there's more to life than this

I was sitting by the fire in my sleeping bag, wondering where my mountain ama (mother) had gone. She was always there after I had come home from school. But as I made my way home that day she actually passed me on the path, going down the hill as I made my way up. She said she would be home later, to go on. Ba was usually out late, probably drinking tombu and smoking beedies with the boys.

So I sat by the fire and waited hungrily for the evening meal, a plate of baby baked potatoes that I would peel while burning my fingers quite frequently. If you were feeling really fancy you'd dip the potato in the plate of crumbled rock salt.

An hour later (or was it more? it's so hard to tell out in the remote mountains, the sun having abandoned us in pitch dark) she arrived home and hurriedly made dinner, obviously preoccupied, not talking much. She was soon followed by a 30-something village woman, and what I assumed to be her teenage daughter.

Ama continued on with her business, as the older woman spoke very quickly in the Tibetan tongue that completely eluded me -- but she gestured a lot in an imploring manner and had what I took to be an apologetic tone in her voice. The younger girl mostly sat in silence, a natural blush of youth and embarassment in her cheeks. As I sat there and slowly peeled potatoes in silence, I watched the girl's expression grow increasingly upset, agitated. She finally burst forth with frustrated bursts of words directed towards ama.

Suddenly she grabbed a branch from the fire pit, and touched the glowing ember to her hand. There was a cacophany of conversation now, with the older woman speaking more loudly and quickly at ama and gesturing toward the young girl. Ama's voice was rising, and the girl was talking and starting to cry and kept putting the ember to her hand.

Without a shred of a hint the conversation taking place before me I didn't know how to begin sorting out what was happening. I didn't know if I should even be there, but I had nowhere else to go. Our mountain hut had but one room, not tall enough to stand up in and no wider than 12 feet in either direction. Outdoors was nothing but darkness and dangerous hilly terraces, wild animals. I had no choice but to finish off my potatoes and try not to stare at the spectacle before me like I was watching television.

The conversation continued. Ama continued to say little, apparently not impressed with the woman's words or the girl's actions. The girl took the same ember she had been burning her left hand with and touched it to her tongue. I tried not to let my jaw hang too far, to not let my eyes stare too widely. She touched the ember to her tongue a few more times, more short bursts of words coming out in between --her face now red and strained around the eyes.

I tried to turn my back, to occupy myself by writing in my journal but couldn't see with my own shadow blocking the firelight. Ba arrived home, the hut now filled with conversation and frustration as he is brought up to speed and engaged. Left without options, unable to leave, I attempt to sleep but am kept awake for hours with the sounds of loud tongues and emotional outbursts.

Finally, the conversation dies down and the women leave. I eventually drift off as ba and ama quietly settle into their bed three feet away from me on the other side of the fire pit.

The next morning, long before the sun rises, I am abruptly roused by the rooster that lives underneath a basket at the foot of my sleeping bag. I get up, take nature's call and finish my breakfast of (more) potatoes and tea, eventually stumbling down the steep hillside to school. I tell Margie and Dauphre about the incident, trying to make sense of it. This is Dauphre's village, and although he hasn't heard the gossip yet he is obviously versed in local custom. It turns out that what probably occurred is that the young woman undoubtedly now suffering a sore tongue had made the mistake of telling untrue stories about ama. Her penance was apology and self-inflicted purification of her polluted tongue. I can only imagine what she must've said about my ama, but the only way for her to make amends was through the one thing the villagers hold sacred, the pit of fire.

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*Not terribly well written, but a true story nonetheless.