Lóngwù Sì, Rebkong Monestary

Walking through the alleyways, courtyards, temples and backstreets in and around the monestary at Rebkong. The monestary and the surrounding town merging seamlessly in to eachother. We’re a little bewildered at first, not sure where to go, some doorways open to the riffraff, some closed.

We turn a corner from a bustling street of shops and hawkers. An endless lines of prayer wheels, spun by passersby.

Further on a couple of enormous prayer wheels housed in special buildings, the wheels kept turning by a few pilgrims treading round and round, their path worn into the floor. I catch the eye of a small, elderly woman with waist-long greying plaits hanging down her traditional felt coat. She eyes me uncertainty at first but with each circumambulation her eyes get a little warmer, a little more amused.

Continuing up the hill, the sun comes out and we are dazzled by the brilliant golden roofs, eaves flying in the iconic style. The rooftops of the numerous temples, one for each of the major deities.

A variety of devout circle the temples, clockwise, I don’t know how many times. Some walk alone, serious, thumbing prayer beads, others clutching shopping bags as if they stopped by on their way home. Others walk together companionably occasionally chatting. A few do their prostrations outside the front door.

We dodge them to peer inside.

Vast statues, maybe 40 feet high. Their golden faces loom down from the darkened heights, surrounded by more statues, paintings, embroideries, candles and fruit.

I know some of their names, vague memories from another time. I scold myself for not knowing more, not understanding what I’m seeing. For not knowing the appropriate form for visiting,  neither wanting to be unintentionally disrespectful nor blindly ape the movements of the devoted.

Here no barriers to stop the tourists, no-one checking tickets. A shaven-headed monk sometimes appears and loiters nearby, but never scolds, sometimes smiles.

The paintings here are incredible, often vast scenes of the deities but with extraordinary detail in the background. Animals, plants, landscapes like  miniature paintings of India. There are other panels in a more traditional Chinese style, without obvious Buddhist connitations, depicting flowers or birds.

Walking quietly down through the complex suddenly there’s shouting and cheering. A square full of maroon robed monks, leaping up from the floor and making a ruckus. It takes a while to understand what’s going on.

They are in pairs, one sitting crosslegged on a cushion on the ground, the other shouting, clapping and thrusting his prayer beads at his opponent.

We’re in the Square for Debating Buddhism, and I assume this is what they are practising. All of them, at once. They are mostly young men, a few boys and one or two older. As they deliver their point they raise one foot and bring it down with a similtanious theatrical clap. Some do it so often I suspect they are practising the move more than their argument. Others stand long in monologue or conversation, clearly engrossed in the matter. They seem to be having a ball.

We watch transfixed for a while, and finally move away more than a little joyfully re-educated. The idea that the Buddhists are only ever silent and tranquil is replaced with the much more interesting idea of fun and lively debate. I remember a piece I’ve read recently about the Tibetan monks, they are the ones most active and vocal in the resistance to the situation in Tibet . It makes a lot more sense.

Our walk takes us round to the other side of the square, now the debate is over and the boys are sitting in lines on the floor. They are disorderly, chatting to eachother across their lines, smiling, laughing. They see us watching and start giggling and waving. The ones closest to us lean backwards to peer at us and then fall about laughing. Kids will be kids.

Another wander through the streets back to our digs. The shops around the complex brimming with the spiritual and the ordinary, crammed in next to eachother. Rolls of prayer flags, candles, cellophane-wrapped Buddhas, monk’s robes and fur lined cloaks. Sweets, yak butter, fruit and veg, coal, Tupperware. The makers are there too, pressing oil, beating metal, frying crispy noodles. And the passers by: old bent-backed women wearing traditional Tibetan jackets, one sleeve hanging off their shoulder, modern young men strutting in leather jackets and jeans, tall weathered guys with cowboy hats and distrustful looks, young mothers clutching babies or hauling young children wrapped up onesies with bums bare, monks moving about their business while staring at their smartphones – a sight that shouldn’t but does always make us smile.

Both the monestary and the surrounding town are vibrant and dirty and loud and brilliant and alive and completely intertwined. The sacred is pressed up to the mundane, they seem to rub off on eachother, elevating rather than sullying it all.