It's All About the People

I cut through the alleys heading towards the Jokhang Temple dodging the dense foot-traffic that intertwined with the moving food carts, motorcycles, bicycle-drawn rickshaws and Land Cruisers like a fish through a corral reef. Tibetans aren't as aggressive as their Nepali neighbors and the streets are much wider and cleaner to allow for a smoother passage. There is something about a gang of grandmas walking side by side, spinning their prayers wheels and smiling that calms the collective effort down a few notches.

This hustle was a welcome change from the dragging pace set since our arrival in Lhasa. My breathing was normal and proof that the three days spent at 1,350-meters had given my body enough time to acclimitize. Two days prior, I could barely walk up a flight of stairs without my lungs burning, and now I felt like a Kenyan on mile three running to pick-up my yak burgers.

I arrived at the restaurant and ran into my favorite new restaurant owner, a Nepali man named Ramesh greeted me with a crooked-toothed smile and a two-handed, handsandwich handshake.

"Hello my friend! Back so soon?"

"I need two more yak burgers. Desperately. To go."

"You Americans are always in a hurry," he said immediately writing down what I said before barking the order at the kitchen.

"As if it is my fault that you've gotten me addicted to yak burgers. I have to do take-out, so I can bring them back to my friend, who is back at the hotel a little under the weather."

He pointed at a seat for me to sit in that was across from a rather large, leather skinned man with long hair who was calmly taking a draw from his cigarette. As I sat down, his eyes, which had been stuck to the floor as his inner monologue kept him occupied, slowly made their way up to mine as I sat down. Without a word, he put the cigarette between his teeth, reached over and poured a steaming hot cup of tea in front of me with the grace of a well-seasoned butler. The corner of his mouth eeked out a grin as I said, "Ta-che-che," or "Thank you" in Tibetan.

We exchanged casual introductions: our names, where we were both from (he was from Nepal), what we did (he was a Sherpa) and how many push-ups we could do with a 70-pound backpack on (I could do negative one and he could do somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred). Most of the Sherpas I met during my trip didn't do small talk the way I am used to others doing it; they chat about matter of fact things as if they are the most interesting things in the world. They demonstrate this not in volume or by the frequency of hand gestures, but by their laser like focus on each word that you say. It wasn't long before we got to talking about my trip to Advanced Base Camp on Mount Everest.

Sherpas have an innocent, caring and humble way of letting you know how badass they are. This guy had been to the top of Everest four times and was looking to go back a fifth time. He was in Lhasa showing his team around when I ran into him, and he could of said "Hi" and "Bye," but instead he took the time to ask how our guides were, what their credentials were, what equipment we had and what our schedule was going to be getting to the top. With each question, he was either reassuring or provided further suggestions to aid in our safety. This was the first indication I had that there were many, many guides up there that don't have the slightest idea what they were doing on Everest, but more imporantly, this interaction opened my eyes to the giant heart that these humble mountain people had for their fellow man.

The adventure that I took to Tibet and Nepal was actually much bigger than tackling the 6,400-meter, big toe of Mount Everest. It was really intended to be a desperate attempt to unlock the secrets to the mating rituals of the yak.

I kid, I kid of course. What the trip really became for me, was a series of deep and intensely personal interactions with specific people--some of whom I would have no chance of meeting in any another circumstances or settings, and some that I could potentially meet elsewhere, but that our interaction developed out of an entirely different set of circumstances and surroundings.

The source of my melancholia regarding this is not in the fact that I am no longer basking in the shadows of the world's tallest peaks, or sleeping in a tent in 30-below weather in a pile of yak crap. It is that I miss my new friends. I miss these people with whom I interacted in their world and experienced the incredible generosity that was shown to me by people whose collective lifetime wealth will be but a fraction of what I make in a few months.

Embracing the nature of the way these people live has become the greatest gift I have ever received from anyone and all I could give in return was some bad jokes and a couple of San Francisco postcard books. My return to the States saw flashes of this calling, but one can quickly return to their old ways when you aren't challenged to do so. Old patterns sink in, maintenence mode is in full effect and you find yourself back in that place you were so glad to escape from again. It isn't rocket science figuring out how to get back there, but it requires making some hard choices so that you can intentionally live a life that is being constantly challenged and tested.

I think I owe it to my new friends to do just that.

Posted by 10 fingers 6 strings at August 3, 2007 05:28 PM