Chapter 11
There was a message waiting for Brother Francis when they arrived back to the hotel. The man behind the desk at the Kathmandu Hotel was taller than average for a Tibetan, being a little over six feet tall.
He waved to the group as they entered the lobby and hollered over to Brother Francis, “Monk Francis, you have a message here for a few days.” Francis went over and accepted the paper that the smiling man was waving in the air. On a very ordinary looking piece of white 8-l/2x11 paper was written the following:
THE DORJE IS IN TIBET
“Everything okay, Francis? ” Krishna asked as they walked up the stairs to their room.
“I imagine so,” his friend responded. “This note puzzles me. What do you make of it?”
Krishna took the message from Francis and read it, his brow wrinkling and his face becoming quizzical. “It probably refers to the Dorje missing from Tar-Chin’s house. What really puzzles me is why would anyone care enough to leave this message--and how would they know where the Dorje is.”
Francis picked up on the theme. “I can’t figure out whether this person is friend or foe. We are on our way to Tibet tomorrow morning--the zenith of our journey. I wonder if the creator of this cryptic message knows that.”
At dinner that evening, Francis shared the mysterious note with his five fellow travelers. David suggested that they speak with the manager of the hotel to see if anyone remembers who left the note, or when it was put in Francis’ mailbox behind the reception desk of the hotel.
The group was excited and a bit on edge. They were already at an elevation of four thousand two hundred feet in Nepal and they were going to a significantly higher level of elevation. The travelers were concerned about their ability to handle high altitude illness. They were also excited about going, finally, to the mysterious land of Tibet. This was a land that, up until the last few decades, was almost never seen by Westerners. Tibetan spiritual and medical teachings were highly guarded and not shared in any complete way with others. Now this.
Francis brought the group up to date on their favorite waiter, Ang. “Ang will be landing at the airport in Nepal around the same time we are leaving. Maybe we will bump into him in that crazy crowd of people. If not, I would like for us to connect with him again somehow.” Everyone was in agreement--they wanted to be as supportive as possible to this young student.
Flo had been keeping in touch with the clinic where Ang’s mother lay semi-conscious. “The doctor there says that Mrs. Ang, I can’t pronounce her name, is holding her own. She appears to be no better, but is no worse. It makes the doctor wonder if it really is a poison causing her symptoms. The labs are back from the hospital and they have found nothing. They are going to send samples out to another hospital for a more advanced screening in order to continue the detective work that way.”
Francis, David, and Krishna went to the front desk while the “girls” went to their rooms.
“No sirs, I really don’t know who left this message for you. It has been in your box number, Dr. Francis, for at least twenty-four hours. I remember seeing it here yesterday. I will leave a memo for the other people who work the desk and see if they know who got the note in and possibly when. Is everything else satisfactory?”
David, always the detective, would give out as little information as possible.
“Everything is fine, sir. We are very pleased with the hotel and your service. We are, however, curious about the note that was left for Brother Francis. It is somewhat ambiguous and we want to get some more details.”
“Very good, sir.”
The detective and the doctors climbed the stairs for an evening of rest.
Thousands of people milled around in the Kathmandu airport. A number of the women had orchids on, indicating that they had flown Thai Airways. This was the airline Ang was to fly in on.
Krishna spoke up, “Ang is inbound on Thai Airways and we are outbound on China Southwest Airlines. I don’t think there’s much possibility of us connecting.”
After several hours of waiting in line, examinations with electric wands, and being patted down, all of which made them feel like criminals, the six pilgrims were ushered into the secure part of the airport one by one.
As Francis was making his way in, the last of their group, far across the terminal building he glimpsed Ang rushing along with a carriage full of suitcases, a fatigued and worried look on his face. Francis called out to the young man but it was futile. An airport security guard started to give Francis a strange look so he prudently kept quiet and walked into the secure area of the airport. The flight was just under one hour from Kathmandu to Lhasa, the capital of Tibet. During their travels, they would be up close and personal with the Himalayan mountain range and even Mount Everest! Peaking above the other mountains, Mount Everest stood like a glistening silver triangle to their left.
A snack was served. It consisted of an empty hamburger roll (the kind that looks like white cotton and has next to no nutrition) wrapped in cellophane and a little plastic cup of water sealed at the top with tin foil.
The group ate, grateful for what they had and very well aware that most people have far less, especially in this part of the world. Some of them smiled as they made a mental comparison between this airplane ride and the one on Thai Airways. The flight, otherwise, was quick and easy and shortly they were leaving the plane and walking on the tarmac that covered this little portion of Tibet.
Within seconds the world started to spin around. The travelers became lightheaded and had to stop and lean on one another. The experience passed quickly but it was a good reminder that they were certainly at a much higher altitude and would need to take care. They walked slowly. They were able to breathe, but breathing went much more slowly and they had to wait periodically until their breath caught up with them.
They went through immigration. After several lines, and lots of paper pushing and rubber-stamping, all six pilgrims had visas for the Kingdom of Tibet. Out on the pavement in front of the main building of the airport, the six grouped together, luggage carriers brimming over with suitcases that now and then would fall to the ground. Flo, it seemed, had the most luggage. She often reminded the group that her bags was partially empty so that there would be room for her to put her treasures from “sacred shopping” in on her way back.
A man in his late thirties with a long black ponytail and reflective sunglasses was across the driveway waving a sign that read: “Healing journey to Tibet.”
Flo pointed to him and said, “I think we’ve found our driver, folks.”
They made their way to the gentleman who, as it turned out, spoke very little English yet rattled off all their names in English and bowed. When he mentioned Brother Francis, he referred to him as Geshe-la Francis. The group would be told more about what that meant later. The driver introduced himself, claiming a name that sounded remarkably like a form of meditation to most of the group.
They packed the little van with their luggage and barely managed to get the back door shut. Inside, especially when the driver began turning the key, the van smelled like gasoline.
“Aromatherapy,” muttered Flo.
The group rested, trying to adapt their breathing to the much thinner air. In about twenty minutes they were driving down a wide street in the capital of Tibet. It was lined with street vendors and people of all sorts, young and old, mostly looking somewhat poor financially but rich in spirit. Their warm smiles and welcoming waves as the van rumbled down the street felt like a homecoming. Brother Francis thought of Jesus as he entered Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. Hopefully these people would not turn on them as the people did shortly after Jesus’ triumphal entry.
“Lhasa Hotel, Lhasa Hotel,” shouted the driver as he pulled in head first toward the curb in front of a very non-descript building that sported a tonka, about as heavy as a carpet, tacked over the doorway to keep the wind out. The travelers got out of the van and began, once again, to lug their luggage into another hotel. Upon entering, the group was greeted by Jasmine--not the herb or the tea--but the person. She was a lovely Tibetan woman of twenty-six years of age. People in the West might refer to her as a “Barbie.” This Barbie, however, was as genuine and sweet as a summer morning.
One of Jasmine’s relatives, no one was ever sure about the relationships because an entire family owned and ran the hotel and restaurant connected to it, came into the lobby with a tray of steaming tea. The group very much appreciated the welcome that revived their dreary spirits, but they really wanted to get to their rooms for some quiet time and a nap.
Flo asked where the elevator was.
Jasmine responded with, “What is elevator?”
Flo rolled her eyes and everybody laughed. Jasmine and her family members didn’t really understand what was so funny but joined in the laughter. The group trekked up the steps and found that they needed to rest every few steps in order to catch their breath again. Flo thanked the Holy Mother of God that their rooms were only on the second floor.
Francis commented, “Flo, you get so prayerful under stress. It’s one of most your endearing qualities.”
The laughter literally took their breath away! There was no fear experienced with their shortness of breath because it returned almost instantaneously upon stopping movement or laughter.
“It looks like we’re to the left of the stairs here and our rooms are near each other once again,” Dave offered.
They used the same rooming system throughout the pilgrimage: David and Chantal, husband and wife, in one room; Flo and Mani, good friends in another; and Krishna and Francis, also good friends, in a third room.
“Banana Lassi for me to drink please,” Krishna said to the waitress. She left, having taken all their orders and went into a kitchen, which was emitting wonderful aromas. Krishna explained that the head cook was Tibetan but that she had lived in India for about twenty years so the food would be a reflection of both cultures, and he assured everyone that it would be delicious.
“Please don’t give in to the stereotype that everything will be hot and spicy. I can assure you that you will love it.” They had a wonderful dinner and especially enjoyed the spring rolls. Service was in Tibetan style—slow, warm, and friendly. This was a different tempo from what this group was used to and throughout their time in Tibet they tried several gentle maneuvers to speed things up, but to little avail.
After dinner the travelers retired to their rooms. Showering, stretching, and thinking occupied the rest of the evening, each in his or her own fashion.
“It is a little brisk in here, don’t you think?” Francis asked.
Krishna nodded his head in assent. “I think there are some extra comforters, or whatever they’re called in Tibetan, in the closet. Let me look.” He found two more and placed one on Francis with a thud.
“I may never be heard from again,” Francis muttered, his head wrapped in the hood of the white sweatshirt he was sleeping in. “Little did I realize that my Lehigh University sweatshirt would make it to the other side of the world—indeed, to the top of the world!”
Krishna might never be found again either. Slight of frame and lean, he could be totally absorbed by the mattress, blanket and comforter by morning.
Ugh, how do we turn the light out? Francis’ arms slowly reached out from beneath the mounds of protective gear and, after knocking over the radio and travel alarm he had placed on the nightstand, he managed to click the light switch, which plunged them into darkness.
Something far, far away chirped at them. What a repetitious and boring bird, thought Krishna. When he realized it was their alarm, he bravely made his way, arm by arm out of the covers, and searched for the travel alarm on the nightstand. It wasn’t there. He followed the sound like a bloodhound, and moved closer to Francis’ bed, literally underneath it, to pull out the travel alarm that made its journey there last evening.
“Time to get up Francis.”
From somewhere beneath the comforter a muffled voice responded with, “I’m not home; go away.”
“You can do it. Today is the day when we see the home of the Dalai Lama and several temples and hospitals.” That sentence went through Francis like a bolt of lightening and he sat up.
What a picture--Krishna in his surgical scrubs and Francis in his sweats--both looking like they had been struck by lightening. One bathed and shaved while the other prayed and exercised. What a compatible set of roommates.
Meanwhile, down in the dining room, the others had gathered.
They tried again for quicker food service. The woman who was waiting on the table seemed very sluggish and in pain, but trying to keep up appearances. She went from person to person and wrote down their orders. There were three or four American selections to choose from and each one arrived individually--and then the next person at the table would wait for his or her food to arrive. The whole process took about a half hour for everyone to be served breakfast.
Krishna, the compassionate one, sought out the waitress and asked her if everything was all right. She mentioned that she had a pain in her jaw. He conducted a brief examination of her mouth and jaw in the corner of the restaurant. Krishna told the waitress that she had a bad tooth and that she needed to visit the dentist as soon as possible or it would become severely infected. She thanked him, somewhat relieved, and said that she would certainly make sure she got to the “dental doctor.”
Karma at the wheel, the group motored its way to the Potala Palace. The huge structure on a mountaintop had been the center of Tibetan government for many generations, as well as the main home of the Dalai Lama. After Tibet was taken over by the Communist government, the Dalai Lama and thousands of Tibetans fled to India and other places. The Potala Palace today is a large museum and is said to contain about a thousand rooms, twenty thousand statues, and ten thousand altars.
Our guide whispered to the group upon getting out of the van, “this place is very bugged.”
David Gold questioned him. “Do you mean like with microphones and cameras?” Krishna nodded. This symbol of the Dalai Lama is the most sensitive place in all of Tibet and the most politically controversial.
There were many steps to climb in order to reach an entrance to the Potala Palace and the group had to stop periodically because of losing breath. Eventually they were inside and were immediately assaulted by an array of art and artifacts from generations gone by. Room after room, stairway after stairway, the pilgrims were visually and, with the help of tour guides, verbally given lessons in Tibetan history.
At one point, they walked through the Dalai Lama’s bathroom. Flo thought it was fascinating that even Dalai Lamas needed one of those!
Eventually they were on one of the upper roofs of the palace. The height and thin air was dizzily exhilarating.
Francis and the others were tired. They stopped in a little teashop on an upper level and had some refreshments. They made their way down, stairway after stairway, and eventually reached the outdoors. Just as they were getting in the van, a man who looked to have been severely burned, garbed in monk’s robes, put his hands out for a donation. They had been told not to give donations because it might generate disagreements among the beggars and also because they might become swamped by beggars.
Krishna could not resist, and put a ten-dollar bill in the man’s gnarled hands. The beggar bowed and bowed profusely. In the van, Krishna told the group that he understood the compassion of the group and respected it. He also wanted them to know that monk’s robes were easy to purchase and that the man may or may not have been a monk. In any case, he was certainly physically challenged and in need of whatever help could be provided to him.
It was on to the Jokhang Temple, the center of religious and spiritual life in Tibet. This temple is a massive stone building located in Barkhor Square, in the heart of Tibet. Thousands of pilgrims were milling about inside and out, praying and chanting.
The group wandered through the maze-like stone structure. The air reeked of yak butter from the huge number of lamps burning. There was little ventilation and a few of the pilgrims were getting somewhat nauseous. Francis wound up wearing a surgical mask over his face for most of the tour. Captivated as he was by things Eastern and spiritual, this was not a high point for him. He, above all, was relieved to get out of Jokhang Temple and breathe fresher air once again.
The temple was within walking distance of the hotel, and some members of the group chose to walk back as a way of acclimating themselves to the neighborhood. The walk was only about fifteen minutes and when Francis and Krishna got to the front desk of the hotel, they asked Jasmine where the nunnery was. She said it was out the door and to the left, up the street on the right about a half-mile. Francis and Krishna looked at one another, both thinking that they must have passed it on their way back to the hotel. They made their way back up the street and almost passed it again, because an outer wall flanked the nunnery and housed a courtyard, and the outer wall blended in with the buildings on either side of it.
The two men walked up two steps and through a doorway in the outer wall and entered into a serene courtyard, complete with flowing water, hanging plants, and several large prayer wheels which they turned upon entering. Very shortly, a young woman in her thirties, with short hair and a long maroon habit greeted them. She spoke a little English and appeared genuinely happy to see them. She went off for a few minutes and returned with a woman in her seventies, shorter and heavier, who smiled and bowed deeply at the guests. This was the Abbess of the monastery. She, in Tibetan, welcomed them profoundly and then pointed to the younger nun as she made her exit.
Beautiful flowers, thriving in window boxes or hanging from the roof, animated the second floor porches of the three buildings that made up the two sides and back of the courtyard. These rooms, the guest mistress said, were the rooms of the nuns. On the lower floors were workrooms and common rooms, such as the dining room and kitchen. In the middle of the back wall, flanked by nuns’ rooms on the second floor, were about a dozen old stone steps. The trio walked up the steps and found themselves in a beautiful temple dedicated to the Medicine Buddha.
Front and center in the temple was a statue of Buddha, about fifteen feet tall. In his right hand he held a branch-like cluster of the myrobalan plant, revered for its healing properties, while in his left he held a blue alms bowl symbolizing herbal medicine in the form of medicinal nectar. The Medicine Buddha was colored a vibrant blue the color of lapis lazuli, a very precious mineral drawn from the earth. Tonkas depicting various manifestations of the Buddha, many old and tattered, were hung throughout the temple.
Six large square pillars, as is the case in so many Asian temples, supported the roof and were lined up three by three, dividing the room into thirds both horizontally and vertically. Wooden platforms about one foot high and covered with well-worn cushions were used to sit on for prayer and meditation. Francis asked the nun if they might meditate for a while. She said that that would be perfectly fine because she could simply continue cleaning the temple, which she was doing when the guests arrived. She had, in fact, left the bucket she was filling down by the well near the main entrance when she spotted the visitors.
Krishna and Francis settled in for a period of meditation, reflecting back on their experiences of Tong Len at the Kopan Monastery that they still wanted to share with one another.
The nun mopped in a far corner of the room while Francis and Krishna went into their meditation experience. After about a half hour, Francis slowly opened his eyes, and out of the corner of his right eye he could see the heads of several young nuns peeking around one of the pillars and staring at them. As soon as he moved the heads disappeared. He wasn’t sure if he heard some giggles or not.
Francis beckoned to the young nuns and they all walked outside and sat on a bench. He said that he was looking for a nun who lived there by the name of Cho-Nyi. One nun, the guest mistress, looked more than startled.
“I am Cho-Nyi; how is it that you know of me?” Before Francis was able to respond, she mumbled in a half daze, “my nephew.”
“Yes, your nephew, Ang. We had the good fortune of meeting him in Los Angeles on our way here to Tibet. He was a waiter at the hotel restaurant.” Cho-Nyi was nodding her head in understanding and her smile head the radiance of the Dharma, the very meaning of her name.
“I have not seen Ang in some years but have fond memories of our entire family. The political situation makes it difficult for us to visit one another. Some are not allowed into Tibet and others are not allowed out. Even if one were to get beyond those barriers, there is always the risk of not getting back in or out again.”
“Ani Cho-Nyi, your sister Tar-Chin in Nepal is not well.”
The nun’s face clouded. “What’s the matter?” She didn’t quite lose her calm but was moving toward that state.
“It appears that she is in a semi-coma. On Ang’s suggestion, we went to visit her in Nepal and found her partially conscious. She is being taken care of in a clinic near her apartment and Ang has probably gotten there to tend to her by now. The staff at the clinic is running tests to try to see if your dear sister ingested some sort of toxin, either accidentally, or perhaps at the hand of another. There is no way of telling.”
Cho-Nyi looked at them with eyes like laser beams. “Does this have anything to do with the family Dorje?”
Krishna took his turn communicating. “We did find an empty box that probably housed that Dorje. It was very old and lined with red velvet.”
Cho-Nyi nodded. “I’m sure it was taken.”
Krishna continued, “Ani, do you have any idea why that Dorje is so attractive?”
“Monetarily, it is not worth a great deal. There are far more beautiful Dorjes all over the place in Tibet. It is typically kept with a bell of about the same size and the two are used in Tibetan ceremonies to express the union of male and female, and the blinding power of wisdom. It does belong with a bell and perhaps someone is a little overly zealous in trying to unite it with its mate. The mate is probably long gone.
“I can see no other reason than that for anyone seeking out our family Dorje. It has been in our family for generations. It was the property, so to speak, of an uncle of long, long ago who was a very well respected monk in our tradition. The value is much more spiritual and sentimental than financial, I assure you. The family has always been overly protective of the relic,” the nun continued, “and I sometimes wondered why.”
Cho-Nyi continued. “I will beseech the Medicine Buddha to bring healing to my dear sister and to our whole lineage. Something has been violated and it must be made right. The law of karma will take care of this but I want to cooperate as fully as I can.”
Promising to keep her informed, the two friends left the nunnery and returned to their hotel. On their way out, Francis took a few dollars out of his pocket and left it as a donation. A doctor nun, who was in a little clinic housed in the front wall to the left of the exit, saw this and came up to Francis and pantomimed, inviting him to hold onto his wallet. Francis eventually understood what she was getting at and so he put it in his coat pocket rather than his pants pocket. This wasn’t good enough for this nun.
She pantomimed taking the wallet out of his pocket and running away. Eventually she sorted through the folds of her habit and came up with the most gigantic safety pin the men had ever seen. They wondered if it had been used to help diaper baby elephants. At any rate, she reached into his jacket and fastened Francis’ pocket with the pin, thus making the wallet more secure. The trio bowed to one another and Francis and Krishna stepped over the threshold and into the narrow street that led back to the hotel.
It was early to bed that evening, because the next day was filled with an excursion to Ganden Monastery, about a two-hour drive from Lhasa where they were staying. Sleep didn’t come easily, however. When the friends returned to their room, they found that a scrap of paper had been slipped under their door. On it were the words: