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Dom Joi turned out to be everything he was billed to be. Advance notoriety did not do this unique Asian justice. He knew everything, everybody, the Asian history and the teachings of each Dynasty, each of the countless Empires and, especially, the views and generations of the Tibetan masters. He was giving a quick history lesson of Gingara, the old Buddhist mythology, over breakfast. His wisdom, and especially his wit, captivated Smokey Joe. He wondered, while listening to the tales of the wise old ancients, if every culture had their shamans—their Red Eagle, their disciples of an old venerable teacher, such as White Feather. Maybe the culture of the mystic descendants of the Mongols was really the same thing as the dreams of the Hopi, just divided by the Pacific Ocean. The Hopi, and their ages old traditions and beliefs were similar to the elders of Tibet. Dom Joi agreed with his query, by quoting the Dalai Lama:
There were many paths to the sea. It really didn’t matter the ravine or river one found themselves in, they were in parallel purpose to all others and would eventually disperse into the ocean of spirits, unidentifiable. The waters of the Yellow River had no greater claim or purpose than the waters from the Mekong.
A pungent tea was served. It tasted similar to coffee but with a wild intangible flavor. Dom Joi took great pride and obvious pleasure in telling Smokey it was the rarest and most sought-after beverage in the world, usually $50.00 a cup but gratis today, because the owner of the hostel felt honored to have Dom Joi at one of the tables. It was billed on the menu as rare Siamese Tea, the official drink of the King of Siam. “It is quite good,” Smokey tasted it again, this time with reverence; anything that expensive needed more thought and appreciation than usual. It had a soft jungle wild life nuance and odor.
“It definitely has something my campfire mornin’ joe lacks. What is the secret ingredient that makes it so pricey?” asked Smokey.
“The journey.” Dom Joi stated, matter-of-factly. “It has had hours of labor for each distinct bean. The process to get the bean to this state is drawn out, extremely labor intensive, costly. I only called it a tea to get you to try it. It is only made in the province of Mae Hong Son, where the coffee beans are carefully hand harvested. They share a ripening process mixed with grain and a special horticulture of greenhouse grown bales of delta grass hay. It is then fed to a few selected, disease free elephants.”
Chief Joseph’s eyes widened a bit at the story.
“Elephants have already eaten the coffee bean? Juan Valdez must be rolling over in his grave.”
“Hundreds of villagers spend the next few days raking through dung piles to find the undigested beans, which are then scrubbed twice to clean them.”
“Only twice?” interrupted Smokey.
“Then they are soaked an additional few hours until the intestinal flavor is just right, after which they are individually dried and packed, fresh ground the day of brewing, and you have this wonderful, exotic, Thai coffee.” The inscrutable eyes of the old monk were twinkling as he was watching Smokey Joe intently.
Smokey put down the cup, eyeing it suspiciously. “Hmmm. I went to a circus once, and one of the trick elephants did his duty on the ringmaster’s floor, somethin’ a little Indian kid can’t forget. Six clowns were trying to clean it up; four with shovels and another two with wheelbarrows. You know, Dom, I never knock the customs of a people; too many ridicule the Hopi but my people would never follow a buffalo around to see if some juniper berries made the ‘journey’, I think you called it.”
Dom Joi was a short, fat man, whose belly was like Buddha; he would have made a fine Santa. It didn’t sound Santa-like “Ho, Ho, Ho” but the laughter was the same and caused the expansive girth of Dom Joi to jiggle uncontrollably. Smokey could only wish Ho was here to comment on the situation. When the monk quit rolling with mirth, he admonished Smokey, “Chief Joseph, there is still ten dollars in your cup. Confucius say, Waste not, want not.”
“Really?” retorted Smokey, “then he stole the saying from my mom.”
“Everybody steal from Confucius.”
So, began the back-country trek. The two men helped pole up the river tributary until the water flow became too swift. They traveled in a donkey cart for several miles and met up with a few elephants, which some tourists had contracted to take them to the jungle interior. The trip was made easier with the constant chatter about places and ceremonies and teachings. Old Dom Joi had a captive audience and would not let the opportunity pass by in silence. He was from the Valley of Lhakhang Puk, having studied under the tutelage of one of the most common gurus, or at least the best known, and was determined to pass it on, all of it. After surveying the trails and the streams from the perspective of the back of an elephant, Smokey was beginning to feel the pace and background of his host and traveling guides. He hadn’t been told much about the primitive location of the generator. Moose had placed it with government help and some of the gold from the banks. Ho had flown in as close as his jet could get and ‘lit the puppy’ from a rented helicopter.
MJD was still hand-cuffed by the Black Mariachi stone; it still had to start the confluence of waves into a harmonious bundle. Their tech was not independent and, not even the studying by Hack Jensen, could produce an alternate way of inducing the gold pyramids to engage.
Moose was busy in China, and only he and Ho knew where the generator site was, exactly, but Ho was currently occupied with family business, so Smokey got the job of trying to find out why the generator quit and seeing if he could restart it. Ho had reluctantly parted with the Black Mariachi stone. It was now around Smokey’s neck. The importance of this little rock was not lost on Smokey, who realized all they had accomplished and all the potential destruction of the Solstice, which had been averted, was related to this unique stone. They would not even have an energy corporation, without the Black Mariachi; Makaewalani’s special name for the rock Ho had found in a cave at Bear Lake.
Smokey resolved it would not leave his person. His old friend, Wade Tucker, had taken the other one; found at Sierrita de los Cruces, to a watery grave. His ultimate sacrifice had given him an enshrined position in the company and a large painting covering one wall of the Conference Room, really a huge rec room at the mansion in Hawaii. Makaewalani’s participation in the 2012 December adventure had impressed many on the island, resulting in a permanent, one dollar a year lease on an incredible estate.
After a day of elephant riding, the two men started on foot into the serpentine twists of the canyons, carved by centuries of run off from the Tibetan Plateau. The area, spectacular, popular with adventurers and nearly impassable, was the famous Yarlung Tsangpo Grand Canyon. The terrain was rugged, the progress slow. They would have used the river and chugged along in one of the iconic longboats the peasants used but the river rapids were treacherous this time of year. The upper tributaries of the Mekong were not for weak- or faint-hearted people.
Smokey and the monk he had met in Chiang Saen seemed old; actually, Smokey knew he was getting old but it was hard to tell how old the Kham residents were. Especially the Tibetan monks, who seemed to defy the rules of aging. His companion could be 40 or 140. They were a product of clean environment, the right balance of nutrition and trace mineral and a regimen of mental and physical stretching. The old Indian shamans were like these high mountain Asian monks. For years the gurus lived in caves but, finally, temples were provided for them to meditate and follow their religion and ceremonies. Dom Joi still found enough breath to talk of his past and the teachings of the master. Smokey was drawn into the world of balance with life and nature. He felt a distinct kinship with this jovial old Asian monk, priest, shaman or whatever he was.