September 28, 2003
Today I learned that the warrior Ghengis Khan rode a white yak. This may be the one thing that he and I have in common.
Ghengis Khan swept down from Mongolia and conquered all of China and Tibet. My exploits have been considerably more modest, but I'm moving through some of the same territory. I am in western Sichuan now, on my way to a small Tibetan village named Bomei.
I am traveling with a group of volunteers organized by the group Kham Aid, which works in this area to improve the health and education of rural Tibetans. We're in the second day of a three-day journey to reach Bomei from Chengdu, the nearest major city. We will be here for about two weeks, renovating teachers' and doctors' apartments.
Tibetans are largely Buddhists, and so are the members of this group. Despite my New Age leanings, I am the least devout of the seven volunteers. But with the exception of one young man from Thailand, all of the Buddhists on this trip are 'born again', having been raised with other religions.
There's no one more fervent than a convert, however. This morning, we made a special trip to visit a remote Tibetan monastery. We drove 10 km out of our way before we realized that we'd passed the turn-off, and even after finding the road, it was a long, bumpy, and unmarked journey.
I am always amazed by the way that travelers can show up, completely unannounced, and receive VIP treatment from the unprepared hosts. Today was no exception. I don't think the monks here receive many visitors, certainly not carloads of westerners packing digital cameras and camcorders. But you'd never know it by their nonchalant reaction. This must be one of the fringe benefits of enlightenment; strangers can show up on your doorstep, poke their noses into your sacred artifacts and snap dozens of pictures, and still you can greet them with the utmost civility.
We got a grand tour of the grounds and the buildings, from the worship areas on the main floor, through the private study areas above, and even into a hidden sanctuary for the current Dalai Lama. The Chinese government views the Dalai Lama as a political leader, not as a holy man. In their eyes, to revere him is a politically subversive act, even if you are a monk. You can practice Buddhism freely, and pray to the spirits of the past Dalai Lamas, but the bald guy with the thick glasses is off limits. Even having a picture of him can get you in a lot of trouble. Recently a tourist in Lhasa was arrested for wearing a T-shirt with the image of Phil Silvers. It seems that the police mistook Sergeant Bilko for His Holiness.
The monks at this monastery were extremely accommodating. We are allowed to take pictures of all the altars and Buddhas. Cases were opened to show us elaborate butter sculptures. The covered images considered too dangerously fearsome for general viewing were revealed. But it was the shrine to the Dalai Lama that made the biggest impression on me.
We were on the very top floor of the monastery. The monk escorting us pulled back a curtain and opened a hidden door. Inside was a room bathed in the golden light of the sun filtered through saffron curtains. Dozens of yak butter oil lamps burned smokily, scenting the air with a smell reminiscent of a burned out candle and an overheated frying pan. We stepped in through the haze and saw that every possible space was filled with photos of the Dalai Lama. We saw him as a boy and as a man, in black and white and in color, in casual poses and formal portraits. We saw the evolution of his eyewear. There were enough images here to send half the county to jail.
Up to this point, the monks had been very generous about allowing us to take pictures. But here, quite understandably, they asked us to refrain.
It was our turn to be generous, and we all left small donations at various altars throughout the building. It is easier to give money in China, compared to the US, because your money can do so much more here. Giving 10 yuan is a big gift, but the cost is only little more than $1. Plus, when you give it to a monastery, you can be pretty sure the money's not going to be spent on booze and cigarettes. Which is not to say that you're guaranteed to be happy with where the money goes. Our group leader commented that it is all too common to see poor communities surrounding wealthy monasteries. In a small village, the monasteries are getting their support from the people most in need of money, and they are not necessarily giving enough back.
Still, it can't be easy to keep the monasteries going; some can be supporting more than 100 monks and teaching dozens of students. China is getting richer, but there's little evidence of disposable income in the countryside. Our volunteer from Bangkok noted that in his city, there are three ways for monks to raise money. First, they can have a holy relic on site, which will ensure large donations. Second, they can have a beautiful monastery, which will bring in tourists and their cash. Finally, the best strategy for raising money is to rent out the monastery grounds in the crowded capital as a parking lot. At least in Bangkok, the times, they are a changin'.
But cars are not going to be paying the tab here, since motor vehicles are far outnumbered by horses and yaks. Our seven-passenger SUV usually had the road all to itself. Often, a horse would have been a better choice on the rocky paths we traveled, and even with a 4-wheel drive vehicle, the car takes a beating. Since a car is the bread and butter of the driver, a lot of time is spent keeping the equipment in shape. After our muddy trip to the monastery, the driver wanted to stop to get his car washed.
A Tibetan car wash has little resemblance to anything in America. The place we went to was nothing more than a hose spouting stream water by the side of the road. It was tended by an old woman who collected a couple of yuan for the use of the water, whether to wash cars, or to fill radiators, or to cool the brakes of the old Chinese trucks that still make the rounds here. Based on the appearance of the old woman, who wore tattered cloth shoes and a ragged patched jacket, it's not a great business.
With the woman were two young men herding yaks. The young men and the yaks didn't look much better off than the woman. I imagined them to be united in some way, although I can't be sure. Calling them a happy family could be wrong on both counts, but they were friendly and as curious about us as we were about them.
Somwong, the man from Thailand, got the idea of trying to ride a yak. This sounded like a good idea to me too, and once we signaled our intention to the yak herders, they also liked the idea. Ghengis Khan must have had a faster yak than I did (and for his sake, I hope a cleaner one) because if he had ridden my yak from Mongolia in the 13th century, he'd still be enroute.
Everyone found our foolishness to be entertaining, and many megabytes of pixels were used to record the scene. The young men seemed as happy as the rest of us, but considering their good nature and their poverty, I felt they deserved more than warm memories. I offered one of them 10 yuan. At the sight of the money, he recoiled as if I'd given him an electric shock. I assured him that it was OK to take the money, and he smiled broadly and accepted it. (Sometimes you just have to twist arms.)
My group members chastised me for paying 'too much' for privilege of riding the yak. It's true that the guys I gave the money to are much more likely to buy booze and cigarettes than the monks. But my feeling is, if they want to live it up, then fine. If riding a yak is worth 10 yuan to me and Somwong, then who am I to judge others on how they spend their money? And my 'donation' would also cover the cost of news shoes for the water lady. I have no guarantee that the boys will spend it that way, but that's something I can't count on the monks doing either. It's worth a chance.
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