The sharp note of a chime woke me. My cheek was pressed against a chill window. Outside, glaciated peaks smouldered in the sun’s crimson rays. From upstairs came the sound of shuffling feet. Then chanting.
I sat up slowly, careful not to rustle my sleeping bag, for Christine and the boys still slept. A dog-eared copy of Peter Matthiessen’s The Snow Leopard lay beside my pallet, where I’d dropped it the night before, but I wasn’t in the mood for reading.
Instead, I reached for the mala beads, gently passing the polished spheres between my thumb and forefinger. At home I would have recoiled at the thought of passing time in such a way, but here, surrender came more easily.
I had completed three rotations of the rosary when footsteps padded into the nearby kitchen. The click of the gas stove was followed by a jangle of pots.
Lama Wangyal soon appeared, chanting as he placed a thermos of sweet black tea on the table before me, indicating I should pour myself a cup. Then he disappeared down the passageway and out the hobbit door.
Not long after, horns echoed across the mountainside.
Christine moaned; she was too exhausted to rise. Taj remained motionless. But Bodi sat bolt upright. I told him I was going to investigate, and to my surprise, he asked if he could tag along.
Hand in hand we climbed rocky trails, winding between whitewashed buildings, seeking the source of the racket. Maroon-robed monks floated up the paths around us, some swinging bare arms to stay warm, others hunched and muttering, hands clasped behind backs. Most ignored our presence, but a gaggle of curious novices dropped in behind us, whispering excitedly.
A dark tunnel led to the monastery’s upper courtyard. A wooden pole rose in the centre, festooned with prayer flags and topped with a yak tail. Beneath, two teenage monks were zealously blowing into brass horns. Beyond rose an ancient fortress.
This was the lhakhang (“hall of the gods”), also commonly referred to as the assembly hall. Constructed from mud, stone and rough-hewn timbers, it was 400 years old and now gently slumped, walls and roof askew. Like autumn leaves, a scattering of plastic sandals lay before the entry. We added our hiking boots to the pile, then pulled aside a heavy yak-hair blanket and slipped in.
We found ourselves inside a darkened room about the size of a school gymnasium, where a scattering of twisted wooden pillars supported the low roof. Frescoes lined the walls. A sea of flickering yak-butter candles on the altar warmed a giant golden statue of Buddha.
Row after row of monks sat silent and cross-legged. A young man wandered the aisles, swinging a censer that billowed with the blue smoke of burning juniper. A single sword of sunlight cut down from above.
Unsure of what to do, we lingered beside the door. Eventually, an older monk spotted us and scurried to a dark corner where he unfurled a carpet and then motioned for us to sit. Awkwardly, I lowered myself cross-legged. Bodi did the same, driving a sharp elbow into the flesh of my leg as he leaned against me.
What happens next?” he whispered. I shrugged.
Sitting in silence
We sat in silence as monks and novice boys continued to stream in, each prostrating three times in the central aisle before finding their place. Eventually, a single, sonorous voice filled the room. The others quickly joined in, their rhythmic chants gently rising and falling like ocean swells.
Distracted by aching knees, I adjusted my position, but only made matters worse by grinding an ankle against the hard floor. Soon, one foot had fallen asleep. I straightened my leg and then glanced at my watch. We’d only been sitting for seven minutes?
Apart from crouching on haunches, sitting cross-legged may be the most ageless form of repose. As a young boy, I could spend hours on the floor, but decades of chair-bound living had tightened me in ways I had never realized.
None of the lamas showed any discomfort as they swayed, and I made a commitment that if I achieved nothing else during my time at Karsha Gompa, at the very least I would teach my body—or more accurately re-teach it—how to sit cross-legged.
Bodi was experiencing no such problems. He sat serenely with eyes closed, upturned hands resting on his knees, thumb and forefinger touching, mirroring the Buddha statue at the front. Whether this was a continuation of what he’d learned in the Tibetan cave, or simply another expression of his comfort with all things spiritual, he had drifted into a realm I knew nothing of.
I have long viewed meditation with skepticism. Sitting around and thinking of nothing didn’t seem like a productive use of my precious time. So decades earlier, when my mother gently suggested that meditation might help calm my busy mind, I ignored her.
Christine had meditated daily when we started dating, and I’d often discover her sitting in lotus position with eyes closed and a distant expression on her face. Usually I’d sneak up and gently tug on an ear, which infuriated her. She too had implored me to give meditation a shot, which I did, for a short time. But I found it impossible to concentrate on my breath and gave up.
So it came as a surprise, just weeks before our departure, when I happened upon a review of contemporary research that showed meditation was having unexpected and far-reaching effects: decreasing blood pressure, decreasing stress hormones, even decreasing dangerous cholesterol in the blood, while simultaneously increasing immune response and positively influencing such seemingly unrelated conditions as binge eating, irritable bowel syndrome, psoriasis, ADHD, depression and addiction.
But the most astounding results of these studies were the brain scans, which revealed even short bouts of meditation were literally rewiring the brain, adding measurable grey matter while altering attributes previously thought to be set from birth: happiness, resilience, kindness.
Whether these studies had softened my resistance, or whether it was just the thin Himalayan air, I can’t say, but I decided to give meditation another shot. Gently shutting my eyes, I took a deep breath and tried to clear my mind, focusing only on my breath.
Meditation is hard work
What does that mean, “focus on your breath”?
What exactly should I be thinking about?
The tickle of air at my nostrils?
My chest moving up and down?
Wasn’t I supposed to breathe with my belly?
A pair of stockinged feet tiptoed past. A cymbal clanged. Then a scratching sound, and I opened my eyes to find a young monk sweeping the aisles. Another boy was lighting candles.
Damn it, what happened to my breathing? Clearing my mind, I again closed my eyes and focused on the air moving in and out of my nostrils.
How long would my camera batteries last? Would I be able to recharge them in Zanskar? What about the upcoming TV show? Would it be a success? Would it change our lives? Would there be a second season?
My thoughts drifted to home. Had I collected enough firewood to see us through the coming winter? Had I waxed my skis before putting them away for the summer?
For something that appeared so simple, meditating was damn hard work.
Sunlight flooded the room, and my eyes popped open again. The heavy drapes covering the door had been flung aside, and two barefoot boys rushed in, carrying fire-blackened kettles so heavy they were forced to balance the urns against a hip and walk askew. Starting with the Head Lama (who sat on a raised dais near the altar), the pair poured steaming tea into outstretched bowls as they scampered up and down the aisles.
A lama with severe eyebrows—he could have passed for Soviet politician Leonid Brezhnev—shuffled from the room. Moments later the man returned, carrying two china teacups, which he handed to Bodi and me. The novices raced over, one filling Bodi’s cup, the other mine.
Unfortunately, my server was so distracted that he poured right over the rim, spilling scalding liquid across my pants. A loud tut from Brezhnev sent the pair scurrying towards the door.
I expected to taste po cha, or butter tea, a gamey concoction common across Tibet. But instead I found myself drinking sweet, milky chai, spiced with cardamom. In a few gulps I had drained my cup. After fastidiously blowing on his own tea, Bodi took a sip and gave a thumbs-up.
More chanting followed. With knees and back aching, maintaining focus on my breath felt impossible. I fidgeted endlessly. Eventually Bodi whispered, “I’m done praying. I want to leave.” I asked if he could find his own way home, and he nodded. He stood and tiptoed out, with every eye in the room following him.
Soon the tea urns appeared again, and this time a layer of molten butter floated atop the tea in my cup.
Drinking po cha
Made by churning yak butter with boiling water, salt and tea leaves, po cha is celebrated across the Tibetan Plateau for its capacity to hydrate, replace salts, provide energy and even prevent chapped lips from cracking. Common estimates suggest villagers drink anywhere between 40 and 60 cups daily. I wasn’t so keen on the stuff, and on previous journeys had gagged on the briny flavor and congealed fat.
“The trick is not to think of it as tea,” a French traveller told me years earlier, in a Sikkim guest house. “Imagine you are drinking bouillon. Or chicken noodle soup.”
His advice proved useless, and for years I had surreptitiously tossed the fetid liquid beneath tables and out tent doors—never a successful strategy, for Tibetans relentlessly refill every guest’s cup.
But when I tried this batch, I found it creamy and surprisingly palatable. I finished my cup and held it out again when a second round was served.
Chanting resumed, and I had closed my eyes, pondering why the butter tea of Karsha Gompa seemed so agreeable—Non-rancid butter? Less salt?—when the lamas leapt up in unison and began streaming out. Struggling to my feet, one leg asleep, I was carried by the tide of crimson robes towards blinding sunlight beyond.
Bruce Kirkby is a wilderness writer and adventure photographer recognized for connecting wild places with contemporary issues. With journeys spanning more than 80 countries and 30 years, Kirkby’s accomplishments include the first modern crossing of Arabia’s Empty Quarter by camel, a descent of Ethiopia’s Blue Nile Gorge by raft, a sea kayak traverse of Borneo’s northern coast and a coast-to-coast Icelandic trek. A columnist for The Globe and Mail, author of two bestselling books and winner of multiple magazine awards, Kirkby has also written for The New York Times, Outside magazine and Canadian Geographic. He makes his home in Kimberly, British Columbia.
Excerpted from Blue Sky Kingdom: An Epic Family Journey to the Heart of the Himalaya by Bruce Kirkby. Published by Pegasus Books. Reprinted with permission.
image 1: Bruce Kirkby; image 2: Bruce Kirkby; image 3: Wikimedia Commons
