And Live Rejoicing by Huston Smith

Author:Huston Smith
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781608680726
Publisher: New World Library

Chapter Nine

Magic and Mystery on the Roof of the World

At three in the morning, on a full-moon night in October 1969, high in the foothills of the Himalayan mountains, there fell on my ears the holiest sound I have ever heard. Here is the story.

Debarred from Tibet because it was not then open to American citizens, I was on my way to research Tibetan Buddhism in a refugee monastery in North India. Actually, even if I could have entered Tibet I could not have found what I was looking for, for the Chinese had emptied the monasteries and put their monks to work building roads in the high mountains.

The train labored slowly up the mountain on which the monastery I was seeking was perched, but the railway tracks ended at Dalhousie, which is now in Pakistan. From there I climbed a steep path for about half a mile, and when I heard the sound of chanting I knew I was nearing my destination. When I reached the monastery’s entrance I was ushered to the abbot’s small bungalow. A large bowl of hot Tibetan tea was placed in my hands.

I have traveled a great deal and have encountered only two foods I have disliked. One was poi in Hawaii, which I imagine is what wallpaper paste tastes like, and the other is the Tibetan yak butter tea, a large bowl of which I was holding in my hands. I was desperately thirsty from my long climb up the mountain and took a big gulp from the bowl before the taste registered on me with a shock. Swallowing the tea brought to mind the prayer that a woman missionary to Africa said she prayed when at her welcoming banquet she was served monkey soup, a local delicacy that was made by throwing a live monkey into a pot of boiling water.

“Lord, I’ll put it down,” she prayed, “and you keep it down.”

This recollection applied perfectly to my predicament. I could just see myself throwing up all over the beautiful Tibetan carpets that were laid across the floor before me.

Later, I learned how traditional Tibetan tea was made. You begin with a four-foot-long piece of bamboo, the notches of which have been excised. Throw into it a large dollop of rancid yak butter, followed by a handful of rock salt. That salt is all to the good, for it cuts the grease of the yak butter. Still, it doesn’t keep the result from tasting, well, foul. I think you could comb the dictionary and not find a better descriptive word for the taste of that authentic tea: foul.

Fortunately, after submitting to that protocol bowl of welcoming tea, I descended to the ranks of commoners, who drank Indian tea.

As luck would have it, I had arrived on the evening of the highest holy day of the Tibetan year. So we all retired early because the four-day puja, or religious ceremony, was to begin at 3:00 a.m. the next morning.

Shortly before the designated hour, I

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