Full Moon at Mani Rimdu (5 of 5)

We chose the rocky path. Halfway up, under a relentless sun, three of us decided to turn back. I was disappointed our stamina had waned. I didn’t want to miss the Rimpoche’s blessing. We had come this far, but Jim assured us, “Save your energy for tomorrow’s ceremonial dances.”

I demurred.

The following day we took the slow route. Whole families, from kids to grandmothers, lumbered past us. Mothers dressed in traditional brown robes with multi-colored aprons (the sign of being a married woman) carried their kids in one arm and helped along their elders with the other.

One of our group, Rick, the photographer, opted to ride horseback. Sitting astride a ‘western saddled’ horse, he resembled a pioneer setting off to traverse the Wild West. Susan, Chris and I labored up the path, stopping now and then for a swig of bottled water. Even though we had prepared for our trip by jogging and speedwalking, a leisurely hike at 8000 feet still left us breathless. Migma remained close at hand. We admired the porters, male and female, balancing loads of sixty pounds and more from a strap tied across their forehead attached to a wicker basket balanced on their backs.

Even if I didn’t make it up to Chiwong, the footpaths of the Solu Khumbu would remain engraved in my memory. Jim halted us at a makeshift teahouse, erected for the festival.

From the glare of bright sunlight, we tried to readjust our vision to the smoke-filled unlit interior. A circle of Sherpas and Tibetans, women on one side, men on the other, stared at us foreigners toting cameras and water bottles as we squeezed in, sitting on wood benches covered with cushions. In the semi-darkness, I studied the faces of the Sherpas and Tibetans while they studied mine. They had high cheekbones and rich loamy skin. The women’s dark hair was often intertwined with bits of turquoise and some of the Tibetan men wore red bandannas twisted in a fashion that looked incredibly macho. An elderly woman with a much creased face, looking as delicate as yellowed parchment, opened her palm. She had an old coin to sell.

A young man sitting opposite me with dark brown eyes suddenly spoke up, “You’re American?” he asked in fluent English.
“Yes,” I said.
“Where are you from?”
“Florida,” I answered.
“I was in Colorado last month with an Outward Bound group,” he replied. Had the world become so small? I wondered. We spoke of familiar landmarks as we sat in such an unfamiliar setting.

Inside the teahouse, time blurred as the familiar and the foreign merged to form some fantastic brew like the jarring, salty yet creamy chai we sipped. It didn’t matter whether we reached Chiwong today or next month, I mused. But just as I was waxing philosophic, Jim catapulted us outside into the glaring sunlight.

We passed under the first arch ushering us into the monastery grounds. The path took a slight turn. The fluttering prayer flags of Chiwong sprung joyously into the cloudless blue sky. We paused to look at Phaplu, far below. We made it!

Families sat in clusters finding protection from the windy promontory behind the Gompa’s stone walls. By mid-afternoon the inner hall of Chiwong Gompa would transform into a Shakespearean Globe theater, jammed to the rafters with peanut-chomping pilgrims. Good would, once again, vanquish Evil when the masked Lama Rimpoche, personifying “Tiger Descending From the Mountain” swirled across mountaintops to drive out invading demons.

“Hurry,” Jim whispered, “come with me right now – the Rimpoche is giving blessings upstairs.” We traipsed past the mandala formed especially for the three-day festival. We wandered in semi-darkness from one juniper smoke-filled room to another where silhouettes hovered in door frames and red robes of male and female monks swished by. Finally, we came to a larger smoke-filled room where an elderly monk sat on a podium at the farthest corner of the room. A circle of people sat quietly around him and a female monk stood guard at the door. She smiled when we filed by her.

“Go now, and when you step before him, bow respectfully, then hand your katah (a white scarf filled with an offering) to the assistant,” Jim instructed me. I stepped forward, wobbling, feeling more like the Scarecrow in front of the almighty Oz than a American tourist in Nepal. The Rimpoche coughed and spit up some phlegm. He must have had the same cold that we all had picked up in the last few weeks. I didn’t feel anything but a little embarrassment, genuflecting rather than bowing (Catholic school upbringing) as the Rimpoche blessed me, much as the bishop had at Confirmation.

The female monk handed me some seeds. “Eat them, now. It’s a blessing,” she said. Then she tied a red cord around my neck. We walked back to the main hall and secured a good spot for viewing the ceremonial dances.

The next time I would glimpse the Rimpoche, he would be in the guise of the Great Defending Tiger. He would engulf the temple like a descending whirlwind, his flailing daggers and bells protecting us from Evil.

The Great Defending Tiger swirled closer and closer, the sleeve of his robe whipped across Rick’s camera lens – a mild reprimand.

By now, a throng of onlookers – Tibetan refugees, Sherpas, and a few stray Europeans and Americans – had squeezed in from every angle. Peanut shells fell on our heads from the balcony crowd. Smoke creeped into my nostrils. The low moan of the monk’s long trumpets summoning the gods to assemble, registered in my ears . Silk cascades of reds, greens, blues and yellows blurred as the masked monks commenced battle – the steady drumbeat let my heart and mind take leave….for the moment.

My past and future had tumbled down the mountain. I could walk home now without worrying about falling down slopes – or escalators. Later that week, we would catch the last flight on Lumbini Airlines before the company folded. The Good Lord watched and cradled us. Glittering fake sapphires might distract me in the valley, but from the mountain tops, my path was clear.

Did you like this article?

    

 

Share it

 

Place a comment