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Chapter 1:- Sojourn to the Ends of the Earth
Inhaling Sunbeams
Sojourn to the Ends of the Earth
It all started one warm day June when my editor called me into his office. I was suspicious from the start, but hey, he’s the boss and I’m new on the job. I’m a writer for a magazine, the mastheads preferred to call it a “journal of ideas.” The last gal, what my editor, Andrew, calls women sometimes, was padding her expense account, turned in assignments late and was banging one of the assistant editors on the copy machine. She got canned; the “older” assistant editor got to resign.” Life is not fair for women and other humankind.
I’m standing in his office and the sale pitch began. “Joan, this interview is an assignment of a life time! You’ll be traveling to the ends of the world!” I smiled and said in a straight face, “Ends of the Earth? You mean, New Jersey? Assignment of a life time? No doubt, in Second Coming print, dear editor?”
According to Andrew, this interview was with a woman Taoist guru named Michelle Yang and it would be, “Inscrutable.” Whatever that meant. My writing assignment was make the inscrutable scriptable. Andrew punctuated his sales pitch by waving his hands in the air like a magician, “This guru gal lives in the clouds in Tibet. The interview should take ten days to two weeks tops. Unlimited expense account.” That was a lie and I knew it. I just had to report the facts and truth. What could I say? I accepted because it got me out of the nasty heat of Manhattan for a month. I’m not dating anyone and it sounded like an adventure into the unknown. To be honest whenever I go on assignment I always lose weight and the ten day assignment sounded like a quick weight loss program. I’m not over weight, I’m rubenesque. I also have 38 C cups since I was 15 and I was always every boy’s wet dream in a dark movie theater to try and slide their hand up inside by blouse for a feel. At 32 years old it is less appealing, unless of course, it is preceded by a dinner at Four Seasons, a Broadway play, dancing and two chilled bottles of Dom Perionge, Since I have been without a lover for six months, 14 days and nine hours (Who’s counting?) maybe a pizza and a rerun of Gilligan’s Island might loosen my negotiable bra straps.
After a month of prelim work, letters of admission, talking by phone with a Mr. Tang in Beijing and then 19 hours of flight time from Kennedy, connecting San Francisco International to Beijing, another connecting flight to Lahasa, the next thing…
I’m smoking with the rest of the international nicotine lepers outside the Lhasa airport. Us United Nations of smokers couldn’t communicate except through our nasty habits of smoky smiles. The draw on my cigarette was long, deep and I held the toasty flavor in my lungs knowing the electric twinkle it gave would help me continue through, what turned out to be, the longest day of travel in my life away from the center of the universe, otherwise know as Manhattan. I’m exhausted and leaning to port in Tibet. How far to go? There was still the mysterious bus ride from Lhasa to the monastery for the interview.
I looked down at the crumpled paper of the Email from Mister Tang, “Like the orange juice, he wrote.” I read it for the tenth time, hoping to find a missing sentence explaining when my contact was to meet me. Not finding the secret coded message in the Email, I’m reading faces of people like some seer, hoping my Chinese contact shows and takes me by the hand like a little girl to the next milepost of sanity. I read it again: “Joan, I made arrangements for you. In Tibet you go back in time and you can get lost.” The words rang in my weary, suspicious, journalist head. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of Mr. Tang. Was he really concerned about my safety or another Communist government operative for a nosey American journalist? He was probably a low level bureaucrat, who could speak English, be trusted, and make sure I didn’t wonder off the beaten track and report on something that reflected negatively on the Chinese government. I was only one journalist, but the Communist still controlled the propaganda. Then the journalist inside of me reminded I was not there to expose any corrupt Communist political shenanigans. I was traveling to conduct an interview in Tibet, that’s all.
Anxiety crept into my bones again and I fired up another cigarette and reminded myself why I was flying around the world. It was Andrew’s snake oil promise of a great and worthy interview. Oh, editors really do know how to set you up for an odd assignment.
I got out my water bottle and it exploded when I opened it. How high am I? I took another impatient look at my watch and then glanced up at a breathtaking view of snow-covered mountains and above them the wispy cirrus clouds going up at angles to the heavens. Here in Tibet, one is a guest of the mountain and sky. Everywhere I looked snowed covered mountains. Is this what the Chinese Communist are all jacked up about? Tibet is a great view, but…why not just give all these rocks to the Tibetans? There seemed little of the way of industry or hidden treasures to merit the undivided attention of the leadership in Beijing. Maybe they wanted the esthetics of the land for themselves. In little of what I saw, Tibet was a land with landscape made for day dreaming. Maybe it was the Chinese leadership that was dreaming. Yes, it was the Communist leadership dreaming---dreaming for the rest of the country. Once again I reminded myself, I’m not bloody here to do an article on the machinations of the Communist Chinese; I was coming to China to interview one woman in Tibet. Flashing back to the words that got me here, “The interview of a lifetime.” The interview of a lifetime? Hell, it was a lifetime getting there…and I wasn’t there yet.
I took a final quick hit of my cigarette and gazed around again. I brought only one pack of cigarettes knowing, hoping, somewhere in the exotic beyond I would be forced to smoke an alien brand that tasted like sawdust and beetle dung and that would cure my bad habit forever. It was my stop smoking aversion program. Smoking was one of my only bad habits and I tried to quit smoking many times, but it always kept calling me back. If I did give up smoking I would put on weight and then the writer in me would be forced to think of more deflecting synonym for fat. I wasn’t fat, I was hereditary challenged?
I glanced at a full length shot of adventurous figure in the terminal window, clutching in one hand my Lands’ End; it seemed so appropriate, blue backpack bulging with travel necessities. I wore khaki pants, brown boots and a L. L. Bean quasi-fishing vest stuffed with pockets of things needed to take for assignment to some God-forsaken-land away from Manhattan. My blond hair came out the back of my NY logo ball cap in a short blond ponytail. With the dark wayfarer sunglasses, I thought I looked like the dashing devil-may-care foreign correspondent.
I stuffed out my cigarette in the white gravel of the outdoor ashtray that was now a pygmy forest of cigarette butts. I tossed on my blue backpack and headed back into the terminal to continue on my sojourn, with or without a contact. I’m a big girl. By now I could tell with every step this foreign land was at an altitude for Sherpas only. All around were the reasons. I stopped and looked up again at the highest mountains I had ever seen. Snowcapped peaks of immense strength and power. These mountains connected to the heavens. Then a small tiredness crawled back inside my bones to murmur I could run but not hide. My anxiety was draining energy from me and, short of sleep, I could only postpone the inevitable. I did have tricks to use to keep me bright eyed and bushy tail.
Trying to distract fatigue, my mind went back over the travel list: Yankee baseball cap, light-weight jacket, four pairs of clean underwear, two extra Khaki pants, two heavy cotton T shirts, a flannel long sleeve shirt, lightweight brown hiking boots that were comfortable yet sturdy, tooth brush and paste, hair brush, handi-wipes, cheap wayfarer sunglasses that always get lost or sat upon, lip gloss, body moisturizer, hair shampoo, antibiotic ointment, aspirin, small bottle assorted vitamins, sanitary napkins, four pair white socks, battery operated recording device with fresh batteries, pencil (sharpened), yellow legal notepad, and one-hundred, one dollar American bills. 1000 dollars in travelers checks of various denominations. One plastic credit card, my passport and my New York state driver’s license. I had stopped at an ATM in the airport in Beijing and withdrew, thank the gods the instructions were in three languages, one was in English, and it spitted out a wad of bills I had no idea how much the money was worth.
My tired mind back to the not making the journey list: All jewelry including bracelets, finger and toe rings, red nail polish, another pair of shoes, black traveling dress, playing cards, any kind of prescription drugs, cell phone and my cute, small leather black purse I always carry. I felt naked without my purse and jewelry, but it was just for such a short time. Like smoking, jewelry was another of my small indulgences. I patted two bulging pockets of my vest that contained the three by five flash cards with English words and sentences written on one side and Chinese on the other. If I got lost or was abandoned, like now, flash cards would rule the way. I felt for my money belt around my waist along with my passport and authorization papers issued by the Chinese authorities. My laptop computer, it was a difficult and a late addition to the manifest, was secured in my backpack. All the bills had been paid at home; the newspaper stopped, the mail held, land lady, neighbors and friends notified. Andrew had my house keys and all my house appliances were unplugged and/or turned off in case of fire. Thoughtful organization was the key to any endeavor. Nothing left to chance. There was God in good order and that characterized successful and happy people. My way of life was complete, alphabetized, and the important things in bold lettering. I prided myself on regimentations of lists and notes and such. How could a modern person go through life without prioritizing? I knew the best journalists were list makers. Modern life needed to be: organized, prioritized and attacked with the most efficient methods possible. The night before I left I ate at an Italian restaurant in the Village with friends. I knew to bulk up on carbohydrates to help through the long travel day. My journalist cohorts gave me as a going away present a small plastic amulet with a picture of a smiling Mao. The kitsch would get me out of political jam they promised with a laugh. Would it help materialize a Chinese contact in the Lhasa airport in Tibet?
Then in little bits, my awareness and energy faded. Travel dumbness--- the feeling you get after you have trekked one too many hours and your body and mind are in disagreement of what time it is, where you are, and what you should be doing right now. You can fool the body with time zones, bright sunshine, caffeine or a cigarette fix.
I closed my eyes for a moment, my head nodded and I was half a sleep and dreaming. In my dream I was in an apartment building that was not being fair with me and deliberately moved the doors and hallways around to confuse me. I was Alice in Wonderland with an interior environment always changing. I had no map or compass and no one to ask directions. I had no way to figure out which way to go. I tried to read the hallway rug, but the rug was newly vacuumed and showed no footprints to help. Even the walls were freshly painted and had no fingerprints to help. When I set a small piece of paper on fire to see which way the smoke blew it went straight up. Nothing worked.
Then, my head bobbed up and eye lids flapped open. I looked around one last time for the promised face that would save me and lead me onward to the interview with this woman. How far to go to the ends of the Earth? Was I really going around the world to interview a woman who was going to change the world? My modern, Western, New York cynicism yawned.
Inhaling Sunbeams
Sojourn to the Ends of the Earth
It all started one warm day June when my editor called me into his office. I was suspicious from the start, but hey, he’s the boss and I’m new on the job. I’m a writer for a magazine, the mastheads preferred to call it a “journal of ideas.” The last gal, what my editor, Andrew, calls women sometimes, was padding her expense account, turned in assignments late and was banging one of the assistant editors on the copy machine. She got canned; the “older” assistant editor got to resign.” Life is not fair for women and other humankind.
I’m standing in his office and the sale pitch began. “Joan, this interview is an assignment of a life time! You’ll be traveling to the ends of the world!” I smiled and said in a straight face, “Ends of the Earth? You mean, New Jersey? Assignment of a life time? No doubt, in Second Coming print, dear editor?”
According to Andrew, this interview was with a woman Taoist guru named Michelle Yang and it would be, “Inscrutable.” Whatever that meant. My writing assignment was make the inscrutable scriptable. Andrew punctuated his sales pitch by waving his hands in the air like a magician, “This guru gal lives in the clouds in Tibet. The interview should take ten days to two weeks tops. Unlimited expense account.” That was a lie and I knew it. I just had to report the facts and truth. What could I say? I accepted because it got me out of the nasty heat of Manhattan for a month. I’m not dating anyone and it sounded like an adventure into the unknown. To be honest whenever I go on assignment I always lose weight and the ten day assignment sounded like a quick weight loss program. I’m not over weight, I’m rubenesque. I also have 38 C cups since I was 15 and I was always every boy’s wet dream in a dark movie theater to try and slide their hand up inside by blouse for a feel. At 32 years old it is less appealing, unless of course, it is preceded by a dinner at Four Seasons, a Broadway play, dancing and two chilled bottles of Dom Perionge, Since I have been without a lover for six months, 14 days and nine hours (Who’s counting?) maybe a pizza and a rerun of Gilligan’s Island might loosen my negotiable bra straps.
After a month of prelim work, letters of admission, talking by phone with a Mr. Tang in Beijing and then 19 hours of flight time from Kennedy, connecting San Francisco International to Beijing, another connecting flight to Lahasa, the next thing…
I’m smoking with the rest of the international nicotine lepers outside the Lhasa airport. Us United Nations of smokers couldn’t communicate except through our nasty habits of smoky smiles. The draw on my cigarette was long, deep and I held the toasty flavor in my lungs knowing the electric twinkle it gave would help me continue through, what turned out to be, the longest day of travel in my life away from the center of the universe, otherwise know as Manhattan. I’m exhausted and leaning to port in Tibet. How far to go? There was still the mysterious bus ride from Lhasa to the monastery for the interview.
I looked down at the crumpled paper of the Email from Mister Tang, “Like the orange juice, he wrote.” I read it for the tenth time, hoping to find a missing sentence explaining when my contact was to meet me. Not finding the secret coded message in the Email, I’m reading faces of people like some seer, hoping my Chinese contact shows and takes me by the hand like a little girl to the next milepost of sanity. I read it again: “Joan, I made arrangements for you. In Tibet you go back in time and you can get lost.” The words rang in my weary, suspicious, journalist head. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of Mr. Tang. Was he really concerned about my safety or another Communist government operative for a nosey American journalist? He was probably a low level bureaucrat, who could speak English, be trusted, and make sure I didn’t wonder off the beaten track and report on something that reflected negatively on the Chinese government. I was only one journalist, but the Communist still controlled the propaganda. Then the journalist inside of me reminded I was not there to expose any corrupt Communist political shenanigans. I was traveling to conduct an interview in Tibet, that’s all.
Anxiety crept into my bones again and I fired up another cigarette and reminded myself why I was flying around the world. It was Andrew’s snake oil promise of a great and worthy interview. Oh, editors really do know how to set you up for an odd assignment.
I got out my water bottle and it exploded when I opened it. How high am I? I took another impatient look at my watch and then glanced up at a breathtaking view of snow-covered mountains and above them the wispy cirrus clouds going up at angles to the heavens. Here in Tibet, one is a guest of the mountain and sky. Everywhere I looked snowed covered mountains. Is this what the Chinese Communist are all jacked up about? Tibet is a great view, but…why not just give all these rocks to the Tibetans? There seemed little of the way of industry or hidden treasures to merit the undivided attention of the leadership in Beijing. Maybe they wanted the esthetics of the land for themselves. In little of what I saw, Tibet was a land with landscape made for day dreaming. Maybe it was the Chinese leadership that was dreaming. Yes, it was the Communist leadership dreaming---dreaming for the rest of the country. Once again I reminded myself, I’m not bloody here to do an article on the machinations of the Communist Chinese; I was coming to China to interview one woman in Tibet. Flashing back to the words that got me here, “The interview of a lifetime.” The interview of a lifetime? Hell, it was a lifetime getting there…and I wasn’t there yet.
I took a final quick hit of my cigarette and gazed around again. I brought only one pack of cigarettes knowing, hoping, somewhere in the exotic beyond I would be forced to smoke an alien brand that tasted like sawdust and beetle dung and that would cure my bad habit forever. It was my stop smoking aversion program. Smoking was one of my only bad habits and I tried to quit smoking many times, but it always kept calling me back. If I did give up smoking I would put on weight and then the writer in me would be forced to think of more deflecting synonym for fat. I wasn’t fat, I was hereditary challenged?
I glanced at a full length shot of adventurous figure in the terminal window, clutching in one hand my Lands’ End; it seemed so appropriate, blue backpack bulging with travel necessities. I wore khaki pants, brown boots and a L. L. Bean quasi-fishing vest stuffed with pockets of things needed to take for assignment to some God-forsaken-land away from Manhattan. My blond hair came out the back of my NY logo ball cap in a short blond ponytail. With the dark wayfarer sunglasses, I thought I looked like the dashing devil-may-care foreign correspondent.
I stuffed out my cigarette in the white gravel of the outdoor ashtray that was now a pygmy forest of cigarette butts. I tossed on my blue backpack and headed back into the terminal to continue on my sojourn, with or without a contact. I’m a big girl. By now I could tell with every step this foreign land was at an altitude for Sherpas only. All around were the reasons. I stopped and looked up again at the highest mountains I had ever seen. Snowcapped peaks of immense strength and power. These mountains connected to the heavens. Then a small tiredness crawled back inside my bones to murmur I could run but not hide. My anxiety was draining energy from me and, short of sleep, I could only postpone the inevitable. I did have tricks to use to keep me bright eyed and bushy tail.
Trying to distract fatigue, my mind went back over the travel list: Yankee baseball cap, light-weight jacket, four pairs of clean underwear, two extra Khaki pants, two heavy cotton T shirts, a flannel long sleeve shirt, lightweight brown hiking boots that were comfortable yet sturdy, tooth brush and paste, hair brush, handi-wipes, cheap wayfarer sunglasses that always get lost or sat upon, lip gloss, body moisturizer, hair shampoo, antibiotic ointment, aspirin, small bottle assorted vitamins, sanitary napkins, four pair white socks, battery operated recording device with fresh batteries, pencil (sharpened), yellow legal notepad, and one-hundred, one dollar American bills. 1000 dollars in travelers checks of various denominations. One plastic credit card, my passport and my New York state driver’s license. I had stopped at an ATM in the airport in Beijing and withdrew, thank the gods the instructions were in three languages, one was in English, and it spitted out a wad of bills I had no idea how much the money was worth.
My tired mind back to the not making the journey list: All jewelry including bracelets, finger and toe rings, red nail polish, another pair of shoes, black traveling dress, playing cards, any kind of prescription drugs, cell phone and my cute, small leather black purse I always carry. I felt naked without my purse and jewelry, but it was just for such a short time. Like smoking, jewelry was another of my small indulgences. I patted two bulging pockets of my vest that contained the three by five flash cards with English words and sentences written on one side and Chinese on the other. If I got lost or was abandoned, like now, flash cards would rule the way. I felt for my money belt around my waist along with my passport and authorization papers issued by the Chinese authorities. My laptop computer, it was a difficult and a late addition to the manifest, was secured in my backpack. All the bills had been paid at home; the newspaper stopped, the mail held, land lady, neighbors and friends notified. Andrew had my house keys and all my house appliances were unplugged and/or turned off in case of fire. Thoughtful organization was the key to any endeavor. Nothing left to chance. There was God in good order and that characterized successful and happy people. My way of life was complete, alphabetized, and the important things in bold lettering. I prided myself on regimentations of lists and notes and such. How could a modern person go through life without prioritizing? I knew the best journalists were list makers. Modern life needed to be: organized, prioritized and attacked with the most efficient methods possible. The night before I left I ate at an Italian restaurant in the Village with friends. I knew to bulk up on carbohydrates to help through the long travel day. My journalist cohorts gave me as a going away present a small plastic amulet with a picture of a smiling Mao. The kitsch would get me out of political jam they promised with a laugh. Would it help materialize a Chinese contact in the Lhasa airport in Tibet?
Then in little bits, my awareness and energy faded. Travel dumbness--- the feeling you get after you have trekked one too many hours and your body and mind are in disagreement of what time it is, where you are, and what you should be doing right now. You can fool the body with time zones, bright sunshine, caffeine or a cigarette fix.
I closed my eyes for a moment, my head nodded and I was half a sleep and dreaming. In my dream I was in an apartment building that was not being fair with me and deliberately moved the doors and hallways around to confuse me. I was Alice in Wonderland with an interior environment always changing. I had no map or compass and no one to ask directions. I had no way to figure out which way to go. I tried to read the hallway rug, but the rug was newly vacuumed and showed no footprints to help. Even the walls were freshly painted and had no fingerprints to help. When I set a small piece of paper on fire to see which way the smoke blew it went straight up. Nothing worked.
Then, my head bobbed up and eye lids flapped open. I looked around one last time for the promised face that would save me and lead me onward to the interview with this woman. How far to go to the ends of the Earth? Was I really going around the world to interview a woman who was going to change the world? My modern, Western, New York cynicism yawned.
