Fear and Loathing, Part Seven- Devotion

We awoke to the freezing chill of a Tibetan early spring morning, with a soft thrumming of voices that could be heard wafting through the open window. I struggled to escape the layers of blankets that had kept me warm, fully clothed, throughout the night, and peered with curiosity down to the courtyard below. My eyes were greeted with the sight of hundreds of Tibetans, some sporting huge chunks of turquoise bound tightly in their hair, patiently waiting for Gesar to appear. It was barely sunrise, yet there they were, quietly praying or nattering excitedly to a neighbor, some prostrating on the bare earth, caking their bodies in dust and sweat, pointed in devotion towards our place of rest.

Hot buckets of water were brought up to the room for Gesar and I to bathe with, the monks besotted with interest wanting to stand and stare at everything that Gesar did. I kicked them all out, and G and I enjoyed a few brief moments of privacy in what was to be a very long day. We cleaned up as best we could, and stuffed down the bowls of rice and sweet milk that were sitting waiting for us. The pure, pure air of that early morning danced with the dust that was caught in the sharp light streaming in from the window, and I let my mind dance too as I watched the minute particles swirl in the gentle breeze.

The monks appeared again, led by the smiling young Khenpo, bearing ceremonial robes that were to be Gesar's for the day. These consisted of yellow flowing shirts and under robes, and an elaborate brocade jacket that would be the finishing touch to the multi-layered outfit. The monks handled each piece of clothing reverently, covering their escaping breath with a piece of paper held in their mouths, gently easing each garment onto Gesar's imposing frame. I dressed as best I could, the monks giving me a clean white undershirt for my black tibetan Chuba. At one point I went alone down the steep stairs that led outside of our lodgings, to be confronted with an absolute sea of faces and people, who, taking one look at me, bowed their heads in reverence, and parted in much the same way that the Red Sea must have parted for Moses to let me through.
I felt more like Darth Vader- my long hair, greasy and tied at the back of my head samurai style, a week old Fu Manchu beard and moustache, and my long black tibetan dress; I must have looked terrifying to the little children who visibly shook at the sight of me. It was stunning: I smiled and tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, but as I could see by the looks on some of the people and little children's faces that this was for many their first contact with a foreigner. How strange and exotic I must have seemed to them in their Himalayan land.

One of the monks showed me where we would walk into the temple and start the ceremony, and pointed to where Gesar would be seated and I would stand in attendance behind him. The temple, just bare earth days before, had been tricked out in their fines brocades and cloths and tankhas (religious paintings), with monks already chanting their opening prayers, some of them looking up at me and smiling broadly as their elders tried to keep them focused on the task at hand. Somehow, with my horrific tibetan, I was able to understand what the order of the day would be, and I left to go back up to the room with G. We were excited to say the least- this was the reason why we had come, to see Gesar enthroned at his own monastery, with His Holiness Dilgo Khyentse Rimpoche having died earlier in the year it left a huge vaccuum in the organisation of the Tibetan buddhist community. Having Gesar establish links with his own heritage and legacy would give solace and comfort to many missing the loss of their great Guru and dharmic grandfather.
The music below us in the main temple started to play, this was our signal...

The ceremony. With a surge of about eight overly willing monks, Gesar stood up from his bed and preceded to make his way towards the overly steep stairs and down outside to waiting crowds. I got in front of him, and tried to fit in between the monk musicians, armed with long tibetan trumpets, giving that all familiar call of an event about to happen. You have to imagien this tiny little stairwell with suicide-like gradient, about twelve monks, the young abbot, Gesar wearing these voluminous religious garments, all trying to get down the stairs at the same time and be of assistance to thier long lost son. It was hilarious, with Gesar and I visibly laughing at the danger and frantic scrabbling hands of monks trying not to tumble down the stairs on top of one another, yet often doing so. I did my best to keep those near me upright, suddenly I was at the bottom of the stairs and the crowd below started to surge forwards towards the doorway-so much for Moses!
It was absolute mayhem; masses of hands, many grubby with dirt, thrusting forwards with babies, silk welcoming scarves, toungues stuck out of mouths in signs of respect, chanted prayers, scrabbling feet, falling bodies, some trying to prostate, laughing, jostling for position, and monks and priests trying to keep order. Somehow the crowd pushed us away from the door and literally carried us towards the temple door, where we escaped inside, the monks keeping the many tibetans outside and at bay. Everyone was laughing, and G and I made out way to the throne that had been set up for him as the monks inside kept up the steady rhythmic chant of their opening prayers. His throne was covered in holy objects- texts, bells, books, a damaru (ritual drum) and other symbols necessary for the enthronement.
Finally the ceremony began- the numbers of people outside being too many to fit into the main shrine hall, theiy peered in through the open doorway and waited for the general blessing that would follow the ceremony. They chanted patiently, prayer wheels whirring, malas clacking between hands, young and old staring inwards trying to follow the procedures inside. There was an overwhelming energy that pervaded the temple that day, as the obviously proud young monks, older nuns and priests sat and prayed their welcome and recognition of Gesar. Who sat through it all, beaming at everybody, graciously accepting the lead from monks that showed him through the ceremony, instructing him when to make certain movements, and being the most patient I have ever seen him be.

A parade of faces -The crowd was eventually let inside, and the general blessing began- this entailed the entire crowd being led throught the shrine room to the front of Gesar's throne, where they would recieve a blessing on the head by Gesar placing his hand or hands on them, or the tibetan khatag scarf that they held reverently being placed back around their necks. Many of them bore gifts- staues, animal pelts, books, malas, bells and religious practice objects, some very old and obviously treasures. I cannot explain or attempt to describe the emotions that flowed in that half constructed temple those next few hours- crying, weeping, wailing, laughing, sheer awe as in the face of many of the children, the whispered prayers, or the breakdown of some of the older folk who had seen one of their great aspirations come true. Through it all Gesar just smiled and smiled, the love between them and him palpable and cogent. For those of us near him, that is for me and the other monks that were attending him, it grew too much, we were all weeping as well, laughing at times when we saw some overly devout person cut back into the line to try and get another blessing., only to be intercepted by one of the wily older monks who would shoo them away. We watched this comic dance time and time again, sometimes allowing it to happen, and then seeing the older monk lose his temper and try to keep the crowd constantly moving ahead.
I still marvel today at the clarity of devotion in those simple khampa folk- as we all know, the eyes do not lie, and theirs shone with a brightness that I will never forget. Like diamonds.

It took the best part of the morning to finish, by the end of it Gesar and I were exhausted in the thin air as the energy overwhelmed us. With another fanfare, we struggled out the front of the temple and back towards our refuge above, to be met with the same enourmous crowd and the same mad scramble to get near their returned teacher. This time dozens of hands stretched forwards to help Gesar walk, the smiling faces and laughing eyes giddy with joy as we were pushed back up the stairs to our lodgings and quiet. To be continued......

Fear and Loathing in Tibet, Part Six- Living in Dreamland

Lamas, monks and lay people of the Shechen community. Photo by Matthieu Ricard.

I awoke later that day to the sound of hushed voices whispering prayers. As is gradually opened my eyes and adjusted to the dimly lit room, I could see monks sitting on the floor, about eight of them, just sitting there staring at me. I was covered with about three of four blankets, very comfortable despite of the cool air let into the room through the un-glassed open window. Gesar was seated now on a makeshift throne/bed, above my head and to the left. I was completely disoriented, he just smiled and told me that I had slept for about 5 hours, utterly dead to the world. I sat up, and immediately a wooden cup of warm yak's milk was thrust under my nose by a smiling but very dirty face. I sipped at it gingerly, feeling the hot vapour caress my nostrils and its nourishment gratefully welcomed by my fragile intestines.

The headache that had struck me when we had arrived was gone, and I was able to look around with more than detached interest at my surroundings. They had given Gesar and I a complete floor of the still half completed main shrine hall, about two floors up, dark except for the tiny tibetan style little windows that let in a piercing clear blue light. Gesar had slept too eventually- I presume they realised just how tired we must have been by my collapse. Monks and other guests I could hear outside milling about, in fact as I looked out the window I observed a large crowd was gradually forming outside the temple as people heard the news and the local communities came to pay their respect.
The monks had set up small tables in front of out beds, where a small plate, knife and a pile of rib bones of some animal lay in front of me, the hair and blood not removed during the butchering process and still plainly visible. I tried not to baulk as I looked at G- by a returned glanceI could tell he felt the same way, a much larger pile in front of him. We knew it was the best they had to offer us, and were grateful; but for the time being I decided that I would just forget about food and concetrate on fluid. I drank gallons of the warm sweetened yaks milk that was constantly replenished by an ever waiting monk.
I must take a moment to describe the energy of this place- it was calm, calm and clear like a lake stumbled upon accidentally when hiking in the mountains, despite the muffled noises of the tibetans outside going through their daily activities. I leaned back against the wall and Gesar and I chatted for about an hour, gradually giving all of the monks nicknames due to the fact that my brain could barely function. For the first time in many days I felt truly safe.

The dead end kids-And now to our attendants- a more loveable and rascally lot you could not meet. One monk just looked completely like Eddie Murphy when he did his Buckwheat skit, curly hair, big lips and a beatiful broad smile. This had G and I in hysterics when I saw the similarity and mentioned it in passing. I could see the mischievousnous in some of the young faces too, they jostled and bullied each other to serve Gesar and me and satisfy our every need, returning cheeky smiles at times. Yet, they were totally devoted, and actively fought to serve us, regardless of how servile and menial. Their devotion knew no bounds, and when compared to the often off and on attempts of us westerners... well, I am sure you get the picture. There was no politics here, just pure unadulterated service to another human being. Who was I? Yet I was feted like a king.

The Abbot-The young khenpo that we had met on arrival came up again and formally prostrated to Gesar, presenting a scarf and asking for a blessing, which in the tibetan custom entails the laying of hands of the teacher on the head of the supplicant. I could tell by the look in his eye that he was already totally in love with Gesar, and knelt on the ground next to G's makeshift bed, holding his hand for the next few hours, just wanting to be with his teacher. I dont remember how many times I silently cried over the next few days, I just know that it was the smallest, most subtle things that made my heart burst open; a feeble voice, a loving gaze, a silent gesture.

The sense of touch was definitely highlighted for me there in Tibet, something I noticed again later when I did my stint as a monk in northern India seven years later. People wanted to touch Gesar's hand, or be touched by him. It was so expressive-whenever he moved there was a mad scramble to be one of the people who would hold his arm or elbow, to guide him wherever.
Everything he touched became valuable, an object of worship to these uncomplicated people. A tissue used to free blocked nasal passages, when placed down as rubbish, was fervently picked up, ( sometimes briefly squabbled over) and wrapped in a silk scarf, finally touched to a forhead as some sacred object of worship. Grains of rice left in the bottom of a bowl were picked apart one by one, taken out to the waiting crowd below and distrubuted to the eager hands scrabbling for a single grain, those greeting success with a prayer and a bow to the room above.

I learned something about devotion while there those brief few days, love for us is often so conditional- it is something that I reminds myself of even to this day. What more can a human do than give completely from their heart? What a precious gift.

It was surreal, and those first few hours of the fading day passed so quietly, punctuated only by a very bold few who managed to make their way upstairs and past the horde who waited. At dusk, we managed to force down some rice and meat cooked together, and settled down in the rapidly cooling evening air. The plan tomorrow was to inspect the whole comunity, the destroyed house of the previous Shechen Kongtrul Rinpoche on the mountain above, and the still ruined library on the other side of the valley, a little way off. The day after that was to be an enthronement ceremony, thrown together rapidly due to shortnesss of time. Gradually, the noise outside thinned and then was lost in the clear clean sound of night, broken only by the ferocious bark of some Tibetan mastiff as people returned to tents and houses, patient to wait one more day to meet their long lost son ...

Fear and loathing in Tibet, Part Five. Shechen

The shame of it all- As we continued down the gently sloping road closer and closer to Shechen, Gesar and I were struck by the sheer amount of destroyed monasteries that we could see. Their remains were everywhere. Some of the ruins were massive, spanning most of a hillside, and what once must have been vibrant city/communities now reduced to mere dust, rocks and echoes. Such is impermanence, I thought, and so potent must have been the fear of the communist chinese that when they first looked upon these enormous colleges they planned their complete destruction. We were told that some 10,000 monasteries or communities had been destroyed after the chinese takeover. The stories we heard from survivors were vivid enough though, and still held real terror for many of the victims. But more of them later....for now we just gazed at the ruins and wondered at the waste. Other than that, was saw evidence of a huge army camp, its enclosing fence following the path of the road for some time before we veered off towards another range of mountains. The driver told us through our interpreter that we would be wise to keep clear of this area as the chinese army often held manoeuvers near there as a way to keep the rowdy and fiercely independent Khampas in line. Gesar and I silently nodded in agreement, and tucked ourselves down into the jeep as small as possible. We were nearly there...

Words are not enough-About lunchtime, we came to a fork in the dirt road. Our translator told us that 30km straight ahead lead to Dzogchen Monastery, another famous Nyingma buddhist center, while the turn up the hill and valley to the right would take us to Shechen. The car rolled off the main dirt road to what was then something akin to a goat track. We were not far now, and the anticipation, despite our still very weak physical condition, was causing my pulse to race. We rolled effortlessly down a verdant green valley, the road dissappearing in parts to pure lush grass, the surrounding hills crested with tall pines. I will never forget the sky; brilliant, azure, highlighted in parts by a brief cloud or two. It was beautiful, soft and welcoming to us.
We drove closer and closer, and suddenly...there it was, a group of buildings clustered on the western slope of the valley, with a small meandering stream on the valley floor. Gesar asked for the car to stop- we would walk in from here; it seemed the most approriate way to announce our arrival. We got out, and the Tibetan translator and I helped G put on his chuba, the traditional tibetan dress. I cannot imagine how Gesar must have felt at that time, and what thoughts must have been racing around his mind, we just smiled at each other and laughed, two filthy dirty westerners in this glorious blue day with air that was so clean it was like liquid as it absorbed into our eager lungs.
We stumbled slowly towards the group of buildings, our feet feeling like lead as we tried to adjust to the extremely high altitude, our breath coming in hard fought gulps and wheezes. The sudden shock of the altitude hit us. It was the first time we had done any serious exercise in days, compounded by the fact we were utterly physically exhausted, having hardly slept or eaten in four days.
That kilometer long walk took forever- we literally crawled towards the temple at a snail's pace on this spongy soft grass that carpeted the valley floor. Yaks wandered everywhere, gazing placidly at our progress, ultimately ingnoring our presence. About halfway to the complex, a khampa on his horse approached us, curious as to who the hell was walking down this valley. The tibetan translator said a few brief words which had him off his horse and asking for a blessing in a second, arms in prayer position, toungue out and head down, body bowed in supplication, eyes shining like fire. We were all just smiling and smiling and smiling- it felt like a dream. He was back on his little pony in a second, and went racing back down the valley toards the monastery at top speed shouting out his news, singing and laughing, whooping and hollering.

As we started the last climb up the hillside a group of monks approached us, as we could see that the monastery had burst into a hive of activity. People were emerging from buildings, other monks stared at us from the half rebuilt main building. Most held back as a smaller party approached us. The resident tuku and khenpo (abbot) made their way forwards solemnly, greeting us, recognizing Gesar's face and bulk, but still not sure of who they had with them. Gesar produced his letter of introduction from Dzongsar Rimpoche which they read fervently, and looked us up and down, then back to the letter. The young abbot and tulku, with sudden realiziation that the man they had been expecting for the last few weeks was right before them, suddenly smiled and wished us welcome. As they bent to receieve blessings, the near vicinity burst into pandemonium, as the entire monastic body and every farmer and khampa present rushed forwards to greet us and receieve a blessing. Some stopped themselves and ran back to collect khata, tibetan welcoming scarves, obviously caught in mid-thought and dilemma.

Release-It was absolute chaos- people were running everywhere, old, young, crippled, we hadn't even made it to sit down yet,running towards us, throwing themselves on the ground in prostration, crying, laughing, babbling, praying. It was a total free for all, and suddenly the Khenpo and tulku were like our bodyguards trying to stem the rushing horde. Gesar was just smiling and smiling, so patient, so loving, I felt my tears flowing like rivers from the final release from stress and the combined effect of so much obvious love and devotion. We had done it. We had done it. I had done it- and that moment was way too much for me.

Devotion- Guiding and loving hands came from everywhere: it was as if Gesar was a thousand year old man, fragile as if made of glass, a precious jewel, they searched to help him work his way to the main building. Some even supported me- the first time I had felt the friendly touch of another human in weeks. I was no-one, but to them I was a precious jewel. An old crying man limped towards us doing prostations, shouting that this was his teacher and his teacher had come back for him, and how he had suffered and been beated by the chinese, how he had lost his wife and was all alone, but so happy that his teacher had come back for him. He latched on to Gesar's feet and cried his eyes out, snot and tears going all over G's shoes. Many were crying uncontrollably, the thin tibetan alpine air perhaps goading on long lost emotions. Smiles and tears, prayers and scarves, we were gradually jostled towards the half complete main temple, being reconstructed after its destruction (twice?) by the chinese.

We finally made it inside to seat and safety from the over eager crowd, but I looked back briefly to see riders galloping in every direction up and down the valley, shouting their message. Of course the crowd attempted to follow us inside, but our obviously weary expressions signalled that we needed some peace for a while, that plus the stern voice of the khenpo telling them to leave us for now, posting two monks as guards on the door. We went up a steep steep flight of tibetan steps to the half completed shrine room above the main shrine hall, where monks raced about setting up a place for me and Gesar to rest.
It was about that time that I literally passed out, struck by a blinding migrain headache that rendered me incapacitated. The focus was all on Gesar now anyway- I could relax for the first time in weeks. I can't even start to describe how I felt- all I could think about was closing my eyes and sleep. I had managed to do what my teacher had asked me, my mind went blank.

Fear and Loathing in Tibet, Part four- Meetings with remarkable sheep.

From Chengdu to the Tibetan border. A ride I will never forget.

The chill morning air was cut only by the busy whir of the Beijing jeep's engine as we made our way through the still quiet and sleepy streets of the city. In the back seat with me sat our tibetan translator, chatting away to our policeman driver, while Gesar in the front stared silently into the gloomy early morning. The full extent of what we had arranged, and the sheer illegality of it were lost in a smile shared by me and Gesar through the rear view mirror. I commenced what was to be one of many journeys around my buddhist mala over the next fifteen days. I prayed for the enlightenment of all sentient beings, and that I wouldn't go complete mad from the extreme unrelenting stress of being on this journey. We were truly on our way.

Checkpoint.- The morning air, aided by the strengthening rays of the sun steadily dispersed what was left of the morning mist as we headed for one of the main exits of the city, and the first of what were to be many police check points. The ritual was the same: the cars would line up, one by one approaching the gate across the road, where policemen interviewed the drivers and took passenger lists, inspecting the contents of a car, bus or truck if they felt it was necessary. We watched others questioned like hawks, others turned around or back. Or so it was for everyone else. Our driver just beeped his horn, pulled out onto the vacant side of the road and headed for the gate in the green police jeep. I and Gesar were praying fervently, the mantras whirling from my mouth in barely whispered high speed eddies. I shrank down in the back seat and tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible to the now approaching policemen. My heart was literally pounding now as our driver rolled down his widow and started berating the guards at the gate. They laughed back at him and asked a few quick questions, barely glancing inside except to look at the imposing form of Gesar sitting in the front seat. The gate went up- and we were waved through.

The feeling of elation that I felt at that moment lasted for about an hour and until we approached the next check point where I suddenly realised that we would have to run the gauntlet many times over the next three or four days. There was a post about ever 30 to 40 kilometers for almost the entire length of our journey, some more closely manned than others. The major ones where our driver had to get out of the car and report were few and far between, and he obviously attempted to steer clear of them as often as possible by choosing alternate routs over tracks in appalling condition. The city became the suburbs, and thence the countryside. It was happening, but at a nail biting pace.

Bounce baby- The road, as it was, steadily deteriorated as we headed west and gradually out of Chinese territory. We were often following the riverbank of the Yantze river, and scenery that springs to mind whenever I see a classical chinese painting of mountains, forest and mist. It was glorious countryside, shrouded in fog and absolutely lush. The road had been literally carved out of the mountainside, and earth moving equipment and dynamite excavation still under progress, sometimes stopping us while they blew their charges to cacophonous reply. Most of the traffic consisted of police vehicles, army jeeps and trucks, and countless logging trucks that bounced along the road, leaving huge ruts and clouds of dust in their wake. What was at one point a normal tarmac road gradually shifted as the journey went on and became mud and dirt, scoured into hard packed waves that caused the jeep to gently undulate up and down. From gentle it gradually became more persistent, till the last two days of the journey inwards were spent as much airborn as forward moving. An idea of the extent of how much we were jolted was shown by the combined bulk and size of Gesar breaking the front passenger seat completely off its welding as we were climbing the last passes into Tibet, and on our return journey the rear seat welding snapping as well. As Rimpoche would so poignantly say,' you have no idea.'

Unrelenting strain- Our three days journey passed with much the same routine- meals were snuck at a restaurant always on the edge or outside of town, chosen due to few customers, the meals eaten quickly and us back on the road driving within minutes. There was no looking around- we were to avoid any kind of awkward questioning or obvious presence in the area. It was just constant, unrelenting stress, an excitement and nervousness that just didn't let up. My stomach was just a knot of tension, meaning that often I found it hard to eat, let alone relax for a brief instant. Even getting rest at night was an ordeal. We had to check in to the rest stops after the local policemen had perused the guest books of the local hotels for the night, at a round about or a little after midnight, catch a few quick hours sleep and be back on the road at 430am before the early morning check again, usually done at 5:30am to catch the unsuspecting. Our policeman knew his stuff: he steered us patiently to this place and that, as our sense of awareness gradually disentegrated due to tiredness and nerves. Our fate was indeed entirely left up to him and the buddhas and bodhisattvas.
The countryside swept by our dusty windows, and what had obviously once been verdant green mountains gradually deteriorated to clear cut yellow lumps, the steadily eroding falling dirt turning the waters of the river into a sea of mud. The existing forests had been stripped bare. The extent of the enviromental damage was appalling, there seemed to be little logic in the method of cutting and very little in the way of replanting or any kind of ground maintenance. I remember looking at the boiling mud-filled waters below the road and watching all kinds of flotsam scrabbling along with the current. Trees, logs, boulders- there was major environemntal damage occurring right before our eyes.Food for thought to say the least. It made me ponder whether perhaps this was what the chinese governement really didn't want westerners to see and the main reason for making this area off limits...
The mountains grew flatter again and we seemed to be on some kind of plateau, the driver told us that at the beginning of the next day we would make our climb into Kham and over the main pass that discriminates the true geographical border. The countryside and the people had changed- most were tribal types, sporting longer hair and red sashes sometimes wound around their heads, clothing a mix of tibetan and chinese army mixed together like some appalling cocktail. It was getting steadily colder too, the heater of the jeep just taking the chill off the cool air. We drove an incredible amount of hours each day, sometimes as much as twenty. The driver seemed undaunted as he tackled the various obstacles of the road; dangerous trucks, huge wallows, mud ruts like quicksand that bogged us a couple of times; roads that had completely washed away.
Through it all Gesar and I sat mostly silently, watching the constant parade of nature. Praying.

Beware of thousand year old eggs... The last morning we were up at 430am and heading down the road before any other morning traffic. The landscape had changed, the houses that I saw I fancied were similiar to what we would see in Tibet, they looked more like military stronghouses of some bygone era, white with small windows. There were fewer trees now too, the land often rolling by like a Wyoming plain. It this what Tibet would be like? I wondered to myself.
We stopped at a restaurant at about 600 am, starving due to the freezing temperature of the wind outside the car. Shuffled into the back of the restaurant where we could not be seen, the driver as usual ordered food for me and G. This morning, it was a milky white porridge of rice, milk and two or three obviously aged eggs, done traditional chinese way. We had seen them eaten by the driver and our interpreter, often picked out of a barrel with some shoddy lid. Having refused them several times before, I intended to avoid the eggs and just eat the broth like liquid, but on finding that it was sweet, my hunger overcame my better judgement and I wolfed down the lot, barely glancing up to notice that Gesar was doing much the same. We were feeling more confident now, knowing that we would be on Tibetan soil somewhere around lunch time.
The rest of the journey that day consisted of following the gradually ascending road up and over the high pass into Tibet, the highest point at an altitude of somewhere around 4000 meters. The driver stopped once and recalibrated the carburetor, forcing us to shiver violently in the uninsulated vehicle.

Oh, the pain of it all.....And then it began...a small gradual pain in my stomach that built in intensity over about thirty minutes, then gradually subsided over another thirty. Repeating over and over like some relentless punishment. At each cycle the pain gradually got more and more instense, and I found myself clutching the back of the front seat in order to control my movement and the pain that was by now becoming unbearable. It wasn't like nausea- it was as if someone had their hands inside my intestines and were squeezing them and sticking knives into me. I felt totally out of control- a sudden snatched look of fear at Gesar and I realised he was in the same predicament. We both hung on for dear life to the back of the front seat as the jeep relentlessly drove upward, our bodies being constantly thrown into the air by the unending bumps and ruts that marked each forward movement. I couldn't cry or scream, just found myself with eyes closed trying to go into the pain that seemed like it would never stop. It went on like this for most of the day- for a while I lost complete track of time and space.
My medical background learned while doing nursing to pay my way through university tells me now that we both probably had Salmonella poisoning, and considering the fact that some westerners have actually died after eating these thousand year old eggs we should consider ourselves lucky. Nevertheless, the memorable crossing fo the highest peak and entering into the Tibetan basin was lost on both me and Gesar, as we endured this excruciating pain in varying degress for the rest of the day and indeed most of the next week.

Tibet!-Late in the day, the driver, obviously worried about our condition, but having little in his power to remedy the situation, pulled over on the side of the desolate road next to a little Tibetan nomad family, their tent and a flock of a creature I had never ever seen before. They looked like little goats or sheep, so tiny that you could fit perhaps over a hundred in a space no bigger than your kitchen, with a wispy silky fleece, cared for by a little tibetan shepherd who was obviously terrified at the site of Chinese police jeep. Once it had finally hit us, Gesar and I were absolutely overjoyed to be in Tibet, despite the pain we felt. G scrambled out of the car and attempted to approach the man, speaking some tibetan Khampa words to him. He continued to back away until we realised how uncongruous we must really look, a dirty smelly unshaven long-haired western man wearing a black chuba, and a huge Chinese looking sumo wrestler type wearing something akin to army fatigues bursting out of a military vehicle. 'Show him your mala', I suggested to G, which he did, pulling it out from under his jacket. Suddenly a smile appeared, and he shouted something to his family in the tent, who peered out cautiously, still afraid. We just stood there laughing and smiling and smiling.
He led us over there and shared with us our first cup of real tibetan butter tea, for me barely potable, but hot and given to us with a smile. We squatted down next to his fire, and exchanged little more that smiles and eye glances. G and I were exhausted utterly from the journey, but we were truly in Tibet at last. We were almost there.

Sangha

Portrait of Jnanatapa surrounded by lamas and mahasiddhas, ca 1350. Tibet, Riwoche monastery.



Sitting here in Japan late on a crisp autumn Sunday night, and writing a few words before I head for a well needed sleep, I felt the urge to write something about Sangha. What is it?

As a buddhist, we understand Sangha as the community of other buddhist dharma practitioners. Could we indeed stretch that concept again a little further to say that it is the community of other human beings on this earth pursuing a spiritual path?Maybe. In fact, I think that it could even be viewed as the potential for spiritual discovery in every human being and therefore inclusive of all beings; for who can say for sure that the quest to become enlightened won't spontaneously begin at any moment?

For the first category, I can only share my experiences. Often, sangha has driven me nuts. This group, that group, these guys don't talk to those guys, 'we' are the ones that have the real path to truth, everyone else is somehow a little more deluded than us, my teacher is the best etc. Wow, how petty and small minded we can be. Including me!

Politics seems to worm its way into everything. If that isn't enough, teachers die or move on, and communities tear themselves apart from within. There is always some drama striking one community or another. Underline drama. Because really, its more like a comedy more often than not.

Lets face it, the idea of community for any human being is tough. People have a unique ability to piss us off, often when we least expect it. I have spent many an hour fuming over what I saw as a potential slight from someone, only to find out later that it was nothing. Or that I actually misunderstood. Or I was just having a bad hair day.

I miss Sangha! In Japan currently we have pretty much reached the lowest of the low in terms of spiritual journey. Temples have hours of operation, you cant just go there when you like, they are more like museums than actual places of worship. Don't believe me? Go to Kyoto. No one is sitting there actually practicing. It's a tourist attraction, nothing more. Your average Japanese spends about 5/10 minutes walking around the garden, just takes a few pictures so that when they go home, they can say that they have been there. Priests are often unfortunately more concerned with how much money they can charge for funeral rites than actually teaching anything about what a precious thing the dharma is and how it can enrich anyone's life. How many chats have I had with your average japanese in four years of being here about their spiritual journey? Very very few. Even amonst my good friends.

Of course, there are your Zen temples for westerners. But, they are seen as novelties by the local japanese, and another photo opportunity. The few I visted, the practitioners didn't strike me as being particularly happy or content, more like angry and discontented. Not many smiles.

Don't get me wrong- there are places where the dharma is still alive and kicking, but you really have to look. For the average japanese, it's worth way too much effort- they would rather go shopping or watch some gourmet food show on tv.

So why did I write this? To remind you all just how fortunate you really are. Do you currently have someone that comes to mind that drives you nuts? How lucky! A chance to practice your bodhicitta and all those spiritual skills you have accumulated. Time to test them! Got some community activity you would rather not attend? Great! Time to exert your compassion and get to know those other confused humans that you share a teacher with.

You are sooo lucky! At this point, I would die for another neurotic buddhist to chat with! So, please, please dont forget how lucky you are to be around others on the path. I certainly wont.

Fear and loathing- Part 3. Xian to Chengdu and beyond

Back in Xian, Gesar and I arranged another train ride; this time in a south-westerly direction, another 1000km plus journey and a seventeen hour train ride to Chengdu in Sichuan Province, the home of all that really spicy Chinese food you eat at your local restaurant. This reminds me of a quick aside, the whole time Gesar and I were in China, we were struck by the poor quality and taste of the food. I remember eating Bao in Xian, a kind of bread dumpling usually filled with meat or a vegetable, and the look on Gesar’s face after he bit into it, and spat out half. A quick look at the contents showed us the bun was stuffed with green tea leaves. Ugh! My stomach still twinges from the memory. Why such poor food you ask? Well, you have to thank the Helmsman* for that. One of his most brilliant moves during the Cultural Revolution was getting rid of any kind of family lineage of skilled workers or trades people, so that meant doctors, teachers, successful businessmen and your average Chinese cook. Obviously they were still in short supply in 1991….

Anyway, back to the story. A different hotel, another travel agent, and tickets were purchased for the train. We had already lost a week with our aborted entry from the north, and didn’t want to sit around some dank proletarian hotel any longer than we needed to.

Let’s go! This time, there were limited train seats, so we were going the lowest class available. A brief description is necessary. Trains in India may have a bad reputation, but this train in China certainly could challenge that theory. The seating was arranged in benches to fit three, facing each other. To say 'seating' is a complement and mere flattery, they were more like church pews similar to the ones I experienced as a boy during my obviously failed Catholic Christian upbringing. No padding, bare wood, seventeen hours, you get the picture.

The train was packed to the gills. Stuff was everywhere, people getting on and off, similar to any train journey in India. Most of our neighbors had the prerequisite glass jars full of tea, hot water readily available on the platform.

Public brawling, Chinese style-Now before I tell this next event, I want you to understand that the People’s Republic trains attempt to leave on time, without fail, barring major catastrophe like the world ending or something similar. As we were sitting there waiting for takeoff, a couple of rowdy types in front of us started to argue. Again, any kind of argument in China at that time was considered entertainment, so everyone craned their heads to watch. Suddenly, right before our very eyes, one guy grabs this big glass tea jar and rams it into the face of the other, and fists, blood, glass fragments, people and belongings started flying everywhere. G and I looked on in disbelief with mouths agape. The fellow on the receiving end of the glass jar was staggering down the isle, screaming, blood spurting profusely, all over the other passengers as the other fellow chased him, ultimately restrained by some other men. Now, as all this is going on, the train is pulling out of the station, and already off the platform. The injured man and his accompanying party screamed for a train guard, pulling frantically on the emergency stop handle. He came eventually after a few minutes, and they pleaded with him to stop the train and let the man off. The victim was obviously in need of urgent medical attention, and blood was still flowing from him copiously. There pleading was in vain: the guardsman just stood there and repeated, ‘mao, mao’ or ‘no, no.’ The train just kept going until the first stop 45 minutes later. Trains in China just don’t stop.

Chengdu and Pewa Tulku

Well, what do I remember of the journey on the train after that? Not much I can tell you! Oh, cans of the same soft drink taste differently depending on which part of China you are in; I distinctly remember extra fizz in the can when we pulled into one station near another nuclear power plant…….

Early the next day we arrived in the famous city of Chengdu and set about finding our contact there- Pewa Tulku. After a little searching around this Chinese and obviously Tibetan inhabited neighborhood, we were led by a man that was clearly an ex-monk to a little house. As we approached, a kindly old man dressed as a lama, hair pulled up on top of his head like a yogi, wearing worn disheveled yogi robes came limping towards us with a huge smile and pools of tears in his eyes. The feeling I had right then was like a child watching an old Lassie movie- my heart wanted to explode at the sight of his utter devotion.

Gesar’s previous incarnation had been Pewa Tulku’s teacher, and the look in this man’s eyes was enough to fuel at least 100,000 prostrations. He was so happy; he giggled and laughed at us and fired away in rapid Tibetan. Gesar blessed him, not wanting to, but forced to by the old man placing Gesar’s hands on his head. Here we were, standing in the street, people starting to watch from windows and unfinished laundry now as the old man tried to do prostrations on the road in front of him, displaying his unswerving belief that Gesar was without a doubt his teacher, reborn.

Drinking copious amounts of sweet milk tea and eating Tibetan pastries in his little apartment, Gesar recounted the story of our adventure in Xining, occasionally acting out the part of various characters in the police station. Pewa tulku just giggled, laughed and smiled and smiled and smiled. Remember no-one spoke English, so we had to make do in Tibetan. Pewa tulku recommended a hotel to stay in while he sorted out how we were going to get into Tibet, and set off with us to the hotel. Walking to a taxi, it was clear to me from the derogatory looks that the nearby Chinese people gave us that Pewa tulku was often derided by his Chinese neighbors. I for one and I think I can safely speak for Gesar when I say that we couldn’t have been more proud to be with him that day. For the first time in many days, we felt safe.

Around Chengdu and the story of the born-again Chinese travel guide.
Pewa Tulku took us to a hotel in the middle of town found on the bank of a rather large river, the Jinjiang, I think a tributary of the Yangste River. I just remembered the name- Traffic Hotel! I can remember quite vividly remember the amount of garbage that I saw floating past in the river during our brief sojourn there, including the carcass of a rather bloated, recently deceased pig that eased effortlessly with the slowly moving current. How romantic. The hotel was nice enough, and the views quite spectacular. The hotel was next to a primary school, which announced its presence several times a day by loud speaker and the noise of children marching around the playground listening to patriotic music and words of patriotic encouragement from their teacher. In fact, to us they seemed to do about as much marching about as they did study!

In front of the hotel was a Chinese-only night club, big sign on the door, and a small pleasant little outdoor café, right next to the river and some weeping willows.

There were some other westerners about, lolling around the café and sharing their experiences. Some were teachers living in the town, and obviously the cafe was a quite respite from the toils of their work, where pancakes, coffee and locally made snacks could be had.

Pewa Tulku has settled us in, and hobbled off back to his house. It was plain to us that he had rather a great deal of difficulty in getting around, but he took off undaunted. I remember hearing something about him being severely beaten by the Chinese at some point. Most, if not all of the lamas we met on our trip had spent long years in jail, and Pewa Tulku was no exception. With a smile, he told us he would send for us in a few days, and was soon gone into the thick foot traffic that coated the busy street.

I remember people in Chengdu- people, lots of them, everywhere. The streets were packed with little stalls doing business, and men and women wearing their non-descript blues and greys, in typical Chairman Mao fashion. There was a busy lane right next to the hotel and the café, so we decided to sit there, eat, and watch the world go by. Finding an empty table we nodded a brief greeting to another westerner and Englishman, instant friends by exchanged glances and a smile. We had barely sat down when the owner of the café approached us, not to take our order but to introduce himself with a booming english voice and start pitching his various business interests. His name was Mister Chin, not only did he run the café he also has a small tourism company on the side. What I had first though to be a menu tucked under his arm was in fact a menu of all the different tours he had to offer, after all, business first right? Within a minute and one seemingly long sentence, he had introduced himself as a proud official born-again communist catholic and christian, and proceeded to confirm the fact that he had indeed gone to church that very morning and was feeling really, and I mean really, really good. Gesar and I sat there while he went through his business menu; a trip to the Chinese opera, the Buddhist statues nearby, and various places of interest. Due to our own superlative business skills, recently honed in India with many a taxi driver, we rebuffed his overtures and settled with some pancakes and coffee. Yet, I could tell by his face that he was the type that didn’t give up easily, and would be back later, either to clinch some kind of tour deal with us, or convert us both to Christianity by his shining example.

Our English friend told us that Mr. Chin was that heavy handed with everybody, and advised us to blow him off. We got the update on the town, and proceeded to spend a lazy afternoon inidle chit chat with the ever wandering customers. Hey, we had hot running water! Showers were taken all ‘round, and we returned in turn to sit and watch the slow meandering river and constant flow of people cluttering the bridge to the other side.

The afternoon was punctured by two incidents, the arrival of a meter and a half long rainbow snake that shot at high speed under the outdoor café tables, eagerly chased by a rapidly gathering crown and a cook probably from the local snake restaurant, just down the lane, hatchet in hand. The second was the constant interruptions by Mr. Chin, who regaled us with his christian exploits and the obvious pride in being a member of the ‘Official Communist Party Christian Catholic Church’. Our English friend interjected to ask him a question. ‘Mr. Chin, I notice that out front of the church there is a rather large cross.’ ‘Yes, we are very proud of that cross. It represents Jesus,’ says our resident Mr. Knowledgeable. ‘Well then, maybe you can explain to us, what’s that bloody great big red star doing smack on the middle of it?’ At this point, G and I couldn’t keep a straight face, and burst out laughing. We had sat down with a possible member of the Monty Python crew, expressing himself in that typical British dry sense of humor.

That got rid of Mr. Chin for a couple of hours, and the rest of that day and evening was spent meeting various other western wanderers and tourists, sharing their adventures, and of those who had attempted, of their ill-fated attempts to get into Eastern Tibet from Chengdu.

Chinese black-market, and Tibetan invasion plan #2.

Early in the third day, a Tibetan man came knocking on our hotel door to take us to see Pewa tulku. We were taken to one of the houses of his students, a lovely Chinese family that gave us this enormous feeding. After the meal was over, Pewa tuku told us our plans.

He had arranged by his connections with the local Chinese black-market

1. A Chinese police jeep to drive us into Tibet
2. AChinese police officer to drive us
3. A young Tibetan monk since neither G or I spoke a word of Chinese (who spoke no English) was going to escort us and act as translator between us and the driver.

We were ecstatic, but then I asked how much this was going to cost. Pewa Tulku said it was going to cost a cool $5000 US, payable immediately. Well, needless to say that we didn’t have that kind of cash on us, especially if I was to have emergency funds in case something went wrong (as I had feeling it would). A look of concern crossed Pewa tulku’s face briefly, then he said that never mind, he would find the money and we could pay him back later. We must get to Tibet. We were smart enough to realize that Pewa tulku would have to put himself us as guarantor with the Chinese black-market reps, and we also knew what would happen were we to default.

Gesar and I weren’t sure if we wanted to get there that badly, considering the grief we had gone through to raise money from the American sangha for Gesar to come and study with Rinpoche in the first place. But the suddenly wrathful look on the tulku’s face convinced us that we better just agree with what he said. Suddenly the smiles were back again.

We would worry about the money when we were back in India. Off we went to prepare- Gesar and I both acquired Chubas for the very cold journey ahead of us. These are the traditional Tibetan dress, long and generally thick, rough material to keep you warm in the high altitude. We had our requisite Chairman Mao hats to cover our heads if need be, and a few extra socks and sweaters.

We were told to be ready early the next morning as we had nothing to lose. The journey would take about three days of hard driving; we were instructed to sleep well that night.

Of course, we hardly slept- it was going to happen! It was a combined feeling of intense anticipation and absolute fear that wracked my discursive thoughts that night.

On our way.

The next morning we were ready at five o’clock as we had been instructed. We left a lot of belongings at the hotel; only take what was absolutely necessary. Our Tibetan friend drove us over to the Chinese people’s house, where sure enough sat a Beijing Chinese police jeep, a Chinese policeman and a little Tibetan monk. Introductions were done, a way good bye and good luck from Pewa tulku and we were on our way. I sat in the back, trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible in the early morning traffic as we navigated our way out of the still sleepy town, and pointed the jeep west, towards Tibet and our destiny.

---

* The late great Chairman Mao

Fear and loathing in Tibet- Part Two.

Kumbum monastery near Xining. Picture from Don Croner's site
http://www.doncroner.com

The ill-fated journey to wild west Xining- or, how not to piss off a Chinese police officer.
The realization that we were about 1500 km off course hit him like a bolt of lightening. 'What the f..k!', were the first words out of G's mouth, and a look of total disbelief crossed his face. 'F..k!' 'F..K!?' We sat in the room, and tried to figure out what to do. The choice was obvious- we needed to arrange a train trip from Xian to Xining, as soon as possible. We had both planned to stay in China a maximum of two months, so there was no point in wasting time. The next morning, we had the travel officer at the hotel arrange a couple of tickets for us on the next night's train. This was going to basically be a 24 hour journey from Xian, the old capital of China over 2000 years ago, to Xining and the old Tibetan border.
We had accepted out fate, and did some quick thinking. We were back on track. Neither G or I spoke any Chinese, Gesar could get by talking in Tibetan, and I had very rudimentary Tibetan skills from living a year at Rimpoche's monastery in Bir, in northern India. Underline rudimentary. The train turned out to be ok; we had a sleeping booth, which we had to share with another person, but it was clean and seemed quite comfy. The car was filling quite quickly with Chinese from all walks of life, most of them carrying these big jars which later we were to realize was for them to drink tea from, a seemingly constant process of re-filling the jar with hot water (readily available) and milking every last drop of flavor out of a few pinches of tea leaves. We pulled out of the station, one of those classic fabricated steel and glass aircraft hangar shaped monsters with the standard People's Republic mural of the victorious Chinese people marching behind a young and virile Chairman Mao plastered on the waiting room wall.

Tally ho! Time for a beer! Which was readily available, and we settled down to stare at the Chinese man sitting opposite us. Gesar, with his unique ability to make friends with anybody anywhere, had this guy drinking beer with us in no time, and telling us his story in very broken English. Mr. Z as I will call him was from Taiwan, and was on his way to the Northwest wilderness called Tien Shan, where the Chinese government would let foreigners go as long as they were prepared to pay shitloads of money, and possibly have their permission cancelled at any time. He was in similar straights as us, unsure if he would get permission.
We got by with our international communication skills, mostly sign language, and explained that we were going to Tibet. He suggested in his own way that this might be a difficult prospect, but we were to be undaunted at this stage.
By the end of three hours we had both the railway guardsmen assigned to our carriage in our room drinking beer too and proceeding to get very drunk (sounds safe doesn't it). But hey, this was China, and they ended up giving me and Gesar their communist party badges and various railway worker insignia, which I am sure they probably regretted later on.
The next day of travel was quite enlightening- here we were slicing across the Chinese countryside, and one could feel the ever present influence of the late great chairman. There were caves anywhere the countryside produced a bump, crops as far as the eye could see, and absolutely no free space to be seen. The predominant colors for me were three- the grey of all the concrete buildings ( since we didn’t see any older buildings- thanks to the destruction of 80% of anything historical during the cultural revolutions), the green of the rice fields, and the sweeping blue indigo of the sky.
G and I got to sample some of the culinary highlights of China Rail- one rather interesting dish later turned out to be snake, I was hoping the hand gestures meant eel, but then the chef smilingly showed us the snakes hanging from the ceiling...
Late the next day, we finally arrived at our destination- Xining. I will try to close my eyes now and paint you as vivid a picture as I can...Back in 1991, it was still very much a wild west town, many of the streets were unpaved, the locals an interesting mix of Han Chinese and blue-eyed Caucasian mix tribesmen that had obviously filtered down from the various steppes millennia ago. I heard later that a large percentage of the populace were ex-incarcerated criminals, social outcasts and political dissidents, whom after serving their time and receiving 're-education', were forcibly sent to this outpost by the politburo in order to keep them as far away from the big cities, and causing any more trouble as possible. That meant that at night, when the natural light faded, the law often ceased to exist in obvious form.
Case in point- One day in China Gesar and I were walking down the street when we came across a large crowd surrounding three men who held a man between them. Whatever this man had done, we had no clue; but the crowd stood by and watched as one man systematically and methodically kidney punched this guy, much to the gruesome fascination of the crowd. It was torturous to watch, I couldn't believe it was happening, and Gesar was absolutely horrified at the plight of this man, who now was bleeding from the mouth at every punch. 'Where's a policeman?' G asked me. We frantically looked around, and saw one about half a block away directing traffic. We raced over to him and caught his attention, pointing at the man and the crowd down the street. He smugly ignored us, and turned his back... Gesar was really pissed off at this point, understandably so, and was making that quite clear by his loud upset and plaintive voice. But there was nothing we could do...we walked on down the street helpless and both feeling a little less than human...
Back to Xining. We found a hotel in the middle of town and proceeded to check in and get a room. I was in need of a bath, and so was G. As one would, I went into the bathroom and turned on the water- and nothing happened except this low resonant moan that emitted from the pipes....wtf.
Down to the reception desk go I, only to be told, sorry, the water and water heater will be turned on twice a day, once at 600-700 am, once more in the evening. Let me tell you that Xining at night is cold- is a good way northwest, and though the days are warm, the nights were freezing. In our four/five day stay there, G and I were never able to get a shower- the water had either already run out, or trickled out of the shower nozzle at beyond boiling point.

The next day, we started to explore town and carefully find a car company so as to try and hire a car. Wandering the sometimes unpaved streets, late in the day we found a car company and proceeded to arrange the hire of a car. Everything seemed ok, the employees were all smiles, so happily G and I went out on the streets to eat some street side bbq and drink some beer in the chill but energetic evening. The mix of races in Xining was interesting-here we were in China, but there were Mongolians, Chinese blue-eyed Muslims, Tibetans, all mixing together within a booming night market. A little tipsy, we returned to our prestigious accommodations to watch some twice-dubbed American movie with a voice track so confusing we kept ourselves entertained by making up our own dialogue. A knock on the door.....
There stood a Chinese police officer with the friendly hire car employee, not smiling now, and the manager of the hotel. Between the three of them, we managed to figure out that we were to report to the police office the next day first thing in the morning, where the police were very curious to find out why we wanted to get into Tibet.....
Things were not looking so good. Gesar and I started to figure out what the hell we were going to say to the police the next morning. It definitely couldn't be the truth, and we were sober enough to realize that these policemen were going to check our contact in Tibet. We didn’t want to make trouble for them either. So here is the story Gesar came up with......as far as I remember!
Gesar was a son of a Tribal warlord who had fled the country in 1948 and gone to live in the US. On the death of his father, the son wished to reconnect with the rest of his relatives still living in China. The last known relative was now living in Tibet as an Chinese free land grant emigrant that had moved to Kham....... It was something along those lines, anyway. Lo and behold, in the middle of the story, Mr.Z from the train appears like a guardian angel/peaceful protector and starts to help with the translation into Chinese, completely going along with the story as Gesar told it.
I remember the face of the Chinese police officer as Gesar told his tale of being the long-lost son from America. You have to imagine in your minds eye that Gesar literally towered over your average Han Chinese policeman by a good couple of feet, and was built like a modern day sumo wrestler. The officers and the entire police station staff were spellbound and stunned to say the least. Gesar looked like 'someone'. Just what kind of ‘someone’ and whether that kind of ‘someone was worthy of being let loose in Tibet they had no idea. I just agreed with whatever Gesar had finally come up with. The policeman dismissed us, and told us to come back later in the day, saying that he would now contact Gesar's 'relative' in Tibet to confirm the story.
Like a lightening bolt, G and I raced down to the local telephone exchange, where we called the number of our contact. You can imagine this huge guy crammed into a tiny phone booth, speaking very american accented Tibetan, with a much smaller westerner milling around, occasionally interjecting his 20 cents worth. Basically the result of the conversation was- we weren't sure. The feeling of panic that had slowly permeated the police station seemed to make our grasp on the subtleties of the Tibetan language unhinged. Rimpoche has let them know that we were coming- the main issue was, could they somehow persuade the police chief that the story was legit.
Back to the police station and we were told to come back tomorrow, and they would talk to us about our permit- the phone conversation had gone well. Trying to hide our obvious glee, we made it at least to the outside the Police station before we each broke into our rendition of James Brown's goodfoot dance. That night it was more bbq, more beer, and a weird Jackie Chan movie- I think it was Cannonball run.

An extra day, and Kumbum monastery- or, believe it or not...
The next morning we headed back to the Police station, to be told we had to wait an extra day whilst the wheels of Chinese Bureaucracy turned... whatever. We had somehow heard about Kumbum monastery, a Gelupgpa monastery founded by Tsokhapa 1357, a mere 30 kms away and hours bus ride from the city. We had a day to kill, and it was definitely worth the road trip. Or was it.....
Ok, this was my first real Tibetan gonpa (monastery) anywhere near Tibet, so I was excited. G and I were part of a busload of people headed out that way, crammed together with mostly tibetan looking types, food, chickens, assorted supplies, and what we thought were a few monks. Down a dusty and bumpy road we went, and as we wound our way down this valley I couldn't help but notice how much the lan had deteriorated. There were a lot less crops being raised, and what was growing was of a much poorer quality than I had seen on the way west. We were definitely getting closer to the arid Tibetan border. Regardless, I felt quite good to actually be getting somewhere remotely Tibetan.
We arrived at the monastery and proceeded to have a look around. This would be a great opportunity for us to brush up our Tibetan skills, and also see one of the most important sites in Tibetan history. Something felt strange- I didn't quite know what it was, but the energy was nothing like I was used to in the other Tibetan monasteries I had been to and stayed at. It was not peaceful, it felt...dead. We saw a couple of monks, and G headed over to have a chat. They avoided us, even though Gesar obviously caught the attention of one of them. Weird. Undaunted, we continued on, and had a look in one of the massive shrine rooms and got another shock- the place was literally covered in inches of dust, a brief look inside disclosed one beat up drum lying on its side, practice tables stacked loosely and lying about on the floor, dust and crap everywhere. How could that be? Outside the main entrance, Tibetans were still engaged in prostration activity, continuing a tradition that had gone on for centuries, and was evidenced by the literal hollowing out of the flag stones about the length of an average human, where practitioners had done countless offerings of their bodies. A look at Gesar's face showed me he was just as confused as I was.
Seeing another 'monk', he chased after him and this time really pursued to talk. The ‘monk’ mumbled something is Chinese- he obviously didn't understand a word that Gesar was saying. I don’t remember exactly how we found out, I think it was from a Christian missionary we met on the bus back to Xining later that day, but there were no real monks at Kumbum- the were all mostly retired army soldiers who were there to give the ignorant tourists the feeling that they were having a 'Tibetan experience'. The buildings we saw had been stripped bare of any semblance of religious meaning and trappings- unkempt, beaten up, paint peeling off walls. It was an empty shell, a dead body, and our first wake up call to the real plight of Buddhism in China at that time.

And now, for the grand finale…or, end of act one.
We were up bright and early the next day and at the Police station waiting for out answer, which of course took all morning. The officer that had been treating with us the last few days seemed friendly enough, had asked more questions than a game show host, and was seemingly convinced by out story. ‘You have 80% permission; I just wait for my boss.’ Ok, so wait we did. I consumed best part of my fingernails to pass the time, G with his usual patience vibrating on the seat next to me. Finally, the phone rang, and the officer held a terse conversation with the person on the other end. The phone went down- he looked at us. ‘Well, my boss says ok you go.’ Broad smiles shared by me and G. ‘But…I say no.’ The look on this guy’s face said it all- it was a complete power trip.
We were both totally stunned- all that time we had spent, the phone calls, the stress. This guy knew he was totally screwing us.
G says to me, ‘let’s get out of here’. But my Irish blood got the better of me and I decided to give this guy piece of my mind, for what it was worth.
I don’t know what I was thinking, but I get up in this officer’s face, and eyeball him as close as I could get, channeling my best Scorsese Italian mobster wise guy face and say, ‘you x%&$#’ asshole, I wont forget you.’ He just recoiled, stunned and completely not understanding a word of what I had just said but definitely understanding my anger, as G and I stormed out.
It’s amazing how quickly you can get things done when you need to move. We were on that night’s train back to Xian, I was ready to put plan two into operation. Rimpoche had said it was going to be tough- he was right. And guess who is on the same train, in the same sleeping booth? You guessed it; Mr. Z They hadn’t given him permission to go to the wild north either. We commiserated over a few more beers and watched the countryside roll by. G was talking of just quitting and getting the hell out of China. I knew how he felt. I felt violated myself. But I remembered my instructions from Rimpoche- no matter what, get him to Shechen. So it was time for plan two…..

Fear and loathing in Tibet- Part One.

left, the big G man.


Marc and Gesar's epic neurotic adventures in Kham.
Way back in 1991, when Gesar and I were in India with our Lord and master*, Rimpoche suddenly came up with the bright idea that we (ie G and I) should go to Tibet, and that Gesar should be recognized by his monastery as the incarnation of Shechen Kontrtul Rimpoche. Whaa? I hear you say. Ok, a little bit of backgrounding is in order- I apologize. There are a few concepts here that may need explaining. So, I will try to make this all as simple as possible.
Gesar is the son of Chogyam Trungpa(1939-1987), a great mahasiddha, crazy yogi and spiritual revolutionary who performed multiple miracles in North America and Europe, and was a pioneer in the spread of the buddhadharma in the west. His most famous miracle was turning a bunch of long-haired pot smoking drop-out Grateful Dead following hippies into a bunch of suit wearing, uptight starbucks coffee drinking middle-class Americans, heavily influenced by too many viewings of samurai era Akira Kurosawa movies (yes, this is said toungue in cheek). Trungpa Rimpoche set up the Shambala community that spreads now throughout the world, teaching an ecumenical form of Tibetan Buddhism (which is often referred to as the Rime school). It was the community that raised me in the Dharma, the place where I met my teacher, Dzongsar Rimpoche, and a true refuge for a failed international pop-star such as myself; for that I am eternally grateful.
To cut a long story short, Gesar was recognized when still a child as a reincarnation of a great tibetan yogi, Shechen Kongtrul Rimpoche, whose monastery lies in the high and wild hills of eastern Kham in Tibet. Having been raised almost completely in North America, and basically divorced from any kind of traditional buddhist training, he had the stigma of being one of the sons of a 'Great man', whose followers had dreams and expectations for him that way exceeded reality. When I first met Gesar, he was what could be considered as a modern rendition of Ghengis Khan. Approximately 16 years old, weighed approxmately 220 pounds, he was an American football linebacker, part time rapper and terror of the International Shambala community. He was considered by most of the Shambala community as totally uncontrollable and unpredictable.
The day of our meeting that first fateful day in 1990 witnessed several auspicious signs, the evening meal at Rocky Mountain Dharma Center was proclaimed to be delicious, and several rainbows had been seen over the Vajra campsite latrine. It was for me, love at first site, a meeting of two neurotic minds bent on the same goal: the destruction of the peaceful heartfelt world of the average touchy-feely buddhist sangha member. A big burly arm was flung over my shoulder, and I was ceremoniously led to his luxurious accomodations ( a beat up old streamliner trailer) in a quiet corner of the 400 acre retreat center, where we and a few of his close followers engaged in the traditional North American welcoming ceremony of smoking a very well packed Indian peace pipe.
Approximately two years and many adventures later, he and I learned of our command to go to the wild west of Tibet. Sounded like an adventure: I had wanted to go there since my interest in buddhism had began, having read all those Alexander David-Neel books of her journeys through there 100 years ago, and then also having heard about the place from Rimpoche. So, off we were to go.
A Gesar's attendant, military advisor, and partner in crime, my instructions from Rimpoche were simple- make sure Gesar got to the monastery in Tibet, no matter what. We had a budget, about $5000 US, and we had a plan and a back-up plan. Remember we are talking 1991, Tibet at that time was in lock-down mode due to the New Year Riots in Lhasa, and Kham was definitely off limits to foreigners. Rimpoche had devised an elaborate plan to get around that small obstacle though.
The master plan to outwit the Peoples Republic. There were at that time, two ways to get into Tibet from China: one road in the North through Xining, and one road in the South near Chengdu in Xichuan Province. Plan one was we were to prodeed from Guangzhou(previously known as Canton) to the city of Xining in north western China, close to the northeastern border of what had once been the Tibetan frontier. Having hired a car, we were to attempt an entry into Tibet by the northern road. Rimpoche admitted to us that our chances to get in were, at best, sketchy: the police kept strict surveillance of the road by checkpoints every 20/30 miles, all travellers were required to have a special travel permit to get through the checkpoints. Any foreigners caught were placed in a Chinese police jeep and escorted far away from the area to a train bound for the chinese eastern coast. So, before going to the car company, we had to try and get a travel permit from the police. Sound sketchy? Read on....
If plan one failed, we were to make out way south, about 2000 km to Chengdu, where Rimpoche knew of an old Tibetan Lama who had 'ways' to get people into Tibet. Enough said. Gesar and I both hoped that the first option would be successful, and we gleefully prepared for our epic adventure.
Day one, and it all starts to go wrong... Well, off we go to our trusty Indian travel agent in Dehli (who shall remain nameless), pick up our Chinese Airline tickets, and get ready to leave. From Dehli G and I headed off to Bangkok, where we succumbed to a 24 hour binge of the cultural, culinary and night -life delights of that wonderful city. After our brief sojourn there, we caught our flight to Guangzhou, which, as can be expected in that year, was a rather dreary place on first examination, and sampled out first taste of chinese communist hospitality. Day two saw us heading for the airport in the late afternoon to catch out domestic flight; on first examination an ex-Russian Aeroflot 'Concorde' with bald tires, with a penchant for letting the clouds enter through the barely pressurized windows during takeoff. Gesar and I smiled at each other- nothing to worry about, all was going well....
We arrived at the airport after our 2000km plus journey late at night, in pitch black darkness and in the middle of nowhere- no town to be seen. The nearest town was a 30 km taxi ride, taking us past the local nuclear reactor/power station on the way, causing my eyes to water profusely and barely able to keep them open....
Arriving in town, I was struck by the appearance of a rather large city wall that seemed to surround the city center. Strange, I thought to myself, I had no idea that Xining was such a big town, but nevertheless was intrigued at this rather obvious link to Chinese history. Having selected a hotel that was, luckily for us, still open, we checked in and settled down for the night. Everything was going to plan, all I had to do was arrange our car/permit, and we would be on our way.
And then the shit hits the fan....Full of burning buddhist devotion, and eager to get my charge to his destination, I decided to go downstairs and talk to the receptionist about arranging a car for us. Through a combination of sign language, broken english, and several international dance steps, I explained that we were in need of a car to go to 'this' place, pointing to my well drawn Kanji characters of the town we wanted to go to in Tibet. The desk clerk scratched his head, and said in his best broken english, 'It very far! You know that?'. I said yes, I was perfectly aware that it was a little way, but we were willing to pay premium money to get where we were going. He looked at me again, said something in mandarin, and went into his back room where he acquired a map. Spreading it out on top of the counter, he confirmed the details, 'you want here yes?', pointing to the city in Tibet where we were to meet Tibetans that would help us. Yes, I said, there. 'You know where you now?', he asked me, yes I said again, pointing to the city of Xining not too far from the place I wanted to go. ' No no no, you not here!' , he said to me, and proceeded to point to the smack dead center of his map of China and way the hell away from Xining. 'Where here?' I asked as I started to lose my feeling of confidence. ' Here Xian, not Xining!' he told me with a look of concern and frustration. A look at a map of China and the distance between Xian and Xining will give you an idea of how fucked up we were...way off target.
The it hit me- our trusty Indian travel agent, unable to read or find Xining on his travel itinerary, had decided that the next best thing was close enough, and had booked us a flight to a city 1500km east of our planned set off point, and dead in the middle of China.
And so the journey began...and I hadn't even told Gesar yet...........to be continued.

*- Dzongsar Khyentse Rimpoche

Sacred outlook- or, how not to be a seflish ass.

I have decided to recount some of my adventures here for your enjoyment(and comments if you like). Way way back in 1992 when I was a young dharma warrior, I had the amazing fortune to spend the best part of a year studying and spending time with Dzongsar Khyentse Rimpoche. I was in Asia with Gesar, my dear long lost partner in chaos, attempting to study the dharma from the boss (and smoke a few joints with G along the way- but thats another issue not for today).
Anyway, the daily activity for most of that time was a lesson from rimpoche through the schools of buddhist dialectics, starting with the most basic, then working our way through the entire body of buddhist schools. At night, G and I had to summarize the point of the morning lecture, then debate in front of rimpoche or with him. If we got it wrong, it meant the same lesson the next day.
What an amazing experience, and one I will not easily forget. Nevertheless, my momentary bliss was interrupted by another new student of Rimpoches, whom I shall call Mr x. Mr x had some interesting ideas about the dharma, and the origins of his birth, but was as keen as I was. Due to his interesting ideas, Rimpoche asked G and I 'to look after him'. This meant he tagged along to everything we did, and was around all them time, and for me and G became a source of annoyance, so I at least spent most of my time making his life difficult.
One fine day, Rimpoche says that G and I are going with him to the monestary in Bir, and Mr x begged us to come along. The poor guy had to endure being shoved in the luggage area of a Suzuki maruti jeep, where he sat for about 10 hours. He begged me to swap places with him several times, but I just ignored him. I was pissed that my little world had an 'invader' so to speak. This time was for G and me!
Eventually, I relented ( after being asked by rimpoche) and crammed myself in the back, where I proceeded to get ill rather quickly. I only had to survive about two hours of this torture before we finally reached the monastery, only to find more dharma groupies there waiting for the boss.
I was in a rather antisocial mood, so proceeded to sulk in my room.
I didnt know what I was feeling. I was in the middle of my ngondro( prelimenary practices for vajrayana buddhism) at the time, and as some of us know, this can really stir things up. Suffice to say that my compassion levels were running on empty... and I was furious. At what, I didnt clearly know.
Later that evening, Rimpoche sent a monk to come and get me to go over to his house. I refused to go, but eventually made my way over there. Rimpoche was in the middle of holding court, entertaining his guests, which, as far as I could see at that time, involved his students kissing his ass, turn by turn, telling him how great he was, and agreeing with everything he said, and laughing at all his jokes. Rimpoche was also being so kind and loving to Mr x. Well, that was the straw that broke this camel's back. Needless to say, Rimpoche knew exactly what I was feeling at the time, and had been watching me all day. I was definitely not in the mood for such frivolous activities, and stormed back to my room. This made it apparent to everyone that I was in one hell of a mood. Rimpoche sent another person to come and get me again, and my reply was a curt '.... you.'
That night I lay in bed, totally out of control. What was going on? I couldnt figure out why I was so angry. I felt hurt, emotional, totally egotistic. It was a sleepless night. Somewhere in the middle of it, I had a revelation. I had been making this guy (Mr x) miserable for weeks. Why?

I suddenly remembered one of the lessons I had had with Rimpoche where he had talked about sacred outlook. It is one of the fundamental concepts for leading the boddhisattva way of life, and in non buddhist terms, is just a thought to remember when leading a human life. For me, it was still just a concept, and not a reality. Suddenly, I had a glimpse of what it might be about.

To explain it simply, I had made a religion of judging this poor guy and making his life miserable. The very things that pissed me off about him were qualities that I myself had. His thirst for knowledge. His desire to be with my guru. His desire to fit in. His desire to be loved. His desire to know. What was making me angry was that I was looking at myself in a mirror and I didnt like it at all. Who was I to judge anyone?
Reality was, and still is to this day, a reflection of my current state of mind.
Suddenly, humility was reborn again, and I realised what an utter ass I was and had made of myself in front of everybody. And how cruel I had been. Me the super buddhist.

Next morning came, and I could barely show my face as you can imagine. The inevitable call came to take my lazy butt over to see the boss. When I arrived, guests were being shown some amazing objects- Yeshe Tsogyals bell, Jyamyang Choki Lodro's mandala plate. Yep, I felt like shit again. Rimpoche looked at me and said rather perceptively- 'you look like shit.'
He dismissed the others and suggested we go for a walk. He said to me ' you have no idea how to be angry with me, no idea how to be angry'. And he was right. He asked me if I had anything to say, and I replied ' if you expect me to kiss your ass like that bunch did last nite, you can forget it.' His response was a smile and 'good.'
It was the look in his eye that said it all to me. He knew that I had changed, without saying a word. He knew I had started to learn the lesson of sacred outlook myself. I saw a look of enormous trust and love in his eye that I can still remember. He had watched me go through this journey myself, and had given me the space to figure it out on my own, then turn around and continue on like nothing had happened.
Nothing really had happened- except to me.

Even today, when I walk down the street and catch myself making a judgement about something or somebody, I stop and ask myself- who am I to judge? Who is making the judgement? For me, sacred outlook means- life is a mirror. The very things i choose to judge are mere reflections of myself or my own state of mind. The wisdom and constant lesson in life for me is to just learn to let them be as they are- perfect.

Welcome to Mahasiddha.com- The First one.

I must admit that I have selfishly created this blog for myself as much as for anyone else. Who am I? I am a 42 year old Australian man, nomad and virtual yogi living and working in Japan, who has been on my own spiritual journey for the last 19 years, taking me to various continents and countries, instilling me with a belief that we are all here to help each other.

At the death of my eldest brother at the age of six, I found myself asking the eternal question- who/what am I? What does it all mean? I often felt that I was out of place, in the wrong time, constantly searching for- something. I didnt really know what I was looking for, but I searched nevertheless. That journey took me to America for 13 years, Canada for one, India for a total of two years, Bhutan, Tibet, Nepal, Thailand, and now finds me here in Japan, living and working and struggling just like most of you.

I have incredible luck, I can also say in the same breath that I am definitely my own worst enemy. I have an amazing teacher and guru- His Eminence Dzongsar Khyentse Rimpoche. Before him, I lived and studied with an amazing Hindu Yoga teacher, Arun. In my travels,I have had the honour and priveledge to be around some of the most amazing human beings on this planet, yogis in caves, yogis in business suits, monasteries far up in the Himalayas.
I have tasted the monastic life, and have lived alone as a yogi. My realization was twofold: Firstly, I love women, they are invaluable teachers in my life everyday, and see no need to cut myself off from them. Secondly, its one thing to sit high up in the Himalayas contemplating compassion , forgiveness and other highly esteemed virtues, but for a spiritually lazy person such as myself, I need to get off my fat backside, get out there in the world and actually do it!

Women and men, buddhist and hindu, moslem and christian, I can honestly say I have met wisdom in many many human forms. Yet, I still struggle as a human being and as a boddhisattva. Some days its all so easy, others I let myself get caught up in things that ultimately mean nothing in the big picture. I am still looking, still searching, but I have found my path. On a journey that has no end, utterly bound in this present glorious moment.

So, I decided to create this page, an open space for people who just want to communicate their spiritual journey. The rules are simple for all my guests- no judging: just listen, and if possible, give some sound advice, or just share your compassion with another human being who may be in need. Its all too easy to get upset and angry, and a constant challenge to learn how to really love.

So lets all try!

My disclaimers- I am not a guru! Please do not make that assumption. I am the most neurotic person I know! However, I do know some great people, and have read some great books, have had some great experiences and if necessary, I will attempt to put you in touch with some of the little wisdom I possess. I also do not have much background in this technology, but I am always up for a challenge! So be patient with me if I mess up obviously.

A great joy for me is that you will meet some of my friends that I have made on my journey- they are all special and unique in their own way. I am happy to create a space where they can share their wisdom with you. My aspiration is this: may all human beings find happiness and enlightenment through both shared and then self-experienced wisdom.