amy_thomson (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} amy_thomson) wrote,@ 2004-10-18 05:49:00 |
|
Sunday-Mongolia
The next day was Sunday, a day off at camp. Once again I woke early, but instead of lying in bed, staring up at the roof of the ger, I dressed and slipped out into the moonlit night. I hadn't seen the ruins of the main temple yet, so I walked over there, and wandered around. The roof was gone, so the moonlight shone in cold and bright. The outer columns and the beams that would someday support the second floor were up and in place. The shadows they cast were deeply black. It was silent and the stars blazed overhead. I walked around, enjoying the mystery and the solitude until I got too cold, and then wandered back to my ger and stared at the ceiling, invisible in the darkness, except for the few stars that I could see through the roof hub.
At last I heard people moving around in the kitchen, and since I'd signed up to help with breakfast, I got up and went to see what useful things I could do. Since my Mongolian was minimal, despite studying language tapes, I was probably more in the way than anything else, but they let me start a fire and boil water. I filled the water jug with boiled water, and then ladled more into the enameled crocks that held the extra water. Then I tried to stay out of the way while they cooked rice, and made milk tea.
After breakfast, we went up to the little log cabin temple and listened while the monks chanted. First they blew the giant horns, summoning people to worship. We arrived on the porch of the temple, took off our shoes and tiptoed in. There were only five monks, Guree, and Egee, the adults, and the three little monks, Bajka, Jantsin, and little Baina, but they filled the temple with the deep rich drone of their chanting. I sat and watched and listened, feeling simultaneously awed and a bit like a proud mom, watching my little mini-monks all grown up and chanting a service. It was very presumptuous of me, but I had become hugely fond of the irritating little darlings over the last few days. Karen tiptoed around taking pictures, and I recorded it. The monks chanted on imperturbably, occasionally ringing a lovely resonant bell. Then it was over, and we all scattered to our various Sunday pursuits.
Mine was laundry, which had rapidly taken on a personality of its own. After that, Cori took me on the meditation path, a circular walk around the valley, perhaps two or three miles around. There are a number of shrines to various Buddhist aspect deities and guardians, there were also several ovoos, and a number of ruined temples. Cori explained the history of the temple as we walked. The temple was built in the 1700's, when the king of Mongolia decided that the country needed temples to guard the four directions. (Baldan Baraivan was the temple that guarded Mongolia's eastern gate.) The king sent out emissaries to find an appropriate site. When they reached Baldan Baraivan, they found an old couple living there. They were named Baldan and Zupelmaa. Their names were Tibetan, which was believed to be an extremely auspicious omen (Mongolians are Tibetan Buddhists). That and other omens being auspicious, the temple was authorized. Baldan Baraivan became a major center of Tibetan Buddhist learning and worship. At its peak, there were three thousand people living in this quiet, valley.
When the communists came to power in the 1930's, they began to destroy the monasteries. When they came to Baldan Baraivan, they killed everyone over the age of 11, and sent the children back to their families. Then they comprehensively destroyed or defaced every shrine, leaving only roofless ruins open to the skies. Looking around today, in this peaceful place, it's hard to visualize this place full of people, but looking down from the shoulder of the mountain to the west of Baldan Baraivan, you can see lines in the earth, the remnants of streets and houses. Even harder to imagine is the carnage and brutality that happened, but somewhere nearby, there are mass graves waiting to be found.
In the 1990's, when communism fell around the world, it also fell in Mongolia, leaving a country dependent on Russian aid struggling for identity, and an economy in tatters. The few surviving lamas came out of the woodwork, and are slowly, slowly rebuilding the monasteries. When you go to Gandan Temple in Ulaan Baatar, you see old, old men, and monks in their twenties and young students, with a huge gap in between. There are very few middle-aged monks in Mongolia. One of the lamas who was at Baldan Baraivan came back and started to rebuild the temple. He built the small log cabin temple, and named Guree as his heir. His family lives here at Baldan Baraivan.
Eventually, word of the temple reconstruction reached Mark Hintzke, who was searching for a project to be the focus of his ecotourism company CRTP. He came and began working to rebuild Baldan Baraivan. Over the last several years the temples have been carefully excavated and rebuilt. And here I was, in this beautiful, sacred site, walking along a sacred path. It was almost too much to believe. Sitting here in Seattle, in the midst of American opulence and spiritual junk food. It feels good to know that such a place exists, and is being breathed slowly, carefully back to life.
The next day was Sunday, a day off at camp. Once again I woke early, but instead of lying in bed, staring up at the roof of the ger, I dressed and slipped out into the moonlit night. I hadn't seen the ruins of the main temple yet, so I walked over there, and wandered around. The roof was gone, so the moonlight shone in cold and bright. The outer columns and the beams that would someday support the second floor were up and in place. The shadows they cast were deeply black. It was silent and the stars blazed overhead. I walked around, enjoying the mystery and the solitude until I got too cold, and then wandered back to my ger and stared at the ceiling, invisible in the darkness, except for the few stars that I could see through the roof hub.
At last I heard people moving around in the kitchen, and since I'd signed up to help with breakfast, I got up and went to see what useful things I could do. Since my Mongolian was minimal, despite studying language tapes, I was probably more in the way than anything else, but they let me start a fire and boil water. I filled the water jug with boiled water, and then ladled more into the enameled crocks that held the extra water. Then I tried to stay out of the way while they cooked rice, and made milk tea.
After breakfast, we went up to the little log cabin temple and listened while the monks chanted. First they blew the giant horns, summoning people to worship. We arrived on the porch of the temple, took off our shoes and tiptoed in. There were only five monks, Guree, and Egee, the adults, and the three little monks, Bajka, Jantsin, and little Baina, but they filled the temple with the deep rich drone of their chanting. I sat and watched and listened, feeling simultaneously awed and a bit like a proud mom, watching my little mini-monks all grown up and chanting a service. It was very presumptuous of me, but I had become hugely fond of the irritating little darlings over the last few days. Karen tiptoed around taking pictures, and I recorded it. The monks chanted on imperturbably, occasionally ringing a lovely resonant bell. Then it was over, and we all scattered to our various Sunday pursuits.
Mine was laundry, which had rapidly taken on a personality of its own. After that, Cori took me on the meditation path, a circular walk around the valley, perhaps two or three miles around. There are a number of shrines to various Buddhist aspect deities and guardians, there were also several ovoos, and a number of ruined temples. Cori explained the history of the temple as we walked. The temple was built in the 1700's, when the king of Mongolia decided that the country needed temples to guard the four directions. (Baldan Baraivan was the temple that guarded Mongolia's eastern gate.) The king sent out emissaries to find an appropriate site. When they reached Baldan Baraivan, they found an old couple living there. They were named Baldan and Zupelmaa. Their names were Tibetan, which was believed to be an extremely auspicious omen (Mongolians are Tibetan Buddhists). That and other omens being auspicious, the temple was authorized. Baldan Baraivan became a major center of Tibetan Buddhist learning and worship. At its peak, there were three thousand people living in this quiet, valley.
When the communists came to power in the 1930's, they began to destroy the monasteries. When they came to Baldan Baraivan, they killed everyone over the age of 11, and sent the children back to their families. Then they comprehensively destroyed or defaced every shrine, leaving only roofless ruins open to the skies. Looking around today, in this peaceful place, it's hard to visualize this place full of people, but looking down from the shoulder of the mountain to the west of Baldan Baraivan, you can see lines in the earth, the remnants of streets and houses. Even harder to imagine is the carnage and brutality that happened, but somewhere nearby, there are mass graves waiting to be found.
In the 1990's, when communism fell around the world, it also fell in Mongolia, leaving a country dependent on Russian aid struggling for identity, and an economy in tatters. The few surviving lamas came out of the woodwork, and are slowly, slowly rebuilding the monasteries. When you go to Gandan Temple in Ulaan Baatar, you see old, old men, and monks in their twenties and young students, with a huge gap in between. There are very few middle-aged monks in Mongolia. One of the lamas who was at Baldan Baraivan came back and started to rebuild the temple. He built the small log cabin temple, and named Guree as his heir. His family lives here at Baldan Baraivan.
Eventually, word of the temple reconstruction reached Mark Hintzke, who was searching for a project to be the focus of his ecotourism company CRTP. He came and began working to rebuild Baldan Baraivan. Over the last several years the temples have been carefully excavated and rebuilt. And here I was, in this beautiful, sacred site, walking along a sacred path. It was almost too much to believe. Sitting here in Seattle, in the midst of American opulence and spiritual junk food. It feels good to know that such a place exists, and is being breathed slowly, carefully back to life.
