14
WE HAVE A TV DINNER
THEY WERE MET by a group of smiling Tibetan women wearing colorful clothes and handmade jewelry. The women were not young, but they didn’t look old either. They looked, strangely, ageless . All of them, however, had dirty teeth, and all of their teeth had been filed down to sharp points.
Lama Norbu called out to them in his language, and the women answered with smiles and bows.
“They welcome us to their camp,” he explained. “They are just preparing dinner and would be honored if we would stay the night. We will be safe here.”
“Please, come in,” one of the women said in English. She had a turquoise headband encrusted with shining stones and heavy rings on her fingers. “You are very welcome here. We receive many travelers and it would be our pleasure to be your hosts.”
The other women nodded and gestured toward some logs that were spread around the fire. They rushed to cover each log with a thick animal fur so it would be a more comfortable seat. Two of them ran off to continue cooking, while the others ushered the family to the logs to rest their tired feet. They took hospitality very seriously.
“You are American?” asked the one with the headband, who appeared to be their leader.
“We are citizens of the world,” Dr. Navel answered, as he always answered that question when someone asked. He didn’t like to be defined by borders.
“Yes,” Celia said, because she wanted to hurry the conversation along and get to watching the satellite TV. Her father shot her an annoyed look.
“Yankee Doodle dandy!” one of the other women sang, laughing. “Old McDonald had a farm!”
“She speaks no English,” the woman with the headband explained. “But she knows many songs.”
“Can’t buy me lo-ove,” she sang, smiling and nodding. “The Beatles!”
“I do hope you will join us for a meal,” the other one said, ignoring the woman who kept singing pieces of Beatles songs.
“I am fasting while we look for Shangri-La,” Lama Norbu said to the Navels. “But please, enjoy this food. These women are from the Bön sect, the oldest religion in Tibet, and you could learn much from them. I will seek out a quiet area to meditate, now that we have found a safe resting place for the night.”
With that he bowed politely and wandered off past the camp and into the thick brush of the forest.
“He is a strange man, this monk,” the woman with the headband said.
“He’s a lama,” Oliver said. “Not a llama.”
“I see,” the woman answered quizzically.
“Thank you for having us,” Dr. Navel said as he settled onto a log. “I am very eager to learn about your culture.”
“Oh,” said the woman. “We are just simple women who have spent our lives in this canyon. Our only knowledge of the world comes from that television and from the pilgrims who pass this way. We are not great explorers like you.”
Celia and Oliver shifted anxiously on their feet. They wanted to get to the television already. They kept glancing at the hut with the satellite dish.
“I am sure you know a great deal more than you think,” Dr. Navel said.
“Dad,” Celia whispered. “Can we please go watch the television? Pretty please?” She made her sweetest puppy-dog face.
“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You can hear about the ancient ways of the Bön—did you know that they place their dead on tall towers of stone and let the vultures eat the corpses instead of burying them?”
“That’s disgusting,” said Oliver.
“That’s not disgusting, Oliver. It’s called sky burial. Their culture represents an entirely different way of imagining the world than you and I have. Remember what I said about—”
“Yes, yes . . . television is magic . . . wonders of the world . . . blah blah blah . . . we get it. But we walked all day and we got thrown out of a plane and we saved your life,” Celia said.
“Twice,” added Oliver, not wanting them to forget his heroics with the rifle that fired blessings.
“We shouldn’t have to learn about new cultures too.” Celia felt the need to make their position very clear to their father.
“The children are welcome to rest in front of the television,” the woman with the headband said. “We receive many channels they might enjoy.” She winked at them.
“All right,” Dr. Navel sighed. “Go on.”
The twins rushed off to the hut while their father began asking excited questions about myths and legends and human sacrifice. The woman with the headband, in spite of what she had said, knew quite a lot about all of those things, especially the last one.
“The shinbone’s connected to the knee bone,” sang the musical woman.
Inside the hut, there was another log spread with furs facing the television, and steaming hot bowls of food were set beside it, as if the children were expected.
“Nice women,” Oliver said. “They even made us snacks.”
The bowls were filled with what looked like curdled milk, all clumpy and grayish, with yellowish chunks of butter floating around and thick mounds of crushed barley. Each bowl had one lump of blackened meat sitting in it, the fat still sizzling. It smelled like chili peppers, leather and wet dog.
“What is that?” Celia wondered.
“It’s yak,” Oliver said, his face turning green.
“How do you know?” Celia asked nervously, not really wanting to hear the answer.
“Because . . .” Oliver pointed at the wall, where a pile of fur and bones was topped by a giant skull with dark black horns: a slaughtered yak.
Both children turned quickly and tried to put the frightening image from their minds. They thought for a second about running back outside, but out there the women would insist on watching them eat; that much they knew about hospitality. Inside with the yak skeleton they at least had privacy and, of course, television. Oliver grabbed the bowls of food and carefully dumped the lumpy steaming contents behind the pile of bones.
“Sorry,” he said, though the creature was long past hearing any apologies for becoming dinner.
While her brother disposed of the “meal,” Celia flipped on the old television. It lit up with a static hum.
Outside, they heard their father’s voice praising the delicious food.
“Yak butter and barley flour, is it?” he fawned. “It tastes just like my wife used to make before we were married! And you say you make offerings of this to the protector-spirits in the valley? Who are they? Are they violent gods? Helpful?”
They heard the women laughing.
The children looked nervously at each other, but didn’t say a word. The screen glowed with fuzzy snow and static. Oliver pulled the cheese puffs out of their backpack for a snack and Celia started turning the tuner. Both children held their breaths in anticipation. The last time they had watched TV was on the airplane, and that had been quite rudely interrupted by Sir Edmund’s henchman trying to kill them. This time, deep in the valley on the path to Shangri-La, under the silent gaze of a yak’s carcass, they hoped they would finally have some peace and quiet—and some decent entertainment.
When the picture came into focus, Celia shouted with glee, but Oliver’s heart sank into his dirty sneakers.
“Love at 30,000 Feet!” she squealed as the theme song played over images of sunsets, jet engines and kissing.
“Oh, no,” Oliver groaned.
