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 ...