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The temple is being restored slowly (primarily the roof)
and when he honored me by giving the traditional white
prayer scarf and placing it around my neck, I returned it
(demanded by custom) with a small donation.
After the audience with the Lama, word was received that a
young monk who was a teacher wanted me to come to his
small abode for tea. The teacher was perhaps thirty,
with a misshapen foot and an open honest face. His single
occupant building was one small room, with a wood floor,
neat and tidy. A bed, small writing desk with oil
lamp and chair made up the sparse furniture. He made
tea, and with a fair command of the English language, and
with Dawa’s help, he asked many questions. He was
starved for interaction with people from other cultures.
He asked me to come back and |
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The
Bright Colors of a Temple Painting |
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| help him translate
the old Buddhist writings at the Monastery into English. It’s a
thought, and it would be great fun to help him out; however, with
his limited English and my total lack of Tibetan and no language
dictionary, it would be difficult and probably impossible. I keep finding myself being caught up in the web of society but
it’s not just I that is allowing it to happen. The Lama happens to
be Dawa’s Uncle. Dawa is the key that keeps unlocking the doors.
Dawa’s grandmother, by Nepalese standards, seems to be quite well
off. In fact the whole village looks to be doing well. She even
has a solar power panel that provides enough electricity to light
one room in the house. The cost of this panel is the equivalent of
a years wage for the average Nepalese. They own enough land that
any extra grain or potato that they grow they sell, providing
ample income. Dawa tells me she is sixty eight. Looks good too -
no grey hair. Or, perhaps, I have been on the trail a bit to long
already! |
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