Even Daddy B. with his eyebrow rings was never going get a look in with my charisma. I was almost kidnapped by a young Tibetan boy with the encouragement of his mother in Barkhor Square. Old wizened ladies would come and pat me on the head, young children tugged at my outstretched arms ( they could see from my body language how approachable I am and reacted accordingly). At a stopover in a small village on the road to Tsetang a group of young boys almost pulled my body apart in an effort to claim me and even though it was tempting to remain as a local deity, Daddy B. scooped me up and zipped me into the safety of his backpack. He was even deaf to the blandishments of the deaf mute girl who cradled her arms in a gesture that she would care for me like her own child.
I was carried around in Big Daddy Bazza's small backpack, usually seated atop the two beanies which served as a sort of throne, oops, I mean seat inside the pack with my head protruding and my arms flung wide in friendship. Sometimes I had to sit on bread which was most uncomfortable and made me feel like a sandwich.
The first stop with B. & W. wheezing their way up the Potala Palace entrance was one of those heart-stopping moments and even though the Lonely Planet guide to Tibet says many people come away disappointed I didn't. Especially after being admired by the hundreds of pilgrims thronging the Dalai Lama's residence ( I was told he's not at home at present but having an extended holiday in India). I've asked if I could rent one or two of his rooms for next summer. The highlight came when one of the monks in the temple said he was glad to see me there. After that there was no stopping me.
Even Daddy B. with his eyebrow rings was never going get a look in with my charisma. I was almost kidnapped by a young Tibetan boy with the encouragement of his mother in Barkhor Square. Old wizened ladies would come and pat me on the head, young children tugged at my outstretched arms ( they could see from my body language how approachable I am and reacted accordingly). At a stopover in a small village on the road to Tsetang a group of young boys almost pulled my body apart in an effort to claim me and even though it was tempting to remain as a local deity, Daddy B. scooped me up and zipped me into the safety of his backpack. He was even deaf to the blandishments of the deaf mute girl who cradled her arms in a gesture that she would care for me like her own child.
In Barkhor Square and on the pilgrimage trail I think I caused more of a stir than if Buddha himself reappeared.
Big Daddies kept dragging me to temple after temple but I had already realised after my reception at the Potala that I was something special - indeed, a Bodhisattva. I proclaimed myself as such on the steps of the Potala and have the moment in photographic form for the asking. From then on it was a whirlwind of adventure. Venturing into the Muslim area of Lhasa where we were staying to watch pilgrims at 6am doing one of the circuits which passed the front of our hotel. The sun didn't come up until 8am so unless Buddha can see in the dark they were wasting two hours of precious sleeping time. The pilgrims arrived about the same time as the beggars who spend most of the morning counting their money. They even have their begging profits wrapped in bundles of 10 Jiao in case anyone needs change or wants to change larger notes.
At all the temples and monasteries I was welcomed like a lost friend. I was blessed with water out of an old teapot that was supposed to make all my wishes come true. The water not the teapot. And Big Daddy B. had to bow three times and all that stuff and hand over some cash for the privilege of getting wet, but not wet enough that it was a decent shower or anything which was a pity because the hotel had no hot water and they were only cat washing for their entire stay although I didn't hear any purring while they were in the bathroom.
I ministered pain killers and sore throat medicine to Big daddies for three days as they huffed and puffed their way round the sights. We had hot yak butter tea with the monk guardian of one of the major temples and sat with him and his underlings in the prayer section for a chat although we had to move the maroon covered kneeling mats because we're nor Buddhist and weren't allowed to sit on them. I was about to say something about my new status but Big daddy clamped his hand over my mouth. I bit him.
In another monastery we got a private tour of the kitchen where a nice old monk was making lunch for 700. He said he'd been there for 20 years. I suggested that the lunch must be well and truly done by now. In reality, Big D. said he must be a great cook to keep his job for so long. That pleased him a lot.
There was so much climbing and so many statues - I especially liked the ones that portrayed Boy George and Arthur Askey as famous Lamas - or at least I thought they looked like Boy George and Arthur Askey. They certainly didn't look like lamas - either Fernando or Lorenzo - but there sure was a lot of spitting going on.
When Big Ds could finally stomach having food we found lots of great restaurants serving Nepalese food. And on our way to the airport to fly back to Chengdu, our guide (who had humiliated me by examining my whole body including my rectum because, I think, he suspected I was a video or recording device). He was totally perplexed when I turned out to be merely a superior example of dinosaurus bodhisattvaris. Anyway, our guide took us to the best Tibetan restaurant in Gonkar for lunch. Hmmm, if that's the best then ... (but the food was nice).
For our last night we stayed at Samye Monastery Guesthouse - Samye being the oldest monastery in Tibet. And I think our guesthouse room was too. We had the fabled corner room which meant from the front door you looked straight out on the white stupa; the side window looked out onto the green stupa, the window at the bed head looked out onto the fabled Utse (or Oopsy as I call it) - the monastery itself. The fourth wall looked onto the chipped enamel chamber pot that had to be used for ablutions because we were on the third floor and the toilet block was a long exposed way across the roof from our room. Any of the monks in the Oopsy had a clear view into the men's, as well as the women's, squats.
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Samye, for those interested, is along a 50-km unpaved road that jars the bones second only to the trip to The Killing Fields in Cambodia. Parts of the roadway have been washed away by the sand that surrounds the area - a vast desert in which farmers attempt to cultivate goats. Well, at about 7.30pm, we watched the mist swirl down the valley toward the monastery and realised that most of it was sand. Big Daddy B. decided to take this opportunity to have one of his first experiences with a squat toilet (his first was in the airport at The Plain of Jars -ask him about it).
His second experience was not without its moments. Three floors up with sand, mist, cold wind, log fires and incense swirling, Big D. squats and feels the wind whistle up the three storey drop which is not the cleanest anyway. Sanitation is by way of a large metal ladle and a tin drum of water outside and which none of the hotel patrons seem to use.
So Big D. is squatting, the wind is howling, and its blowing unsavoury items not previously flushed back up the squat hole. There is just so much you can do with pieces of used toilet paper adhering to your genitals while attempting your ablutions in the pitch black - particularly when said used items are not your own. |
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In the middle of the night Big D. pulled the curtain of our room aside and from our bed we could look out and see the mountains like cardboard cut-outs against the slate sky. And the stars that stood out like specks of white rice in the bottom of a burnt saucepan.
So anyone wanting to become my devoted pilgrim, send money to this address and chant 'Not the Mama' while walking around my ego in a clockwise direction. - Tofu
