Home Cookin'

Another large Tibetan family, my homestay family do a lot of cooking (and not just because they're bakers by trade). Some nights, dinner must feed over (a baker's) dozen people: various uncles, cousins, guests, monks, geshes, and, of course, my added mouth. But despite the sheer volume of the food to be made, it was always incredible. Fresh bread and baked goods in the morning, Indo-Tibetan-Etc food in the evening. So, you lucky ducks, I've decided to share with you the recipes for one of the meals from another one of my homes.

Chicken balls, five people

20g chicken, minced

10 g onion, minced

4-6 cloves garlic, crushed and chopped

1 small egg

3-4 tbsp corn starch

salt to taste

2-3 tbsp flour

Heat approximately 3” of oil on medium heat. Mix all ingredients in a large bowl. Form 1” balls and fry for 6-7 minutes, until medium brown.

Sauce

¼ cup oil

4-5 green chilies, thinly sliced

15 cloves garlic, crushed and chopped

2 tbsp soy sauce (to taste)

2 cups water

salt to taste

Corn starch, as needed

In a wok, heat oil on medium high. Cook garlic and onions for 2-3 minutes, until flavors and aroma are released. If desired, add green onions and coriander. Add water, soy sauce, and salt. Bring to a boil. Mix corn starch (appx ¼ cup) with warm water. Add the mixture to the sauce, a little at a time, until desired thickness is achieved. Remove from heat, add chicken balls.

 

Chow Mein

2-3 tbsp oil

1/3 garlic bulb, crushed and chopped

1 medium onion, minced

1 large bell pepper, sliced

2 medium carrots, julienned

1/3 head cabbage

1 kg noodles (any desired noodles, thin white wheat noodle), boiled

Salt to taste

3 tbsp soy sauce

In a wok, heat oil and garlic 2-3 minutes on medium heat. Add onion, pepper, and carrots; cook for an additional 3-5 minutes. Add cabbage; cook 1-2 minutes. Add noodles, salt, and soy sauce; cook another 10 minutes.

Enough chow mein for 13 people

Dinner with Guru-jis

Note: I made it safely back to the US, but will be retroactively posting the stories from my last few weeks in India.

The night before I left for retreat, Mittsu surprised me with a sudden invitation for dinner. Her (not so sly) questions about which types of food I like over the last few days had been something of an indicator, but I was pleased and honored by the invitation to infiltrate the private lives of my dear gurus by this visit to their home.

So at seven o'clock I found myself back at the thangka shop, chatting with Mittsu and the array of customers visiting her shop, giving each my personal thumbs-up for the quality of the paintings, the price of the paintings, and the choice of thangka. Every so often, Mittsu looks at me for help with translation, for over the last months I've grown comfortable with her particular style of broken English. “Very, very good. Many, many details,” becomes (with an addition of my own knowledge of the painting): “this is a very high quality thangka. Just look at the details and the gold work, made with real gold flakes. This one took the three of them two months to complete...” and yada, yada, yada. It's gotten to the point where people often ask me if I work at the shop, to which Mittsu enthusiastically replies, “yes!”

Customers cleared out and the streets darkening, we close up shop, finishing by piling stones and bricks over the cheap Indian made lock (which can be opened with just about anything hard and key-shaped) in a improvised sort of burglar-prevention system. With the shop as safe as it's going to get, we head down Bhagsu road and turn down a steep path to Amdo Village, in a small valley between Bhagsu and Mcleod.

It's my first trip to this village, an area mainly consisting of low-cost homes and rooms shared by Indian, Tibetan, Nepali, and Thaman families alike. As we walk, Mittsu greets friends of various ethnicities, then tells me in a hushed voice about them; they are primarily stories of generosity and community, such as “she took me to the hospital when I was sick,” or “they give us milk everyday.”

After a long row of rooms, we take off our shoes and enter one on the far end. It's a small room, not much more than 100 square feet, with two beds (one for Mittsu and her husband, the other for her brother), a small electric burner in the kitchen corner, and a small color television. The two men are already in the room, Sonam and Sonam, with one at the burner and the otherh pressing garlic in an improvised mortar and pestle. They serve me a glass of warm milk and continue to work as Mittsu and I watch the Tibetan/Nepali music video channel. A short while later, we all sit on one bed as I show them photos from home, Mittsu alternating between “very good,” “very nice,” and “veeeeeeerrrryy good.”

Dinner is served: the table between the two beds is absolutely full with enough food to feed dozens. The rice serving in itself is more than I can comfortably eat, but then comes the yak meat, carried down from Leh (further up in the mountains) by a family friend. Despite my Indian vegetarianism, I have to admit that yak meat is absolutely delicious, salty and less fatty than beef. Then there is enough fish to feed the family for several days, and a chicken dish that appears to have used an entire chicken. I'm convinced that, if beef were not illegal in Himachal Pradesh (even possessing beef means jail time, nevermind eating it), then there would have been an additional dish.

At the last minute, Sonam decides to bring out spoons for us, an indication that this really is a special event.

Dinner lasts for about three hours, and despite the huge servings, the piles of food show little signs of having been diminished (when I returned from retreat, ten days later, I had to ask if they were still eating these dishes. They weren't- but just barely). The whole family lines up to put on their shoes and walk me back to the road, past the most beautiful view in all of Dharamsala, and we part ways with a thankful bow in front of the thangka shop.

As I walk home, I feel incredibly honored. Not only did my friends welcome me into their small home, but they created a feast to celebrate the occasion despite their poverty (Mittsu once told me about the difficulty of affording rent in Amdo Village, approximately $20 a month). If I take anything from India, it is the knowledge that, if you open yourself, people (and the world) continue to astonish you.

For Carey

Sonam and Mittsu holding our painting; over a month of painting lessons and we finished it!

Sonam finished the painting with the face/gold details, slowly accumulating forgotten cups of half-finished chai.

Apologies

I have to apologize to those of you who have been reading fairly loyally; for the last few days, I haven't had access to the internet (due mainly to high-quality Indian business ethics). Try as I might, I could not explain to the clerk responsible for my internet connection how March 6 to May 2 does not actually add up to 60 days of service, and with only a few days before retreat finally gave up and resigned myself to the idea of 10 more days in India without internet.

My next retreat, on Mahamudra, begins tomorrow and will end on May 12. I leave for Delhi the evening of May 12 and fly out of the country on May 14. Wish me luck in keeping my patience in what's bound to be a massively increased series of security protocol at the airport. As I sit here, listening to a Japanese woman playing and singing "Redemption Song" on an acoustic guitar, I'm sorry to leave you.  For now, my massive reservoir of stories of the bizarre and the beautiful will have to wait.

Trying not to cloud my experience with the negative side of India, I've largely stuck to cheerful anecdotes. However, there is at least one  reason I'm relieved to be going home.

1. One Thing I'm Not Going to Miss: The Possibility of Dying from a Chest Cold.

As I've mentioned before, I've been having some trouble with a minor chest cold, something, I imagine, that 7-Up, chicken soup, and Dayquil could easily fix in the US. However, things here aren't so easy.

I made my way to Delek Hospital this morning, mostly hoping for a simple expectorant. The process was simple: put down a 25 cent deposit, give your name (the secretary was content with only my first name), then wait for several hours. Each of us received approximately 6 minutes from the doctor (was she a doctor?) and were sent on our way. I was told the name of a extra-strong cold syrup and left with instructions to take antibiotics only if there was no improvement.

Easy enough. I pick up the syrup (which costs approximately $1), take a dose, and fall asleep rather promptly. It wasn't until later when I learned that I was taking an illegal amphetamine (something even India had banned) with a high-risk of stroke as a side effect in young women. On the side of the bottle is a warning: prescription only. How was I able to simply buy this from the Med Shop? Maybe it was my fuzzy head from the syrup, but I had a moment where I wondered if I was still in the real world (whatever that is). 

A little later, I returned to the medical shop to ask for a different cough syrup. The man behind the counter instant became hostile, saying, "you drink the poison and then you read?" Jumping over the argument that I could not have possibly learned this was an illegal drug simply by reading the package, I tell him that his clerk sold it to me without a prescription (for, before it was banned early this year, it was sold by Rx only). He just laughed, doing a bad-English version of "oooh, you're in trouble now," and insisting that I might be at risk of going to jail for buying the medicine.

"But I just want another cold medicine," I repeat, to which he replies, after a long pause, "I'll have one tomorrow."

The Police Station is right next door, so I stop in, without any real hope that it will be an effective action. The officer listens for a minute, calls over about a dozen civilians to translate, and then shrugs.

Sounds about right.

Another Home for a Vagabond

I will admit, I've been home from retreat for a few days now, enjoying being a complete baby and sipping orange juice. Retreat, first of all, was an incredible experience- one about which I'll tell you when I return up to this beautiful mountain enclave for another retreat on May 5-12. Unfortunately, while I was hiding up in a luxurious version of a yogi's mountain cave, hot winds finally made their way into town, carrying with them some vicious allergen which left me to lounge in bed (albeit wheezing, coughing, sneezing, and occasionally sleeping fitfully) to read The Art of Happiness as well as youarenotsosmart.com/ lesswrong.com (which, by the way, are some of the world's best blogs).

Who am I to complain?

1. Coming Home

Humans, the amazing and terrible primates that we are, always manage to find a way to keep things interesting. The phenomenon we like to call "home" is one of the juiciest intangibilities we've managed to invent, and one which I've had (far too much) time to contemplate lately. Since that day in August, shortly after I had turned 18, when I first moved from a town of 5,000 people in New Hampshire to Manhattan (the West Village, nonetheless), I've been grappling with this concept of home. There are few experiences in this world that can compare to spending time in a new city, getting to know her like a new lover, growing and exploring each other until, one day, you realize that she has your heart.

Six years later, my heart is spread out all over the world, a bit of it resting in each of those places which I somehow, mysteriously, came to know as home. India is no exception, and Mcleod, most of all, has become another nest for this vagabond.

This was a sentiment cemented by my choice to move in with a Tibetan family for the last month of my stay in India, and it was here that I returned when I climbed down the mountain from retreat.


2. How it Happened that Nancy Pelosi Fell Asleep in My Lap

Smack dab in the middle of Mcleodganj, on the side of a small, street-side bakery stand (selling, perfectly, dark chocolate dipped tsampa balls) is a sign advertising Tibetan Homestay. Everyday, I walk past this, up the stairs, pausing at the stand to chat with the man inside after a greeting of "you're back!" or "welcome home!" Up the stairs to the second floor, I pass my bedroom door, behind which lies a homey room with enormous windows, from which I watch the afternoon foot traffic and the vegetable vendors through a garden balcony. In front of me, down the hall, is the bakery: an old-fashioned gas oven and the invariable smell of fresh baked goods. In the mornings, I wake at six or seven to the smell of fresh baked bread and the quiet hum of life in this modest bakery. To the left is the family kitchen, nearly always housing at least one member of the family and something good to eat; past this is the family room, where I sit down on one of the sofas and receive the dual greetings of the 12 year-old Choeyang and the family dog: Nancy Pelosi.

In the evenings, I share dinners with the family (the best Tibetan food I've eaten), listening to the recent news from the Tibetan diaspora, quizzing Choeyang on her spelling bee words, or playing around on the computer with one of the family members (Kelly? Would you help me make a facebook page?). As with most Tibetan families I've met, this one is not only extremely large (the one time I helped to make dinner it was for 11 people), but has rather blurred edges; various friends, monks, uncles, etc, are always stopping by.

Next to my juice in the fridge is a ball of homemade butter (a Tibetan tradition, of course!), part of which goes to the monks and part of which remains to be enjoyed by the family.

Most of my interaction is with Choeyang, her mother, Chuki, and one of the uncles, Tenzin (not to forget Nancy). Chuki is an incredibly hospitable host and overall sweetie, giving me the up-down and saying, "you've slimmed down," nearly everyday, or grabbing me by my natural waistline and saying "so small here." Choeyang, a loving and extroverted girl, alternates between giving me hugs and showing me the newest dance moves she's learned. As it gets closer to my time to leave India, she asks me: "but what if I never see you again?"

I reply: "I'm coming back to India soon."

"But what if I die first?"

Pause. "Then I'll see you in your next life," her response to which is a beaming smile and a jumping hug.

Nancy

Meanwhile, I've made a traitor of Nancy Pelosi, who jumps off the laps of family members to snuggle with me. Oops. Tenzin is a constant source of information, patiently answering my questions about Tibetan culture (so Tibetans have two first names?) and using words like "autodidact." If there was ever a person who embodies that word, it is him.

Every so often, I'll go up the the rooftop of the house to enjoy the sun, watch the street, or pretend I'm not watching the passing monkeys (who have taken to playing on the rooftops of Mcleod so much more in the warm weather). From here, I can see the whole town, from the main square to Amdo village below, from the snow-capped mountains to the valley. A home in the heart of one of my homes. 

The shrine corner of the living room

Out my bedroom window.

Oh, Mcleod 1

April 20

Today begins my first day of technology withdrawl, as I head up farther into the mountains for Retreat. You won't find me in a mountain cave, saying Om Manis and performing small miracles or transcending the laws of matter, space, and time (or will you?) but you will find me in the nearby Tushita Meditation Center, an incredibly gorgeous setting, learning the intricacies of selflessness in a nine day retreat course.

No computer.

No cell phone.

Basically nothing that works of it's own volition.

No talking (except for questions after teachings).

No leaving.

Prepare to be Buddhized.



But fear not! I haven't forgotten you. While I'm gone, you'll receive 9 little snippets- things I love about Mcleod- which may or may not self destruct immediately after reading them.

So here is the first in the series: Oh, Mcleod (1)

1. And another thing I love about Mcleod: Monks

I think I may be happiest in my life when I see at least a few of these red clad gents (not to forget their female fellows, those dear anis) everyday. There's something wonderful about Tibetan Buddhist monks, something warm and comforting. For one, they look warm and fuzzy in their outfits. Secondly, they smell nice (a smell I can only describe as "clean" or "fresh"). Three, they're often mischievous little devils who pull your leg at a given moment (once they get to know you a bit).

Young Tibetans are quite fashionable, akin to young Japanese, so it's no surprise that young Tibetan monks find a way to express some individuality and taste. Often, this is in the form of shoes, ranging from Chuck Taylors to Pumas. Other times, it may be cold enough for a coat, and you may find a teenage monk wearing his puffy winter vest. Nothing is more fun than seeing one or two (or three, sometimes) on the back of a motorcycle, red robes flowing in the wind.

No matter what the age, however, it seems that some of monks never grow out of their playful camaraderie  with their fellow monks. You can often see them teasing each other around town, pulling the good old tap the wrong shoulder routine, or laughing and chatting about something that's obviously very funny.

It took some time for me to readjust my thinking to create the idea of a monk as a whole person: someone who laughs, talks on cell phones, enjoys life (and tv!), and yes, even flirts. Monks, it turns out, are the most flirtatious sort I've encountered in all of India. Nearly ever monk I've made friends with here has turned, after a short time, into a flirty and fun version of their red-clad selves.

But they're not all fun and games; some are as serious as stone, walking through town or eating their momos with an air of dignity and quiet reservation. If you're lucky, you can find them debating in the courtyard of HH Dalai Lama's Temple, throwing their points with a slap of their hands (see the movie below).

Meanwhile,  I spend many lunches with the monks at Shangri-La Restaurant, both helping them with English and having them cheer me on as I play Tibetan language games on my computer. Here I've given out several of my cranes, as well as to other monk friends around town. Cranes 43-48 were small presents, tokens of my appreciation to monks for their chosen lifestyle.

Oh, Mcleod 8

April 27: tomorrow I will finish my retreat and return to you to tell the tales. But for now, one more thing that I love about Mcleod.

1. Unbelievable beauty

From the way the moon looks as it drifts over the mountains, to the mirror of lights up in the sky and down in the valley on a starry night, to the Tibetan Buddhist architecture, to the wrinkled face of a smiling elderly Tibetan woman, Mcleod is easily the most beautiful place I've ever lived.

Oh, Mcleod 7

April 26: I'm sure we're both hoping I've survived to day 7. Just a couple more days of retreat! Here's another thing I love about Mcleod


1. Living Where People Make Things

I watch painters paint souvenirs for tourists everyday. Next door, a tailor measures and sews Tibetan dresses on an old fashioned sowing machine, the kind that you find in antique shops with a cast-iron foot petal. I wake up every morning to the smell of fresh baked breads, and watch as the family I live with make their baked goods from piles of flour and tsampa. When I come home at night, I watch as fresh garlic is peeled and crushed, as vegetables are chopped, as meat (never frozen, not once) is cooked over a fire. My food never comes from a factory; I no longer taste the cold steel of my home.

I am living where people still make things. And it is beautiful.

The hawkers on the corners can be seen knitting as they wait. Down the street, in the Tibetan Handicraft Shop, Tibetan women sit on their knees and make rugs. When I want a nose stud, I follow a sign for a silversmith, into his small room (complete with bed and small anvil) and watch as he bends silver into beautiful forms. Another woman sits on the corner and beads malas. Men wait on the street, cobbling Indian shoes as they wait for customers.


We have forgotten how to make things. It is beautiful.

Oh Mcleod 6

April 25: Still going strong (I hope) in Retreat. Just a few more days until I'm reconnected into the world. Let's see how that goes.

Absurdity

1. "Yes"

I'm saying this with the compassion of an English Teacher and the empathy of a second language student: there are some amazing things that come out of people's mouths here. My favorite is "yes." I don't know if this is a uniquely Indian phenomenon, or if it's fairly universal, but just about anytime you say something that a local doesn't understand, they respond with "yes." This is doubly true for questions, as if they are taught to simply respond to any question with "yes."

"Where are you from?"

"Yes."

2. P*ss

Mittsu: Do you like p*ss?
Me: Sorry?
Mittsu: Do you like to eat p*ss?
 *Pause*
Me: P*ss?
Mittsu: Yes
*This goes one for some time*
Me: What do you mean by p*ss?
Mittsu: Like, water.
*Pause*
*Silence as I explain to Mittsu what p*ss means*
* several minutes of giggling then silence*
Mittsu: No. P*ss in water.
*Mittsu digs around in thangkas and unrolls one, showing me*
 Me: Ooooooooohhhhh. *pause* Fish.


A week later, she invites me to a delicious meal of p*ss and yak meat. Yummy.

Oh, Mcleod 5

April 24- Day 5 of verbal and technological silence in retreat. I'm sure we're all hoping that I'm still alive and sane.

1. Friends and Family

Somehow, as humans, we find a way to make sense out of the social situation no matter where we go, no matter whether or not a real social system exists (or, if it does, whether we are outside of it or not). Traveling alone can be wonderfully, liberatingly, beautifully, lonely at times. Luckily for me, and for all of us, we are not alone.

When we are away from familiar faces, when we are away from anything familiar, we draw new families in India's dust. People you meet for a few moments suddenly become old friends, sparks of familiarity in an inferno of the unknown. Neighbors at the guest house suddenly became my best friends, my family; and they, equally eager for conversation and social contact, would sit for me with hours. Those I met once or twice in an activity were suddenly hugging me in the street, classmates became family as we sat together for a meal.

What does she mean, became family? Are they that lonely? No, most of the Indian (two-ships-passing-in-the-night) relationships were not made out of loneliness or desperation, but out of the sheer pleasure of talking to someone who shares some of the same cultural and linguistic knowledge. When lone travelers meet, often, it is as though you have instantly become old friends or family. You begin sharing with each other the intimate details of your life, as if this was the most normal of activities to do with a perfect stranger.

What's most odd is the anonymity of it. I've had a fair few of these relationships when I realized, long after the other is gone, that I don't remember their names. Often, you forget to introduce yourself until after several days of shared meals, moon-watchings, and other activities.

As vagabonds, we're outside of each social system we approach as we roam, but somehow the local structures make their way into our own bizarre web. A local friend or two weaves himself in; the shopkeep who invited you to chai. The thangka painter who laughs at your sneezes. The waiter at your favorite restaurant. Slowly, the social creatures that we are, we paint ourselves into a fleeting and imaginary world of social connections. 

From the bits and pieces, we form our own bizarre social system, social network. It's human nature, and it's fascinating; a bit like watching an artist pick up pieces from a landfill to form something beautiful.

Who are you? It doesn't matter. Welcome to Mcleod.

Oh, Mcleod 4

April 23: Day four of my retreat from the world (the real, imagined, and digital ones).

1. The Power of Chai

I'm coming to you from the future and the past. Here, it's your tomorrow, and yet I wrote this day ago, only for it to magically appear for you to read at this very moment!

If there is one thing India  has taught me, it is that time is not a constant. I'm sure that, up in retreat, I'm learning a very similar lesson.

India time didn't come easily to me at first. Classes start 10 minutes late, end 10 minutes early. Buses run when they want to, as do trains. The only thing for sure about when your arranged plans will happen is that they will happen any time other than the arranged time. Even the washing machine at my first homestay seemed to be on India time, slowly draining my clothes as I watched (and, at one point, whimpered) for an additional 45 minutes after the load was supposed to end.

But after a few short weeks, India time became the norm. I'm sure that I will be delighting and frustrating my Western friends as a bubble of India time follows me back to the West. But we'll see.

Chai, quite simply, is the most perfect thing India has ever dreamed of. Besides it's reparative and relaxing qualities, chai also has power over time. You see, at any given moment time will stop; all that needs to happen is the entrance of two (or more) small cups of chai into the environment. Suddenly, it's chai time.

It's a bit magical. Everything stops, whether it's work or school or daily life, or even something rather pressing. Time out of time. The shop closes, the curtain is drawn. The waiter disappears. Others who want your attention fade away, knowing d*mn well what chai time means. The next thing you know, you've been chatting with several complete strangers for several hours, and you're not really sure where time has gone.

Tasting chai, you're tasting a different kind of time.

Oh, Mcleod 3

April 22, third day of retreat.

And another thing I love about Mcleod...

1. You never know what's coming

I could probably talk for days about Mcleod (and India)'s ability to surprise you, but for now I'll just tell you about the mysterious blessing cord lady. I was walking along the road from the library, a very steep and exhausting hill, when I paused for a drink of water and to enjoy the beautiful view. As I sat on one of the large cement slabs intended to save the lives of poor drivers from the treachery of mountain roads, I was joined by a little old Tibetan lady.

Her presence in itself was not much of a suprise, for many elderly Tibetans walk this path to the library, mala or prayer wheel in hand, chanting their mantras. Face in a wrinkly smile, mouth still working the quiet Om Manis, she took out a bag (from somewhere in her Tibetan dress, like a magic act), from which she promptly removed a woven cotton bracelet, colorful and intricate, like those friendship bracelets we once made at summer camp.

Taking my wrist, she tied the bracelet on, chanting her Om Manis all the while. After few minutes of work on the part of her shaky, arthritic hands, I had been adorned and she returned to spinning her prayer wheel and smiling.

It wasn't a traditional blessing cord by any means, but I certainly felt blessed. With my crumpled 50 rupee bill, I gave her crane 42, which she promptly placed in her bag of cords, the whole thing disappearing once again, like magic, into her Tibetan dress. The next day, for good measure (and with only a bracelet to remind me that this smiling old sprite had been real), I left crane 41 in the same spot.

Oh, Mcleod 2

April 21

While I'm up high in the mountains, far away from technology and on retreat, enjoy a little bit of what I love about Mcleod Ganj.

1. Whachu Wearing?

Mcleod is the perfect place to go if you want to be free from the confines of your normal wardrobe. With such a variety of clothing choices, from monk robes to Aladdin-style-pants, how could you not fit in?


Sweater Vests- A favorite of the local Indians, these remind me of better times, times when Will Smith was just some smart talking high school kid or when Uncle Jessie's innocent version of masculinity made him a perfect role model for three young, blond girls. Yes, I'm talking about '90s sitcoms. These funny little garments are all the rage here; even more so down in Chandigarh. On a trip to Patiala, I once attempted to count the vests, but gave up after several hundred in a period of about an hour.


Face masks- I'll admit, these made me a bit suspicious at first, reminding me of news clips from the SARS outbreaks. Are they sick? Should I step away? Unfortunately, the people who wear these face masks the most are those who most desperately need to interact with you: the poor shopkeepers. The air in India has made the adjustment to life here more difficult for some Tibetans; face masks help with issues of dust and pollution. So, more often than not, the people you will see with these masks are the ones who sit by the roadside.

Foreigners- Anything goes: Tibetan dresses, tie-dye, mismatched and bizarre versions of Indian garments, Patiala suits, leg warmers (very, very popular), ear-flap hats, dot, dot, dot. Most foreigners seem to have chosen outfits simply became they seem Indian (but were made specifically for foreigner's taste). Many of those who travel to Mcleod are very conscientious of their Individuality, and it seems that they have to knock things up a notch in order to remain individualized here. So the result is dozens of shops in Mcleod looking more like shops you'd find in Portland, Oregon, street hawkers selling items for guaged piercings, and shopkeeps fighting to outdo each other with the uniqueness of their items. Can you find a better shirt than an embroidered "Tin Tin in Tibet?" I think not.

My favorite are the hand knitted leg warmers.

Tibetans, on the other hand,  are usually extremely well dressed. Those in their teens and twenties rival Japanese youth for their fashion sense and daring tastes. A local performer (and a friend of mine) can often be seen walking around town with his afro-puff and heart shaped sunglasses.

And occasionally you get the costumes. In my high school, there was a special needs boy who had taken up the act of making crow sounds in the hallways. Well, it seems as though he graduated: every so often, you see a man (or two) in a crow costume, complete with black face paint, scaring tourists as he makes his sounds.

Thankgas Gone Wild

A few more thankgas for you-know-who (no, not Voldemort). Click to enlarge.

1. A Dragon Guards the Entrance to Potala Thangka Shop

Late one night, long past the shop's closing time, Mittsu and I were painting together, working on techniques of blending and brush strokes. A small, fuzzy dog wandered into the threshold of the shop and, enjoying the heat and light of the small room, curled into a ball and fell asleep. For some time, the three of us existed in relaxed harmony, enjoying each other's company, until (quite suddenly) we were interuppted. 

"Can I watch?" a slurred voice came from the street. Outside, a group of four middle-aged Indian men stood in the dark street. "Will you buy something from my friend?" I asked, already well aware of the answer. 

The drunken man starts to get pushy, but Marshmallow Puff (for this is what she looks like as she sleeps) is still curled up in the doorway. Mittsu and I look at each other, eyebrows raised (which, it turns out, is cross-cultural) and backs to the door.

A low growl fills the room and the street. The little Marshamallow Puff, without lifting her head more than an inch or two, has decided to protect us. The men back away, and then scurry off in a clumsy almost-run, while the two of us laugh at the tiny white Puff which has become our new protector.

So should you be one of the lucky ones who receive one of Mittsu's thangkas, be aware that they came from a small shop guarded by a ferocious dragon: very special treasure.

The Perpetual Student

1.My Sixth Sense Detects Hoards of Books

About an hour walk down steep mountain roads (or a hour and a half back up) from Bhagsu is The Library of Tibetan Works and Archives, a gorgeous compound akin to Aladdin's cave for people like me. The Library offers nearly-free courses (a twenty dollar donation for one month's worth of classes) in Buddhist philosophy and Tibetan language. I couldn't have asked for a more perfect curriculum and signed up without the slightest deliberation.

So every day (okay, except Sundays), I wake up just after the sun and make my way down to the classrooms. First is beginner's Tibetan language, followed by a short break (and cheap tea next door) and a Buddhist philosophy class. It's usually about 1:30 in the afternoon before I make my way back up to Mcleod for my various shenanigans (flaky as they have been as of late) and thangka painting lessons.

2. Now I know my Ra, Ma, Las...

It seems only fitting that I play both rolls in my Indian experience. First I taught children their ABCs and 123s, then I moved to teaching adults their "Days of the Week," and now I've taken the role of helpless, speechless child as I flounder over the sounds of Tibetan language and clumsily scribble unfamiliar letters over and over again.


Let's say it gives me appreciation for the human experience.


Between classes, the students often sit together, going over notes and thoughts about the sounds, shapes, and rules of the simple act of putting words together in Tibetan. As an undergrad, I studied French and Italian, the act of studying which now seems more akin to lounging on the beach then studying the language from the roof of the world .


29 consonants, 5 vowels (which show themselves through curly and bending accent marks), then another 23 surmounting letters, 40 subjoining letters, a few Tibetanized Sanskrit letters (including "thick letters" and "reverse letters"). At this point, you can start to sound out words (ka ya-ta kya, kya ki-ku, kyi: there you have it, one letter successfully read).

We're taught by a middle-aged ani (Tibetan nun), whom we call Ani-La (or Ani-Lak). She's a vivacious woman who becomes very animated when she teaches us the sounds of Tibetan. Her mouth opens wide as she teaches us the sound for "Nga," for example, revealing rows of crooked teeth and giving her a slightly cartoonish quality. When one of the stray dogs enter the classroom (as they often do), she takes her robes and shoos him away; when one refuses to go, rolling on his back and starting to play with her, she laughs and acts just as playful.  To teach us about the specialization of tongue muscles and the need to practice, she draws a picture of a duck on the whiteboard (pointing to the feet).

In short, she's an interesting and lovable teacher.

But who am I kidding? I'm loving every minute of it. I'm one of those people who seeks out books of riddles and logic puzzles out of boredom, so this is the perfect challenge for me. Every time I see a Tibetan letter, I feel like I need a decoder ring. Recognizing it is a bit like being in a secret club.


I've taken to pausing in the street to read Tibetan signs, even though I don't know the meaning once I've figured out the sounds. And joy of all joys, I finally, successfully read a sign- Lhasa! One night, while painting, I taught Mittsu (whose name, I learned, is anglicized as Mitthu just as often) how to spell her name in Tibetan. Like her husband, she came from a low-income household and never received a formal education (beyond her painting apprenticeship). On slow days, she sits on the cliffside by her table and does the same thing as me- slowly reading Tibetan letters out of a school notebook.

In my free time, I play alphabet games on the internet, slowly accumulating monks and other Tibetans cheering me on at Shangri-La restaurant. (http://www.digitaldialects.com/Tibetan.htm)

3. Once Again on a Meditation Cushion

My 11am class is Buddhist Philosophy 2, the Secular Practitioner's Way of Life. Here, Lama Geshe Sonam Rinchen teaches Tibetans and Westerners alike, from nuns to wives, the way to live as a Buddhist Householder. As with most Tibetan teachings I have experienced, the Lama is teaching from a book; in this case, a very ancient poem, Nagarjuna's Letter to a Friend. A four-line verse can take up to twenty minutes for him to expound upon, and thus a very small book has become a very long class.

Luckily for us.

The classroom is set up very much like an average Tibetan shrine/meditation room: intricately painted, a hardwood floor covered with meditation cushions, a teacher's chair (and translator's chair) at the front, before a gigantic Shakyamuni statue (about the size of a ten year old child) and picture of HH Dalai Lama. Spending time in this room very much reminds me of Sunday teachings at Columbus KTC (and, of course, there's something comforting about this familiarity).

While Lama, semi-channeling Nagarjuna, tells us about choosing a significant other and friends, about how to deal with sleeping and eating and material possessions, about those beneficial qualities and poisonous ones which we must be aware, the young Tibetan ani next to me rapidly scribbles down notes in English and the European man to my right sways gently forward and backward.



---
Because it is places of learning where the largest part of my heart will always reside, I've left a fair few cranes at the Library complex over the past few weeks. Almost always made from my practices sheets (drawing over and over again, Ba, Ra, Ha, Nga...), cranes 49-59 are my way of marking my territory (for, I hope, many future returns).

Outside the classroom building

The Library Courtyard (the sky is such that you can almost miss the snowcapped mountains).

The door to the philosophy classroom

From above, looking down into the valley

The Final Count: Grad School News

So tomorrow is the final acceptance day for Graduate Programs, but luckily for me I've already chosen the one I want to attend. For those of you who were waiting not-so-close to the edge of your seats, here's the final count for the five graduate programs to which I applied:

Acceptances:
-OSU, Comparative Studies (Full University Fellowship + Stipend and 1 year no-teaching/work duties)
-UCSB, Anthropology (Full Fellowship but with teaching duties)
-UC, Boulder, Anthropology (Admittance letter TODAY. Smaller but decent fellowship, no news about teaching)

Waitlist:
University of Virginia, Anthropology


Rejection:
-University of Michigan, Anthropology (No surprise, this is the best anthro dept in the country, and usually only takes 3-5% of applicants).

Also, I just learned that I received a Fulbright ETA grant, which pays for a year of living and teaching in South Korea.


And....!


I've decided to go back to OSU. Despite my reluctance to stay in the same environment for so long, the Fellowship, faculty, and program are simply too much for me to give up. Plus, the chance of intellectual inbreeding is minimal: OSU is the largest school in the country, and I spent the majority of my time working in Social and Behavioral Sciences as an undergrad (taking approximately four courses in the Comparative Studies Department). So although I'll walk the same roads, I won't take the same paths as before; there's plenty of room for development in this new department.

So come September I will continue  my study of Tibetan culture and Buddhism, slowly working my way toward those three big letters (well, two big letters and a small one): PhD. Wish me luck.

A Peak Into the Past and Future Life (Lives?) of a Fire Tiger

1. Somewhere Between My Definition of Reality and The Rest of Existence

I promise this is the last flaky thing I'm going to do. Okay, I can't promise that, but I have been spending an inordinate amount of time doing flaky things lately- vising the ayurvedic doctor, hanging out with the "I Am Happy" Guru (never mind the tree hugging incident).

But when I saw the sign for Tibetan astrology, I followed.

At first I simply went to ask a few questions about how it worked, but after talking to the astrologer for a while, I wanted to test this age-old method of Traditional Tibetan astrology. Once a monk, Kunga Choothuk gave up his robes (with the blessing of his teacher), let his hair grow out to an acceptably rock-and-roll length, and  attempted to escape Tibet. Although captured and imprisoned on his first attempt, he managed the trip in 2004, finally settling in Mcleod.

I gave him my information- birth date, time, place, Mother and Father's name, age. "Come back in a few days," he told me. Truly in-depth Tibetan astrology takes weeks or months, but these days Kunga works mainly for tourists.

So today, I sit in a lawn chair facing Kunga. Here is where I'm supposed to be sketptical. Here is where I'm supposed to tell you, to show you, that I'm smarter than those superstitious fools. That I believe in science and logic and nothing else.  That I'm smarter than the showman.

But there was no show. Just two lawn chairs and a long-haired ex-monk, and a piece of paper with his notes on them. 

I want to tell you that he got it wrong. I want to tell you that he spoke in general terms, saying things that could be applied to anyone. I want to reveal that I caught him scanning me, reading me for signs of what to say next.

But I can't. 

So I think, for now, I'm going to stop fighting it and just tell you some of what he told me. Being skeptical is too exhausting.

I am a fire tiger (Daniel, I might add, happens to be a wood mouse). I'm capricious by nature, but when I choose to do something, it usually comes easily to me. Unfortunately, this also means that I'm prideful- even haughty- and easily get irritated and frustrated with imperfections. The mind is the center of my life, quick and retentive, open-minded and "wise" (I like that one...yep, pretty haughty). I don't trust easily, but for those close to me I have a "bigger heart." Fickle about everything, even emotion, I'm quick to flash between calm and the extreme emotions.

Suitable jobs for me include social work, leader, teacher, researcher, and lawyer (which, except for the last, is a round about way of saying the career I've already picked).  There have been health problems in my life (the fruition, no doubt, of negative karma from my last life), and an inherited "ghost" which follows the family and causes a serious health problem (does the non-discriminating cardio-vascular disease on the paternal side count?). Early life (before 30) is hard, full of hard work and difficult situations, but later life will be very happy.

Beware of water.

The ages 16, 19, 23, 31, 41, and 69 will be hard years (so far, 16, 19, and 23 do stand out).

 I'll live to 85 (as long as I'm careful at age 69).


In my past life, I was either a spiritual person or a leader (a monk or a king). My future life is still not decided; it depends entirely on the good I do in this life.


While this in itself may not seem extremely impressive, the reading also referred to several specific life instances (which were a bit uncanny).

Later, I dream that I am a selfish King, who condemned the families of my enemies to death.  Perhaps this is because my head wasn't pointing East (my lucky direction) as I slept, and the hungry ghosts stole my good energy. Well, Kunga did warn me about those hungry ghosts. Come to think of it, he also warned me about dreams about conspiracy.

Maybe I really was a King, once, because it seems that I need my own personal astrologer to figure these things out for me.


Is any of it true? Am I a scientist or do I have more blurred edges on my definitions of reality?


You tell me, my friends.


2. Once Again, I'm of The Chosen People

Shortly after my experience dabbling in the intangible, I was approached by a Jewish man and young boy who were gathering tourists for the upcoming Passover events. Not particularly skilled in English (what an understatement), he seemed convinced from the first moment that he saw me that I was Jewish and could not be convinced otherwise. When I later told him my name (Schultz is a German Jewish name), I became eternally set in his mind as a German-American-Jewish girl who's reluctant to come to Temple. Even the phrase "Not Jewish," just elicited questions like "Temple no more?"

After being mistaken for an Israeli by the ayurvedic doctor the other day, I'm starting to wonder if there's something to this whole German-American-Jewish girl (who's reluctant to come to Temple) thing.

I reserve my seat at Passover dinner, giving him three dollars. In all honesty, I probably won't go (it feels a bit disrespectful and very dishonest), but I just didn't have the heart to try to explain to this innocent looking man and small child that another family with a good Jewish name had been Christian for several generations.

The Doctor Is In

In my long line of varied and interesting neighbors came Hannah, a middle-aged German woman with a fascination for homeopathic and traditional healing. She was completely cured, she told me one day, by an ayurvedic doctor with nothing but warm milk and raisins. Since then, she devoted several weeks of her vacation to learning ayurvedic medicine, a traditional school of Indian medicine, with her doctor/savior.


This isn't the first time that I've heard of ayurvedic miracles. An American ani (Tibetan Buddhist nun), whom I met while hiking, told me of a voyage to Kerala for the saving touches of an ayurvedic healer (in exchange for this treatment, she added, she only needed to give the doctor two shawls).

Curious, I decided to pay a visit to the local Ayurveda House for a general consultation. A few days later, I found myself sitting face to face with Dr. Kusum, whose qualifications include a Bachelor's Degree in Ayurvedic Medicine and a certificate in yoga and naturopathy.

She starts taking my bio; as she asks "where are you from?" an eyebrow raises just a little bit. After I tell her, she smiles in relief. "Oh, I thought you were Israeli!" She laughs and nods knowingly when I say, in response, "maybe that's why I'm getting weird looks." I'm not sure if I can count the number of times I've heard Indian shopkeepers, etc, complaining about Israeli tourists. Personally, I've had nothing but good experiences (including watching a high Israeli man get tickled until he was yelling with laughter by an afro'ed Tibetan man- but more about that in another blog).

Dr. Kusum starts to whisper. "Don't worry, I'll be very discreet," she says as a way of introducing the topic of sexual history.  Dr. Kusum starts to blush, turning as red as the crimson Patiala suit she is wearing.

A short time later, she takes my wrist and tells me, "I am going to feel your pulse and tell you some things about yourself. Tell me if I am right."

"You are reserved, but lively with those close to you."

"You always have many things going on inside your head."

"Sometimes your belly feels hard."

"You're easily irritated."

"You're not a morning person." (Well...actually...)

I also have ten toes and enjoy air and sunshine. But please, continue.


At this point, I'm feeling a bit skeptical, but I lay down and submit myself to belly and feet probing. "Tell me with it's uncomfortable." She presses on an upper area of my abdomen. Beat. Beat. She pushes a little harder. "I think this is uncomfortable, yes?" I acquiesce, but mostly because she's pushing quite hard.

A short while later she tells me that the problem with my lungs (for I came in for asthma) is my liver. "It is covered with toxins, you see." She then proceeds to tell me the treatment: a seven or eleven day program of toxins exiting every orifice possible.

The eleven day program is much better, she tells me, because it includes both a day of induced vomiting (which is excellent for clearing toxins from the lungs) and a day of induced diarrhea (which is best for clearing the liver). Several enemas are also included, and at the end of the program she will arrange a diet perfect for minimizing toxins in my body. All for the low, low price of $200-$300.

Come to think of it, day to day life in India comes with these same treatments for free. 

She also offers medicines, but I earlier promised Daniel (after his extensive research into the amount of mercury and arsenic in Ayurvedic medicines) that I would run from medicine. So I tell her I will think about it.


I wonder how long it will take her to notice crane 60 in her examination room.

Makin' Momos with Sangye

With some time to spare between my classes and painting lessons, I decided to try a Tibetan cooking class. Today, momos are on the menu, so I excitedly make my way down to "Sangye's Kitchen," a highly recommended class on Jogiwara Road.

Through the doors, past the sign with a panda licking it's lips, I find myself at a large table with a half-dozen foreigners equally excited about the lesson. Sangye is young and lighthearted, friendly enough that the atmosphere quickly becomes one of light banter and enjoyment; the best kind of mood for those dealing with food. Laughing and joking, we start to learn how to make momos: Tibetan dumplings.

Sangye is a wealth of information about Tibetan culture. He shares stories of the baking powder that magically appears on the surfaces of frozen lakes in Tibet, a substance which is excellent both for making momos and for curing dandruff. When a Brit asks him, "Who taught you to cook? Your mum?" he informs us that it was in fact his father who was the skilled one, delighting the Western women with stories of sexual equality in Tibet and shared household chores, from cooking to children care. 

But there's more than food and banter here. Sangye is a refugee who left Tibet about a dozen years ago. As with many of the people here, stories of injustice, politics, and peace are always lurking on the tip of his tongue. After a bit of prompting, he tells us tales of the kidnapped Panchen Lama, of Chinese politics and the Dalai Lama's peace talks, and of his own escape through the mountains.

Worried that his parents would fear for his safety and try to stop him, he clandestinely made his escape, with no one but his companion aware of his flight. Traveling through the mountains for 28 days, they made their way to Nepal, eventually settling here (following, like many Tibetans, the Dalai Lama). For years, he sent letters to his family in Tibet, letters which were only destroyed by the Chinese authorities. Finally, in a cooking class, he met a Western couple who agreed to take his letters to his family. Later, they returned to Mcleod with letters and phone numbers; Sangye was finally able to talk to his family, who surely must have believed him to be dead.

As we knead the dough, flatten it into circles, fill and shape these beautiful momos, we learn about the situation in Tibet. For carrying a picture of HH Dalai Lama, one goes to jail. At all times, one must carry Mao's Red Book, and when one has idle time, he must study it. Manual labors, when given a few minutes of reprieve, must sit and study the book for fear of the authorities' wrath. Every night, there are meetings in which one must describe what he learned from the book that day. Traditional clothing and jewelry was taken from the Tibetans, earrings ripped out of women's ears, hair cut off of their heads, with a statement about the need for leaving the traditional behind and move toward progress.

With ease, the mood travels between grief and joy as Sangye, a brilliant storyteller, takes us through his world, which hangs symbolically, on his wall. A picture of a baby, Sangye's son, hangs next to the large map of Tibet and the painting of HH Dalai Lama.


I will not give you all of the recipes that we learned (my reason being something between forcing you to attend these classes and having my own secrets to cook for my friends), but I will reveal one: the chocolate momo. No, it's not traditional; according to Sangye, it's a recipe which was born in his own kitchen. But yes, it is delicious.

To make the dough, don't follow a recipe. Don't measure, says Sangye, because flour always reacts differently with water. For about 20 momos, mix two cups flour, 1 tsp baking powder, and water as needed. Mix it with one finger (not all of them) until the texture feels right (it comes out feeling something like play-doh when you've got it right). Knead for 5 minutes, let sit for an hour. Flatten into thin (but even) circles of about 3-4" diameter.

Chocolate Momo Filling 
4 tbsp oil (usually anything but olive will do)
2 tbsp flour
2 tbsp sesame seed
2 tbsp sugar
2 tbsp chocolate powder

On low heat, cook the ingredients until golden brown. Put in the center of the dough and fold.

Folding is quite a skill, one which you really need to see in order to reproduce (I suggest youtube). There are several types of momos, but the two most common, the round one (representing unity) and the half moon (representing the mountains around Tibet) take a bit of skill to learn.

Steam for 10 minutes. 

For those of you that know me personally, be prepared to eat some delicious momos.

On the way home, I dropped off two momos with Mittsu, who took them with both hands and touched the package to her forehead in thanks.

Momos about to be steamed

A combination of momos, HHDL, and Sangye's gesture really describes the class.

The Karmapa's Blessing

The 25 year-old Karmapa Lama, the 17th in the line of Karmapas, is head of the Kagyu lineage of Tibetan Buddhism and is considered the third most important figure in Tibetan Buddhism. His face can be found on Kagyu shrines and temples worldwide; he holds the place in many hearts as Root Guru, the great Teacher of Teachers, to which many Buddhists look for inspiration and wisdom.

And he lives only a short drive away.

There's something very powerful about seeing an important figure with your own eyes, and something powerful about idea of a boy or young man who is someone very special just by right of his birth (or, in this case, reincarnation). So when I took my seat in the shrine room and saw That Face, serious, young, smooth, and perfect, I was more than simply star-struck.

The room was filled with the sound of monks chanting in Tibetan, a noise that comes from deep in the throat and seems to penetrate the surrounding world. Massive drums, Tibetan horns, and symbols contributed to the din. In an environment such as this (especially if you are chanting as well), it becomes easy to slip into an alternative state of consciousness. As I listened, keeping HH Karmapa in my line of sight over the heads of the crowd, I passed into a state of relaxation and meditative quiet.

For a few brief minutes, as I watch HH touch objects of worship to his head in blessing (an action which fleetingly gave me a flash of what he must have looked like as a child), I became filled with this intense joyful feeling, something I could only describe as Buddhist loving kindness. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, I was in love with this being, and then, just as suddenly, in love with all beings. Was the Karmapa such a massive person that he penetrated the entire room? Was it the lulling relaxation of the environment of chanting? Was this the result of thousands of hours of study which had created an image of the Karmapa in my head which was romanticized, mysticized? Or is it simply the case that, sometimes, there are people and occurrences in this world that we do not understand?

And why do I need to ask so many questions? 

Blessed by the Karmapa, I followed the crowd to place an offering on his teaching seat: crane 65 with a fresh, white kotta. Before leaving, I followed the crowds and circumambulated the building, placing a crane on each of the corners.

The main shrine room

I wish my pictures had come out better, because it really is a beautiful room. The Karmapa's seat is blocked by the heads of Westerners, but above it there is another teaching seat- the seat of HH Dalai Lama, which contains a cardboard cut-out of HHDL, life size, smiling!

A Few More Thangkas

Medium yab-yum paintings. ~14-16" tall. Moon: $52, Right: $40 (with brocade)

I'm in love with this one, the colors are wonderful, and there's a lot of detail in it. Large size (over 20") with gold details. With brocade ~$75

They've been making this one for weeks and weeks now, and it is absolutely the best painting I have seen in town. It's 30" tall and has three weeks of detail work left before completion. Almost every aspect of the painting will be detailed, with gold lining in many places. It's $125 with brocade, but enormous and worth every penny.

A medium simpler yab-yum, only $40 with brocade

Again, a medium yabyum with more detail work, $45 w/brocade

Medium 1000 arm chenrezig, $45 with brocade

I just realized that I didn't write down the price for this one. :P sorry

A large (over 20") 1000 arm Chenrezig. $75 with brocade. (Mittsu suggested adding more details, such as flowers along the edges).