INDIA. McLeod Ganj. Tea time. ⓒ Julie Mayfeng

INDIA. McLeod Ganj. Light & shadows. ⓒ Julie Mayfeng

In my case, this is the best time of the day to realease the shutter as a photographer.

McLeod Ganj – это такой город. Кажется был британский военный David McLeod. А Ganj – это значит «место» на одном из диалектов хинди, а вовсе не то, что кто-то мог бы подумать. В городе довольно скучно в целом. Но природа просто восхитительна. В этот город нужно ехать с друзьями за вкусной тибетской кухней, свежим воздухом, ну и там… В тибетской кухне есть одно блюдо, которое мне очень сильно напомнило лагман. Невероятно наваристый вкусный густой суп. Город не большой, в две-три улицы. Гулять прикольно. От одного конца до другого можно дойти за полчаса. Отовсюду вид на горы.

Приехали поздно вечером, погуляли-поели и сразу пошли спать в отель. На следующее утро начали день с завтрака в атмосферненькой кафешке. Люди здесь уже больше походят на китайцев или тибетцев. Собственно они и есть тибетцы.

После плотного завтрака путь лёг к маленькому водопаду. По пути было очень прикольное место. Из естественного горного источника невероятно ледяной воды сделан бассейн с колоритным оформлением. Думал искупаться, да что-то никто больше не купался, и мне как то стрёмно стало. К тому же не было полотенца с собой.

Возле бассейна стоит прикольная гостиница.

Дорога к водопаду была узенькая. Внизу кто-то стирался в речке. Чувак, с которым я шёл всё жаловался, куда я так лечу как угорелый. В итоге дошли. Оказалось в бассейне была не ледяная вода. Вот тут она была реально ледяная. Купаться я и тут не решил, хотя пара индусов словила ледяного кайфа при мне. По пути назад я щёлкнул козла, который жрал репей на себе.

McLeod Ganj находится в минутах 20 езды от города Daram Shala. В нём скрывается от преследования китайскими властями духовный лидер Тибета Далай Лама. Каждое утро он даёт речь народу. Только это в 8 утро, и ,так как некоторые встаюст в 11, попасть туда было не суждено. В самом McLeod Ganj очень много буддистских монахов.

Был еще поход на рынок. Встретили кафе «YBacu», долго не могли понять в чём подстава.

В нескольких километрах от города стоит очень старая англиканская церковь, построенная аж в 19 веке. Называется St. John in the Wilderness. Вокруг церкви кладбище английских военных и их семей.

Какое у меня жизнерадостное кладбище получилось на последней фотографии.

McLeod Ganj – город, в котором очень атмосферно и спокойно, но в котором совершенно нечего делать любителям движухи.

In India, when it is your birthday, the tradition is to offer small gifts to the important people in your life.  Today Purnima turns 35.  We had lunch together in Shukla-ji’s garden, and then she had to go to work.  She was stressed, however, because she hadn’t had a chance to prepare a gift for Sharat, our yoga teacher and her boss.
“I wish I had remembered to buy him an apple strudel,” she said, fretting.  “And now it’s too late.  I have to be at work in ten minutes.”
I remembered the little bakery down the hill.  They sell pastries and eggs from their back door.  “Do you want me to go down there and see what they have?” I asked Purnima.

“Would you!?” she asked dramatically, her already big eyes huge.  “Of course,” I said.  “Go to work.  I’ll bring the stuff up in a little while.”
I finished my chai in the sun, and then walked out the gates of Shukla-ji’s place, and started down the hill into the glen.  Two Indian men were hacking up the hillside to build a path.  They put aside their tools and let me pass.  I crossed the bridge over the little creek, and climbed up the steps to the tiny house that is obscured by plants and trees.  In the small courtyard, hens pecked at the ground, their big claws splayed and yellow.  A cow twitched his tail in the sun.
I walked to the backdoor and knocked.  I could hear cartoons playing inside.  A few minutes later, a sleepy looking Indian man came to the door, scratching his head.  “Yes?” he said.  “How can I help you?”  I told him I was looking for apple strudel, but he said they didn’t have any today.  He offered me cinnamon rolls, wheat rolls, and plain white bread.  I told him I’d take three cinnamon rolls.  “And do you have organic eggs?” I asked.  “Yes, Madame,” he replied.  “How many you like?”  I thought about it.  “I’ll take three,” I said.  He nodded and began filling a paper bag.  “And fresh milk?” I asked.  “Do you have any today?”  He nodded again.  “How much?” he asked.  “Mmmm… how about a half kilo?” I said.  “Yes, of course,” he replied.  He disappeared into the depths of the house, and returned a few minutes later.  A tiny, mewing kitten was clinging to his shirt.  He was about to throw it outside, but I held out my hands instead.  “Can I hold him?” I asked.  He gave me a half smile and extracted the kitten from his shirt, placing him in my hands.  I pressed the tiny gray kitten up against my chest, and immediately he started purring and massaging his paws against my skin.
The Indian man wrapped everything up, and then came back to the door.  I hated to put the kitten down, but it was time to go.  I handed the furry bundle back to the man, and took the bag that he offered me.  I watched him carry the kitten to an outdoor oven that had been covered and sealed with cement.  “Warm,” he said, seeing me watch.  “Little cat likes the warm.”  I walked over and put my hand on top of the oven.  It was very warm, and covered in old canvas sacks.  The kitten turned in several circles, and then settled down into a tiny indent in one of the old bags.
I thanked the man, watched the kitten for a few more minutes, and then emerged into the open courtyard where the sun was soft and warm.  The chickens were still pecking the ground and the cow was still flicking his tail.  I had Purnima’s birthday rolls, and tomorrow’s breakfast for myself.  It was time to take a little nap.

Hola. Aqui estoy en Mcleod Ganj, que no se si tirarme para manali y a chandigard. Definitivamente creo que me voy a Manali manyana por la manyana, que es un sitio de montanya en el que puedo disfrutar muchisimo y de paso me quedo un poco mas con una penyita que me he hecho aqui. Por cierto el austriaco (18 anyos y me saca una cuarta- -vease foto) me ha echado de la habitacion que ronca mas que el pakino y me he tenido que ir a dormir al pasillo. Un infierno vamos, y encima sin ducha con agua caliente!!!

Jejeje, adios

Pos eso,.. manyana me voy a Chandigard (o algo asi) que es la unica ciudad planificada de la india, que aunque es muy cara no quiero irme sin ver algo asi en India.

Hoy en plan tranquilito, me he comprado una navaja para matar osos y tigres, me he comido unos momos, y de chachara he estado con mis companyeros de habitacion, en ingles por supuesto. Ahora dentro de un ratillo ire a cenar con un amigo mexicano que conoci en Amritsar y ahora esta aqui con su familia. Es el que ha llegado a la India desde Europa por tierra, atravesando Iran y Pakistan.

Chelo chelo.
namasteeee

Hola. Acabo de llegar de Triund hace un rato. Ayer por la manyana subi cerro arriba con mi mochila de travesia y despues de tres horas pateando cuesta arriba llegue a Triund, que contra todo pronostico eran tres chabolas a modo de tienda (de vender cosas) y un albergue. Me esperaba un pueblecito, pero weno, la verdad es que se estaba bastante tranquilito. Desde alli se veian unas montanyas nevadas del himalaya (cuando las nubes lo permitian). Por la noche una luna expectacular, y al mismo tiempo un frio que pelaba. Esta manyana sali para Laka Got (que es un glaciar) y nada, pateillo para alla, que por poco no me la pego, jejeje.

Bueno unas vistas espectaculares y una experiencia brutal. Tenia intencion de irme manyana temprano direccion Nepal, pero le deje la mochila a una chabala que ha dado la casualidad de que se ha ido y no llega hasta manyana noche, por lo que manyana tendre el dia aqui para hacerle foticos a los monjes tibetanos y decidir cual sera mi primer destino, que estoy entre Manali o Chandigard,.. pos eso.

Por cierto que ahora tengo problemas con la tarjeta y no puedo subir fotos,..

Fotos: El perro-modelo de Triund y el amanecer desde la montanya

Hola hola cokacola.
Me queda menos de un mes y empiezo a estar nervioso. Si que tenia razon Pili cuando me decia que se me iban a hacer corto los dos meses(por otro lado os echo a todos mucho demenos, de verdad)… Hoy he estado pateando un poco mas (despues de haberme hartado de Momos),.. unas vistas espectaculares, etc etc,.. He decidido hacer una ruta que tenia planteada; pillarme las mochilas e irme andando de un pueblo a otro hasta que me harte,.. los pueblos estan relativamente cerca por lo que no hay mucho riesgo. Ya contare cuando encuentre punto de internet, que no se si tendre problemas, tal vez no me conecte en unos cuantos dias.

Sobre lo de Nepal me estoy aclarando un poco, tengo bastante curiosidad por verlo, y aunque se me haga poco tiempo al menos no me quedara la cosilla de no haberlo visto aunque sea.

Por cierto, hay un refran en er pueblou: “gente de Cazalla, vayas donde vayas”,.. pues nada, el otro dia en Amritsar conoci a un chabal de chipiona que tiene familia alli y va para alla mucho. Conclusion: el refran es totalmente cierto.

Saludetes!

Hoy ha llovido un poco bastante, cosa que no me ha impedido el irme a visitar un templo budista ahi en medio de la montanya. Antes he estado en el principal templo de aqui, donde por suerte habia una celebracion en la que estaban haciendo digferentes tipos de bailes tibetanos. Ha estado bastante curioso, y me ha alegrado haberme topado con eso. He estado un poco mas independiente, que me apetecia estar un poco solo, y desde hace bastantes dias no he encontrado un momentillo. Me he ido a patear un poco y sin darme cuenta me he ido al pueblo de al lado donde hay un par de templos y una catarata. Despues me he pegado un banyito en la piscina de uno de los templos, y me he ido sacando pecho porque los monjes tibetanos con los que me he banyado tenian muchisimo frio y yo ahi tan normal (ya puesto he exagerado un poco para dejar el pabellon alto).

Por otro lado he descubierto los momos, que son una comida tibetana que esta requetewena y me estoy poniendo como el Kiko. Ahora me ire a cenar con la gente con la que estoy y despues me apetece descansar, que me he pegado un tute weno y manyana quiero irme a patear mucho mas.

Saludetes.

Hello, acabo de llegar hace un ratillo a Mcleod Ganj, que es donde esta instalada la comunidad tibetana, incluido el Dalai Lama (que creo que esta de viaje ahora) en el exilio. El autobus ha sido un poco una paliza, pero muy entretenido, porque aqui conducen como si fuese un videojuego y viene muy bien para descargar adrenalina. Las primeras sensaciones son de mucha tranquilidad, unas vistas espeluznantes y unas rutas para hacerse que pueden ser brutales (si las hago)… En principio aqui me quedan unos cuantos dias, aunque no se, porque el tiempo se me va acabando y son muchas cosas las que quiero hacer y no se,.. como vaya saliendo, que es la mejor manera de hacer las cosas aqui.

Bueno, manyana colgare fotillos!

There is a very distinct style amongst the travelers in these damp, cold mountains where the sun rarely shines.  Instead of jackets, they rock fuzzy shawls and blankets.  Also popular are asymmetrical sweatshirts with long, pointy hoods, woolen socks with a split in the toes, knitted booties, and leg warmers.

Yesterday I bought my first pair of wool booties, and today I topped them off with a pair of colorful leg warmers.  As I slid the leg warmers on over my booties and sweats today, I thought to myself, in all seriousness, ‘Stylish.  And comfortable!’

Then I considered my mental appraisal, and laughed out loud.  I never thought I’d live to see the day when the combination of knitted booties, leg warmers and sweats was stylish.

I am sitting cross-legged on my purple sheeted bed, eyes closed, hands folded in my lap.  Breathing, breathing, breathing.  Meditation has become a part of my daily routine.  But then… I feel sun on my eyelids, and my whole spirit leaps up.  My heart starts thudding against my chest, and the cells of my body seem to strain forward to meet the light.  I try to stay focused on the meditation, but sun is so rare here, that I just can’t.  I open my eyes.  There is still three minutes on my timer, but I shut it off and run outside with a smile on my face.

I take my underwear off the covered line, and lay them out in the sun.  I lift the damp sarong from where it hangs, and spread it out on the roof, flat, absorbing the sun.  It will be dry in no time.  I snatch the red shirt from the rusted bar where it has been airing for six days and still managed not to dry, and I lay it across the stone bench in front of my door.  Fantastic!  The water in my clothes might actually evaporate.

Then I trot to the loo, enjoying the sunshine on my head and shoulders.  When I return a few minutes later, a thick gray cloud has overtaken the sun.  I look up and shade my eyes.  Stacked clouds stretch away as far as I can see.  The little patch of blue sky that invited my momentary exhilaration is already floating away, getting smaller and smaller as the day resumes its shifting, gray tone.  I look to my colorful underwear, lying out hopefully, unwilling to believe the sun has already left.  I see my melancholy blue sarong, disappointed at having been liberated into sunlight only to be returned to its damp perch on the line.  I glance at the red shirt, forlorn and slightly angry on the bench.  They all seem to accuse me- Why did you get excited for nothing?  Why did you take us out only to put us away!?

I was kickin’ along down Bhagsu road today, minding my own business and admiring the mountains.  Def Leopard played in my ears, and I was feeling the heart and soul of that gritty eighties rock, balling up my fists in passion.  My eyes moved from the mountains to the road, taking in the sights of mountain goats chewing grass, Tibetans with umbrellas, and a man with a bedraggled white scale who was charging five rupees per use.  I declined having myself weighed and continued on.  I looked down and watched my feet swinging and crunching the gravel.  Then I saw a grasshopper.  He was poised to jump, hunkering down on his back legs, moments from springing.  He was directly in my path.  My momentum was moving me swiftly though, and in the split second it took me to notice him and deduce his trajectory, he had leapt.  My right foot swung out and caught him squarely in mid-flight, and I kicked him halfway across the road.  I felt like I was playing Grasshopper Kickball.

1)

Krishna’s birthday and Indian Independence Day both fell over this weekend, causing the population of Bhagsu and McLeod Ganj to swell to ridiculous proportions.  Indian tourists from all over Himachal Pradesh flocked to these tiny towns, congesting the roads and spilling out into the rural countryside.  I made the mistake of walking to McLeod Ganj to do some errands on Saturday, realizing too late that I had chosen the worst possible holiday weekend to venture out.

The road between Bhagsu and McLeod Ganj is usually busy with people, men selling fruit at the roadside, Punjabi teenagers zipping by on motorbikes, monks in robes carrying rainbow umbrellas, Western tourists holding hands and listening to IPods.  But on this particular day, it was like a sluggish snake that has just ingested a gigantic meal- nothing was moving.  Cars were stacked up like fallen dominoes, no space between them to maneuver.  Pedestrians were forced to walk in the muddy puddles at the side of the road, and in between stopped cars along the crooked median.

I swerved in and out of traffic, sometimes easing myself through a tiny space between jammed cars, sometimes giving up and tromping through the rushing ditch at the side of the road.  I tried not to hit anyone with my umbrella, but there were so many people, and so many other umbrellas, it was impossible not to nick someone every now and again.  Further up the road, I saw a large mini-van easing past a smaller sedan.  It stopped about half-way, however, the driver too timid to go further.  The road caved away to a rushing ditch on one side, and on the other side, he was nearly scraping the paint off the other car.  Horns honked incessantly, and people hurried by in the rain.  I watched drivers getting out of their cars, coaxing and encouraging the driver to continue on his way.  If he didn’t move, traffic would remain at an utter standstill.

In this town, it is completely normal to see two cars stuck in the middle of the road, their driver sides touching, their passengers sides pressed up against the stone walls of neighboring shops.  It used to blow my mind that they would try to pass each other on these tiny, narrow roads, but they always do.  And they always get stuck.  They become wedged in until they cannot move, and then begins a cacophony of honking, shouting, swearing, and hood pounding as everyone gets involved trying to figure it out.  Given that this is a regular occurrence, I couldn’t understand why the driver of this mini-van was making such a big deal.  Granted, he was pressed up against the other car on one side, but he had a good inch or two on the other side before he, his children, his wife, and the mini-van slid into the rushing roadside gully.  Why was he hesitating?  I realized that I’ve begun to accept India for all of its ridiculous idiosyncrasies when I found myself thinking, in all seriousness, Come on, dude.  GO!  You have at least an inch!

2)

A bit further down the road, traffic had slimmed a bit, and cars were zipping past.  An Indian family walked in front of me, the mother guiding the perky-haired son by his shoulders, the father holding the little girl’s hand.  Suddenly a car whipped by, its driver laying on the horn.  I watched as the little girl was nearly hit, her lavender dress lifted in the gust of air, her swinging hand almost cut off.  I drew in a sharp breath as the car slammed on its brakes.  It was apparent that the driver had realized how close he had come, and was instinctually stopping to see if the little girl was okay.  Drivers never stop here.  He had clearly come too close.  The moment he saw her still walking though, his brake lights died and he roared off.  My heart was still pounding hard, and my adrenalin was pumping.  The little girl had no idea she had almost been killed.

Her mother knew, though.  She had been walking a few feet behind, and now she began to berate the father for allowing the little girl to walk so close to the road.  This being India, the father bickered back, gesturing wildly to prove that their daughter was still alive and well before hawking a huge loogie at the side of the road and continuing on, dragging his daughter’s hand, and ignoring his pesky wife.

3)

Sometimes I think it’s just the Westerners who cannot handle the incessant blaring of Indian horns.  Laying on the horn is as integral to Indian driving as using blinkers, or engaging the emergency brake on a steep hill is to us Westerners.  They cannot drive without their horns, they are attached to their horns, they make loud, incessant music with their horns.  They race up the road, beeping and honking as they swerve, narrowly avoiding innocent pedestrians.  They careen around corners and blare their horn as they go, scattering cows and dogs and people.  Sometimes you will hear a motorcycle coming half a mile away, because the driver will lay on the horn the entire time- the crescendo in your ear as he roars past is maddening, because you’ve had too much time to anticipate it.  The horns are uniquely, frustratingly Indian.

Today, however, I saw that Westerners are not the only ones who are negatively affected by the deafening horns.  As I left the chaos of Bhagsu Road, and entered the chaos of a human-inundated McLeod Ganj, a car came screeching around the corner, blaring its horn like a vehicular Paul Revere, screaming its way past the throngs of people, umbrellas and shops.  My ears clenched up and my face grimaced as the car roared past.  I felt my usual impulse to turn around and throw a rock at his window, hoping it might break the glass and hit him in the back of the head so that he would cease honking the horn.  My hands were full, however.

Just then I looked up and saw a Tibetan monk covering his ears, his face contorted in a wild expression of frustration and anger.  I normally associate those crimson and yellow robed monks with peace and equanimity, but this one looked mad.  In fact, he looked a bit like a monkey.  He gritted his teeth and spat out some words I couldn’t hear.  Then he shook his head violently and dropped his hands as the car whipped around a bend in the road and disappeared.  He caught me looking at him and his expression altered.  It took him a moment, but he seemed to collect himself.  We shared a silent, commiserating exchange, and then he smiled.  And I felt a bit vindicated- it’s not just us Westerners who despise those horrible, shrieking horns.  Even Buddhists monks hate that shit.

Prayer wheels at the Tsug Lakhang Temple

It was getting on for quarter past two, but at the bus stand in McLeod Ganj everything had ground to a halt. A dozen or so local travellers stood around the ticket office, waiting patiently for it to re-open. We joined them, doing our best to find the back of the queue then, realising that there was no queue, slotting ourselves into the crowd as best we could.

The ticket office was closed. No sign had been put up and no blinds had been drawn, but still, there was no doubt about it: the ticket office was definitely closed. On a hard wooden table behind the counter, in full view of the waiting customers, lay the sleeping figure of the ticket wallah. His features were strangely peaceful, the only sign of movement being the occasional twitch of his moustache. Although well over fifty, his hair was bright henna red, in stark contrast to the muted greys and browns of his tiny workplace.             

At two fifteen he awoke, sat up and, brushing the creases out of his uniform, began to move unhurriedly back to his post. On the other side of the window the crowd, until now somewhat listless, became suddenly animated and started to push forward.

“Now, who’s next?”

Of course, he didn’t say that at all. This being India, a queue of any kind was out of the question. When there are tickets to be bought there’s no “This lady was before me”, no “No, no, after you”, just a scrum of determined individuals surging forward, each shouting and waving a handfuls of rupees.

The Ganj

We were in McLeod Ganj on the first stage of our trip into the Himalayas. The Ganj, as probably no-one calls it, perches on a series of high ridges above the town of Dharamsala. It was founded as a British hill station in 1848 but today is noted more for being the home of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan Government-in-Exile than it is for its colonial past.

The view from our hotel room was easily the best hotel room view I’ve ever had. From our balcony we watched eagles circling over the valley below while, in the near-distance, huge Himalayan peaks revealed then hid themselves again in an ever-shifting, shrouding fog. But then again, a good view isn’t hard to find in McLeod Ganj.

Nor is Tibetan culture hard to find. Émigré Tibetans now outnumber Indians in the town, and their religion, art and food can be found everywhere. Strings of colourful prayer flags flutter on hillsides, prayer wheels spin outside temples and crispy momo dumplings are cooked in tiny roadside dhabas all over The Ganj.     

On our first night in town we tried some Tibetan cuisine in one of the town’s many vegetarian restaurants. Compared with Indian food, Tibetan food is a little on the bland side; a result I suppose of having to work with the limited ingredients available on a cold, dry plateau. The momos were nice enough (think Chinese dim sum) but the thantuk – thick, dry noodles – were a bit of an under-flavoured disappointment. I’m also told that Tibetans drink a tea made from rancid yak butter but unfortunately we didn’t have the chance to try that (and I was so looking forward to it too…).

Monks in the rain

At the northern end of town is the Tsug Lakhang Temple, the focal point for Tibetan Buddhism in McLeod Ganj. A monastery forms part of the temple complex, as does the Dalai Lama’s residence. Inside are statues of various figures including Sakyamuni, the historical Buddha, and Avalokitesvara, the Buddha of Compassion. Amongst the offerings that had been left for the latter was a packet of Hob-Nobs.   

Outside the temple, as we were examining the prayer wheels, I was stopped by a group of five Sikh tourists who each wanted their photo taken with me. Maybe they thought I was Richard Gere…

In fact, we were asked to pose for photos rather a lot in India. For all of its diversity, and despite the huge number of tourists who visit the country, it seems that there are still plenty of parts of India where the locals never see a white face (or a black one for that matter). When these locals go on holiday – to McLeod Ganj for example – and run into foreigners like us, they’re genuinely interested, and not a little star-struck.   

Also within the walls of the monastery is the Tibetan Museum. Here, a series of simple, yet eloquent displays is used to make some powerful points about the destruction of Tibetan culture under Chinese occupation. Most of the Tibetans in Dharamsala and McLeod Ganj fled their home country by crossing the Himalayas on foot, risking the twin perils of Chinese border patrols and a harsh, unpredictable climate. The lucky ones arrived with frostbite; many more have died attempting the journey. Some of the refugees’ stories are told here.

As you leave the museum, you can read the Dalai Lama’s thoughts on the future of Tibet. Despite decades of Chinese intransigence, he is clear that the only way forward lies in trying to find a peaceful compromise with Beijing: an admirable and courageous stance. They don’t hand out those Nobel Peace Prizes for nothing, you know. 

Monkeys in the rain

On our third day in town, we heard that the Dalai Lama was due to be teaching at the temple. Tickets for the session had already been allocated to local monks and nuns and a few interested foreigners, but we were told that if we waited in the courtyard below the temple we might be able to catch a glimpse of the great man. Accordingly, we braved the understandably tight security (a metal detector and a vigorous frisk at the temple gate) and arrived outside Tsug Lakhang twenty minutes before the meeting was due to start.

Two sets of steps led up from the courtyard to the temple. Both were guarded by security personnel, but one had a cordon across it and a group of elderly Tibetans sitting cross-legged nearby, fingering their prayer beads. ‘A-ha,’ we thought. ‘Exclamation mark,’ we thought. ‘That must be where His Holiness is a-fixing on doing his walking-past.’ And so we settled down with the elderly Tibetans and waited.

At the forefront of my mind was what I would say to the Dalai Lama if, by chance, I came face-to-face with him and he decided to stop for a chat. I’d been thinking about this for several days now. Should I attempt to pose an important question – “What should I do to be a better person?”; “Who would win in a fight between you and the yeti?” – or should I just say how glad I was to meet him and try not to make a tit of myself? 

I was still pondering this when I became aware of a commotion outside the building opposite. The Dalai Lama appeared, smiling and clasping his hands together, and made straight for the other side of the courtyard and the other set of steps. Those elderly Tibetans had got it all wrong!

The faithful rushed forward, all the while bowing and trying to keep on their knees. His Holiness bowed back, grinning and stopping to chat with a few lucky well-wishers.

Following the lead of the elderly Tibetans we made our way hurriedly but respectfully (a difficult combination to carry off) to the far side of the courtyard, all the while keeping our hands pressed together and our heads slightly bowed. But it was too late. The distant red-and-yellow robed figure of the 14^th Dalai Lama had already passed up the staircase and into the temple.

A minute or so later, the familiar bass rumble of his voice, serious now, signalled the start of the prayer meeting, and it was time for us to leave. 

Prayer flags and a house in the hills

Spotted:

A misty green mountain, obscured by low clouds, its water-drenched trees glinting as the sunlight appears, behind…

A monk in crimson and yellow robes standing near a pine tree talking on a cell phone, behind…

A contented cow chewing grass at the side of the road.

Layers are beautiful.

I have just discovered that my leather Punjabi elf shoes have begun to mold.  Well, actually, that’s putting it mildly.  The insides are completely covered with blue and green spots, ugly bruises of neglect.  They are a testament to my careless placement of them on the damp floor for weeks on end.  I’m a terrible shoe mother.  But the blue and green bruises are not the only evidence of neglect- a carpet of fuzzy white mold has spread across the insides, the outsides, and the stitching, as well.

My Chacko sandals absolutely reek.  Because the straps never dry, they have taken on an odor that reminds me of the way my brother’s feet used to smell when he was a child.  We’d have to soak his feet in a special anti-bacterial soap and water mix for hours, and only then we could unclench our noses for a bit and breathe freely.  My Chackos smell like my memory of his dirty, little boy feet.  I am almost embarrassed to wear them out in public.

My flip flops are made of rubber, so they don’t smell and they aren’t moldly, but they are entirely unsuitable for these slick orange mountain trails.  Every day when the monsoon pours down, paths turn into rushing rivers, and the threat of falling on your ass increases ten-fold.  Given that this threat is already huge considering that the paths never dry, they just turn into slick mudways, this makes walking anywhere a very risky endeavor.  By wearing slippery rubber thongs, you take your life in your hands when traveling down these perilous mountain trails.

So I find myself in a bit of a dilemma.  In the words of the Indians who live all around me, Oh, what to do?  What to do!?

I find myself seated on the dusty floor of one of the many budget hostels on Paharganj in the Main Bazaar of Delhi. Sweat is dripping down the inside of my arms and forming a small puddle on my trousers, there’s an army of empty water bottles around me with full litres of water being devoured every 30 minutes. I honestly can’t remember if I’ve ever felt more overheated during my entire trip. Again I have made myself guilty of neglecting my regularly blog update, and again I have a good reason for it. I’ve just returned from 8 days in the beautiful mountains of McLeod Ganj, Dharamsala, after a week-long course in Ayurvedic massage. Besides that a lot of other things have happened. I had a consultation with an Ayurvedic nutritionist, which proved quite enlightening, I’ve indulged in quite a bit of retail therapy and I am again recovering from one of those uninvited stomach bugs. Now, where to start?

The Ayurvedic massage course, mais naturellement! After arriving in McLeod Ganj I first did some field research into the various centres (McLeod Ganj teems with venues where you can participate in anything from Tibetan cooking courses to sound healing therapy) and after encountering the usual overpriced and undernourished offers I finally found a good option in Bhagsu, a small village just up the hill from McLeod. The course was due to start in a day and would cover basic theory of Ayurvedic massage, anatomy of the body and a relatively safe full body massage broken down in six parts. I say ’safe’ because in one week they could not have thought us a very thorough Ayurvedic massage, a treatment which stimulates and balances your chakras, body energies and can also reach deeper layers such as blocked emotions and stored trauma. The massage we were taught is a relatively simple version which any novice can master and utilise without the potential of doing inherent damage to the recipients energetic flows, muscle mass, or emotional baggage. I enjoyed the course very much, it provided me with a new skill and a lot of knowledge of the body and alternative medicine. I can’t wait to upgrade!

Before the course started I used my free day to indulge in some retail therapy which I started during my short stay in Delhi prior to taking the bus North. McLeod Ganj is a settlement of Tibetan refugees (which does include, drum roll, the Dalai Lama himself) and a place heavily visited by travellers and tourists alike. The main area is, like one traveller put it, more like ‘one big shopping centre’ than a village of refuge, with plentiful stalls selling woollen accessoires, jewelery, monk bags, Tibetan singing bowls, momo’s (a Tibetan snack), incense, rugs, and so on and so forth. Most of this paraphernalia is crafted by Tibetan refugees or monasteries, and it’s all very tempting wear for the souvenir hungry passer-by. Since I’ve travelled rough and dirty for so long I decided a few days prior to my arrival that the time had come for me to foresake my student budget and start to indulge in a little bit of good old consumerism. Even though it felt a bit, well, materialistic at times I have to say that India does know how to make the consumer feel like a treehugger in disguise. There are shops which support tribal villages, single women, Tibetan refugees, penniless monks, widows, orphans, you name it they sell it. So, through buying your beautiful, moderately priced, rurally handcrafted and decorated, irreplaceable Asian table cloth you are actually supporting and minimising all those who are less-well off in the world. Well then, lets get two! Needless to say my bag has doubled in size already and a slightly embarrassing blush crawls over my cheeks when I think of all the goodies I got that I didn’t really, really, really need.

Ah whatever, it made me feel good. Which is exactly what I need, according to the Avuryvedic nutritionist I saw the day before yesterday. I booked the consultation through our massage instructor, Dr. Makesh – who stubbornly maintained to call his wife, the nutritionist, Dr. Shivani, even though the connection through marriage had already been exposed -, and I was very keen to get my first Ayurvedic check-up ever. The leaflet I was provided with read “One hour ayurvedic consultation for body analysis and diet guidance”, and I expected to walk away with a deeper knowledge of my body and dietary needs, plus a sheet with notes and instructions. After all, I did pay 600 Rupees for the job, which is a lot of money by Indian standards. Well, my body analysis took about 30 minutes, during which most of the time was spent by the doctor trying to talk me into postponing my further travels and instead spending 400 Euro on their Panchakarma treatment (a deep Ayurvedic cleansing of sick energy inside the body which includes cleansing treatments such as compulsory vomiting and diarrhoea), which apparently I needed. Urgently. Don’t get me wrong, she was good, tears were burning behind my eyes as she explained my emotional trauma to me, and she was right, in part. The only reason I knew where she was right and where she was wrong was because of my Yoga Course and Astrological readings in Thailand however, without those I might have been out there right now, vomiting up salty water and receiving saucy breast massages off the doc. Of course the consultation was interesting, and the half finished notes (I had to ask for) are, in some way, useful to me. Nevertheless I couldn’t help being slightly unsatisfied with the rushed diagnosis she provided me with, her quick and cruel judgement of some of my close relationships and her conclusions, which I felt were drawn without adequate insight. On top of that, being pushed into an expensive treatment at a moment when you feel quite exposed and vulnerable didn’t leave me with a very good impression either. Despite that, I have decided that I will continue my research of Ayurvedic medicine, as it has opened up a lot of doors, and I’m sure that there’s more to it than than pricey consultations catering towards the practitioner’s financial wellbeing.

But… there’s one thing I need to do before I start my further readings, courses, adventures and continue to enjoy life with others. First, I will need to go back home and find my roots again…

(In India…)
*Don’t use your umbrella tip as a walking stick.  Don’t do it.  It will die two days later.  I promise.  The tragedy of a dead rainbow.  The regret caused by a wet head.

*Unless you want to have your picture taken with Punjabis for the fourth time today, do not make eye contact with young men holding throw-away cameras or camera phones.  They’ll probably get you anyway, but your chances of escaping are better if you pretend you haven’t seen them.

*Smile considerately when you see monks.

*Get used to having wet feet.  Do not cringe when you slide your feet into your chafing Chackos, and surrender to the puddles in your thongs.  This is the reality of monsoon weather.

*Sit with your back straight in meditation.

*Accept dinner invitations when you get to eat food with your hands.  It’s fun!

*Show mercy to the dogs even if all of the Indians are staring at you like you’re weird.  Feed the skinny ones, pet the friendly ones.  Set a good example.

*Walk to every waterfall.  It is always worth it.

*Do what you say you are going to do.  It feels good.

*If you want your clothes to stay dry, close the windows when you see the mist rolling up the mountain.

*Accept that even if you close the window, your clothes will never be entirely dry.  Thick coats can be washed again and again, but in India in July, they will always retain the mild odor of mildew.  Tee-shirts tend to stick to your skin.  Blankets feel damp and cold, but warm up quickly.  Moisture is a reality of life.

*Mosquitoes are bastards.

(From a Tibetan Café)

This restaurant is called Common Ground
The Tibetans who own it are sound
They offer brown bread
Their dogs are well fed
And monks in red robes lounge around

The monsoon has turned everything gray
The sky and the trees and the day
But rainbow umbrellas
And crimson-robed fellas
Make the mood feel festive and gay

Green tea in a teal-glazed cup
Wiggly, golden-furred pups
A Brazilian beauty
Acts snobbish and moody
‘Til he smiles, then her brown eyes light up

I missed the entrance to the Tsuglagkhang Complex – which contains the official residence of the Dalai Lama – in McLeod Ganj, Northern India. Accidentally, I walked passed it, following a rubbley path cut into the steep slope of the mountain.

The Dhauladhar mountains left a wedge-shaped valley between them which was densely wooded and bright green: a huge, hollowed-out triangle on its point. The higher mountains, half-obscured by drifts of mist, were white.

It had the neatness of a stage set. Green then white: natural coulisses separating middle- from back-ground.

I walked on, and came to an old, Buddhist monk in red robes making a slow kora – a ritual circuit of the Complex – around the edge of the mountain. I made a prayer gesture, an unspoken Namaste, and he paused beside me. Suddenly he smiled broadly so that his eyes resembled upside-down crescent moons and deep laughter-lines creased his face. We stood there, on the edge of the green mountain, and without having spoken a word we laughed at nothing together.  

I had set off for the Himalayas alone, full of mixed feelings about leaving the life I had made in the desert village. I had been guarded and tense. Women travelling alone must be extra careful, I kept telling myself. But it had been inhibiting shouldering this burden of carefulness, and for the first time since I left… I let go. I felt relieved, laughing with the little, old monk, and overwhelmingly free.

 I followed the path around the side of the mountain. It was picked out by colourful Tibetan prayer flags: green, yellow, blue, red and white, with mantras inscribed on them. They seemed at once to blend into and stand out from the misty greenery. The sounds of the town were muted in the damp air.

***

Such moments Virginia Woolf called ‘moments of being’. They do not contain the Meaning of Life (for that, better to turn to Monty Python), but are ‘ little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark…’ [To The Lighthouse]

They are moments of sudden perspicuity, and the simplicity of their revelation is often startling: I am going to be OK, was what I realised in McLeod Ganj. And suddenly it all felt lighter.

In India I met many travellers in search of themselves, seeking out these moments of epiphany and hoping to make them permanent. A futile mission, most probably, because it is impossible to pin them down and difficult to live your life by them.

When I was seven or eight, before Mrs Dalloway had replaced Matilda on my bookshelf, I would have called Woolf’s ‘moments of being’ my ‘I am Me’ times. It doesn’t happen to me quite like this now, but once every month or so, I would be struck by my uniqueness (“I am the only person who is Me…”) and aliveness (“This is it!”). I would lie in bed long after my light had been turned out and shudder at the awesomeness of the realisation. I could feel my eyes widening in the dark. It was an incomprehensible responsibility (“I am running a person: Me!”). But if I thought about it for too long, tried to rein it in and understand it, suddenly it was gone. The plug was pulled and it slipped away.

I suppose that’s the nature of a moment: it’s over. You could be walking over a city bridge, or watching a play in a darkened room. The moment rises up all around you, carries you in its swell, then drops you on the shore where you started.

… Are a very sad phenomenon.

Ladybugs are everywhere in this town.  They alight on clothes drying in the sun.  They land on golden arm hairs as you reach across the table for a cup of tea.  They compliment the pretty summer flowers, flanking the purple hyacinth, and gracing the pink rose petals with their tiny red shells.  They also have a tendency to land on the myriad stone steps that crisscross this mountain village, linking restaurants to guesthouses to monasteries to Tibetan shops.

To reach my guesthouse from the main road, I have to navigate a treacherous set of stone steps that twist and wind and trip over the hill, eventually depositing me at the dirt trail that branches right, leading away to the Pink House.  Because of the nature of these steps, it is imperative that you watch your feet closely as you descend, otherwise you would trip and twist an ankle in a careless moment.  I am therefore afforded an intimate view of the steps every time I walk to or from town.  And sadly, with my eyes fixed on the meandering, crumbling steps, I am forced to see what I don’t want to see- countless dead ladybugs.  They are like smashed art, gorgeous but tragic.  They lie splayed on the stones, their wings mashed out, their red shells cracked.  If you looked closely enough, I’m sure you could see their tiny legs.

As the sun beats down, and they zoom past my head, I want to scream to them, Land on flowers!  Land on trees! But it’s hopeless.  I watch one ladybug zero in on the step ahead of me, like a pilot guided in by his radar.  I tactfully avoid stepping on him, but I hear the heavy footfalls of backpackers behind me, and I know that his untimely death is only a matter of time.  No doubt his shiny shell will soon be splayed out like a ghastly joke of Mother Nature, a splotch of red on the somber gray steps.  As gauche as their tiny deaths are, I am forced to see the silver lining- at least they make bright decorations!

Today I sat with six Tibetan women, three of them nuns, and we spent several hours conversing in English.  McLeod Ganj, the small town I’m in, is home to thousands of Tibetan refugees.  Many of them are eager to learn English, and so every day at the Tibetan Hope Center, western volunteers and Tibetan refugees meet up and practice conversational English for several hours.

We sat in a small room with three beds.  Most of the refugees live in these dorm-style rooms, with little privacy and less space.  But we were comfortable and had fun, and the two hours flew by.  They asked me about Australia, the USA, Barack Obama, and whether or not Americans supported Tibet.  I told them that all over Seattle, and in many other parts of our country, people wear ‘Free Tibet’ tee-shirts, and put the same bumper stickers on their cars.  They were happy to hear that, clapping their hands, and thanking me again and again.  I asked them how Tibetans were treated in Lhasa, the capitol of Tibet, and they said the Chinese are very brutal.

We continued practicing English, and I taught them some new words they didn’t know.  We discussed “heaven,” and “reincarnation,” and I loved watching them take meticulous notes, and then repeat the words and phrases after me in growing excitement, their voices rising, their hands keeping time on their legs.  We all big smiles on our faces once they would nail a phrase, after perhaps the fifth or sixth group chorus.  “Do you believe in reincarnation?” they would shout in unison, their intonation decidedly Eastern.  Their accents and their enthusiasm reminded me of a group of eager Japanese exchange students.

One of the nuns told me that she was hoping to be reborn as a monk in her next life, so that she might attain enlightenment.  Despite Buddhism’s many strokes of brilliance, their doctrine says that only monks are capable of achieving nirvana, or enlightenment.  According to this principle, nuns, no matter how pious they are, cannot hope to reach enlightenment in this life, but must strive to be reborn as a monk, so they have a better chance the next time around.  The expression on my face made it clear what I thought about that particular caveat, and all of the women began laughing.  “So you are a nun so that you can be reborn as a monk in your next lifetime?” I repeated, and the nun nodded her head.  “And you?” I asked the next woman.  “What do you want to be in your next lifetime?”  She thought about it, and pulled on a strand of her long hair.  She looked at the bald-headed nuns and said, “I want to be a nun!”

We went around the circle, and all of the women told me what they wanted to be in their next lifetime.  They had noble aspirations, from “Being peace and saving all sentient beings,” to “Release!  No more life!”  (“No more life“ sounds strange, but it’s simply another term for ‘nirvana’, the release from the endless cycle of birth, death, and rebirth that is a tenet of Buddhist belief).   Then they asked me what I wanted to be.  I was surprised, and unprepared to answer.  I’ve never really thought about what I want to be in my next life, should my soul be born again.  I had to think about it for a minute.  All eyes were on me.  I thought, A nun?  No, I don’t think so.  A bird?  Well, maybe.  Enlightened? Shit, that’s kind of scary! “Heaven,” I finally said.  “I want to be reborn into Heaven.”  There were lots of “ahhhhs!” and solemn head nods.  Then I added, “And I want all of my friends and family to be there, too!”  They nodded more vigorously, an air of unanimous approval all around.

Then I asked them if they thought Obama was cute, and they all started giggling wildly 

Ripping, roaring thunder.  Rain that never falls.
Tibetan flags blow in the breeze, the monasteries call

Mist moves up the mountain in an uneven mirage
It clears- I see the cedars.  It thickens into fog

Crows who caw up in the trees are harbingers of death
But life is pulsing through me and I cannot feel bereft

I’ll sing this song to you, instead, of travel and of life
Of feeling your heart beating when you stop to close your eyes

Of love and doubt and dreams and hurt, of possibilities
Of Indian sparrows and tiny inchworms who live up in the trees

A swirl of faces, foreign names, peanut butter toast
Of all the New Age authors, Mr. Osho’s got the most

Books on courage, books on love, creativity
Without a doubt he’s cornered the market on spirituality

My clothes are drying on the line, they decorate the day
I fall asleep and dream of passion, questions kissed away

Yesterday we talked of worms, amoebas, dysentery
Today I’d like a quiet lunch, a cup of steaming tea

And so I bid you all adieu, it’s time to walk to town
To order veggie momos that are fried until they’re brown

But oh, alas, monsoon has come!  It’s pouring from the sky
The thunder rips, the railing drips, the land is getting high

On water, oh, intoxication, deep, organic bliss
As welcome as a long lost lover’s often dreamt of kiss

Au revoir!