The Buddha on the Hill

TSETSERLEG, Mongolia - Caleb stares, one hand on his forehead to shield the midday sun, with unusual intensity at the small rocky hill, just above us. Strangely, he ignores the most prominent object in his line of sight, a 20 meter statue of the future Buddha, Maitreya, carved out of white rock. Instead, his eyes scan the rocky crags of the hillside.

"I'll be back," he said, and he goes off into the wilderness to exorcise his demons.

There are many ghosts in this place. In the year 1706, Zanabazar, a Mongolian warlord, picked this spot to build a temple to the Buddhist Goddess Tara. A holy man, Zanabazar studied for many years in the Tibetan capital of Lhasa before returning to his native land and taking up the sword. When the sage died nine years later, his body was mummified in a lotus position and placed in a stumpa, a Buddhist holy relic, on the site. Generations passed, and the monastery prospered. At its peak in the early twentieth century, more than 2,000 monks studied here, making it one of the largest and most powerful monasteries in the country.

Then came a murder. In 1931, Mongolia's new Communist government feared the monastery's power: Tsetserleg and the holy men were said to support anti-government movements. One night, to counteract the perceived threat, the Communists killed the abbot, who was known as the Sixth Zaya Pandita. They also leveled the monastery, leaving only two temples, one of which was turned in a fire station. In the purges that followed, hundreds of former monks were tortured or killed.

But Caleb's nostalgia is from another time. Two years ago, on leave from teaching English in Ulaanbaatar, he and a fellow teacher rode out here, crammed into a battered van with a dozen other Mongolians. They took over half a day to arrive, and when they did, they found the town closed for Tsagaan Sar, the Mongolian New Year. The only open hotel had no heat and only sporadic cold water, hard mattresses and dim lighting. At the first opportunity, they went outside.

They walked to the monastery, past the statue of Maitreya, over the small hill and into the valley below. It was cold, but they walked at a steady pace, descending into a wooded glade. After a of couple hours, frozen perspiration on the edges of their hats, they decided to turn back. By then the sun hung low in the sky, and was about to disappear behind the hills above and end the short winter day. Soon the two hikers were surrounded by darkness, hopelessly lost. They had few supplies, and none of the warm layers of fur the nomads rely on to buttress themselves from the cold nights.

They kept walking. There was no other choice, really, except to lie down and accept a slow death by freezing. Sometime in the night, they heard a noise, the crunching of footsteps in the crusty snow. The footsteps were those of a passing herder, out with his flock of sheep. With customary Mongolian courtesy, he pointed the lost adventurers in the direction of Tsetserleg, and not long afterwards they found themselves back at the dingy hotel, cold, damp, and tired but alive.

Now, back in town for the first time since that night, Caleb runs in the direction of his misfortune. He scampers toward the top of the hill. I watch his progress from the statue's base, as he pauses briefly and then heads down into a col. Just a moment later his appears, the wind snapping his checkered black and white scarf as he lunges from boulder to boulder toward the peak. He reaches the top and then is suddenly out of view.

Sometime later, as I shoot pictures of the town's distant gers and crumbling schools, Caleb returns. He says nothing, but I take his tranquil expression to mean that by returning here, he has made peace with this haunted valley and the chilling time he almost became one of its ghosts.

Precious Gifts

ALBANY, N.Y. - Every so often, there's something that jolts you out of the endless stream of holiday shoppers purchasing last minute coats, skis and Nalgene bottles.

Today's interruption was a 34-year-old woman with shoulder length curly hair and a pilly black peacoat. She placed a year-old pair of long underwear on the table and said she wanted to exchange the size.

"I got married this year," she said. "When you get married everything just goes on hold."

While she picked out a new size, I searched the computer for the garment's coat. Without a receipt, the woman would receive the current price of the bottoms. She was very lucky; normally last year's models are put on clearance and eventually marked down to 99 cents. Instead this model was still in stock and at a higher price. The woman got a $9 credit in addition to the trade. I rang up the transaction and placed the cash on the table.

The woman looked confused by her windfall. She stumbled for a minute, and then said she had another transaction: She wanted a $15 gift card. Fifteen dollars is an unusual amount for the store; it's the smallest one I've made this year. Even more strangely, the woman requested that I take the $9 and place it toward the certificate. She paid the rest of the total - six dollars - by check.

"I don't have much money," she said, and I took it the reason why she divided up such a small amount.

On the gif certificate, she filled out the subject line "Paul's Gift" and circled a Bible verse on her check, something from the Gospel of John. I placed the check in the register and gave the woman her receipt.

"Thank you very much," she said, and then took a small, salmon colored business card that she'd been holding in her hands and pressed it into mine. After she left, I turned it over. It was another Bible quote, Isiah 43:4. "You are precious in God's eyes..."

This gesture moved me. I may not share this woman's passion for religion, but her actions were pure. That she'd give me this small card, with no sermon or attempt at conversation, is wonderful. I felt the same way earlier this year when a woman handed me a red "Support Our Troops" wristband at a gathering for a group of soldiers en route to Iraq. I treasure these objects, because of the people who gave them to me.

A Walk Around the Block

WICHITA, Kan. - I can't walk anywhere here in Kansas.

This evening, after a large meal of pasta, sausage and garlic bread, I felt like taking a stroll. "Helping digestion," is what my parents would call it. Many evenings they take a two or three mile jaunt after the dinner; I wanted to do the same tonight.

But where to go? To the north of my small apartment complex is a gold-plated car wash and a string of abandoned lots. Half a mile that way there's a train crossing, and this time of night there's a chance of a 20-minute train will be creeping by.

To the east is a Sonic, a drive-in-but-not-thru restaurant, and a number of homes with weeds coming through the driveway and scary teenaged men sitting in the driveways.

To the west is an industrial park. The business I'm most familiar with there is the gun range, where I went for an article a couple weeks ago. I'm not sure if I'd want to run into the clientèle there off-work.

The south of my apartment is the most strange, because it's the site of a large, mostly empty strip mall. The highlight there is Micol & Janets, a local bar where Micol leads the house band and six to eight pickup trucks are parked outside every night after 11 p.m. There's also a strip club.

You might gather from this last paragraph that I don't live in a particularly good part of Wichita. It's scruffy, working class and there's a fair amount of crime. People on the street next door were setting off fireworks well into August. There's been a shooting, a couple stabbings and robberies just in the time that I've been here. It's not necessarily the place where I want to be loafing around after dark.

Just the act of walking seems to be a slap in the face here in Wichita. The districts are spread out, with very little public transportation linking them. There isn't a bus on Sundays. The 11th Commandment here might as well be "Thou shalt own a car, so thou can drive thouself to church."

One incident confirms this city's love of cars more than anything else. A couple weeks ago, I was out with some friends on a Saturday night at a bar. I wasn't driving, so I had a few beers. We came home around 2 a.m., courtesy of a friend who volunteered to be the designated driver.

Safely inside my apartment, I decided that I couldn't sleep quite yet. I wanted a snack, so I headed across the street to QuikTrip. I went on foot, not only because the nearest location is across the street, but because I was a little tipsy. I bought a bag of Doritos, and was just finishing crossing the street back to my house when a couple of men in a large SUV came roaring down the other side of the road.

"Get a car, you faggot!" they screamed, and then headed on down the street.

Tonight I'm driving to the gym, where I'll walk on the treadmill.