Snapshots from the TAR

Friends, again I seem to be writing somewhat damply, in the midst of a downpour. This time, however, I am not in Jianzha. Now I am in Dram, a Tibetan city that butts Nepal. It smells like curry in this terraced metropolis, Hindi mixes with Tibetan, and, at this altitude, I would better describe myself as inside of the rain clouds than below them.

So soooo much has happened since my last update. We did manage to buy some train tickets to Lhasa from the "mafia" at an exorbitant price, and thus I have been gallivanting about the Tibetan Autonomous Region for the past week or so. When faced with the sheer magnitude of things that have transpired, I am, as usual, at a bit of a loss. Therefore I feel that the best approach for this post is a series of snapshots, or textual postcards, if you will.

The Highest Railway in the World
This is only the first of several "Highest in the World" I will encounter during my travels. Chinese families sit placidly with oxygen tubes in their noses, at least until we pass a herd of Tibetan deer--then pandemonium ensues among the passengers. Even with the extreme rip-off price we forked over to the mafia, we are only able to get hard seats, and during the 24 hour journey I learn that I am allergic to the floor of the cars of the highest train in the world. The clouds appear to descend towards the earth.

Lhasa
This city smells like incense in general, or perhaps like hot milk tea. Pilgrims mix with tourists mix with brigades of Chinese militia in riot gear, and the sky will take your breath away. Our hostel is in the heart of the old city, and I spend much of my time pleasantly bewildered in an impossible network of narrow, winding streets.

Jokhang Temple
This is the holiest structure in all of Tibet, and it is a three minute walk from my hostel in Lhasa. Pilgrims prostrate themselves around the entire building. The interior is also teeming, and it smells like butter lamps and reverence. I can feel the intangible weight of history in this place. Also, there's a hole in the wall where, if you're a good Buddhist, you're supposed to be able to hear the ripple of the lake-water upon which the temple was built. I hear the resounding silence of my un-enlightenment.

The Debating Monks
They sit in the dappled shade of a courtyard in Sera monastery--at least 50 monks, clad in burgundy and gold, gesturing animatedly. They are debating the intricacies of existence. Of course I can't understand a word that is said, but I love watching the discourse unfold. When a monk makes a point, he thrusts his hands forward with a resounding clap. Then, while his left hand symbolically covers any holes in his argument, his right hand lifts his audience free of suffering.

Tibetan Michael Jackson
I sit in an odd club in Lhasa beneath flashing lights of many colors. There are many bad singers, and we are served beer in shot glasses. Then, finally, he comes onstage: Tibetan Michael Jackson. I have never seen a moonwalk walked with more style. Even Nikki (a South African with whom I am traveling) agrees that he is damn good, and she's met the real Jackson. A reincarnation? ...perhaps. He is followed by a midget who steals the show.

Breakfast
Yogurt from yak, tsampa (barley flour+yak butter+hot milk+sugar+yak cheese), and coffee. It is spread before me in indescribable glory. I could eat this for breakfast every day for the rest of my life and be fulfilled.

Potala Palace
It costs a ridiculous 100Y, and we are brusquely shepherded through like cows to slaughter (to the Chinese government, the Potala Palace is just another resource to exploit, like coal). Nevertheless, I stand in awe at the throne of the 14th Dalai Lama. Heaps of currency--from yuan to dollars--are at the foot of this empty seat, and it is festooned with white scarves.

The Solar Eclipse
I spend the night before this event sleeping on the roof of my hostel, and upon awakening I beam at the spectacular, impressionistic could-cover blanketing Lhasa. This, however, is not conducive to a climactic viewing of the biggest solar eclipse in 100 years. Jon, Nikki, Miles, and I put on silly mock-mountaineering goggles we bought at the street market and take pictures, but the net effect of this monumentous celestial alignment is a slight darkening of the cloudy sky.

Dijiredoo Monk
The monks chant as they perform a ceremony, and, although the sound is organic and fluid, one voice is particularly noteworthy. It resounds deeply off the stone walls of the monastery, like humpback whales or mountains shifting.

The Nunnery
We are invited to sit with the nuns as they chant, and the peaceful sound of ceremony is interrupted by their giggles. They make us drink copious amounts of sweet tea. The nun beside me entertains herself my tickling my bare feet with a stray feather, and mysterious cakes, humungous and painted red, are carried by to an unknown destination.

Peace Pilgrims
We are in our Land Rover, cruising out of Lhasa, when we pass a group of 25 peace pilgrims on their way to the holy city. They started in Kham, have been on pilgrimage for the past three months, and are prostrating all the way there. They are dusty and dwarfed by the semi trucks that blast by. With the sight of these pilgrims bowing their weary bodies toward Lhasa, I begin to fathom the strength of the Tibetan people.

Nam-sto Lake.
Holy shit the word "beautiful" shatters into a million pieces when applied to this place. We cross a 5230 meter pass with a clap of thunder and a tinkling of hail, and the most sacred lake in Tibet (and the highest lake in the world) yawns before us like a mirage--it's an other-worldly shade of blue and seemingly boundless. I should probably write an epic poem or maybe a novel about the clouds, because the lake is literally in the sky (hence "Nam-sto," or "Sky-lake"). With the storm passing by, it looks like the clouds are sucking the lake up into heaven, or perhaps vice-versa.

The Nomad Tent
We spend the night in a yak fur tent beside the sacred lake, with a family of nomads. I swear I can almost touch every star--I have never seen a better sky. We are fed tsampa (with especially healthy helpings of butter) and sweet tea for dinner, sleep beneath our own personal flocks of sheep, and are warm.

Mount Everest
Everest: Qoomolangma: Highest Entity on the Planet: Pretty Awesome. Upon our approach, Her Mightiness th Mountain is shrouded in clouds, but when we pull in to base camp (elevation ~18,000 feet) she decides to show her face in all it's glory. I can't convince myself that this is really and truly Mt Everest before me. It is like meeting a famous person, or learning that the tooth fairy is actually my mom. Nevertheless I am in awe, especially when the mountain glows at gloaming and the moon emerges like a silver nail-clipping. I experience no ill-effects at the enormous altitude, but running is difficult and red wine is far more potent than one might expect.

...and now I am here, in Dram, at the southernmost corner of Tibet. Tomorrow we drive back to Lhasa for a covert day or two (our permits expire). Then we embark on a 42 hour train ride to Beijing where there will be a week or so of merry-making and exploration prior to our return to Oregon. It's been awesome, it's been beautiful, and there is so much more to say except I'm frustrated with adjectives so I think I'll sign off.

Things That Have Happened:

1) I have said goodbye to Jianzha, my host-family, and The Home of Hope. It was difficult, physically, to leave the orphanage--we were restrained by at least 20 children upon our first attempt to say goodbye and depart. Eventually we managed. The kids walked with us down the driveway singing, and stopped at the gate. Choruses of "SANK YOO TEACHER!" followed us down the road until we were out of earshot, and I wiped my tears with the same ceremonial white scarves that I received upon my arrival.

2) We have met a Taxi in the pouring rain, and hydroplaned our way to Xining (where we currently are). We located our hostel only with mild bewilderment.

3) I have showered, done laundry, and drank i) a mocha, ii) a latte, and iii) an americano.

4) We have met a Sherpa man who has spent the past 30 years living in New Zealand, and have thus overhead the best accent that exists.

5) We have subverted the crisis that was our first attempt at dining in China. We went into this restaurant that was way fancier than what we had bargained for, pointed at some random things on the menu, and were given food that was, mysteriously, raw. Only with extreme confusion and a few awkward interactions were we able to ascertain that we were supposed to cook the food ourselves in the bubbling liquid that had been placed before us. So far, no food poisoning.

6) We have obliviously ambled into what we thought was our hostel, but was actually some sort of military base.

****Hopefully leaving for Lhasa tomorrow!

Off and Away

Today is my last day at the Home of Hope. One more afternoon with the kids, a final dinner with Duku's family by the mill, and one last night on my firm firm bed. And then there's a taxi to Xining, a hostel (with showers! and coffee!), a train to Lhasa... and many adventures. I feel ready to move on (life here can be very slow-paced at times), but there is much I will miss. I hope that I will be able to come back here one day, but I honestly don't know what the future holds. So I will miss these red-and-gray-cathedral-mountains, I will miss my host family, I will miss yogurt and fresh bread, and I will miss these young rapscallions that have come to feel like family. In the spirit of transition, here's a summing up of my experience here in Jianzha in numbers:

Weeks: 4
Showers: 2
Miles walked: ~125
Cups of coffee: 0
Cups of tea: 3,591,004
Bottles of gold-flecked alcohol received: 2
Bullets gathered from the mouths of small children: 19
Instances where I have been confused: uncountable
Sore butts from sitting on really really hard, short stools: 1
Children I have fallen in love with: 72

And thus Miles and myself (aka "Caiden Jashi" and "Lhamou Jhoma," aka "Milen" and "Caits," aka "The Pig" and "The Cat") are off. It's been beautiful. I'm sure only time will tell just how much it has meant.

Prayer Flags, Fancy Alcohol, and Happiness

It's raining, drenchingly, steadily, and ever so wetly. Actually, the character of this particular rain reminds me of September in the Pacific Northwest. But it is mid-July, and I am in Tibet. Hmmm.

Things have been going wonderfully for me, the children, and the mountains. Teaching is becoming somewhat easier--I can actually see some measure of improvement in their English skills ("they" being the children, and not the mountains). Ever since the little ones learned how to say "I'm happy" in response to the question "How are you?" they have been running around shouting "AMMM HAPPPYYY!!!" at the top of their lungs, beaming with wide, tooth-less smiles and two thumbs up.

It's only slightly complicated because Miles and I never know when to teach. We are gestured into roomfuls of random students at apparently random intervals, and then ad-lib a class on the spot depending on the age of the kids. A few days ago we couldn't figure out why all the small children were sitting in teacher-less classrooms looking bored, so we jumped in and taught a couple covert English classes. As it turns out, they were in the middle of exams. Oops.

And yesterday! Oh yesterday. Miles, myself, and two other Americans that are currently volunteering at the Home of Hope climbed up and up to the top of the ridge on the Northern side of the valley in which we reside. Below is an entry in my journal that I wrote upon summiting this mountain range:

"We have seen the other side. We started in the morning (post fry-scramble and tea), when the clouds were raked over like a zen garden. We climbed up and up, over Tibetan crop circles and forgotten wells and death canyons where the jabberwock surely is lurking. The ground smelled like sage--my face was so close to it as I clambered and I saw multifarious butterflies and spider beetles and nightmare bugs and crickets that click and flash crimson capes when they fly. I panted and heaved and then we were here. Steep slopes are freckled with goats and other, steeper slopes are mighty cathedrals carved out by rain. The yellow river winds by, muted by fog, placid and flat. There are prayer flags, battered by wind and rain, full of color and whispering. There are some black beasts a ways down the slope. I cannot tell if they are cows or yaks. I hope they are yaks. And I think I could fly if I tried."

Once we reached the top of the ridge we followed it for a few miles (at a height of 13,000 feet), hopping from prayer flag cluster to prayer flag cluster. By the time we were ready to descend it was three o'clock and we were parched and ravenous.

And then a random Tibetan family invited us into their home for tea. An old Aiee (grandmother) gestured emphatically for us to come over whilst a young boy chased away a heard of cows and (legitimate!) yaks with a silver harmonica. We were seated on a blanket beneath what looked like plum trees and served YOGURT which was surely a product of one of the creatures that had just been chased away with a harmonica. There were also clay-baked potatoes that we ate like apples, and, of course, tea.

And then, to our consternation, we were presented with a fancy red bag emblazoned with an image of the Potala Palace. Cued by gestures, we opened it, and it contained... liquor. Very fancy liquor, with gold flakes floating in it. And thus a rural Tibetan family that appeared to earn its living with cows and yaks and tomatoes and plums gifted us gold-laced alcohol (surely their most expensive possesion). We couldn't refuse, so we set of down the mountain bearing the gift bag, a gold-toothed grin and harmonica music at our backs.

Ok friends, it's time for me to trek back out into the rain. We have to buy eggs and tomatoes for dinner, I am told. I just have four more days here, which blows my mind. And then on to Lhasa.

Ode to the Yogurt Man

You sit on the street corner down in town, just past the giant golden elephant. You sit beside a box. This box, inconspiciously wooden, contains all that is delicious. Within the box there are delicate porcelain bowls
full of the best yogurt anyone has ever tasted or ever will taste. When I purchase this yogurt you spoon it--measuring in delicate-porcelain-bowl-units--into a plastic bag. I carry this plastic bag full of yogurt you have given me up the road to my host-home, where sugar is provided in ample portions.

I love this yogurt. I love you.

As I draft this, I am surrounded by a hoard of smiling children. One is fanning me with a notebook, and another is offering my peaches. Several are sounding out these words as I pen them, or just yelling out any English phrases that strike them:

"Da... dat. DATDATDATDAT."
"Pin! Pincil. Pin. Pincil. Pin. Piiiiin."
"Sank yooo! Jour welcom! Am fine!"

Alas. I will plow forth with my dusty notebook here on the patio of the Home of Hope, chaos and all.

It's the beginning of my third week here. The fourth of July passed with nothing more than a backfiring engine and a festive twirl of incense, and I'm still here, learning a ton and struggling to impart some knowledge of the English language upon this magnificent, if somewhat rambunctious, young people.

One thing about teaching English: it is DIFFICULT. The first day we visited the orphanage Miles and I were thrust jet-lagged and plan-less into a classroom full of beaming faces, and since then we've been improvising a syllabus with limited supplies and absolutely no knowledge of the native language. Races to look up words in the dictionary have been popular, along with animal sounds among the littlest ones (imagine 10 small children screaming MOOOO at ear-shattering volumes). However, it has been endlessly frustrating that I am almost completely incapable of communicating verbally with my students. This would be so much easier if I could say things like "Please stop standing on the desk," "This is how you say 'yesterday' in Tibetan/Chinese," and, "Why are you crying?"

So I'm not going to produce and fluent English speakers in a month. If, when I leave, however, I have simply taught these kids that English can be fun and worth learning, than that will be enough. (I also wouldn't complain if some of them learn to pronounce "th").

In other news, my host mother, Kumbutsu, is insane. At first she seemed to be a simple, reserved (and beautiful) Tibetan lady, but something about us has unleashed her inner-demon-child. Just the other day she nonchalantly spooned yogurt onto Steve's head, and she finds it incredibly amusing to chase us holding hissing beetles the size of yaks. Despite this, and the fact that she often laughs at our attempts at Tibetan until tears streak down her face, she is a wonderfully welcoming hostess. And she cooks some damn fine niochhh.

Also, I took my first shower yesterday.

Just one textual postcard to end this installment from your faithful correspondent in Tibet:

Motorcycle Monk
He's wearing flat, reflective sunglasses, and he grins widely as he dopplersby on this rural road. His burgundy robes billow in the wind, and then he's gone. Just the wheat fields remain.

"Sharsha yuangooga."

This phrase--Tibetan for "a storm is coming"--is becoming increasinglyapplicable to my life. For the past few days, thunderstorms have comerumbing in for a brief visit during the afternoon or evening. Lightning putsthe silhouettes of the mountains into stark contrast, and the thunder sounds so close that we wonder if the Chinese militia aren't firing heavy artillery down in Jian Za. To me it seems as though someone made a mistake and put the ocean where the sky goes. Aereal tides.

Yesterday, after dinner and post-storm, three of us Americans followed goat-tracks up into the foothills. In the half-light of evening, we stopped at the edge of a giant ravine to lay in goat poop and look at the sky. The grass smelled like chamomile, and I felt as though I might fall in (to the ocean?).

Aside from thunderstorms and gloam-time walks, there have been other developments since my last update. Most notably, a group of seven Americans, along with one of the founders of the Home of Hope and her son, arrived to volunteer. If I felt like a conspiciously foreign 'big-nose' when I first
got here, now I am among a true gaggle of awkward, camera-toting, cleanliness-bearing Americans. Today all of the girls were washed and given new clothes (assembly line style), and all of the children are sporting shiny pencil cases.

Also, I have discovered that I am a crack shot with a crossbow, and yesterday I believe I may have been wearing an entire yak.

I will conclude with a poem-ish thing I wrote today in the office while taking a break from the energy of the children:

Mountains like old faces
For all I know, they might not exist
I haven't touched them
But, then again, these mountains seem like the most likely of all things
To be real
Maybe its because they're so far away
And so old
Weathered peaks--grey, red, and brown
I drape words upon them
Like so many colored prayers
They flap in the wind

No Bestride Line Drive

I've only been here for a few days, but, when I tried to write about what has happened to me last night in my journal, I felt like I was trying to cram an elephant into a sandwich bag. Likewise, the following update is but an exercise in failure--these words cannot be infused with the rush of Washing Machine Hunt in Xining, the beaming smiles of so many Tibetan children, and the subtle scent of green tea. I hope, however, that I can at least gesture at this experience as it unfolds.

The journey here was LONG (according to the chronometer on my watch, the time from Coburg, Oregon to Jian Za, China was approximately 42 hours). It went something like this: Portland to Tokyo, Tokyo to Beijing, night on the airport floor (woken by giant squeegee machine at 4am), Beijing to Xining, and, finally, Xining to Jian Za.

Miles and I were greeting in Xining by a beaming brigade of Americans and Tibetans from the Home of Hope, and then we ate an extravagant lunch that included, but was not limited to, sheep tendon (difficult with chopsticks!). We then went on the aforementioned Washing Machine Hunt, which ended successfully with a new washing machine for the orphanage. Vaguely delirious, we wandered around Xining, procuring a few basketballs for the kids and battling post office bureaucracy. Then there was a bumpy van ride to Jian Za, our driver, Chunter, yelling "NO SLEEPY!" at regular intervals. "No Bestride Line Drive" is a road sign we passed on the way to Jian Za.

And then we were here: the Amdo region of Tibet, where old mountains, striped red and white, fulfill every expectation of what mountains should be like on the roof of the world. The bread is so fresh that it was photosynthesizing yesterday (our host family owns a mill), my glass of tea
is ever-filling, and the people here smile more than I ever could have imagined. There are monks on motorcycles, escaped goats in the house, pit toilets, night invasions by cat, lunches called "yuckggt," and much, much laughter.

And I haven't even mentioned the children. They greeted us at the orphanage with dozens of ceremonial white scarves; they followed us up the driveway chanting the Tibetan equivalent of "Welcome! Welcome." They are better students than any elementary schoolers than I have ever seen in the states (they know three languages with three alphabets!), and they smilesmilesmile.
The prospects for the Tibetan National Frisbee Team are promising only insofar as the players are not distracted by a) balloons or b) chocolate. When I arrive at the school in the morning, they greet me cheerily with my Tibetan name: Lhamou Jhoma.

Yes. So this is where I am. I will conclude with a few textual postcards:

Miles Plays Jazz Violin to Tibetan Children
Steve accompanies on the keyboard. The kids react with a mixture of rapture and befuddlement. They are trying to decide when to clap, but can't find the rhythm of the blues. Their hands hang in the air, waiting for something that they cannot name.

Aiee
Aiee is the matriarach of the Tibetan family with whom I am staying. She has probably stolen all the vowels in Tibet, but she deserves them. Her face is a perfect reflection of these weathered mountains, and it wouldn't surprise me if she were at least as old. Her wisdom is obvious. She tries to make us eat more. We stand when she enters the room.

Three Hundred Thousand Million Cups of Tea
This is how much green tea I will drink while I am here, I am convinced. I won't be able to prove it, however, because my cup is always refilled before it is empty. It has even come to pass that my cup has been topped off after I don't drink any tea. Hmmm.

That's all! Must escape this smoky wang ba!
De moa!