By Evan
… continued from last post. After thanking Rinchen for his gracious hospitality, we took our leave from him and inspected his monastery, which is populated by 300 monks, from the hill behind it. The premises were about as large as an average American high school with scattered buildings organized around two large temples with gilded roofs. Even from hundreds of meters above, we could tell that even the parts of the monastery not currently under construction had not long been around. Almost no monasteries we came across had existed for over 30 years, since all their previous incarnations had been destroyed by red guards during the black period.
Dorgye then drove us back to the town for Tibetan dinner in the restaurant of his ex girlfriend, a plump, rosy cheeked girl in her thirties. Over yak dumplings, noodles, and butter tea, we tried our best to describe America, the place our new friend most wants to visit in the world, despite the fact he’s sure he’ll never be able. During the meal, a short man with curly hair and sharply arched hunchback joined us at our table. He, like pretty well everybody in the town, was friends with Dorgye, and he was another example of Tibetan eccentricity that makes us love these people. Sitting next to us for nearly an hour, he neither spoke a word nor ate any of our food, despite our repeated offerings. He was subjecting himself to a day of fasting — to feel the pain of hungry people — and a day of silence — to feel the pain of the animals, who cannot speak — apparently both common practices. At the conclusion of the meal, Dorgye drove his friend to his home and us to his own, where his mother had prepared for us about two gallons of yoghurt from fresh yak’s milk — probably the best I’ve ever eaten in my life (no, we didn’t finish it, but god did we fart that night from the overwhelming of our systems by dairy products). (more…)
