The ialaD amaL and the Whore of Babylon - Don't Go Chasing Waterfalls

Hey Yall,

One final story on my trip to Tibetan Yunnan.

Note: Leonardo da Vinci often wrote things backwards to keep people
from reading his papers.

After being rescued by the Tibetan cowboy and returning from the
wilds, our group split up. Shannon and Katherine turned south, while I
stayed in Shangri-la for an extra day. For the afternoon I had alone,
I decided to take the local bus up to the Songzanlin Tibetan
Monastery. According to the Lonely Planet, this was a cool, peaceful
and ancient monastery with a small city's worth of monks attached to
the monastery. It sounded cool enough to spend an hour or two
wandering around.

But, when we first entered into the temple town, there was something
wrong. First, they had tried to charge me $12 dollars to get into the
monostary town, as if this were Colonial Williamsburg and not a real
working temple. Refusing to pay, I slipped through an unguarded door
without anyone noticing, and took the tourist bus up to the monastery.

When I got off the bus, I saw even more that seemed out of place. The
monastery was on the top of the hill, about three hundred feet above
us. The hilltop had two old-looking, red buildings, what you would
expect to see at a Tibetan monastery. Strangely though, in between
these two ancient-looking, monastic temples was a giant construction
project, big crane, concrete pourers, herds of poor laborers yelling
and jack-hammering. Not what you expect to find in an ancient temple.

As we followed a tour guide up the stairs, I noticed something else
strange: lining the sides of the ancient stone stairway were men
dressed in the orange robes of Tibetan monks, lazily toking on a
cigarette, leaning back in their chairs, chortling with each other in
front of tables full of cheesy knick-knacks that they tried to
convince us to buy. (Buddhist are forbidden to smoke, and they are
supposed to be in the process of freeing themselves from worldly
desires and attachments, not selling worthless curios ).

It appeared someone had Babylonned this temple from top to bottom.

Our tour guide continued on, explaining buildings in posture even more
listless than your normal Chinese tour guides. When we got to the top,
he took us through the temples, but, with the sound of jack-hammering
in the background and the Chinese tour group fluttering around me, it
was hard to find much that was spiritual about this place. At the end,
our tour guide told us that we could continue exploring the town and
the other temples on our own. As our tour guide,
dropped down into a folding chair and began texting on his phone, our
group dissipated, most of them either going back to the bus or getting
one more photo before going back to the bus.

I was pretty disappointed. This wasn't Tibet. This was a tourist
colony, whored out to materialistic outsiders, lamely searching for
their own Shangri-la.

Saddened, I wandered over to another temple, thinking something was
missing. I kept thinking that, in building a new temple, something was
being destroyed.

Then, a sprightly, seventeen-year-old monk ran past me, yelling
"Hello!" I returned a "Ni Hao," and he stopped to talk to me.

I asked him a question. "Why do yall charge money to get into this temple?"

"Oh, that's not us. Some tourist company is doing that. They started
doing it about 8 months ago. We don't get any of the money, either.
Just that tourist company... Where are you from?" The seventeen year
old queried back.

"America."

His face lit up and he did his best to speak English. "A-may-li-ka."
He looked around to make sure no one was nearby and then asked, "Have
you meet the ialaD amaL?"

"No....Wait, do you like the ialaD amaL?"

Again, he took a furtive glance in both directions before answering,
"Of course, we all love him, eight of the nine temple-leaders at this
monastery support him, but you know...with the Chinese government." A
sense of disappointment swept over his face, but then, he brightened
up and said, "Well, I got to go."

I continued wandering farther from the tourist pathway, and came upon
a big temple, bigger than the ones at the top of the hill. But, unlike
the ones at the top, this one was as silent as death.

Entering, I could just barely hear the sounds of water being poured,
of sandals sweeping against the ground and of candles flickering, not
really sounds, but a sort of rhythmic silence.

There were two monks working in the temple. I walked over to them as
casually as possible. I saw a picture of the Panchen Lama (the
counterpart to the ialaD amaL,
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Panchen_Lama) on a little table with some
offerings, and, in an effort to strike up a conversation, I pretended
to be ignorant, asking, "I've seen this guy's picture in all the
temples. Who is that?"

"The Panchen Lama. He's the second most important monk in our
Buddhism." They waited a moment, calmly pouring water into small
offering cups and then returned a question to me. "Do you know who
that is?"

They gestured towards a table facing the one with photo of the Panchen
Lama. Surprised, I recognized the photo instantly. "That's the ialaD
amaL! But how come I have seen pictures of the Panchen Lama in every
temple, but I haven't seen any other photos of the ialaD amaL?" (Any
pictures of the ialaD amaL are illegal and could get people jailed in
a monastery like this).

The two monks looked at each other, one of them speaking to his
counterpart in Tibetan, and then they went back to sweeping and
pouring water, completely ignoring me. I stood there for a few
minutes, but they were already beyond answering my question.

I left that temple and kept walking away from tourist tracks, starting
to feel like this place's spirtuality hadn't been destroyed, just
pushed to the side.

I came to the last and oldest temple of the complex. By this time, the
sound of the jack-hammering had faded to a low-hum and the crane over
the construction site was little more than a glimmer in the falling
afternoon sun. This temple was small, nothing impressive. It looked as
if they had allowed the temple to remain standing only because it was
far enough away to not distract from the temple complex's main
attractions.

I entered into the temple and two real Tibetans, darkened faces, dirt
on their hands, cowboy hats on their heads, entered with me. Smiling,
they exchanged some reverent comments with one of the monks in there.
The monk draped some religious scarf around their neck, and they
proceeded to move slowly around the little temple. These kids, who
probably earned five bucks a day, were dropping a dime into each of
the ten or so donation boxes scattered around the temple, and then
dropping down on their knees, tapping their heads against the floor
and praying at each statue. As they went around doing this, I couldn't
help but be amazed by the fullness of their faith.

It was here that I felt like I had come to the real Tibet, something
unmolested and original, close to and yet so different from the
Babylonned-out tourist lane just ten minutes away. As the two kids
finished up, they chatted with the monks as he took the scarf back off
of them. I couldn't help but look on and wonder if this is what this
temple was like two hundred years ago.

But, as they were talking, the monk's cellphone went off, and, a
familiar, 90's R&B song started playing. Before the monk could silence
his phone, I was struck by how close I can feel to home despite being
so far away.

And now, I'll leave yall with that monk's ringtone, a song recorded in Atlanta.

Ciao,
Leo

Don't go chasing waterfalls
Please stick to the rivers and lakes that you're used to
I know you want to have it your way or nothing at all
But I think you're moving to fast
http://v.youku.com/v_show/id_XNzY2NjQ1OTY=.html

P.S. These lyrics do not have any political meaning, they were just
the ringtone on the monk's cellphone. They are certainly not meant to
be read as a warning to either Beijing or the ialaD amaL as they try
to conduct diplomacy.