Chapter 12
After a drive of two hours, the group was at Ganden Monastery. This monastic community was founded in the year 1409 and is one of the most spectacular sights in all of Tibet. The monastery once housed four thousand monks. During the Cultural Revolution, however, much damage was done to the monastic complex. Major repairs were underway. The pilgrims were able to look at and touch bullet holes in the brick wall.
How ironic, Francis thought, the word “Ganden” means joyous, and here we are looking at the pain of these people.
A famous monk named Tsongkapa, who established the Gelugpa Order within Tibetan Buddhism, founded the monastery. This sect, a tour guide explained to the travelers, wore yellow hats, looking something like cock’s comb on the top of their heads. This is the lineage of the Dalai Lama. Another large monastic branch or order of Tibetan Buddhism wears red hats.
Red hats, yellow hats, thought Chantal, just so they’re decent people.
It was snowing on the way through the mountains to the monastery. After a period of meditation in the monastery temple, the group went outside to return to the van. It took only a few seconds before a snowball fight erupted. The group laughed playfully, reminding each other that it was barely October and there was snow swirling around them.
When they reached the van, about a hundred men, women ,and children were there to greet them and cheer them on. The small band of travelers gave out toothbrushes and toothpaste to the grateful Tibetans.
In the van, Krishna thought about what a mixed blessing this experience was. They had so little to give to the people here and there was so much more that could be done. He tried to content himself by doing what he could and living peacefully with the results of that.
They were back at the hotel in Lhasa in time for dinner--and a walk around the neighborhood for those who chose to do so.
Francis and Krishna went on one of their evening walks, stopping at a Tibetan bakery to pick up some delicious sweets to be enjoyed later in their room along with tea.
The friends chatted about their mutual frustrations in being so limited in their ability to provide more for these good people. Before they turned in for the night, Brother Francis remembered something.
“Krishna, when I was down by the main desk of the hotel, Jasmine was arranging to send an electric heater up to someone. I didn’t know we could do that. This room gets pretty frigid. How about we call down and see if they can rustle one up for us?”
“Great idea, Francis. I still have India in my blood and it does get pretty cool at night.”
Francis made the phone call and about ten minutes later a young woman who appeared to be about sixteen appeared at the door with an ancient electric heater. It was a good three feet square with a series of about fifteen electric coils running from top to bottom within the square frame. The electric cord attached to it looked as if it had survived the Cultural Revolution. On second thought, maybe it had not survived!
Krishna and Francis tried to help the young woman but she was determined to serve her guests. She lugged the contraption into the room and plugged it in. It immediately starting giving off sounds of something like popcorn popping. The girl stepped back about a foot, the gentlemen jumped back about six feet. She seemed used to this. A few of the coils sputtered into an orange day glow kind of light. The young lady did not seem completely happy yet and took out a wrench and began banging on the side of the contraption. Eventually another, another, and then another coil lit until all but one or two of the heating coils were glowing and humming a dangerous tune. With a smile to the gentlemen that seemed to say, See, didn’t I do a good job? the young lady left the room.
The guys fell into their beds for a good night of sleep. Tomorrow they would go the ancient town of Gyantse. This would involve a nine-hour bus ride, often over very high mountain passes, sometimes being at an elevation of 17,500 feet. This part of their journey would certainly test their Ginkgo Biloba, taken as a preventative. Their Hong Jing Tian, also known as Rhodiola and made of flowers that thrived in high altitudes, would be taken if the Ginkgo didn’t keep them well.
Lights out, and buried in comforters, a slight problem became evident. The room was bright enough to film a movie in. Everything was painted orange from the heater. Francis mumbled something beneath the comforter.
“We have a choice,” Krishna hollered back, “heat or darkness.”
Francis got up and retrieved the blindfold he had been given on the airline to help him sleep. He found one for Krishna as well and gave it to him. Francis’ final words were, “If we wake up with sun poisoning, I’ll treat you with Chinese medicine if you’ll treat me with allopathic medicine.”
Francis heard a soft “deal” and then there was blessed sleep.
In the morning, about six a.m., everyone was in the dining room. They had put in an order the evening before for six plates of scrambled eggs and toast, along with some tea.
“Western ingenuity,” Mani said. “A little preplanning is all it takes.”
Nonetheless, breakfast still took about an hour before they were able to be served and eat.
“Thanks for trying, Mani,” Flo smiled.
They picked up their bag lunches on the way out of the hotel restaurant and boarded the van. It would be an almost steady climb into the Himalayan Mountains from here on. The van hummed along, seemingly helped by the inertia of a long ride. Within an hour they were far from civilization as they knew it. The largest population in the area seemed to be yaks. The ox-like animals wandered around in total freedom, up and down mountainsides.
When the group roused from the semi-conscious lull they had drifted into for the first hour or two of the ride, David offered a few thoughts about yaks. “Those are the creatures that yak butter lamps and yak butter tea are made out of. Thanks, guys, for your contributions. I’m sure they’re very helpful in a pinch but they’re not exactly my cup of tea.”
They stopped at the crest of a mountain about noontime. A Tibetan man in colorful garb held a rope that was attached to a ring that was attached to the nose of a mammoth yak. The fact that there were tassels made of red yarn tied onto the tips of the yak’s horns did not fool anyone for a moment. The Americans were leery of the yak but the gentlemen assured them that the yak was gentle and that for a few coins they could enjoy a ride on the yak.
Flo, the raging extrovert, got on the yak almost immediately. She screamed for the entire five-minute ride, again getting into what Francis called “foxhole religion.”
As she dismounted, Flo said, “I really don’t want to join my departed husband just yet. I thought I was going to wind up falling over a cliff. That yak is a pretty sure-footed animal. He’s bigger than me and certainly more sure-footed.”
Three or four other tourists, most likely from Asia due to their accent and skin color, lined up for their rides. The tourist population was just about nil at this remote site.
The group contentedly munched on their cold fried egg sandwiches and fruit. They passed around canteens of green tea and felt their muscles begin to unwind from the first part of the journey that morning. A gorgeous lake of crystal clear serene water lay in front of them just down a small slope. The pilgrims agreed to take about a half hour to meditate quietly, either sitting alone or walking along the shimmering lakeside before they resumed their journey.
Karma, their faithful driver, went back and chatted with the yak man.
Later, back in the van, the atmosphere shifted. A few of the travelers felt light-headed, and all of them felt excited about being so far away from everything that they knew of or were familiar with. Only Flo, yelling some of her jailhouse prayers whenever the van was on the edge of a cliff, which was probably half the time at this point, broke the quiet. Mary, the Mother of God, was invoked over and over again but in a scream rather than a hymn or soft prayer. Flo’s companions gave her no sympathy at all. They either had their eyes closed or were laughing at her
She retorted, “All right for you. If any of you need a nurse, don’t come looking for me.”
Darkness descended and painted the sky with colorful swirls of beauty as it did so.
“I hope we don’t hit a yak,” Francis mumbled to no one in particular.
Nine and a half hours from the start, complete with the changing of a tire, the group saw a beautiful new building lit up a mile or so up the road from where they were driving.
Dave wondered out loud, “How did that thing get there? I thought we were going to be in very primitive circumstances.”
Karma called back to the group, “There are sometimes government officials who come here. There is talk about developing this part of our country. These officials stay at this hotel. You will be staying at a very new hotel that is very out of place in this terrain.”
“Sounds good to me, since I’m out of place in this terrain too!” Flo hollered out, having gotten over her mystical experiences of prayer and danger.
The group settled into their surprisingly comfortable rooms and freshened up. They met in the dining room to feast on a buffet of Eastern and Western foods. Krishna, the Hindu Good Samaritan, was the last to arrive. He went up to Brother Francis and asked him if he had anything for cold and fever. Francis said, “Yes, I do, are you not feeling well?”
“It’s not for me. The woman at the reception desk is not up to par. I’ve examined her but I don’t have any Western meds left to treat her with. I thought perhaps something Eastern would be helpful.”
The Catholic monk with Irish and Hungarian roots gave some Chinese medicine to his Western-trained Indian doctor to treat the Tibetan woman. “I love it!” he exclaimed, as he thought through what was happening.
In the morning they took a short van ride to a nearby monastery. Francis, and he thought the rest of the group also, was getting a little weary of monasteries. He wanted to be back at his own monastery. He was also paradoxically having the time of his life.
A monk who had been imprisoned for twenty-two years showed them through an ancient temple. The only words he said in English were “twenty-two.” When he spoke he touched one wrist to another, symbolizing the handcuffs he was bound with during practically all of that time. The radiation from his smile was inescapable. Having learned that Francis too was a monk, though of the Christian tradition, he referred to Francis as Geshe-la.
Karma explained to the group the term Geshe refers to a monk who has a doctorate, perhaps in medicine or philosophy. The syllable la is added to the title as a term of endearment.
The rest of the group asked the two monks to stand on the steps of the temple and have their picture taken together. It was a pure joy for Francis. The group was then taken into a little brick house, darkened on the inside by years and years of burning fires to cook with. Another monk had a similar living arrangement on the other side of the steps to the temple. This monk came over to have tea with the group. Lots of pantomime ensued.
Upon getting up to leave, the temple guide monk pulled Francis aside into a back room. He opened an ancient little cupboard, the door falling off its hinges as he did so, and reached inside. He pulled out a beautiful bag, about eight inches by ten inches, which closed with a drawstring. There was a metallic clank as he handed the bag to Francis.
Francis understood that this was some type of gift from his host and had mixed feelings about taking anything from someone who was so obviously poor himself. The Tibetan monk seemed to read the Christian monk’s mind and pushed the bag more firmly into Francis’ open hand. Francis looked at this former prisoner and bowed to him with deep reverence. They left the little hermitage and walked to the van. As they were walking, Francis placed the gift in his backpack.