by Roland Smith
“Right.”
“How did Zopa get to Hkakabo Razi?”
I shrugged. “By other means.”
“Is that what Zopa said?”
“Exact quote.”
Tashi smiled, which completely changed his appearance. He looked almost friendly. I glanced at Norbu. He seemed as surprised as I was by the transformation.
“Do you know what Zopa meant by this?” I asked.
Tashi didn’t answer, but his smile remained. “Tell me about the man who drove you to Bāyī.”
“His name is Percival Willingham, or Percy. The Tibetans call him the Road Builder. He’s been in Tibet for thirty years.”
“Thirty-two years,” Tashi corrected.
“You know about Percy?”
Once again, he didn’t answer my question. “He was the first person to pull over for you when you were hitchhiking?”
“Kind of. Zopa didn’t want us to try the first few vehicles. He said they weren’t the right ones. He chose Percy’s Land Cruiser. At least, that’s how it seemed to me. And he was right, like he usually is: Percy was the perfect ride. He got us to Bāyī anonymously, which didn’t work out because I ran into Shek, but that wasn’t Percy’s fault. He helped Zopa haul gear so I could get Josh down from the PLA building. Hooking up with Percy led me to Norbu. Zopa’s hunches are usually spot-on.”
“Hunches?” Tashi asked.
“I don’t know what else to call them.”
“Tell me more about Percival.”
“There really isn’t much more to say. I didn’t spend much time with him. Josh was in the front seat with him on the way to Bāyī, and Zopa spent several hours with him the night we rescued Josh. You need to ask them.”
“Is Percival in any jeopardy from what he did to help you?”
“He didn’t think so. They confiscated his Land Cruiser, but he was confident he’d get it back. Without it he would not be able to work on the roads. He has some powerful friends in the Chinese government. A road official intervened on his behalf, convincing the PLA to let him go.”
“What does Percival look like?”
I laughed. “He looked like a squat, well-fed bear. Short with long black hair, bushy, unkempt beard, blue . . .” I looked at Tashi’s eyes. It was like looking into Percy’s eyes. “You know, except for the hair, he kind of looks like you. You have the same—”
“Eyes,” Tashi said. “Percival Willingham is my son.”
“Are you serious?” I couldn’t believe it, but the family resemblance was undeniable.
“He came to Tibet to look for me when he graduated from the university thirty-two years ago.”
“Have you talked to him?”
Tashi shook his head. “I have never seen him. Twenty-three years ago, one of our travelers told me about a man searching for Rudolph Willingham. That is my English name. I came to Tibet from Oxford to do graduate work in religion and Asian studies. I stayed. I didn’t know I had a son until he came looking for me. Until he was a man. When I left for Tibet I had every intention of returning to England, but after I arrived here there was no question about returning. Perhaps the same thing happened to Percival.”
“Maybe you should ask him.”
Tashi looked a little startled by the suggestion. “I cannot leave the monastery.”
“I thought anyone could leave the monastery if they choose.”
“True. But I do not want to leave. We have two young monks here who have the gift of eidetic memory, but it is not yet developed to its full potential. One, or perhaps both of them, will one day take my place.”
“When I leave, would you like me to contact Percy and tell him that you’re okay?”
“You are very kind, but he remains in Tibet because this is his life now.” Tashi’s smile broadened.
Tashi opened his notebook and started writing.
Bats in the Belfry
We found Josh on the far side of the cavern, sitting at a table, writing on a sheet of paper. Sitting next to him was a young monk, a girl about my age. She gave us a smile as we walked up. Josh was concentrating so hard on his work that he didn’t see us standing there. He was writing a sentence. The letters were large and crude, but legible.
I am a climber. I climb mountains.
He pushed the paper over to the girl, then noticed us.
“Hey! Good to see you on your feet. I was worried.” He looked at Norbu. “I’m Josh.”
“My name is Norbu.”
Josh looked back at me. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“This is Jampa. She’s teaching me to read and write. I think writing might be harder than reading. My hand doesn’t do what I want it to do.”
“You are doing very well,” Jampa said.
I couldn’t remember learning to read or write, just like I don’t remember learning to walk. But someone must have taught me, and I’m sure it was hard, even though I take walking and reading for granted now.
“Everything is hard when it’s new,” I said.
“Tell me about it.” He put his pencil down and stretched. His joints cracked like a string of firecrackers. “This is the longest I’ve sat in a chair in decades. It’s no wonder I didn’t like school.”
“We can continue tomorrow morning if you like,” Jampa said.
“Absolutely,” Josh said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”
Jampa got up from the table. “Same time tomorrow then.”
“I’ll be here.”
Jampa walked away into the shadowy cavern.
“She’s great,” Josh said, looking after her. “Very patient. I’m going to get this down.”
Given Josh’s determination, I had no doubt about that. This was as excited as I had ever seen him.
“I’m bushed,” Josh said. “I think I’m going to soak in the hot springs, then hit the sack, or, more accurately, the hay. Are you up for that?”
“I’m not even remotely tired,” I said. “I think I’ll wander around for a while.”
“Good plan. Did you hear that Yash is giving monks climbing lessons?”
“Yeah.”
“We had breakfast with a group of guides. They were asking questions about how to rappel. Rather than explain, Yash offered to show them.”
“What about Zopa?” I asked.
“Haven’t seen him since we got here. I heard that he’s with the abbot.”
“Dawa,” I said.
“Is that his name?”
I told him about my brief encounter with the little man.
“Wow. Fifteen years in a lama roost. What was that like?” Josh grabbed the workbooks Jampa had given him, as well as his stubby pencil. “I’m not sure I can find my way to the hot springs or my cell.”
“I’ll show you,” Norbu offered.
“I’m going to look around the library,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Breakfast is at eight,” Norbu said, smiling. “In the morning.”
“I’ll be the first one in the dining room,” I said, already feeling a little hungry and wondering how I was going to make it to the next morning.
I started at the top of the dome and worked my way clockwise along the narrow circular catwalks. There were a lot of monks on the catwalks. Some of them were perusing the books, others were holding small buckets of water, wiping the spines down with a wet cloth. I didn’t understand what they were doing until I got divebombed by a bat. I looked up. The top of the dome was black with bats. Thousands of them. Of course, Buddhists would never harm the bats, or disrupt them. They coexisted with them by gently cleaning the bat guano off the books.
I continued my tour, up and down ladders, running my fingers along the spines, stopping to pull a volume out if it interested me, even if it was in a language I couldn’t read, which most of them were. By the time I reached the bottom I was tired. I looked at my watch. It was two in the morning. Only a handful of people were still in the library. Tashi’s desk was vacant.
* * *
The next morning, I got up in time for breakfast, but I was late because I got lost on the way. I had gotten lost the night before as well, but it wasn’t critical because I was on my way to sleep, not to eat. When I finally arrived, the dining room was emptying out. Among the people still sitting at a table were Yash and five monks, presumably the guides he had taken climbing the day before. They were wearing a mismatch of Western clothes, faded jeans, T-shirts, ill-fitting boots, and tattered tennis shoes. (Monk robes and sandals are not good for climbing.) I ran over to the serving table and managed to fill a couple of bowls with calories by scraping the bottoms of several pots and pans. Burnt rice and tepid tea, which tasted a lot better than it looked.
Yash said that Josh had headed over to the library as soon as he had gulped down his breakfast, and that he hadn’t seen Zopa.
“I am going to take these monks climbing. I could use your help.”
“Sure.” I didn’t have any other plans.
Yash went on to explain that the monks were enthusiastic, courageous, and the worst climbers he had ever seen. The monks were listening but didn’t appear to be insulted by what he said.
“Do they speak English?”
“I do not think so,” Yash answered. “But I can repeat my comments in Tibetan if you like.”
“Don’t bother.”
“We will have to be careful they do not fall. Killing a monk is bad luck.”
Keeping the monks alive was harder than I thought it would be. Yash had scoped out a slippery, difficult climb the previous day parallel to the tallest waterfall. A couple of the monks insisted that rather than climbing next to the falls we should take the path to the top and rappel down.
“You must learn to climb up before you rappel down,” Yash told them.
The monks attacked the wall like a swarm of mad geckos before we could stop them. The problem was that they weren’t lizards; they were Buddhist monks—fit and strong—but awful climbers. Yash and I sat down on a couple of tree stumps and watched them fall off the wall at ten to twelve feet, one by one. The fifth monk made it about thirty feet up, then hit a dead end in the form of an impassible shelf. Both Yash and I had seen this shelf long before he reached it, hoping he’d have the sense to change his climbing angle.
“Hung,” Yash said.
That meant the fifth monk could not move up or down, or any other way, without falling, and from that height he would break several bones, or die.
The fallen monks were shouting up at him. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but it sounded like they were encouraging him to continue climbing.
Yash stood up and shouted over the top of them. The four fallen monks looked over at us sheepishly. A moment before they were comparing cuts and bruises and laughing. I have to say, they’d taken their falls cheerfully, which is not the normal response. A fall is embarrassing, and it hurts.
“What did you say to them?”
“I told them they are moron monks. Then I told the monk on the wall that he would die if he moved. Do you want to climb up and rescue him, or should I?”
I studied the wall for a moment, then told him I’d go. From what I could see, there was a decent anchor spot about twenty feet above the shelf. We had only a handful of hardware, most of it a little sketchy, but usable. I started my climb. The face was wet and slimy, but solid underneath. The climb was technical, but not tough. I encountered a few loose rocks here and there, which I dislodged and dropped so the monks wouldn’t grab them on their way up. I’d worn a climbing helmet since I was a little kid. I felt vulnerable without one, which got me thinking about Ethan, wondering how he was doing. Thinking like this is never a good idea while you’re climbing. One of the reasons I climb is to get my mind off everyday worries. I paused to catch my breath and refocus. I could see Yash and the four monks below. Yash was talking to the monks and pointing up at me, no doubt explaining why I had made my various moves up the face. It was good he had stayed on the ground. I wouldn’t have been able to explain anything to them if Yash was the one climbing and I was sitting with them.
I came up on the monk’s left. He looked to be pretty solid. Good hand- and toeholds. But I’m sure he was getting tired. Sometimes it is harder to stay in the same position than it is to move. I gave him a nod as I climbed right past him. His grateful smile turned into a look of dismay as I disappeared above the shelf. All I needed was a few minutes. Thirty feet above the monk I found the anchor spot I’d seen from below. It was everything I had hoped for. I hammered in an anchor. It was firm enough to hang a yak. A minute later, I dropped down in front of the monk like a spider. A few minutes after that, he and I were back on the ground.
By Other Means
I finally have a chance to catch up on this journal . . .
We’ve been at Pemako almost two weeks. Still no sign of Zopa, but the rumor is that he is spending all his time with Dawa, talking and meditating. I see Josh most mornings at breakfast, where he gulps down his food, then rushes over to the library to spend twelve hours with Jampa. He’s approaching reading and writing the same way he approached his seven summits record. Full throttle. He hasn’t said how his lessons are progressing, but yesterday he took back his digital recorder, saying that he wanted to try transcribing it. If I’d known he was going to do that, I would have set aside time to listen to it, but that would have been difficult, because I’ve been pretty busy here.
I’ve spent almost every day with the five monks (well . . . four now. One of them broke his ankle a couple of days ago). I can’t say the monks have become great climbers, but they are a lot better than they were. Yash hasn’t called them moron monks in nearly a week. He didn’t even get mad at the monk that broke his ankle. The monk had grabbed a solid-looking rock and it popped loose, which could happen to anyone.
I’m teaching the monks the same way Mom taught me. Climbing is a slow-motion dance across a predetermined route with some improvisation along the way. The monks are no longer attacking the wall; they are getting to know the wall, then caressing it. I never liked Mom’s romantic analogy. In fact, I thought it was kind of stupid. Until I met Alessia, who I think about several times a day. Speaking of her, a miracle happened yesterday—a short miracle, but a miracle nonetheless.
Yash was taking the monks up a difficult wall while I sat it out down below. It was a pleasant morning, not too hot, the humidity down, and there was even a little bit of blue sky making its way through the perpetual crater mist. I was rummaging in my pack, looking for my journal, when I saw the sat phone. I switched it on, and to my surprise it caught a signal immediately.
Alessia answered on the first ring. I told her I didn’t know how much longer the signal would last and explained that I was with Josh, Zopa, and Yash and that we were all okay. She told me that her mother had heard through diplomatic channels that Josh had been arrested by the PLA, but the Chinese were claiming that they didn’t have him, which was true . . . now.
I told her that we were hiding in the forest without giving her any specifics in case the PLA was somehow listening in. When she asked where we were I told her we were in western Tibet, about a thousand miles from where I was sitting, then I changed the subject by asking about Ethan. She said that he was out of the hospital and back at the embassy in a room with a private nurse named Chuck.
“Chuck is as big as Goliath. He is a former wrestler and weight lifter. He is very strict. Ethan wishes he was back in the hospital, where he had what he says are better nurses. He is still very weak. He sleeps all the time. Peak, I really miss . . .”
The signal dropped and did not return, but I was glad to hear that Ethan was back at the embassy and that the word was out about Josh.
Among ourselves, we barely talk about our situation. It’s almost as if we aren’t on the run. But we do get regular reports about what Shek and his soldiers are doing in the forest. They’ve gotten close to the crater several times, but for some reason or another haven’t found it. Th
at’s not to say the soldiers’ presence hasn’t had an impact on the people who live here.
Not everything comes from the crater. Things like paper, cloth, pens, pencils, and books all come from the outside. These items are brought in by trusted suppliers. Captain Yama is one of them. The supplies are delivered at a predetermined place on a predetermined date. No money changes hands. The supplies are traded for with surplus farm food and takin skins, which are abundant in Pemako. The deliveries are arranged by the guides under the direction of Tashi, who keeps a running list of what is needed.
Because of the soldiers, the supply lines have been shut down. There is nothing coming in and nothing going out. The guides have all been grounded for fear they might run into a patrol and get captured. In typical Pemakean fashion, no one complains, claiming they have enough surplus to live comfortably for years without stepping out of the crater or having anything from the outside brought in. The guides are delighted with the ban and are treating it like a vacation.
The farmers don’t mind either. One of them said to me a couple of days ago, “We live within our means and therefore have meaningful lives.”
I’ve gotten to know several of the farmers the past week, some of whom speak English. And like the monks, not one of them have asked me why I’m here, or where I came from. They are very friendly, but not at all curious. They simply accept that you are there, and answer any question you have, but have no questions of their own.
I’ve helped them in the fields, weeded vegetable gardens, collected duck eggs with the kids, dressed meat with the butchers, picked fruit, wrangled yaks, and have shared many meals with them in their simple but comfortable homes.
The farmers provide all the food for the monastery. They believe it’s a privilege and a blessing. By feeding the monks, they will earn merit in the next life. The Buddhist monks’ begging bowls work the same way, but this is on a much larger scale.
With all this, the crater is not a perfect place. It has its share of petty jealousies, feuds, disputes, and bickering, which I was happy to see. Without these things this place would be unreal.