In 1950, the Communists, still fresh from their victory over the Nationalists in the Chinese Civil War, marched through the Himalayas and into Tibet. Their intentions had nothing to do with a sudden craving for yak jerky but, rather, to "peacefully liberate" Tibetans from alleged serfdom. Initially, the Chinese wanted to win the hearts and minds of the Tibetan people, which is much easier to do when you have guns. They built roads, distributed some cash and tried to bring the huge expanse of land loosely known as Tibet into the 17th century.
However, by 1959 local insurrections had begun, partly financed by the CIA of course, and the Chinese stopped playing Mr. Nice Socialists. A massacre ensued, followed by a route. The Dalai Lama, the holiest guy around, was forced to flee to India and, much later, into an unholy alliance with Richard Gere.
Ever since then, the Chinese have considered Tibet indivisible from the rest of China, yet with some degree of autonomy. The Dalai Lama sits on his Indian roost across the border and no longer demands Tibetan independence from China (those darned guns again) but the preservation of Tibetan culture and even greater autonomy for the region.
All of that nutshell-ed history still couldn’t explain the fact that I, gym elliptical master, was struggling to raise my right foot over the last step of a measly ten-step flight. I made it to the top and leaned forward, palms resting on knees and just stared at the stone floor, breathing heavily.
“Oh my God,” I said at least six times with almost complete exasperation.
All around the small monastery we were visiting in the mountains outside Lhasa, pilgrims had attached Chinese currency, the Yuan, to walls, candles and any other surface they could find. Had it ever dawned on anyone that maybe one escalator could be purchased with just a couple of dips in the collection plate?
By our second day in Tibet, I was finding I was fatigued by pretty much any activity that involved using my legs. At that point, it seemed like everyone in our six-person crew was afflicted with AMS in some way and to varying degrees. Riggs was leveled with painful headaches immediately after getting off the plane. Easle and Jeff weren’t doing too bad. Jazz threw up here and there. We all found it hard to sleep at night. I was winded most of the time and short of breath, which made even the slightest of inclines difficult.
As Nelson and the resident monk took us on a tour of the bright white stone buildings draped in red and yellow, Riggs and I lagged at least two flights of stairs behind everyone else in our group. Like a looped recording, Nelson reminded us to constantly take deep breaths in order to let in as much oxygen as possible. My particular symptoms gave me a feeling similar to being high, minus the Doritos.
Tibetans are adherents to Buddhism, more specifically Tibetan Buddhism. Within Tibetan Buddhism itself, there are further sects and sub-sects. Nelson tried to explain it all to us along with identifying the various spiritual leaders, or lamas, that head up these different sects. Whether it was his heavy accent or that getting up from tying my shoes almost gave me an aneurysm, I was quickly confused. The one clear thing was that the Dalai Lama was more or less looked up to by all Tibetans as their de facto spiritual leader.
To get a taste of Tibetan Buddhism first hand, you have to visit at least some of the several monasteries that dot the harsh Tibetan landscape. Generally, these monasteries were always situated on the largest hill outside or in the center of a town much like medieval castles were. Their imposing presence to travelers and ease of defense, I imagine, was the reason for their strategic placement. Within the compounds, narrow alleyways wound themselves around rock and most times lead to scenic vistas. And every single monastery we visited had steps and ladders and ramps. But mostly steps. Many. Many. Steps.
Every monastery we visited was, obviously, manned by monks. They were bald or had very close-cropped hair and were dressed in traditional dark red robes. Not surprisingly, life for them is simple. A lot of time is spent meditating, performing manual labor, chanting and meditating some more. Every monk we were introduced to was genial and smiling, always smiling.
Some monks we saw were industrious. I saw one cleverly harnessing the power of sunlight striking a metal, satellite dish-shaped contraption in order to heat a pot of tea. Other monks, in some of the monasteries, were even in charge of brewing Chang, a special barley beer used for religious purposes and happy hour.
Still others were charged with tending to the needs of the very sickly ancient monks. In the last monastery we visited on the trip, we came across a monk so old and decrepit we could barely hear him greet us. Younger monks made sure to constantly cover him in thick, woolen blankets. They would fill his cup with water or tea and then place it in his frail, virtually lifeless, hands. Nelson drew in close to communicate with the elder. Quite literally on his deathbed, the poor guy was constantly struggling to breathe. I know the feeling.
Just outside of the old monk’s small room, a younger monk sat on the cold stone floor, maintaining a sort of deathwatch. There was very little light where he sat but he was surrounded by the essentials: books, headphones and a 24-pack of Red Bull, which may be Tibet’s national drink.
In addition to the monks, the narrow alleyways within the compounds were filled with gangs of dirty, short-tempered sheep. I never imagined sheep could be so excruciating. They traveled in small flocks, bleating loudly at anything that moved. They were also kind of amusing because the bleating itself had a similar guttural tone to a friend of mine back in the States who would make the same sound at passersby when completely drunk. And sober, come to think of it. Those Tibetan sheep were ornery, though. They got in my face when they saw me but ran away the moment I stepped towards them. The experience left me with an artificial sense of power that quickly faded near the top of the next staircase.
Throughout the buildings on the compounds, there was usually a gallery of framed pictures of the current Dalai Lama and many of the ones before him. Tenzin Gyatso, the 14th Dalai Lama, comes from a long line of children, Nelson explained, believed to be the reincarnation of the lama who had died previously. When selecting a new lama, some key monks would load up a yak and embark on a road trip, searching the countryside for this chosen child because the previous lama always forgets to write down who it’s going to be before he dies. A boy, who somehow demonstrates a need to release his inner lama, is chosen and is whisked away to Lama University for years of spiritual training and study.
Whenever I see the affable Dalai Lama on TV or a smiling photo of him on the Internet now, I have to remind myself that he was, and to a majority of Tibetans still is, the ruler of Tibet. A ruler in exile, mind you, but a ruler all the same. The Dalai Lama, isn’t just a spiritual leader like say, the Catholic pope. Before the Chinese invasion, the current Dalai Lama was head of state, an absolute monarch in every sense of the word. He headed a country with a landed gentry, a caste system similar to India’s and indentured peasants. The patchouli-scented myth of a spiritual utopia in the mountains before the Chinese came along is as nonsensical as China wanting to liberate Tibetans from oppression, but nowhere near as nonsensical as patchouli.
China, for their part, appears to be anesthetizing Tibet’s religion to the consistency of lo mein. Like other communist countries, China grudgingly tolerates the religious traditions within its borders, just as long as they can control it. History has provided many an example of opposition to a ruling government coming directly from a pulpit of some sort and Tibet, during the 50’s rebellions, was no different. So, somewhere in Beijing, supposedly secular government administrators pick officially sanctioned Catholic bishops (much to the Vatican’s dismay) and appoint some of the religious leaders in Tibet. China actually wants to appoint the 15th Dalai Lama and presumably already have a kid in mind.
Whether the Tibetan religious leaders are official or not, nothing can stop the fervor of the pilgrims. Almost from sun up to sundown, the faithful cram the steep, ancient stairways, ascending and descending. They come ragged, soiled, dirt poor and in large family clusters. The elders carry their kids, some barely a year old, clutching baby cans of Red Bull. They also come pushing and shoving, but never without a smile. Tibetans are so used to foreigners that we weren’t oddities, practically invisible, which might explain the shoving.
The handful of monasteries we visited were a gateway to a complex, interesting and bizarre world I was unable to comprehend in just one week; still can’t. A confusing patchwork of ancient traditions went hand-in-hand with a slightly confusing tour guide to make me wonder if I would need a PhD to figure everything out. I’d probably need to visit Tibet several more times to even remotely understand why a nonstop stream of pilgrims faithfully climb those steps, no matter the weather nor the steely looks from Chinese soldiers. But I was only there for a week and besides, by week’s end, I’d had enough steps.
