Monastic Musings (Yak, Yak, Yak, Part II)

We awoke from what little sleep we had been able to scrounge. As light began to break through the small openings in our temporary home, Pentso had already rekindled the fire in preparation for breakfast. The first offering of the day was Milk Tea, served from an aged metallic kettle and tasting of the many layers of soot which encased it. We finished up the delicious Yak Cheese Momos which were left from the night before. This was accompanied by our first encounter with sweet Tsampa. The serving and consumption differed slightly from the previous evening’s savoury version, and Pentso was glad to demonstrate. The ground barley wheat is mixed with a handful of sugar and levelled off in a small bowl, into which a small amount of milk tea is thenadded to form a top layer of paste. This is then licked like an ice cream from the bowl until a dry layer of barley flour is revealed below. The process is then repeated until every last crumb is licked away and the bowl is clean. This is staple Tibetan food and is a centuries old tradition which makes best use of crop availability at altitude. I felt privileged to be sharing the experience with a true Nomad, even if it wasn’t my usual choice of morning sustenance.

I had developed symptoms of altitude sickness the previous evening and was still feeling unsettled. I alerted Pentso who reassured me through gestures that we wouldn’t be ascending any further. We were due to walk with our pack horse to a monastery roughly two hours from Bahmei, where we would spend the night and finish our journey the following day. We said goodbye to our guide’s family and began the walk through the soggy grasslands. Pentso was totally at home in this environment and led us over and around hilltops and took us to suitable parts of the river to wade through. Stripping down to one’s pants and jumping into a freezing cold stream is certainly a leveler, no matter where you’re from.

Along the way we saw herds of Nomads moving across the expansive landscape. The mass of cattle appeared as ants in the distance before approaching and sweeping past us. The sight of Nomads on the move is a powerful reminder of the nature of their existence. Freedom of movement is paramount and they operate in complete unison with their surroundings, never wasting a single resource that is available to them. Their attitude towards life is a mirror image of the vastness of their habitat. We felt extremely welcome in their company even though we couldn’t speak the language. Their dedication to their spiritual leader is also absolute. Prayers for the Dalai Lama are often heard being muttered at all times of day and Penstso’s son Garanora taught me how to pronounce the most common, ‘om mane padme hum’.

We arrived at the Gumba Gompa Monastery early in the evening. We walked up the dirt track with the sounds of tape recorded prayers bouncing around the hills. We were all offered a warm welcome by an ageing, rotund, Tibetan man who helped unpack the horse as we wearily entered their home. The main living area was a small, wooden room with an iron, wood fire stove in the middle. An extractor pipe dealt with most of the smoke, but the heat was stifling at times. None the less, an old Tibetan woman with traditional red plaits sat next to the centerpiece, where she expertly orchestrated proceedings for the rest of our stay. The years of toil and trouble she must have endured were etched into the course lines on her face. She embodied the long history of the monastery, suggesting it’s age like the rings in the trunk of a fallen tree.

We immediately got stuck into some noodles and milk tea, followed by home made yak milk yoghurt. Eyes young and old were trained solely upon the westerners. The yogurt was served in a bowl with a handful of sugar on top and I attacked it as if it was Tsampa, stirring it with my right hand. This induced roars of laughter from the Tibetan audience, as a single finger is normally used to stir the mixture. I licked my hands and my pride and started again.

We soon went for our first tour around the grounds. The surroundings were very old and sombre. This was clearly a monastery which received few donations. Circling above us on the hillside were flocks of birds, which led us to believe sky burials took place here. This is an ancient Tibetan ritual used to dispose of a corpse. The body is chopped into pieces for the birds to feed on, so returning the flesh to nature. In death, Tibetans believe the consciousness moves on from the bodily container, soon to be reincarnated in another form. Sky burials are a recognition of this belief, and also serve as a hygienic disposal method in barren surroundings. As we toured the area, we noticed some suspiciously human looking bones scattered on the ground.

We were shown various prayer wheels and the main hall where the teachings take place. The monks noticed I had a camera and seized the chance to get a digital image of the paintings on the walls. We wondered if they had ever had the opportunity to see the artwork fully lit, as the hall was very gloomy with no electric lighting. The monk’s quarters were extremely humbling. One example consisted of a wooden hut with no windows, a pile of blankets and a black teapot. It became all too apparent that dedication to their religion is all they have. Taking refuge in the ‘Three Jewels’, The Buddha, The Dharma (teachings) and The Sangha (Buddhist community), forms the very backbone of their existence.

We all dined together again that evening and were introduced to the famous Yak Butter Tea. This is usually served after being churned, but true to our surroundings the version we were offered was slightly more basic. It consisted of warm milk tea, into which a full handful of yellow Yak Butter was dumped, and I plumped for the optional extra of dried Yak cheese. This concoction is said to prevent dehydration and stop the lips getting chapped. All rather irrelevant if one is projectile vomiting at the same time. We politely sipped and then attempted to hide the potent mix. Our escape was short lived however, as in true Tibetan style the congealed leftovers were offered to us for breakfast.

It became clear the monastery rarely accommodated guests, but we eventually bedded down on the floor in the young monks room. Pentso left on his horse early in the morning, and the old Tibetan man was to show us the way to the nearest village. We were awoken by the best alarm clock in the world. At 6.30 precisely, the four children began reciting their prayers. Understandably, one may imagine the soft voices of choir boys gently caressing the mind from slumber; however recital in this part of the world entails shouting at the top of your voice relentlessly for an hour. Arising swiftly, we enjoyed one last cup of butter tea and were then shown the way to the nearest village by the old man. We reached the edge of the mountainside and he pointed to a faint cluster of houses in the distance, while making a gesture which suggested it would take two hours to get there. We donned our 20kg packs and set forth as the man said prayers for us, and the monks chanting could be heard in the distance.

Yak, Yak, Yak…

Yak. After a six hour horse trek and the abuse of some muscles that Carl and I were unaware even existed, we arrived at the Nomad Camp in the TagongGrasslands, 4000m above sea level. We were surrounded by hills of lush green grass and bright yellow buttercups. In the distance we could see rocky snow topped mountains glistening in the sun. The sky was blue, the air crisp and the sun strong (strong enough to overcome my factor 50 and easily burn my entire ginger head). Having spent some time in Tagong and other areas in the Tibetan province of Ganzi*, we knew this weather wouldn’t last and that soon we would move into spring, or even winter.

We were led by our guide Pentso, a Tibetan nomad who spoke no English but communicated to us through friendly and humorous gestures. We were taught how to ride the horses in this manner. Carl named his horse Terry. Terry was a grey horse who always wanted to be at the front of the pack and kept galloping off with Carl holding on for his life. I had originally called my horsey Hazell, but I changed the name to Carl when he kept stopping to eat and poo all the time. Carl was vicious and he tried to bite Terry on numerous occasions.

We were staying with Pentso and his family, and his extended nomad family, and of course his Yaks, in his yak hair nomad tent. There were about eight young children at the camp who ran to greet us with friendly smiles and curious eyes. They were fascinated with my hair and by Carl’s camera. Every time he pressed the shutter they’d flock to see the photo displayed on the screen, and every time I’d bend down I’d feel a small hand shyly stroke my head. The Tibetan children had a very distinctive look; rough dark skin with big raw wind swept cheeks, clear mucus streaming from their noses, dribble coating their chapped lips and white yak milk teeth. They’d laugh wildly and carefree at the smallest things. They made games out of hiding buttercups, running around with a metal wheel at the end of some wire, and yak poo. Pentso laughed at my reaction as one little boy showed me his favourite toy; a nicely molded piece of yak dung. It was like play dough, but this smelled better.

Carl and I played with the children for hours. They taught us Tibetan, andwe taught them English. They made me endless buttercup chains and rings, and never tired of posing for photos. We helped Draga, Pentso’s wife, and Guaranura, one of Pentso’s sons, to prepare the freshly picked herbs for dinner. This was about the only substance that didn’t come from the Yaks. Each nomad family had about twenty yaks each. The big black tents were made of yak hair, they used dried yak dung as fuel for fire and from the yaks milk they produced milk tea, butter, cheese, yogurt, dried cheese and more unthinkable delicacies. They’d only eat yak meat if the yak died naturally. Contrary to what I thought I’d see they actually appeared to care for the animals and treat them as pets, even to the extent of keeping them inside the tent.

After some explanatory impressions we managed to work out that the night before we arrived at the camp there had been a wolf present; therefore all the baby yaks were moved inside the tent, right next to where we would be sleeping. Once the ten baby yaks were safely inside the tent, next to our bed (made out of a popular mountain bush, floor and Tibetan coats) it was time for dinner. Draga had made yak cheese and herb momos which were delicious! Little balls of dough filled with a yak cheese and herb mix and steamed with a clever little device over an open fire. As we were drinking our after dinner milk tea, the family continued to chat and joke and Pentso communicated to us through hand gestures that his children were being cheeky to him. We all shared a laugh as one of the baby yaks let off a huge fart that was impressive even by Carl’s high standards.

Then it was time for bed. Us by the baby yaks on one side of the fire, and Pentso and family on the other side. As soon as we hit the deck it started to rain. And then it started to pour. To our surprise the yak hair tent was not exactly waterproof and light droplets of rain fell on us as we struggled to find a comfortable position on the makeshift bed. Then thunder started. It shook the tent and felt more like an earthquake, although the nomads didn’t blink an eyelid. As I lay eyes open in the tent I started to sense something moving at the end of our bed. ‘Wolf’ I thought, ‘who places their guests next to the wolf bait, it’s bad manners really’. I pulled a Tibetan coat over my head, curled up and hoped that the wolf would favour the flavour of my more meaty boyfriend. Thunder came again, then a bout of fork lightening lit the whole tent revealing a huge yak standing at the bottom of our bed, and another one coming in through an opening in the tent. Their staring eyes reflected the light and their huge menacing horns grew in the shadows. They were mothers, come to see their babies who were right next too our bush bed. Luckily the yaks weren’t smart enough to keep quiet and Pentso soon awoke and shooed them out of the tent. This continued all night long and I resigned myself to the fact that if I did somehow get to sleep, it would probably be next to a yak.

* The Tibetan province of Ganzi is classed by the Chinese as Western Sichuan, however it felt distinctly Tibetan to us. Tagong and its surrounding areas in Western Sichuan are occupied by Tibetans and it’s a good place to go to get a taste of Tibet if you don’t want to pay the permit and tour fees to enter the official Tibet Autonomous Region. Angela at the Kham Cafe in Tagong is an American who married a nomad and can help with trekking arrangements

. www.definitelynomadic.com