Sally’s posterous

I am on the move away from most communications infrastructure now... most likely no more updates until early July.  Best wishes everyone!

Lhasa supports a small community of contemporary painters, and I had
the opportunity to visit a few of them and see one of the galleries at
which they display their work. The artists are remarkably diverse:
Chinese, Tibetan, Chinese-Tibetan mix, atheist, Buddhist, Muslim, men
and women. Each artist's work is surprisingly unique in style,
distinctive in technique, color, subject matter. Yet a singular theme
runs through it all, that of aggressive change, the coming of
modernity in a high, traditional culture, and the rough merging of
Chinese and Tibetan lives on the high Plateau.
 
Several of the artists were trained as thangka painters, the
traditional depictions of Buddhist figures and iconography -- sacred
art. Their free-form work is often inspired by this age old style,
though quite a departure from it. One artist, Gade, is known for his
iconographic style of showing contemporary culture, in an old style:
antiqued canvases, earthy tones, thangka-like composition, but Mickey
Mouse as a Buddha-figure, the Incredible Hulk as protector deity. His
vision for his work is to be a mirror of the vast changes of the
culture here.
 
Other artists depart completely from the traditional Tibetan religious
artistic style. Abstract, impressionistic, surrealistic styles
abound, though the work remains distinctively Tibetan. The subjects
are nomads, pilgrims, iconographic places such as the Potala Palace or
momentous events such as the coming of the Chinese railroad.
 
There is no Shangri-La depicted in these paintings. They are edgy,
they make the viewer uncomfortable, needing to think about and process
the emotion, motivation, and subjects. Folk subjects clash with
modern objects, expressing the speed and pain of this quickly changing
society.
 
This is no underground group of beatnik poets; many are savvy, famous,
wealthy artists. Their work, though provocative, is often
well-received around Tibet, mainland China, and the rest of the world.
 Some receive criticism for riffing on traditional, sacred styles.
Some are not well-understood, or are young in their careers. Still, I
see their work as a valuable personal catharsis and important
representation of this world, that is changing so quickly that most
people can't even keep abreast of all that is new. Some of it is
displayed at asianart.com. I highly recommend checking it out.

Drak Yerpa is a cave retreat complex, near to Lhasa and famous for its
place in the history of Buddhism's takeover as the dominant religion
of Tibet. In the 7th Century King Tsongsten Gampo came there to do
divinations to determine the appropriate location for the Jokhang
(which is situated in the middle of the old city of Lhasa).
Guru Rinpoche is said to have meditated there, and left a number of
'rangjung' formations, supposedly self-formed rock formations that
look like his footprints, handprints, etc.
 
Drak Yerpa was, of course, an important religious site even before the
Buddhist revolution. It had to have been -- why else would it have
been of such interest to the Buddhists? Its location was also prime
for a religious retreat: high caves, and ample room for many people,
yet quite close to a fertile valley. Thus it would have been
relatively easy to support meditators.
 
As of a few years ago, a new road leads up to Drak Yerpa from the main
cut-off. It snakes upwards in sweeping switchbacks, through what had
been an ancient sod meadow but is now gravel and retaining walls. A
dusty parking lot, a few chow mein shops, and a ticket office await at
the top. If one can outrun the ticket collector, one can leave that
money in the temples that pepper the hillside, and with the monks and
nuns that maintain them. Most of the temples were built around cave
sanctuaries: superstructures in front hold assembly halls, a shrine or
two, and room for devotional practice. In the back, a passageway
might lead to a cave, with shrines, butter lamps, and someone to tell
the story of the place.
 
Drak Yerpa isn't really a tourist stop yet, but one monk estimated it
sees about 1000 people each day -- mostly daytrippers from Lhasa,
well-to-do Tibetans who come to light some incense, say a prayer, and
have a picnic on a nearby hill. There are no practitioners there
anymore -- just enough monastics to keep the shrines open but not
enough to practice and meditate on the teachings. For some of them it
is too busy for extended meditation. Most visitors only come to pay
respects; the ability to perform ceremonies or give teachings is not
there. The young visitors, especially, exude a sense of connection to
their religion but it is clear they haven't had the benefit of growing
up steeped deeply in its philosophical teachings -- beyond that which
seeps into the rich everyday culture. Still, the connection is
powerful and it is inspiring to see young people with their friends,
multi-generational families, and solo pilgrims make a day out of a
visit to this wonderful place.

I'd been hearing stories all spring about the situation in Nepal.
Minimal electrical production was commanding load shedding of 18 hours
or more each day, water shortages, social unrest, government failure
to form a coalition, continued failure to integrate the Maoist and
royal armies, or to create a new constitution.
 
Flying to Kathmandu on Monday, the plane crossed the rural and
mountainous areas of Nepal, which look almost empty from the high
vantage point of the plane. Then, dropping into the Kathmandu valley,
it is all of a sudden back-to-back residential and business areas.
The whole valley is full. 2.5 million people now live here, compared
to a fraction a few years before.
 
The weather was blessedly cooler than the Indian plains, and in many
ways Kathmandu felt the way it has been described by foreigners for
decades: hospitable, friendly, full of culture and history,
interesting places, art and artisans.
 
In some ways, it is still all those things. But there is an overall
deterioration of morale and infrastructure too -- even since what I
noticed last fall. Petty money-making schemes are on the rise, from
the oldest cheap-taxi-ride-if-you-go-to-the-hotel-where-I-get-commission
scam, which was rare in Nepal and is now blatant at the airport, to a
new service tax at restaurants, which is compounded with other taxes
to bring the rate to 24% for every meal.
 
The biggest challenge right now is uncertainty. Day-to-day, things
may run as normal. But one never knows when that will change. A is a
universal truth, I suppose.
 
[Having started this post a few days ago but never finishing it, I am
now posting from Lhasa -- arrived here last night after a grueling
2-day overland trip here.]

Nam Tso is a lake north of Lhasa, 50 miles wide, 1000 feet deep, and
at about 15,500 feet in elevation. It is an ancient place, full of
spirituality and mystique. I spent the past week camping on the south
and north shores and visiting some of the ancient holy rock formations
and sites. One of the goals was to survey some temple ruins and cave
paintings -- my travel partner has undertaken to document as many
sites as possible across Northern Tibet, and though he has visited
these places before, he wanted to have a more thorough look around.

The south side of Nam Tso was covered in an early-winter snow, drifted
a few feet deep in places. It doesn't melt up there, but instead
blows around and slowly sublimates. It conforms to the wind the same
way that sand does. Nomads were rushing to get their herds to
grassland, but we saw remains of some animals that didn't make it.

We headed first to Tashi Do, which is a sacred headland out the south
side of the lake. From afar, it looks like an island. The headland
itself has been built up by the Chinese -- a paved road runs right
into the sacred areas and in the summer dozens of tour buses day trip
there -- but this time of year, and especially this year, the area was
pretty deserted. There is a cluster of temporary buildings (though no
permanent buildings have been allowed there yet), and a small
population that lives in them to support the tourist trade. Big
Tibetan dogs live there too, and were endlessly curious about our
tents, which we pitched near a mani wall and the site of a footprint
of Rangjung Dorje, the third Karmapa.

A few longtime residents of Tashi Do live comfortably in a set of
caves on the western side. The cave homes are quite cozy, decorated
the same as Tibetan stone houses with a clever wood stove in the
middle for heat and cooking and couches and various shelving and
niches around. Visiting them, we learn about the conditions for our
road ahead and about the increasing government focus and management of
the area. It is not so easy for residents and traditional pilgrims
there, as it becomes more and more a tour stop-off. Entry fees can be
steep, but so far little of the revenue has gone towards preservation
or local support.

In the raging wind we turned on a shortwave radio and heard the news
of Barack Obama's dramatic victory. In such a remote and difficult
corner of the world, I marvel at the strength of democracy back home.

We left Tashi Do after a day of stormy weather which blew the snow
around and closed the pass back towards Lhasa. Fighting our way
through drifted snow we made our way around the lake to the north
side, to some beautiful headlands and previously
unvisited-by-westerners caves. The caves on these headlands were home
to many early communities of religious practitioners, both Bon-po and
Buddhist, though the legends co-opt them for themselves. Today they
are either deserted or used by nomads for their herds, and many have
cave paintings, beautiful and esoteric.

Life is not easy in the north. It is at least 10 degrees colder than
Lhasa, remote, with little infrastructure -- a road maybe, but no
health services and the only schools are in the county seats run by
the Chinese. Most people are semi-nomadic, taking herds of yak,
sheep, and pashmina goat to seasonal pastures. I watch daughter nurse
grandaughter while grandmother looks on. Invited into people's homes,
we are inevitably offered an array of food, whatever they have.
Always butter tea served in small bowls, and maybe tsampa (roasted
barley flour which each person mixes with butter, dried cheese whey
and sugar), delicious homemade yogurt, thukpa (noodle soup with meat),
or meat, cabbage and rice. This is pretty much the diet -- high
energy, but not much green.

Opportunity for Tibetans is low, especially as a minority race without
some of the advantages the Chinese have here. We saw many (espeically
younger people) on pilgrimage on their way to Lhasa. They travel on
the highway that runs north from the city to Nag Chu and Amdo,
prostrating the whole way. There isn't much shoulder so they are
often right in the road with the big trucks and buses. We estimated
they could travel between 3 and 5 miles each day. Their resolve and
devotion is awe-inspiring.

Back in Lhasa, the feeling is tense. Just a few days here, and then
back out to the countryside.

Tibet is called the land of snows for good reason, even though the
climate is dry and and trending towards drier (desertification is
common in the river valleys and, as with much of the world, glaciers
are shrinking at an alarming rate). In the north snow can fall in the
summer. Last week, we saw tracings of snow in the central valleys and
a few inches in the higher elevations that we visited. In parts of
eastern and southern Tibet, reports of somewhere between one foot and
a few feet of snow fell. It's considered good luck, as the moisture
is needed.

There are no newspapers here, so news is all grapvine, but I heard
that nine people died from the cold as a result of the storm.

Traditionally people wore layer upon layer of wool and sheepskin-lined
clothing – long underwear, woven wool trousers, woven wool skirts and
overcoats (chubas). The clothing is heavy, thick, bulky, and very
warm. And, in this climate nothing else works all that well. New
poly-pro layers don't do a whole lot for a village woman who sits all
day sewing, though they might work when she is active. Nuns and monks
dress in cheap factory-made, cotton robes – they used to have heavy
cloaks – and they look cold. A cold-weather flavor of Western
clothing has become fashionable, especially in the cities – trousers,
knock-off down jackets, sweaters. Many people mix traditional-style
clothing and Western-style clothing, but even the traditional layers
are factory-made, with fake fur and polyester instead of wool. Not
very warm.

I've been gearing up to camp in the north, where there is no shelter
from strong winds, the elevation is around 15,000 feet, and the
daytime temperature will easily be 15 degrees less than that of Lhasa
(maybe freezing during the day, around 10 F at night or so). Always
trying to avoid buying from the Chinese factory and looking for warm
stuff, I took the opportunity to support some local handicrafts. I
added to my high tech layers from home a coat made of hand-woven wool,
which was hand-sewn for me in the market. It's beautiful and very
warm. As I type now, I'm hunkered under a new chuba, which will be my
outer layer, and a blanket at night. It's lambs wool inside (I'm
assured they died of natural causes) and wool outside, and about the
shape of a bathrobe. I also picked up an inexpensive yak-wool blanket
and a me-sized rug to lay down for camping.

All in all, it's not cheap to stay warm here, and prices are climbing
almost daily. Apparently everything is upwards of 30% more than it
cost last year, especially materials and food (including yak meat,
which is a staple). I can see why people buy the cheaper factory
stuff – they have little choice – but it's a shame, for the local
crafts and for their own sensibilities.

I get many compliments around the Barkhor on my coat, from Tibetans of
all ages. They are happy to see a well-made garment, especially on a
westerner. They spit on their hands and rub them on the wool to get
lint off. I must learn more of the language so I can tell them I'd
rather not have them do this.

Tomorrow we head north to visit Nam Tso, some ancient sites, and some
other remote places. Happy Halloween (belated), Birthday to Jake and
to Nancy, Election, and Veteran's Day!

"Kora" is a Tibetan word that describes going around something sacred.
There are usually prayer wheels all along the way. Visiting
monasteries and other sacred places in Lhokka prefecture the past few
days, I've done a lot of koras. Making a kora is the best way to
start a visit to a place, allows the mind to settle and gives a chance
to look around before having to engage with the various people curious
to see a tourist – monks, security personnel, etc.

The histories of the monasteries are incredibly complex. The four
main Tibetan Buddhist lineages, Nyingma, Sakya, Gelugpa, and Kagyu
intertwine and affect each other deeply. At Mindroling, for example,
which is a Nyingma monastery, there is a whole room of Sakya statues
that were moved there at some point for safe keeping. Samye, the
oldest Buddhist monastery in Tibet, has seen a succession of lineages.

Monks showed us around the monasteries, explaining different statues
and the history of the places. Sometimes they wanted to talk too,
about the current tightly-controlled situation, about the dharma, or
about how to say things in English. One thing is certain, the
workings of the monasteries are ever closer under the control of
officals – how many monks are allowed to be there (just enough to
maintain the place), who can teach there and how much (not much), and
when monks can leave (not often).

Above Samye, there are a few famed retreat areas, which warranted a
visit. High in the valleys, above roads and away from daily scrutiny,
yogis and monastics still practice. Caves used by Guru Rinpoche,
kings, and high lamas dot the area. It seemed a refuge, and some calm
– a reminder perhaps of what the big monasteries were like. We talked
to one yogi who had been up there for 6 years, practicing in a
dilapidated tin hut butted against a large boulder. Hair long, skin
blackened, powerful presence.

Monastery ruins are common all over Tibet. We wandered around some,
surmising what different parts were. Most were destroyed during the
cultural revolution. Jampa Ling, the ruins of which sit on a hill
above Dranang, was a huge monastery and is now just a few monks and a
temple. High above, a double wall runs along the ridge between the
old complex and the Yarlung Tsangpo (the Brahmaputra in India) valley,
and I wondered what it was for. Walls protect, and they divide. I
crossed to the far side and followed the wall a ways, without knowing
when there would be a gap to come back over, just to see what it would
feel like.

We made this four-day jaunt in a land cruiser piloted and co-piloted
by a Tibetan guide and driver, who alternated singing along to music
and joking with us, poking fun at each other. We found beautiful
places to camp along the way as well, in a poplar copse next to the
Yarlung Tsangpo, a shallow pasture, a deep valley at high elevation.
It's been below freezing at night, and we had snow in the mountains.

I've been making notes, trying to remind myself of some of what I see
– and I am also spinning with my own thoughts. Images of Chinese
sprawl in small towns overlaps with questions about why I am here,
what purpose this journey holds for me. I know I look too hard for
it. I was reminded of this as we travelled through villages, where
people spend their whole lives -- not seeking, but building, farming,
making clothes, generally surviving. Occasionally something goes
through on the road. Other than that, little of the outside world
shows through. The villages are built mostly of stone – stone houses,
paddocks, walls – with beautiful painted doorways.

There is much to write and process, and I have many pictures to go
through. More to come!

The awe-inspiring flight KTM to LXA crosses the Himalayas, banking right around Everest,  before entering the Tibetan plateau.  The plane flies not so far above the mountain tops, but it is probably at 30- or 35,000 feet.  After catching sight of the city of Lhasa, the plane passes along a deep valley, makes a 180 degree turn, and then heads for the runway.  With 20,000 foot peaks all around, it is quite an accomplishment just to get on the ground.

The air is thin (Lhasa is at about 12,000 feet) and clear – cold in the shade, warm in the sun.  It is autumn, and recently-planted poplar trees are turning yellow.  They turn from bottom to top, so some trees are all yellow, with green tips.
The Lhasa airport is new and clean, and we were out into the parking lot with a minimum of fuss.  Similarly, the road from the airport into town is new, well-marked.  Coming into the city it almost looks like pictures of a modern city in China, if you ignore the mountains and the yaks and the horses and the signs in Chinese and Tibetan.  But when we passed by the Potala that it was clear.  This is the ancient, holy, Tibetan city.

The sun hits Lhasa around 8:30 in the morning, and that's when the city begins to come to life.  In the Barkhor, pilgrims, shopkeepers, schoolchildren, and all manner of craftspeople go about their day.  Right around the Jokhang, most of the business is cheap jewelry and the stuff of offerings – malas, flags, butter, incense, etc.  There are also stalls selling traditional Tibetan dress, hats, boots.  On the quieter lanes, noodle shops, bakeries (just a few women in a tiny shop making tsampa and other breads), tailors, furniture makers, and small groceries are more prevalent.

The Jokhang was built in the 7th century by King Songtsen Gampo, originally to keep an image of Akshobhya, brought as part of Nepali Princess Bhrikuti's dowry.  It later came to house a statue of Jowo Sakyamuni, which is now its main event.

At the entrance, dozens off pilgrims lay out mats and do prostrations all day.  Some bring a picnic lunch.  Ladies fill thermoses with melted yak butter and rent them to pilgrims for making offerings at butter lamps in the many Jokhang chapels.  I bought one for 15 yuan after a funny exchange between me and the lady.  She was concerned that I understand I was to return the thermos to her when finished, and showed me the painted markings on the side that coded the thermos as hers – two vertical yellow lines.  Past the pilgrims, two huge prayer wheels, and the entrance door, I paid a friendly monk to get into the temple.  He asked me how much I paid for the butter, and I was pleased to hear from him that I paid the going rate.  Tourist rate is 30.  Huge lines of pilgrims were waiting to make offerings at upwards of 50 chapels.  Officials and monks keep the line moving.  They usher tourists past the lines, and several times tried to show me out of the line, so I could make a quick circuit and be done.

Instead, I stayed in line with the pilgrims, whispering aspirations and making offerings for my friends, for my sangha, the Tibetans, and all sentient beings, at the chapels to Avalokiteshvara, the protectors, Sakyamuni buddha, and others... I offered my last of my butter at the feet of the Tibetan king Songtsen Gampo, in thanks for the Tibetans' example.  The devotion is so palpable, emotions high.  The man in front of me in line was probably my age, wearing jeans and an orange windbreaker, modern hair style.  Yet when he put his forehead to the stairs of the Shakyamuni Buddha throne, there were tears in his eyes and the big monk on duty had to usher him along.

In the foyer of the Sakyamuni buddha chapel, many people perform prostrations.  I sent up my own devotion to that of all sentient beings and offered my own three.  Pilgrims from the rural parts of Tibet are apparent in their dress and carriage.  The men, with braids wrapped over their heads, women with babies on their backs and prayer wheels swinging.

There are a few columns of the Jokhang that are from the original 7th Century building.  They are beautifully carved at the top (by Newari carvers brought from Nepal at that time), but rubbed almost smooth at hand-height from thousands of butter-infused fingers.  Many parts of the Jokhang have been re-done, and two of the upstairs chapels are currently being re-painted.  Monks work from ladders, painting red, gold, green, orange, blue images of the buddha in his many incarnations.

Back on the street, I wind my way out of the Barkhor, past several yak meat stalls.  A yak head is propped against one stall, still dripping slightly.

Women do much of the hard work in Nepal, especially in the rural areas.  They work the fields, cook meals, raise the children, clean, and are often responsible for making the money.  The men spend their days visiting with each other, playing cards, etc.  They set aside money for smokes and drinking.  In many places, a wife has to walk behind her husband in the street, and husband and wife don't talk to each other out of the home.