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.

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.