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Meanwhile, the stately dagger-sporting Khampa men, reputed as being rugged types, are checking me out. Yet, there’s no aggression. In fact, they flood me with affection: some hug me; some insist on holding hands; others are fascinated by my week-old beard and stroke it. They aren’t shy. But, perhaps the most fascinating aspect of these macho men is their tremendous religious faith. Every single one, without exception, wears some sort of religious pendant or beads. Just outside of town, some Khampa men are waiting beside motorbikes. They are here to help us. A few minutes later, we watch in astonishment as out of the mountain shadows, a hornless cavalry gallops in to save the day: a group of six long-haired yak-boys (they rustle yaks not cows), dressed in ponchos with daggers hanging from their hips. In the distance another group approaches.
Hope of reaching the monastery is once again alive. Discussions ensue, as this could be a dangerous journey, but when the Rinpoche himself hops onto a horse and starts off, there is no longer any debate.
Miffed about our lack of initiative in securing a horse, Michele and I watch as the first two groups set off towards the river. We wish them well but are secretly jealous of missing out on what is sure to be an unforgettable journey. Luckily, a villager spots our dejected faces. He offers us an expression of reassurance before crying out something in a powerful voice to the horsemen already en route. Though I have no idea what was communicated, I am confident we won't be left here. Sure enough, within minutes a few horsemen return and I find myself on the back of an unbridled horse.
When we approach the river, the horse takes slow deliberate steps, carefully reading the current, and then proceeds across. I strain to lift my legs as high as possible (while containing the urge to yelp when my leg cramps up), to keep them out of the water, but I cannot. I'm so excited by the rush of it all that I don't even care about the soaker. We cross the river a second time before joining the group.
Phase-two of the journey sees us trade in old transport for new. Our horsepower now comes in the form of motorcycle engines. But there aren't enough of these either, so we have to wait.
We are comforted with a "Mashang lai" (soon come back), as the last of the bikes buzzes off. Waiting with us is a young lama and some local shepherds. One entertains us by getting his horse to stand on its hind legs. Initially impressive, this trick stagnates quickly. It begins to rain. I look for cover, but at 4,200m above sea level, well above the tree-line, there’s nowhere to go.
The rain intensifies. Now 20 minutes since the last group left, the horseman trick is just plain annoying. We begin to question if they will return for us. And if so, will there be enough time? With doubts dropping down on us like the rain, we consider returning to the jeeps and calling it quits. That's when I spot two specs in the distance advancing towards us.
My driver is of typical yak-boy stock. He gestures for me to get on and before I know it, we’re accelerating across the plains, rain buffeting us from all sides. In a perfect paradox, I let go and trust in fate while holding on for dear life. It's a bumpy ride, with rocks and gopher holes spread out like hidden mines. I divert my mind from fear by focusing on the spectacular valley unfolding before my eyes.
The steep road is so muddy that the bike slides all over the place. My driver constantly readjusts to maintain his precarious control over the machine. We come very close to wiping out several times. He shakes his head, visibly upset by the conditions, and decides on a different strategy— a basic math principle: the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. He bypasses the windy road by heading straight up the steep, grassy slope -- an aggressive tactic that is only slightly faster while exponentially increasing the holy-shit-this-is-insane factor.
At last, with heart in throat, we reach the top. I trace the road with squinty eyes as it winds down to the monastery that sits perched on the edge of a cliff. Beyond it, the river and its tributary limbs spread out like thousands of tiny veins. More grasslands and hills lay in the backdrop. It is a picture respite with serenity. Still buzzing with adrenalin from my crazy ride, my heart slithers back down from within my throat to its rightful place in my chest. I take a deep breath of thanks as I try to impregnate this extraordinary setting and this feeling of exhilaration into my being.
True to form, my driver puts the bike in neutral and continues to ignore the road altogether, preferring to maneuver his way down the grass instead. As if sensing the peace, the rain ceases; body and nerves begin to loosen. I had many doubts along the way but somehow I knew it would all work out.
When we reach the monastery, we are escorted to a room where the rest of the group is sitting and talking merrily. I am grateful when I am handed a bowl of piping hot yak-milk tea. Hands trembling madly, I close my eyes, bring the cup to my quivering lips and accept the liquid enthusiastically. When I reopen my eyes, Rinpoche is looking at me with smiling eyes and says "mei you wun ti ma" (did you have any problems?). |
