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conti nued from page 81 top of Khang Rinpoche; the tale is told that he flew-like one of the great soaring lammergeiers which float in endless meditation on the thermal currents. Among The Hundred Thousand Songs of Milarepa is found the ascetic's paean to Kailas: "This snow mountain is the navel of the world, the crystal-like pagoda where the snow leopards dance," he wrote. "There is no place more won derful than this." MAY 24, CHUKKU A mercifu l sun finally crests the canyon walls and begins to warm the Lha Chu (God's River) valley. This is a barre n, dusty world, well over fifteen thousand feet in el evation yet surprisingly beautiful in its utter starkness. Striated walls rise on either side of the valley bisected by the icy si lver ribbon of holy water. With food in our bell ies, we set off to expl ore this Martian landscape. We climb to Chukku, a gompa directly above our campsite. Pilgrims perform mini koras here like slow el ectrons whirling around a mud brick nucleus. A sepa rate shri ne, called gon-khang, is dedicated to Ghangri Lhatsen, a "protector" of demonic appearance. But to our dismay, no women are al lowed to enter this chapel. Spiritual chauvinism is apparently nondenominational. A few of us continue to a cl eft slashed into the wall of a mountain called Nyenri. Scra mbling a thousand feet up the steep tal us, we are rewa rded with the glorious sight of a cairn, fitted with fluttering prayer flags, which marks a cave that gave shel ter to Mil arepa nine hundred years ago. The repa, a thin, white, cotton garment, was all the mystic wore, even in the dead of wi nter. Up in this lofty aerie, Mi larepa com manded a view of Kai las to the north and Gurla Mandhata to the south. His cave is constructed of tightly-fitted stones and a packed sad roof, but we suspect these are later improvements made to the site. MAY 25, TARBOGHE Today is Saga Dawa : the combined celebration of the Buddha Siddhartha Gautama's birth, enlightenment and death . On a flat escarpment overlooking the frenetic cele bration at Tarboche, another, more austere ritual is taking place. This is a sky burial site, where chodpa, lamas speci ally trained for the task, cut up human corpses (after the former in habitant has been escorted through the bardo, the "gap" between one inca rnation and another), roll the meat in tsampa (barley flour) and feed it to golden griffon vu ltu res and lammergeiers who are all too happy to accommodate the recy cling. It is the perfect synthesis of ecol ogy and religion, the point at which the food chain loops back upon itself and spirit is freed from imprisonment in maya. Although no one has died today, a group of lamas beat drums, ring bel ls, chant and confer blessings upon those who request their min istrations. Celebrants bring articles of clothing to leave on the flat ro ck, where cleavers and kn ives are everywhere in evi dence. Some of the more devout pil grims pull out a tooth and leave it at the site, spitti ng their blood to mingle with the dust, a symbolic reminder of their ultimate return to that medium. MAY 28, LAKE MANASAROVAR Due south of Mt. Kailas are the twin lakes of Raksas Tal (Langa Tso) and Manasarovar (Tso Mapam), an enormous yi n/yang emblazoned on the Earth. Raksas Tal is the dark sapphire repository of female energy, and its water is reputed to be poisonous-an intriguingly misogynistic but apocryphal myth. Manasarova r, on the other hand, holds male energy, and it is claimed that fu ll submersion in its icy depths ensures enlightenment for Hindus; a mere drink promises the same for less intrepid Buddhists who feel that dunking one's body would only befoul the water. Buddh ists generally settle for a sip and a splash over the head-hence the name of the local gompa: "Thrugo, " which, as near as anyone can figure, means "the holy head-washing gate." MAY 30, CHIU Of the eight gompas encircling Lake Manasarovar-representing the Wheel of Dharma with it's Eight-fo ld Path-certainly Chiu is the most spectacu lar. As I wander through this Buddhi st Disneyland, a labyrinth of twisti ng stairways, recessed doorways, and towering stone ch6taens strung with fluttering prayer flags overlooking the wind-whipped lake, I feel as if I am suspended between two worlds. To be sure, Tibet is a mag ical place, but its sorcery has frozen time. In these isolated rural areas, the world remains in the Middle Ages, and the local inhabitants regard us as if we come from another planet. Perhaps we do. Here in Ti bet, questions are compl icated. In 19S0, the absolute feudal theocra cy, under which these people had lived for centuries, was replaced with an absolute secular totalitarianism. What's the difference, one might ask? Clearly the majority of Tibetans favor the mystery of what they know as the Buddha Dharma to what they have come to know as the destructive "socialism" of their Han Chinese overlords. But it is equally clear, to a heretic such as myself, that what Tibetans practice-a strange and incred ibly complicated mixture of Brahmanic and Ta ntric ritu al, Bon shamanic sorce ry, and Mahayana doctrine-is a long way from what Siddhartha had in mind that morning he got up off his duff from beneath the Bodhi tree. I have discovered that not all Tibetans are saints. The drivers from Lhasa who pi lot our Land Cruisers refuse to ride in the same vehicles as Sherpas, exhibiting a bigotry uncomfortably remin iscent of our own white Southern gentry. Who would have ever guessed that the noble Sherpas are consid ered the "niggers of Tibet" by their own Buddhist brethren? Even more appalling, I have heard ru mors that some of the most fearsome torturers in the ghastly and overflowing Dhrapchi prison in Lhasa are Tibetan col laborators. I suppose this is consistent with hi sto ry's ironic twists: the Nazi Gestapo often employed local talent in their persecution of "undesir ables. " MAY 31, SHER We bump along the rutted road toward Khojarnath and the border, and I feel sadly relieved to be leaving Ti bet. Totalitarian oppression hangs heavily over this country like the dark cloud of a nuclear wi nter, but one does not appreciate its fu ll weight until one is out from beneath it. The Chinese system may have re distributed land and material wealth and improved health care for peasants, but it has just as surely killed creativi ty by demanding and gl orifying conformity. In the morning, we greet Sherpa Dendi and our new porters who will lug our gear back down to the Karnali gorge. After a breakfast of barley hot cakes and sweet tea, we saddle up and pay our final respects to Tibet. Green-uniformed border guards disdainfu lly check our passports, then escort us to the edge of Chinese-occupied territo ry. One young soldier roughly taps the bh ' as ! descend tC'Nard the Karna!i River cross i ng. ara l skull strapped to my rucksack and laughs hearti ly ! dcn 't need to ... r.dc,stand Mandarin to know they are ridiculing the absurdity of my souvenir. They anger me, these cold-eyed army ants, arrogantly displaying their automatic side arms and tough teenage attitudes. But then I remember that they re ally are teenagers who, given the choice, would prefer to be somewhere other than the Tibetan border waiting for the appea rance of an errant trekker or an unlikely invasion of Indian troops. Everywhere it is the same appalling story: we program the young ones to do our killing and dying. What purpose does it serve to be angry at these pawns of an octo.genarian bureaucracy in Beijing? Compassion cannot be conditional; either it is what I live or something I am forever studying from the outside looking in. Either I am doing the Dharma-or it is doing me. EARTH The people who have lived there since the beginning call it Bhot. The rest of the world calls this place Ti bet. Tom Joyce is a writer, graphic designer and photographer based in San Francisco.