Tibetan Countryside

I had a rather less than pleasant dream in which my mother was criticizing the way I was dressed and making me feel humiliated, quite a talent of hers. Not something I should have in mind while in Tibet. Not realizing that Bina didn’t reserve my return ticket is making me feel incredibly stupid. I’m sure I made it confusing by making some of the reservations myself and letting Bina make other reservations. Next time, I’m only going to one country! Keep the trip simple. Of course, knowing me, I’ll think: gee, since I’m going to Thailand, I may as well zip over to Cambodia and see Angkor Wat.

I hope I can get on the Internet in Gyantse and quick make a reservation—I hope the flight isn’t all booked. Perhaps I shouldn’t be worrying—that’s a Buddhist teaching—I have a plan and will go through with it. If the 10:45 flight is booked surely there are at least two others that day—and my flight back to Delhi isn’t till the 13th, so technically if I have to, I can wait till the 12th for a flight back to Kathmandu. This has been a weird trip.

Now we’re in the minivan or jeep or whatever it’s called—and I told Gyantzing—he said no problem, he’ll take care of my return ticket. Whew—what a relief! As usual, all my worry is for nothing. That seems to happen quite a bit on this trip: I have intense worry, and then I just do whatever has to be done, and suddenly it seems like I didn’t have anything to worry about. Or I don’t even bother worrying and just remain equanimous and just do it. Daring do.

Most of the foo dogs in Lhasa are alive. On the sidewalks, circumambulating around temples, and even exploring the Sera Monastery with humans, cute little fluffy dogs are everywhere. I especially see them on leashes on the sidewalks, and I saw several as we passed the Potala and Lukhang Park this morning. Many are yellow, or white and black, or white and yellow. I recognize many as Lhasa apsos and Tibetan spaniels.

I’ve also seen some large shaggy dogs that I believe are Tibetan mastiffs. We just passed a black pair that were fighting. There was a blonde one that I stroked on the head at the Sera Monastery---it was very calm and lying around.

Once I even saw a cat on a leash on the sidewalk. Its human sat at a circular café table with a couple other people. The cat did not look pleased. “What do you take me for? A subservient, worshipful, stupid, drooling dog? We are not amused.”

I haven’t written about the rats yet. In Sera Monastery we got into this discussion. The monasteries have rat problems and I said, “Maybe they could have more cats,” thinking of the ones I’ve seen. But cats can’t catch all the rats, because they get inside the walls. Mice are native to Tibet—little mice—but rats came with Chinese immigrants. I’m sure the butter lamps and offerings of fruits and grains feed rats well. And of course water offerings.

“Outdoor pool” has a whole different meaning in Tibet. Pool tables are outdoors, in front of buildings, at least some of which are probably bars. The pool tables look entirely too large for the tiny shops behind them. I wondered whether the pool tables are taken inside or how they are kept out of the elements, until I started seeing roof-shaped green metal lids that are put on the pool tables, like at the end of the day.

I jotted messy notes while on the road:

Yellow Tzange is a river in Gyantse, the same as we saw leaving the airport. Chomo is a river goddess, 5500 m high, edge of river—high point with mass pass.

Prayer flags mark water burial place. Fish instead of vultures eat the bodies.

We just passed some traditional buildings, and there was a man and woman wrestling in the road—pulling at each other—it looked like they were smiling, so maybe it wasn’t what I thought. Other people were sitting in front of a café or shop and watching with amusement. I think all of them were male. I did not feel comfortable with the situation.

I have seen countless bare willow trees with stumpy trunks that are harsh and gnarly, not like droopy elegant North American willow trees. The only reason I recognized them as willows is because, in truth, they look like the Whomping Willow in the Harry Potter films.

A herd of sheep were in the center of the road, and I laughed and said, “It’s like Ireland!” We stopped, and I got out to take pictures of the herd, but it didn’t take them long to be off to the right of the road. A young woman was herding them; she wore Western clothes, including jeans, but she had a mask over her face similar to a surgical mask. After our encounter with the herd of sheep, we came to a holy lake by Khanbhala Pass, which is 4700 meters at the top. It’s a rode that winds around a mountain. Actually, since “la” means “pass,” it seems a bit redundant to call it “Khanbhala Pass.”

I rode a yak above the sacred lake. I kid you not. I rode a yak!! An elephant last year, a yak this year…maybe next year I’ll ride a camel. We pulled over at sight of a couple of yaks wearing colorful saddles and bells and accompanied by a small number of mostly male people. An old guy asked me if I wanted to ride a yak. I said, “Oh, I don’t know, I’m afraid of heights oh why not,” and I climbed on. It was a bit scary, since my feet were so not on the ground, but it wasn’t nearly as high as the elephant last year. The yak moved forward a few yards. Gyantzing used my camera to take a couple pictures of me, and I was genuinely laughing. It seemed like such an odd situation, and I did it so casually. “Just do it,” truly has been my attitude on this trip; I didn’t even know if I’d survive Kathmandu. In addition to the yak, there was a large shaggy dog that jumped onto a precarious concrete perch at the edge of the pass, and I took a picture of the dog. A young woman wearing one of those homemade cloth surgical-style masks held onto the other end of the leash. I paid for both the yak ride and the dog (because of course I took a picture of the doggy), and we moved on down the road.

Normally the lake is turquoise, but today it’s white: frozen over and covered with snow. It is associated with dakinis, manifestations of female spirituality in Tibetan tradition. I’ve read about dakinis, particularly in the book The Dakini’s Warm Breath: the Feminine Principle in Tibetan Buddhism by Judith Simmer-Brown. They can be old women who you run into on the side of the road, or they can be young women, or they can be goddesses or ghostly spirits. They’re guides believed to help you go in the right direction on your spiritual journey.

We stopped at some point and approached the frozen sacred lake, where a group of Chinese guys were standing directly on the ice; one had a camera with a tripod. Otherwise, out on the frozen lake was a tour guide with a tall bald guy from Holland. When he told me where he was from, I said, “I’ve been to Holland, but only at the Amsterdam airport, on the way to India last year.” He smiled and said, “Most people say they’ve only been to the airport.”

I continually gawked out the windows at the breathtaking scenery, the mountains and the lakes and the hug bright blue sky with fluffy white clouds. Occasionally, we stopped so I could take pictures.

We came to a small town called Nangatse, which consisted mostly of traditional houses, buildings with pool tables outdoors, and shops. One of the buildings was one story tall and made of stone, and it housed a bunch of shops. I also saw some plain modern buildings that housed more shops. Many women wore chupas, the traditional Tibetan dresses. This was the first full day in Tibet that I didn’t wear my homemade chupa but instead wore cargo jeans. I’m glad, because of the yak ride. I saw a goat standing in a doorway, in front of a red door.

We stopped in this town for lunch, at a little restaurant where our round table practically filled the room. I ordered tofu and mushroom dish but apparently mushrooms are out of season, because they brought me a soupy dish containing big slabs of tofu, chives, red peppers…and meat! Gross! But they also brought us all rice, and I think Gyantzing took pity on me what with the veggie shortage, because the waiter brought out a big plate of bok choy stir-fry (or some sort of green stuff) and the driver heaped a bunch of this dish on my rice. I took the chopsticks and dragged the slabs of tofu onto the bowl of rice periodically, and it made a good meal of it. We were all served tea in, strangely, Dixie cups in a blue plastic filigree-like cup holder that has a handle; the tea was hot water with bits of leaves floating in it, and the waiter kept refilling my cup, even if it was more than half full. I also asked for coconut juice, since it was on the menu, but instead they had a canned fruit juice that showed fruit similar to strawberries on the can, but the pulp was clear. Still, it was delicious.

I think Cara would be highly amused at the image of me sitting at a round table in a tiny Tibetan restaurant with a couple of Tibetan guys. And I think Francis would be glad to know that I’ve started holding chopsticks close to the top. If you go to Tibet, you have to know how to use chopsticks.

For the most part, it was a day of driving, driving, driving, with occasional photo stops—such as the walk onto the frozen surface of the sacred lake.

I saw frozen water, a waterfall that isn’t falling, on the side of a mountain. We came to the Kharla Pass, at 5500 meters, with some majorly snowy mountains and one summit like a pyramid.
At the side of the road, on the right, I saw a charming white stupa, rather like a juniper stove, with a dramatic mountain backdrop. The driver pulled over so I could take a picture of it. I got out and aimed the camera, when a swarm of children ran up and stood before the stupa so that I’d take their picture. They asked for money, and I pulled some out of my wallet and proceeded to hand each of them a small bill. They were noisy and grabby and I think some expected me to give them money a second time. One of them nearly snatched the bundle out of my hand, but I was quick. I was also rather overwhelmed, exactly like when I gave fruit to kids in Rajgir, India, last year. They were behaving the same way and have probably seen quite a few tourists.

We went through a similar pass at 4200 meters and saw an artificial turquoise lake caused by a flood (perhaps thanks to the Chinese plot to cut down all the trees in Tibet?) and also a real turquoise lake, where we stopped and I admired the view, wandered a short distance, and took pictures. Prayer flags fluttered on a telephone pole on mountain. It was so cold and windy. I noticed that the wind sounds exactly like it does in the film Kundun, which is about the Dalai Lama; that wind is the first thing you hear when you start watching the film. Gyantse In the year 1480, King Repten Kunseng founded the Peschu Monastery, under the first Panchen Lama. It housed 200,000 monks before the Chinese invasion, and it’s down to 68 monks now.

“Chokhungs” means house of the Buddha. Sangharakshita was an Indian teacher who came before Padmasambhava but couldn’t suppress the demons, according to legend, unlike Padmasambhava. He was a hundred years old before the king came. Now he must be much older than that; he’s a Western scholar who wrote a book about Siddhartha Gautama, and it’s called Who is the Buddha? Oh, I guess that’s just someone who has the same name as Sangharakshita.

I wrote the above notes while Gyantzing was talking and we were sightseeing in Gyantse, which is a town known for its horse races. Sure enough, I saw quite a number of horses with wooden carts. We explored the Palkhor Choide Monastery, which was a lot like the others—colorful murals, a chanting hall that is still used by monks rather than like a museum, lovely gold statues. I climbed around inside the six-story Great Chorten (stupa) that’s a combo Tibetan and Nepalese style, with Nepalese big Buddha eyes toward the top, and around each story were little shrine rooms containing colorful statues.

Instead of spending a night in Gyantse with according to Gyantzing somewhat primitive accommodations, we drove off. We agreed to drive the one and a half hours to Shigatse, the second largest city in Tibet and sight of the Panchen Lama’s monastery, Tashilhumpo. So we shall spend two nights in Shigatse instead of one in Gyantse and one in Shigatse, so here I am in a cushy hotel room. Well, it could be a bit warmer…quite a bit warmer. From my hotel room, I have a fabulous view of a building that is part of Tashilhumpo, the Panchen Lama’s palatial monastery. Wow. I read that Tashilhumpo is at the base of a mountain, so I’m thinking that the Potala-like building I see outside my window is one part of the monastery rather than its entirety. It is dramatically perched up on top of a mountain.

In Gyantse, I gazed at a fascinating fortress-monastery perched on a mountain—it looks impossible to reach and no doubt is meant to look that way. It’s as if King Ludwig II of Bavaria came to Tibet and designed the fortress-monastery. Down below it is a charming temple and an amazing stupa that’s Tibetan style below but Nepalese style above, with the big Buddha eyes looking out from four sides. Many big dogs—Tibetan mastiffs, I surmise—lay around in front of the monastery, and they were obviously strays, given how dirty their coats were. I thought that stray dogs in India generally look healthier.

We first followed the path leading to the temple. I spun a row of prayer wheels, and then we walked through a gate with old murals to the left and right: snow lions and big orange tigers caught my eye. Cats, of course. The entrance to the temple—perhaps I should say the front porch—was flanked by larger-than-life images of the guardian kings of the four directions. Very colorful. As Gyantzing has pointed out, all Tibetan temples have the four kings at the entrance. Inside, the fourteenth century murals were seriously blackened with smoke from centuries of butter lamps that used to sit on wooden benches that are like stairs. Alone one wall, those steps still held butter lamps and looked quite charming as the flames flickered in the mostly dark prayer hall. There was an enormous Maitreya statue in this temple, and his head loomed high above.

Another shrine room displayed a row of Buddha statues—particularly a larger-than-life Shakyamuni in the center—the statue itself is original, but the crown and other details were destroyed in the Cultural Revolution (or earlier—tour guides are trained to acknowledge that the Cultural Revolution was wrong but to pretend that the Chinese invasion of Tibet was good and peaceful) and have since been replaced. Along the edges of the room were the huge figures of the eight spiritual daughters and sons of the Buddha—all with gold faces and blue hair and patchwork/appliquéd brocade robes, like at so many temples. After circumambulating the room, and looking high up at these statues, I said, “I think the reason they’re so big is so that they’re more awe-inspiring.” In the main room, I noticed a stretch of what looked like quilts, and two of them were reminiscent of American quilt patterns. But the fabric looked like it was probably more local, and I rather think it’s a coincidence.

The stupa was really like a mandala, with six different levels; you can go up to all of them except the very top. Gyantzing warned me to duck because the doorways, except on the top floor, were very low. When I got to the first one, I ducked into the room and gasped at sight of a colorful and lively bodhisattva along one wall, and colorful murals covering the other walls. I turned to head out and promptly bumped my forehead on the doorframe. A couple of chupa-clad women with a baby and a toddler saw me, and I comically rubbed my forehead while laughing, and they all laughed with me. As we continued circling around, the toddler would look at me and rub her forehead with her head in a round O. Good thing I didn’t bump my head hard.

I kept going around the stupa, and the first level was mainly fierce deities and dakinis. Another level was mainly Taras of different colors. Another level was lamas, such as Tsongkapa. At the top (a fantastic lookout point) were Buddhas and murals of very detailed mandalas. On all levels were very loud pigeons.

In Gyantse there were indeed lots of horses, and in a couple of cases, they stood eating out of a sack pulled over the muzzle. In many cases, they were pulling carts, whether we were still on the “highway” or in the center of the little village. A couple of horse carts, one in front of the other, stopped and stood next to me, in the front, there was a white horse and an older man with a very little girl, the one behind that had at least three people, and I suspect the two carts together formed a family. There were colorful blankets or something like that in the carts, and the people wore, like almost everyone in this town, wearing traditional dress. If it weren’t for the plastic water bottle that the little girl held, the scene would have been the same a hundred years ago.

At least nobody’s wearing Mao suits or Mao caps—I’ve seen so many photos from Tibet in which people still dressed like that, but I’m thinking that’s rather dated. And I’m not seeing portraits of Mao, like Vikram Seth saw when he came to Tibet in 1981. Now it’s normal for Tibetans to wear traditional and/or Western dress. I have seen many chupas.