I am not making any money with this. I do not own Lara Croft, Tomb Raider
etc.
Only to be archived at Fanfiction.net and 'Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power'. All other sites email me first to gain permission.
===================================== Tomb Raider: The Sadhana by Heidi Ahlmen (siirma6@surfeu.fi) =====================================
Chapter Three
We talked until very early morning, then I was told it was too late for me to return to my hotel so I slept on the couch. I was tired, but not only from the flight. I hated to admit it, but John's story had dug out some memories that are difficult to work through. I usually speak very positively about my experiences in Tibet, but only someone with the IQ of a half-eaten eggplant would swallow my attitude without chewing. Of course it was difficult out there for someone with no experience with the outdoors. My survival has been mentioned in a few magazine articles about me. I've silently approved of their way of treating my experiences - in the articles the crash and its following are always portrayed as if I somehow, like struck by lightning, turned from an upper-class brat to an adventurer. It doesn't work like that. And that is exactly the phase I would most like to forgot.
At dawn I left, like a lover leaves from a family home. I didn't wake the Gilliams up. I walked on the lazy, empty streets alone.
I wondered if there was any way I could have affected the Gilliams' decision to stay in Tibet even after their retirement. John had spoken about the monks' belief in the fact that I had been sent by a god of some sorts. Had I been a spiritual awakening to John, too? Had my journey led him to believe there was magic in these mountains? It almost felt like it. You never know where people get their kicks from. I shook my head and continued walking.
I soon reached the small stupa located next to the market square. I decided to leave Kathmandu the same day. I had enough gear, I would only have to buy food, unless I found a guide who was willing to make all the arrangements for me. I waited on the almost empty market square and drank from a fountain. Soon after the sun had completely risen, the square soon became filled with merchants, donkey salesmen and women carrying plastic barrels of water. After two hours I had gotten myself a driver and a guide for the journey to Tokakeriby.
We begun driving at noon. I marveled at my guide's speed of putting everything together. He knew places we could accommodate in, places we could eat in on the road. All I had to do was to say goodbye to Kathmandu, call the Gilliams and get my gear together. I left some of my things, including my carryable computer, over to the Gilliams, who kidnly promised to take care of them. I very rarely leave things to other people to take care of, but I had inevitably liked the Gilliams. I was ready to go exactly at noon, dressed in my usual hiking boots, two thick sweaters, and thick trousers.
All the cars used in nepal are old, but reliable. Our driver's choice was an aged jeep with the back bumper a bit squeezed from collision with yaks, probably. The teethless guide, a smiling sherpa, assured me in poor English that the jeep had survived three drives across the whole Himalaya. Iwas a little sceptic. But it looked reliable enough, and we'd travel on the best road in West Tibet, built ten years after my unlucky adventure near Mount Kailash. I missed my Norton bike. I wondered if it had gotten in a poor condition, left in Heathrow airport's parking lot for three months. If someone had dared to steal it I woud pluck their eyeballs off. And that would be a promise.
There aren't many roads in Tibet. The small network of lousy, muddy roads connects only the largest cities in Nepal and the Chinese Tibet along with important religious places such as Lhasa.
We had a bit of a delay upon leaving. The driver began to warm up the motor as I and our guide started packing the car. I had packed my clothes in one bag and my other equipment in the other. The zipper had gotten jammed the same morning so I had to rip it off. I knew I should've packed my equipment in the other bag, but I had been in a slight hurry. My guide was just about to strap the last of the bags - the zipperless one - to the jeep, when he suddenly yelled to the driver, and pointed a finger at me.
The barrel of my spare pistol was sticking out from the bag.
The guide, a small man with very few teeth and with black, smutty hair walked up to me, continuing pointing me with a finger, and kept repeating the word 'trouble' to me. I had to use all my mimicking skills to assure him I had all the necessary permits - I did, but only in Britain and the USA - and that I wasn't going to hurt him or the driver. He calmed down after giving me a lecture in Tibetan. I understood no word of it, but I had a great time - the man was almost a metre shorter than I, and he was giving me a lecture. I wondered what he would do if something made him search the bag. My .18 Colt was the mildest thing he was going to find.
I was once referred in an article in Archaeology Today as 'the gun-toting scavenger' by one of my colleagues. I was hurt. My line of work is one that includes weaponry, and naturally it annoys certain people. Certain people, who think real archaeology can't be anything that doesn't include a lot of dust and books. Jean seems to be one of them, sadly. I hate to call him a bookworm, but noone is yet to present me with a better word. I call him bookworm, he calls me a tomb raider. Cuts both ways.
So we began our drive towards the first stop in Purang. It would take us two days, arguably, to reach Darchen, and from there it would be a three- hour drive along dangerous, icy roads to Tokakeriby. I asked the guide if he knew if there still was a monastery in the village, but he didn't know. Understandable enough - Tibet houses over twelve thousand monasteries altogether.
Travelling in Tibet doesn't exactly offer the most versatile scenery in the world. It's either valley of mountain, everything is either grey or brown, unless you are climbing down a terraced valley. Our guide had picked us a horrible place to stay the first night - I decided to sleep on the floor in my sleeping bag after inspecting the bed for insects. The next day was also spent driving. We arrived in Darchen late that evening, and slept over in a lodge owned by the driver's sister. It was tolerable enough, though the food offered consisted mainly of yak butter. I finished off my stack of chocolate bars instead. As the guest, I was given the only bed in the house - it smelled as if a water buffalo had cleared a migraine in it, but it was soft and completely without insects.
The third day began with a snowstorm. We had to wait for seven hours for it to clear. But we still had enough time to drive to Tokakeriby.
I was excited, I have to admit. I was going to see again the village which had meant survival when I first arrived there fifteen years earlier. It had meant more than life itself to see the lonely stupa, the monastery walls, and a lonely herd of yaks. As we began driving from Darchen, a big village deep in the mountains towards a steep hill housing the only road to the Tokakeriby region, I got a bit worried. The road was icy, and it was still snowing heavily enough to reduce the driver's sight. I was beginning to feel cold in the jeep and if it continued snowing I would most definitely freeze myself badly before arriving in the village. I also had my doubts on whether we would reach our destination in just three hours.
A complete stop came a half-an-hour after leaving Darchen. We were driving on a high altitude road between two peaks, Dalangan and Darchen-La when the driver hit the brakes, almost causing the car to turn ninety degrees.
The road before the car was almost literally gone. An avalanche probably. It happens a lot in Tibet. The only way to get past the hole by car would be to accelerate, drive a little bit above the road level, and wish for the best. Going by foot would work perfectly, but we still needed to get the car across.
The driver and the guide shook their heads in a mutual agreement. I jumped out of the car and gestured them to follow. The driver refused to try to drive the car over. I said I would do it. He was afraid of his car and wouldn't let go. Our guide remained silent and pessimistic. Adter arguing with the driver, who wanted to return to Darchen, I grew tired of it, and told him I would buy him a new car if I wrecked this one. He was exhilarated. He probably wished I did wreck the jeep. The driver and the guide backed away as I entered the driver's seat, started the engine, and backed away some thirty feet. Then I hit the accelerator, and hoped for the best. I was taking chances - but it's what i always do. You can't win without risking.
After a few seconds I had driven thecar almost safely to the other side, using the hillside. The driver and the guide made it to the other side, this time they had an almost respectful gaze in their eyes. I swapped seats with the driver, and so we continued.
As I had anticipated, we didn't reach Tokakeriby in three hours. It was getting dark as we parked the jeep in the village square. I thanked the driver and the guidem and gave them money to find us a place to sleep in. I started walking to warm myself up and to get a some kind of a look around before it got pitch dark.
I again underestimated the quickness of darkness in the land. It comes in almost a second. When I could no longer see the nearest houses in the middle of the ascetic village, I returned to the car, climbed in and closed the door. I clapped my hands to regain some blood circulation in my fingers. My guide returned soon with the driver. He gestured me to get out of the car.
"No sleep, Miss Croft. No sleep here," he said.
"Great. What do we do now?" I asked, slamming the car door shut behind me. The driver took a step forward.
"Monastere - fyv mile," he mumbled, barely understandably. I nodded. The monastery probably still existed and we had good chances of getting a place to sleep in there.
The problem was the darkness. The jeep lights weren't as bright as needed, and the road, though located in a valley, was slippery. And it was snowing all the same. Soon the road would be blocked. I turned to the guide. "Can we go to the monastery?" "Yes. Yes, the monastery."
We entered the car ins silence. I settled in the back seat, pulled my feet on the seat, and leaned on the window frame. I was dead tired.
I woke to the sight of light. The motor wasn't running anymore, and someone was trying to shake me awake. The guide. Someone was standing behind him. A monk.
I fluttered my eyelashes to get rid of the sleepiness, and climbed out of the car. We had arrived on the monastery courtyard. I heard faint flapping - prayer flags in the icy wind. The darkness was overwhelming. Through the clouds fragment of black sky were visible, and I could see more stars in a glimpse than in a lifetime in Britain. We were standing on a square area in the snow. Where the sort of a platform ended, a steep hill fell to the valley floor far below. On the other side of the monastery probably existed the plain I remember walking across. I walked away from the car.
Everywhere - falling snow, the stars, a quiet sound of ritual trumpets from another monastery miles and miles away. For a person like me who's lived her life in the so-called civilized world, that kind of peace is overwhelming, frightening. It's the power that brings me to places like Tibet time to time. I turned back to the group of people following my movements with their gaze. I spoke to the monk. He was smiling.
"Do you speak English?"
The monk nodded. "Well-come," he said a bit awkwardly. "Lama Dorje waits."
"How can he be expecting me?" I whispered to the wind, but the monk had already started climbing a low staricase to the monastery door, holding an oil lamp. I followed him and behind came my driver and the guide.
We entered the monastery, and as the monk pushed the door closed behind us, I repeated my question. The elderly monk smiled at me, united his hands in an honoring gesture, and replied, "Lama Dorje waits fifteen years." He then led us to a side door, and stopped. Another monk was waiting in the hall. "Come with me," he said to the men following me. I was gestured to follow the first monk. He lead me to a small chamber and left it, closing the door and leaving me alone in the dimness.
On the center of the room sat an old monk, concentrating in a silent prayer. Wondering if the main purpose of the situatoin was to test if I could behave myself in a holy place, I removed my shoes and left them at the doorstep. Shivering because of the ice-cold floor under my tennis socks, I walked closer to the monk. He didn't seem to notice me. I kneeled down on the floor in the middle of the room, and sat, my head bowed down.
After some minutes I felt a hand touching my shoulder. The old, stooped monk is an orange robe was standing behind me, with a strange expression on his face. It was a sort of a combination of fatherly friendliness, sadness and amusement. "Please, stand up, Lara."
I stood up, plucking up the courage to speak freely. Most people feel strange when talking to monks, priests or other kind of deeply religious people. I am no exception., We're all somehow afraid that we will lose in intelligence to those peculiar people who dedicate their lives to things that they can't see or prove.
"Lama Dorje?" I asked.
"Yes. Welcome back." He spoke very good English. A lot had changed, ti seemed, in fifteen years.
"Thank you. You still remember my name?"
The old man took my hand in his. "How could I forget? Evening prayer, an ordinary evening, when suddenly, there you are. 800 miles alone. A lot of water under bridge since, yes?"
I nodded silently. The monk lead me to sit in a chair on the other end of the room. He settled down in a praying position on the floor next to me. Wanting to be as polite as I could, I abandoned the chair and sat on the ever-so-cold floor. Lama Dorje didn't let go of my hand.
"I knew you would come."
"That makes you the second one to say that. It's like a conspiracy. Why is it that almost everyone except me seems to have known about this journey beforehand?"
Lama Dorje was content with just smiling mysteriously, and replying, "We cannot know the paths of the gods, but we can anticipate them."
"Milarepa." I recognized the philosoper and holy figure who had said Lama's phrase.
"You know your history."
I was feeling a little confused again. "Lama, if you knew I was coming here, do you know why I am here?"
Lama Dorje simply nodded.
"I would like to know about it."
The Lama clapped his hands together. He stood up. "All at the right time. Now is the right time to retreat to bed, my guest. In the morning you are invited to join our meditation. After that, weäll see about your questions."
The Lama walked to the door, closing it behind him and leaving me in the chamber alone. I climbed up from the floor. My whole body ached.
-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
As always, comments and reviews would be much appreciated - they're the fuel that feeds this creative furnace.
siirma6@surfeu.fi
Only to be archived at Fanfiction.net and 'Lara Croft's Tales of Beauty and Power'. All other sites email me first to gain permission.
===================================== Tomb Raider: The Sadhana by Heidi Ahlmen (siirma6@surfeu.fi) =====================================
Chapter Three
We talked until very early morning, then I was told it was too late for me to return to my hotel so I slept on the couch. I was tired, but not only from the flight. I hated to admit it, but John's story had dug out some memories that are difficult to work through. I usually speak very positively about my experiences in Tibet, but only someone with the IQ of a half-eaten eggplant would swallow my attitude without chewing. Of course it was difficult out there for someone with no experience with the outdoors. My survival has been mentioned in a few magazine articles about me. I've silently approved of their way of treating my experiences - in the articles the crash and its following are always portrayed as if I somehow, like struck by lightning, turned from an upper-class brat to an adventurer. It doesn't work like that. And that is exactly the phase I would most like to forgot.
At dawn I left, like a lover leaves from a family home. I didn't wake the Gilliams up. I walked on the lazy, empty streets alone.
I wondered if there was any way I could have affected the Gilliams' decision to stay in Tibet even after their retirement. John had spoken about the monks' belief in the fact that I had been sent by a god of some sorts. Had I been a spiritual awakening to John, too? Had my journey led him to believe there was magic in these mountains? It almost felt like it. You never know where people get their kicks from. I shook my head and continued walking.
I soon reached the small stupa located next to the market square. I decided to leave Kathmandu the same day. I had enough gear, I would only have to buy food, unless I found a guide who was willing to make all the arrangements for me. I waited on the almost empty market square and drank from a fountain. Soon after the sun had completely risen, the square soon became filled with merchants, donkey salesmen and women carrying plastic barrels of water. After two hours I had gotten myself a driver and a guide for the journey to Tokakeriby.
We begun driving at noon. I marveled at my guide's speed of putting everything together. He knew places we could accommodate in, places we could eat in on the road. All I had to do was to say goodbye to Kathmandu, call the Gilliams and get my gear together. I left some of my things, including my carryable computer, over to the Gilliams, who kidnly promised to take care of them. I very rarely leave things to other people to take care of, but I had inevitably liked the Gilliams. I was ready to go exactly at noon, dressed in my usual hiking boots, two thick sweaters, and thick trousers.
All the cars used in nepal are old, but reliable. Our driver's choice was an aged jeep with the back bumper a bit squeezed from collision with yaks, probably. The teethless guide, a smiling sherpa, assured me in poor English that the jeep had survived three drives across the whole Himalaya. Iwas a little sceptic. But it looked reliable enough, and we'd travel on the best road in West Tibet, built ten years after my unlucky adventure near Mount Kailash. I missed my Norton bike. I wondered if it had gotten in a poor condition, left in Heathrow airport's parking lot for three months. If someone had dared to steal it I woud pluck their eyeballs off. And that would be a promise.
There aren't many roads in Tibet. The small network of lousy, muddy roads connects only the largest cities in Nepal and the Chinese Tibet along with important religious places such as Lhasa.
We had a bit of a delay upon leaving. The driver began to warm up the motor as I and our guide started packing the car. I had packed my clothes in one bag and my other equipment in the other. The zipper had gotten jammed the same morning so I had to rip it off. I knew I should've packed my equipment in the other bag, but I had been in a slight hurry. My guide was just about to strap the last of the bags - the zipperless one - to the jeep, when he suddenly yelled to the driver, and pointed a finger at me.
The barrel of my spare pistol was sticking out from the bag.
The guide, a small man with very few teeth and with black, smutty hair walked up to me, continuing pointing me with a finger, and kept repeating the word 'trouble' to me. I had to use all my mimicking skills to assure him I had all the necessary permits - I did, but only in Britain and the USA - and that I wasn't going to hurt him or the driver. He calmed down after giving me a lecture in Tibetan. I understood no word of it, but I had a great time - the man was almost a metre shorter than I, and he was giving me a lecture. I wondered what he would do if something made him search the bag. My .18 Colt was the mildest thing he was going to find.
I was once referred in an article in Archaeology Today as 'the gun-toting scavenger' by one of my colleagues. I was hurt. My line of work is one that includes weaponry, and naturally it annoys certain people. Certain people, who think real archaeology can't be anything that doesn't include a lot of dust and books. Jean seems to be one of them, sadly. I hate to call him a bookworm, but noone is yet to present me with a better word. I call him bookworm, he calls me a tomb raider. Cuts both ways.
So we began our drive towards the first stop in Purang. It would take us two days, arguably, to reach Darchen, and from there it would be a three- hour drive along dangerous, icy roads to Tokakeriby. I asked the guide if he knew if there still was a monastery in the village, but he didn't know. Understandable enough - Tibet houses over twelve thousand monasteries altogether.
Travelling in Tibet doesn't exactly offer the most versatile scenery in the world. It's either valley of mountain, everything is either grey or brown, unless you are climbing down a terraced valley. Our guide had picked us a horrible place to stay the first night - I decided to sleep on the floor in my sleeping bag after inspecting the bed for insects. The next day was also spent driving. We arrived in Darchen late that evening, and slept over in a lodge owned by the driver's sister. It was tolerable enough, though the food offered consisted mainly of yak butter. I finished off my stack of chocolate bars instead. As the guest, I was given the only bed in the house - it smelled as if a water buffalo had cleared a migraine in it, but it was soft and completely without insects.
The third day began with a snowstorm. We had to wait for seven hours for it to clear. But we still had enough time to drive to Tokakeriby.
I was excited, I have to admit. I was going to see again the village which had meant survival when I first arrived there fifteen years earlier. It had meant more than life itself to see the lonely stupa, the monastery walls, and a lonely herd of yaks. As we began driving from Darchen, a big village deep in the mountains towards a steep hill housing the only road to the Tokakeriby region, I got a bit worried. The road was icy, and it was still snowing heavily enough to reduce the driver's sight. I was beginning to feel cold in the jeep and if it continued snowing I would most definitely freeze myself badly before arriving in the village. I also had my doubts on whether we would reach our destination in just three hours.
A complete stop came a half-an-hour after leaving Darchen. We were driving on a high altitude road between two peaks, Dalangan and Darchen-La when the driver hit the brakes, almost causing the car to turn ninety degrees.
The road before the car was almost literally gone. An avalanche probably. It happens a lot in Tibet. The only way to get past the hole by car would be to accelerate, drive a little bit above the road level, and wish for the best. Going by foot would work perfectly, but we still needed to get the car across.
The driver and the guide shook their heads in a mutual agreement. I jumped out of the car and gestured them to follow. The driver refused to try to drive the car over. I said I would do it. He was afraid of his car and wouldn't let go. Our guide remained silent and pessimistic. Adter arguing with the driver, who wanted to return to Darchen, I grew tired of it, and told him I would buy him a new car if I wrecked this one. He was exhilarated. He probably wished I did wreck the jeep. The driver and the guide backed away as I entered the driver's seat, started the engine, and backed away some thirty feet. Then I hit the accelerator, and hoped for the best. I was taking chances - but it's what i always do. You can't win without risking.
After a few seconds I had driven thecar almost safely to the other side, using the hillside. The driver and the guide made it to the other side, this time they had an almost respectful gaze in their eyes. I swapped seats with the driver, and so we continued.
As I had anticipated, we didn't reach Tokakeriby in three hours. It was getting dark as we parked the jeep in the village square. I thanked the driver and the guidem and gave them money to find us a place to sleep in. I started walking to warm myself up and to get a some kind of a look around before it got pitch dark.
I again underestimated the quickness of darkness in the land. It comes in almost a second. When I could no longer see the nearest houses in the middle of the ascetic village, I returned to the car, climbed in and closed the door. I clapped my hands to regain some blood circulation in my fingers. My guide returned soon with the driver. He gestured me to get out of the car.
"No sleep, Miss Croft. No sleep here," he said.
"Great. What do we do now?" I asked, slamming the car door shut behind me. The driver took a step forward.
"Monastere - fyv mile," he mumbled, barely understandably. I nodded. The monastery probably still existed and we had good chances of getting a place to sleep in there.
The problem was the darkness. The jeep lights weren't as bright as needed, and the road, though located in a valley, was slippery. And it was snowing all the same. Soon the road would be blocked. I turned to the guide. "Can we go to the monastery?" "Yes. Yes, the monastery."
We entered the car ins silence. I settled in the back seat, pulled my feet on the seat, and leaned on the window frame. I was dead tired.
I woke to the sight of light. The motor wasn't running anymore, and someone was trying to shake me awake. The guide. Someone was standing behind him. A monk.
I fluttered my eyelashes to get rid of the sleepiness, and climbed out of the car. We had arrived on the monastery courtyard. I heard faint flapping - prayer flags in the icy wind. The darkness was overwhelming. Through the clouds fragment of black sky were visible, and I could see more stars in a glimpse than in a lifetime in Britain. We were standing on a square area in the snow. Where the sort of a platform ended, a steep hill fell to the valley floor far below. On the other side of the monastery probably existed the plain I remember walking across. I walked away from the car.
Everywhere - falling snow, the stars, a quiet sound of ritual trumpets from another monastery miles and miles away. For a person like me who's lived her life in the so-called civilized world, that kind of peace is overwhelming, frightening. It's the power that brings me to places like Tibet time to time. I turned back to the group of people following my movements with their gaze. I spoke to the monk. He was smiling.
"Do you speak English?"
The monk nodded. "Well-come," he said a bit awkwardly. "Lama Dorje waits."
"How can he be expecting me?" I whispered to the wind, but the monk had already started climbing a low staricase to the monastery door, holding an oil lamp. I followed him and behind came my driver and the guide.
We entered the monastery, and as the monk pushed the door closed behind us, I repeated my question. The elderly monk smiled at me, united his hands in an honoring gesture, and replied, "Lama Dorje waits fifteen years." He then led us to a side door, and stopped. Another monk was waiting in the hall. "Come with me," he said to the men following me. I was gestured to follow the first monk. He lead me to a small chamber and left it, closing the door and leaving me alone in the dimness.
On the center of the room sat an old monk, concentrating in a silent prayer. Wondering if the main purpose of the situatoin was to test if I could behave myself in a holy place, I removed my shoes and left them at the doorstep. Shivering because of the ice-cold floor under my tennis socks, I walked closer to the monk. He didn't seem to notice me. I kneeled down on the floor in the middle of the room, and sat, my head bowed down.
After some minutes I felt a hand touching my shoulder. The old, stooped monk is an orange robe was standing behind me, with a strange expression on his face. It was a sort of a combination of fatherly friendliness, sadness and amusement. "Please, stand up, Lara."
I stood up, plucking up the courage to speak freely. Most people feel strange when talking to monks, priests or other kind of deeply religious people. I am no exception., We're all somehow afraid that we will lose in intelligence to those peculiar people who dedicate their lives to things that they can't see or prove.
"Lama Dorje?" I asked.
"Yes. Welcome back." He spoke very good English. A lot had changed, ti seemed, in fifteen years.
"Thank you. You still remember my name?"
The old man took my hand in his. "How could I forget? Evening prayer, an ordinary evening, when suddenly, there you are. 800 miles alone. A lot of water under bridge since, yes?"
I nodded silently. The monk lead me to sit in a chair on the other end of the room. He settled down in a praying position on the floor next to me. Wanting to be as polite as I could, I abandoned the chair and sat on the ever-so-cold floor. Lama Dorje didn't let go of my hand.
"I knew you would come."
"That makes you the second one to say that. It's like a conspiracy. Why is it that almost everyone except me seems to have known about this journey beforehand?"
Lama Dorje was content with just smiling mysteriously, and replying, "We cannot know the paths of the gods, but we can anticipate them."
"Milarepa." I recognized the philosoper and holy figure who had said Lama's phrase.
"You know your history."
I was feeling a little confused again. "Lama, if you knew I was coming here, do you know why I am here?"
Lama Dorje simply nodded.
"I would like to know about it."
The Lama clapped his hands together. He stood up. "All at the right time. Now is the right time to retreat to bed, my guest. In the morning you are invited to join our meditation. After that, weäll see about your questions."
The Lama walked to the door, closing it behind him and leaving me in the chamber alone. I climbed up from the floor. My whole body ached.
-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
As always, comments and reviews would be much appreciated - they're the fuel that feeds this creative furnace.
siirma6@surfeu.fi