably because nobody else is crazy enough to take a shower in the dark. I had the flashlight on and I was very careful about not slipping. Now I’m going to bed; I look forward to snuggling under the covers.
Chant softly and carry a big prayer wheel.
Sometimes a prayer wheel is just a prayer wheel. Gee, I wonder if guys and prayer wheels in Tibet are like guys and cars in America. The bigger the prayer wheel…never mind.
My lunch at Tangeyling consists of vegetable korma (with broccoli! I had broccoli withdraw), yoghurt with bits of cucumber, naan, and masala chai. It was like I was back in Varanasi. Americans sat and had a lively conversation at the next table, along with probably the only blonde baby in Tibet. That must look really weird to the locals.
3
I wrote the following in the evening, by the light coming in through the hotel room window, since the power was out all afternoon, evening, and night. I would have sent this as soon as I got to Kathmandu, but the power is highly unreliable there.
I was in Lhasa on Tibet Uprising Day
3
I wrote the following in the evening, by the light coming in through the hotel room window, since the power was out all afternoon, evening, and night. I would have sent this as soon as I got to Kathmandu, but the power is highly unreliable there.
I was in Lhasa on Tibet Uprising Day
This morning as I equanimously lived in the present moment, doing a walking meditation around the Potala and occasionally spinning prayer wheels while I observed the pilgrims around me, I didn’t think much about the fact that today was Tibet Uprising Day. At the back wall below the Potala, I was startled by the sight of a white police vehicle something like an extra large golf cart filled with six cops in full uniform.
After one walk around the palace, I crossed the street and stood in the center of the square, where I took a dead center picture of the Potala. Strangely, a cop seemed to yell at me from some distance, but I didn’t understand what he said. I looked at him for a moment, but he stood perfectly still, so I shrugged, turned around, and took another picture, to see what he would do. He didn’t do anything. Since I wore Tibetan clothing, perhaps he had at first mistaken me for a Tibetan. Later, I had circumambulated three more times and was ready to head out toward the Jokhang Temple, when I noticed numerous blue uniforms standing around the street corner, so I jaywalked and moved on.
Around 4:30, I returned to the Barkhor and began a walking meditation around the Jokhang Temple. I was in basically the same mental state I had been in while circumambulating the Potala. In the past week, I’ve walked around the Jokhang and stood on its roof, and this was the first time I noticed police standing around the Barkhor, the circumambulation route for the Jokhang. That reminded me what day it was, but I remained equanimous and continued my walking meditation while out of curiosity keeping an eye out for cops.
Some of the police wore navy blue uniforms: badges, caps, and all, like airline pilots. At first, those were the only police I noticed. I decided to circumambulate six times rather than only three. Next time around, I noticed not only several uniforms but also cops wearing navy blue, with navy blue windbreakers. Both kinds of police either stood around watching the steadily moving crowd or sat on stools or benches around the Barkhor. I saw more cops than you can shake a prayer wheel at.
After that, I started noticing what I suspected were undercover cops, and one of them said, “Hello!” to me like anyone else. I am so sick of that word, but I smiled faintly and said, “Hi.” (Incidentally, I only saw three other Westerners the whole time I was circumambulating, and they all looked to be cheerfully shopping.)
When I had walked around six times, I was about to depart through the paved square in front of the Jokhang, when a police siren jolted me out of my walking meditation. A small police van drove onto the square, which is normally reserved only for pedestrians. Like many others, I stopped to gawk, as I noticed two white cop cars and a huge crowd of police in navy blue uniforms standing, many of them forming a wall facing the temple. Brimming with curiosity, I joined the growing crowd, in which I was the only Westerner. This would have been a great time to be fluent in Tibetan, so that I could have understood what people around me said. To the right was a white vehicle and a large number of people gathered; many blocked my view, but it looked like most of that crowd was young, perhaps teenagers, and they were just standing around staring. In front of them stood cops in full uniform.
My first thought was that a demonstration had begun, even though I had thought that nobody would demonstrate unless they were suicidal. But as I observed the crowd of cops in the center, most of whom from what I could see formed a line, I thought maybe they were attempting to incite the crowd to riot so that they’d have an excuse to get ugly with the crowd. Finally, I came to the much more likely conclusion that this was all a power-tripping display.
Twice while I was part of this gawking crowd, a cop approached the cluster of people around me and yelled something while holding up his arms as if to push the people in front, and the crowd started to back away and disperse, but other people walked up and took the place of those who walked away. I finally decided that standing around and gawking like this was silly, and I continued circumambulating the temple and observing the police.
I have to admit that at this stage I was no longer feeling equanimous and was more interested in observing the police than in mindfully walking. Cops still stood or sat here and there around the Barkhor. Walking around the left front side of the Jokhang, I saw a cop standing on a wooden bench and holding onto the roof of a merchant’s booth. Eventually I heard a siren again, but this time I was not in front of the temple but rather surrounded by booths and shops. A white police van was moving toward the crowd, counterclockwise, same as the golf cart-like vehicle I had seen while circumambulating the Potala. I have no doubt that this is deliberate, since Buddhists traditionally circumambulate temples clockwise. We all stepped out of the way of the police van and gawked. I kept looking back at the van, and it turned around behind me.
On another round, I saw a couple of young monks and maybe two other people standing in front of a wide and ornate gateway, like the driveways to hotel courtyards in Lhasa. I stopped next to the monks and was quite astonished at what I saw. On the other side of the gateway, two white vehicles were parked with their right sides facing the entrance. A couple of little kids in pale blue school uniforms stood in front of the headlights, and next to them stood a military officer in a green uniform. Facing the children and the officer were at least four rows of green-clad soldiers, all squatting close to the ground, as if frozen in that position, and wearing helmets like motorcycle helmets but apparently used for riot gear. This was too bizarre. After gawking with my mouth hanging open, I looked up in search of sign over the gateway and soon spotted a little square one overhead. It said “Police Station” in three languages.
I circumambulated a total of twelve times, not stopping till it was about seven in the evening and merchants had begun to take down their merchandise from the booths. I truly did not expect a demonstration to take place.
I have a theory that the real reason the power is out is that it’s Tibet Uprising Day—like the Chinese authorities did this on purpose. Maybe the lights will be out till midnight. I’m glad the heater works even though it runs on electricity—it probably has a different connection, I don’t know. There’s a light on in the hallway—I can see it from under the door—and there’s some sort of big room facing the courtyard and with lots of shelves—the lights are on in there. It’s now 9:06 pm.
4
Who cares if the lights don’t work: for once, I had a hot shower! It’s probably because nobody else is crazy enough to take a shower in the dark. I had the flashlight on and I was very careful about not slipping. Now I’m going to bed; I look forward to snuggling under the covers.
Chant softly and carry a big prayer wheel.
Sometimes a prayer wheel is just a prayer wheel. Gee, I wonder if guys and prayer wheels in Tibet are like guys and cars in America. The bigger the prayer wheel…never mind.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Return to Lhasa
I want to go meditate alone in a cave. Well, a cat for company would be OK. I want to have no contact with humans for a month. Unfortunately, I’ll be in Topeka, Kansas, after I return to the States, and will be going back to my job and have the enormous ordeal of dealing with Aunt Ethel; without snow and ice, I don’t know what excuses I can come up with for not wanting to associate with her. Given what an insensitive brute she is, she’ll no doubt get all huffy and holier-than-thou if I simply said I needed solitude. She doesn’t believe introverts like me exist. Deranged barbarian. Not that her psychotic delusions matter to me, but for some odd reason she believes in imposing her psychotic delusions on me and she does insist on cramming them down my throat. I have so got to pack up and head out to the west coast.
7:30 am I had a dream in which I was in what looked like a Tibetan village with crumbly white buildings, and many people were around—I think I wasn’t the only dharma bum—and a very little girl, two or three years old, had taken a liking to me (oddly—I can’t imagine why anyone would take a liking to me, especially a child!), so I was attempting to get her adopted. She seemed to want me to adopt her, which was of course completely out of the question. I thought that if she were a kitten, I’d have a different attitude. Maybe that dream was inspired by the thought that I need to nurture myself, to be my own mother. The little girl could have represented me, even though she looked Tibetan and was dirty and ragged like a beggar. Maybe I am like a beggar, begging for respect and acceptance. I also had a dream in which it looked like Tibet or some other place, maybe Kathmandu, and plenty of Westerners lurked around. It’s vague now—actually, I think there was a glass cabinet full of Tibetan scriptures, the kind you see rolled up in brocade here in Tibet and at the Exiled Government’s library in Dharamsala.
2
Now that I’ve had breakfast and brought my luggage down (with some help—this hotel doesn’t have elevators, the only reason I can see it qualifying as a "budget" hotel), I’m in rather a better mood than earlier. I just gave a little kid a pen—it seems to have worked, since he took it and walked away. Great, even toddlers know the word “Hello.” I must have, I’m guessing, looked stupider than I suspected. Or maybe that’s just my paranoia talking—it’s hard to tell where justified paranoia and unjustified paranoia meet. I’ve read a lot about Tibetans—that they have a sense of humor that involves laughing with you rather than at you, and that they can make humor out of suffering. But at least two incidents yesterday were obviously misogynistic males laughing at me, not with me. It’s so ironic that misogynists have a ludicrous belief in their superiority just because they have a ridiculous organ hanging between their legs, that quite obviously does not make them superior in the least. Besides, who’s more likely to cause war and build bombs: someone who has a uterus, or someone who has a penis?
I was going to write about the emotions of the two different visits to India. 1) Blissful, euphoric, happy, confidence-building. 2) Some bliss and happiness early on in particular, but the disappointing reality check of my depression still being with me—I did not leave my depression behind and that is a major thing from which I was trying to run. I’ve read in Buddhist books that you should not try to relive the same experience; this is referring to a meditative experience, but it can also refer to the emotions you experienced on a pilgrimage. I think a large part of the emotions on the pilgrimage was thanks to our meditating for forty-five minutes in the mornings and also, in particular, our meditations in special places where the Buddha also meditated—those places gave me highly emotional moments. Last year’s pilgrimage was the most wonderful vacation I’ve ever had, and probably ever will have. This vacation has been the weirdest I’ve ever had.
Today we are driving back to Lhasa. Yesterday was Women’s Day—women were drinking and dancing. That explains the fireworks. I didn’t know about it until this morning: Gyantzing asked me if I slept well and then explained why there was so much noise that could have kept me awake but didn’t. Too bad I wasn’t out celebrating with women, but then again I’m not into drinking and dancing. I’m into overthrowing patriarchy. I’m into getting the revolutionary ball rolling, which is what Women’s Day should be about. It’s ironic that it was supposed to be Women’s Day when for me it felt like Misogyny Day. Without patriarchy, every day would be Women’s Day—a day free of war, rape, incest, domestic violence, and prejudice. Every day would be a day free of oppression and injustice. Bye-bye Dominator Society, hello Partnership Society, to use the scholar Riane Eisler’s terminology. It seems to me like this Women’s Day is scarcely more than condescension, mere words. It doesn’t seem to be conjuring a lot of feminist consciousness around here, that’s for sure, judging by my experience on the streets of Shigatse yesterday. It should be about sociological transformation to an egalitarian and just society, not about drinking and dancing.
Writing while in car (and therefore very large and messy handwriting):
I see shaggy goats with curly horns. Brahmaputra/Yellow River—we’re passing it again. Shigatse Region: On the left of the highway, we see some small buildings and an area where a new, smaller airport will be built. Straight ahead stands a wide, roundish, rocky brown mountain. It’s a holy mountain for sky burials; wealthy families pay for funerals there. I can see two stupas, smoke, and prayer flags on top of the mountain. It’s significant that only wealthy families get sky burials there; I didn’t think to ask what happens to poor people when they die. Perhaps I didn’t ask because my mind was on the breathtaking scenery, but I’ve been in Tibet for nearly a week and have continually seen breathtaking scenery.
We stopped for gas, and I walked around. I approached a bridge, and across it we saw what looked like a monastery with three pointy roofs. Gyantzing explained that it’s a Boen monastery on the river. (I’m adding an “e” after the “o” in “Boen” because of my computer’s inability to type an umlaut; it has the same effect on pronunciation as an umlaut in German.) The monastery has a backdrop of big brown mountains looming over it. While we looked at this building in the distance, Gyantzing told me some things about the Boen religion.
Interling is the name of the monastery and means “Center of the Swastika.” Boen has statues like Buddhas, but with a swastika on the chest. I commented that I’ve seen Chinese Buddha statues with a swastika on the chest, and he explained that’s only Chinese, not Tibetan. I believe it was a Hindu sun symbol before Buddhists took it up—simply because you see a lot of swastikas in India, such as on Hindu temples, and Buddhism branched off Hinduism. The swastika is similar to the Irish goddess Bridget’s sun sign; I have one made of twigs that I purchased in Ireland.
Shirup (or Sherab, I’m thinking, since that was the name of an early, influential Boenpo abbot) is the name of the Boen Buddha. Boen is more naturalist, since it’s an indigenous shamanistic religion (I might add that Tibetan Buddhism gets its more Pagan aspects from Boen—both religions seem to have influenced each other). Various things in Tibetan Buddhism, such as images of the sky and moon, and also prayer flags, juniper burning—all come from Boen originally. Shungshun was the founder of Boen (according to Wikipedia, his name was Tonpa Shenrab Miwoche, and Shang Shung was an ancient Tibetan culture that predates Tibetan Buddhism.)
Gyantzing mentioned that his uncle was a monk at this monastery in 1959. The Chinese put an abrupt end to his monastic career.
I saw two very cute donkeys in the street. I stared at the donkeys, and locals who stopped here stared at me. There is a gas station and probably a place to stop for snacks; I just know quite a few vehicles are parked here. From the car, I saw ponies with colorful saddle blankets. Just a bit ago, I saw a lot of sand, what you might call a cold desert, on a flat surface backed by big brown rocky mountains, and I also saw sand on mountainsides. We’re riding through an area of mostly brown mountains with some streaks of greenish grey in smooth descending falls, surrounded by sharp and roundish surfaces. Down by the river are some dark, shiny, slick, large rocks. There is also green flowing water.
In the middle of nowhere, we stopped at a café that emits loud music that sounds like a song I’ve been hearing a lot in Tibet. I wasn’t hungry for lunch, having had a large and relatively late breakfast, so I wandered around outdoors after telling Gyantzing I wasn’t ready for lunch. It felt good to stretch my legs after sitting in the car, and I also admired the mountains, some of which were snow-capped. I saw nine crows fly off; I wonder if that’s an auspicious symbol, since seven appeared when the first Dalai Lama was born, and five appeared when the Fourteenth Dalai Lama was born. It was bright and sunny out, and the sky was amazingly bright blue.
Breathtaking mountains surrounded me. The yard included two scruffy cows and three dogs.
A group of five children walked up to me and chatted with me; they knew some English words. I thought they’d beg, but they just wanted to chat. Maybe if I had had a camera, they would have wanted their pictures taken, and then they would have begged for money, and I would have given it to them, but of course my camera was hopeless and therefore hidden away.
A group of five children walked up to me and chatted with me; they knew some English words. I thought they’d beg, but they just wanted to chat. Maybe if I had had a camera, they would have wanted their pictures taken, and then they would have begged for money, and I would have given it to them, but of course my camera was hopeless and therefore hidden away.
The kids said, “Hello!”
I said, “Tashe delek!” and, “Hi!” It was a new day, and I was more patient. Besides, they were definitely free of malice. They said some Tibetan and got a blank look from me. One of the girls pointed at my forehead, and I thought she was pointing at my third eye. They asked me my name, and I said, “Susan.” They repeated it after me, and I smiled. I said, “What are your names?” But I guess they didn’t get the question, or I didn’t understand their names; they had a tendency to talk all at once.
One of the girls pointed at my forehead and said, “You are beautiful!”
Embarrassed and taken by surprise, I laughed and said, “Thanks!”
Soon they said, “Bye!” cheerfully, and I did the same, and they moved on, playing kick the can in the street. Perhaps they were walking to a school far away from their home. A couple of them were dirty enough to be beggars, and they were a variety of ages—like between two and seven I think, not that I’m a good judge of age. I wished I had a bunch of pens handy, but they were all in my suitcase.
With some urging, namely a grandma stepping out onto the café threshold and waving me in, I went indoors, sat down at a long table with the guys, and tasted rolls and butter tea. Inside, the café was like a family house—maybe it was combo home and café. Tibetan butter tea doesn’t taste bad if you dip bread in it—it taste just like bread and butter. Gyantzing chatted with Grandma. The family was busy in a courtyard, just outside a big glass window in front of us; they covered an old wooden table with a big shiny plastic Coca Cola tablecloth that was very commercial looking in red and blue. There was a grandfather, a dad, and a young woman, presumably the oldest daughter, working on the table, and also children were hanging around. They were stapling the shiny tablecloth onto the table, and I rather thought it would look so much prettier to paint the table in very bright colors. I have a hand-painted and very colorful coffee table painted with African-inspired designs; it was a cast-off from an ex-roommate.
We passed a glistening turquoise river.
I’ve noticed a lot of police checkpoints on this route, which have resulted in numerous short stops. Bureaucratic much?
We arrived in Lhasa, where we stopped at a travel agency and Gyantzing got my plane ticket, to my vast relief. The office was a large white-tiled sort of room with a few women behind a very long countertop. Strangely, they did not take credit or debit cards (I don’t own any credit cards), but only cash, so I paid with almost all of my Chinese money. I felt very grateful toward Gyantzing for getting that problem out of the way so calmly and uncomplainingly. He said that since this isn’t tourist season, it was easy to get a ticket. Nonetheless, it was weird that I had gone to Tibet without a return ticket to Kathmandu, but that fits in with all the other weirdness on this trip. We afterwards went to the Yak Hotel, the same one at which I stayed previously, and parted.
We arrived in Lhasa, where we stopped at a travel agency and Gyantzing got my plane ticket, to my vast relief. The office was a large white-tiled sort of room with a few women behind a very long countertop. Strangely, they did not take credit or debit cards (I don’t own any credit cards), but only cash, so I paid with almost all of my Chinese money. I felt very grateful toward Gyantzing for getting that problem out of the way so calmly and uncomplainingly. He said that since this isn’t tourist season, it was easy to get a ticket. Nonetheless, it was weird that I had gone to Tibet without a return ticket to Kathmandu, but that fits in with all the other weirdness on this trip. We afterwards went to the Yak Hotel, the same one at which I stayed previously, and parted.
I used Internet at the hotel and my e-mail was unbelievably slow. It must have taken twenty minutes to open each page, and I was reading Tricycle magazine most of the time. I have a theory that the Chinese government doesn’t want me to send e-mails, and that’s the reason that it was so unbelievably slow. Every minute or so, the screen changes color from off-white to white, and I have reason to suspect that when it’s white, somebody else is reading it. Gee, the Bushworld government spies on e-mails and you don’t know when they could be reading yours; at least the Chinese government lets you know when they’re spying on you.
According to Vikram Seth in From Heaven Lake, there were portraits of Mao all over the place in Tibet in 1981. Fortunately, that is no longer the case. Going to Tibet and seeing portraits of Mao Zedong would be like going to Poland and seeing portraits of Adolf Hitler. True, he’s on all the yuan. Indian money has Gandhi printed on it, and Chinese money has Mao printed on it. Setting aside the little detail that Gandhi, what with his vow of poverty and all, would be absolutely appalled to know that his face is on money, which would you rather have on your bills: portraits of a highly influential nonviolent activist, or portraits of a political fanatic who was responsible for widespread famine and more deaths than Adolf Hitler?
I walked directly from the Internet café to the Barkhor, where I circumambulated a total of six times, till past seven in the evening. I knew the route but nonetheless periodically thought I’d follow the monks. When in doubt, follow the pilgrims spinning prayer wheels. I saw countless monks in red robes, some wearing brocade jackets of which I doubt the Dalai Lama would approve, never mind that they were traditional Tibetan garments. Many monks were quite stout, as the Dalai Lama’s brother pointed out, and they made me feel slender. Indeed, with all the meat and noodles in their diet, it’s no wonder. Many laypeople were also in traditional clothes, especially older people, that was well-worn and in mostly browns and dark reds, and I spotted some elaborate hairdos, with strings of coral and turquoise beads strung into braids. People of all ages wear traditional clothing, but it’s often more spiffy looking than pilgrim-looking. Even some of the chupas are brocade, unlike my plain dark blue cotton chupa.
The first alley I walked through was lined on the right with many booths displaying a bounty of vegetables; it's strange that I’m not finding so many vegetables at restaurants. Other stalls displayed a bounty of spices and herbs and teas (oh my). I scarcely looked at the less interesting booths that sell electronics, plastic toys, or ordinary Western clothing. I was more interested in stalls selling incense and Buddhist sculptures, although I’d rather get a Buddha statue in Kathmandu. A couple of stalls displayed monastic musical instruments, including those incredibly long horns, which stood on the big open end down on tables. Some booths displayed hundreds of strings of beads, mostly coral and turquoise, though a couple of booths sold strings of pearls.
On the right side, towards the front of the Jokhang Temple, are stalls displaying not only jewelry but also horse decorations such as bells and various silver, turquoise, coral, and other old stuff that I’m tempted to call artifacts; they were certainly used, if not antique, traditional Tibetan paraphernalia. Some booths sell fabric and traditional clothing, but what’s particularly interesting is that there are fabric stores around the Barkhor.
Humans aren’t the only ones who circumambulate the Jokhang: it’s not unusual to see cute little dogs. I saw a couple of black and white Lhasa Apsos (though it seems like earlier on the trip, I saw many Tibetan spaniels and no Lhasa Apsos), and weirdly enough I saw a light tan Chihuahua. I’m fairly certain that Chihuahuas are Mexican dogs! The little critter was on a leash and scurrying to keep up. I rather hope the person it was with, an older woman in a chupa and apron, would periodically pick the tiny dog up and carry it.
When we got back to Lhasa, we drove past the Norbulingka and it’s under major construction—it really didn’t look pretty, so that’s off. I’m rather doubtful I’ll ever visit Tibet again. Love the scenery, hate the food. I’m very glad that I packed all that dried fruit and nuts.
When we got back to Lhasa, we drove past the Norbulingka and it’s under major construction—it really didn’t look pretty, so that’s off. I’m rather doubtful I’ll ever visit Tibet again. Love the scenery, hate the food. I’m very glad that I packed all that dried fruit and nuts.
I can’t believe this—there’s a song running through my head, because almost every shop or stall that sells CDs plays that song on speakers. It sounds like a combination of traditional Tibetan and modern music, almost techno.
The streets of Tibet seem so much more orderly than the streets of Kathmandu, even though I was timidly trying to cross the wide intersections in Lhasa with traffic going by on either side of me. The rickshaws in both Lhasa and Shigatse have lanes along both sides of the street, and they are separated from car traffic by a metal railing painted in red and white stripes. The rickshaws themselves have green canopies with a pleated, colorful fringe—they’re reminiscent of Tibetan Buddhist banners, but they’re a cheap and cheesy imitation. The rickshaws leave their special side lanes to turn or cross the streets.
All the police vehicles in Lhasa are white—I think with blue lettering, in at least Chinese, maybe also English, and/or Tibetan. And I’ve seen plenty of police vehicles in Lhasa. Taxis look Western when they don’t have that white Dharamsala taxi look, of course without the Bollywood music on the radio or the Ganesh statue on the dashboard.
I’ve seen Hyundais and other Japanese vehicles in both countries, and I was weirded out in the courtyard parking lot of the Yak Hotel, because I saw a Geo Metro. It was white and shaped like my car and although I couldn’t find the phrase “Geo Metro,” I did see “Chevy” and some Chinese words.
A peculiar sight (if you’re not accustomed to it) that I frequently saw in the countryside in Tibet was the tractors. The front is a tractor, like for a farm, and there’s a long pair of handles that the driver holds as if they were reigns on a horse, and behind the driver this vehicle is a wooden wagon. The first one I saw on the road, from behind, had me completely fooled. I thought it was a horse-drawn wagon. There were indeed plenty of real horse-drawn wagons in Gyantse, a town known for its horse races.
A common sight, especially in Shigatse, is three-wheeled cycles with a wooden wagon in back. Many merchants own this kind of vehicle, and the merchandise is piled in back with a very annoying megaphone repeatedly playing a recorded message.
The megaphones are awful. They were big in China (and consequently Tibet) in Mao’s time. If megaphones are loudly blaring political propaganda at all hours of the day, you can’t think, you can’t concentrate. That’s where this comes from. That reminds me of how some people like to listen to music all the time, whereas I like to have quite a bit of quiet, such as while writing.
In Tibet, smoking like juniper offerings is normal, even indoors. With the possible exception of the Tangyling Café, restaurants don’t have nonsmoking sections. Ditto hotels, and my room in Kathmandu also had an ashtray. Yuck.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Out and about in Shigatse
We arrived here in Shigatse, at about seven yesterday evening, and it was still bright and sunny out. I was dizzy and tired, and Gyantzing was concerned that my hotel room would be too cold, so he told them at the front desk to add an extra blanket (more like a heavy quilt) and to turn the heater up. As it turned out, the room was still cold by my standards, but I slept with socks on and used the yak wool shawl as a blanket, as I did at the Raj’s guesthouse, and it made a huge difference. I also wore an oversized velvet shirt over a long-sleeved t-shirt.When I woke up in the middle of the night, I took my velvet shirt off, and when I woke at six in the morning, I took my socks off. However, outside my room, the hotel is freezing cold! I didn’t put on my coat before going down for breakfast, because I knew I wouldn’t be going outdoors. But now I’m wishing I’d put it on after all, because it’s as cold as if I were outdoors, although of course it’s not windy indoors. And as it turns out, the café is pretty deserted and there’s no tea, let alone a buffet set out. A woman who works here exchanged a “Hi” with me, and a guy came in, spoke with her in the kitchen, and went back out. The woman is working in the kitchen and I’m hoping will bring something out.
The halls and lobby and sitting room (a very attractive room right before the café, with furniture and large potted plants and an elaborate and colorful porcelain tub thingy centered on a carved and painted table) are all dark and only the café has lights on. Back here in Shigatse, I almost think I’m the only patron in this hotel. Lhasa is the largest city in Tibet, so I probably shouldn’t be surprised.
It’s a bit after nine, and there’s a buffet set up, a very small one, but I don’t see any forks or chopsticks, and the plates and bowls are inside a glass-doored cabinet. Maybe if I get a plate myself that’ll be a hint; I hear at least two women talking in Tibetan in the other room, but I doubt they know more English than “Hello.”
Wow, this place is cold. But what do you expect: this is Tibet! However, it doesn't have to feel like I'm outdoors when I'm in fact indoors.
When I walked up to the glass-doored cabinet, I discovered that all along there was silverware and chopsticks inside the cabinet, and I was indeed expected to help myself. The breakfast consisted of hard-boiled eggs, that stringy droopy green stuff with leeks and chili peppers, momos containing the same vegetable, and soupy white rice.
After breakfast, I met up with Gyantzing in the lobby at approximately ten o’clock, and we took the jeep to Tashilhumpo, where I jotted down some very messy notes. I learned that the building outside my window was originally from the thirteenth century, but the Chinese destroyed that one, and they had it rebuilt recently. It looks authentic and copies the Potala, which in its current form is seventeenth century and copied the original Tashilhumpo. Shigatse has quickly grown from 250,000 to 400,000 and is the second largest city in Tibet. Chinese workers came to get jobs, and there’s a shortage of jobs, so homeless people are in the streets. I’ll bet the homeless people are Tibetans. The Chinese move in and get the best jobs, the highest-paying jobs. Or at least male Chinese do; Lhasa, I’ve read, has a great many female Chinese prostitutes and also some Tibetan prostitutes.
Tashilhumpo on the whole is a cluster of many buildings, including three with gold roofs. The one in the center is the one that wasn’t destroyed during (or more likely before) the Cultural Revolution, and it houses the tomb of the Forth Panchen Lama. The others are brighter gold—the Fifth through Ninth are housed in the one on the right, and we went in and saw the Tenth Panchen Lama’s tomb, another huge gold stupa.
There are pillars with banners hanging from them, but one thing I’ve never noticed in any other Tibetan monastery is that, safety-pinned to these banners are countless plastic bangles and necklaces and barrettes, and white clothes wrapped around the banners, and amid all the trinkets, pens and barrettes are tucked into these scarves or strips of cloth. These are all offerings to Manjushri, bodhisattva of wisdom, and kids especially offer pens in hopes of doing better in school.
As we walked across the courtyard, after crossing through the entrance gate, a big yellow dog carrying a stick came grinning, and I laughed. The dog took the stick to a monk. “The dog is happy to have a stick,” Guantzing said. After seeing all those scruffy dogs at the Gyantse monastery, it was good to see a dog that was energetic, happy, and healthy.
Oh, yes, it’s a Sunday, and many if not all of the visitors at the monastery were students who have the day off.
We slipped into a couple of temples when they were about to close, and it was interesting to see how novice monks—or mostly younger monks—sweep the floors. There’s a rectangular map made of sheepskin that has strings on each end, and the monk places the string in front of his waist and drags it.
I’ve been gawked at a lot in this country, but I find it rather disconcerting to be stared at by monks, what with me being female and they being monks who are either celibate or supposed to be celibate. There probably are a few asexual or gay monks, but just because they’re celibate doesn’t mean they’re asexual.
In some of the temples, a group of three or four monks sat in a corner and chanted, with instruments. I enjoyed listening to the soothing music while gazing at gold statues and offerings and Buddha murals. Once, all four monks had castanets, and I was fascinated by the high-pitched chink, chink, chink. In 1447 the first Dalai Lama had this monastery built. The Forth Panchen Lama, who is also the most famous, was the first abbot of Tashilhumpo. His original tomb is still standing; the tombs for other Panchen Lamas are replacements. If you’re facing the monastery, the replacement tombs are for the Fifth through Ninth Panchen Lamas and are on the right. They look shiny and new, with bright gold roofs, and the one original tomb truly looks older than the others. These tombs, with their sharply steeped gold roofs, are reminiscent of the Dalai Lama tombs on top of the Potala.
Before the Chinese invasion, Tashilhumpo had three thousand monks, but now it’s down to nine hundred.
The thirteen rings at the top of stupas (or chortens, in Tibetan) represent the thirteen steps to enlightenment. The chorten, or house of relics, was filled with scriptures, statues, and grains. The grains represent a wish to have a good harvest. The different layers of the stupa represent the elements (although my notes are brief and don’t say this, I’m thinking by “elements” I meant the five traditional elements of earth, air, fire, water, and spirit).
Like all the other temples and monasteries we’ve visited in Tibet, the Guardian kings stand guard at the entrance. The West Guardian King holds a stupa and a sword and is accompanied by a creature that looks like a rat but is a mythological creature…much like a rat. The East Guardian King holds a guitar or lute.
Atisha came and taught in Shigatse and said the statues there are the biggest copper statues in the world. The Maitreya statue is 26 meters high. Look up up up. His finger is two meters long; that means approximately eight feet. 150 meter (scribble). The big Maitreya contains: winter wheat, rice, barley, brick tea, statues of Buddhas and bodhisattvas, and a thangka from a seventh century Chinese princess.
There are four chapels. On the first floor, they were all built by the Ninth Panchen Lama. More accurately, four hundred laborers built it, and it took them four years to build. 2nd) (scribble), 3) Face, 4) Crown. The builders used cedar trees from Northeast of Tibet. This statue’s one of the most important Tibetan statues. The murals were repainted in 1984. The colors are symbolic: red means peace, white means power, and yellow means success.
Yellow hat sect (Gelugpa) is easier for the common people to understand.
In Tibetan artwork there are three Manjushris: one is wrathful and wielding a sword (cutting through wisdom), and another represents peace. The representation with which I’m most familiar is typically seated on a throne Western-style rather than with crossed legs, and he has his hands in the teaching mudra.
Three statues: Avalokiteshvara (compassion), Manjushri (wisdom), and Vajrapani (power). These three go together in all the Tibetan temples, because compassion and wisdom aren’t enough; you have to have power in order to take action rather than sit around feeling compassion and feeling hopeless. That makes me think of engaged Buddhism, probably the very first thing to attract me to Buddhism when the bombs started falling on Iraq, thanks to the Bush Administration. Governments perform atrocities while regular people complacently sit by and watch. But I digress.
The Red hat sect is older; Tsongkapa founded the Yellow, or Gelugpa, as a reformist sect. Mongols invaded and the king said, “Don’t kill Yellow Hats, just Red,” so members of the Red Hat sect disguised themselves as Yellow Hats for survival. That’s how the Yellow Hat sect became more popular. This tidbit does not improve my opinion of the king. Tsongkapa’s two main disciples were from the Red Hat sect. In the third temple, we looked at an impressive Tsongkapa statue flanked by two disciples, while Gyantzing explained all this.
The Tenth Panchen Lama is the one who died in 1989 (I’m of the opinion he was poisoned), and he is still honored in Tibet. It’s legal to honor him and have photos of him, unlike the Dalai Lama, because the tenth Panchen Lama to some extent went along with the Chinese government. But he didn’t do this unquestioningly enough to prevent his eighteen-year imprisonment. I once read an excellent book called The Search for the Panchen Lama by Isabel Hilton, and it’s about the Tenth and Eleventh Panchen Lamas.
The Shambhala mandala, gate is here; according to legend, the Pachen Lama becomes king of Shambhala. (Shangri-la, in James Hilton’s novel Lost Horizons, is loosely based on Shambhala.)
The monastery does have some Chinese art, I guess thanks to schmoozing. Located in the temple of the Tenth Panchen Lama’s tomb are a statue of a Chinese emperor and other statues, Chinese antique statues and power of the Manchurian (Chinese) emperor. I wasn’t terribly impressed with the beauty of the life-size statue of the Tenth Panchen Lama, and I’m sure it’s not just because he was obese. I seem to recall reading that his embalmed corpse is actually inside that shiny gold statue. That reminds me of a Vincent Price film about a wax museum in which the wax figures have skeletons inside them.
We also went inside the original Fourth Panchen Lama tomb. It is a dark gold stupa, and of course unlike the other tombs looks really old. Some jewels have been replaced. The Fourth Panchen Lama, incidentally, tutored the famous and influential fifth Dalai Lama. Labhron is the Panchen Lama’s winter home. The photo of it shows the white-washed bottom two stories. The yellow top was his meditation room, which is not open to the public.
Black curtains are made of yak hair, as are tents and blankets, because fabric made from yak hair is water proof.
Genzen is the banner of victory; the gold tubes on roofs of monasteries and temples are banners of victory. I didn’t know that until now, although I’ve seen these gold banners many times, including from close up, such as on top of the nunnery in Dharamsala and on top of the Jokhang Temple. I simply thought they looked a lot like prayer wheels. The more you understand Tibetan art, the more you appreciate it, even if you’re like a baby—like me—and are attracted to the bright colors.
We bought more water at a tiny wooden store very close to the monastery (I just can’t get enough water!) and Gyantzing and I circumambulated the monastery, going up an alley and turning prayer wheels. We kept going slowly up. I heard a cat meowing and looked up—a grey cat wearing a red bow was up on a flat house roof and was tied with a black string, and it was trying to wiggle loose—this was on our left on the path. Up ahead on our right, a few feet ahead, stood a large white stupa. I got out my camera…and it wouldn’t turn on. I hoped it was just the batteries and changed them, but still no luck. (I later took the camera to my hotel room and tried totally new batteries, and still no luck—I’ve tried several things, including with and without a memory card, but clearly the camera is dead, when it’s only two years old.)We kept going up, up, uphill—or rather up mountain—and were slowly circling around. I stepped mindfully on the rocky surface, which at one point formed stone steps. If I looked up, I saw the mountainside going away up high, with prayer flags at the very top and various paintwork on the stones here and there, such as rocks painted white or with the Om Mani Padme Hum mantra painted in colors. I looked up and saw people—two or three—way up at the top of the main mountain that is considered the town’s protector. I saw what looked like colorful confetti fluttering from their perch, and Gyantzing explained that they’re tossing prayers. He picked up a lightweight, square piece of red paper with an illustration of a wind horse—it’s like prayer flags. “That explains those little pieces of paper I keep seeing on the ground,” I said. On one level, it comes off as littering. It is very light paper, like onionskin, and is I think biodegradable.
We stopped just below a pair of enormous jutting boulders with some whitewash, and a Buddha was painted on one of them. “This is the entrance to Shambhala,” Gyantzing said. Wow!
Heading out for lunch, we walked down a street where I had the very disturbing sight of what Gyantzing explained was lamb carcasses drying. I had previously seen some hanging up to dry and had quickly averted my eyes, but the ones on this narrow street were actually sitting in a row on the sidewalk. Surely even tourists who aren’t vegetarians must be thoroughly grossed out by this sight! I’ve never been a Shangri-la-type person, or “prisoner of Shangri-la,” but I must say that the skinned torsos of lambs drying in the sun would have no part in a utopia of my making.
We approached a narrow and flat store front, to have lunch at what turned out to be a very busy Chinese restaurant. We were served weak tea like at the little restaurant yesterday; I kept gulping it down, even though it seems to me like little more than hot water. We had a mixture of eggs and tomatoes; shredded potato with leek and red chili peppers; more of the limp greens with red chili peppers; and sticky rice. I was very glad to have rice underneath and mixed with the other food.
After I return to the States, I don’t ever want to eat eggs again. I don’t ever want to eat Tibetan or Chinese food again. I could certainly live on Indian food, although right now crackers and dried ginger sound like the best dinner in the world. Maybe it’s the combination of having my period while eating Tibetan and Chinese food that is so terrible. Something dry would be a nice change. Lots and lots of vegetables would be a particularly nice change!
During lunch, Gyantzing told me that the driver had a toothache (which got me wondering about healthcare in Tibet, though I didn’t ask about it), and he asked if I had a painkiller, and I said yes, but it’s at the hotel. After lunch, we all stopped at my hotel room, where I got out the bottle of Tylenol and gave a couple caplets to the driver. They left me to my own devices, and I dropped off my newly purchased water bottles and my bright red quilted jacket before heading out to take a walk in downtown Shigatse. Of course I took one water bottle with me.
On the ride back to the hotel room, Gyantzing had given me directions for walking to the Free Market but also asked if I wanted the car, and I said no. I wanted to walk, to wander on my own. So I did. I headed in that direction: he had said to walk two blocks and turn right.
Just about everyone I passed said, “Hello!” And I said, “Hello!” again. I must be the only white person in Shigatse. There might be some Chinese tourists—I heard a TV from another room in the hotel—but I certainly haven’t seen anyone who doesn’t look Tibetan. I’m tempted to say that it’s like being the only black person surrounded by white people, but really when I was in black neighborhoods in St. Louis, I was less conspicuous than I was in Shigatse, despite my Tibetan-style clothing. And in black neighborhoods in St. Louis, the locals treated me like an Earthling.
The Free Market is really obvious when you walk to the alley; it’s a plethora of booths that are neatly arranged in rows in what I think is a large lot, although if you go down the right path, there are real wooden stores. I saw shops and stalls selling hardware, Tibetan rugs, lots and lots of clothing (both Western and traditional Tibetan), pots and pans and other kitchen stuff, bags and accessories. I saw a couple of places selling fabric, but I didn’t feel like buying any because I felt like a spectacle, as people kept looking at me and saying, “Hello!” I didn’t feel like stopping to buy fabric anyway; I only wanted to walk around and look at everything. I did look around for disposable cameras, but I didn’t see any. I unfortunately didn’t look around to see if anyone was selling an invisibility cloak. I saw a grey kitten tied with a thin rope to a wooden wagon and drinking water out of a puddle; I bent down and petted the kitten for a little bit, noticing a stiff greasy spot on its neck. I wanted to untie the kitten, take it to the hotel and clean it up, and take it home to me to give it some proper care. Poor thing. I kept walking.
I stepped back into the alley, turned right and headed further up the street, because it wasn’t even four in the afternoon yet, and it seemed uncool even for an introvert like me to head back to the hotel at this early an hour. The original version of the Potala-like monastic building was destroyed in 1968, or so the official story goes. As I kept walking, I gazed at a splendid view of the new version of that building and also of a gateway over the street and leading to the monastery. Lovely view.
But an old man in traditional clothes and two long grey braids stood about a foot away from me and stared at me in the face, and that was it. That was my limit. I really needed solitude. I turned and headed back, saw a camera shop and noticed that it didn’t have any disposable cameras, and kept walking and observing and replying, “Hello.” I was utterly sick of that word by that point, yet at the same time I was too timid to say, “Tashe delek,” which I really should have been saying all along, in hindsight.
It was a great relief to be back in the hotel room and invisible to all. I collapsed onto the bed. The hotel room seemed very nice and quiet, and I felt so sick of megaphones and loud blaring music at CD booths, and very sick of being stared at and indeed sick of the word “Hello!”
I just tested the camera again—no luck. I got to thinking that I could stand going without taking pictures—except I’d really like to take pictures of the Norbulingka, the Dalai Lama’s summer palace! I’d be willing to not take any pictures otherwise. I thought of the camera shop and decided what the heck, I’d go ahead and get a non-digital camera, even though I didn’t think there were any disposable cameras.
I also decided that since I only got back to the hotel at four in the afternoon, I’d check at the front desk and find out if the hotel had an Internet room. One guy behind the desk seemed fluent in English, and he gave me directions to an Internet café: go down the street that way (the opposite of going to the Free Market), turn right and an Internet café is on the left side.
II followed his directions and may have turned right one block too soon. As I was crossing the wide street and hoping I didn’t get run over, two guys were also crossing the street and laughing. One of them cheerfully said to me, “Hello!” I wasn’t feeling comfortable but faintly said, “Hello,” anyway, putting on a façade of cheerfulness (or at least attempting to and not quite succeeding). But then he made an idiotic, comical grin and waved his hand and mimicked, “Hello!” in a high-pitched voice. My asshole alert was going off big time. The other guy laughed with Asshole #1, and my vibes were not a good thing and I was convinced that they were ridiculing me.
Even after they’d crossed the street a few feet ahead of me, Asshole #1 the Mega Creep was ridiculing me—grinning and yelling something that I didn’t understand, and Asshole #2 laughed. Asshole #1 waved a hand at a building in front of him and again laughed at me contemptuously, saying something in Tibetan. I got to wondering if that building was some slime ball misogynistic hole and he was implying that I was a stripper. Immature much? I must be a magnet for immature bullies. If you want me to support the Tibet cause, then don’t fucking harass me, asshole. Misogyny and patriarchy are, as is screamingly obvious to anyone who isn’t actively ignorant, worldwide epidemics. When it comes to the Tibetan cause, perhaps I should only help from a female slant, such as donating to the Tibetan Nuns Project.
I dashed across the street, to the left-hand side of the street, because I wanted to get the fuck away from Asshole #1 as soon as possible, and conveniently that was the side of the street that the hotel staff had said the Internet café was on. I didn’t have a good feeling about this street: it had too many closed shop doors (what to an American looks like a garage door, for the shops in Tibet are like the shops in India) and too much graffiti. I did not see many people, but the ones there were stared at me, including some little kids. At least they didn’t say, “Hello.” I saw quite a few pool tables sitting out in front of run-down shops, and sometimes people played pool. This was not far from the hotel, and yet it definitely wasn’t a great neighborhood. I desperately wanted to be invisible, was excruciatingly uncomfortable, and gave up on finding the Internet café.
I turned around and headed for the camera shop, even though I felt like hiding in my hotel room. I found the place (fortunately with a woman rather than a man behind the counter) and although we didn’t speak the same language, I managed to buy the kind of camera people used before digital. We communicated with a combination of hand gestures and writing down numbers.
As I made this purchase, I hoped I could figure out how to put the roll of film into the camera! I know I’ve used that kind of camera before—I took my mother’s camera with me to continental Europe in the 1980’s—but it’s been many years. After disposable cameras became available, I used them for years, until my mother gave me a digital camera, the one that no longer functions.
As I walked back from the camera shop, my “Hellos” were getting more and more timid. Unfortunately, this means that on at least one occasion I said “Hello” in a more high-pitched and quieter voice. I passed a group of teenagers whom I had passed on the way to the camera shop and at least one of them again said, “Hello!” and I faintly replied, “Hello.” This boy with cooties stepped forward and mockingly said, “Hello!” in a high-pitched voice. I have always hated my soprano voice and my speech impediment, and people have throughout my life attacked me for both. I may be paranoid, but I knew this stupid boy was ridiculing me, whether or not the others were. I began to feel that everyone who said “Hello” to me was ridiculing me. Again I could barely force myself to reply to other “Hellos” after that, though mostly I said, “Hi.”
After I left the Free Market, and I was walking down the street back toward the hotel, a bus across the street honked very loudly. The bus driver, I swear, was looking right at me. “Lhasa!” he called. I held up my hand and shook my head.
In the sanctuary of my hotel room, I was exhausted from too much contact with humans, but I tried to set up the camera. It turned out, to my surprise, that the camera included English-language directions. Nonetheless, I didn’t have luck loading the roll of film and decided to leave the camera in a cupboard of the room, so someone else could have it. Maybe they could figure out how to get it to work, though I had reason to believe that it was broken. Of course, the problem could simply be that I’m mechanically challenged and haven’t used that kind of camera in many years, possibly not since the 1980s.
I totally didn’t feel like going back out there, walking past all those people who would mockingly say, “Hello,” to me again, and I furthermore didn’t feel like trying to return the camera when I didn’t know Tibetan. I decided the woman who sold the camera to me needed the money, so I guess it wasn’t a complete waste. Maybe I can find disposable cameras in Lhasa. I know how to use disposable cameras; they’re very simple.
I’m at a point where I’m exhausted and deeply discouraged. It's amazing there was a time when I imagined going to Tibet would be the most amazingly blissful experience. But my mental states can turn any place into hell. Part of me is even saying I’ll be glad when I’m back in the States—when this trip is over—but on the other hand, I don’t look forward to being in Kansas, and I dread being around Aunt Heinrich Himmler and any other relatives.
I also need to give up looking for a surrogate mother to make up for my contemptuously and verbally abusive biological mother and aunts. Teddi was my first subconscious attempt at a surrogate mother since I stopped being in denial about my mother’s side of the family, and Shantum was my second such surrogate mother. It really is pointless: in both cases, I had a rude awakening and was majorly setting myself up for disappointment. I have to accept the fact that I will never be accepted, and that I will always be on my own. I have a memory of when I was four or five years old and felt very alone and sad, because I suddenly felt that I was completely on my own. Rather than seek a surrogate mother, I should mother myself. I should, in short, be my own mother.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
