Reting Wind

I was walking fast on the streets of Lhasa. Dusk was near. Vegetables, cup-of-noodles, sweet bread and snacks were packed in my daypack. We had just returned to Banakshol Hotel on Beijing Donglu from a three-night, four-day trip into the countryside. And we were getting ready to turn our heels back to where we had left this morning. Back to Reting, a Tibetan monastery on the side of a woody mountain that over looks a wide river valley.

The car used for the tour was a 20-year-old Toyota land cruiser. But the ride this time was by public bus. The Oxford student, Paul, who had joined us during the last four days, said he would return to Reting one day behind us.

We departed Lhasa's eastern bus terminal the next morning at 8. The bus, packed with Tibetans and Chinese passengers, followed the Lhasa River toward the east, then turned north along one of its tributaries. Eight hours later, we arrived in this other world after traveling through extremely rough road that made our asses sore. We carried our backpacks up the hill to the monastery from Reting village. The elevation is just over 14,000 feet and we were out of breath.

Reting Monastery once held an important position in Tibetan affairs. It is the home of the Reting Rinpoche, and also the place of the Regent. During the years when the 14th Dalai Lama was still young, the Reting Rinpoche, acting as Regent, was responsible for the state of affairs in Tibet.

It was also one of the biggest monasteries in the area. It hosted several hundred monks in what used to be a large compound, which looked like a smaller version of Potala Palace. Most of the monastery was bombed and destroyed by the Chinese Red Army in 1958. Now only few dozens monks live here, and the site remains largely in ruins. (The photo above was taken in 1948.)

The sparse accommodations are managed and operated by a few young monks in their twenties. Not many tourists visit here, but some pilgrims and a few travelers find their way. We took them by surprise when we reappeared a day after saying good-bye. They offered us their cheerful big smiles in a warm welcome hello. We offered eggplant and onions and they cooked us a meatless meal. As we waited for dinner, the only other sounds we heard were the rushing water below, calls of kites — small bird-of-prey — the whisper of the wind blowing down the valley and the faint sound of cowbells off in the distance.

Gracing the hillside stands a grove of ancient juniper, old and wise in their existence. If only they could tell the stories of their time on the mountain. Each tree it's own magnificent bonsai. Bonsai is an art of seeking common beauty between nature and man. However, these trees were grown without the intention to be beautiful. Instead, nature and the needs of man shaped then into their grand presence. There is a tender yet powerful energy that the trees and the land radiated here.

We took afternoon hikes to a nunnery nearby and a small gompa near the top of the mountain. Nuns served us yak butter tea and showed us their tangka paintings and a sacred statue of Reting Rimpoche. They enjoyed themselves while we made photos from the rooftop.

In the hilltop gompa lives a 55-year-old monk who lives there alone. It looks down towards Reting Monastery and the valley below. Kites soared by looking for their prey. A younger monk, tall, handsome and shy, lives a little higher up the mountain. In the simple and modest structure he maintains is a study and sleeping quarters for the Dalai Lama. The young monk's duty is to care for the place, awaiting the daywhen His Holiness will return to his homeland.

The young monks at the guesthouse befriended us during our second visit to Reting. Their curiosities were endless; digital camera, computer, English, and life in America. They also affectionately told us about their families. Besides their duty to run the guesthouse, they work to restore the monastery by building new guest rooms and furniture. They work cheerfully, often joking around and singing along to tapes of Tibetan folk songs or even groovin' to cheesy house music.

What attracted us to Reting were the young monks' bright, innocent smiles, the wind passing through the valley, and the great energy from the old juniper trees. We walked down to the village through the woods in the morning of departure, without saying farewell to the monks. While we waited for the bus, we heard the sound of cymbals prompting the beginning of morning prayers, followed by the sound of those Tibetan folks songs. Those young monks' day must have begun.

Sad Lhasa

Lhasa is a sad city. The fact that it was the center of Tibetan Buddhism and is still a very sacred place did not cheer us up all that much. It's a busy town, with Jokhang Temple, one of Tibet's holiest shrines and the spiritual heart of the city, in the middle of it. It's golden-roofed Temple is surrounded by the Barkhor kora (pilgrim circuit), lined with all manner of shops and stalls selling prayer flags, holy scriptures, jewelry and an assortment of other Tibetian goods together in a festive atmosphere.

Nearby the temple is Beijing Donglu, the major street that runs through town. Its sidewalks are filled with the smells of yak butter, goat meat, and incense among others. Beggers and monks sit against the walls, along with the spittle, garbage and dried urine left behind by others. These sites look familiar to us, having walked similar streets in Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia, and with this experience behind us, we continued on.

As uncomfortable as it is to walk through such human hardships, what nailed down our impression of Lhasa came when we visited Potala Square, a wide-open public space facing the magnificent Potala Palace. Sitting in the square opposite the huge icon of Tibetian culture stands a towering sculpture of "public art". The Chinese characters written down its side are forever engraved to read "Tibet Peace and Liberation Commemorative Monument".

In another words, the Chinese honestly believe that they have "saved" Tibet from the evils of religion and their feudalistic past and have brought them infrastructure in the form of hospitals, schools, roads and the like. As we stood in the square, a large group of Chinese Army soldiers joyfully took snapshots of each other in front of the monument. It was a symbolic image, with no doubt as to who ruled this land. Across the street, running the length of the outer walls of the Potala Palace hung two huge red banners celebrating the 100th birthday of Den Xiaoping. One of them said "Celebrate [the birthday] with the people of Tibet and continue to prosper". This must be a slap in the face to the Tibetians who come to prostrate themselves daily in front of the Palace.

Before 1950, when the Red Army invaded Tibet, Dalai Lama 14th and a hundred thousand Tibetans fled with him to India. More than one million of the Tibetans who remained in their homeland were massacred, Potala Palace, a huge social and governmental infrastructure, had been alive with thousands of people. Now the Potala is essentially the Chinese government's booty museum, managed by a handful monks and a Chinese staff. The palace lacked any voices or signs of life, sitting empty and dead. Looking down from the roof of this grand building to the ruins below we imagined how it once was alive with Tibetan life.

Tibet and Tibetan Buddhism are now a brand name in the global tourism industry and attract a wide variety of foreign visitors (including us!). The trend and popularity also extends to large numbers of the ruling class Han Chinese, who are enjoying the freedom of travel as their wealth increases. One could imagine that the standard of living among Tibetans would also increase along with the tourism money pouring in, but that was, unfortunately, not evident to us at all. Our observations, rather, reminded us of the fate of the Native Americans, or that of the Ainu tribe in Japan.

What seems to never change is Tibetans' faith in Buddhism, Dalai Lama, and the gods symbolized in their mountains and lakes. I would like to believe that their never-changing faith is the shining light among them.