SHAMBALLAH MISSION: 6th Report DAWALASAT narrating events of late November-- Da-zinta-hat told me that I MUST visit the NokhSo holy men who live in the Shamballah North monestary not too far from here. Not just coz I needed some kind of oil to loosen up that rusted Colt .45, but also to connect with some folk I wuz s'posta meet. Aye, mystic fates, destiny, occult stuff. Walll, I reckoned that if'n a 300-year-old guru is sayin' you MUST do a thing, you prob'ly oughta pay 'tention. But it took me a while to figger out that he was talking about a nearby temple complex of normal everyday Tibetan monks-- humans, not Yetis. It’s part of the Shamballah complex, which is how come the name is the same in both Nokhon and Sanskrit languages. So I’s intrigued. He offered to hypnotize a guard to be my guide so that I wouldn't just get lost in the underground tunnel system: "Although I must warn you against trying to communicate with that guard, because then he might snap out of the spell and maybe kill you." He didn't seem to be kidding. It warn't clear just how far off that monastary wuz, but I was gettin' good and bored just waiting in that big empty palace for Dak an' Dag to come back, so I was itchin' to do some 'xplorin. The four Elders in the palace had a supply of colored cloths so they whipped up something that could pass for a monk's robe. I couldn' never pass for a Yeti but I might just sneak by as a Tibetan monk-- I may be an old white man but I'm tanned and I'm skinny and I can jus' kinda squint and pretend I'm a gook. See what happens. My hypnotized guard, not hardly noticin me t'all, since I wuz carefully not sayin' a word. He led me down a stairway under the palace, to a tunnel system that branched in all directions: left, right, up an' down. We went down 'bout five more levels, which put us into an enorm-my-gosh tunnel way. There was some dim light from crystal shafts so I could see that it looked like what coulda once been an underground highway system, the floor was flat. Sizewise, big trucks coulda passed through three lanes abreast. But even tho it may have once been a workin’ road for wheels and whatnot, now there wuz some big chunks of ceiling that must have fallen over the last hunnerd-thousand (?) years, so it mightn't be that easy to motor on over to Europe (or wherever these tunnels end up). China? Maybe Australia? There are ancient myths about a secret tunnel network under the Himalayas, leading everywhere, like London and New York. All part of the Shamballah legend. We follow that tunnel for a coupla miles, then comes to an intersection that branches off in eight directions. While I'm a-tryin to wonder just where those branches might lead to, my guard-guide heads off to the first right-hand off-ramp and walks brisk-like for maybe an hour. Finally he goes up one more ramp, I follows and we comes out into daylight. That puts us in a secret little valley tucked twixt high snow-topped Himalayan peaks. There’s a bright blue sky up overhead, but sun’s behind a wall of flat cliffs so the temperature’s pretty cool. But not freezin, there’s green forest and grass growin’ all 'round, no snow at the moment. And then I sees what looks like a town-- a real-live human-type town, hundreds o’ small wooden shacks built in rows spiralin’ round an’ round on up the tall cone-shaped hill in the middle of the valley, with a the town’s biggest building perched up on top. It’s located high ‘nuff to be a-shinin, the only spot of direct sunlight in the whole shadowy valley. It looks kinda magical and glowing, just like Shangri-La's s'posta. ‘Ceptin that all them wooden houses is painted red, every one of ‘em, includin that temple on top. I reckoned that’s the monastery 'cause it sorta resembles the Potola in Lhasa, in what style they calls a dzong fortress. Not that I's ever been there to make comparisons, but I's seen pictures and read about Tibet, altho all that red paint shore makes it look more like a big glitzy whorehouse than some holy shrine. I couldn’ see no roads nowhere, just walls of sheer mountainsides all ‘round us, giving me the notion that the only way in or out of that place is thru the tunnel system under the Himalayas. But there is a foot tail worn in the grass, so I follows that towards the town. Then my Nokhon guide sudden-like lays down on a grassy patch of ground and just plain falls asleep, most likely pre-arranged by Da-zinta-hat. I ain’t interested in trying to wake him and "maybe" getting killed, so I continues walking on. I wants to visit the monastery, maybe talk to a monk or two, find out where I’s at. I comes to what looks like a minor temple, and sure 'nuff, there ain't nothin Yeti about it at all. Doors an stairways too petit for Nokhons, scaled for people 'bout my size. And there’s painted statues of Tibetan demons, ‘nother of Buddha, so this is surely human culture, not Yeti. I could hear music from the temple, which wuz open so I goes in. There’s four musicians, all human-types like myself, 'xept for them bein' Asiatic Tibetans an' me bein' an old American white guy. There ain't a Yeti in sight. They don't seem surprised enough by how I looks to stop playing their music (finger-chimes, soft drum and flute). But when they do stop I find that I cain't parley with them, since none of them speaks neither Nokhontli nor English and I sure cain't speak Tibetan. I wuz sorta xpecting them to be friendly but they gets all agitated instead: sounded like they were asking how come a damn fool foreign stranger like me is trespassing in their private temple, gettin kinda riled as I kept saying words they couldna unnerstand. Iff'n they wuz s'posta be some kinda spiritually enlightened monks, they didna seem ta be on no 'specially elevated plane just then. Fortunate-like, Da-zinga-hat had given me a name to ask for, so I says "Johmsumma," like he told me to. Those fellers shuts up real snappy, looks at each other all s'prised-like, then starts being way more friendly, cow-towing, in fact, repeatin' "Johmsumma, Johmsumma," a coupla times. Then one of ‘em seems to tell the youngest of the four to take me to "Johmsumma," waving me off after him with well-meaning smiles and bows. I bows too and follows the young feller. He takes me up the hill to that biggest building up on top, past all these red shacks; mostly old, empty and falling apart. Ever so often there's a monk or two sitting inside a few of them, chanting or meditatin, but mostly there's nobody and nothing in the houses, no furniture nor comforts. There's some ditches what flows with clean water running down the hill, working just fine. It looks like a nice cozy little town from a distance, but up close it's mostly a ghost town. But once we get inside the big building up on top there's suddenly crowds of men. Only men –not a female in sight-- and all wearing monk's robes, jus' like me. A flock o 'bout five Yetis also passes through the crowd, but they’s the only ones I saw in there. Everyone seems to be either doing yoga, making temple music, chanting sutras, practicing martial arts, monk stuff. My young guide takes me upstairs-- way upstairs, 'bout 9 levels --then has me stop and wait in a big temple room full of bright-colored statues of demons and dragons. "Johmsumma," he tells me, bows real low and leaves me there. The only other person around is this little old (maybe even older than me) monk, sportin long white hair and beard, wearin a white monk's robe. He wuz studious-like painting one of those demon statues a bright yellow, patching up little spots of bare wood. I reckoned he knew I was there and was just gonna finish up and then talk to me, so I thought I'd be polite and just wait until he was done. But he kept a-fussin' with long brush strokes, like he really ain't aware that anybody’s waiting for him. So I clears my throat, polite-like. but still gets no reaction. He’s really old, so maybe he's deaf, I wonders. Finally I gets closer and stands on the other side of the statue he’s working on so that he has to see me. That's when I discovers he's actually asleep. Or at least his eyes are closed, but he's still painting, spreading perfect brush strokes of yellow enamel. Blind and deaf? Or maybe this is some kinda "zen", whatever that means. I's still being polite and he’s finally finished fixin' a bare spot and the statue is as yellow as it can be, maybe even perfect. But then he cleans up his brush, covers up the paint so it don't get dry, everything like he's all alone, formal routine, like no one was waiting to talk to him. Like he was testing my patience. But I ain't in no hurry neither, lookin round at the different demon statues an’ interestin architecture, so different than Nokhons ever build.. iff'n they had ever built anything (for 'xample, ain't nobody knows who built Aket) But it’s obvious that humans built this part of Shamballah. I get a little surprise when he finally does speak: "Hello, Mister Wallace Forest, I'm quite enchanted to meet you," he says in very proper British English, "I am Johmsumma, my old friend Da-zinta-hat has referred you to me. In fact, I've been hearing about you for years." I'd been wondering if anyone here could speak Nokhontli, but English is just as good. I ain't so surprised that he knows my name, I's sorta come to 'xpect that from telepathic gurus. "Ya heard of me? Nothin' good, I s'pose. I been kinda an outlaw." “Indeed, but you are more famous as one of the very few humans ever to become Sha-haka among the Nokhontli. You are more than old enough to be an Elder and yet, here you are, a wise man risking life and limb in the Great White ountains." "Walll, I may be kinda old these days, but nobody has never called me an Elder and for-sure not a wise man. I think I falls more into the crazy old coot category." "I understand that you are here upon a mission." "Aye, that I am," I sez, "I'm here lookin to find some yak butter." I reckoned that if he was in cahoots with Da-zinta-hat he was an ally, and that secrecy ain't possible anywell; but I’s not about to blab that me and my two Nokon compadres wuz in Shamballah to stir up a revolution. "Actually" he sez, "a fine machine oil and some vinegar would be better for what you need. And steel wool. We can give you some from our apothecary." "Oh, well I'm obliged, and that would surely be good," I sez, then asks, "But ain't that skesk?" "I suppose it is, but we are not Yeti here, humans require artifacts to survive, like clothing and tools. We respect the Atli but cannot survive adhering to it. For example, we have oil because we have a few clocks." "I s'pose you also knows what I needs it for?" "Yes, to restore a rusted old pistol-- a cowboy six-shooter, I do believe --so that you can kill an enemy." "What? I'm not lookin to kill no one. Jus' makin sure our enemy don't get that gun." "And so you will restore it? Your enemy can do nothing with it as is, it is safer unrestored." "Walll, okay, could be we jus' might need some leverage, backup in case it gets hairy. A noisekiller can be pretty scary, even without shooting anyone." "Ah, but it is your karma to shoot. Your destiny. As you have killed before, in World War II." "That was in a WAR, I ain't shot nobody since then and don't hope to never again." "Ah, but that will be unavoidable. You shall once more, this time to avoid a war. I can see that in your future." "What? You can see the future?" "Not exactly, but I can recognize auras. They tend to indicate history and intentions, thus a future can be extrapolated. For example, I sense that you wish to explore this neighborhood of the Shamballah complex because you have a cultural connection..." It looked like he was reading from an invisible book. "...oh yes, you saw the movie Lost Horizons back when you were a soldier in that war. The magical city of Shangri-La is a romanticized fantasy based upon this actual Shamballah. It was filmed in 1937 but you saw it in 1942, I believe, while you were away from the Nokhons for a period." "How can you know that?" "How can I not? You are standing here. Besides, I've seen the movie myself while visiting New Delhi in 1938. I too wanted to compare fantasy with reality. It was absurdly incorrect, of course, absoluite silliness." "Walll, yeah." "Anyway, I have sent for a young man to guide you, so that you can see for yourself how the fantasy compares with the reality. Aaravi is originally from India and therefore speaks passable English. He will show you the temple's wonders and then take you to the Apothecary where you can be issued the materials you require. Then he can set you on your path back to our mutual friend Da-zinta-hat." Whilst he finished talkin' a young monk comes into the temple and bows deeply to both Johmsumma and me. He looks like an Indian-- the Hindu kind, not a native American --brown-skinned, dark haired, not much bigger than me, young, maybe just a teen-ager. Aaravi smiles but seems purty shy. I introduces myself and so does he. Aaravi can speak English, but it's the Hindi-India version and I find it purty hard to comprendo, but then he don't have it any easier figuring out my own special old-coot U.S. Buckaroo dialect. We comes out onto the 9th-floor balcony, where we gets smacked with a stunnin' view of the whole town and valley. Not that it’s really so big compared to the mountains, xceptin that we’s standin on the edge of a bright red 9-story temple balanced atop a round pointy hill that juts straight up. It looks like a long way down, kinda scary. There’s a little lake down there, with a cheery waterfall gushing in and a tinkling creek flowing out. All the empty little red houses are part of the town, but the steep mountainsides around us also looks to be punched fulla cave holes, where many folk mighta lived in once. But now, not many signs of anyone living there. I began to think there’s probably no more than 200 folk in all. I hadda wonder why this place wuz such a famous legend, it's just an isolated outpost sporting an ancient temple, nothin more. If this’s Shangri-La it wuz s'posta be a "magic city" with wise monks, bee-yootiful virgins, flowers bloomin' everywhere, Altho, I gotta admit, ol’ Johmsumma had impressed me with his aura-reading show. That was kinda like magic.
Halfway down to ground level Aaravi took me to meet an old monk, I warn't sure why, the man only talked Tibetan lingo. Aaravi translated, but him an me spoke such different brands of English that we wuz havin it hard 'nuff just comprehendin each other. Anywell, that old monk, named Srii Chunn, served us tea with the famous yak butter, which I coulda done without, tell the truth. He seemed ta know somethin 'bout me and Daklakht, and Da-starda-hat. It wuz like he wanted to meet me to learn somethin' but had nothin' ta tell me. It was mostly confusin and discombobulating. Most likely telepathic plundering o' my brain. Or my aura, they's into that here. We continued on down the hill without me understandin' what the visit had been 'bout. But after the kid took me for a coupla more visits I figgered it out: those monks wanted to be entertained. They never get out; just meditate day and night, for years. A foreigner passing thru town is a big social event for them: they gets to serve some lovely tea with yak butter, wallow in a fresh new aura, and are happy for the next year. I could follow that: nothing to do, nowhere to go, nothing to see, I ain't never seen a more boring village, even Aket was like downtown Manhattan in comparison. Shangri-La-Tee-Da.
We spent the night on simple cots in a monastery barracks, there warn’t even blankets, and it wuz kinda cold. We wuz also offered food, ate some rice and lentils with the monks, which warn't too bad. Actu'lly, the first warm meal I've ate in a long while. It ain't always that I kin eat what humans offers me, 'specially in the US of A. I didn't get to my age by eating poison. I always gets a bad feeling in those big American super markets, with all those cans and plastic packages full of crap I don't need or want. "400 ways to quench your thirst" and all that, most of it poisonous and inedible. Even boiled rice is a compromise, but longs I don't eat it very often it'll be okay. But I wuz truly hungry this time and the food was good and healthy. There’s also a nice hot blaze in a stone fireplace in a kinda social room, which is somethin you never get when you drops in on Nokhons. There’s five or six monks socializing, drinking rice wine, eatin some kinda crackers with yak butter (no thanks) and others meditating off in their own worlds. It coulda been right cozy, chatting 'round the ol' fireplace with some real live human wise men, but they only spoke Tibetan. Talking Hindi-English with Aaravi was too confusin', so I just pretended to meditate, like most of the monks. Until two Nokhons (Yeti, squatch, whatever) stepped into the barrack, both carryin heavy wooden batons and looking downright ornery. They had braided beards, so they wuz Alutna-- or maybe in this case, Gestapo. The socializing monks in the room all stopped talkin, turned away, trying their best to not get noticed. Those Yeti fellers wuz clearly makin everbuddy nervous. I reckoned they’s from Da-starda-hat's special guard. Made me nervous too. These two warn't so big as most Nokhons I’s used to in the Pacific Northwest mountains, but still lots bigger than me or any of the Tibetans in the room. They also held their clubs in a truly arrogant way, lookin like they's really hoping to use them. The monks sure didn't challenge ‘em, avoiding their eyes. I could see that they’s scared. Hell, I wuz a little skeered myself. One more Yeti, a bigger and harrier Alutna, comes into the room from another door. He looks around at everbuddy, squinting kinda suspicious-like. One of the first Yeti sez "He ain't here," in Nokhontli. The big fella sez "Oh, we'll find him, let's keep goin. But then he looks point-blank at me an sez "Wait a jiffybit, those two guys ain't from here." I figgurs "Tarnation, the bad guys has spotted me!" The Alutna Yeti comes over, me still pretendin ta be meditatin, like I don' really notice a mountain of hair an bone coming to trouble me, stoppin really close and menacing-like. "You two," he sez in broken Tibetan, "where from?" Not that I could understand anything they sez, because they don’t even try ta talk Nokhontli to Aaravi and me. Aaravi tells me after that these Yeti could only talk a few words of Tibetan lingo and were hard to understand. Aaravi answers all nervous-like, telling them he was just a novice monk from India, studying under Johmsumma. The name don't impress them much, if'n they even knows who that is. The biggest amongst them sees that I ain't local and gets interested real quick, grabs me by the arm-- kinda hard --and shakes me so that I hafta look at him. He sez to his comrads, "This old monk's a white NokhSo, ain't never seen one of them here before. Maybe we should take him with us." Knew I hadda think fast. So I does, givin them a little s'prise by talkin in fluent Nokhontli. "Let go of me, you buffoon!" I sez, as arrogant-like as I kin muster, "I am here in the service of Glorious Da-starda-hat of the Ultimate Nine Elders of Shamballah. You may not interfere with my duty or he will become angry and punish you severely." They wuz s'prised all right. And like I reckoned, they’s scared just by his name, but that wuz no guarantee that they'd believe me. The first two Yeti stepped back, but the big fella didn' let go. He did loosen his grip, tho. "But you're a NokhSo. How can you be serving Our High Lord Da-starda-hat?" "Of course I'm a NokhSo, just like all these Tibetans I have to negotiate with." I turned to Aaravi and talked to him in English, strainin m'self to speak a more proper-soundin version o my mother tongue, "I'm telling them a lie, and now I am pretending to give you some orders, play along with me." Aaravi nodded, "Yes, sir!" sounding really respectful-like. Then I turned back to the big Alutna who was still hangin on ta me and I sez as nasty as I can, "So unhand me, you stupid fool!" He does, unsure if he should, ready to grab me again. So then I sez, "What are your names? I will be making a report..." But they don't tell me nothin, just back out of the room in a hurry. They might not believe me, but can't take the chance. They knew how cruel Da-starda-hat can be, even to his own men. Once they's gone I reckon we're good ta go too.
The next day Aaravi takes me to the Apothecary. It’s more like a military commissary or supply depot than a drug store, like it's name suggests. There's no money in Shamballah, just like in the Nokhon world, so you cain't buy nothin', just gotta have permission to come and get it. Like the Army or Communism, I guess. I didn't even have to tell them what I needed, but wuz given a bag with a small can of machine oil and half a liter of vinegar in a glass jar, some steel wool. I made a pouch in my monk's robe with a few tricky folds to hide it in and we were off again. Once again, me traveling from the huma’s world to the Nokhon’s with a load of contraband skesk. We sees the three Alutna again, wandering around the temples, maybe still looking for someone. I wonder who? But we made sure they didn' see us and head on out of town. Aaravi goes with me until we come upon my hypnotized Nokhon guard, still sleeping on the grass. I thanks Aaravi for being my guide and suggests that he skidaddles a'fore the guard wakes up and kills us both. He leaves right quick. I wait for a while, careful not to wake that guard and put him in a bad mood. But he's been a-lying there for mayhaps twenty-four hours, so he wakes up purty soon anyway and off we goes, back to the Palace. Or rather, he goes back and I follow at a distance. Da-zinta-hat musta been reading my mind, the guard leads me direct to Da-starda-hat's chambers and the guards there are looking away from me, so I pops in and grabs the pistol and both boxes of bullets, which I takes with me to Da-zinta-hat's rooms. I’s a-hoping Daklakht and Dagrolyt has come back while I’s away, but no such luck. Da-zinta-hat sez he's heard from Ma Silla that they met with a son of one of her female friends, just a young kid, but who´s escaped from the slave camp and knows where it be. Seems he's a real revolutionary, hating and hiding from the Starda Faction for mosta his short life. But ain't no one heard from Dak and Dag since they left Ma Silla's group, 5-6 days back. So I take time to restore the pistol and Da-zinta-hat s'prises me with some usable skesk: a little oblong porcelain bowl he's sculpted from sandstone, just long 'n deep 'nuff to lay the pistol and parts in a vinegar bath. That's the old-fashioned way to clean rusty metal, just let it soak in vinegar for a day. Lucky I always got my trusty old Boy Scout pocket knife in my shoulder bag, which got 2 kindsa screwdriver blades, big and little, so that I could break the pistol down into parts and do it right. Funny how I had just enough vinegar to do the job. Like it was meant to be. Oops, looks like I cain't record much more words untils I finds a way to recharge...
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