overthere

31 March 2010 * Air Alaska

2011-02-19T16:12:00.000-08:00

Our time is spent, vacation all burnt up. Now we're homeward bound, sailing over snow-frosted forests and soaring white peaks of Oregon's Cascades.

At our journey's start I wrote that "we must make meaning from this travel." Have we?

For me, it's been a study in contrasts--between several amazing, diverse enclaves of unspoilt natural areas and the heavily impacted realms of urban humanity. We walked through forests so wild and clean I felt as if all human works had vanished.

But, of course, they had not. The crush of our collective impact is inescapable: smog-choked streets and highways of urban San Jose and Alajuela; farmscapes of coffee, sugar, palm, and banana; a vast tracery of lights from cities and towns blanketing Mexico's nightscape; the seemingly endless urban vistas of the Los Angeles megacity; gas-powered transport in forms of cars, busses, taxis, vans, motorbikes, and fleets of jets roving roads and skies from one end of the continent to another; omnipresent logos of multinational corporations: McDonalds, Pizza Hut, Holiday Inn, Alamo, Coca Cola, Fox, CNN, Barbie; the overwhelming throngs of people in San Jose and parading through glass-metal-carpet tile airport terminals.

We humans are unimaginably numerous and we're actively transforming our Earth at scales of impact I can't begin to comprehend.

Costa Rica is a country that appears to be much more aware of human impacts than most. They abolished the army, set up schools in every town and village, set aside large tracts of forest as nature preserves, and built an economy on the provision of eco-tourism experiences. It was also quite evident to me that the Costa Rican society is broadly aware of the 3 pillars of sustainability: environmental, economic, and social. The Seniors y Senioritas Cooperative Factory is just one example, where they make full use of sustainably harvested exotic woods to provide economic opportunity for socially disadvantaged people. El Trapiche farm is another example, where a small-scale family-run business blends organic farming with eco-tourism education, keeping traditional knowledge and culture alive and retaining local stewardship for the land by people who care for and respect the natural systems on which it depends.

We can learn a lot from Costa Ricans, their intelligence and enterprising energy, their polite well-manored ease, their vibrant and active democracy, their care for nature and ability to impart this respect to visitors, and even their adoption of a deeply meaningful phrase into everyday conversation:

¿Cómo está?

¡Pura Vida!

30 March 2010 * On the TACA Jet

2011-01-13T20:40:00.000-08:00

This morning, we went by public bus to downtown San Jose. The city's noisy commotion and acrid clouds of vehicle exhaust were shocking after so many days of living in beautiful natural areas. Tessa was affected quickly, as her cough intensified. After several hours there, she was overcome with nausea despite the scopalimine patch behind her ear. Tara's sinuses became congested and she started to get the sniffles. The pollution also affected me, causing my eyes to burn and my chest to feel tight.

Campesinos guard the national bank.

But the vibrant crush of humanity was very interesting for me. People of all shapes, sizes, colours, demeanors thronged the pedestrian malls. We first wandered Mercado Central, an indoor warren of small shops and booths selling everything from loofah sponges to cowboy hats, fish heads, chicken wings, ground turmeric, and leather sandals.

An eatery-lined walkway in Mercado Central.

Fronting the Mercado and extending 10 blocks eastward is a pedestrian mall. We wandered the mall, visiting numerous clothing shops as Tess searched for some deals. E-Cono seemed to have an outlet on every block, and we malingered in a couple of them.

As our main goal was shopping, there was no time for cultural exploration, so I caught only fleeting glimpses:

Four men, three on guitar and one with maracas played music and sang for a small crowd.
Children fed popcorn to a great flock of pigeons in the plaza next to the ornate national theater building.
A group of bronze campesinos stood in silent strength before the national bank.
A voluminous bronze woman held ground near a monument to coffee.

I would have liked to have spent a day exploring the parks, libraries and museums of San Jose, but time was short. We settled for some cheese-stuffed buns and panini at a bake shop, bought several items as gifts, and made our way back to the bus and Alejuela. Thence, to the Melrost for delivery to Juan Santa maria Airport and the long flight home.

29 March 2010 * Alajuela

2011-01-09T20:52:00.000-08:00

My day began before dawn at Don Taco's Cabinas in Santa Elena and ended a yawning 16 hours later at the Melrost B&B in Alejuela. Our rental car had to be returned to Adobe by 11:00, so we were up early, packed, fed and off down the long, dusty, bumpy road to the lowlands.

Our cabina at Don Taco's in Monteverde.

Along the way, Tara and Tessa discussed possibilities for our next vacation: Thailand? Europe? Caribbean? Both agreed it would definitely not be South America or Africa. I bit my tongue...I'd love to visit Africa, a small village in Senegal to learn dzembe and African dance...... yeah.... like that'll happen!

Eventually, the rocks and dust turned into pavement and we wound our way eastward. Tara became car-sick, but hid it from me, while Tessa slept. The GPS guided me flawlessly to the Banco Nacional in Alajuela, where we were greeted by armed guards as we passed one-by-one through double sliding bullet-proof glass doors. We changed money, filled the tank, returned the car and chanced upon a wonderful little place to spend our last night in Costa Rica, the Melrost B&B. Barnaby picked us up in the Melrost minivan and delivered us to our room.

Our suite at the Melrost B & B in Alajuela.

Later, Barnaby took us to the Seniors & Senioritas Exotic Wood Factory. Here, ten or more different kinds of native wood are carefully aged for 13 years before being cut and fashioned into an amazing variety of things: monkeys, sharks, drums, chess sets, dice, cups, bowls, necklaces, earrings, place mats, chests, belts, purses, cutting boards, wine bottle stoppers, coasters, canes...

Our factory tour guide showed us the wood storage area, the raw pieces, the sorting, polishing, laser engraving and drilling. Nothing is wasted--even the smallest bits of wood are ground and polished into beads. The work is mostly done by under-privileged single mothers, who are able to earn a living wage, with childcare provided while they work.

We learned that the exotic trees are now protected in Costa Rica and cutting them without permit is punishable by imprisonment for 5-10 years. This factory has a large stockpile of aged wood, 10-30+ years old, so they have no immediate need to obtain more. But when they do, trees must be planted for every tree harvested.

One tree in particular, the Guanacaste, is carefully protected, as it's the national tree. There are several large pieces of this wood there, and they're being transformed into incredible works of art by the resident sculptor. I marveled at his creations: a mare and foal nuzzling together, a giant sloth, an Ox, an otter with fish, and ironwood shark. His masterpiece so far is called the Hand of God. From a massive stump, he has carved large fingers supporting a profusion of life: fish, lizards, leaves, birds, mollusks, and many other creatures flow from the wood.

Too bad I didn't have my camera!

28 March 2010 * El Trapiche

2010-07-27T22:08:00.000-07:00

In the afternoon, we went on the El Trapiche plantation tour. It was an interesting and pleasant introduction to traditional family-run coffee and sugar cane farming in rural Costa Rica.

We learned that:

bananas and plantain trees that grow for one year, fruit once, then die, but the roots persist to sprout new trees
plantain trunks are green-brown; banana trunks are black
the Arracache, a plant of the celery family, looks like ginger, tastes like potato, and is traditionally cooked for wedding celebration feasts
sugar cane harvesting is hazardous:

the leaf edges are very sharp and cut like paper
the stem tops are guarded by a coat of tiny sharp cactus-like spines
the dead leaves provide perfect habitat for rats, who eat the cane
the dead leaves provide perfect habitat for poisonous snakes, who eat the rats

coffee plants take 2-3 years to grow and can only be harvested 2-3 times bofore they must be cut to grow new shoots
coffee plants are productive for 20-25 years
coffee pickers from Nicaragua and Panama earn $2/basket, and average 8-12 baskets/day
light roast has higher caffeine content than dark roast
coffee beans have a soft fruity husk and a hard inner shell
traditional Tico oxcarts are pulled by a team of two ox steers; their three basic commands are Go, Stop, and Back-up
El Trapiche, a sugar cane press, was traditionally turned by ox team
the bark of the female Budia tree is used to remove dirt and other contaminants from vats of boiling sugar cane juice
sugar cane juice is cooked into a syrup, then stirred quickly as it cools to crystallize into sugar

This last fact we learned first-hand. Our tour guides poured a pat of syrup for us, wo which we added coconut and chocolate powder. Then we stirred it with a wooden spoon until it suddenly transformed into candy. Delicious!

28 March 2010 * Monteverde Cloud Forest

2010-07-09T19:52:00.000-07:00

Today, Tara and I went for a walk in an amazing place, the Monteverde Cloud Forest Reserve. The forest is densely vibrant. Everywhere, life climbs life. Vines snake upward around towering trees, dropping long roots through the air, reaching to touch the earth. Then growing thick, they strengthen into ponderous legs propping up the canopy. The large trees support a multitude of epiphytes, plants that live upon the trunks and branches of rooted trees. They grow so densely, its as if the earth has climbed up into the treetops.

Echoing throughout the forest were haunting clear songs of hidden birds, like water bells or glass whistles. Their penetrating calls seemed to come from no direction. We scanned the canopy, but could never spot the birds. But, we did chance upon a pair of quetzals, bright red, truquoise and green, moving from branch to leaftop high above us. We watched them for a brief while, then they disappeared.

Hiking through a myriad of trees, leaves, shadows, and songs, Tara and I soon fell silent. Our senses came alive watching, listening, breathing the full rich air. I felt my mind unclasp. My thoughts evaporated. I entered a realm of primal experience. It was as if human history never happened and my life story was an unremembered dream. Only the living forest remained in a timeless constant dance of life transforming into life.

The cloud forest we explored today was different from the rain forest we visited at Arenal's hanging bridges. There was more space and light. The air moved more freely through the trees, especially on the wind-swept ridge tops.

Our trail traced a portion of the spine of the Americas, the continental divide from which waters flow eastward to the Caribbean or westward to the Gulf of Nicoya and the Pacific. From this spectacular vantage point we could nearly retrace our entire Costa Rican journey: the central valley in the distant east, cloud-covered Arenal to the north, the arid lowlands and coastal mountains of Nicoya to the west.

This lovely morning voyage through a primeval forest was the highlight of the trip for me.

Playa Carrillo

2010-05-01T09:43:00.000-07:00

Baked arc of white sand
     rimmed by palm.

Perfect green swell rises, crests, curls, crashes
     with a booming slap;
     echoes through the tube

        collapsing.

Foam like milk, carbonated
     one hundred million tiny bubbles popping.
     Sun glint sprays in every direction―
          piercing eyes,
          roasting skin.

Water rushes up the sand
     shorebirds scatter.

Now sweeps back into sea,
     as next crest curls,
     and a hot wind rustles palm shadows.

26 March 2010 * Photos of Nosara

2010-04-26T22:23:00.000-07:00

While in Nosara, we spent time at Playa Pelada. We also enjoyed a nice sunset dinner at Lagarta Lodge. And we watched howler monkeys as they fed in a tree over the pool at our B&B, the Vista del Mar.

Playa Nosara

We stood poised, waist-deep in the warm green sea,
     holding boogie boards at the ready.

Squinting brilliant sunshine, we studied the horizon,
     waited like panthers.

Broken wall of churning water marched upon us.
     We pounced upon it:
     sliding down bubblesurf
     and onto shore.

At ride's end,
     we rolled into sandfoam slurry.
     Receding waters sucked us back
          to the crash zone.

Above us, ten pelicans hovered motionless, studied the sea,
     waited for a flock of fish
     to pounce upon.

25 March 2010 * Vista del Mar, Nosara

2010-04-25T22:43:00.000-07:00

We awakened before dawn to the throaty calls of howler monkeys echoing from the hills and through the forest. Emerging to the veranda, I drank the rich air and listened to scattered birdsong as the sky grew light and the sun emerged above the tree-rimmed ridges to the east.

Coatimundis rustled in the leaves below. Vultures sailed above. Hummingbirds flitted from blossom to blossom along the hibiscus hedge. A mother monkey with two young ones came to eat flowers on a tree near the corner of the patio.

A large tan and brown frog, with great sticky toes and large round brown eyes climbed the wall, then fell, then climbed again, then fell agin, then climbed a third time.

25 March 2010 * Pizotes

2010-04-25T11:05:00.000-07:00

We encountered pizotes (a.k.a. coatimundis) on the road from Arenal to the coast. We also were visited by numerous pizotes at the Vista del Mar Hotel in Nosara. Here are some photos:

Pizotes

Rustle.     Poke.
Here comes pizode: padding, clicking, pigeon-toe claws.

Sniff.     Peek.
Rounds the flowerbush: flagpole tail raised in greeting.

Lick.     Slurp.
Slakes his thirst: black & pink mouth drinks pool water.

Approach.     Ask.
Winkers his nose: might he have a morsel of breakfast?

No!     Go!
He scampers away: jumping through hibiscus hedge.

23 March 2010 * Playa Carrillo

2010-04-10T11:12:00.000-07:00

A soothing land breeze blows over my back as I sit on the Club Carrillo restaurant deck. I sip tea and guava-pineapple-papaya juice, my belly filled with breakfast of fresh baked bread, gallo y pinto, papaya, watermelon, pineapple, and melon.

Before me, the great arc of Playa Carrillo curves around counter-clockwise from North to South. The bay is a beautiful turquoise circlet, protected on the seaward side by rocks and reefs. Slow waves sparkle, swell, crest, and break on the fine, light-tan sand, which separates the water from an enclosing ring of palms. The white foam of the surf shimmers brightly in the sunlight.

A sharply patterned bird -- white breast, black cap and eye stripes, and a brown spotted coat -- sings a clear and pleasant kee-whoop kee-whoop song, then alights to scavenge for toast crumbs.

Todo, we're not in the rainforest anymore!

View our slideshow from Playa Carrillo

22 March 2010 * Rain

2010-04-06T18:20:00.000-07:00

Rain is plentiful in La Fortuna. It comes with a whisper and falls like a soft cloud, nourishing the forest. We haven't heard thunder, nor felt the impact of heavy drops falling through deep clouds. Here, the rain is fine and light —a close cousin to cloud mist. Everywhere, it is green, except for the brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows of the flowers.

The rain's soft patter is a scoresheet for the brilliant song of birds. Their calls slice the air shrill and sweet, one outsinging another, weaving a spacious melody upon the grey sky.

But the rain is not always such. We also watched rain fall in sudden drenching bursts, filling the air with vast dense arrays of heavy drops, drumming an infinitely textured thrum upon the roofs and leaves of our terrestrial domain. The realms of water and air mix; lake and sky co-mingle as birds flit and call through the liquid din.

21 March 2010 * Arenal Hanging Bridges

2010-04-04T21:48:00.000-07:00

On this day, we went for an amazing rainforest hike at Arenal Hanging Bridges park.

View slideshow in full res

21 March 2010 * Los Lagos

2010-04-02T09:43:00.000-07:00

San Jose to La Fortuna

Three sleeps are now past in the land of Pura Vida. We three have been enchanted. But there has been some discomfort: vomiting episodes for Tara and Tessa. The bus from San Jose to La Fortuna defeated Tara, when frequent stops and winding roads conspired to throw her stomach up.

The driver was kind, though, waited while she heaved in a side-of-road crouch. Then let her sit on the front step, with door open. He spoke to her and joked and gave her candies.

All the while, Tessa lolled between consciousness and limp drooling torpor. I had applied a Scopolamine patch the morning of our flight, but didn't anticipate the impact it would have on her. She was OK and not airsick between Vancouver and L.A., but fell under the drug's powerful spell at LAX - sleeping most of our 5-hr layover. Then she slept to El Salvador and growlingly moaned of sleepiness during our stopover there. Then lights out again to San Jose. No motion sickness, but a paucity of consciousness!

Tessa was awake for an eventful traffic-weaving, bus chasing, culture-shocked taxi ride from the airport to the bust station in San Jose. I, in front, attempted to converse with our friendly driver, fumbing for words and trying to prevent Tibetan from leaking into my 1977 high school Spanish. For 12,000 Colones, our driver delivered us to the bust that would bring us to La Fortuna.

Riding that bus was extremely pleasurable for me. We carried our bags aboard and kept them close, fearing the notorious bus thieves of San José. But, our fears were unfulfilled. We only encountered friendly fellow travelers, and a vibrant slice of life: mothers with well-mannered children; elderly men and women with bowed legs and broad smiles; young men in sharp tee shirts and spiked hair; young women in skirts and striped knit shirts. Vendors boarded from time to time, hawking bottled water, box juice, plantain chips, candy. The bus stopped frequently, picking up anyone standing by the roadside that wanted a ride. We filled to standing-room only and the driver requested with a Pura Vida for all those standing to move back make room.

We stopped in Quesada for a 20-min rest break. The bust station was alive with little shops and hundreds of travellers. I bought a bag of mandarins, a bag of mangoes, a wrapped plate of cut mangoes, and two orange ice cream cones (for me and Tessa -- Tara was in no shape for it.)

We rode through verdant hells. Everywhere, tropical agriculture flourishes: coffee, heart of palm, taro, papaya, mango, coconut, banana, plantain, orange, melon, squash, pineapple, cane. Frequent road-side stands made my mouth water, with their ripe arrays of bright fruits and vegetables.

Traversing a lush valley, we made our way to La Fortuna, a small town, whose central core spans ten blocks. We disembarked, wandered to the main drag and sat down for two Imperials, one sandia refresco, a plate of spaghetti and a casado vegetariano.

Los Lagos

By nightfall, after 30 hours on the road, we reached Los Lagos, our resort hotel. Eagerly, we changed into swimsuits and headed straight for the hot springs. The volcano-warmed mineral waters of these springs is soothing and healing. The resort has 5 hot spring pools, 2 cool-water pools, 2 cool plunges, 3 water slides (1 hot), and 2 kiddie pools. One pool has a built-in wet bar, where visitors sit on submerged stools to drink Piña coladas and watch futbol on the TV. Most pools have mushroom-shaped canopies, beneath which on can shelter from the rain and look out at the sumptuous gardens, streams and fish pond.

All of these are inter-woven with a beautiful and fantastic variety of tropical vegetation. In the evening darkness, we listened to frogs and toads croak in jungle thickets.

17 March 2010 * Air Canada

2010-04-02T09:16:00.000-07:00

St. Patrick's Day

Smooth expanse — blue into grey
     rimmed with pink
     & the tangerine sun resting
     on beds of coral cloud.

We sail on maple wings
     float above the ice king, Mt. Rainier
     staunch above dusk.

Before this lift, we rode wheel and keel,
     saw a man collapse, as dead, at Bridgeport
     checked, passed, scanned, queued
     met an eagle man who asked:
          "Why do you live in Canada?"

(How could he not know?
The green island, the garden city, the cherry blossoms, the wild deep sea,
the books and letters, the daffodils
     nodding on a December's summer morning,
the lingua franca, the easy space for turbans, toques, (even burkas!),
the leaves, the ice, the team, the gold medal goal!
     Doesn't he know?)

Our destination? The Rich Coast, land of Pure Life.
     We travel to escape normalcy.
     We travel to shift. And to smell the deep
     green lush castle of dense life. To touch
     Earth's pulse, drink her clear blood,
     re-call her heart beat.

An extravagance! Earth's hand is always open.
     We needn't fly 10,000 leagues to find it.
     No. Our journey is superfluous
          and an indulgence.
     Where is the benefit?

We must make meaning from this travel.
  We must unblind our eyes,
    live pure for the sake of
      all that live and die and suffer grey lives of
        concrete and contamination.
          The human tsunami of cannibal locust.
            The pestilence we've wrought upon our Earth.

Ga Nongte

2008-12-28T22:34:00.000-08:00

Two years ago I put photos from Nongte to music, a song called Ga Chamdo, or Beloved Chamdo. This was burnt on a CD my son took back to Nongte for the villagers' enjoyment. I named the piece Ga Nongte (Beloved Nongte). Today, I encoded it using HandBrake -- not sure why it's cut off at the end, but anyway, I've posted it to Google Video. Here it is:

The photos were taken during the Nongte Village Summer Nya Festival, described in my posts of July 14 and July 15, 2006.

gripslip

2008-01-01T08:36:00.000-08:00

Slipping.  Where is the friction that would afford
    a breathing space to find
        the handle on reality?
                                       None such.



It would only gum up the
    effortless smooth glide of time
        — lubricated by anticipation
        — accelerated by recollection



Striding, rolling, spinning, sliding, skating,
    mating the urge to become
      with the
    sorrow of lost ago



The trees know better, how to root and stand,
    How to shed their golden gloves to the wind.



But, bound to our want,
    we must ever chase next.
         And our hands,
              hands made for grasping,
              never once held fast to time.

4 August 2006 * Beijing Capital Airport

2007-12-29T22:10:00.000-08:00

As we prepare for take-off from Beijing, I sit in a lucid and relaxed state of mind. Our trip is nearly finished and our travel tasks done. We’ve successfully survived packing, taxi, check-in, the flight from Chengdu to Beijing, transfer, export customs, and umpteen security checks and bag scans. My mind replays several lazy fleeting images of dry yellow terraced hills, grey factory-smog-industry cities, and bustling busy clatter polished marble airport duty-free. The aircraft gives a heave to reverse. Seatbelt clicks scatter across the hushed space. “Life vest, oxygen mask, emergency exits, exit illumination”…the syllables of safety plitter forth in singsong Chinglish. It’s time to go home!

* * *

But…while the flight attendants roam the aisles, let me return to Dege, an altogether different sort of home.

An important and pleasant portion of our time in Dege was spent in company with Drs. Patrick Dowdey and Clifton Meador, whom we met at the Mouth by Mouth Watering Snack restaurant one sunny noon.

Patrick is the curator of the Mansfield Freeman Center for East Asian Studies Museum at Wesleyan University and Cliff is a printer, artist, and faculty member at Columbia College of Chicago's Center for Book & Paper Arts. These two, dapper in their matching straw toppers, had come to learn about the Dege Printing Academy and all the amazing activities that transpire there.

We joined a couple of their interview sessions, visiting some of the skilled xylograph carvers who work for the printing academy, or “Parkhang.” Kutse Valley has a lengthy relationship with the Academy; carvers from Kutse have served the Parkhang for many generations. As it turned out, several of Tara’s cousins were working there.

One of them, Dawa Tsering, consented to a video interview with Patrick and Cliff. Dawa Tsering (above right) is a tall and handsome man with strong features, long black hair, and a thin moustache. He bears the air of a warrior, though he works as a humble xylograph carver. We visited his small shared studio, where he sat on a carpet cushion next to a window cutting sacred words out of raw wood.

He showed us how they work from hand-written copy, tracing beautiful backward script onto the block, then carefully carving away all of the empty surrounding wood. First, they carve away the big spaces around the words.

Then they carve away smaller and smaller bits until only the words remain.

The interview, which is part of an exhibition Patrick and Cliff are cooking up, explored Dawa Tsering’s background, attitudes, and inner experience. We bought several of Dawa Tsering’s small print blocks for “sale to visitors,” and Patrick and Cliff purchased an actual ink-blackened xylograph containing words from the Yonten Dzodrel.

We also visited the room where another of Tara’s cousins works, alongside half a dozen others, as a xylograph editor. This high-level position requires many years of skill and experience.

The editors fix mistakes that have been identified by scholars and client monasteries. To fix a mistake, it must first be cut off. Then, a hole is carved and new wood pounded in and wedged in place. This wood is then shaved flat to match the surrounding text, and the replacement text carved anew. The revised blocks are then re-printed and the proofs are sent to the monastic scholars who check for errors. This whole amazing process is something quite else from hitting the delete key!!

The Dege Parkhang is a wonderful and special institution, a national treasure, and the work they do there is really incredible. I’ve got nothing but respect for that place, and that’s why I was happy to circle it again and again, visualizing it as a treasure storehouse topped by the brilliant and radiant White Vajrasattva sending out good vibrations in all directions, filling the vast expanse of time and space.

30 July 2006 * Memories of Dege: Circumambulation

2007-09-11T22:10:00.000-07:00

Circumambulating the Dege Printing Academy is my favorite thing to do in Dege. There is always an interesting mix of people doing “kora” around the printing academy, as it is one of the main pilgrimage destinations in Eastern Tibet. I found myself doing circuits with elderly men and women hobbling around the academy on canes as well as young children toddling around after their parents, uncles, and grandparents.

I circled for a while with one black-hatted man who had come from Chamdo to do over 1000 circumambulations at last count.

I also circled with a 12-year old boy from Sershul County, who amused me greatly with his sharp, bright, bubbly personality. He kept plying me with question after question on everything from the price of a computer in Canada to my opinions on many more NBA players and teams than I could identify. I felt strongly that he was a very special boy, and wonder if I might meet him again one day.

30 July 2006 * Memories of Dege: Tibetan Doctor

2007-09-11T21:45:00.000-07:00

While in Dege, we met a renowned Tibetan doctor at the Dege Tibetan Medical Institute (I’ve forgotten his name).

The doctor sat at his desk like a king upon his throne, a broad smile on his face as he felt the right and left wrists of his patients, carefully analyzing their pulses and asking several diagnostic questions. Then he would get out a prescription form booklet, interleave triplicate carbons, and write out a series of prescriptions.

Tara received prescriptions for her neck, back, and sciatica pains; a mélange of 3 or 4 Tibetan medicines to be taken in different combinations morning, noon, and night. To get them filled, we went to the dispensary, where the clerk used an abacus to total our bill.

30 July 2006 * Memories of Dege: Jamje Tulku Rinpoche

2007-06-21T21:34:00.001-07:00

We met Jamje Tulku Rinpoche, who is a genuine Lama and a Siddha. His face bears the mark of a Siddha: highly evocative and able to express laughter and sadness simultaneously. We saw Rinpoche 3 times and I really enjoyed my time with him.

Rinpoche was born in Denkhok, the same place where H.H. Karmapa XVI was born. After recognition, Rinpoche was taken to Serxiung Monastery in Kutse Valley, where he began training as a monk. But, his training ended when the Chinese invaded Khams, sacked the monastery, and arrested all of the lamas. Rinpoche, who was 14 at the time, was sent to prison, but he was one of the lucky ones, because he was transferred to a work gang after a couple of months of incarceration. He estimated that over 300 people in the Kutse Valley were imprisoned and only 6 survived.

As it turned out, Jamje Rinpoche was on the same wood-gathering crew as Egg’s brother Tse Sung, who was imprisoned for 22 years after the local party boss wrongly accused the crew of plotting to murder the party boss. But that particular day, when Tse Sung and the other elderly workers were arrested, Rinpoche had been sick and unable to work…otherwise, he would likely have been imprisoned as well.

Rinpoche was consigned to hard manual labor for about 12 years, until he escaped from the work gang at the age of about 26 or 27. He fled, alone, into the forest and found an isolated cave to dwell in. He lived and meditated there, without human companions for 6 years.

The cave had a very small opening, but a large interior space and it was not dry, for the ceiling dripped when it rained. Also, the cave was inhabited by a monkey family, which apparently adopted Rinpoche. He said that the monkeys would go out scavenging for food in the daytime, but when they returned with fruit and other items, they would give some to him! Later, when Rinpoche moved away from the cave he heard that the monkeys were searching everywhere for him.

Jamje Tulku Rinpoche has had many many other experiences, and shared some with Tara as we sat on the carpet cushion in his study. I sat in bemused wonder as I sipped butter tea and watched a batch of flies hover and circle silently in the mid-room space. Vibrant light filtered in from the carved wooden window frame behind Rinpoche, transforming the room into a magical and mystical place.

Rinpoche was interrupted every so often by a phone call or divination request. He would take out his mala and enter a sudden meditation – I could feel the space become immediately charged-up and bright. Then he would click through some beads and come to a conclusion, explaining the results to the requestor, while always adding that he or she should use their own best judgment and need not necessarily follow the indications of his divination.

Tara and Palmo requested a divination regarding the decision to send Aje to study Tibetan medicine with Dr. Lodrö Phuntsok. Before starting, Rinpoche advised that if one really wants to do something, don’t seek a divination, just do it. But if one is not really sure about something, a divination might be helpful. Then Rinpoche began divining, but the answer was almost immediately obvious and clear: “Of course it’s good to send her for such training, because it’s an excellent kind of education!”

The last time we met Rinpoche, it was not at his home. Instead, he unexpectedly came to see us at our hotel. We were returning from an afternoon at the Dege Printing Academy when a lama found us on the street and told us Rinpoche was waiting for us back at the hotel. We hurried back and then invited Rinpoche to join us in the hotel tea garden, where we passed a pleasant while in conversation.

We had requested a short text, which Rinpoche said he had contemplated every day for many years. He gave us this text and we recorded a short transmission and teaching on this text. We promised Rinpoche to learn this text and contemplate its meaning. I intended to translate it after my return home. But, I have not completed this task yet. Here is a draft of the first two stanzas:

Then Rinpoche gave us scarves, a beautiful Buddha statue, and a huge bag full of snacks and drinks. I remarked to Tessa that this was really unusual, for a high lama to visit regular people, and bring gifts for them. Usually, it’s the other way around! Jamje Tulku Rinpoche is a very great and highly realized man. Anyone lucky enough to meet him is fortunate indeed.

29 July 2006 * Ganze

2007-05-22T20:54:00.000-07:00

Today we went by Di-Se breadloaf van from Dege to the breathtakingly beautiful Yilhun Lhatso.

Then we went to Maniganggo (for lunch) and on to Ganze.

Much much seen and experienced…but no time to write. However…an example of "ChinaWeird", Ganze style:

Beizha, Jrana, Tsering, Trado and his brother, Tara, Tessa and I have come to a noodle dive on a crappy Ganze street. It’s an open-wall restaurant, with a loud loud compressor-generator blapping from a nearby street deconstruction project. The restaurant TV is showing King Kong, dubbed in Chinese. We’re waiting at a skungy table for large bowls of noodles…all of us transfixed as King Kong bests 3 vicious T-Rexes. Beggars enter the restaurant, playing some sloppy Be-wong music for 5 jiao. Strange Ganze-Khampa-Chinese passers-by are trolling the busted streetside. On the refrigerator, a poster of various kinds of ice cream bars. ChinaWeird strikes again!!!

28 July 2006 * Dzongsar Institute Tour

2007-03-11T18:12:00.001-07:00

The next morning, we purchased medicine and toured the medicine production facility, which was filled with amazing fragrances of the various herbs and substances used for the traditional formularies. It was an impressive operation, and much larger and more sophisticated than we had expected. We saw:

Grinders, mixers, and machines for rolling medicine mixtures into balls

A storage room filled with sacks of many kinds of herb

The packaging equipment and inventory control room
Drying racks
The shrine hall, where all finished batches of medicines are blessed through special meditation practices.

I did not want to depart so quickly from Dzongsar, but Buru had to leave, as a group of several men from Nongte were waiting for him in Dege. I half-decided to stay on my own and take the bus from Dzongsar to Dege. But my mind was confused and I could not come to a firm decision. As I sat in my confusion, Palmo came in and started packing up our stuff for us. This frustrated me and a moody cloud began to fill my mind.

My face grew dour and I refused to speak. I did not want to look at anyone and my mind was filled with sullen frustration. Pouting like an angry child, I climbed into the cramped back seat of the breadloaf van, squashed behind our large suitcase and refused to budge. I closed my eyes and did Vajrasattva mantras all the long bumpy way down the canyon. Gradually, the cloud lifted and I eventually found myself enjoying the rocking rolling ride, swaying in the way-back, next to Tsultrim Dorje, as we wound our way along the mighty ruddy Dri Chu toward Dege.

28 July 2006 * Thinking back to Dzongsar

2007-02-23T22:25:00.000-08:00

After our visit to the monastic college, we motored around and up to the monastery on the hilltop overlooking Mesho Township. We noticed Tibetans, dressed to the nads, making their way toward the monastery from every direction. Something was happening.

As we approached the main assembly hall we discovered a crowd of people milling about the doorway. Looking to the left, opposite the entry, I marveled at three huge stuffed animals, two yaks and a bear, hanging from the rafters of the adjacent building. The yaks dangled long felt tongues while the bear bared his long, sharp, white teeth and claws.

We entered the assembly hall and slipped through the crowd of sharply dressed and cheerfully energized lay practitioners. Within, a large contingent of monks was in the midst of some sort of practice that included numerous hand mudras, chanting, and music. Lay people surrounded the monks and lamas on all sides, filtering in and gradually filling all of the free space. We circumambulated the ordained monks and found seats. We then learned that this was to be the 4th or 5th in a weeklong series of empowerments that were being given this summer at Dzongsar Monastery.

I was happy as a clam, sitting there, meditating and enjoying the buzz of the crowd and the vibrating cacophony of the ceremony. But Buru was not content. He learned that Dr. Lodrö Phuntsok was down at the Tibet Medical Institute and suggested we go down to see him and return later for the empowerment. I knew then, that we would miss it as a burning sadness filled my heart. Although meeting Dr. Phuntsok was of paramount importance, I could not understand why Buru was in such a hurry. We could meet the Dr. later in the evening, I thought. But I swallowed my agenda and decided this empowerment was not in the cards; I didn't have enough merit to find admittance.

While adherents from all over the valley were streaming for Dzongsar, we turned our backs and headed the opposite direction. When we reached the medical institute Dr. Phuntsok was in conference with several men from the local Public Security Bureau and we had to wait and wait and wait to see the Dr. When their meeting finally ended, I glanced at my watch and noted that it was almost exactly the time the empowerment was to begin.

However, my frustrations evaporated immediately upon seeing Dr. Lodrö Phuntsok. Here was a genuinely great man and we were greatly privileged to spend time with him. He emerged from his meeting room and stood on the veranda, a tall, round man with a beaming countenance. He wore a red half robe, a white silk shirt, and brass-rimmed spectacles. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut short, monk style, and he wore a sparse moustache and elegant wispy beard. His face broke into a broad smile, while his eyes twinkled.

We accompanied the doctor upstairs to the institute's sitting room for tea, snacks, and conversation. The institute currently trains around 12 young students in Tibetan medicine under the guidance of 2 teachers and 7 skilled doctors, who also oversee the medical care for the local population, as well as medicine production in the institute's pharmacy. The institute is also training a group of students in computer skills, under the guidance of a computer-savvy Taiwanese monk who speaks fluent English and Tibetan. This monk seemed quite happy and content at Dzongsar, having lived there for 5 years thus far.

The institute complex includes a guest & residence hall, a kitchen and dining hall warmed by friendly wood stoves, the women's residence quarters, which also houses the 4-machine computer lab on the first floor, and the large medicine production building. They are also preparing to construct a much larger residence hall, which will enable them to expand enrollment to 50 or 60 students.

Our reason for seeking Dr. Phuntsok was to assess the suitability of this Tibetan medical school for Palmo and Jra-wu's youngest daughter, A-je. As it turns out, it appears to be a wonderful fit. It's small, friendly, cheerful, and genuine. The training is excellent and the occupation noble. Students, if they have some basic literacy skills, can enter the school at any age and at any time of year. Since the medical institute belongs to Dzongsar Monastery, it follows the monastic model: there are no tuition fees, but students are asked to bring food if possible. Of course, it helps to have sponsors, and we hope to serve that role, should A-je become a student there.

We were filled with admiration for Dr. Phuntsok and his work; Tara and I both made the wish that we might return someday, before too long, and help out in some way, perhaps by organizing a summer Tibetan medicine retreat for Westerners.

After our meeting, Dr. Phuntsok invited us to supper. We motored into town and crammed into a miniature restaurant dining room, big enough for 10 people to squeeze around a single large circular table. The food rolled in….dish after delicious dish. Dr. Phuntsok's bright youngest daughter and handsome #5 son joined us. It was an excellent meal, I think the best of all the many meals we've enjoyed on this journey.

Sated and happy, we made our way, once again, up the hill to Dzongsar Monastery. We followed Dr. Phuntsok, who invited us into his home in the monastery complex. He offered us tea and medicine gifts, then sent us off with his son-in-law for a tour of some of the monastery's most sacred shrines.

We visited a still, hushed hall inhabited by an elderly shirtless monk. He let us into a peaceful inner chamber, which contained reliquaries of several great past masters, including Dzongsar Khyentse Wangpo. As I offered my prostrations, I was overwhelmed with a sense of reverence toward the past great master.

Next, we were led to a rooftop courtyard in which several elderly lay practitioners were calmly abiding, clicking mala beads, and whispering constant mantras. A wizened lama emerged from an upper residence and ushered us into the former residence quarters of the great master Jamyang Khyentse Chöki Lodrö. We offered our prostrations at his reliquary as I stood relishing the golden silence of that space.

Then we returned to the medical institute, where we spent the night in clean and comfortable quarters. Stars blazed as so many brilliant jewels across the night sky and a chorus of dog song echoed up and down the peaceful valley.

25 July 2006 * Dzongsar

2007-01-25T05:58:00.000-08:00

There are two legs to the journey from Palyul to Dzongsar. First, there is the route back up alongside the Dri Chu to its junction with the blue-green Mesho Chu. This spot is overseen by some stunning giant granite cliffs jutting upward from the nearby mountaintops. From here, it's a bumpy 42 km up the Mesho Canyon to Dzongsar.

Entering the Mesho Canyon, I was almost immediately struck by its unusual air of natural purity and peace. The canyon was mostly trash-free and the river's waters appeared to be cleaner and brighter than any other rivers we've traveled beside. The forest seemed to be mostly undisturbed, and an abundance of unfamiliar plants filled the roadside meadows and slopes. Some parts of this lovely canyon were heavily forested and seemed to be uninhabited. Other sections were filled with the fields and pastures of traditional Khampa agriculture.

At long last, we reached Mesho township, where the canyon opens out to a broad green alpine valley filled with rich pastures and nettle-fringed barley fields. The bright golden sun shone in the deep blue sky as we stopped for a picnic of peaches, fresh cucumbers, dried yak meat, and fried bread kapse snacks. Tessa befriended some fluffy calves grazing in the picnic meadow. Later we busied ourselves carrying water from the stream to a small muddy puddle where we had discovered hundreds of baby black tadpoles.

After our picnic, we finally entered Mesho and Dzongsar, in search of Dr. Lodrö Phuntsok. We visited the Dzonsar Shedra (monastic college), which was in summer recess. The inner courtyard was a lovely and peaceful place, lined by carved and painted monastic quarters and filled with a profusion of flowers.

A monk from Sakya by the name of Könchog Gyantso let us into the assembly hall, which was a beautiful, warm, magical space. Photos of Dzongsar Chökyi Lodrö and Dzongsar Khyentse Rinpoche were hung high from two shrine-side pillars, and the main throne also supported a large photo of Khyentse Chökyi Lodrö.

The walls were painted in exquisite murals of various Buddhas, Godesses, Protectors, and meditation masters.

The soft, polished wooden floor supported arrays of carpet-topped cushions, which seemed at once to be vacant and occupied. The air smelled of butter and incense. Tessa felt immediately content there, and began to prance like a cheetah and an antelope from cushion to cushion.

20-July-2006 * Palyul

2007-01-14T17:38:00.000-08:00

As we rolled into Palyul, my worries evaporated. The dirt tracks became paved roadway. Hydroelectric plants and new construction projects emerged on either side of the road, and we soon found ourselves driving through the midst of a bustling town with numerous shops, restaurants, hotels, government buildings, and even a traffic jam or two. I was completely shocked to see such a busy booming town at the end of 94 km of rough dirt-track roadway.

Even more amazing is the monastic city covering the mountainside overlooking the town. Hundreds of maroon clay and log homes for monks and nuns are stacked in rows climbing the slopes, which are crowned by several large assembly and shrine halls.

The newest and largest is an impressive huge assembly hall, which was still under construction. The main hall offers space enough for thousands to gather on its vast hardwood floor. Lining the north wall are three giant statues of Buddha, Padmasambhava, and Chenrezik. Aloft, bright and colorful decorations cover the beams and the upper walls are painted in beautiful murals. Crowning the building is a large round glass and steel canopy, through which natural sunlight flows, filling the interior space with a golden glow.

A second older shrine building contains beautiful large statues in several chambers, each staffed by a monk or two, constantly immersed in meditation practice. Across from this hall is a structure I dubbed the "merit factory." It is a two-level building. The lower level contains a dozen or more huge mani wheels surrounded by many dozens of smaller ones. Practitioners are constantly spinning and circling these wheels, reciting mantras as the bells topping each large wheel chime with every rotation. In my mind I began to visualize millions and billions of mantras of all sizes and colors spinning and whirling upward into a vast, bright, limitless sky.

On the upper level of this building is a small shrine room, containing statues, sacred relics, and a 20-strong contingent of monks doing strong and energetic practice to the accompaniment of drums, bells, horns, cymbals, and conch horns. This shrine is also constantly circumambulated by lay practitioners.

Crowning the monastic mountain is a lovely gilded 3-level shrine containing statues of Padmasambhava, Chenrezik, and Amithaba, each residing in a small chamber with walls painted in beautiful frescos of various deities and meditation masters, and lined with shelves holding hundreds of small statues. We visited this shrine and circumambulated the outer walls on each level before entering each chamber to offer prostrations and inner circumabulations. From the upper level of this building, one can look down to see the entire spread of monastery, town, valley, and mountains spreading out to the horizon.

We met up with a group of 5 young men, friends and relatives from Kutse, who were working as xylograph carvers for the Palyul Printing Academy. We toured the 5-story building, which is also in final stages of construction. The central atrium contains a large 4-story tall stupa, surrounded by the various sections of the printhouse. On the second level, we found a large group of Kutse xylograph carvers hanging out together, carving, printing, editing, smoking, chatting, joking, drinking tea, and having a good time.

The upper levels housed many racks containing thousands of xylographs. Also, we saw large stacks of printed text bundles, ready for distribution. Incense lingered in the air as nuns sweept the wooden floors of the upper levels with bound swatches of leafy branches. I wondered whether there was some special purification property associated with the particular brush plants they used for their brooms.

We also visited the Palyul Monastic College, where a beautiful new library is under construction. Hardwood floors and ornately carved beams gave indication of the peace and grace this new building will inspire when finished. Below the monastery complex is a row of eight new stupas, around which, local practitioners frequently circumambulate.

The town of Palyul is a vibrant and wild mixture of old Khams and new China. One section of the town is dominated by large 3- and 4-story Tibetan-style wood and rammed earth homes, each surrounded by extensive greenhouses and horticultural gardens. Vegetables of every type are flourishing in these urban farms, tended by the expert hands of Chinese agriculturalists.

A decrepit stupa crowns a small hill in this part of town. I climbed to see it, and was saddened to find it defaced with Chinese and Tibetan graffiti, and defiled by trash, broken glass, urine, and shit.

The main drag through town is lined by trees and 3-story buildings housing street-level shops of every type. Repair shops, metal fabricators, grocers, restaurants, tailors, hardware vendors, hairdressers, IP telephone call shops, Internet cafes, and pool halls are intermixed along the bustling jumbled street sides. Large trucks, SUVs, breadloaf vans, Mao tractors, motorcycles, compact taxis, and horse-riders clatter thorough the streets. Prowling these streets are Khampa men in long dark chubas and red or black hair sashes, and Chinese women with their clicky-clack high heels and sequined scarves. Monks and nuns, both real and imposter, are to be seen everywhere in their red shirts & robes and orange & yellow shirts. Some sit on street corners chanting mantras, ringing bells and constantly asking passers-by for spare cash. Chinese men, cigarettes dangling from lips and cell phones glued to ears, also ply the streets, putting out their vibes of power, money, and importance. Old Tibetan women, with dark wrinkled faces, gappy smiles, and grimy clothes can also be seen spinning prayer wheels and clicking their malas.

I found Palyul to be an interesting and lively town and wished I could have stayed longer. In the end, we stayed for two days and one night before setting out for Dzongsar.

18-July-2006 * Palyul

2006-12-27T20:56:00.000-08:00

We have arrived in Palyul after a bone rattling 8 hour journey from home. Our travel companions are Palmo (Tara's youngest sister), Tsultrim Dorje (Palmo's son), Benpa (a close cousin), and Buru (village chief), who is driving his little Suzuki Chana Star bread-loaf van.

Our departure from Nongte was quick and intense. Everything packed, a crew of porters carried our bags down the mud lane from Tong-go and across the Tsang Chu bridge to Buru's van. The whole family went along and it seemed the entire Nongte Village turned out to wish us well on our journey. I climbed the embankment next to the road and managed to snap some pix of the whole throng.

There were numerous offerings of hand shakes, forehead bumpings, white silk scarves, and best wishes for our long life, safe journey, and auspicious happiness. The three of us ended up with quite a few silk scarves around our necks; then we each put all of ours around mom's neck, so she seemed entirely clothed in shimmering white. There were many tears as we gave her good-bye hugs, knowing we may never see one another again. She wished for us to have excellent lives and requested we return to Nongte, even if she were no longer living.

Then, it was up the road to Dang Kong for a round of fare-thee-wells with Tara's big sister and the others who were home at the time. She offered us a huge bag of dried dzomo (yak-cow cross) cheese and a plastic soda bottle full of dzomo butter. These, along with the bags of tsampa (roasted barley flour), cheese, morel mushrooms, wild dill seeds, and yak jerky have loaded down our large suitcase making it quite heavy.

A group of 20-some men, many dressed in their formal chubas, accompanied us up the road from Nongte on their motorcycles. A short distance up the valley from Dang Kong they had set up a farewell picnic for us in a beautiful grassy meadow, surrounded by the hills and rock cliffs of Kutse Canyon. We sat in a large circle and imbibed in Red Bull, orange sports soda, and beer. Songs and toasts were offered; I was obliged to stand and offer a broken Tibetan toast as well: "Although we live far away, our home is here and the people of Nongte are our people. We're very happy to see everyone and spend time in this place. Tashi Delegs to all."

Our next stop was Sershung Gompa (monastery) for blessings of protection on our journey. The Gompa was a lively scene with many authentic practitioners, young and old, all hanging out doing mantras, spinning prayer wheels and soaking up the powerful vibrations of the various monastic rites and Tantric practices going on within.

Then, we were finally off, rattling up the canyon and over 4245 m Nge La pass, where flowers, yaks, and prayers flags grace the grassy saddle, surrounded by stunning white granite crags jutting upward into the deep blue alpine sky.

Down through green and yellow meadows, past homes cultivating blue flowers (Tibetan Poppies?), we wound our way to Jong Kang Do for lunch. We ate in a strange little restaurant with pictures of Marx, Engels, Lenin, Stalin, Mao, and the other heroes of 20th century Chinese Communism.

From there, we passed through the deep narrow canyon that leads to the Kamtok bridge over the Dri Chu River, and into Sichuan Province. The border was fortified but placid and sleepy. Were we heading west, we would surely have been stopped, but driving east, we merely had to slow for several sets of speed bumps, and we were past it.

From Kamtok, we endured 94 km of dry, dusty, bumpy, dirt-rock track along the undulating eastern bank of the Dri Chu, or Gold Dust (Jin Sha in Mandarin) River, which swells to become the Yangtse in inner China. I could not stop looking at the Dri Chu, marveling at its powerful swirls, eddies, and rapids. The Dri Chu was swollen with summer rains and heavy with adobe-red sediment. In some areas, it cuts through narrow canyons, flowing swift and deep. In other areas, the canyon broadens and the Dri Chu spreads a broad red sea over the canyon floor.

The Dri Chu Canyon seems to always be dry and hot, as it gathers the subsiding air from every canyon it intersects. And every canyon has a stream or river that adds to the Dri Chu's mighty flow. The smaller streams seem to vanish instantly upon contact, while the larger ones maintain a short-lived stand-off, their cooler green and grey water marking a sharp line against the warmer ruddy flow of the larger river. But in the end, all flow mixes into the Dri Chu, whose waters seem to withstand the infusion with no trace of dilution. I was reminded of the massive teeming population of Han China, into which other peoples may inter-marry and mingle, leaving nary an imprint on the ethnic face of the greater population. I remember hearing an account, years ago, of a large band of Jewish refugees who resettled in China. One hundred years later, their faces had vanished into the Han Ocean. Does such a fate, conquest by assimilation, await the Tibetan people?

Bumping and grinding our way, we rattled down the Dri Chu Canyon, passing the turn-offs to the famed Palpung, Dzongsar, and Katok Monasteries. With each turn-off, the road seemed to grow smaller and less traveled, especially for the 40-some km of roadway after Katok. I felt we were headed to a remote and neglected outpost and wondered if we'd even be able to find lodging at Palyul for the night. My worries were magnified when one of our tires finally succumbed to the hot, rocky road, blowing out with a huge bang on a sharp rock. As we jacked up the car and put on the spare, I wondered where we would find a replacement and whether the other tires could survive the rest of our journey.

15-July-2006*Nongte

2006-11-30T20:47:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was day 3 of the Nongte Village Summer Nya Festival. To celebrate the occasion, the local men's dance group donned their full gear to perform for the village. I'm not sure how it came about that our family decided I should join them. I didn't really want to do it, but consented to their wishes knowing it would make people laugh.

My costume was incomplete at the top and the bottom: I didn't have the traditional Se-död, or leather and red felt boots, and I didn't have a Pi Sha, or white felt cowboy hat. But, from my ankles to my neck I was properly attired, wearing the poofy white and red rough silk mBu-Re Dodra, or pantaloons, and mBu-re Ngu-li, or white long-sleeved shirt with brocade collar. Over the top, I wore a long, heavy brown dress chuba or Thema Kachung, cinched up by a bright green Shi Dzong Kerog or silk sash. On my feet I wore my large white Nike running shoes and on my head I wore my trusty Tilley Hat.

The sun shone brightly and the heat was intense as the group gathered to start up the circle dances. Of course, I was a complete klutz, usually out of step and hopping around like a baboon trying to get onto the correct foot. I felt the total fool, sweat running down my face, chuba slipping off down my shoulders, pantaloons drooping down and tangling midst my bumbling feet.

But the villagers loved it and laughed heartily. At one point, the village chief decided to "teach" me some "special" steps as a clown act. We did rapid foot thumping, twirling jumps, and falling onto the butt. All were highly entertaining to the crowd. Then I taught him a 3-step waltz, which must have been quite a comical sight: two men, fully garbed in Tibetan dance costumes, fumbling through a waltz on a grassy cattle meadow, surrounded by smiles, laughter, tractors, tents, horses, dogs, trash, trees, mountains, and the deep blue Tibetan sky with its intensely bright golden sun.

The rest of the dancers were really skilled, and moved with easy fluidity as they circled, twirled, and swished their long sleeves in perfect synchrony. Each half of the group sang the lovely dance songs in unison and the two sides traded verses back and forth.

After the dancing was done, I was able to disrobe and chug a Budweiser. We whiled away the rest of the afternoon teaching the village children how to play Tag, Freeze Tag, and Red Light-Green Light. Later, we visited Egg's brother Bu-Luo's tent for some boiled eggs, fried peanuts, beer, orange juice, and strawberry vinegar drink.

As evening drew near, we were transported back home by a crew of bikers. I rode with Uga. Mom rode with Benjo. Tessa rode with Tsultrim Dorje. Tara rode with Truda. Several other bikers carried others and we raced up the mud road back to the prayer flag festooned suspension bridge that crosses the Tsang Chu and leads us ever home to Tong-go.

14-July-2006*Nongte

2006-11-06T12:38:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was the second day of the annual Nongte village summer party. After touring Egg & Tsega's new home, still under construction, we spent the rest of the day at the party grounds east of the village next to the Tsang Chu.

Every household had set up a party tent, equipped with sitting carpets and plentiful libations: beer, chang, orange soda, Pepsi, Red Bull, candy, dried apricots & figs, crackers, and plenty of dried meat. Interspersed among the party tents were open-fire kitchens and transport fleets: motorcycles, trucks, and numerous Mao tractor wagons. The party grounds are also an open pasture, frequented by grazing cattle, dzomos, horses, and the omnipresent scrounging dogs.

As we approached the grounds we observed a pack of kids playing naked in the Tsang Chu. Later, the kids busied themselves horsing around and playing various rough and tumble games. We amused ourselves eating, drinking, playing with the kids, and snapping photos. I was the big celebrity there and the kids always followed me around. I had an attack of Art Makosinsky's "crazy hand," which amused the kids greatly. Also, whenever I snapped a photo I was immediately thronged by a pack of kids and curious onlookers, all wanting to see what the photo looked like on my camera display screen.

Later, a group of men got up and started singing and doing circle dances. Tara joined in as the only woman. She knew every step of every dance and kept right up with the men, even dancing in more of a men's style. I also joined in, to the immense amusement of the audience. The entire village was sitting and standing around, watching me make a fool of myself. Of course, I knew none of the steps and I'm clutzy anyway, so my dancing was really comical and the laughter rolled with my every misstep.

Later, we chatted in the Tongo tent with Egg's brother Tse Sung. I knew that Egg's family had been persecuted after the communists came, but I was rather shocked to hear what had happened to him. When he was 15 years old he, along with an elderly man and woman, had the daily job of cutting and carrying wood to the residence of the party boss, Chöga, who lived up the valley. They had an axe for chopping wood and ropes for binding and carrying bundles of wood. One day, Chöga accused these three of plotting to kill him using the rope to tie him and the axe to chop off his head.

They had committed no crime, and were only doing their assigned jobs. They had never dreamed of killing Chöga. Nevertheless, all three were convicted and imprisoned. The elderly two died in prison. Tse Sung spent 22 years in prison. After his release, the government admitted had made a mistake with his imprisosnment and paid him 900 yuan (about $130 Canadian Dollars) in compensation.

The utter stupidity and pointlessness of this whole episode really upsets me. Tara told me there are many stories like this, of other stupid events that happened after the "liberation."

12-July-2006*Bolo

2006-10-17T20:40:00.000-07:00

Today, Tashi Namgyal escorted Jra Wu, Benpa, Tamdrin Wangmo, Tara, and me to Bolo. We wound our way 15 km down the Tsang Chu canyon, enjoying the spendor of rocks, trees, mountains, and livestock. In many areas, the mantra Om Mani Padme Hum Hri has been etched and painted into the stone cliffs.

Our first stop was the rag-tag Bolo Gompa. This small monastic village, decorated everywhere by thousands of faded prayer flags, is a scattered complex of little cabins and aging rammed clay and wood temples, intersected by narrow alleyways full of nettles, meandering cattle, and scruffy dog packs.

We went, with a small gathering, to the shrine of Gönpo Chödrak. The outer room, dusty and dim, contained heaps of barley grain offerings, snow leopard skins, and 20 or more broken rifles, tied to a pillar with silk sashes. We made a several hundred yuan offering to pay for entry to the locked inner shrine, which is open only to men. The four men of our party entered, offered prostrations, and had the chance to glimpse the most sacred object at Bolo Gompa. The inner room was grimy but amazingly fragrant. Mixed aromas of burnt butter and floral incense permeated the cabinets and walls of the room. The floor was covered in old cheap linoleum upon which thousands of grains of barley were scattered. The lama in charge then spread a canopy of offering scarves for me to view a small statue, rimmed with gold and orange flames. This was an object of great spiritual power, I was told, and I did feel strong vibrations permeating the room. I suddenly remembered the natural and direct state of unborn awareness. Oh yeah, I thought, this is the main point!

Departing from Bolo Gonpa, we made our way to a beach next to the confluence of the Tsang Chu and the Dri Chu rivers. It's a power place, surrounded by tall round peaks and even loftier granite crags. The ruddy Tsang Chu merges into the green-brown Dri right at the apex of a large bend in the latter. The water there flows strong and deep, rushing on its way toward Shanghai and the South China Sea.

The beach is composed of an amazing and rich array of water-smoothed stones: black, green, red, white, striated, speckled, striped, and stained. We spent an hour or so picking through the stones and choosing a collection of nice ones for Tara's therapy work. Whither these stones…near or far? Did some tumble here from distant upper reaches of the mighty Dri? Perhaps some tumbled to this beach from Nongte as well.

Bolo itself is a strange, junky, disjointed, melancholy town with crappy dirt dog streets and small rammed earth houses, drab and dim. Dominating the town are the county government buildings, the school, and the hospital. Beside this latter outpost, a vacant lot was filled with scattered trash and broken glass. Four ponies and a colt were tied up against an earthen wall.

Midst the impressive confluence of mountains and rivers, this downtrodden town left me with the impression of a setting sun trailer town, broken and sullen.

12-July-2006*Dang Kong / Nongte

2006-10-15T21:40:00.000-07:00

We've had an eventful series of days. On the 9th, we went to Tara's eldest sister's home, Dang Kong, 3 km up the valley. There we were feted by Tashi Chödrön (Tara's sister), Jra Nam (her husband), and Be Zha (his brother). It was a challenging two days of negotiating endless meals and beer toasts. Be Zha held court, offering up toasts and puffing his way through cigarette after cigarette.

Be Zha is quite a presence, dressed in his fine suit and perfectly pressed white shirt. Wearing his short black hair and Jiang Ze-Min glasses, he looks every bit the party old boy. Thanks to him, Kutse Valley boasts a serviceable road, a handful of sturdy bridges, a working medical clinic, a school, several small hydro-electric plants, electricity to many households, and also running water in many places. Be Zha certainly knows how to work the system and play all the games of Sino-Tibetan politics. But it appears he's also a simple country boy at heart, relishing this relaxing respite down on the farm.

During our visit to Throng Zam, we also visited the elementary school that serves this valley. The school is attended by around 250 pupils, many of whom reside at the school, living in dorms with 10 beds to a room. The kids were milling about the central courtyard when we arrived; the teachers gathered them together and grouped them by grade. Then it was time for the track & field award ceremony. Top finishers for the different races and age groups were called forward and presented with pencils, pencil sharpeners, notebooks, and such. Some of the high-mountain kids with their rosy cheeks, strong eyes, fluid movements, and broad smiles truly carried the air of champions as they stepped forward to receive their prizes.

After the award ceremony, we visited the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd grade classrooms. They were spare and simple, with desks in rows and blackboards at either end, displaying Chinese and Tibetan writing, and arithmatic tables. The kids, as everywhere we go, were excited about me and my camera, some of them hamming it up to get into the picture.

The following day, we returned home to be greeted by Tara's sisters Gadrön and Tsering Chöntsok, visiting from Jomda. It was a festive evening of stories, jokes, mo-mos, and Tibetan music videos. After two days of porking and drinking, I was stuffed to the gills and felt like someone had opened my gut and filled it with huge piles of oil, flesh, stones, and excrement. I was extremely uncomfortable and made my way to the roof for a zaftic and heavy movement contemplation under the lovely waxing moon, stars, and scattered alabaster clouds.

By pre-dawn, though, my fortunes had begun to turn. I was awakened by a particularly juicy fart, and shortly thereafter found myself dumping a gusher down the Tongo crap chute. Returning to bed a queasy feeling began to invade my guts and I realized I would be sick. After tossing and turning for hours, I finally heaved up a stomach-full of gastric juice, which provided a short reprieve. But, this was followed by a bilious eruption, and I spent the day in bed. Tessa and Tsultrim Dorje also discovered the malaise and found their stomachs coming back up.

Some Tibetan medicine and a lot of rest cured the ailment and by the following day, I had made a recovery.

8-July-2006*Nongte

2006-09-21T21:15:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, we were visited by Pema, Losang Tsering, and a large round driver (whose name escaped me) from the Jomda Department of Overseas Tibetans. They came to check us out. They wanted to know our names in Chinese and Tibetan, our birthdates, occupations, relationships with people here, and where we had visited. They also videotaped us.

Then Pema, who is local party chairman, launched into a long explanation of the Western Expansion (Xi Bu Kai Fang) and its benefits for Tibet. He explained that the central government is extremely kind to Tibet; also, its policies are extremely beneficial to Tibet. For example, he remarked, in prior times the roads were non-existent or extremely poor, but now the government is investing large sums of money into road building, which has great benefits for Tibetans.

He informed us that Mengkhang, Gonjo, and Jomdahave been designated as protected natural resource areas: hunting is prohibited, tree-cutting is restricted to only the amounts "required for locals to use in home heating and cooking." Furthermore, natural areas are to be kept natural while cultivated fields are to be kept in cultivation.

Pema told us that in the 70s and 80s there had been a central policy of trying to utilize every inch of space in China. The populace was instructed to build terraces where the land could be cultivated and to harvest forest resources in other areas. The result, in Tibet, had been massive erosion. Lacking forest and natural ground cover, runoff volumes had been amplified and sediment loads increased greatly. These changes resulted in devastating deadly floods in the flatland areas of central China. But, these policies have been reversed and now environmental protection is the new watchword.

This came as good news to me, and I told them I was very happy to hear this and that, were my countrymen to learn of it, they would be similarly pleased. I hope what he told me is true.

Pema also described other benefits of the central government's Western Expansion policy. He told us that in the past, Jomda was the first area of Tibet to be liberated by the PLA. They had come through this valley and up through Jomda. Similarly, this area is the first part of Tibet to reap the direct benefits of Western Expansion. He explained that goods from the interior, such as modern clothing, are now widely available in Tibet.

And he talked of the benefits of electrification. Now, many homes can use modern electrical appliances. And now, many homes have TVs. He explained that before, people could only sing, dance, or listen to Lamas for entertainment, but now they can watch TV or go to the towns for entertainment. "Xian zai, renao de difang doude hen!" (Now, lively places are very numerous.)

Pema also mentioned the fact that Tibetans pay no taxes. When work crews come from the interior, they have to pay taxes, but Tibetans do not have to pay any taxes on their incomes and business operations.

We told Pema about the road from Chamdo to Jomda, how torn up things are along the road side, and we described the devastating mining operation we had seen along the way. Pema explained that this was only the first stage of the mining operation; there is a 3-5 year plan, and when finished, they will cover over the mined areas and restore the vegetation. I listened with skepticism, but I do hope what he said is true. At the same time, I wonder what damage is being blithely inflicted in the interim, both to nearby and downstream river ecosystems.

They also told us that their office was there to assist visiting foreigners and overseas Tibetans. They gave us their phone numbers and told us to contact them in the future if we want to visit Jomda.

After this exchange, the threesome abruptly stood up, said their good-byes, and left.

6-July-2006 * Nongte

2006-09-14T21:35:00.000-07:00

Today was Guru Rinpoche day. To celebrate the occasion, I went with Tessa, Tsultrim Dorje, Aje, Tamdrin Wangmo, and Oser to do circumabulations around the Nongte stupas. There are 8 of them lined up between two tracks of the Kutse road. The middle stretch, between the first group of stupas and the end pair is filled by a mani wall, stacked high with stones carved in mantras.

We had a grand time circling the set 21 times. We experimented with different ways of walking: skipping, bunny-hopping, cowboy walking, truckin', John Travolta walking, troll shuffling, and football pass plays. While we circled, Tessa had a grand time prancing with some young calves who spent their days in the shadows of the stupas, waiting for their mothers to return from the hills with udders full of milk.

Upon our return to the bridge, we encountered Buru's breadloaf truck filled with suffering. A boy had fallen while picking berries. He had severely broken his femur in two places and smashed up the side of his head and face. He lay in shock, blood and tears on his face, and breathing with difficulty. His mother was wailing with uncontrolled grief, and several of the gathered onlookers also burst into disconsolate crying.

It was a sad scene indeed, but not as bad as it seemed. We heard the next day that although he was still in considerable pain, his head injury was not serious, and a large cut had been closed with 5 stitches. They're fortunate here in the valley to have a working clinic. In past years, such care was simply not available.

5-July-2006 * Nongte

2006-09-05T19:52:00.000-07:00

Today we went to Muteg Tsong for pinic. Muteg Tsong is the name of the household of Tara's sister, Tsega, and her husband Egg. They had set up a tent and arranged a spread of food and drinks for us: dried meat, kap-se, sunflower seeds, peaches, pears, bottled mandarin oranges, crackers, beer, chang, Red Bull, strawberry vinegar soda, and a rare treat: distilled alfalfa spirits, which is reputed to have healing properties.

Tsega and Egg's home is in fairly sad shape, compared to seven years ago. They're living out of a two-room shed built on top of a cattle barn. One room is the kitchen/family room. The other seems to store food and what little remains of their worldly belongings. Their eldest son, Yedo (not photographed), went to India as a bright young monk and became mysteriously crazy there. After returning, he set his parent's home on fire and they lost nearly everything the owned. That was 4 years ago, and their rebuilding project is still incomplete. To me the whole family appears to show the signs of strain. They look worn and haggard, all except Tamdrin Wangmo, who seems quite happy, healthy, and content. Tsega and Egg are kind, warm, and loving people, but their life has been difficult.

Tessa enjoyed her visit to Muteg Tsong on account of a 5-day old calf she was able to play with.

4-July-2006 * Nongte

2006-09-02T17:56:00.000-07:00

We've been in Tong-gu (Tara's mom's home) for 3 days now, and are starting to settle in to the rhythm of life here. Life has changed in several ways since our last visit 7 years ago. For one, the Tong-gu house is new and it's much larger and more comfortable than before. It has a huge friendly kitchen/living room, with space for at least 30 people. Two large jin-goms line the southeast and southwest walls, while cheerful cabinets line the northeast and northwest walls. The walls and cabinets are red, orange, blue, purple, yellow, turquoise, silver, pink, and white. They are decorated with flowers, clouds, and geometric designs, while the edges are intricately carved in flowers and cut-out patterns.

The focal point for this room is a broad black iron stove, large enough to warm 12 large pots. It has a long central firebox, in which meter-long branches can be burnt. The stovepipe has eliminated the pall of smoke that used to fill the old kitchen. Also, since the windows are far from the outhouse (on the NE corner of the house) flies are infrequent visitors to the kitchen. Small stools surrounding the stove support the constant flow of family, relatives, and friends who hang out in this happy place.

Behind the stove are three large water canisters, replenished by hand from the stream behind the house. Above these is a string of dippers, all different sizes. A large pot occupying a central position on the stove is the source of warm water. The next cabinet behind the stove holds the various spices and cooking ingredients. The other cabinets store a variety of pots, pans, and miscellaneous items. One prominent cabinet holds the TV, which, along with the electric light bulbs in various rooms of the house, is powered by a micro-hydro generator behind the home. For 2-8 weeks in winter, snow and ice shut off the electricity, but in the warm season, they have enough to power their lights or their TV and satellite receiver. Amazingly, they can now watch satellite broadcasts from China and beyond in this rural hinterland. Maybe tonight, we'll conjure a remake of "The Cup," as we attempt to watch a semifinal match in the World Cup Tournament. The difference is that here, it seems nobody has even heard of the World Cup!

At this time of year, Khams is vibrantly green, and Kutse Valley is no exception. The fields in the valley floor are bright with growth, flashing forth in the various shades of growing barley, wheat, alfalfa, potatoes, turnips, and hay. The terraced fields of Nongte, swaying gracefully in the wind, are a truly lovely sight.

Now is the time to weed the barley fields. This is women's work, and everywhere, women are to be seen swimming through the swaying barley, crouching as they search for stray grass, oats, and other weeds growing midst their staple crops. They gather the grass and weeds into bundles and carry them, like walking grass heaps, to dry near the barns where hay is stored for winter fodder.

I find it amazing and wonderful that they hand-weed their fields. No herbicides, and nothing goes to waste. The weeds feed the animals. I had the opportunity to help Tsega (Tara's #4 sister) for a short while, thrilling in the peaceful sounds of the Tsang Chu's rushing water and the wind rustled barley stalks. Alas, the experience did not last for long, as Jra-wu (Palmo's husband), Palmo (Tara's #8 sister), and Tsega conspired to wrest me from the fields and back to Tong-gu for lunch.

30 June 2006 * Jomda

2006-08-28T21:38:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting on the broad Jin Gom or "floor boxes" forming a large L in the corner of Gadrön (Tara's #6 sister) & Tsewang Rinzin's kitchen. Gadrön & Tara chat while the TV shows a troupe of little girls dancing in red boots and one-sleeved puffy white dresses. They're celebrating the inauguration of the Qinghai-Tibet railway. Tibet welcomes all of China to come visit the mysterious, happy, friendly, colorful land of gods. Just jump on the train!

The nomads stand with broad smiles next to their yaks midst green flower-filled fields, holding scarves of welcome. But we don't see the foreground photo:
• a valley torn to shreds by a mega-mining operation
• exhaust staining the air while tailings, sediment, and trash spread everywhere
• nomads scavenging the fringes in search of better pasture

Meanwhile, an old lady devoutly spins her Mani wheel next to the railway.

* * *
Yesterday was a trip of trips. We checked out of the Golden River and found ourselves trying to get our heavy suitcases up onto the top of the yellow bus that was to carry us to Jomda.

A happy mix of Chinese and Tibetans took flight up the paved highway to Toba, chatting, laughing, smoking, singing, eating, spitting, and checking cell phones as we rocked and rolled down the road.

We passed through hills, canyons, fields, forests, and hamlets, gradually climbing to the strange wild truck-stop town of Toba. Bus stopped. Everybody piled off into a raucous grimy restaurant. Wok fires roaring, dishes clattering, dust, smoke, flies, and the obligatory dog chained at the back door.

One delicious lunch of fried green beans with peppers and cabbage mélange soup later, we were off again. That's when our adventure began. Before long, we outran the paved highway. Our driver, an artist at the wheel, gunned the engine and plied the red mud ruts.

We crawled up 4450 m Lhazhi La, all the while watching endless gangs of road crews chipping stone, building the mandatory gutters by hand and mortar, kilometer after kilometer all the long way up the mountain. It's a major road-building operation, incredible in terms of the sheer labor required to carve a stable path through this wild land. I wonder whether this road will require constant maintenance.

We bogged down in one rutted mud canyon and everyone had to get off. Driver busted up the slope and we happily climbed back on. Approaching the highest slopes we found them to be covered in purple shrubs all a-bloom. As we crossed the high pass, travelers shouted a cheerful Lha Gyel Lo! and tossed prayer papers to the wind.

We descended into a rolling landscape of high peaks and broad meadows. When the rear-right bus tire blew, we took the opportunity to wander a field of buttercups, Tibetan yams, and lovely little blue flowers.

Bus re-wheeled, we headed for the next pass. On the other side, we encountered the beginnings of a large copper mining operation. We heard the copper reserves in that area rank among the largest in the world. So, the Chinese are building a new mining town to house the army of miners who will wield the machinery of massive exploitation. Already, the valley is filled with heaps of rock, haphazardly sifted and dumped next to piles of trash and rusting machinery. A happy billboard announces the future site of the planned town. What was once a beautiful pasture for nomad herders is now a wrecked wasteland, around which nomads must now steer their herds to higher upland slopes.

Will the mining operation clean up after itself? Or, will they strip the land and leave a massive mess in their wake? I'd like to know.

27-June-2006 * Chamdo

2006-08-25T15:09:00.000-07:00

Am I dreaming, or are we really in Chamdo?! Here I crouch on our bed in the Jin Chuan Binguan (Golden River Hotel). Beside me Tessa is busy in her journal, while Tara channel-surfs Tibetan TV. Somehow we wound up here after spending last night in a clean little room next to the Chengdu Airport. This morning broke clear and fresh after an overnight rain. We hurriedly packed our stuff, grabbed some steamed buns, and made our way to the airport…wondering whether today's flight would be canceled like yesterday's.

But they let us board. And the plane took off. And before long we found ourselves sailing over cloud and snow-clad mountain ranges. I saw majestic Minyak Gangkar soaring above the rest, like a powerful sovereign, reigning over the entire region.

We made our descent from cruising altitude in less than 17 minutes because Bangda Airfiled is so high. The long white runway splits a broad treeless wind-swept valley. The thin air was a balmy 8° this June day, rather chilly after the muggy sweaty 30s we'd experienced for the past two weeks in Chengdu. But the eroded, cracked concrete and deserted mud dwellings near the terminal spoke of a bitter cold desolation that sweeps through this valley in winter.

Our adventure began when we stepped onto the bus. I got to sit in the back, which proved to be great fun as we bumped, twisted, and swerved our way down the 120 km road to Chamdo. From broad flower-strewn meadows with nomads tending herds of yak, sheep, and goats we descended through hairpin twists into a steep deep canyon decked in green and yellow terraces and ornamented with the cheery pine & rammed-earth dwellings of the canyon farmers. Lower still, we reached the Mekong River, red with silt and rushing through iron rocks and rusty earth. Bright green plots of barley and hot-house watermelon farms were interspersed with lovely green poplar groves, hydro power projects, army bases, small mining operations, and what appeared to be a concrete factory running full-bore.

We arrived in Chamdo, crossed the Dza Chu River and found ourselves dropped off on a street side. Then one of our fellow passengers stepped up to help us out. He helped us find a hotel and later, we shared a lunch of delicious yak mo-mos and potato crispers. Our friend is studying economics in college, but he wants to make movies. He commented that all the movies and music videos of Tibet show nothing but beautiful scenery and happy dancing people. They never show the other aspects of life here.

When we parted company, I made the wish to meet again…I really liked him and hope he finds excellent success in his search for fulfillment.

The streets of Chamdo are a blur of beeping taxis and staring Tibetans. Everywhere, they stare at me and Tessa in amazement, their fierce bright eyes wide in wonder. But our lungs and hearts are a bit stressed, so we're laying up in the hotel to chill our heels 'til tomorrow.

24-June-2006 * Chengdu

2006-08-21T22:57:00.000-07:00

2006-08-12T21:42:00.000-07:00

1. The Panda's Dream

Redbird shouts from the human wiretree: "Yellowman! Yellowman!" I look to find yellowman with his dart straw hiding in a food grove. He sees me with his black longeyes, and he takes up his dartstraw. I must hide quickly. So, I slide down the food stalks…and…I can fly over whispering green leaves of bamboo, fly like Redbird.

But yellowman is following! I must swim. So I swim into a hidden pool, lined with Gladiolas, gold and orange. Bluefish points his fin….yellowman is lurking above the pool. I must hold my breath. But…I...must...breathe. Finally, I surface…and I hear the shout of the dart stick…startling me awake…and…I am in my pen, …resting on a flat soft wood platform. Tourists are clapping their hands.

2. Anniversary

It is one year since my mother died, and we've spent this day in Chengdu, mindful of mom/grand-mom throughout the activities of this day. We visited the Panda Research Base, which mom would have enjoyed. She would have taken us there if she could. It's a lovely panda zoo midst bamboo groves. We shot a lot of pictures, some of which would be suitable material for a Jacqueline painting.

We went to Tara's school, wandered through the student cafeteria with its orange plastic chairs, and we chatted with the International Program office staff. Mom would not have chosen either of these activities, nor would she have wanted to eat at the loud little TV-blaring street-side restaurant where we sampled wontons and noodle soup for lunch.

But mom would have enjoyed watching the World Cup game, Italy vs. Ghana, which we sat through back in our room. (Italy outclassed and outscored Ghana, 2-0.)

Mom would be very happy with Tessa, watching her so bright and interested: writing a nice letter to Ms. Waterfield and her SMS gang; completing her Kumon homework; starting to learn some Chinese as she grows and blossoms day-by-day. Mom never got the baby daughter she and Mason had hoped for, but she loved her grand and great grand daughters very much!

Tessa made the wish of aspiration for mom after we did our Chenrezi practice for her: "May she be reborn in the pure realm that daddy wants to go to, or may she even become a Buddha!"

10 June 2006 * Beijing

2006-08-12T21:30:00.000-07:00

These impressions muddle my baffled mind:

Dancing picture words everywhere
Skanky grease alleyways
The religion of shopping
Scorpions on a stick, and skewered frogs, and snakes
Ashamed to give an old beggar 20 Jiao
Loudspeaker blaring, flag-trooping tour clutches trampling Forbidden City
Everyone trying to sell a foreigner anything
Beggars with strange limbs
Beggars with weird skin
Materialism rules supreme
The emperor's throne is empty.

8 June 2006 * Air China

2006-08-12T21:12:00.000-07:00

Black stone and white snow peaks filling the horizon, while below gaps in cloud reveal glimpses of lake, forest, and a scattered tangle of islands midst the navy sea. Our B767 rumbles across the Pacific fringe, but we have arrived in China already. Immediately upon boarding, we were engulfed by Jia-di Ge (bird language). Now, from every quarter, the chirping tangles with Boeing's rumble, a bubbling pot of expectations for this summer.

I know Tara shares my sense of bemused disbelief that we're actually…. *actually* …on our way, after so many days, weeks, months, years of anticipation. we're going to China and hopefully, we're going home, again, after seven years out of Tibet.

I must not leave behind the teachings from this past weekend. How fortunate for me to see the Very Venerable Mingyur Rinpoche in Vancouver, at Palpung Phende Kunkyab. He reminded me of Milarepa's advice. We could live on an island in the middle of a pure, unspoiled lake of delicious mineral water, but if we don't bother to take a drink, our thirst will never be quenched!

I wish I may remember again and again and again to turn toward the recognition of awareness. By doing so, may I ripen my mind stream for the benefit of every being and situation I encounter!