by Roland Smith
Crime is rare here, but not unknown. Anyone you ask will tell you all about it. There has been one murder, two rapes, and seventeen thefts. I was shocked to hear this until the farmer who told me this added, “In the past one hundred years.” The monks are in charge of the judicial system, which seldomly convenes. It’s headed by the abbot and a group of investigating monks.
The monks are constantly peppering me with questions. They appear to have designated inquisitors with a proficiency in English being the only requirement. I’m approached in corridors, the dining room, the hot springs while I’m soaking, even when I’m wandering in the woods alone. They act like bumping into me is a cosmic coincidence. I think they are assigned or volunteer to shadow me. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a prisoner and they’re not spying, but they certainly keep a close eye on all of us.
The monks are more interested in Zopa than they are in me. One of the persistent rumors is that Zopa is staying at the monastery permanently. That Dawa summoned Zopa here to become the new abbot, which is possible, but why ask me? I haven’t seen him since I got here, and even if I had seen him he wouldn’t share his plans with me. He never has before.
I’d better wrap this up. It’s late and I have an early start tomorrow. I’m going on the lama roost run.
I’m rested and well fed. The monks and the farmers are stimulating company. I can be as active, or as lazy, as I want to be. The monastery is almost perfect. I could stay here forever, and that’s the problem . . .
The Roost Run
I wasn’t surprised to see Duga standing next to the pair of yaks and two “wrangler” monks named Lobsang and Yoten. Duga said something about the wranglers not speaking English and that it had been a long time since he had “visited” his mother. Putting food in a basket was nothing like having a chatty lunch with your mom, but I didn’t mention it because I liked hanging out with Duga, whether he had been officially assigned to me or not.
The yaks were immaculately groomed. Their combed-out hair was as shiny as obsidian and hung all the way to the ground. They each had a brass bell around their neck and a wooden yoke on their back holding brightly colored cloth bags. The bags were obviously empty.
“We will pick up food at the farms,” Duga explained. “Each bag is for a different roost. Color coded. We try to provide lamas with the food they like.”
“What does your mom like?”
“Ha. Chanda is a picky eater. White rice better than brown rice. Bread, but only if there is butter to go with it. Green tea only, and only if there is honey to put in it. Tomatoes in season. Apples. For protein, smoked takin. She despises fish of any kind. She will eat beef or yak if takin is unavailable, which is rare. We have many takins. She does not like chicken or their eggs, both of which are very popular with the other lamas. Of course, everything we send up in the baskets is precooked. The meat is roasted or smoked, the eggs hard-boiled. The lamas have fires in their roosts to warm themselves, but do not cook over it.”
“How do you know what to bring them?”
“Oh yes, I should explain. The lamas send lists down in their baskets. Essentials. Toothbrushes, clothes, blankets, matches, wood for their fire, things like that. The wranglers bring them whatever they want within forty-eight hours.”
“What about water?”
“All the roosts have natural springs, which is one of the reasons they were chosen as roosts centuries ago. There is plenty of water to drink and bathe with. Without water the lamas would not survive.”
Lobsang and Yoten started the yaks forward. Duga and I followed. With their long, brushed hair, the yaks appeared to be floating rather than walking.
The food and supplies did not come from one farm—it came from all the farms. I guessed I’d missed this once-every-forty-eight-hours ritual because I was out climbing. The narrow road running down the center of the farm area was lined with people holding offerings for the roosts. Lobsang and Yoten stopped to give each person a blessing. After examining the offering, the monks discussed in which bag it should be placed. Nothing was refused.
Duga and I stood to the side and watched the quiet but enthusiastic farmers hand over their goods.
“There is always extra,” Duga said. “Sometimes twice as much as the lamas need. The wranglers bring the surplus back to the monastery along a different path after the collecting is over. It is thought that the farmers might be disappointed if they found out their offerings were not received by the lamas.”
“Subterfuge,” I said.
“That is too strong of a word, but a little dishonest, yes,” Duga admitted. “But it is always how it had been done here. I think the farmers know where the extra supplies go, but they do not complain. Everything they give us is used and appreciated. You may have noticed that the food in the dining room is a little better every other day.”
I had not noticed. The food was simple but good every day. I thought I’d put on some weight, but I couldn’t be certain because there were no scales at the monastery, or mirrors. I hadn’t seen myself in a mirror since my shower at the Nyingchi Shangbala Hotel. Josh was now my reflection. He looked good, so I figured I looked okay, except for my hair. I had no idea what my hair looked like now.
By the time we got through the farming area, every bag was bursting with stuff. Lobsang and Yoten stopped in a small clearing, unloaded the yaks, emptied the bags, and redistributed everything. Once this was done, the yaks were reloaded. Yoten headed back to the monastery. Lobsang headed toward the roosts. Duga and I followed a couple hundred yards behind, talking about the roosts.
The only roost rule is that the lamas are required to lower their baskets every two days whether they need anything or not. If they fail to lower their basket after four days, someone climbs up to check on them.
“Sometimes the lamas get ill,” Duga said. “Sometimes their meditation is so deep, time ceases to exist for them, and sometimes they die in their roosts.”
We arrived at our first roost. Lobsang had already retrieved the lama’s note, filled the basket, and was watching it make its slow ascent. From where I was standing, I couldn’t see the cave entrance, but the wall looked fragile. It wouldn’t be an easy climb.
“Who takes the lamas up to the roost?” I asked.
“You know them,” Duga said. “The guides you and Yash are teaching. They are our best climbers.”
That was scary.
“Some of the roosts are very high,” Duga continued. “Some of the lamas are very old when they go into the roosts. They need help climbing up to it. All the lamas need help climbing down. Their bodies weaken in the roosts.”
The basket finished its ascent and we moved on to the next roost. It was like this for the rest of the morning. All the baskets had been down on the ground, most of them with notes written on scraps of paper. I couldn’t read them because they were written in Tibetan. One of the roosts was in a giant tree. Duga said there was a hollow place in the trunk a hundred and fifty feet up. “We have to send water up in the basket.” When I asked him if he had seen it himself, he shook his head.
“With the exception of a handful of guides, no one but lamas have been inside the roosts.”
We stopped at a pretty little stream to eat lunch. I had taken my boots off and was soaking my feet in the cool water, eating rice out of a bowl seasoned with turmeric, when we heard the helicopter. It wasn’t too close, and we had good tree cover, but the sound was startling. I hadn’t heard anything mechanical in weeks. We looked up into the trees, listening. The sound got louder.
“It is getting closer,” Duga whispered.
I was tempted to whisper too, which was ridiculous. I’d flown in helicopters and you couldn’t hear the person sitting in the seat next to you even if they were shouting.
“Not that close,” I said. “But it is disturbing.”
That’s when a green-clad monk stepped out from behind a tree. If he hadn’t been moving, I wouldn’t have seen him. He blended in almost perfectly with the forest.
The monk had the most fluid movement I had ever seen in a human. He walked toward us over the rough ground like a gazelle. As he drew closer, I saw that his green robe had dark blotches of color to help camouflage him. He carried a long coil of rope over his shoulder, bandoleer-style. One end of the rope was a steel grappling hook.
“I have never seen a watcher in the forest,” Duga said.
“Seriously?”
“They come to the monastery from time to time to report in, but not in their forest robes. They wear saffron robes when they come to us. No one really knows who the watchers are.”
“But you’ve never seen this one?”
Duga shook his head. “The watchers live in the forest. Their gift is to blend in. To be invisible. He and the others have been watching us since we left the farms. Not spying. Just watching.”
“How many are there?”
“Enough to keep an eye on the crater.”
The green monk was upon us. He pointed up at the trees and started talking to Duga and Lobsang. The distant helicopter sounded above, sometimes closer, sometimes farther away, as if it was flying a search pattern. The monks squatted on their haunches in a small circle, talking quietly for a long time, and then the green monk stood, bowed to everyone in turn, and walked away, blending into the forest in seconds. I knew he was there but I could no longer see him.
He had come out of hiding because the helicopter had come to within one mile of us. He was afraid that if we continued in our current direction, the helicopter might spot us. The soldiers hadn’t seen a single person in the forest in a week and were getting discouraged. There were rumors that Shek and his men were going to be called back to Bāyī. If the soldiers spotted someone, this could change the PLA’s mind.
“We want the PLA to come to the conclusion that there is no monastery here,” Duga explained. “This would secure the crater for the next many years. The watcher suggested that we return to the monastery and skip the rest of the roost run. Lobsang told him that the idea was out of the question. The lamas must be tended to. A compromise was reached. Lobsang agreed to stay by the stream for two hours, which means we will not get back to the monastery until long after dark.”
As we waited, dark clouds rolled in and the mist thickened. It began to rain. The sound of the helicopter faded, then stopped all together. Drenched, we continued our basket rounds. It was lucky the cloud ceiling had dropped and the rain had started. Or was it luck? I kept my eye out for the green monk and other watchers, paying particular attention to the upper tree branches and rock faces. The green monk wasn’t hauling around a rope and grappling hook for fun.
We serviced a dozen more baskets, but I’d lost track of the total. I felt sorry for the yak. We were lightening his load, but his hair was soaking up rainwater like a sponge.
“How many roosts are there?” I asked.
Duga pointed at the bead bracelet around his wrist. It had several strands. Every Buddhist monk I’d ever seen, including Zopa, wore one. I had no idea what the bracelet had to do with my question.
“The bracelet is actually a necklace,” Duga said. “But they are usually worn around the wrist. This one belonged to my mother, Chanda. She gave it to me the day she went up to the roost.”
I hadn’t even thought of Duga’s mom. “Have we—”
“No, not yet. Soon, though. A few more roosts. This bracelet has one hundred and eight beads. This is a sacred number for Buddhists. Did you notice that there are one hundred and eight steps leading up to the entrance of our monastery, and one hundred and eight steps down to the library?”
“No,” I said, but I sure had spent a lot of time trudging up and down them.
Duga pointed at his bracelet again. “Pemako is surrounded by one hundred and eight roosts. The chain has not been broken in hundreds of years. If a lama descends, or dies, they are replaced immediately. This is the seventy-ninth roost. My mother is in one of the tallest roosts. The eighty-seventh.”
Lobsang filled the basket and gave the rope a jerk. The basket started up and we moved on.
“Do you always visit the roosts in the same order?” I asked.
“Yes, always. A clockwise circumambulation. My mother’s roost is eight roosts from here.”
I started counting off the roosts and noticed that Duga had picked up his pace the closer we got to his mother’s roost. When we left the eighty-sixth roost, he was almost jogging. Lobsang and I arrived several minutes after him. He was standing at the base of a massive rock wall, looking up, holding a scrap of paper in his hand. He gave the note to Lobsang and a long conversation ensued. I waited patiently until I could no longer stand it.
“What’s going on?”
“My mother is very ill,” Duga answered. “She thinks she has malaria. She needs to come down from the roost. She says that it is urgent. Lobsang is going to continue the circle because it is treacherous after dark. I am going to return to the monastery and get our climbers. You may come with me or go with Lobsang.”
“You mean the climbers that Yash and I have been training?”
“Yes. And a cart to bring her back to the monastery.”
I looked up at the wall. It would take Duga hours to get to the monastery and back. It would be dark by then. The wall was a bear. After sundown it would be nearly impossible.
“You go. I’ll stick here.”
“You are not thinking about climbing,” Duga said.
“I’m always thinking about climbing. I won’t do anything stupid. If I think I can reach the roost, I’ll try. If I can’t, I’ll wait.”
“I think—”
“Just go,” I said. “You’re wasting time. Bring Josh and Yash.”
Duga and Lobsang left me with the wall.
Monk Pack
I hadn’t thought about malaria since I was in Myanmar watching Alessia suffering with it, thinking she was going to die. For some reason when I got down on the other side of Hkakabo Razi, I forgot all about the mosquito-borne disease, even though I had been bitten by hundreds of mosquitoes in Tibet. Mosquitoes don’t care about borders. They don’t need passports and visas. They spread their misery wherever they chose. I hadn’t taken my anti-malarial meds in weeks, because Shek had swiped my backpack. For all I knew I might come down with malaria too. Alessia had gotten through her bout because she was young and fit. How would an older woman who had lived in a cave for ten years survive malaria?
All of this was going through my mind as I studied the wall. I’d found two likely routes up, but neither of them was ideal. The basket rope was a piece of junk, thin and frayed from scraping on the rocks. Fine for pulling up a few pounds of food and supplies, but worthless for lowering a human to the ground. The only good it would do me was to lead me up to the roost. I took my pack off to see what I had and found only my knife, my headlamp, and a ratty harness, which was pretty much useless without a good rope.
The rain continued to fall. I stepped up closer to the wall and grabbed a few places. It was as slick as snot. Even so, I thought I could scale it, but what was the point if I couldn’t get Chanda down? I might as well wait until Josh and Yash showed up with some gear. I walked over and tugged on the basket rope, hoping Chanda would give it a tug back. I gave it several more pulls. Nothing. But I did get another idea. I could use the rope to pull up the other lines, which would save time. I would still have to figure out a way to get her down in the dark. And it was possible that she had already died in the roost, in which case all my machinations would be for nothing.
I continued studying the wall. If I had a gift, it was figuring out the best way to scale something.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and nearly jumped out of my boots. The green monk was back, standing inches away from me, facing the wall, probably wondering what I was looking at. I had no idea how long he had been standing there. Long enough to get impatient and tap my shoulder to get my attention. His coil of sturdy rope and grappling hook, still bandoleered ove
r his back, was the solution to a lot of my problems if I could figure out a way to ask him if I could borrow it.
I pointed at the wall, then pointed at myself, then made a climbing motion with my fingers, then pointed at the rope.
He nodded and said in flawless English, “Why do you want to climb the wall?”
I laughed, mostly at myself for assuming this forest hermit would not understand me. He probably spoke a half dozen languages. I spoke only one. Pathetic. I told him that the lama had malaria and that I needed to get her down before she died, if she wasn’t already dead.
“I hate to leave her up there,” I said.
“Then bring her down. The helicopter has gone. The weather defeated it, but it will return tomorrow. Today is the first day they searched this area. The lama will have to be replaced before the helicopter returns or the soldiers get too close.”
“Are the soldiers close?”
“A few kilometers. One day’s march, maybe two. It’s rough country.”
“Have you seen them?”
“Yes.”
“Is one of them a sergeant?”
“It is difficult to say. Their uniforms are in tatters. But one is many years older than the other and appears to be in charge. They shot a takin yesterday. They are highly motivated and in good condition, considering where they are.”
This was not good news, and I would have worried about it if I’d had time.
“I could use a hand getting the lama down,” I said.
The green monk smiled and shook his head. “I only climb trees. I do not climb rocks. Trees are alive and solid. Rock is dead and dangerous.”
“Can I borrow your rope and grapnel?”
“Yes.” He removed the coil from his shoulder.
“Will you be here when I come back down?”
“No, but I will be watching.”
The green monk turned and walked away.
I’d never used a grappling hook and wished the green monk had stuck around to give me some tips. One thing I was certain of, though: he was perched in a tree somewhere watching, laughing his shaved head off at my inept grappling attempts. Twice, the grapple hit me in the shoulder before I could dodge out of the way.