Chasing Monks

I am chasing monks. Down the crooked streets of old Tibetan Lhasa, along the wide avenues of new Chinese Lhasa, I compile my list of “best monk” sightings. Some monks wear emerald green bowler hats, like inexplicably misplaced leprechauns. Others sport gold brocade visors, the long square brims shading their faces. Some are ancient and weathered, clutching prayer beads and avoiding my female eyes. Others are just teenagers and bouncing off the walls with adolescent excitement. Maroon imitation Nike windbreakers over their matching maroon-colored robes, they suck on Popsicles and ask if they can practice their English with me. On the street corner, in the temple, at a café, I open my Tibetan-English phrasebook and teach them to say “How are you?” and “Thank you very much.”

One day, out on the hunt, I turn down an ancient lane behind the Jokhang Cathedral and find yet another English-seeking monk. No older than sixteen, he leads me up a flight of stairs to a balcony, through a doorway, and into a tiny temple.

A huge golden deity fills up half the room. On a raised platform next to the statue sits an older monk. He pounds a drum with a long curved drumstick, and at the same time chants a mantra, and clangs giant cymbals, and accepts offerings of yak butter from visitors, and smiles in greeting to me.

The young monk sits me down at a low table below the older monk’s platform, brings me a cup of yak butter tea, and opens up his English textbook. It is in Chinese, of course, but he has written the Tibetan translations of the Chinese characters in the margins. But even if it wasn’t in Chinese, I could guess that’s where it came from: the exercises run along the lines of “Are you an artist? No, I am a worker.” I teach him to say “I am a monk” instead.

Before I know it, the yak butter has congealed on the top of my cup and five other young monks have heard that I am captive in the temple. They all gather around, trying to teach me some Tibetan, and they all laugh heartily at my attempts. The old ladies of the neighborhood continue to stream in with their bags of yak butter, and glare at me with the disapproving look of old ladies everywhere. The older monk continues to chant, to bang the drum, and to clang the cymbals right above my head.

I’ve somehow slid into antiquity, with only the English textbook stringing a Maoist lifeline to the present. I could sink into this place, give in to the flickering butter lamps and the drone of the monk above my head. I could sit here for an eternity and no one but the old ladies would mind; everyone here is used to eternity, after all. But then, without even meaning to, I glance at my watch. My young monks let out a gasp of collective excitement: it’s an Adidas sports watch. As each one grasps my wrist in turn, taking a look at its glowing face and multiple settings, I discover that just like there is a worldwide “disapproving old lady glare,” there is also a worldwide “look of glee on a young man’s face when examining a gadget.” And with this I’ve slid decidedly out of my romantic antiquity and into reality. Eventually I pull myself --- and my watch --- away.

The older monk gives me a final smile, and the young monks follow me out onto the balcony. As I walk down the stairs and continue down the lane, they line up along the railing, waving and laughing, jostling each other and shouting goodbye.

Despite the maroon robes, they don’t seem like monks at all. I was a Catholic schoolgirl and I’m used to men of the cloth. But these are teenage boys, not men, and I feel like their favorite high school teacher --- the cool one whom some of the kids have a crush on. And they are even more excited about the novelty of me, the little peek I gave them into my world, than I am about the glimpse I’ve gotten into theirs.

But then again, they’re also excited because they’ve sent me down a dead-end street. After a minute or two I reach a wall and have to turn back the way I came. The monks are waiting on the balcony for me. One of them has dressed himself up in a Chicago Bulls baseball cap. There is a hint of reckless excitement in the air. My English-lesson friend is holding a bucket full of water and I can see right away what he’s about to do. As I start to run he follows above me along the balcony, and then hurls the water wildly. The monks collapse in laughter.

The water misses me by a wide margin. I smile at them and giggle good-naturedly, assuming that this cannot possibly be as strange as it seems. And then I scurry down the lane before they can get me for real.

So the next time I go chasing monks, I’ll forget about eternity. I’ll leave my watch behind. Instead I’ll pack a loaded water pistol and be ready to fire, just in case the monks decide to turn the tables and chase me.

Published in Tibet: True Stories from the Travelers' Tales book series, 2003 and Worldhum.com, January, 2002