Dumzi is the most sacred of all festivals at Pema Choling. Two days are spent simply in preparation: The making of thorma is the primary activity during this time. Puja (chanting) will last four days, and the final two days no one will sleep: Sherpa dancing, a traditional line dance in which both men and women participate, will fill the days. After dinner the atmosphere will be transformed and the wholesome Sherpa dancing will morph into a full on disco party, complete with strobe lights, all types of Nepali, Hindi, and western music (including Shakira, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, and various rap artists), and an unlimited supply of chhang – Sherpa wine made from millet. I follow the festival sponsor, Ngawang Dorje, into the store room and watch three women arranging 8 or 9 barrels of chhang, which Ngawang tells me have been in the making for seven months at his lodge down the hill from here in Phakding. I poke my head through the doorway to get a better look at the barrels and the smell of fermenting millet hits my nostrils. So strong is the smell I jerk my head back involuntarily. My whole nose and sinuses feel brutally cleansed and I’m certain my head cold is cured once and for all. “It’ll be a really nice wine,” Ngawang says with a proud smile. After dinner I take him up on his offer to try the chhang; it’s smooth and the taste is alright, but I still don’t like the smell.

Morning. Just thinking of the chhang makes me sniffle, and I pick up my mug for another sip of hot milk tea. It’s only the first morning of puja, and I’m already feeling the need for a break, so after the breakfast break I retreat with my laptop to the dining hall where I can write while staying out of the way but still feel amidst the hustle and bustle of festival excitement. I’m interrupted by a tiny woman with jet black wavy hair pulled back in a braid, dressed in a silky lime green pastel chemise under a royal blue Sherpa dress of the same shiny silky material, embroidered with exotic flowery patterns in a rainbow of red, orange, yellow, and green thread. I love her demeanor; I was watching her yesterday and she’s certainly the most friendly and outgoing of the typically shy Sherpa women who stick to the kitchen, always ready with thermos in hand to pour a steaming cup of tea for anyone who wanders into a 10-foot radius. But this little lady is always laughing and smiling, flashing a gold tooth in her upper left set of molars.

She motions for me to follow her, and we walk through the dining hall, the kitchen, outside, and into the store room, where she shuts the double wooden doors behind us. She places her backpack on a bag of grain and turns to me with a big smile. “Okay, Sherpa dress,” she says, pulling a pile of clothing out of her pack. I hold out my arms and she eases me into a forest green blouse of the same shiny, silky material hers is made of. It boasts an understated iridescent zigzag print in the same forest green color; you wouldn’t even see the zigzags if it weren’t for the light catching the thread. She proceeds to pull a black dress over my head and ties it, then unfolds one of the beautiful Sherpa aprons – the hallmark of the Sherpa costume – and ties it high around my waist. I look down; the apron of brown, tan, camel, purple, white, and silver stripes stands out against the slimming black dress whose hem barely brushes the tops of my ballet slipper shoes. I love it.

I walk back out through the kitchen and into the dining hall, knowing that I’ll be under close inspection for the next few hours. Sherpa people are curious, boisterous, and proud of their culture; I know they’ll be both enthusiastic and tickled pink to see their favorite little white girl in traditional dress. Sure enough, I enter the room to an explosion of joyous catcalls, “Ho! Sila! Sherpini!!” Sherpini is the name for a Sherpa woman: All Sherpa men’s last name is Sherpa, and the women’s last name is Sherpini – although when used colloquially the term “Sherpini” usually refers to a married woman.
“But I’m not married!” I protest. They’re doing their best to change that. Things have been moving beyond the once innocent suggestions that I marry a Sherpa.

In light of yesterday’s conversation in the kitchen, I try not to feel self conscious as two men in particular inspect my new attire from across the room.

You might feel uneasy, too, if you had witnessed this that conversation...
Sapana and I am talking with the festival sponsor; they sit side by side while I stand facing them, my back to the fire. Ngawang sits with one leg crossed over the other and his hands clasped, fingers laced together around his top leg. He leans back comfortably and gazes into the fire while talking, then falls silent. I am absorbed in thought with the stories of his various houses in Nepal and his travels to the US when, after this pause in the conversation, he suddenly lifts his head to meet my gaze and steadily, thoughtfully says, “You know, I’ve been thinking about taking an American wife.”
I chuckle, knowing he’s already married with two kids; he only just finished showing my pictures of them on his iPhone some twenty minutes ago. He just smiles.
“Aren’t you married? What would your wife think of a second wife?” I tease, thinking he’s joking, of course.
“Oh, she has no problem,” he replies, completely serious.
“Wait, is it okay for Buddhists to have more than one wife?” I ask, not knowing why the idea makes me feel a little unsettled if not concerned.
“Yes, it is okay in our culture,” Ngawang says carefully. “This is more common that divorce. Perhaps 5% of Sherpa families include more than one wife, while less than 1% are divorced.” The idea still feels a bit incredulous, this is the first I’ve heard of polygamy in Sherpa culture.

After the arrival of some guests interrupts the cultural discussion and provides me some time for thought, Ngawang takes his seat once again and together with Sapana, the three of us fall back into conversation, this time joined by an older monk in his late 50’s, who also goes by Ngawang. I’d met this Ngawang just the morning before; apparently he’s been here at the monastery the entire time I have, but I had only seen him briefly the first day I arrived because the following day he started a month-long meditation and remained in one room above the monastery, talking to nobody and having contact only with the young monk who brought him his meals.

I’d only become cognizant of his existence a week ago, and then when I walked into the kitchen the first morning of Dumzi, there he was offering me milk coffee – a big treat in a place like this. After accepting a bowl of corn flakes (also a first time treat) from Kagi and allowing Lakpa to douse them in hot milk tea, I paused my wonderment at all these culinary treats and wandered over to meet the new face in a kitchen I now considered familiar domain. I approached Ngawang and used my ever-growing Nepali lexicon to ask his name and where he’s from. After exchanging only a few words, his face lights up and he suddenly says, “I enjoy you. After the festival you will come to my lodge; I own the Kala Patthar Lodge in Phakding. We’ll drink tea, eat some food and talk.”
“Okay,” I replied, returning his smile. What else could I say? It’s not very often a brand new acquaintance demands my presence as a guest in their home. I’m not quite sure what he saw in me, but Ngawang made up his mind about me very quickly. Perhaps first impressions are especially big with him, and I happen to be a morning person...that’s all I can figure.

That conversation ended when Ngawang was called out to attend to some matter with a visitor. He started to walk away and then double-backed, saying, “Okay, I will see you later and we will talk more.” I said goodbye and then picked up my phone, remembering I needed to call my mom during the brief period each day when the time difference between Nepal and Oregon is favorable for both of us. I caught my dad at home and we talked for about 20 minutes; then I started to walk back to the kitchen to refill my mug.
I looked up when I heard a voice in front of me asking, “Everything okay?” and suddenly strong arms were wrapping me up into a big hug. Everything really was okay, and in the midst of me trying to figure out what expression I might have made to make it seem as if something was amiss, it took me a moment to realize that it was my new friend Ngawang enthusiastically hugging me. All I could think was that, after a month of voluntary solitary confinement, he must be so happy to finally see people that he just can’t keep his joy to himself. That’s sweet, I thought, and then assured him everything was perfect before continuing on my way.

Now I was sitting with Ngawang, the enthusiastic hugger, and Ngawang, the festival sponsor, and they were talking about how they’d like to find me a Sherpa dress for the festival. “I’ll have my wife give me one to bring tomorrow,” said the first. “Be careful,” warned the second, “you might look quickly and mistake her for your wife.” That got a lot of laughs and invoked a series of jokes about him taking me as a second wife. I laughed along with them – not really feeling like there was anything else I could do – but had a strange feeling that they weren’t entirely joking.

So now I’m in full Sherpa costume, being paraded around as a one-person fashion show for the amusement of all present. Both Ngawangs are surprised and stop to admire my new look, and I’m not feeling any better about the marriage jokes. I might have shed the dress and ran back up to my room for the rest of the evening if I only knew what was to come...

After lunch Sapana and I sat in the dining room, chatting. A few people got up and Ngawang the meditating monk saw us and scooted down to say hello. Somehow, slyly, the conversation was immediately turned to marriage. Ngawang told us proudly, “You see that old monk over there, spinning the mani? That’s my poppy. He’s 84. And he walked here from the monastery in Ghat!” A two hour walk involving a steep climb of 200 m (about 600 ft). Sapana and I are impressed. “You know, he had seven wives. And my grand-poppy had eighteen.” Our mouths drop. Eighteen wives? The old monk places a hand on my leg. Weird flirting and innuendos ensue. Of all the places in the world, I thought this would be the last I’d ever be subjected to such treatment. But oh, it gets worse.

After dinner Sapana and I, the slow eaters that we are, find ourselves again one of the last few people in the dining hall. The old meditating monk comes by and asks me (for the third or fourth time), “Where do you sleep?”
“At saano gumba,” I tell him, “with the little monks. Remember? Big festival. Many people here. Festival sponsor in my room. No space for me here!” I simplify and exaggerate, convincing myself he’s only asking because he somehow didn’t understand the first three times.
“No, no...you eat dinner now, you’re tired. That hill is too big. It’s late and dark. You stay here, you can stay in my room.” My mouth drops. I look at Sapana. We’re both in shock. Is he really saying this? “My room. I have two beds, two blankets. You stay here. Good for you.” I want to run away. Fast. I laugh nervously and tell him “No way, that’s a horrible thing to say.” And then I escape to the monastery, where big and little monks are hanging out and stuffing goody bags.

I stay away, far away from this old monk and prepare to slap him if he touches me again. I absolutely cannot believe that, as the most senior lama in the monastery, he would dare to speak and act this way, especially in front of the other monks. I employ the monks my age as my body guards and pay them in Hershey’s Kisses I brought from Oregon. When the festival ends this dirty old monk will go home to his lodge in Phakding and won’t bother me. I certainly won’t be visiting his lodge for tea!

On the stove a dish called dildo bubbles in a wok blackened from what appears to be years of use over an open fire. I saw a menu nailed to a wooden plank in the kitchen yesterday, a hand-written grid neatly printed on a blank sheet of paper, and couldn’t help but laugh when I read that “Dildo with Mixed Curry” was on for lunch today. What in the world could that be? The rest of the dishes on the menu – besides “Macroni with Veg/Cheese Tomato” – are traditional Sherpa, Nepali, or Tibetan dishes, and I haven’t come across anything called dildo yet.

It was Pasang Genzi, assistant to the festival sponsor, who pointed to the corn meal and hot water bubbling in the wok and told me, “See, they’re making dildo. Very good, you should try it.” I watched as first the corn meal was cooked, then tsampa (barley) and millet, all in the same fashion. Then all three were dumped into a huge twenty-gallon pot to become a mixture so thick three cooks had to heave the pot off the fire and onto the floor, where they propped it against a wooden log which they used as leverage to stir the dildo with huge wooden sticks.

Lunch time approaches and I’m chased up to the dining hall to take the meal in a long room with wooden benches and long narrow tables lining either side. The thick brown paste that they call dildo is plopped into a copper dish and served with a bowl of chicken potato curry on the side. No utensils included. That’s pretty typical for Nepal – everyone eats with their right hand only. But usually the other volunteers and I are given utensils automatically, and I’d even say most of the monks use utensils most of the time. But apparently this dish is hands-only, so I have to seek out a spoon for myself. When I return and start sipping some of the curry soup off my spoon, I look up to see everyone staring at me and laughing – not insultingly, just amused. I seem to constantly be a great source of amusement for pretty much everyone here. The monks demonstratively roll their dildo paste into marble-sized balls and then dip them into the curry before popping them in their mouths. Colin jokingly threatens to throw one at me. It goes against every lesson in table etiquette my mother ever taught me. What happened to “No playing with your food?” Sherpa kids don’t learn that lesson.

Even though I know the dildo dish contains barley and therefore gluten, I’m curious enough to taste it that I risk a stomach ache. One bite is enough though; I find it bland and too rich all at the same time, and after three years of carefully avoiding gluten, the taste of grain is foreign in my mouth. I opt to stick to my bowl of curry soup instead, which is truthfully wonderful. I think the festival cooks are a bit less fond of chili and masala (spices), so for once I can actually taste my food.

I wander a bit after lunch, touring the grounds to check progress in our monastery-turned-thorma-making-factory. But eventually I find myself back in the kitchen, eager for a warm place to sit and read and subconsciously hoping for a hot cup of milk tea. I’m pleasantly surprised to find a huge pot of boiled potatoes on the floor and a group of happy Sherpas sitting around it in a sort of peeling party. Laughter bounces off the walls, the fire pops, and the smell of twisted rice-flour kapsi cookies boiling in soybean oil fills my nostrils as I’m welcomed into the room.
“Can I help?” I ask with a smile, pointing to the pot of potatoes.
“Sure, sit down,” Purbu replies. I’d crouched next to him in the yard of the other monastery a few weeks ago during the Nyune festival, slowly pressing a huge pile of barley-butter-water paste into hundreds of teardrop-shaped thorma the size of my fist. He and the others surrounding the tarp – all men between the ages of 16 and 40 and all trekking guides – laughed and joked as I very slowly and painfully produced my first thorma. No matter how long I massaged the paste, gently shaping and smoothing the surface, it would crumble the moment I pulled one hand away.
“No, like this,” said Purbu, as he forcefully smashed a handful of crumbs into a very dense, compact ball. He kneaded the dough for a good two minutes, then handed me a perfect sphere. Having three fourths of the work done for me, I quickly and easily shaped the ball into a beautiful teardrop, pinching the top with thumb and forefinger to emphasize the cone shape. I was really proud of myself, and so was everyone else. Purba and I continued in this manner – he doing the heavy lifting, me taking the credit for a perfectly compacted thorma – for at least two more hours, until the tarp was empty and we were surrounded by hundreds of teardrops on baking sheets. Remembering our teamwork and his kindness, I’m touched that Purba offers me a potato and a seat next to him.

With five people peeling, the twenty gallon pot of potatoes empties quickly. I reach in to pull another out while maintaining eye contact during my conversation Purba and am startled to find, when I finally look down, that I’m holding an egg. “Ewww! Uh oh! It’s an egg!” I cry. Everyone laughs. I look down into the pot. I count four other eggs camouflaged among the potatoes. For some reason I’m startled and confused; I don’t understand why you would ever boil eggs and potatoes together. In fact, I’m slightly concerned that the chicken poop on the eggshell contaminates the potatoes. But I peel the egg anyways and move on to the next potato.

I take a seat on one of the wooden benches halfway up the three-tiered stadium-style seating in the auditorium outside of the monastery, watching as monks of all ages scurry around in preparation for the six-day festival which starts tomorrow. This is the largest Buddhist festival of the year in the region and takes place at exactly the same time every June-July. I try to envision 1,800 people crowding into the auditorium outside the 500-year-old monastery. Built in the 16th century by one of three brothers who all founded monasteries in the region, Pema Choling should be a World Heritage Site. The paint of ornate designs adorning every inch of wall, ceiling, and wooden supporting post is very thick, maybe a quarter-inch thick in many places. I wonder if this is because of the clumpy nature of butter-oil paint they use here, or if it’s simply the result of many – perhaps more than a hundred – layers of paint used to put a fresh face on the monastery from time to time.

A steady, deliberate and lyrical recital of the universal Buddhist mantra Om Mani Padme Hum wafts out of a pair of loudspeakers mounted on either side of the monastery doorway. Buddhist rosaries consist of 108 prayer beads and the devout will make their way round an entire rosary morning and night, pushing aside one bead for each recitation of “Om Mani Padme Hum.” The mantra has become a familiar and comforting sound; it’s especially beautiful when put to music.

Someone opens the door at the far end of the auditorium and I’m suddenly sitting in a wind tunnel; a high mountain breeze ruffles the curly wisps of hair threatening to fall out of my braid. The damp room becomes unbearably cold for me and I pick up, meandering into the kitchen to take refuge in front of the fire. Namchok, the cook, is crouched in front of the fire, blowing repeatedly, functioning as a human bellows. He stands up to split a long log into three pieces with a khukuri – a long, curved Nepali knife. Steadying the log with his foot which is covered only with cracking black plastic sandals, I wonder how the Sherpas seem to avoid injury when they fail to practice what a westerner would consider the most basic and mandatory safety precautions.

I like the kitchen. In the perpetual drizzle during this monsoon season everything is damp, including all of my clothes folded neatly in my room, and I seem to have caught the “Khumbu cough.” I come here to warm my outsides as I stand in front of the fire, my clothes drying against my body and melting the goosebumps underneath, while I warm my insides with a steaming mug of black tea.

Today five additional cooks have arrived and installed themselves in the kitchen to help feed the monastery population which quadruples during festival weeks. It’s a warm and lively place, but the normal kitchen crowd – both older and younger monks – is conspicuously absent. I wonder if, for once, they’re too busy to lounge around with almost nothing to do, or if they were warned not to clutter the kitchen at such a high-volume time. I’m happy and relieved that no one’s asked me to leave.

In a society which seems so highly stratified, my status remains fluid, somewhat of a mystery, and an invisible all-access pass seems to hang about my neck. I often marvel at my ability to go anywhere and do practically anything I please, despite being an outsider and despite being a woman. I’m treated with respect everywhere: I’m ushered in to eat with the monks – something I only recently realized is quite unusual and a privilege; I move between buildings and groups of people, observing what they’re doing and how they’re doing it – even taking photos; and I’m politely offered a steaming cup of tea wherever I go. Nothing seems to be off limits for me. Of course I’m always conscientious, respectfully curious, and lend an interested ear whenever a Sherpa wants to speak, and I think this goes a long way. I’ve learned enough Nepali-Sherpa to hold only a basic conversation, but even such limited ability has earned me quite a few instant friends.

Though initially I attracted a lot of attention, it’s been nice to fade into the background as the people get used to the little blonde white girl hanging around. I wander from balcony to auditorium to upper kitchen to lower kitchen, to upper monastery to lower monastery, making the rounds and exploring the many exotic new activities to be observed.

While I sit in the kitchen typing away, no less than five curious Sherpas sidle up to sit down next to me and inspect my laptop. Some can read elementary English and think I am a journalist. One of these is Pasang Genzi, assistant to his uncle, the festival sponsor, and a sort of fix-everything guy. Eight-year-old Ula comes up and becomes a permanent fixture at my side. Despite his learning disabilities, he recognizes my cursor as the letter “I” saying, “this I.”
“Good job, Ula! The letter ‘I’!” I applaud him. “Ke chha?” I ask – “How are you?”
The Sherpa man sitting at my other side tells me that Ula doesn’t understand normal language, “but if you give him a mobile he’ll dance every time.” Sherpas keep their music collection (usually limited to a handful of songs) on cell phones – no iPods and no laptops. I turn on some music for Ula, failing to find any suitable “disco” music – as they call dance music – among my Coldplay collections. After a few minutes Namchok chases the boys out of the kitchen. So apparently a no-kids-in-the-kitchen-during-festival rule has been enacted.

It’s only 10:30 am, but two big pots of potatoes are boiling on the stove in an incredible amount of curry. I’m sometimes rather indifferent to the food here, but often enjoy it when I can taste it. I think they drown everything in chili and curry sauce to escape the blandness of their almost exclusively rice diet. There’s something called Sherpa chili – which 12-year-old Pasang Tendi delighted in making us try our first day – a green plant with lots of stems and little pea-sized pods at the ends which look and feel like small capers. I couldn’t tell you how it tastes, however, because upon biting into one of these pods a numb feeling quickly crawls up your tongue, into your gums and lips. Those nasty little Sherpa chilis leave you tingly and unable to taste anything for a good twenty minutes. Sherpa people especially like to eat them with dal bhat and other dishes in the form of aachar – pickled. I find even the smell of this homemade death pickle especially repulsive and can’t figure out their appeal. They may call me “Shirah Sherpa” for the way I conquer a rocky mountainside, but this is where I draw the line...they won’t ever catch me snacking on Sherpa chili.

Luckily, I don’t think the Sherpa chilis will make much of an appearance this week; there is so much delicious food during the festival! Everything we eat at the monastery, both on a regular basis and during festivals, is brought as a donation from community members. Over the past two days of preparation, and even in the few days leading up to these, loads of vegetables, grains, eggs, cookies, and everything else imaginable has come trickling in on the backs of men and women who’ve come to visit, participate, or work during the festival. A stocky Sherpa woman walks in, a red plastic bucket filled with cauliflower and lettuce in hand – both certainly home grown in her own garden. The woman wears a flowered short-sleeve blouse under a traditional Sherpa dress in maroon, and has a beautiful matching apron of horizontal stripes in brilliant colors tied around her waste. This is an indispensable part of the Sherpa woman’s costume. On her head, a red bandana and on her feet, black socks inside of red leather sandals. She has a gold loop earring in both ears and a bracelet of clear diamond-shaped glass beads around her right hand. She takes a seat on the bench a few feet down from me, visibly tired from her foot journey. It’s often hard to tell the age of Sherpa women because they tend to be very small-boned, shy, and develop slowly through their teens; but once they reach child-bearing age they work hard and age quickly. This woman’s eyes are dark brown hazel and almond shaped – typical Tibetan features. She has a cute button nose protruding from her otherwise flat face, and a wide smile as one of the cooks hands her a cup of juice. Every traveler receives a cup of orange powder-mix Tang juice and then as much milk tea as they can drink. Though the Sherpa people have little, they are generous and share everything; Buddhist philosophy teaches them that there is no real happiness in this life, but by being generous and kind they may foster good karma that will facilitate their rebirth. Therefore they gladly give of their earthly possessions and labor for the lives they believe are ahead for them.

Donating to and serving at festivals like Dumzi is part of building good karma. The monks are not expected to pray for nothing; villagers pay the monks to pray for good weather, good harvest, good luck, and protection from evil spirits. Dumzi is the most important of annual festivals. For four days the monks will chant, praying to push away the bad spirits, demons, and wrathful gods. The fifth day is filled with dancing; the “lama dance” is a representation of the gods and a reenactment of their interactions. On the final day of Dumzi, a new set of prayers will welcome everything good to this region and the Sherpas’ lives. The mountains are blessed, the sky, the earth, the rain, the rivers, etc. Today is only Day 1.

I was able to start asking my first round of questions on Buddhism yesterday when a conversation with the festival sponsor and former monk of 19 years, Ngawang Dorje, turned into a veritable lesson on the basics of Buddhist philosophy. He’s the first one I’ve met who speaks English well enough to explain any of it. Here’s what I’ve learned:

Everyone is trapped in samsara, cycling through birth and rebirth in this world of suffering. There are six realms in samsara, represented by the universal mantra Om Ma Ni Ped Me Hum. Humanity is a being’s highest attainment in samsara because only humans are capable of saving themselves from this cycle by entering nirvana through enlightenment – achieved only through Buddhist practice and mediation. However humans are vulnerable to four major sufferings: hunger, sickness, dying, and death. Below humans, in the second realm, are gods, who may not attain enlightenment and who do not suffer until death. However their death is a great suffering. Ngawang Dorje describes these gods feeling and smelling their bodies rotting and they are given no comfort from other gods they may have called friends – the gods’ relationships are very shallow and based on looks. The third realm is that of the semi-gods. Their major suffering is that they are constantly fighting with the gods but, as demi-gods, they can’t compete on the same ground. Despite some inevitable sufferings, these first three realms are considered relatively favorable.

The fourth realm of samsara contains all animals. They suffer because they cannot speak, and because they eat each other. In the fifth realm are insects. The exact description of their suffering is not clear to me yet, although I think is has to do with being considered undesirable and everyone else killing them all the time. Finally, the sixth realm is called the realm of pechri – “hungry ghosts.” They suffer greatly because though they have large bodies, their necks are no bigger than a single strand of hair and thus they may never eat or drink.

Outside of samsara there exists a heaven, in which reside many Buddhas, “thousands of Buddhas,” as Ngawang Dorje explains, and other enlightened beings. There are also some enlightened gods (however I haven’t been able to ask yet how they got there, if gods in samsara cannot attain enlightenment directly from the god-realm). Tibetan Buddhists pray not only to the Buddhas and enlightened gods, but to some unenlightened gods which reside in samsara, as well. One of my questions, then, was why – if human beings are higher than samsara gods – would we pray to them? The answer provided is that, though they reside in a lower realm, they are still able to help us and to protect us. Ngawang Dorje explains that there are both personal deities, “I can have my own deities; you can have your own deities,” and also general, widely recognized deities.

These universal deities are the ones recognized and honored in festivals like this one, Dumzi, during which several days are spent preparing thorma – intricately painted and decorated sculpture representations of the gods made from barley, rye, millet, corn, or rice flour mixed with giu (butter) and tato pani (hot water). Some of the thorma are beautiful, and some are rather grotesque. For example, a guided tour last night of the day’s production revealed that the armless, vaguely human-shaped thorma with a stick protruding upward and diagonally out of their side and topped with a red globule are actually representative of the gods’ hearts extracted and apparently speared. The white and light-colored grain thorma are peaceful gods, while those painted red are wrathful gods. Some are white with red hearts atop their stick. I concluded that these are otherwise peaceful gods with wrathful hearts. The dark-colored thorma which the little monks fashioned into something resembling a starfish or man in flight with all limbs spread are actually the hungry ghosts.

Additionally, I’ve learned that there are two types of meditation: First is bipashana, which is a non-religious meditation and “will keep you happy all the time,” says Ngawang Dorje. I question him on this because he just finished saying there’s no real happiness in this life for anyone. He confirms that even the happiness coming from bipashana is, in the end, not a lasting or true happiness because after all there is no real happiness in samsara. There is also Buddhist meditation, which includes the contemplation of the Lord Buddha’s teachings.

A key point of Buddhism is the acquisition of karma: Good, compassionate acts earn the believer good karma, and mean-spirited acts are either a debit to one’s bank account of good karma, or they pile up as bad karma in a separate account only to come back to haunt you later. I think of the idea of karma as a faith-injected version of the English saying “What goes around, comes around.” Accumulating good karma is important for Buddhists because it helps ensure that when they die they’ll be reborn as a human again – hopefully into even better circumstances than the current – and not as an insect, or worse.

All of this information takes a while to process. After having lived in the monastery for a month already, this explains so much. A 30 minute discussion has illuminated more of the Buddhist faith for me than a 12-week world religion course I took in college.

While I simply listen and don’t give voice to any of my reactions during our conversation, I draw some conclusions. Underlying the theory of karma and rebirth is an inherent assumption that we’ve come into this life on earth having earned it. I see that a belief in karma as an eternal record of one’s actions helps keep order in Sherpa society and motivates people to do good while dissuading them from bad, but if one’s good works are the only thing that count when it comes to reaching heaven, then there is little room for mistakes. If I were a non-committed agnostic, looking for a religion to follow, Buddhism wouldn’t be my first choice. No true happiness in this life? Everything depends on my good works? I prefer the Christian god who freely gives grace, eternal life, and real happiness. I’ve learned a lot about the Buddhist way of life during my time here, and I’ve come to understand that there are two types of adherents: on one hand the devout believer who embraces all of Buddhist tradition with it’s fantastic stories of deities and demons, on the other hand the conscientious practicer of Buddhist philosophy who attempts to approach everything in moderation, who practices nonviolence, generosity and compassion. There are lessons I have learned here which I will certainly take with me as I move on from Pema Choling, but my faith in my own God has not diminished and as far as I am a student of Buddhist philosophy, I fall into the latter of those two aforementioned categories.

Today, July 6th, is His Holiness the XIV Dalai Lama’s birthday. Apparently it will be celebrated here; I’m eager to find out how. My curiosity is piqued because though the names of all Sherpa people reflect the day of the week they were born on, they don’t celebrate annual birthdays.

Sitting around the kitchen fire last night after dinner, I asked the older monks when were their birthdays. They couldn’t even tell me the month and date! They only know the year and the day of the week. I’m the same age as most of the older monks and learn that I was born in the Tibetan year of the Dragon, “Duk.”

“No Happy Birthday,” said Kagi, the joker of the group. “No money, no birthday.” I can understand that, but convinced them that even a milk tea party would suffice. In simpler words, I tell them it’s not so much about the material celebration, but the togetherness and appreciation of a person’s life!

“Okay, tato pani party,” agrees Kagi. Now the running joke is that we’ll celebrate birthdays while drinking a mug of hot water. These guys are priceless.

A recent dream resurfaces in my mind and I smile at how fun it would be to take the six older guys – Dorjee, Kagi, Pasang Temba, Colin, Lakpa and Pasang Nuru – to a big city like Chicago, or to the beach in Los Angeles, and watch them explore. If I win the lottery, this will be one of the first things I do! And I’ll throw each of them a birthday party just to watch them blow out the candles and probably overdose on sugar with huge helpings of their first birthday cakes.

Pasang and I were in the kitchen working on the Tibetan alphabet after breakfast when Cook came in and told him his assistance could be used at the woodpile out the back door. We peered out, and sure enough, a line of little monks with chopped wood piled high on their backs was pulling up to throw off their loads. From the rock walkway above, they’d toss their firewood down into the wood-stacking area.

Everyone was quite involved and it was obviously a community effort. Naturally, Joanna, Nate and I were eager to jump in and get our hands dirty. It’s fun how every day here brings something new, sometimes an unexpected activity or tradition. I wake up every morning with a great sense of anticipation for whatever the day might bring. I love that the Sherpa people love photos, videos, and every type of memorabilia; when I pull out my camera to capture a moment, someone always tells me to jump into the thick of the action while they film. Everyone I’ve met is so incredibly warm and inclusive – for the first time I have a nice collection of pictures that actually portray my involvement in daily life and community events!

(see photos of wood-chopping day at www.shirah.mobi)

I arrived at the monastery almost three weeks ago with many questions about Buddhism. I’d taken a World Religions course focused heavily on eastern faiths and have continued to read about the Buddhist tradition in books such as those by one of my most beloved authors, Huston Smith, but with every question these texts answered they seemed only to provoke two or three more. I was disappointed, to say the least, when upon arriving at Pema Choling I realized that no one here speaks English well enough to discuss with me the teachings of Buddha or the origin of Buddhist traditions. During my first few days, my mind formed questions at a pace so rapid I felt like the omnipresent pot of water kept over the open fire in our kitchen – bubbling faster and faster as it reaches boiling point, only to be emptied into thermos – a holding tank – and promptly refilled to boil more. Like those thermoses of tato pani that will be eventually used for tea, my questions must eventually be answered, I thought. I started to empty my questions into lists that serve as my own holding tanks. But how I need those questions answered now!

Why do you wear only red/maroon and yellow/orange – why are these the designated colors of monasticism? What place do you occupy, as a monk, in Sherpa society? Do you always chant the same words, in the same order, each time you begin puja? I felt that I could not assimilate into the community without having these questions answered or at least knowing which are the important questions – which I am asking as a result of mere cultural differences and which will uncover sensitive sacred meaning.

After four days I suddenly was not satisfied with the monks’ progress in English and threw myself wholeheartedly into learning the Nepali language. I immediately realized that, unfortunately, pure Nepali is not spoken at the monastery and many words they couldn’t even tell me when I asked.** The dialect spoken here is a mix of Nepali (the country’s official language), Sherpa (the language of this region), and Tibetan (the official and holy language of Buddhism). I’ve now learned the Tibetan alphabet and can read and write a bit, and my verbal vocabulary is a mix of all three of these languages (not that I could always tell you which word is from which language, though I do my best), but due to this unforeseen language barrier I’ve decided to turn back to the books for answers to my many questions.

My efforts have not gone to waste. I consulted several people about the books I should read, and came up with a list of at least seven. The first I downloaded onto my Kindle and read in a week. It’s called Seven Years in Tibet, a non-fiction account of German-Austrian Heinrich Harrer’s escape from a World War II detainment camp in India – his trek from India over the Himalayas, across the harsh Tibetan plateau and into Lhasa, “the forbidden city.” As the story unraveled so did my list of questions and along with it, the mental tension caused by curiosity restrained. I felt a sense of kinship with Harrer as he raised many of the same questions I had – in almost the same order – and then answered them, one by one, often with an anecdote or example to illustrate the meaning of each tradition or fact of life.***

I’m about to download the Dalai Lama’s autobiography, which I know will be equally eye-opening. I’ve also started reading The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying – a recent variation on and addition to the ancient Tibetan Book of the Dead. The author, Sogyal Rinpoche, is a highly respected figure in Tibetan Buddhism; not only have I learned a lot on the Buddhist perspective on death in the first 25 pages of this enormous tome, but I’m pretty sure I’ve earned myself some major kudos with the older monks when I whip it out to read by the kitchen fire.

Here are some of the most insightful passages from the beginning of the The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying. These stood out to me as meaningful in both their content and the way it is presented.
All the greatest spiritual traditions of the world, including of course Christianity, have told us clearly that death is not the end. They have all handed down a vision of some sort of life to come, which infuses this life that we are leading now with sacred meaning. But despite their teachings, modern society is largely a spiritual desert where the majority imagine that this life is all that there is. (P.8)

How sad it is that most of us only begin to appreciate our life when we are on the point of dying. I often think of the words of the great Buddhist master Padmasambhava: “Those who believe they have plenty of time get ready only at the time of death. Then they are ravaged by regret. But isn’t it far too late?” What more chilling commentary on the modern world could there be than that most people die unprepared for death, as they have lived, unprepared for life? (P.10)
We can begin, here and now, to find meaning in our lives. We can make of every moment an opportunity to change and to prepare–wholeheartedly, precisely, and with peace of mind–for death and eternity.
In the Buddhist approach, life and death are seen as one whole, where death is the beginning of another chapter of life. (P.11)

 

*I especially recommend the beautifully illustrated hard copy of Huston Smith’s renowned book, “World Religions” (??) as well as his autobiography, “Tales of Wonder.”
tato pani = hot water
puja = chanting
**For instance, Pasang and I were going through the colors yesterday (red=raato; blue=nilo; white=sheto, etc.) When we got to green, he scratched his head and thought for no less than an entire minute. I started laughing, thinking he was teasing me. Finally he said, “We just say ‘green’.”
“WHAT!?” I shouted in reply – “you’re kidding me; you’re totally lying.” Just then 14-year-old Pemba walked by and Pasang asked him; Pemba thought a minute then laughed and walked on – he didn’t know either. It wasn’t until evening when I asked everyone in the kitchen that some finally came up with the Nepali word for green – arroyo.
***It turns out that red was the original color denoting monasticism. Then one time during an initiation ceremony where monk students of Buddhism were given the title of Lama (teacher), there were too few red ceremonial regalia caps and it looked as though the last student would have no cap in the procession. So that this new lama wouldn’t be cap-less, the older lama in charge of giving out the caps grabbed the nearest one he could find. It happened to be yellow. The monk gratefully accepted the yellow cap and continued in the ceremony. He never (released) the yellow cap and continued to wear yellow and red his entire life. Some years later, he became a Rinpoche (a higher title meaning “Precious One” and also indicating that he’d been recognized as the incarnation of a former Buddhist master) and a well-known and reputed reformer of Buddhism, and following his example, monks everyone adopted the combination of red and yellow as the new monastic dress code.

There are many reasons why I continue to attend puja (chanting) each morning, and none of them is that I am a devout Buddhist.

I enjoy waking up early, and the 6:30 am start time gives me something to look forward to after I’ve been awake for an hour, reading and getting ready for the day.

It’s a time to practice perfect posture, which is reinforced during my after-breakfast yoga hour. I sit on the front of my pelvic bones, my legs folded under me, “Indian-style,” just like the others next to me who line the perimeter of the room on a long carpeted wooden bench. Back straight and tall, shoulders back, neck relaxed, stomach pulled in, hands resting on my knees; an hour and a half of sitting in such a position each day has helped strengthen core muscles and keep my body in alignment – despite some slips and tweaks I incurred on the steep mountain trails.

Puja is the perfect time to simply think; to let my thoughts wander and my imagination run. The voices of twenty little boys chanting in unison is soothing, and the bright colors, intricate patterns, and vivid imagery in the monastery is the impetus for wild creativity.

This morning I was sitting right in front of a hanging tapestry displaying three main gods arranged vertically in the center (two of them blue and one white with many arms) and twelve lesser gods in two columns of six on either side of the main ones. Each had its own little green halo with gold leafing around the border. Every square centimeter of unused space was filled with eccentric designs in every color imaginable – pastels, primary colors, neons, gold and silver – every color except black. Suddenly in my mind the tapestry took on the likeness of a Pokemon poster I feel like I’ve seen somewhere, and I thought it would be cool to create a video game where the Buddhist gods battled each other.

I had to try really hard to keep from giggling as I designed the whole game, including the scenes for different levels, in my head. I wondered if the little boys ever had such sacrilegious thoughts about the interesting and sometimes frankly creepy-looking gods adorning Buddhist icons.

I don’t always think about such inconsequential things, however. I’ve found puja to be a great time to reflect on anything. It’s funny: Whereas my friend and fellow volunteer Joanna makes an effort to “clear my mind and not think of anything,” I enjoy the challenge of just the opposite – trying to let myself think of anything and everything without restraint. One and a half hours is the perfect amount of time to let the mind meander without wearing oneself out or getting bored.

This morning, while sipping my milk tea (as a steaming cup of bottomless milk tea is served every morning about an hour into puja), I was also thinking of how I love the simplicity of life here. Yesterday I read Atlas Shrugged all morning, except for the hour that I spent doing gymnasti-yoga-pilates on the front lawn (which Joanna and I do together and the little boys love to gather on the level above and giggle at each others’ commentary as they peek through the railing). I wrote in my journal, read some more, ate a simple lunch of dal bhat, and then walked with Joanna down to Phakding to buy some needles and thread to mend Samten’s sweatshirt. Our friend Smile saw us and invited us in for tea, where he proudly showed us his many medals, trophies, and photos of his soccer and cross country running victories. All in all it was such a slow, simple, relaxing day.

That reflection led to another thought: I bet my mom never guessed, when she was teaching her restless little nine-year-old girl to sew, that one day I’d be using those same basic sewing skills to mend a pile of little Sherpa monks’ clothing. Or that that one week of one-on-one tailoring instruction could be such a blessing to a community of people across the globe who are lucky if they have more than one change of clothes.

The first thing we heard yesterday upon our return from trekking yesterday is that “Jing Mai was killed by a tiger!”
Jing Mai – one of the monastery’s four dogs – is nowhere to be found. After some loud noises the night before, she was suddenly gone. Nawang adds clout to his tiger explanation by noting: “Baloo (the alpha dog) was so scared by the tiger incident that every time he hears us call Jing Mai’s name, he gets really nervous again and starts looking around everywhere.”

I laugh, thinking about the first day I arrived here and saw the HUGE y-shaped bone hanging in the kitchen and was told it was from a cow that was killed by a tiger just days earlier. They’re pretty big on tigers here.

UPDATE 18.June.2012: Last night Nate ran into the kitchen saying, “Hey! They’re headed out on a tiger hunt tonight! Nawang’s leading it!” We spent the rest of the night laughing and joking about what they’d take with them. The final verdict was that Nate – at 6’2″ and about a whole foot taller than all the Sherpas – would be the one to wrestle the tiger. Dorjee picked up a four-foot long iron pole and armed Nate, who also picked up the kitchen cleaver. So funny.

Several of my little monks have received new names!
After the Nyune festival last week, celebrating Buddha’s birthday, one of the Rinpoches gave some of the little guys new Buddhist names in a sort of rite of passage. Two days prior, the ones to receive new names had their heads shaved – all except for a tiny tuft of silky black hair at the very crown of their heads. My first introduction to the naming ceremony was the reply when I returned home from Nyune and asked about the new hair styles.

The little guys are so proud of their new names and adorable seven-year-old Pemba insists that I call him Ngawang Ludup.

Speaking of names, I’ve received a few new ones myself. The first Nepali I was given, in Kathmandu, was Sita. But when I got to the monastery Pasang told me, “No, no, not Sita – Sila. Sila is beautiful lotus flower.” Sita, a popular Nepali girl’s name, is the name of a Hindu goddess. I can see why the Buddhists wanted to rename me. So I’ve been responding to every variation of Sira-Sita-Sila until yesterday, when Cook – who is the biggest joker of them all and constantly singing as he meanders about the kitchen refilling mugs of milk tea – greeted me as “Bipana.”
“Ho!...Bipana!!”
“What? Bipana? Me?” I pointed to myself.
“Yeah- Sapana, Bipana” he grinned, pointing to the other volunteer, Sapana, and then to me. Apparently the song he’s always singing about Sapana (which means ‘dream’ in Nepali) has a line about “sapana, bipana,” bipana meaning “awake.” So that’s that; add another name to the list! It’s kind of cute, though, how he takes care of us and gives us little nicknames, so I don’t really mind.

Cook is really a good guy. The first week I was here, I ran out of balance on my pre-paid cell phone. I ran next door to the house that has a little store, but it was padlocked – the owners were out. He approached me as I was walking back, asking what I needed.
“Recharge card,” I said, pointing to my phone, “Ncell recharge.”
“Oh, store closed now, maybe buy Phakding later.”
Ok, I guess I’ll be making a trip down to the little village of Phakding tomorrow, I thought to myself, secretly dreading the 40-minute walk back up the giant mountain I’d come to find myself living on.

About two hours later Cook comes into the school house while I’m teaching English. I thought he was just curious; between meals he doesn’t have all that much to do and if there’s no one lounging in the kitchen it could be quite boring. But after a few minutes he came up and handed me a recharge card worth 500 Rs. (rupees) – about $6. He must have gone down to Phakding for supplies and remembered me; it was such a sweet gesture.

And ever since day one, when I explained to him that I can eat everything made of rice, but nothing with anta – wheat flour – he’s made sure to always have a meal for me. Usually if everyone’s having noodles for breakfast he’ll make me fried rice; if they’re having tsampa (barley flour that you pour tea over in your own bowl and mix up into a thick paste), then I’ll get beaten rice cereal – kind of like rice crispies but flat and really hard and tastes like cardboard. But if you add enough sweet milk tea it’s alright. He makes light, puffy, steamed ti-mo-mos out of rice flour, and even started making his thick, delicious, melt-in-your-mouth homemade noodles out of rice flour. Chapati, a flat Nepali bread that is thicker than the Indian naan, is usually made of wheat flour, but yesterday I walked into the kitchen and they were making them of rice flour. We had chapati filled with fried potatoes for dinner – out first taste of potato since they’re just now coming into season – and it was absolutely delicious!

My heart was melted yesterday when I walked into the kitchen in the morning after being sick all day the day before. Cook was nowhere to be found, but Pemba (12) and Kagi (14) were boiling a huge pot of water. Pemba greeted me and then poured some batter into a giant frying pan. He flashed me a huge grin, “Your breakfast,” he pointed to the pan, obviously proud to be the big guy in charge, taking care of everyone.
“Pancakes! Yay!” My favorite breakfast here are the rice flour pancakes that Cook started making for me on random special days. Kagi was unwrapping about 50 packages of Wai-Wai Noodles (like instant ramen noodles), so I knew that Cook had left the boys specific and pretty easy instructions for breakfast while he was gone for the morning. I was so impressed and thankful that he thought of me and even had the boys make my favorite breakfast! Despite the fact that I haven’t had a shower in a week and sleep with giant insects every night, I feel spoiled here. Compared to everyone I know in the US, these boys have practically nothing and yet they not only share everything they have, but they reserve the best for their guests and always present it with the biggest smile.