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.

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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.

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.

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.

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.