Losar and the Jars of Evil
Trip Start
Nov 15, 2005
1
221
248
Trip End
Aug 15, 2008
Tibetan village, middle of nowhere,
China
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
About 7 hours north of Chengdu along a reasonable highway and another half hour down dirt tracks, we arrived late in the day, though the sun was still shining. Timber and stone houses, each accompanied by a small area of turned-over soil ready for the next growing season, were scattered across the hillsides still wearing a little winter snow, with clusters of tall, narrow prayer flags throughout, fluttering in what little breeze there was, I couldn't imagine anywhere further from Chengdu ;)
While out walking, we ran into a group of villagers dressed up and on their way to who knows where, who decided it was their duty to welcome us to the village by staging an impromptu party in our hosts' house. It all began quite civilised, with the red-headscarved and coral adorned ladies sitting to one side of the room, the elder men closest to us and the youngsters the furthest away. A couple of beers aided communication, but it all began to go downhill when they brought out the Jars of Evil. More commonly known as Tibetan barley wine, this is made by putting all the necessary ingredients into a large clay pot, heaping sugar on top and leaving it with a little water to ferment (you can see it all bubbling away when not drinking from them).
01 The village
When it comes time to drink, bamboo straws are inserted into the pot and a large ladle-full of water is poured in as you desperately try to suck it up without letting it overflow or gag on the sickly sweet liquid. Although not especially strong on first taste, I swear this stuff carries on fermenting in your stomach and keeps adding alcohol into your system for a long time after you drink. As honoured guests, we were encouraged - forced - to drink with almost everyone in the room. Actually, 'drink with' is wrong. They brought us drinks, wouldn't take no for an answer, then somehow managed to get out of drinking themselves with such excuses as 'I can't drink because of Buddha'. Added to this was the local custom that no-one was allowed to refuse any request from the women present. Even those refusing our drinks gave in to this, though we were obviously the target for most of the beers and baijiu floating about the room. I'm sure this was to blame for the circle dances that began in the living room as well. Though the drinking began at 5, thankfully things finish early here as well, and by 11 we left to stagger to bed and contemplate a hungover temple fair in the morning. High on the list of 'things I really don't want to be offered when my stomach is turning knots due to being forced to drink way too much the previous evening' would have to be yak butter tea. Not particularly pleasant at the best of times, I may have offended my hosts by not drinking it; I think the effect it would have had might have offended them even more.
02 The village
As it was, my tumultuous stomach meant I spent the better part of the first hour or so of the day getting better acquainted with the somewhat repulsive toilet. Squat style (obviously), it's distinguishing feature had to be the manner of faecal containment. Situated one story beneath the hole, at ground level and close to the entrance to the property - what a way to say 'welcome' - was a large vat. It was very full. Being at altitude, the temperatures drop below freezing at night. Consequently, there was a two foot tower of excrement, a stalagshite if you will, rising from the center of the vat. Beautiful.I was glad my stomach recovered enough that I was able to take in a little of what was happening at the temple festival. A solidly impressive, three tiered construction, it was obviously the center of village life, and, this being one of the most important celebrations of the year, everyone was turned out in the enormous Tibetan coats and ceremonial daggers, or their Sunday-best headscarves and coral/turquoise jewelery. Oddly, we received no more than a few curious stares, less than I would expect walking around Chengdu, though Ken's height (6'5") did provoke some amused comparisons.
The ceremony began with a procession around the village and up the hillside beyond of the yellow coxcomb-hatted monks carrying some icon, accompanied by horns and cymbals, and villagers scattering masses of Buddhist confetti and letting off firecrackers almost continuously for an hour and a half. Any path the procession followed ended thick with confetti and firecracker shells. Once back in the village, everyone sat about the main square in front of the temple for a tediously long prayer session, followed by their equivalent of a New Years' honours list - all those who had donated enough to the monastery in the previous year were recognised for their generosity, and awarded some token according to the size of this donation. I felt somewhat conspicuous throughout, as Ken and I were given seats of honour on a balcony overlooking it all, and even more so when those most respected members of the community came to join us, some even having to stand because we were taking their spaces (they wouldn't let us get up for them). We were even given hada, a white scarf of some significance to Tibetan Buddhism, on this occasion one of the tokens given to those who had donated generously. At least they let us refuse drinks from yet another jar of evil, sitting so ominously right behind us.
The ceremonies began to wind down in the early afternoon, and we left shortly after. Although the drinking session bound to follow would have been interesting, we all agreed it would be best to escape before it began.
