To the Edge of Tibet

In the afternoon of the last day of February, the day
of the full
moon, we walked north from Briddim, a party of eight.
Kamal, Pema
Lama (miith-juu), Dorche Lama, myself, and then four
young men, one
of whom was going to Timure, the next village, to ask
for a woman's
hand in marriage.

We walked down out of the village into the jungle,
past a cascading
river, and up to the next chowk, set on the opposite
shoulder of the
mountain overlooking the village.

There are chowks set along trail in various places,
landmarks to mark
one's progress. They are usually marked by flapping
prayer flags,
and there are stone walls built by the side of the
trail, just high
enough for a weary porter to set down his burden, to
give his head
and feet a rest. This particular chowk is marked by
two stupas, one
rust-red, and the other gleaming white in the sun.

We sit for a while, and Dorche Lama is talking the
whole time,
chattering away in Tibetan language, gesticulating
with his hands,
entertaining our party. The men pass around a dirty
yellow plastic
bottle, each taking a couple of gulps of the clear
liquid. They pass
it to me, and i decline, thinking it is water (i have
my own water
bottle, with iodine), but they thrust it upon me,
saying "Khane!", so
i shrug my shoulders, and take a belt. The bottle
contains the local
rice wine, called rakshi (pronounced like "roxy" with
a bit of a
drunken twist). It's strong stuff, more like liquor
than wine,
strong enough to make the walking and talking flow a
little easier.

They have a saying in the mountains, "Bistarai Jahun,"
or "Slowly-we
go." And so we went, taking it easy, walking and
talking, for a few
hours, stopping every now and again for a rest and
another belt off
the bottle.

Timure is another small Tibetan village, just 1/2
hour's walk from
the Nepal/China border, and as a result of this
proximity to the
communist country, it is a restricted area, and we had
been warned by
a Canadian traveler that we would get some trouble
from the police.
So we prepared ourselves.

As the sun fell behind the mountains, we arrived at
the edge of
Timure, and the men stopped to fill up the ceremonial
wooden carafes,
two with rakshi, one with cyang (fermented rice beer),
and then the
hopeful wedding party, decked with liquor and Khadars,
walked up
between the stone walls of the village, and Kamal and
i were left
behind to wrangle with the police.



to be cont'd....


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