This is your first birthday in Tibet!

I woke to two happy birthday text messages… there were four more before the knock at my door and two brightly wrapped boxes containing another yak and a donkey with detachable saddle bags of beans appeared. A note attached saying “Happy Birthday Ms. Kelly! I love you so much!” All this before my nine am class. Which I didn’t get to until about nine o’ six because three students had been sent to stall me with “what did you have for breakfast Ms. Kelly?” and “oh my stomach is so sick” and “there’s nobody in class!” I walked up to the building with these three students begging me to walk slower only to look up at their classroom and see that all the curtains are drawn. I stopped, pointed at the curtains and demanded “what is happening in the classroom?” The only response from these three was “there is nobody there!” Yeah right, and it’s the first time I’ve been late all year.

I pushed the door open only to be literally blown away by party noise makers, shootable streamers, and masses of silly string… on the desk is a ridiculously huge cake that reads, in perfect English, Happy Birthday Ms Kelly! Best wishes for you! After the silly string settled to the floor, or ceiling, or anywhere it happened to land, one student jumped up and lit the biggest candle/possible blowtorch I’ve ever seen which is also playing a tinny rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’. At the end of the chorus the candle half melted half exploded into a plastic flower and continued to play ‘Happy Birthday’ until some student smashed it. We ate cake, smeared it all over our faces, then had English class.

I walked into my eleven am class expecting nothing, haven’t I already had a birthday party? However, as soon as I opened my book to begin teaching it was like a time warp as the silly string and rousing singing filled the classroom… from out of nowhere came an identical massive cake complete with musical candle/blowtorch flower. The first class blew me away, this one stole my heart. The first to the front of the room was one of the boys, he handed me a box and began a speech which you know he had been practicing all night: “Ms. Kelly we know this is your first birthday in Tibet, we want it to be happy day for you, we very love you, this is for you, Happy Birthday.” A box and a kada… then forty kadas, a heap of shy birthday wishes, and a pile of boxes later… me almost in tears. We cut the cake, pour the sweet milk tea, and start passing out handfuls of sunflower seeds… class, if there was to be any class at all today, would have to start later.

Some students helped me carry all the gifts home. I have no capacity to describe what it felt like to open box after box of random trinket, after bracelet, after musical something all with accompanying notes of “Happy Birthday, I love you” or some variation. Here were all the things that they couldn’t say to me, all the things that they wanted me to know in the riddle of necklace or bottle of perfume or miniature piano which played random melodies. Some of the most notable gifts: the boys had gotten together to get me four identical pairs of plastic slippers in different colors (the explanation: there are eight boys in the class, one shoe for each boy), the right size too. One girl gave me a wind up musical pencil holder with the note: this small gift is my heart. Another gave me a lanyard with the note: now I am a student so I have no money, this gift is so small but I want you will like it. Another gave me a bracelet and wrote that it wasn’t very valuable but that it would delegate forever her love for me and hopes that I would never feel alone in Tibet. A few hours later a whole dorm room of students from the same class dropped by with more gifts, the most frightening of which was a mask of the Lord of Death with their names written on the back, the most endearing of which was the following note:

Dear Ms Kelly, Happy birthday to you, we all wish for you have a good time and good luck every day. Our class all the student forever love you. We never change our heart to your love. You must remember. Ok! Happy Birthday to you!

Could it be anything else?

Jack Frost is nipping at my nose...

meanwhile, Sally Sunbeam is burning my cheeks.

I know that people the world over, particularly in countries like England where the weather is a pretty much standard drizzly gray all year, love to discuss the weather. I really think the question "Can you believe the weather today?" is what separates people from animals, among other things.

So I say with zeal, part in order to distance myself from the mangey looking dog hanging out around our building, part in plain alarm, "Can you believe the weather today?" No people. You can't. This past week has been warm, even hot. This morning I woke up to brilliant sunshine, a warm breeze, and fog covered mountains. By mid-afternoon the sky was black and it was snowing. I felt like an idiot, but I actually wore my big jacket to my afternoon class even though all I had been wearing to the morning class was a cardigan. That goes against everything I know about normalcy.

Needless to say, my latest discovery about Lhasa: the weather here will turn on you in a minute... literally. So carry your entire wardobe with you everywhere you go, chances are, you'll probably need every bit of it in the span of a few hours.

Now follow me, if you will, down a rabbit trail of reflection. Everything about this place is extreme: The mountains are extremely high, the sky is extremely blue, the air is extremely dry, the streets smell extremely like urine, the food is either extremely bland or extremely spicey, the bus drivers are extremely unpredictable, the social atmosphere here is extremely complicated.

And to top it all off, the whole place, everything about this city and the lives of the people here, is extremely saturated in idol worship.

Dare I wonder if the extreme displays in the heavenlies, particularly in regard to the weather, are anything less than an extremely merciful creator sending extremely clear messages about his extreme power and redeptive love for the people here along with his extreme displeasure in the abominations that assualt every single one of the senses and veil the hearts and minds of the residents?

Dare I?

Did I really hear a whispher of have you seen the storehouses of hail which I reserve for times of trouble, for the day of wafare and battle? Or did I just feel the hail pelt against my face on my way back from lunch?

Maybe the weather is just an idle topic of conversation that you'll never hear being discussed among the birds that gather on the powerline outside my window...
Or maybe, just maybe, it's the voice of one who says with horrifying authority get ready to answer me like a man when I question you and with captivating gentleness my compassion is stirred.

Blistering cold and blazing sun. Oh Lhasa, when will you get it?

Who stole my pic-i-nic basket?

No one on earth would be foolish enough to steal a Tibetan's picnic basket, especially once knowing the probable contents.

In the wildly unpredictable weather of a Lhasa spring evening I pushed my bike through some bushes to join a picnic with some like minded friends. These girls are the antithesis of brash worldliness. They are beautiful, they do everything shyly. As I help them unfold the mat to sit on we begin to pool our pittance of snacks for the picnic: pickled chicken feet, some sweet biscuits, some sunflower seeds, orange juice, and, my contribution, m&m cookies (aka. American Momo's). In case you haven't noticed, picnics in Tibet are not really about eating.

Picnics in Tibet, to the chagrin of Yogi bear or the hungry guest, are really about just being together. For about two hours I sat with these girls learning Tibetan praise songs, chatting about the weather and my Tibetan language progress, mulling over the crazy guards (who one minute told us we couldn't sit on the tree, the next minute told us we must sit on the tree), discussing why my thighs are so fat and why I don't have a boyfriend (I told them it was because my thighs were so fat... they didn't see the correlation), spitting sunflower seed shells everywhere, passing out cookies to random passersby who wanted to have a closer look at the strange foreigner, shivering in the clouds and sweating in the sun.

Picnic: noun: a meal eaten outdoors.

Allow me to offer this definition Webster's:
Picnic: noun: a chance to love the mess out of some sisters in desperate need of love.

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.

A severe case of the randoms...

You people are in for a treat, because when a case of the randoms happens in Lhasa it is always severe:

• A pudgy old man on the bus complete with cowboy hat (sans feather sadly) and orange plastic bag full of boiled chicken feet to munch on spitting the nails out onto the bus floor.
• Ladling out gallons of fresh butter tea to the local nuns to drink with lunch is harder work than it looks.
• "Sangeh la gah kah lab" It's like teaching Buddha the alphabet.
  
• Passing by an electronics shop front only to glance inside and see the lone employee using an ab hula hoop.
  
• The utter shock on my student's face when I admit to her that I don't have any MSG.
  
• The pleasure of the smell of freshly popped popcorn in contrast to the near constant smell of urine.
  
• A student who opens up the umbrella to use while sitting in the bus explaining, "umbrellas are for rainy, sunny, and slowly".
  
• Using a precarious squatty potty with a fantastic view of the entire city of Lhasa with a nun friend. Three holes available and she chose the one directly next to mine, that's a thigh touching bonding experience.
• The horrid low drum beats and distorted moanings of a group of monks chanting scriptures.
  
• The song "Dearly loved" by Jimmy Needham blessedly replacing the continuous soundtrack of "Take me to your heart" by Michael Learns to Rock.
  
• Seeing a Chinese colleague of mine swing a bag of sheets around his head while imitating another colleague's style of dance in the middle of the street.
  
• Da pan ji (big bowl of chicken) = delicious. Boiled rice, raisins, and yak butter = not so much.
• Changing "rooms" in clothing shops more accurately described as openings under the stairs with a shielding curtain and no light or mirror. If you look ridiculous you've got to come out into the open to find out.
  
• "Rangla goobeh yunden teh, nyima rela tsik rje sung, kangshe nin gya songwah na, tsik gya malu contu chu": Tibetan proverb meaning, "if you learn one word in one day, one hundred days will pass and you will know one hundred words".
  
• Chinese fashion, only in Asia is double pretty acceptable.
  

Oh people there's more... this is severe...

Tibetan field trips in pics

Tibetan field trips in brief

Today I had my first class outing. The experience, like most in this place, was totally surreal.

The journey:
It was about a forty-five minute drive outside of Lhasa, which means up into the mountains, along some extremely winding roads that our driver chose to traverse as if they were straight runways. Along the way there were sudden stops to pick up pilgrims and other passersby and the soundtrack was a really delightful medley of about 20 student voices and an assortment of Tibetan and Chinese pop songs. Chatting with students and spelling out really useful words for them like "barf" provided additional entertainment. Is there anything more unusual than a lone white girl on loaded bus sharing dried yak meat and brief Tibetan phrases with everyone else on board?

The destination:
Picture a few buildings nestled in amongst all manner of caves in the rocks near the peak of a mountain. More chortens and incense burners than buildings was the monatery we arrived at. This place made me nauseaus, and it had nothing to do with the wild bus ride up to that altitude.

My students spent all kinds of money buying butter and incense from the people at the bottom of the stairs which led up through the monastery. For luck. They even paid a random pilgrim some additional money to take some prayer flags which they had just bought up to the top of the mountain for them. For luck. We went into every little cave and every little room. Most tiny caves were pitch black and a monk sat at the back of them nestled amongst butter lamps and some budda statue. For luck. The monks beds that we passed by were notable being rotten smelly things usually exposed to the elements and you can be assured that no night of peaceful sleep ever happened there. Caves of rotting tangkas, butter smeared everywhere, mao notes squished into the butter all over the cave walls. For luck. Most caves had some special rock you were suposed to rub or sit on. For luck. Every statue we had to walk around clockwise. For luck. When I saw a budda wrapped up in cloth I commented that he must be cold and another sitting amidst bowls of candy offerings that he must be hungry, to the amusement of my students who have never dreamed to question why they do any of these things because it's all for luck.

The place that made me sick with rage to the point of real nausea was one particular cave. There was absolutely nothing special about it, in fact it looked like the monastery's dump because there was so much trash in the back. Yet, there sat an old monk who diligently pointed out to us all of the gods that had formed naturally in the cave which should be worshipped. For luck. So what did all of my students do once they had, finally, found what gods he was talking about? They worshipped. Do you want to see what they were worshipping? I bet you do.

That light spot near the upper center... that's their god. There were two others just like him in other parts of the cave.

There is so much that I can't write that I wish I could.

The lunch:
Between snow drifts, hail storms, and bursts of deceptive sunlight our group pushed our way into the only tea house at the tiny monastery. There was absolutely no room as everyone on the mountain had the same idea as we did. However, because I was a foreigner and easily the only one that they'd seen in perhaps months if not years, the staff made room for us in their kitchen/bedroom. So we crowded in amidst all manner of personal and kitchen items to rest in the musty, dark grunge of tea house life. The tea house was also out of food (I'm fluent enough in Tibetan to understand the word "mendu" (not have) repeated endlessly). So we lunched on some plastic baggies of cold noodles and potatoes and drank most of our body weights in butter tea (of which there is always an endless supply, I'm becoming convinced that that stuff springs out of the ground around here). Luckily I had made some cherry walnut biscuits for everyone to share.

The awkward:
I don't know how to describe this situation. So I and three other students thought it prudent to use the toilet at the same time. We made our way over to the concrete hut that serves as a WC, passing out paper and chatting. The concrete hut is really just that, four concrete walls and a concrete floor with three holes in it which drop over the side of the mountain. No stalls, no trashcans, no potpourri, just holes. My students graciously allowed me to go along with two of them while the third one waited... directly in front of us as we were squatting over holes doing our business. As I'm feeling the icy air rush through the hole to my exposed bum the fourth student, an adorable and shy girl, who was standing right in front of me asks, "Ms. Kelly, today are you happy?" Squatting in filth with mess spread all over the mountainside below me, I glance at the two other girls and look at this one and answer completely honestly, "I am so happy to be with you." Then I wiped myself and pulled up my pants.