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Adventures with Ruth in China – The Little Monk (continued) – Dale Blanchard

Previously, Dale was stuck on his way back to Maniganggo, after finding out that his tool kit was missing from his bag. Unable to fix the portable stove that was broken and nearly incapacitated by that kidney pain, he managed to eat a cube of beef bouillon before managing to return to Maniganggo and find refuge in the guest house.

After a full day in the guest house, eating lots of turnip and yak meat soup, and drinking lots of tea, my kidney was feeling better, not great, but better. But I knew that Ruth and I still had a problem. Even if we were not going to ride any more on this trip, if her tools were gone too, then we would not be able to get our bikes apart and ready to put on a plane. Since I knew where my tools had gone I thought we had a good chance of getting them back if I could tell Ruth what had happened.

On the morning of the second day after I had left, I decided to ride back up to the nomad camp and tell Ruth about the tools. Right after breakfast I got on my way. It took me the better part of three hours to get back to the camp even on an unloaded bike. The camp looked deserted and Ruth was nowhere to be seen. I went to the doorway of the main tent. Only the Old Grandmother was there. She understood that I was looking for Ruth but we could not communicate well enough for her to tell me where Ruth was, only that she was not there.

I led the Old Grandmother outside and showed her my empty tool bag. She immediately got very angry and used the Tibetan word for monk several times and then made a strangling motion with her hands. The Little Monk was in deep trouble. However, if I wanted to make sure Ruth understood the problem, I would need to leave her a note.

It is here that you get to see a manifestation of my extraordinary planning ability. It had never occurred to me that Ruth would not be there when I arrived. I had neither paper nor pen! I tried to convey this to the Old Grandmother and it was clear that she saw the problem. It turned out, I have no idea how or where it came from, but there was a small piece of log about 6-8 inches in diameter in the tent. One end of it was smooth, almost polished. The Old Grandmother handed it to me. I had my paper.

That did not solve the problem of having no pen, however. I started looking at the fire pit and the Old Grandmother immediately grasped what I was thinking. She dug out a piece of charcoal, sharpened one end of it with her knife, and handed it to me.

I wrote in a ring around the top edge of the log, "Check your tools." Around the bottom I wrote, "Mine are gone." You can't write very small with charcoal on the end of a log so there wasn't room to sign my name but I suspected Ruth would figure out who had written it. The Old Grandmother showed me where Ruth had stashed her bags and indicated that I should leave the log there.

Then, having accomplished all that I could, I thanked the Old Grandmother for all her help, wheeled my bike back up to the road, and headed back to town.

Dark storm clouds blew onto Maniganggo late in the afternoon. Just after dark the lightning started and with it the thunder. Rain mixed with hail roared on the roof of the guest house. Through it all I heard a knock at the door. Who would be knocking at this time of night? I opened the door and there stood Ruth, shivering, cold and wet. "Can I stay in your room tonight? I'll pay my half in the morning."

When she was inside she sat down on the bed across the room from mine and wrapped herself in a blanket. "I have our tools," she said.

When I was at the camp, she had been out hiking with The Little Monk as her guide. As soon as they returned, the Old Grandmother had descended on him like an avenging demon, and within minutes he had coughed up all our tools.

I smiled. We had our tools back. All was right with the world.

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