Actually, nothing, except for appearing in this blog entry.
Hello again! This is just a quick update really, as there is only a little out-of-the-ordinary to talk about – life in Tashi Jong is continuing mostly as normal really. Mostly.
Well, Monday night (I last wrote on Monday afternoon, I think) saw the appearance of a couple of couples of Russians, who stayed in the room next to ours. It also saw the reappearance of everyone's best friend, Tashi the druggie. He turned up in the evening, but Mike entertained him (outside) by playing guitar. I, being that kind and considerate citizen you know me to be, thought I'd warn the Rushkies, just in case. One of the couples obviously come here quite a bit (I've seen them once before), as was evidenced by his declaration “Who is this? I know everyone here!”. However, it seems that the KGB are quite as well informed as they'd like to think, since he'd never even heard of Tashi before. Anyway, my good turn for the day done, I went back to whatever it was I was doing (probably lesson planning and reading). Later on, I hear, Tashi was going (staggering) home and fell and cracked open his chin, needing four stitches.
Tuesday was quite strange, as the monks were in the grip of a Power Rangers (Mystic Force) obsession, and consequently spent most of lunchtime attempting to beat each other with wooden sticks, bamboo poles and, in one case, a fairly large metal scaffolding pole, whilst shouting “Power Rangers Mystic Force!” every four or five seconds. In some ways it reminded me of Ascham House Junior School, where we used to play Power Rangers at break time (I have a distinct memory of five of us wandering round the playground pretending to be the Megazord – the big robot that the rangers become when they bond together using their special powers, for those unenlightened ones among you) until the killjoys in charge decided to ban playing Power Rangers. I also remember being (falsely, I should add) accused by someone (I don't remember who anymore) of playing Power Rangers after the banning, and I think, though I'm not certain, that that was the trigger to my spending one lunchtime sitting in the hall with another miscreant (again I don't remember who for certain), with dufflecoats on, believing we were being sent to see the headmaster over the road. As we all know – though I was too innocent to at the time – however, the head was far too busy to see petty offenders like us, since he had a lot of, ahem, work to get through with the secretary...
Anyway, fuzzy memories and dirty (but true) rumours aside, it was quite funny to see these kids, monks on the other side of the world, playing the same schoolyard games I used to play. I also began to teach Dechenwangmo (a local lady) again after a break for my holiday, however my lessons with Khedup reading 'Northern Lights' are, unfortunately, postponed until after the next puja, as he has to practice because he is leading it.
I should take this opportunity to mention the next (real) puja. It is called Mahakhala, and is the lama dance puja. I have tried to get dates and information from various people, most of which was predictably conflicting, however I think I have it all tied down now. On Wednesday or Thursday of this week, they perform the Black Hat Dance, and have a two day puja. There is then a week's break from puja (so I will be teaching then) for the week of my birthday (29th). Or at least part of a week's break. I can't quite work out whether the main puja starts that Thursday or that Friday, but I think it's one of those two (probably the Thursday). On each day of the Mahakhala puja, the lamas perform a different, short dance in the puja hall (so not really public, but I can watch if I want – the biggest problem will be finding out what time the dances are each day). The last day, however, is a sort of big dancing blow-out. The monks, in large elaborate and very colourful masks and costumes (I have seen pictures of the puja two years ago), perform a long series of dances in the main temple square, just in front of the temple. The whole thing is watched, I think, by the Rinpoche and the rest of the monks, as well as a bunch of tourists, monks from other places and, I imagine, the one Tashi Jong yogi who is not on retreat (and is thus allowed to see and be seen).
Of course, half of that information may be totally wrong. We'll see.
Wednesday, again, was not hugely special, though it was a good day. My baby lama lesson went very well, as I had them drawing all lesson, which kept them amazingly quiet and entertained. I also got a package from home, which was nice, containing a memory card reader for my camera, which means you can all see some pictures now! It also contained (if you're interested) a Private Eye, the new Bill Bryson book on Shakespeare (which I've just finished and came as a nice easy read between 'Anna Karenina' and Vikram Seth's epic 'A Suitable Boy', which I found in our wardrobe and is recommended by the LP as a good novel to get a sense of India – it's certainly has the epic proportions of India, coming in at an off-putting 1400 pages) and some baby wipes and diarolyte (rehydration solution). The last two items were either a kind gesture by my parents, thinking that I used up all my rehydration solution in my first bout of illness, or a nasty joke at the expense of my innards. I'm tempted to think both.
Thursday was an awesome day, and something worth mentioning. If you pay much attention to the news, you'll know that it was on Thursday that the USA presented the Dalai Lama with the Congressional Gold Medal (their highest civilian honour, or, as they and my spell checker would have us believe, honor). It is impossible to overstate the respect and adoration that H.H. commands among the Tibetan people, even those, like our monks, not of the Geluk sect (that of the Dalai Lama and the Panchen Lama). As a result, the day was given over to a big party/picnic for the entire village. Meanwhile, across South Asia, I imagine that most, if not all, Tibetan Buddhist monasteries and nunneries were having similar celebrations of their own.
For me, the day started at around 8am, when I wandered up to the kitchens, just to see what was going on. There, an army of village people (an image which doesn't bear thinking about) were all chopping up vegetables and so on. I found out that the food and the celebrations were being organised by the village as much as by the monastery, so that was why it was locals and not monks doing the chopping. I was given, whilst there, some tsampa, which is a sort of porridgey like stuff that comes as a powder and to which you add tea and mix it up with your fingers, then eat/drink it, before adding more tea so that the remaining tsampa forms the porridgey like stuff. It takes a while to get through a full cup of powder, but it is very nice (better with sweet tea than salt tea).
Much of the day I spent playing football and table tennis with the monks, but I don't remember exactly what order the day took (nor does it really matter). In the morning, following a sort of general movement of people, I ended up at the temple, where, for once, the front gates had been unlocked and opened (I'm told that the gatekeeper, an elderly monk who owns two dogs, is too old/lazy to open it very often, since they are stiff sliding iron gates that take a bit of effort to open). The temple was filled with monks (at the front) and locals (behind and on the steps). After saying a lot of prayers (and, in some cases, doing a few prostrations), they all (monks, locals and even kids) laid khatas (one per person) in front of the Dalai Lama's picture, and bowed their heads to him. I was offered a khata by three different people, but I felt that praying to the Dalai Lama (which was what they were in effect doing) was not really right for me (I would have felt a bit of a hypocrite). Evidently Mike felt the same, as he didn't take a khata up either. I respect the Dalai Lama greatly, as a man, but I'm not ready to pray to him just yet. By the end of the ceremony, there was a ridiculously large pile of khatas in front of the picture (the local kids and smaller lamas had to be lifted up to lay their khatas down). The pile, inevitably, fell over at least once. I couldn't help but wonder what happens to them all after the ceremony (and, indeed, what H.H. does with the many he must receive). Perhaps they get sold back on the sly to shopkeepers, so that they can then sell the same khatas to the same people again? That could be a good scam for the monastery to run, but I imagine Buddhists are above that sort of thing.
From there we went out onto the temple square where a large marquee had been set up with rugs running up and down the length of the square, and a few small low tables towards the top with a large throne-like chair in the middle at the top where, unsurprisingly, H.E. 9th Khamtrul Rinpoche, president of Tashi Jong, was sitting. We were then given tea and a small plate of rice with nuts and raisins in it, which was tasty but was more a token than a meal (that would come later). I felt rather privileged as the monks insisted I sit on the rugs under the marquee with them, whilst the locals (including those who work in the monastery office) were sat on the grass around the square. Needless to say, then, we (Mike and I) were the only people under the marquee not dressed exclusively in red, orange or yellow. With one exception. At the top, near the Khamtrul Rinpoche (there is more than one rinpoche at Tashi Jong, like most monasteries, I believe) was one of the yogis, the only one who had come down from where they live, since he was not on retreat, whilst the rest are and thus cannot see or be seen by anyone (besides each other). Food gets taken up there at every meal, and left outside for them to take later. This yogi was dressed in a robe of white with red edging, and he, unlike the monks, lets his hair grow. It was done up in a sort of tower above his head, with the bulk of it in one large dreadlock on top of his head.
After – or maybe before, I don't recall – this plate of rice, the Khamtrul Rinpoche gave all the monks a blessing. They cued up in a line and bowed or knelt in front of him and he touched their heads. The monks insisted that I go up for a blessing, so blessed I was. It was a little strange for me, but kinda cool at the same time.
Lunch, a little later on, was an impressive feat of mass catering. Huge vessels of rice were produced and buckets (many auspiciously marked with swastikas) of some meat & beans (as in runner, not baked) stew, or of boiled spinach and cheese, or of cauliflower, pepper and other vegetables. It was amazing that they provided for all the monks and all the villagers, with plenty left over for seconds and spares. I spent much of lunch talking with a middle-aged monk who was telling me about a school in China, set up by someone connected with the monastery, which was in need of English teachers. Don't worry though, I won't be jetting off to China any time soon. When I return, my bank balance will require a long time to recover. And university is hardly the most profitable time of your life, is it?
Later on in the day, in their quest to really fatten us up, we were served sweet tea and a cherry bun. I talked with Jimmey, Khedup and a few other monks about food, trying to explain roasting, grilling and bacon, as well as telling them all about the French and their crazy foods. We just got onto the subject of tea, when we were all served butter tea. As if I wasn't well fed enough already! Dinner that night was the remnants of lunch, with dhal as well. And there was still some left over the next day!
As well as football and table tennis, I also played badminton, under the watchful eyes of the rinpoche on his throne. Apparently he has been known to play, but only very rarely. Today he merely watched. I have to say, though, that he did look rather isolated and lonely on his throne, with very few people talking to him. This was due, on the most part, to two factors. Firstly his seat was some distance from anyone else, making easy conversation not so easy. Secondly, most of the normal monks and lay people would never approach him to talk to him out of the immense respect they feel towards him. Instead, he sat there overseeing the whole party, reading (at first I thought it was something intellectual, but I later saw him reading comic books, namely a Hindi translation of Dragon Ball Z) and occasionally picking at the carefully sculpted tower of rice in front of him.
I stuck around the marquee after dinner with the monks, demonstrating our various double jointed freaky fingers and so on. I was given some bubble gum and, for the first time ever, worked out how to blow bubbles. Eventually the Khamtrul Rinpoche decided it was time to go and he went back to his residence. He and the other senior monks had barely left their seats, when the monks stormed the fruit bowls in front of their places and got what they could. In England, I dare say kids wouldn't think of rushing for the fruit, but here they did. One of the lamas, Kalzang, gave me an apple and a banana he'd pilfered. The banana was very good and the apple superb.
After H.E. 9th Khamtrul Rinpoche had left, I helped out with dismantling the marquee and so on before playing a bit of kick-the-bottle-into-the-bin. I was then induced into playing a variation on tig, with the square and all around the temple as the field. Suitably worn out, I then went with Tukchen Gyamtso (probably misspelt and mispronounced), a middle-aged monk who I must have mentioned before, though not by name, to help him compose a text to Malaysia. We then talked a little about money; he has a small collection of various currencies and asked if I had a £1 note he could add to the collection. I had to disappoint him by telling him that a fiver is the smallest note we have, and he said he could never ask for that much from me (though, to be honest – and this shows our comparative wealth in England – I would probably have been willing to part with one).
After all that, I went back to my room, as all the monks were gone (to bed). There were a few locals a few years older than us, I think, out playing loud music (bad stuff too, like Sean Paul and the Black Eyed Peas) and dancing. Still, it made a change from the Tibetan music we had playing all day at the picnic (of which I understood one song, the lyrics to which were “tashi delek, tashi delek, tashi delek”, which means something akin to “good luck” and is used as “hello”).
In my opinion, the Dalai Lama should be given more awards, because I had a really good day at our picnic! Maybe he should get an Order of the Garter or something?
After lunch, I have no idea where Mike got to, but he managed to miss the whole afternoon. I know that at one point he was teaching a class of locals, but beyond that I don't really know. He, in my opinion, really missed out!
Friday, then, could hardly be expected to live up to the day before. I got back into the old routine of teaching, which was fairly uneventful, with the exception of one kid hitting Tsewang (the ADHD kid) in the face accidentallyonpurpose at the start of my baby lama lesson, and, as you'd expect from a seven year old, Tsewang bursting into tears. Beyond that, they finished their drawings, making three nice 'About Me' posters that are now on the classroom wall. Friday was also shaving day, and my big lama lesson was punctuated with the newly baldened monks coming in in dribs and drabs.
Saturday was a half day of teaching. I tried to teach the little ones how to tell the time, though if much more than “o'clock” has got through, I'll be very pleased. The lesson was made slightly interesting because they came along with these little things that looked like sweets (imagine greyey-brown parma violets) called Hajmola, which came in orange packets with cartoons on them. So naturally one would assume they were sweets. I was given two, and they were absolutely vile. Turns out they are ayurvedic digestive medicine. I spat mine out, they were that bad. Tsewang, on the other hand, enjoyed them too much and had so many that he had to leave the lesson to go and be sick outside. Nice.
Mike departed for McLeod Ganj after lunch, whilst I opted to stick around Tashi Jong. The afternoon was fairly uneventful; mostly reading and spending time with the monks. One of the monks, Yeshi, who is in my advanced class, showed me his photo albums, including photos of his village and family in Nepal, and photos of him and his friends at the monastery over the past seven years or so. It was quite odd, as it is looking at old school photos, to see them just a few years ago. It also showed just how big a part of their life has been dedicated to the monastery. After dinner I went along with Tukchen Gyamtso to his room again, as I am now giving him conversation lessons (less lessons, more just conversation practice) in the evenings. We talked and listened a little to the cricket (India vs. Australia, T20). He also boiled up some milk to drink, the first time I've had milk as milk in India, I think, though I have had a lot of chai and some milky porridge.
Next in this not-so-quick-after-all update, we come to Sunday. In the morning the monks had a half day puja. I watched the end of this from outside, and was interested to note that there was no sort of overseer or elder monk directing anything (from what I could tell). It had a lesson-like feel to it in so far as the monks would talk to each other at various points, disregard what they were meant to be doing, stare out the windows, etc.. At one point, one of the monks came round with a plate of (and I think I've remembered this word totally incorrectly) zitrill, which were slightly sweet dough balls. In this particular puja, offerings of sculptures made with this dough and what looked suspiciously like white chocolate buttons were made. That is why the monk came round with the dough balls, which are meant to ensure a long life. I was forced to have two. So, unless they cancel each other out, I may well be around long enough to bore you with more blog posts! These dough balls were followed with a sort of holy nectar that was in a special bowl and was spooned onto your hand, and then you lick it off. In English, the word for this ambrosia is Fanta. Yup. Everyone's favourite (unless you prefer Irn Bru) orange stuff. Apparently it also had a tiny bit of alcohol in it, but given how little of the stuff you get, I don't think there's much possibility of the monks getting hammered. It was all really interesting, especially seeing a large tray of this zitrill sculpted into large slabs of cake, topped with what seemed like red icing and white chocolate buttons, being carried off to be given to the gods, who obviously have a bit of a sweet tooth (perhaps explaining the offerings of Hide & Seek cookies I've seen in various gompas). Exactly what happens with the offering I couldn't exactly determine, but someone or some animal somewhere may well be tucking into mounds of zitrill, and probably tripling their life-span as a result.
I spent much of my time typing up all this, though you'll be reading this on Monday (or at least I'm be posting it then). I have also spent time in the usual Sunday pursuits of table tennis and football. If you're interested, my table tennis has got a whole lot better recently! I no longer get crushed in less than a minute anymore. As for today then, Monday. It has been a fairly normal day really. My little lamas only want to draw now, and are having a hard time with 'quarter to' and 'quarter past'. I have had three lessons today: big and small lamas, plus Dechen in the village. She's reading 'Alice in Wonderland', which is interesting. I haven't seen fit to explain Lewis Carroll's “special” relationship with Alice yet. Nor will I.
I will mention a couple of other things. Firstly is about the word lama. I've used it, like every other Westerner, as a synonym for monk, which is not technically correct. A lama is really a high ranking monk or reincarnation, though rarely is it used by itself and has little meaning by itself. Instead it is usually attached to another word, such as in Dalai Lama and Panchen Lama. The Tibetan word for a normal monk is transliterated as 'trapa', but is said almost as 'tawa'. Despite this, everyone understands what you actually mean when you use the word lama. In addition, the school here is called 'Khampagar Young Lama's School'. Given all this, and the fact that no one would really understand me in the West if I talked about trapas, I will keep on using the words lama and monk interchangeably. Secondly, on the subject of Tibetan words, I've picked up the phrase “inchi gheylah” which means “English teacher” and the term they use to refer to me when they talk amongst themselves in Hindi or Tibetan. They use the same phrase no matter which language they are in (Hindi usually). They also call the Tibetan and English teacher (the one at the office who has turned to drink) as “gheylah” as well. I guess it's not too dissimilar from saying “sir”, which is what they call me in English. On the subject of my lamas, I often think of my beginner class as the baby lamas, or the little lamas, yet the oldest of them is fourteen. In contrast, one of the guys in my advanced class is only fifteen. Odd, that.
As I've mentioned before, Tashi Jong has loads of dogs. When I first arrived there were a few little puppies around. These puppies are quickly growing up, and have now been usurped by some midget puppies with a much greater awwwwwww factor. These new ones were born whilst we were in Manali, and are still at the stage when you can pretty much get a hand all the way around them. One of the older puppies was quite ill a few days back, and I haven't seen it since, so I may be right in suspecting the worst. On a totally unrelated note, we've had a lot more meat recently than usual. The opinion of one of the monks I spoke to was that the new puppies may well not make it through the Winter. If I start talking about being served minute chunks of meat in my lunch, then maybe we'll know how right he was...
Anyway, that's all for now. What started as a quick update has become a bumper issue, so I apologise to you for that! Talk to you soon!
