He was a thoughtful young man. He crawled along the road, not wanting the cold wind to chill his young charge (and perhaps his elder charge, as well). It took us forever to arrive. By then my foot opposite the sun was numb.

I found the one beauty salon in the town. I waited my turn for a wash. A woman worked the styling seat with a blow drier. A man did the washing. In the corner where there was a wash basin, a bucket brazier supported a big pot of water. These bucket braziers look like concrete poured into a 5-gallon bucket, each brazier has a hollowed out center, for the pressed coal pellets. The man lifted the heavy pot and poured the hot water into a red plastic bucket hanging high on the wall. A hose snaked from the bucket. Below was a blue plastic sink with a hollow drain. When it was my turn, I sat on a wooden stool and stretched my neck over the blue sink. He lathered and rinsed me three times. He offered me a towel. I squeezed out the excess water as he lifted the bucket from the floor below the hollowed sink drain and carried it outside to the gutter.

When I got back to the dancers, they were finishing up a generous meal prepared by the hostess. The high lama was there, giving encouragement to the efforts of these young people.

The afternoon passed quickly. I was feeling drowsy, so I went back to Urgyen's house, had some tsamba and took a short nap. When I awoke, Sonam Lhamo was there with two young helpers. She was vigorously attacking the wooden floor with a rag mop. I heard clunk clunk as she slapped down the mop. I puzzled it out. There were ice chunks still in the mop after the last use.

Before she left, speaking with me in Chinese, she asked me if I wouldn't mind teaching the children an English class. Sure, I said. When, where, and how many. The next day I went to the small schoolhouse on the monastery grounds and met with the village children. Forty-five students crowded into the classroom, ranging in age from six to thirteen. For a blackboard, I found that three boards had been fastened together, painted black and put on a easel. I erased the Tibetan that was written there, and wrote out numbers for some drill.

After the 90 minute class Sonam Lhamo invited me back to her office. She offered me a glass of hot water, which absolutely hit the spot. She and another teacher handled all the classes. She teaches 23 hours a week.  She teaches Chinese, and the other teacher teaches Tibetan.

Today they are practicing a different kind of dance. I see a worn drum hanging from a wooden frame, with two thick sticks ending in wrapped white cloth. They are acting out a legendary tale from Tibetan history. The drummer beats out a rhythm, ba doop, ba doop, bada bada bada boop, while the dancers act out traveling by foot and on horseback through the mountains and valleys. Then the cymbals come in, clang clang clangclangclang swoosh, like the sound of a coin dancing on its face and coming to rest. The dancers halt, and one of them narrates a part of the tale, sometimes in dialogue with another responding, all in song. During the break I see a student reading a small paperback of this legend.

By now the young people are more comfortable with me. My friend has told them I would like to learn the dances, so while the circle is paused a girl invites me to join them. I tell her in Chinese that I am not familiar with this kind of dance. She looks at her friend, who says something in Tibetan, which includes one of the Chinese words that I said. Except in Chinese it means 'kind of', and in Tibetan it means 'study'. They are puzzled. And I am intrigued, that they do not know the Chinese language!

Tired of sitting, face glowing warmly in the winter sun brilliant in a deep blue sky, I stand back against the wall.  Across the yard I see horse's ears and mane beyond the wall, in the neighbor's yard. A gust suddenly lifts a coat from the wall behind me and plops it on my head. This brings a ripple of chuckles. The girls arrive with polyester quilted jackets over their usual daily attire of traditional Tibetan dress, and sneakers. Woolen scarves are wound across the nose and chin, and they wear gloves. But as the sun warms the courtyard, they are discarded and tossed on the wall.

The sad moment comes when I must leave. I am deeply regretting having made other plans to travel abroad during this holiday break. I feel I could contentedly remain through the lhosar festival, picking up a lot of the Tibetan language in this immersion environment. It is late afternoon, the sun has warmed up the engine. I say goodbye to my friend, promising to be back for a weekend after the winter break is over, and the snow is off the perilous passes.

To contact Santina Click Here

The following are Santina's previous articles for the magazine:

• Perilous Passes In Winter ~ Adventures In China
• Kangding ~ On The Road To Tibet
• Hot Day, Hot Food, Hot Time In Guza ~ In Sichuan