25th of June ----
Wild haired, deep eyed yogis,
children with red cheeks like blooming roses, and mountains littered with
bright faced wildflowers of every color, making a beautiful home for the people
and animals who lived in the mountains shelter. Tibet remains insurmountable on
my list of the most of the most stunning places I’ve ever been lucky enough to
visit.
Fresh out of the airport and driving
toward the village, Rebkong, or the Copper Colored Mountain, where we’d witness
and participate in a rare and sacred puja (ceremony), we we’re greeted with
wild heights hidden in the clouds and confetti of bright prayer flag bunches
that hung over the winding roads. There was a fresh smell in the air that
filled our lungs with moist greenery as my mother and I sat in the back of a crowded
bus on our way to meet Eric and the others that we’d be sharing our travels and
staying with.
When we arrived, after hours of
travel, we went straight up to the temple that it is known for; a beautiful
building with tapestries and long tables where rows and rows of Ngakpas and
Ngakmas (Tibetan yogis that travel around like gypsies) sat in prayer, reading
the sacred Tibetan Book of the Dead. This book was originally written in the
Tibetan language (most copies now are translations, but these guys had the real
deal) and is a book that people use to guide those who have passed away from the
in between stages of death to a new destination. That ceremony was a powerful
one, as all the yogis read the book to the listening spirits together, and so
many people’s prayers and good wishes for the deceased were involved.
The yogis and village people were
dressed in long robes, the men with untamed hair and the women with long braids
and colorful jewelry with turquoise, coral and gold. They we’re some of the
most beautiful people I’ve ever seen or met. It seemed like stress never
touched their youthful faces, always joyful, grateful and generously kind. They
were so rich in so many different ways, yet never in ego.
That first day, I met some other teens
my age… Ethan (homie since 2nd grade), Fiona [15] and Lilly[18]
(outgoing, sweet, fiery ginger haired sisters) and Soan [16] (a French guy who
plays guitar). The first adventure we had was hiking up a large, wildflower-ridden
hill, through thick brush forests to reach the top where we saw a large group
of peacefully grazing goats and sheep. At the top, it felt like a victory. You could
look down the valley and feel like a queen, looking down upon a kingdom of mud
and wood villages, wandering animals and the misty veil of mysterious far away
mountains.
But holy cow. If I thought my
calves we’re screaming in pain from THAT hike, I had no idea what great heights
awaited me in a mere week.
Out of all the beautiful views, and
strenuous hikes that I’ve had YET, my favorite continues to be the two-hour
trek up to a holy, sacred cave way high up in the green, lush mountains behind
the village. The cave (not even really a cave… a couple huge boulders stacked
up to make a little shelter) was home for a great yogi who stayed in that cave
until he reached enlightenment. No
showers, no traditional Chinese hot pot dinners. Just him and the cave with the
rain and a crazy amazing view.
The hike had me sweating and
gasping in the thin, high elevation air in a mere 20 minutes. Thankfully, I had
some really… interesting jokes from
the two boys (Soan and Ethan) to distract me from my aching, tired muscles and unbearable
mugginess. (Thanks guys, I seriously
owe you one… for sure…) Up the mountain, we crossed through a refreshing
hillside forest of conifers that I had never even known could grow in the Tibetan
terrain. The higher we climbed, the more breathtaking the vast expanse of land
was, with its running and rolling hills and tall regal mountains. I filled my
hands with the small wildflowers that grew cheerfully every step we took,
sweetening the air with their various fragrances. There were purple flowers,
yellow ones, spikey pink ones, and white and fuchsia ones that smelled like
jasmine; those were my favorite. Finally (a bit sick of the adults way up ahead
hollering at us to catch up), Ethan, Soan and I took our own detour, cutting
straight up the mountain and following a faint trail that followed a gurgling
freshwater stream. Later on our way down, we drank out of that stream and let
the cold water cool our bodies, slurping the hand numbing liquid right out of
our cupped palms.
The air was so thin that we could
barely hike 20 minutes without taking multiple breaks just to catch a breath of
the fresh clear air. I swear, if the jokes that we’re being told had any actual
humor, I’d have been done for and would’ve been suffocating for the lack of
air. Thank god they didn’t, though.
When the mountain started getting
extremely steep, and victory was only maybe another half hour away, the
elevation was so high and overpowering, that when you turned around and faced
the huge, overwhelming expanse of never-ending height and land that you had
been climbing for hours, you felt your body sway and your head spin fast. I
almost had felt like my whole body would tumble like a wild, astray rock,
kicked down the green grass and brown dirt, if I even leaned a small bit back. Every step I took, it felt like I was going to
fall miles and miles down, a rush running up my body every time I looked
anywhere. Around us, the fog was strong and cooling; the bottom of the valley
was almost hidden in its thick, white arms. Moisture was in the air, rain
threatening to water the hill, and our sweating skin.
When we reached the top, we cheered
with relief, relief that we could finally sit down on the mountains highest
boulders, and that we were able to look down at the massive hike we’d
conquered. Up at the cave, I almost didn’t know where to go to pay respect to
the sacred place that the yogi sat many years ago because it was under a tall
tree that was supporting the weight of t dozens of prayer flag lines, making
almost a huge tent around the cave. In the cave, shrouded by its veil of prayer
flags, there rested a picture of the yogi, surrounded by offerings of lamps,
money and other small trinkets left by dedicated hikers and village people. It
was a place filled with prayer, and filled with the relief to be done with a
huge, arduous hike.
We stayed up there, sharing cookies,
laughs, and taking pictures with a group of Tibetan medicine medical students
(a group that my parents and Alexis, Ethan’s mom, was a part of) and their
teacher Dr. Nida. We listened to him telling us stories about the yogi that had
stayed there, and about two yogis in the village that stayed there for three
years and that were still alive. Turns out, they were the grandpa and grandma
of the house that we were staying with!
After about 20 minutes, we started up again on the laborious, dangerous
trek down the mountain.
I was grateful to be able to
experience such great heights, breathe in the bright, fresh air, and be
enveloped by the cool, white sky. In the past, I always had fantasized about living
far, far up in the tall mountains, on top of a really huge one where you could
see everything, craving the feeling of being on top of every small detail,
seeing things in a larger perspective. Craving to be where life slows down for
you, to create a slow river of thought in place of small town worries and
minute problems that swarm like bees in your head, only visible when you tumble
all the way down the mountain again. I finally was able to get a glimpse of
that fantasy. I had been a queen of altitudes (god knows I’m already the queen of
attitudes..) and I had my queendom of the gaping valley and looming trees and
mountains.
I still craved more, but I knew there would be other
mountains to climb in the future. The sore legs were worth it. So were the bad
jokes.
However
before that hike happened, on the first night we had spent in that village, we
had gotten to meet our house families who had made dinner for us. Our house was
fairly large, with beautiful rooms made out of golden wood, the doorways
decorated with carved designs. The house family was beautiful, not knowing a
lick of English, but being able to communicate with us by using laughter and
wide, bright smiles. They made us traditional Tibetan food and sat us in their
warm, wide dining room, our butts planted on pillows on the floor, legs folded
with our elbows resting on the table. Being vegetarian and not being able to
communicate that I was of course had its difficulties, but for the most part
the food that was made was delicious. We ate a traditional dish called Tsampa,
which is made from roasted barley flower, yak butter, sugar and hot water. It’s
a sort of porridge that you make, mixing in the ingredients one at a time. You
mix it with your fingers, stirring and prodding it like dough until it’s the
texture you want. Then, you enjoy! It’s a very acquired taste, unfortunately. I
doooont think I stayed quite long
enough to acquire it. They also made fresh, warm and fluffy steamed bread. They
would serve these platters of bread in big piles, and people would eat them one
after another. They all had such big appetites compared to most of us, and they
always looked at us in surprise when we were full after only one bowl. The first night, I went to sleep snuggled in a
sleeping bag with extra layers of socks and a hat on, trying to keep warm in my
portion on the floor with all my friends sleeping on the floor next to me. I
remember when I woke up the next morning, nothing could have replaced the
happiness I felt to be in that humble village so far into another reality of
life.
There are
so many stories to tell from that small village nestled snugly in the cradling
mountains of Tibet, so many adventures, lessons learned and traditions that
demanded open eyes, yet out of all of them I can only pick my favorites… This
unfortunately is extremely hard: to pick out the most brilliant, strong stone
out of a pile of diamonds.
But I’ll try!
But I’ll try!
Much love,
Chandra xoxoxo
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