The Search for the Pink-Headed Duck, page 7
The cozy room is decorated with scenes from the life of Buddha, alias Siddhartha Gautama, a.k.a. The Great One, or simply The Lotus Born. Visions of Buddha flow through my deep and dreamy rest. I’m listening to him preach under the Tree of Knowledge when Sonam wakes me. He’s off to retrieve the car, but I’m to remain here. “The fewer people who see you, the safer our trip.”
Before leaving, he shows me to the rooftop bath, which turns out to be an eight-foot cast-iron tub. Near the drain I notice a raised emblem: “Bristol, 1879.” Somehow this enormous tub traveled more than 15,000 miles before landing here; it must have been a Herculean task hauling it through the mountains to Sikkim.
After finding a towel and retrieving my binoculars, I pull the brass chain, and hot water fills the tub from a string of black goat skins dangling from a bamboo pole above it. I slip into the water and experience instant satisfaction. The rooftop offers a panoramic view of endless azure and white space. With my binoculars, I watch Sonam and the boys lugging jerry cans. Beyond them I see a small village with several ponies and bullock carts on the main street. If this is Lachen, its famous monastery should be visible, but it isn’t. The town must be either Lachung or Yumthang. To the south lie poison-green valleys bounded by steep mountains frosted with snow; to the east is the Donkha Range, the Himalayan spur that forms the boundary between Tibet and Bhutan; to the north is one of the uncharted regions, a white blank on my maps and possibly the home of the pink-headed duck.
I lie naked in the tepid water, basking in the afternoon light. A group of bulbuls flies overhead. The sun flashes about their cobalt heads and white cheeks. I hear a woodpecker, but I can’t see it. There are no ducks in sight, not even a common red pochard. I inhale deeply and quack, hoping a reclusive duck will hear me. The swallows in the trees scatter; the woodpecker falls silent.
Dried and refreshed, I wander around the house, poking my head into each of the four large bedrooms. All of the chambers are lavishly adorned with religious objects. Buddhists use art, or yantras, to focus the cosmic forces of the visual world, much as they use mantras to channel the energies of sound. Self-expression has little role in Himalayan Buddhist art. It’s not forbidden, but little purpose is seen in it.
On the ground floor most of the tapestries recreate a familiar scene of Buddha surrounded by deer, which symbolize his first sermon in Varanasi’s Deer Park. My tour ends abruptly when I collide with one of the Lepcha women, overturning her bucket. She goes into the kitchen, fetches a mop, and glares as she thrusts it my way. She doesn’t have to speak, and I get right to work. Lepcha women are not to be argued with. In their society they hold the dominant role. In conjugal matters they are the sole arbiters of justice; they may have extramarital affairs, but their husbands must remain monogamous.
His Holiness and the two older lamas appear just as I finish cleaning up the puddle. The master looks puzzled but asks me to join him and his teachers. For ten hours a day, every day since his fifth birthday, his life has been devoted to learning.
“These holy men tutor me in history, politics, and languages. They also instruct me in the lessons of the spirit.”
“Isn’t ten hours a day a bit much?” I ask as we sit down in front of the teachers, both of whom have long, wispy beards.
“Oh, no! There is so much to learn… If I close my eyes or stare at a thanka [wall hanging], I can be alone. Is this not the same for you?”
“As you say. Holiness, there’s much to learn.”
The boys bring us tea, and he mentions some of the books he has read, many of them Western classics, including works by Cervantes and Shakespeare. His knowledge of political history is impressive, as is his fluency in nine languages. At the moment he’s studying Portuguese and admits to having trouble with all of its irregular verbs. While we talk, the teachers continue to murmur in low voices, reading from books. I suppose that through osmosis some of what they say seeps into the master’s head.
He tells me that his dream is of a free Tibet, and he has dedicated the past few years to that goal. The Dalai Lama, who is the head of another sect, and he work closely together on most matters.
“The Dalai Lama knows nothing about this trip into Tibet,” he says, taking my hand in his. “We must not implicate him.” He closes his eyes and keeps his hand in mine. I feel as if he’s staring at me, and I ask whether he’s worried that we may be caught.
“Caution is a virtue, don’t you agree?” he says, opening his eyes.
“Sonam doesn’t want me taking pictures. I promised to ask you for permission.”
“Save your film for Guru.” He lets go of my hand and picks up a string of prayer beads. The teachers close their books and start chanting softly, “Om mani padme hoummm.” His Holiness joins in, but I have more questions and ask him to indulge me.
“Sonam talked about a dream both of you had about me adrift in the ocean. Is that true?”
“Yes, it is true. We saw you in the water. But Gangtok is a small place, and I knew about you before that night.”
He speaks matter-of-factly, as if the dream was not a mystical harbinger of joined destinies, but the result of an investigation of some type. He artfully dodges my questions about his psychic training and powers, reminding me that lamas have no monopoly on telepathy or out-of-body experiences.
“The belief in self is the greatest obstacle on the road to enlightenment,” he says, concisely explaining a basic tenet of Buddhism.
“What about the heat on my wrist when we were eating?” I ask, going on to detail the sensation.
“That must have been something you imagined.”
“I’m sure I didn’t imagine it.”
“You must look beyond yourself for the answer,” he replies.
The older priests return to their books when they realize that His Holiness has shifted his attention away from his beads. The master and I commune for the next two hours while the teachers read on, sounding like white noise in the background. I discover that he’s not particularly interested in my views but is always eager to instruct me in Buddhist thought.
My visions cling to the statistical lifespan of seventy-three years, but his involve eons, cycles of many lifetimes culminating in Nirvana. The narrower and more pointed the question I ask, the more His Holiness resorts to aphorisms, gently chiding me to recognize that many paths lead to the same place. As we end our discussion, he offers one last bit of advice: “Seek an understanding of faith. It will do you good.” He may be right.
Late the next day our two guides arrive. The one named Padam speaks excellent English, and he reports that the death of a Chinese soldier in Lhasa has caused havoc for smugglers and guides. Security patrols are out in force; the Sikkim-Tibet border is sealed. Martial law has been declared in Tibet, and the normal crossing points are now armed camps. Natu-La, Jelep-La, Cho-La—all the mountain passes in the south—are far too dangerous to use now.
“Things change every hour,” Padam assures us. “Tomorrow the border may return to normal. Who knows?… I always hope for the best.”
“What if things get worse?” I ask.
“We wait… I hope you play cards.”
At last our plans become definite: we will leave at two in the morning, driving and then walking to a safe house, where we will hide during the daylight hours. Once the moon has set, we will strike into Tibet and head directly for Guru, traveling in a car Padam has secured somewhere over the border.
“The only question left, my large American friend, is how you will pass for a hillsman?” Padam says.
I drop my shoulders and bend my knees, slouching into a posture that only inspires alarm. Padam and his friend Phuchung roll their eyes. Sonam claims to have the solution to what he calls my “big problem.” I’ll impersonate a monk, wearing a maroon robe, a yellow knit hat, and a long scarf.
“You think it will work?” Padam asks, handing me the disguise and helping me dress.
I put on the robe, pull on the hat, and wrap my neck and face with the scarf. Padam helps adjust the outfit. His hands, covered with calluses, are rough, and when he touches my neck, they feel like sandpaper.
“You look silly,” he says, giving up.
“Silly American or silly hillsman?” I quip.
“It doesn’t matter,” he replies. “If the Chinese see you, it means they have seen us all. We cannot let them get that close… The robes will do.”
We will have to carry our own food and gear; Padam insists that we avoid villages, trusting only other smugglers. “Who knows what threats the Chinese have made against the villagers. Only outlaws are safe.”
“Then everything is ready!” Sonam exclaims, rising from his chair.
“Good… We leave tonight,” Padam declares.
His Holiness summons us for a final blessing, asking the spirit of the universe to protect us on this holy mission.
“May Tibet be free,” he intones, sprinkling water on us.
He gives each of the others a prayer scarf and a kiss on the forehead, then turns to me.
“This is for your safe entry,” he says, draping a silk scarf around my shoulders.
He repeats the rite with another scarf and says, “This is for your safe return.”
Surprisingly, he pulls out a third scarf, which he blesses several times. “This scarf you will give to someone. The image is coming to you now.” The face of a friend I haven’t seen in years emerges.
The master touches my left shoulder and tells me to close my eyes while he and the teachers pray in a low drone. Streams of incense envelop me. For a moment I feel as if I’m being lifted by the smoke. His Holiness touches me again and tells me to open my eyes. From under the stack of prayer scarves he withdraws an ivory box, which he opens slowly. Inside is an ordinary-looking piece of wood.
“This is the Tree of Life, handed from father to son, believer to believer,” he says, showing us one of the most sacred relics in Buddhism, a piece of the Bodhi Tree.
“For forty days the Great One sat under this wood while meditating and fighting temptation… Behold the Tree of Life, the Tree of Knowledge, the Tree of Buddha…”
His Holiness invites me to pry loose a splinter. While he holds the sacred wood, I gently dig a knife into it, raising a sliver. It slips through my fingers to the ground. Sonam gasps and dives to retrieve the precious relic.
“This is great power,” he thunders, handing back the talisman.
His Holiness concludes the ceremony by chanting 108 times, “Om mani padme houm.”
The boys lead us from the inner sanctum to the front room. Padam and Phuchung sidle up to me, and for the first time I feel that I’m an asset to our expedition.
“Even the master knows we need luck… Can I see the charms?” Padam asks. I hand him the silk pouch His Holiness has given me to protect the relic. There are also some stones and bits of colored glass inside, each blessed to protect me against particularly powerful devils. Padam looks them over and nods his head approvingly.
“His Holiness has told me a little about you,” he says. “You came all the way from America to find a bird? Is that right?”
“Yes, do you know anything about birds?”
“Only what I learned in the army. Birds are what we called girls.”
“British Gurkha?”
“Yes, sir,” he says snapping to attention. “Commando. Sixth Regiment. Queen’s Own Guard. Retired.”
We talk about our forthcoming expedition.
“I told His Holiness last week that we had to move quickly,” Padam says. “It will start snowing soon and then the passes will be closed until spring. It is now or next year for this trip. They had to get somebody in a hurry, so I guess it was you.”
“Ah,” I say, finally understanding my role as a convenient eyewitness for the west.
Sonam rejoins us, carrying a pitcher of hot yak’s milk from the kitchen. We all sip a glass, hoping to sleep during the four hours until departure. My drowsiness ends the moment I lie down. My heart pounds as I think about crossing the border, and when Sonam knocks on my door later, I haven’t slept at all.
Much to my relief, Phuchung takes over the driving. Constantly shifting, accelerating into the turns, and concentrating entirely on the road, he handles the car like a pro. We motor for nearly three hours and finally stop behind a tumbledown shack that belongs to one of Padam’s cousins.
“Hurry!” Padam says in a hushed voice, pointing to another building almost invisible in the darkness. As we unload the gear, he admonishes, “Please, try to be quiet.”
We make our way along a narrow path leading to Dachi-La, a high-altitude pass in northeastern Sikkim. The pace is slow, but after several hours my shoes feel like anvils. Sonam offers to carry my bag, but I refuse; he’s already lugging much of our food: fifteen kilos of flour, rice, beans, and biscuits. Padam and Phuchung are also hauling heavy loads, contents unknown.
I tote my bag like a backpack, straps over my shoulders, while the others carry their burdens in wicker baskets, straps around their foreheads, letting their neck and head muscles take the strain. As I huff and puff, barely managing to keep up, the guides chat and drag on cigarettes.
“You should see the view during the day … Gordama Lake, Lahmo Lake, Bam, Lachog … beautiful, beautiful view,” Padam says in a lilting voice.
At the moment I have an intense headache and find it hard to imagine that anything is beautiful. I stroke my charms, hoping they will disperse the demons pounding my temples. At last we leave the path and cut through some brambles to a small yak-skin hut, one of Padam and Phuchung’s hideouts.
“Usually we store cargo here, but today you will also stay here… We still have a long way to the top. You should rest.”
I need no further encouragement. Five aspirins chase away most of the pain, and I fall asleep. When I awake, the sun is shining on Sonam saying his prayers. He interrupts his devotions to explain that Padam and Phuchung have gone to talk to friends, including some contacts in the army.
As much as I want to inspect the flora and fauna, I keep my promise not to wander from the yurt. By lunchtime the guides are back with grim news: both armies have increased their patrols over the past twenty-four hours.
“We will have to wait,” Padam says. “What’s your favorite card game?”
If the Chinese ever invade India again, they will most likely use the southern crossings, those closest to the oil fields and paved roads. For this reason fewer soldiers are posted here at Dachi-La. While Padam and Phuchung use several passes for business, smuggling mostly cigarettes and salep into Tibet, Dachi-La is their favorite. They have established what Padam calls an “understanding” with the border troops, but during a military alert all deals are suspended.
Sonam impatiently asks how long we will have to wait. Padam isn’t sure, a response that vexes the lama. Sonam begins speaking rapidly in Tibetan, emphasizing certain words by stomping his foot. Phuchung turns away, shrugs his shoulders, and starts dealing a hand of cards. Sonam knocks away the cards and draws a stick furiously across the ground, making crude diagrams as he speaks. Phuchung reshuffles and deals another hand.
“Rummy?” he asks, discarding.
Padam has been listening politely to Sonam, whose voice is rising. Eventually, Padam throws up his arms.
“Stop,” he says to Sonam. “Forget it. The American cannot go. None of us can go right now.”
There’s no argument from me. I’ve never crossed a Himalayan mountain pass, and I’m not eager to make my first attempt under less than ideal conditions.
“Let the American stay here and take me, just me… I will use his cameras,” Sonam says without looking my way.
“What?” I ask.
“It is your responsibility… Give me the cameras. This is for a free Tibet… You must, you have to give me the cameras.”
“No way.” I didn’t come here to sit and play cards for three days in the cold.
Padam steps between us and speaks to Sonam. “Even if the American gives you his cameras, who will lead you across? Phuchung and I are going to stay here. We will wait until tomorrow.”
“Ha!” Sonam taunts. “You the great warrior, the famous guide … are you afraid of the Chinese dogs?”
“That is right,” Padam says directly into my tape recorder. “That is why I am still alive.”
After a half hour of bickering, it’s agreed that Padam and Sonam will return to the house of His Holiness and seek his advice. We will abide by the wishes of the master. I will even surrender one of my cameras if he so instructs.
Phuchung and I pass the time by playing cards, pitching coins (though we both cheat, he always wins), and going through my survival gear. He’s especially fascinated by my slingshot, and after an hour of practice he’s a better marksman than I. A fire might disclose our presence, so we eat cold biscuits and chocolate for dinner. I retire early and awake the next day to Padam’s gentle nudging.
“Time to get up, soldier,” he says, throwing open the flap of the yurt. “Sun is up.”
His Holiness has canceled our trip, he tells me, and Sonam has remained at the house. It seems that his blind determination disturbed His Holiness. Padam suspects that they will try to corral another westerner in the spring. Phuchung starts gathering the gear for the trek back down the path.
“Can’t we wait and try again in a couple of days?” I ask.
“No,” Padam replies emphatically. “I promised to take you to Siliguri.”
“Did you say when?”
“No. Why?”
“I’ve got an idea,” I say dipping into my bag for the illustration. “Remember that duck, the pink one I’m looking for? Here it is.” They laugh at the idea, but their eyes light up with my offer to pay for guide services. Tracing the border of the unknown area on my map, I ask them to take me to Yumthang, the last settlement marked on the chart.
“How much will you pay?”
“You tell me.”
The two guides confer. Padam speaks for Phuchung. “He wants to know if you really want to do this?”
