Kora kora

“Kora” is a Tibetan word that describes going around something sacred. There are usually prayer wheels all along the way. Visiting monasteries and other sacred places in Lhokka prefecture the past few days, I’ve done a lot of koras. Making a kora is the best way to start a visit to a place, allows the mind to settle and gives a chance to look around before having to engage with the various people curious to see a tourist – monks, security personnel, etc.

The histories of the monasteries are incredibly complex. The four main Tibetan Buddhist lineages, Nyingma, Sakya, Gelugpa, and Kagyu intertwine and affect each other deeply. At Mindroling, for example, which is a Nyingma monastery, there is a whole room of Sakya statues that were moved there at some point for safe keeping. Samye, the oldest Buddhist monastery in Tibet, has seen a succession of lineages.

Monks showed us around the monasteries, explaining different statues and the history of the places. Sometimes they wanted to talk too, about the current tightly-controlled situation, about the dharma, or
about how to say things in English. One thing is certain, the workings of the monasteries are ever closer under the control of officals – how many monks are allowed to be there (just enough to maintain the place), who can teach there and how much (not much), and when monks can leave (not often).

Above Samye, there are a few famed retreat areas, which warranted a visit. High in the valleys, above roads and away from daily scrutiny, yogis and monastics still practice. Caves used by Guru Rinpoche, kings, and high lamas dot the area. It seemed a refuge, and some calm – a reminder perhaps of what the big monasteries were like. We talked to one yogi who had been up there for 6 years, practicing in a
dilapidated tin hut butted against a large boulder. Hair long, skin blackened, powerful presence.

Monastery ruins are common all over Tibet. We wandered around some, surmising what different parts were. Most were destroyed during the cultural revolution. Jampa Ling, the ruins of which sit on a hill above Dranang, was a huge monastery and is now just a few monks and a temple. High above, a double wall runs along the ridge between the old complex and the Yarlung Tsangpo (the Brahmaputra in India) valley, and I wondered what it was for. Walls protect, and they divide. I crossed to the far side and followed the wall a ways, without knowing when there would be a gap to come back over, just to see what it would feel like.

We made this four-day jaunt in a land cruiser piloted and co-piloted by a Tibetan guide and driver, who alternated singing along to music and joking with us, poking fun at each other. We found beautiful places to camp along the way as well, in a poplar copse next to the Yarlung Tsangpo, a shallow pasture, a deep valley at high elevation. It’s been below freezing at night, and we had snow in the mountains.

I’ve been making notes, trying to remind myself of some of what I see – and I am also spinning with my own thoughts. Images of Chinese sprawl in small towns overlaps with questions about why I am here,
what purpose this journey holds for me. I know I look too hard for it. I was reminded of this as we travelled through villages, where people spend their whole lives — not seeking, but building, farming, making clothes, generally surviving. Occasionally something goes through on the road. Other than that, little of the outside world shows through. The villages are built mostly of stone – stone houses, paddocks, walls – with beautiful painted doorways.

There is much to write and process, and I have many pictures to go through. More to come!

Into Lhasa

The awe-inspiring flight KTM to LXA crosses the Himalayas, banking right around Everest,  before entering the Tibetan plateau.  The plane flies not so far above the mountain tops, but it is probably at 30- or 35,000 feet.  After catching sight of the city of Lhasa, the plane passes along a deep valley, makes a 180 degree turn, and then heads for the runway.  With 20,000 foot peaks all around, it is quite an accomplishment just to get on the ground.

The air is thin (Lhasa is at about 12,000 feet) and clear – cold in the shade, warm in the sun.  It is autumn, and recently-planted poplar trees are turning yellow.  They turn from bottom to top, so some trees are all yellow, with green tips.
The Lhasa airport is new and clean, and we were out into the parking lot with a minimum of fuss.  Similarly, the road from the airport into town is new, well-marked.  Coming into the city it almost looks like pictures of a modern city in China, if you ignore the mountains and the yaks and the horses and the signs in Chinese and Tibetan.  But when we passed by the Potala that it was clear.  This is the ancient, holy, Tibetan city.

The sun hits Lhasa around 8:30 in the morning, and that's when the city begins to come to life.  In the Barkhor, pilgrims, shopkeepers, schoolchildren, and all manner of craftspeople go about their day.  Right around the Jokhang, most of the business is cheap jewelry and the stuff of offerings – malas, flags, butter, incense, etc.  There are also stalls selling traditional Tibetan dress, hats, boots.  On the quieter lanes, noodle shops, bakeries (just a few women in a tiny shop making tsampa and other breads), tailors, furniture makers, and small groceries are more prevalent.

The Jokhang was built in the 7th century by King Songtsen Gampo, originally to keep an image of Akshobhya, brought as part of Nepali Princess Bhrikuti's dowry.  It later came to house a statue of Jowo Sakyamuni, which is now its main event.

At the entrance, dozens off pilgrims lay out mats and do prostrations all day.  Some bring a picnic lunch.  Ladies fill thermoses with melted yak butter and rent them to pilgrims for making offerings at butter lamps in the many Jokhang chapels.  I bought one for 15 yuan after a funny exchange between me and the lady.  She was concerned that I understand I was to return the thermos to her when finished, and showed me the painted markings on the side that coded the thermos as hers – two vertical yellow lines.  Past the pilgrims, two huge prayer wheels, and the entrance door, I paid a friendly monk to get into the temple.  He asked me how much I paid for the butter, and I was pleased to hear from him that I paid the going rate.  Tourist rate is 30.  Huge lines of pilgrims were waiting to make offerings at upwards of 50 chapels.  Officials and monks keep the line moving.  They usher tourists past the lines, and several times tried to show me out of the line, so I could make a quick circuit and be done.

Instead, I stayed in line with the pilgrims, whispering aspirations and making offerings for my friends, for my sangha, the Tibetans, and all sentient beings, at the chapels to Avalokiteshvara, the protectors, Sakyamuni buddha, and others… I offered my last of my butter at the feet of the Tibetan king Songtsen Gampo, in thanks for the Tibetans' example.  The devotion is so palpable, emotions high.  The man in front of me in line was probably my age, wearing jeans and an orange windbreaker, modern hair style.  Yet when he put his forehead to the stairs of the Shakyamuni Buddha throne, there were tears in his eyes and the big monk on duty had to usher him along.

In the foyer of the Sakyamuni buddha chapel, many people perform prostrations.  I sent up my own devotion to that of all sentient beings and offered my own three.  Pilgrims from the rural parts of Tibet are apparent in their dress and carriage.  The men, with braids wrapped over their heads, women with babies on their backs and prayer wheels swinging.

There are a few columns of the Jokhang that are from the original 7th Century building.  They are beautifully carved at the top (by Newari carvers brought from Nepal at that time), but rubbed almost smooth at hand-height from thousands of butter-infused fingers.  Many parts of the Jokhang have been re-done, and two of the upstairs chapels are currently being re-painted.  Monks work from ladders, painting red, gold, green, orange, blue images of the buddha in his many incarnations.

Back on the street, I wind my way out of the Barkhor, past several yak meat stalls.  A yak head is propped against one stall, still dripping slightly.

Posted by email from Sally’s posterous

smelling of yak butter

I arrived in Lhasa a few days ago and have been wandering around the city, acclimatizing and taking in the place.  The light is clear and the air is thin and cold.  The old city, the Barkhor, is a small maze of Tibetan-style buildings, most of which have been rebuilt in recent decades.  Pilgrims, shopkeepers, and tourists wander the streets, which are blessedly free of motorbikes (in contrast to Kathmandu).  Since I don't speak the languages, much of what happens on the street goes over my head.  But I'm soaking in as much as possible, and feel much more clear than I did in Kathmandu.

 

Many blessings!

Posted by email from Sally’s posterous

Boys will be boys

Women do much of the hard work in Nepal, especially in the rural areas.  They work the fields, cook meals, raise the children, clean, and are often responsible for making the money.  The men spend their days visiting with each other, playing cards, etc.  They set aside money for smokes and drinking.  In many places, a wife has to walk behind her husband in the street, and husband and wife don't talk to each other out of the home. 

In the city it is much more liberal, but women don't ride bicycles, and few drive.  Women don't conduct or drive the local buses (conductors stand in the doorway and call out the route of the bus and collect money from riders).  It's rare to see a group of women together, if not in the market or around home.  This became obvious to me the other night: in Kathmandu, there is a wide range of cuisine, but it can be bit difficult to find local food, unless you leave the beaten tourist track.  On a recommendation from our hotel owner, a friend and I wandered out to a local Newari restaurant just north of Thamel called Harathi.  At first glance it looked like a typical local place, but there were no women, at all.  No families, just men.  The owner is a marathon runner, and apparently quite wealthy as he travels around the world for running, without sponsors.  The food was good – flavors similar to Indian food but more subtle, and different ingredients.  There is a famous dish a bit like a pizza, that I don't know how to describe because I don't know anything that was in it.  It wasn't clear to me whether women can't go there, or whether they just prefer not to.  According to our hotel owner, women stay home and cook nice food there, get together with friends, and relax, while the men go out.  He said, “The women, they don't want to be there, the men are drinking, smoking cigarettes, telling bad jokes, they see another woman and say if my wife were like here it would be better… all these things."

 

On a lighter note, I've been amused to find that driving here is almost more crazy than India.  The streets are very narrow, and people don't really get taught how to drive, so it can be an adventure just getting around without getting hit.  And backing up, there's a complicated code sent from the person directing the driver (which could be a friend or just someone who happens to be near the car) whether to back up, stop, cut the wheel, etc, that involves a series of bangs on the car.  One for go, two for stop, or something like that.  On buses without a conductor, it's similar – if you want it to stop, you just hit the roof and the driver pulls over.

 

 

***

 

Tomorrow we head to Tibet… warmest wishes from Kathmandu!
 

Posted by email from Sally’s posterous

Riding around Kathmandu

Some things in Kathmandu are cheap: yesterday I had a pair of pants repaired for 20 Nepali rupees (about $0.27), and I bought a delicious papaya for 65 rupees. Some things are not. Today I spent 700 rupees on renting a bicycle, which is close to the amount I’ve spent on transportation for my entire stay, combined. The local bus runs 12-15 rupees per ride, and I’ve been taking that most places.

The 700 rupees was well worth it. After over a week in Kathmandu, I was desperate to get out of the city, and I made a friend here who has been yahooing all over Kathmandu valley on a mountain bike. Tagging along, we went first to Bodha and then up to Kopan Monastery, which is not far from Kathmandu proper but sits up on a hill out of the smog and noise. From there we found a single-track walking trail that went around the hill, dropping steeply on one side down into the valley. We wound around, past houses and through tiny villages with chickens and goats running about. There weren’t any roads, so the villages were free from engine noise. It was an amazing combination of good mountain biking and incredible local color. I think my sister would be pleased at how I rode the rutted track.

Bodha is home to one of the largest stupas in the world, and so old that people don’t know everything that’s in it. Monasteries lie around the perimeter, and western visitors, members of the local Tibetan community, and local monks frequent the place. From Kopan monastery up on the hill, there is a stright-line view to the stupa. Kopan is a big place, and growing – it attracts many western students and is home to around 400 monks. It is in the Tibetan gelug sect, which includes the Dalai Lama and is the “yellow hat” sect. The energy of the place is quiet, yet playful – a stream of water flowed over a piece of lawn, and kids visiting with their families raced through the water barefoot. So did we.

In the villages, people were thrashing grain and hoeing fields, drying and stacking straw. It was dusty and hot, and animals lounged in the shade. It smelled like sheep, a bit like like Vermont in spring. There were no schools or health clinics in the tiny villages, but the bigger ones that were accessible by road did have both, and they weren’t all that far. I was a pleasantly surprised to find that there were young people in the villages – not just kids and elders. I didn’t talk to any, but I got the impression that some came from the city because it was the weekend day (Saturdays are off every week, though not Sunday), but worked in the city or closer to it normally.

Riding around the city is quite an adrenaline rush. Westerners are the only ones who wear helmets, but I wouldn’t set foot on a bike in the city without one. There are almost no traffic rules, and no sense of right of way. Every bike in the city is equipped with a bell, which is important to use regularly to keep people from swerving into you. Some of the most difficult riding we did today was on the street of the guest house, a narrow road cum thoroughfare for dogs, tourists, vendors, motorbikes, cars, and the occasional truck.

Another layer down in Kathmandu

I’m in Kathmandu for a few extra days, and I’ve started to notice some of the more subtle details of the old city.  Though I’ve been walking the same streets around Thamel and my guest house, my eye now goes beyond the people and the constant movement, to the tiny temple, old  gnarled tree, or building architecture.

At night Kathmandu looks old.  I stopped in one square, where there is a bustling market during the day – produce, household goods and hundreds of people making a sea of vibrance.   At night the buildings stand naked, and they appear to lean towards each other, as if for support.  Many were built after the last large earthquake in the 30s, and some are older.  Few are new.  Bricks are missing from the walls, window shutters hang off their hinges.  Power lines hang in knots and snarles.  Garbage, mostly discarded plastic bags, lines the street gutter.

Plastic is a real scourge in the city.  First everyone throws their garbage onto the street, there being no room to store garbage in a shop or home and no incentive for doing so.  Sometimes the garbage gets picked up in the early morning.  But in many places, garbage just heaps up.  Animals eat what they can  and much of it breaks down – and what is left is a slurry of dirty plastic.  Sometimes residents try to reduce the piles by burning them.  The streets are  narrow lanes, paved with blacktop or stone, and there are no sidewalks.  Little shops open directly onto the street.  So everyone is walking, going about their business, having a meal, whilst tiptoeing around yesterday’s refuse.  If one of the problems with fixing problems is not knowing where to start, garbage education and proper collection would be a great choice.

Life is changing rapidly for residents of Kathmandu.  For one thing, traditional and family businesses are facing large-scale competition for the first time.   The Kathmandu valley has been an urban center for a very long time, but the city itself is becoming more urban.  I asked a man selling dried fruits and nuts from a tiny shop in Indra Chowk (one of the oldest markets in the city) how long his family had had the business.  He counted back at least five generations.  But he said business was hard.  The old city used to be the main marketplace for anything that a farmer didn’t grow (and for produce as well).  Now there are markets everywhere.  The man spoke good english, and he was bright and charismatic, well educated.  At first I wondered whether he really wanted to be manning the family shop.  But this generation of shopkeepers will need to be creative and innovative about the way they do business, if they want to keep up with the change.

Kathmandu

Kathmandu is the jumping-off point for foreigners who come to Nepal on vacation.  The tourist area, Thamel, is a mix of westerners and Nepali and Indian businessmen and guides – the place to be to meet people and arrange just about anything – but also a place constantly challenged by the competing interests of those who go there.  Foreigners relax in hotel gardens and outdoor cafes, paying Western restaurant rates for lassis, falafel, and toned-down Nepali food.  Expats go there to get a fix of at-home fare.  You can buy any type of camping gear, jewelry, clothing.  But few local Nepalis go there.  It’s sort of like a long-time resident of TriBeCa going to mid-town.

Kathmandu is also the city of temples.  Buddhist and Hindu religiosity blends, so while a temple will be only Hindu or Buddhist, the imagery is often a mix of the two, and the mindset of the visitors is that they do not have to choose one religion over another.

I’ve had a great few days settling into Kathmandu, doing a relaxed combination of sightseeing, visiting friends of friends, and preparing for the next phase of the trip.  It is Dassin right now, a long Hindu holiday.  Families have been visiting their relatives and taking “tikka”, a type of blessing that’s shown by sticking a mix of rice and red paste on the forehead.  Most shops are closed, and schools are on holiday.

Business is tough here, for all the myriad reasons that come simply from the remoteness and poorness of the country.  Goods have to come through India to get here, and so are more expensive.  And the Nepali bargaining position isn’t particularly strong.  Infrastructure, education, leadership, etc could help immensely.  The problem is figuring out where and how to begin.

***

Soon I will go to Tibet.  I won’t be posting much from there, so don’t be surprised if the blog is on holiday till mid-November!

More thoughts from yesterday’s flight

I was given a small mission for this trip. Tsering Ngodup has taught meditation at his small Tibetan arts shop in Cambridge for yearsI used to go sometimes, and always felt a strong connection to him. I stopped by the day before leaving on my trip.

The shop smelled of incense and a bell chimed when I walked through the door. Cases of jewelry stood in the center of the room, and shelves holding scarves, statues, rolls of prayer flags and singing bowls line the walls Prayer flags hang from the ceiling, and from the store front outside. I learn that the shop won’t be around much longer – business is bad, and the building is for sale. Tsering is disappointed, but betrays remarkably little attachment to the shop. Perhaps I should not be surprised, from such a level-hearted practitioner.

We talk about the region in which Tsering grew up in Tibet, and I learn that I may pass through it on the way from Lhasa to Kathmandu at the end of my time in Tibet. Tsering gives me some other general information and then presents the piece that is truly on his mind – his son. I learn that the boy is a reincarnation of the 20th abbot of Yangpatchen Monastery. The monastery is only a short way from Lhasa, and Tsering asks me to make offerings there on behalf of his son. He also asks me to make offerings at other sacred sites, for the benefit of all sentient beings.

And so as I flew across continents and closer to the country that was once his home, I feel the weight of this charge, and the honor of it.

whilst flying over eastern Europe…

Do you ever sit up and wonder, just a little, how it is that your body came to be in the location that it’s in?

It’s 1 in the morning eastern time and the flight map indicates we flew over Lodz just a little while ago.  Soon we will be over Afghanistan, looking out at mountain ranges and canyons, feeling brazen for crossing the desperate country with such ease.

Leaving the United States, I sent up the wish that my county be wise, and careful in the coming months.What happens there will affect the world. I will not be there to witness it, but I will feel the effects certainly.

My flight left out of New York, and flew over Connecticut and the Quabban reservoir in central Massachusetts, before sailing across Boston. I looked out just in time to see Logan Airport and the Charles River stretching out below, where I had sat only hours before. The sun set as we followed first Massachusetts and then Maine coastline, increasingly jagged, before leaving it all and crossing the Atlantic at night. It is now daytime here – bright and sunny over clouds that cover the sky as far as I can see. It seems from here that all Europe is under a cloud today.

I am reminded of the last time I made this flight, feeling as though we were hanging in suspended animation over desert mountain ranges of Iran and Pakistan for hours. My heart was not quiet, mind full of wonder. I remember the physical feeling I had, and the sense of nervous excitement that I don’t like but somehow always bring into my life by taking these trips. What is it that asks me to go overseas as I do?

I am leaving so much that is familiar – more than I have been willing to admit. And for what? The simple gut feeling that I should go. Perhaps it is simply to avoid the cynicism that comes from getting too comfortable. It feels strange, but at the same time I’m glad to be taking this trip without specific goals for it. It is coming at a funny time to travel, and has therefore evaded any attempt to categorize it.

I am not going as a pure tourist. Nor am I going for work, or pilgrimage, or with the lofty goal of helping others. The economy is in the middle of a meltdown – a strange time for a vacation. And at JFK I looked out the window to see Aer Lingus planes, and felt this strange sensation that perhaps I was meant to be on one of them instead… on a plane to another country I feel called to visit, where travel would be full of joy and rain and music. But here I am, causes and conditions arising to place me on a plane to India, then Nepal, then Tibet.

And yet my lack of purpose does not worry me overmuch. I am confident that the openness is a good sign, something to be cherished. If only I can stay aware to what happens, perhaps the true purpose of this journey will come forward.

Traveling Shoes

I’m sitting at JFK, waiting for my flight to Delhi.  I haven’t had time to sit down and wax poetic in the past few weeks, but I’ll take this opportunity.

I have to laugh as I ponder my preparation for this journey.  I am wearing the same shoes I’ve traveled with (and is their only purpose) since my first trip to New Zealand in the fall of 2000.  They’re nothing fancy — some black and navy Lowa hiking shoes — but they work so well that I don’t even think about it anymore.  Same goes for much of my travel gear, and I joke that Ｉhave a uniform for traveling.  I sport the look in most of my pictures from recent trips.  So this time around, I’m traveling with much tried-and-true gear, and a few new gadgets.  Here’s a partial list:

• Osprey convertible pack — I had an identical one for traveling in India 2 years ago, though I busted part of the frame and the one I have now is a warranty replacement
• EMS daypack — this is a smaller-than-usual pack, but I’ve had it on every trip, and it’s the perfect size.  Packs up small, but big enough to hold all the essential carry-ons and day-trip supplies
• Isis layers — raincoat, powerstretch fleece, long underwear, hat (all trips)
• Assorted comfy clothes — pretty much the same ones I always bring… and rarely wear at home
• Stuff sacks for odds and ends (all trips) — A few years ago I worked at a canvas shop and made a few little bags while I was there.  These have been essential  for keeping organized.
• Camping equipment (Australia, John Muir Trail) — my tent (a coleman exponent inyo2), sleeping bag (ems 20 degree) and sleeping pad have kept me warm and dry for a total of months, maybe years at this point.
• Electronics — iPod (also India), Digital SLR, Point and Shoot camera, tiny laptop (Eee PC)
• Chocolate and assorted gifts for friends
• I also always have a big envelope and a pad of paper.  The envelope for holding all those papers and receipts that become important to be able to find, and paper for sketching, noting, journaling, etc.

I’ve developed a bit of nostalgia for my gear, a fondness that comes from realizing how many strange and interesting experiences it’s gotten me to (and through).

It’s also poignant, bringing me back to the experiences of those earlier trips.  For example, I found out about the Bush/Gore election from far southern New Zealand.  I was confused for three days about why they hadn’t reported the winner.  This time around, I’ll find out about the election results from Lhasa, by either filtered Internet or short-wave radio.  It could have a profound impact on how well we are able to relate to the world, how well we can work with people from different backgrounds, and whether there will be resources for new projects — and it’s strange to think that I’ll experience the decisionmaking from such a far-off place.