In the kitchen we find an old cook in a brocaded apron, stirring salty butter tea in a pot as big as a barrel. She pours us a thermos and tells us someone has died and most of the monks have gone to provide service. Only three monks stayed behind.
We find them in the tiny, ancient temple, where they play horns and beat drums and pray in anticipation of the coming festival, and its special guests, the oracles.
Each year two farmers are chosen to serve in this special role. In the kitchen we learned the oracles would come that very day for a visit. During the festival they come from high on the mountain, but on this day they will come up from the valley, through the trees. Sounds relaxing, we agree, so decide to wait. We sit in the temple for an hour, mesmerized by the chanting and rhythmic drums. We shoot a bit of film. Then we wander around the abandoned monastery. Flags flutter in the wind, and the occasional old person passes, mumbling mantras and spinning prayer wheels. Bleak hillsides rise above us.
In the courtyard, beneath the sun, less than a dozen villagers gather. The old men spin handheld mani wheels, symbolizing the endless turning of samsara, in which we are all forever trapped. A few teenagers chatter on the wall. My friend has a bar of chocolate, which he shares around.
A horn player and two drummers enter and sit down. After a while they begin to play. Suddenly there is a scream and the oracles run in. They pause only a moment, almost posing in their red silk jackets with gold brocade, then race into the temple, followed by a pack of men in dark robes. From inside come more screams. |
The oracles appear again, holding swords and spears. They run up the stairs and appear high above on the edge of the temple roof, where they jump and dance along the very edge, completely crazed, their handlers struggling to hold them back from the drop. They swing their swords and chuck their spears, trailing colored silks, into the temple roof. One oracle draws his sword along his tongue before it is yanked from his hand. Then they run down the stairs and into the temple again. When they reemerge they wear tall red hats, and they run to the temple rooftop another time, where they continue to leap about, the frantic handlers trying to keep them from harm.
Finally they race down the stairs and out of the courtyard. The little orchestra jumps up and follows, still playing their pounding tune. The small audience falls in behind. We go also, then climb a small hill and sit beneath a big chorten in the sun, watching the procession cross the fields below, the oracles running to and fro, the handlers trying to contain them. One oracle suddenly veers left and sprints and three handlers race to catch him. At the far side of the valley is a tiny temple where the oracles will be locked away until festival day, when they will appear again, at that time coming down from the mountain, in the midst of the dances, when they will dance, make their annual predictions, and finally, with their ordeal done, become human again.
photos by Nathan Whitmont