Compassion Buddha at the Gyanste Monastery

From the Chengdu Gonzo Field Office

(continued)

By Freeman Anthony

Our guide, Tesring, gives a quick, broken English summary of the monastery's history, noting each statue as we pass. He mentions Teaching Buddha, Future Buddha, Compassion Buddha, Tsongkapa, and others, but I lack the mental capacity to remember anything but the Compassion Buddha, an 8-meter-high (about 26 feet) figure. I commune for a brief eternity with this guy from below. His serene gaze, from blue, red and white eyes, is calm as a glassy lake at dawn, deep and full of the purest intent, knowledge, and love.

I'm reminded of how, in a Kathmandu guesthouse shop, I'd bought a little companion for my trip. The old man at the counter had placed seven small green Buddhas in a row, naming each one. I chose to honor the displaced Dalai Lama, considered the earthly reincarnation of the Compassion Buddha.

I leave a one yuan contribution on a stack of sunflower seeds in a rough gold urn and nod to the monk as I exit. He nods back with a smile that says he is at peace with his approach to humanity, unlike some of us.

Our party plods along to the main assembly hall, devoid of monks, and finishes the round by passing through a large square with a 15-meter pole (about 49 feet) in the center, wrapped in colorful prayer flags. The pole, our Tsering explains, represents the head of the Buddha and during festivals is draped with flags and banners. If the pole falls down, it's said, Buddhism will cease; however, they choose not to take chances. Two large cables to the surrounding structures support the pole, which is changed for a new one every decade or so.

I'm still coping with life at 4,000 meters, so I separate from the crew after our tour and seek out ramen noodles and the Internet at a smoky lab of an Internet café in a three-story Chinese department store. I fire off enough e-mails to allow my mother to sleep soundly and confirm that my life's possessions have arrived in Seattle. Then I head back to my hotel, clutching dinner in dry form. To quote Dr. Seuss (I think): "The beds are like rocks, and as everyone knows, the sheets are too short. They won't cover your toes." I like a firm bed and all, but these things are stiff on a scale unknown to this westerner, and made for those of typical Asian height.

On the way to Chang La pass with Tashi Gompa (driver)
and a young Tibetan from Dharmsala who is returning
to his homeland for the first time

Next morning, we make a three-hour drive over rough country to explore another monastery in Gyanste. From the wide river plain of Shigatse, we leave the tarmac of the Friendship Highway and head back into the Himalayan foothills of the southern Tibetan Plateau. The drive takes us past a smaller tributary river and two large reservoirs. Here, there is little flora, save for sparse bushes crowded along the water. Caught up in these spiny soldiers flutter a scattering of plastic bags in every color, a frequent scene along roads in Tibet and Nepal, save for the most sacred temples and Chinese government compounds. At high points in the road, the multicolored trash gives way to multicolored prayer flags, stretched to take whatever wind is available and send the thoughts of mortals skyward.