September 4, 1987: Yushu to Surmang, part II

We got stuck in the cold mud ruts a few more times, freeing the Jeep with our shovel and bare hands, with me pushing while Tenzin gunned it. We were both wet and muddy as we approached the summit, at 4,800 m (about 16,000 ft). The problem was that the road had disappeared into a do-it-yourself anarchy of muddy tracks as the sun started moving behind Ge-la Mountain. It was a contradiction in terms to say which rut was the best.

It was at that point that we got stuck for good and realized that we were high-centered because the truck-made ruts were deeper than our tires. We decided to wait it out. There was no choice. Wearing every article of clothing I had, the only plan B was to wait and wait. About 2 hours passed and finally a logging truck saw us and yanked us out of our rut and all the way to the pass.

In the cold rain we descended the peak making sure not to slide off the side of the precipice. A couple of hours later we saw some lights – so we pulled in the gated compound.
“Where are we?” I asked one of the two hundred people waiting in the rain.
“Xiao Surmang.”
This is the monastery?
“No, the government township.”
“What are you all waiting for?”
“You, I think.”

We made our way past the crowds and were shown into a room with a wood floor, a couple of beds, and two kerosene lanterns. It smelled like yak butter. Our bags were brought in. The room soon filled up with black-chuba-ed Khampa women, Khampa men with long braids coiled around their heads and coral earrings in their ears, with large swords in their belts, old men with dark leathered skin in Mao jackets. Everyone was quiet, but if you looked real closely at their lips, you could see that they were all were repeating mantras. Looking at me.

Apparently they were expecting me. Someone came up to me and asked me if I had a Buddhist scripture translated by Trungpa Rinpoche. It took out the Vajrayogini sadhana, --a practice from the Surmang lineage-- as well as the over-400 photos I had of him.

They hadn’t seen him since 1959. At that point the people at the front of the line got on their knees and uncovered their heads at the same time offering white cloths, khatas, most of which were made of simple cotton gauze. I touched their heads with the book.

Almost everyone was crying.

I got it, but it was too unexpected. I thought, what blessing do I have? At the same time I realized that what I thought, my own hesitation, was irrelevant compared to the unbelievable outpouring of grief and devotion I was witnessing –not for me, but for their recently departed lama. I saw something I could never have predicted: I was there to bring these people, these Surmang Khampas, closure on one of the most significant events of their life: the passing of their lama.

It was very difficult for me to contain myself, as if that was part of the plan anyway.