Tibetan field trips: the REMIX

The name of the tiny monastery nestled amongst the caves at the peak of a mountain that my students took me to is Drja Yehba.

I know this because in the pitch black of 6.15 this morning I woke up the old gate man with as cheery a "shopea deleg" (good morning!) as I could muster (the effort was not reciprocated) so that he could unlock the school gate for me and my bike so that I wouldn't be late to catch bus out there with two of my friends.

That makes two trips to this place in less than a week. Coincidence? Is there any such thing?

So: The REMIX: Drja Yehba in monks, not students.

Monk:

A man feeble of stature, not even reaching to my armpit. Adorned in the standard maroon robes that reek of rancid butter and body, his expression and chatter was amiable. His abode, however, was terrifying. A tiny, dingy half cave half cell with a bed wedged underneath a series of pictures of gods and carvings of other gods, surrounded by small metal bowls of water and an accompanying massive lamp of butter offered by all manner of hopeful pilgrims to the crowds of gods in the room. He insistently pointed out a place on the rock which was worn dark and smooth where people had rubbed it for luck.

Wake up from your reality, make up your mind...

Monk:

Young, shaven head, yawning in sun finally making its way over the mountain ridge. One hand holding a cell phone to his ear, the other adjusting his robes. He pays zero attention to the dusty pilgrims trudging in a weary line with spoons of butter outstretched. Seemingly content to stare out at the deep valley and surrounding mountain tops below he placidly ignores shelves of gods and the mao notes squished into butter all over the cave behind the door at which he stands.

Take up your cross and follow me, child don't be draggin, be laggin behind...

Monk:

Crouched on a wooden stool more bent than he is, he sways to the rhythm of his own mumblings. Crowded in the dank cave, smelly home of gods, by even a single visitor, the heat and motion of five persistent pilgrims and one foreigner interrupt his trance as he begins to pour water over their heads and into their hands. A startled glance at a white face leaves him gesturing wildly with his ladle and free hand, "come and have a drink". A swift "no, no, I don't want it" gives him a pause long enough for the refuser to remember another offer: he who drinks the water I give him will never thirst again.

You've wasted all your energy, you've wasted your life...

Monk:

Hidden in a room underneath a much worshipped rock, hidden beneath heavy folds of maroon fabric to fight the damp cold of the room, hidden in the shadow of the flickering butter lamps lining the edge of the room where a row of gods sits growing dusty. He pours over a thin, rectangular, horizontal book of scripture mumbling and turning the pages in time. His watery eyes see nothing clearly, they do not make out the pills spilled out of their containers on a shelf nearby, or the bottles of dish washing soap covered with grease piled in a corner. Those eyes of his are too familiar with the unblinking eyes of the statues which stare out of their holes at him day and night.

Try to save and you'll lose it but not if you choose Him...

Monk:

Young enough to look more at home on a busted basketball court than in the presence of the budda statue that sits two stories tall. He keeps himself busy trimming butter lamp wicks, straightening kadas, and making change for pilgrims that need an excess of mao notes to offer to the various statues. His rushing about does not disguse the fact that he is most likely bored, and daydreaming about all manner of things besides the looming fascade of the gods he serves.

So that you might live.

I am who I say that I am and you are whom I called to be free and He is the lion and lamb so wake up, wake up, wake up and be free now.