Luptin, and the Sherpa relationship with food

"Shei, shei, shei!" It's the national cry of the Sherpani: "Eat, eat, eat!!"

Sapana just returned from her farewell breakfast with Luptin, the bearded monk who hosted us at saano gumba during the festival.  She walks into our room and empties her pockets, removing handfuls of chapati - flat, round, thick, and filling Tibetan bread.
"I just couldn't eat it all!" she cries, "but I didn't want to waste it."  She packs the chapati into a plastic bag for an afternoon snack and turns to show me the immense feast Luptin prepared her for breakfast: Chapati filled with veggie omelette, served quesadilla style with a yak cheese and red chili sauce, a hard boiled egg, a huge bowl of boiled carrots and bok choi and a glass mug of bottomless black apple tea. It looked genuinely delicious, and once again my heart was melted by the incredible generosity of a people who have nothing, yet give continuously of their very best. Cheese and eggs are such a luxury here!  Even vegetables demand a special occasion in order to make an appearance.

During the week we slept at saano gumba, Luptin brought us a thermos of hot water every night before bed.  If we seemed awake he insisted we follow him up to his small room above the monastery to sit on the floor together and share mugs of instant vita-drink that tasted like milky oatmeal and a tin of butter cookies.  After a half hour spent looking through the Chinese photo book of his Tibetan homeland and the various postcards and photos of Natur Rimpoche and other Buddhist leaders and incarnations, he'd send us back to our rooms laden with fresh tea bags and a box of unopened chocolate covered wafer cookies.

Though 60-year-old Luptin speaks no more than 20 words of English, we communicate effectively through smiles and gestures.  I've come to learn that silence is not awkward for Nepalis, especially during meal time, as they believe talking while eating is not good for digestion.  I enjoy the peaceful quiet of tea times with Luptin and the awareness that it brings out in me as my tongue stops and my other senses become more acute. But I also enjoy the fun challenge of communicating with him.  We learn that he is a devoted servant to Zatur Rimpoche (brother of Natur Rimpoche, who is currently residing at saano gumba) because Luptin's teacher - the one who raised him in the monastery - was the former Zatur Rimpoche. After Zatur's death, it was Luptin's responsibility to find the reincarnation of Zatur Rimpoche, and then raise the boy.  After the current Zatur Rimpoche was recognized as a reincarnation of a high lama, his two brothers were also recognized as incarnations: Datur Rimpoche and Natur Rimpoche.  We're told that this is very rare for so many siblings to be recognized as incarnations; this is perhaps the only family with three boys in such high positions.

Luptin conveys that Natur Rimpoche has been traveling in Russia, Europe, and America. He cannot accompany, however, because he doesn't have a passport.  Putting together the pieces of his life puzzle, we surmise that Luptin is a Tibetan refugee and without documents; a citizen of no land. I look to his laughing eyes, dancing as always, and I wonder what pain, what stories lie in his past. I understand how the Buddhist teachings of non-attachment and ideal of freeing oneself from desire help the Tibetan people cope with their political and physically impoverished circumstances.  Of the many peoples I've encountered throughout my travels, the Tibetans and Sherpa are among the poorest in material possessions yet among the richest in spirit.  I leave Luptin's room with my belly full, my mind joyful, my heart humbled, and my spirit renewed.  I snuggle into my sleeping bag and smile myself to sleep; I marvel at how sometimes the most meaningful communication takes place in spite of a language barrier.  Through the sharing of his food, Luptin reaches out, ministers to us and shares much more.

For Buddhists, "to prepare food for others is equal to preparing food for a shrine. If you feed others, you honor them."* To feed is to nurture; to satisfy another's hunger is to show compassion; to promote compassion is to build karma; to acquire good karma is to ensure rebirth into a higher realm of samsara and brings one nearer to enlightenment. During Dumzi, I told an old trekking guide that I was interested in the overlap of Sherpa culture and Buddhist culture. "They are one and the same," Dorje told me, drawing his two index fingers together as if to illustrate their synonymie. No wonder Sherpa people insist on feeding you till you can't quite possibly handle another bite. Though filling up on the carb-centric Sherpa diet might not honor your digestive system, it does honor your soul.

Following my three day fast due to food poisoning (or rather, water poisoning resulting from an improperly washed cup), Sapana and I were both lacking in appetite and asked for very small lunch portions as Pasang ladled dal into our bowls.  Though we lifted our hands palms up as if to cover our bowls - the polite way to refuse food or drink - and serenaded him with a chorus of "tuche, tuche, tuche" - no thankyou! - he stopped just briefly and then poured in a little more. We gave him a look of joking disdain, as if to say, "Come on, we don't want to waste it!"
He snickered, "It's the rule, we have to give twice."  Sherpa protocol demands two scoops of food be put on a plate (I demand two small scoops) and for alcohol or ceremonial drink, the one pouring the drink will not leave until the recipient of the cup first chugs at least half of the full cup, takes a big gulp after is it refilled, and again one more after it is filled a third time.  All the while, the Sherpani with the pitcher hovers with one palm under the mug, tipping it steeply to ensure the drinker drinks.  I've gently but steadfastly refused all alcohol except one cup of chhang (Sherpa millet wine, which I forced myself to drink for the full cultural experience) so as to avoid alcohol poisoning, or even worse, drowning at the hands of an eager and generous Sherpani with a pitcher.


* An excerpt from "I Taste Fire, Earth, Rain: Elements of a Life with a Sherpa" by Caryl Sherpa.

Dumzi Festival - Part III

Dumzi is the most sacred of all festivals at Pema Choling. Two days are spent simply in preparation: The making of thorma is the primary activity during this time. Puja (chanting) will last four days, and the final two days no one will sleep: Sherpa dancing, a traditional line dance in which both men and women participate, will fill the days.  After dinner the atmosphere will be transformed and the wholesome Sherpa dancing will morph into a full on disco party, complete with strobe lights, all types of Nepali, Hindi, and western music (including Shakira, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, and various rap artists), and an unlimited supply of chhang - Sherpa wine made from millet.  I follow the festival sponsor, Ngawang Dorje, into the store room and watch three women arranging 8 or 9 barrels of chhang, which Ngawang tells me have been in the making for seven months at his lodge down the hill from here in Phakding. I poke my head through the doorway to get a better look at the barrels and the smell of fermenting millet hits my nostrils. So strong is the smell I jerk my head back involuntarily. My whole nose and sinuses feel brutally cleansed and I'm certain my head cold is cured once and for all. "It'll be a really nice wine," Ngawang says with a proud smile. After dinner I take him up on his offer to try the chhang; it's smooth and the taste is alright, but I still don't like the smell.

Morning. Just thinking of the chhang makes me sniffle, and I pick up my mug for another sip of hot milk tea. It's only the first morning of puja, and I'm already feeling the need for a break, so after the breakfast break I retreat with my laptop to the dining hall where I can write while staying out of the way but still feel amidst the hustle and bustle of festival excitement. I'm interrupted by a tiny woman with jet black wavy hair pulled back in a braid, dressed in a silky lime green pastel chemise under a royal blue Sherpa dress of the same shiny silky material, embroidered with exotic flowery patterns in a rainbow of red, orange, yellow, and green thread.  I love her demeanor; I was watching her yesterday and she's certainly the most friendly and outgoing of the typically shy Sherpa women who stick to the kitchen, always ready with thermos in hand to pour a steaming cup of tea for anyone who wanders into a 10-foot radius. But  this little lady is always laughing and smiling, flashing a gold tooth in her upper left set of molars.

She motions for me to follow her, and we walk through the dining hall, the kitchen, outside, and into the store room, where she shuts the double wooden doors behind us. She places her backpack on a bag of grain and turns to me with a big smile. "Okay, Sherpa dress," she says, pulling a pile of clothing out of her pack.  I hold out my arms and she eases me into a forest green blouse of the same shiny, silky material hers is made of. It boasts an understated iridescent zigzag print in the same forest green color; you wouldn't even see the zigzags if it weren't for the light catching the thread.  She proceeds to pull a black dress over my head and ties it, then unfolds one of the beautiful Sherpa aprons - the hallmark of the Sherpa costume - and ties it high around my waist.  I look down; the apron of brown, tan, camel, purple, white, and silver stripes stands out against the slimming black dress whose hem barely brushes the tops of my ballet slipper shoes. I love it.

I walk back out through the kitchen and into the dining hall, knowing that I'll be under close inspection for the next few hours.  Sherpa people are curious, boisterous, and proud of their culture; I know they'll be both enthusiastic and tickled pink to see their favorite little white girl in traditional dress. Sure enough, I enter the room to an explosion of  joyous catcalls, "Ho! Sila! Sherpini!!"  Sherpini is the name for a Sherpa woman: All Sherpa men's last name is Sherpa, and the women's last name is Sherpini - although when used colloquially the term "Sherpini" usually refers to a married woman.
"But I'm not married!" I protest. They're doing their best to change that. Things have been moving beyond the once innocent suggestions that I marry a Sherpa.

In light of yesterday's conversation in the kitchen, I try not to feel self conscious as two men in particular inspect my new attire from across the room.

You might feel uneasy, too, if you had witnessed this that conversation...
Sapana and I am talking with the festival sponsor; they sit side by side while I stand facing them, my back to the fire. Ngawang sits with one leg crossed over the other and his hands clasped, fingers laced together around his top leg. He leans back comfortably and gazes into the fire while talking, then falls silent. I am absorbed in thought with the stories of his various houses in Nepal and his travels to the US when, after this pause in the conversation, he suddenly lifts his head to meet my gaze and steadily, thoughtfully says, "You know, I've been thinking about taking an American wife."
I chuckle, knowing he's already married with two kids; he only just finished showing my pictures of them on his iPhone some twenty minutes ago. He just smiles.
"Aren't you married? What would your wife think of a second wife?" I tease, thinking he's joking, of course.
"Oh, she has no problem," he replies, completely serious.
"Wait, is it okay for Buddhists to have more than one wife?" I ask, not knowing why the idea makes me feel a little unsettled if not concerned.
"Yes, it is okay in our culture," Ngawang says carefully. "This is more common that divorce. Perhaps 5% of Sherpa families include more than one wife, while less than 1% are divorced." The idea still feels a bit incredulous, this is the first I've heard of polygamy in Sherpa culture.

After the arrival of some guests interrupts the cultural discussion and provides me some time for thought, Ngawang takes his seat once again and together with Sapana, the three of us fall back into conversation, this time joined by an older monk in his late 50's, who also goes by Ngawang. I'd met this Ngawang just the morning before; apparently he's been here at the monastery the entire time I have, but I had only seen him briefly the first day I arrived because the following day he started a month-long meditation and remained in one room above the monastery, talking to nobody and having contact only with the young monk who brought him his meals.

I'd only become cognizant of his existence a week ago, and then when I walked into the kitchen the first morning of Dumzi, there he was offering me milk coffee - a big treat in a place like this. After accepting a bowl of corn flakes (also a first time treat) from Kagi and allowing Lakpa to douse them in hot milk tea, I paused my wonderment at all these culinary treats and wandered over to meet the new face in a kitchen I now considered familiar domain.  I approached Ngawang and used my ever-growing Nepali lexicon to ask his name and where he's from. After exchanging only a few words, his face lights up and he suddenly says, "I enjoy you. After the festival you will come to my lodge; I own the Kala Patthar Lodge in Phakding. We'll drink tea, eat some food and talk."
"Okay," I replied, returning his smile. What else could I say?  It's not very often a brand new acquaintance demands my presence as a guest in their home.  I'm not quite sure what he saw in me, but Ngawang made up his mind about me very quickly. Perhaps first impressions are especially big with him, and I happen to be a morning person...that's all I can figure.

That conversation ended when Ngawang was called out to attend to some matter with a visitor. He started to walk away and then double-backed, saying, "Okay, I will see you later and we will talk more." I said goodbye and then picked up my phone, remembering I needed to call my mom during the brief period each day when the time difference between Nepal and Oregon is favorable for both of us.  I caught my dad at home and we talked for about 20 minutes; then I started to walk back to the kitchen to refill my mug.
I looked up when I heard a voice in front of me asking, "Everything okay?" and suddenly strong arms were wrapping me up into a big hug. Everything really was okay, and in the midst of me trying to figure out what expression I might have made to make it seem as if something was amiss, it took me a moment to realize that it was my new friend Ngawang enthusiastically hugging me.  All I could think was that, after a month of voluntary solitary confinement, he must be so happy to finally see people that he just can't keep his joy to himself.  That's sweet, I thought, and then assured him everything was perfect before continuing on my way.

Now I was sitting with Ngawang, the enthusiastic hugger, and Ngawang, the festival sponsor, and they were talking about how they'd like to find me a Sherpa dress for the festival.  "I'll have my wife give me one to bring tomorrow," said the first.  "Be careful," warned the second, "you might look quickly and mistake her for your wife."  That got a lot of laughs and invoked a series of jokes about him taking me as a second wife.  I laughed along with them - not really feeling like there was anything else I could do - but had a strange feeling that they weren't entirely joking.

So now I'm in full Sherpa costume, being paraded around as a one-person fashion show for the amusement of all present. Both Ngawangs are surprised and stop to admire my new look, and I'm not feeling any better about the marriage jokes. I might have shed the dress and ran back up to my room for the rest of the evening if I only knew what was to come...

After lunch Sapana and I sat in the dining room, chatting. A few people got up and Ngawang the meditating monk saw us and scooted down to say hello. Somehow, slyly, the conversation was immediately turned to marriage. Ngawang told us proudly, "You see that old monk over there, spinning the mani? That's my poppy. He's 84. And he walked here from the monastery in Ghat!" A two hour walk involving a steep climb of 200 m (about 600 ft). Sapana and I are impressed. "You know, he had seven wives. And my grand-poppy had eighteen."  Our mouths drop.  Eighteen wives? The old monk places a hand on my leg. Weird flirting and innuendos ensue.  Of all the places in the world, I thought this would be the last I'd ever be subjected to such treatment. But oh, it gets worse.

After dinner Sapana and I, the slow eaters that we are, find ourselves again one of the last few people in the dining hall.  The old meditating monk comes by and asks me (for the third or fourth time), "Where do you sleep?"
"At saano gumba," I tell him, "with the little monks. Remember? Big festival. Many people here. Festival sponsor in my room. No space for me here!"  I simplify and exaggerate, convincing myself he's only asking because he somehow didn't understand the first three times.
"No, no...you eat dinner now, you're tired. That hill is too big. It's late and dark. You stay here, you can stay in my room."  My mouth drops. I look at Sapana. We're both in shock. Is he really saying this?  "My room. I have two beds, two blankets. You stay here. Good for you."  I want to run away. Fast. I laugh nervously and tell him "No way, that's a horrible thing to say." And then I escape to the monastery, where big and little monks are hanging out and stuffing goody bags.

I stay away, far away from this old monk and prepare to slap him if he touches me again. I absolutely cannot believe that, as the most senior lama in the monastery, he would dare to speak and act this way, especially in front of the other monks. I employ the monks my age as my body guards and pay them in Hershey's Kisses I brought from Oregon. When the festival ends this dirty old monk will go home to his lodge in Phakding and won't bother me. I'm going to miss the lessons I was hoping he'd give me on Buddhist philosophy, but I certainly won't be visiting his lodge for tea!

Dumzi Festival - Part II

On the stove a dish called dildo bubbles in a wok blackened from what appears to be years of use over an open fire. I saw a menu nailed to a wooden plank in the kitchen yesterday, a hand-written grid neatly printed on a blank sheet of paper, and couldn't help but laugh when I read that "Dildo with Mixed Curry" was on for lunch today. What in the world could that be?  The rest of the dishes on the menu - besides "Macroni with Veg/Cheese Tomato" - are traditional Sherpa, Nepali, or Tibetan dishes, and I haven't come across anything called dildo yet.

It was Pasang Genzi, assistant to the festival sponsor, who pointed to the corn meal and hot water bubbling in the wok and told me, "See, they're making dildo. Very good, you should try it." I watched as first the corn meal was cooked, then tsampa (barley) and millet, all in the same fashion. Then all three were dumped into a huge twenty-gallon pot to become a mixture so thick three cooks had to heave the pot off the fire and onto the floor, where they propped it against a wooden log which they used as leverage to stir the dildo with huge wooden sticks.

Lunch time approaches and I'm chased up to the dining hall to take the meal in a long room with wooden benches and long narrow tables lining either side. The thick brown paste that they call dildo is plopped into a copper dish and served with a bowl of chicken potato curry on the side. No utensils included. That's pretty typical for Nepal - everyone eats with their right hand only.  But usually the other volunteers and I are given utensils automatically, and I'd even say most of the monks use utensils most of the time.  But apparently this dish is hands-only, so I have to seek out a spoon for myself.  When I return and start sipping some of the curry soup off my spoon, I look up to see everyone staring at me and laughing - not insultingly, just amused.  I seem to constantly be a great source of amusement for pretty much everyone here.  The monks demonstratively roll their dildo paste into marble-sized balls and then dip them into the curry before popping them in their mouths.  Colin jokingly threatens to throw one at me.  It goes against every lesson in table etiquette my mother ever taught me. What happened to "No playing with your food?" Sherpa kids don't learn that lesson.

Even though I know the dildo dish contains barley and therefore gluten, I'm curious enough to taste it that I risk a stomach ache.  One bite is enough though; I find it bland and too rich all at the same time, and after three years of carefully avoiding gluten, the taste of grain is foreign in my mouth. I opt to stick to my bowl of curry soup instead, which is truthfully wonderful. I think the festival cooks are a bit less fond of chili and masala (spices), so for once I can actually taste my food.

I wander a bit after lunch, touring the grounds to check progress in our monastery-turned-thorma-making-factory.  But eventually I find myself back in the kitchen, eager for a warm place to sit and read and subconsciously hoping for a hot cup of milk tea. I'm pleasantly surprised to find a huge pot of boiled potatoes on the floor and a group of happy Sherpas sitting around it in a sort of peeling party. Laughter bounces off the walls, the fire pops, and the smell of twisted rice-flour kapsi cookies boiling in soybean oil fills my nostrils as I'm welcomed into the room.
"Can I help?" I ask with a smile, pointing to the pot of potatoes.
"Sure, sit down," Purbu replies.  I'd crouched next to him in the yard of the other monastery a few weeks ago during the Nyune festival, slowly pressing a huge pile of barley-butter-water paste into hundreds of teardrop-shaped thorma the size of my fist. He and the others surrounding the tarp - all men between the ages of 16 and 40 and all trekking guides - laughed and joked as I very slowly and painfully produced my first thorma. No matter how long I massaged the paste, gently shaping and smoothing the surface, it would crumble the moment I pulled one hand away.
"No, like this," said Purbu, as he forcefully smashed a handful of crumbs into a very dense, compact ball.  He kneaded the dough for a good two minutes, then handed me a perfect sphere.  Having three fourths of the work done for me, I quickly and easily shaped the ball into a beautiful teardrop, pinching the top with thumb and forefinger to emphasize the cone shape.  I was really proud of myself, and so was everyone else. Purba and I continued in this manner - he doing the heavy lifting, me taking the credit for a perfectly compacted thorma - for at least two more hours, until the tarp was empty and we were surrounded by hundreds of teardrops on baking sheets. Remembering our teamwork and his kindness, I'm touched that Purba offers me a potato and a seat next to him.

With five people peeling, the twenty gallon pot of potatoes empties quickly. I reach in to pull another out while maintaining eye contact during my conversation Purba and am startled to find, when I finally look down, that I'm holding an egg. "Ewww! Uh oh! It's an egg!" I cry. Everyone laughs. I look down into the pot. I count four other eggs camouflaged among the potatoes. For some reason I'm startled and confused; I don't understand why you would ever boil eggs and potatoes together. In fact, I'm slightly concerned that the chicken poop on the eggshell contaminates the potatoes. But I peel the egg anyways and move on to the next potato.

A walk through Beurs in Rotterdam