Outside Burang, Tibet Autonomous Region
T he beautiful monks welcome us in their orange and red robes as if they haven’t seen people outside their tribe in years.
I trot in my new boots the Pillar gave me and feel the chill of cold, though I’m wearing a lot of layers of orange. A few steps closer, I realize the Pillar is still inside the plane.
“Pillar? What’s keeping you behind?” I say, turning.
It’s only seconds before he appears from behind the plane. He is wearing a lush orange robe and looks pretty much like a Tibetan monk now. Not just because of the robe, but because he’s shaved his head bald.
“Seriously?” I grit my teeth.
“I am an expert in communication and we need to blend in. Most monks here are bald, so I figured I should be too.”
“Do you know how long it’ll take for your hair to grow back?”
“They’ve got pills for that now,” he says. “I didn’t like to comb and wash my hair each day anyways. I always wanted to feel the drizzle of water on my bald head in the shower. It was on my bucket list.”
A closer look, I realize it’s a wig. A bald wig.
Behind us, Tibetans approach us. They speak in a language I don’t understand, but an old man, presumably their leader, smiles broadly and holds me gently by the shoulder.
I bow my head with respect, not knowing what to say.
“Alice of Wonderland!” the old man says in English.
“You know me?”
“Who doesn’t?” He pulls out a copy of Through the Looking Glass , this one with a red cover.
“You’ve been reading about me?” I am flattered.
“In Chinese!” He shows me that the copy is in their own language. Everything is read from top to bottom instead of left to right. “The monks are crazy about you here.”
“Oh.” I am speechless, wondering if the monks dismiss their prayers to read a children’s book.
The old man nears me, whispering, “The monks spend their time chasing rabbits in the snow, wishing they’d fall into a hole. It’s either prayers or rabbit holes around here. I’m Xian, like Xiangqi, named after the Chinese chess game.”
“Nice to meet you, Xian,” I say. “You have your own chess here?”
“The oldest in the world,” he says proudly. “They will tell you the one in Marostica is the oldest, but they don’t know squat.”
“Squat?” I raise an eyebrow.
“I learned English in Brooklyn, New York.” He laughs. “You know our chess game is said to contain the secret of the universe. The Nazis sent their expeditions to Tibet, wanting to find out about it.”
“Nazis.” I frown. “And squat.”
“Or crap.” He mirrors my eyebrows.
“So I assume you know this man.” I switch my glance toward the Pillar, assuming he may recognize him as the Caterpillar from the books.
The old man turns and faces the bald Pillar, and his smile broadens. “Of course I know him,” he says. “Who doesn’t know the famous Cao Pao Wong?”