Yak butter-tea breakfast for the soul

One morning in Tibet, I awoke well before dawn, jumped out of my body-warmed bed and stepped onto the cold hard wooden floor. I shivered. I tip-toed downstairs and splashed my face with cold water from the wash bucket left filled from last night by the proprietress of the guest house. And then while the world was still dreaming I walked out into the inky black streets and then travelled by bus, far far away, out of town. I passed fleeting shadows in the alleyways that looked like conspiracies. I passed nomadic tents, pass silhouettes of prayer flags flapping above squat mud-bricked adobes. I went far far across the wild plateaus – pass braying animals and mischievous pariah dogs. I travelled miles across the plain and then there, atop the lonely hill-top, lay the monastery. I went up a flight of stone steps and as I got closer, the steady murmuring drizzle of monk talk got louder. At the top, in the dull-blue chill of early morning, they invited me to join them where they sat for breakfast. Our breath condensed in the morning air as we passed around rough bread and tea made of rancid yak butter flavoured with salt. The Tibetans were incorrigibly merry, with a quick animation in their faces, ready at any moment to break into a ruddy smile that felt like a benediction (blessing). Their smiles were cleansing. Like a Bodyshop scrub for the soul.

Then as the sun began to burn off the morning mist – I went into the monastery and explored its honey-comb chambers. Inside it stank of rancid butter lamps. Ancient scrolls greasy with years of butter lamp grease holding eastern secrets were stacked from floor to ceiling in cut-outs dug into the walls. Flickering candles loomed and cast shadows that threatened and gave the place an air of solemnity. Little Buddha statues smiled at you through recesses and above them snapshots of the Dalai Lama; dog-eared, besmirched with greasy finger marks, sat affixed – seemingly floating in the air. In some rooms, through open windows, the white bearded mountains peered in. They reminded you, that at this moment you were on The Roof of The World.

Afterwards, I climbed the winding steps to the roof of the monastery, and there I sat, through the sun-washed morning, writing, thinking and letting my eyes wander out across the barren plain – hemmed in as they were by the mountains. My mind was also filled with mountains. Mountains of the mind. They loomed ever so large above me. But up here no movement was discernible but the fluttering of prayer flags. No sound but the squeaks of revolving prayer drums transmitting their prayers to heaven. And in the background the constant low humming of the monks. My mind and my thoughts are too airy, too light; like helium-baloon gas, to be kept within the small confines of my skull. I can feel my thoughts and ideas like gas pressure pushing against the walls of my skull. I need space to breathe. Freedom to roam. To wander. This I find here. Later I scrambled down the hill and caught a bus heading back into town. By then, morning had finally risen from its slumber from behind its bed the mountains – and the city; a colourless mass of shadows in the morning, had now bloomed into a spring blossom riot of colours. Orange flower boxes, yellow temple walls and white-washed terraces, golden stupas and pagodas pointing to the skies. As I walked through the central square I saw fierce looking 'Khampa' bandits with their red bandannas and black skins. I spied leather skinned women of indeterminate age – years of toil on the fields and in the sun showing in their faces. Traders, monks, mendicants, purple-cheeked little girls with bright open eyes and brilliant smiles. There were itinerant circus freaks from the low areas, spell weaving magicians with pointy green hats whispering incantations in the smoky blue air, and restless travellers from the West seeking the wisdom of the East. And me, a seemingly ordinary guy, caught in the middle of a medieval stage show of freaks and outcasts.

Then as the morning rose further still, I headed back to my guest-house room and went back to sleep with the chants still ringing in my ears and the flags still flapping in the wind. I re-awoke sometime after three in the afternoon and after a little light reading and writing I descended below to a cavernous kitchen, where three Tibetan girls were busy chopping the vegetables – their white dirt caked fingers peeling potatoes, their fingers nails stuffed with filth – they were preparing my dinner. I sat on the kitchen table watching them in a kind of trance reverie and horror. What a strange world I had tumbled into. An Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole. They passed me my steaming soup dinner and hard bread - and without further ado I began gobbling it down – dipping the bread in the soup to soften it, pushing it down the chute of my throat, reminding myself that the mind seeks nourishment. The thinking-writing-contemplative life – needs nourishment. Then after finishing off the last dregs at the bottom with a slurp – tummy bloated – I grabbed my jug of milky tea, and went up to the roof of the guest-house and watched the heavens fill with stars. Tummy and firmament both full.

Now repeat after me:-

Thou shalt not plan. Thou shalt not hurry. Thou shalt not travel without back-pack, on anything other than back roads. And thou shalt not, ever, in any circumstance, call thyself a tourist. Amen.