Lessons From Loshar

 

This piece was written in 2004, mostly as email dispatches home from India during a retreat to Dharamsala.  I’ve left it as is (mostly), and not attempted to reconcile the tense and timing of the work or revise it to reflect my current thinking.

 

Please read this as though it’s been just experienced, for that’s how it was written …

 

 

What was I thinking?

 

 

For the several years leading up to 2004 I’d become increasingly interested and committed to Buddhism as a personal set of values and system for living my life.  This period also saw me commit to vegetarianism and yoga as ways of life that support my ever growing belief in a non-dualistic universe where we all are one.  As Petra (my wife) puts it so well, I’ve begun to wake up to the world around me - in a way I don’t think I was awake before.

 

Two years earlier, after reading nothing but Buddhist texts for well over a year, I decided that I wanted to meet two incredible Buddhist leaders based on the impact their writings and recordings have had on me (and the fact that, unlike so many other influential authors, these two are still alive), and to take teachings from them - Thich Naht Hahn, a gentle Vietnamese Buddhist monk, and His Holiness, the Dalai Lama.

 

In the summer of 2003 I was able to take a 7 day retreat in Colorado with Thich Naht Hahn that left me very clear in my conviction to a Buddhist way of life.  I took refuge with Thay (as he’s known by his students) at the end of the retreat and at that point renounced drinking in addition to my existing commitment to vegetarianism.  Interesting, the only time I feel like taking a drink now is when I’m under extreme pressure or stress – at times I can almost taste a martini or glass of red wine – which goes to show how I must have used alcohol as a stress reliever in the past without even really being aware of it.

 

For those interested, taking refuge involves accepting the Three Refuges and (in Thay’s tradition) the Five Mindfulness Trainings.  One shouldn’t enter into this lightly, as it should reflect your full understanding and commitment to a way of life and personal conduct.  As His Holiness put it, taking the vows and later breaking them is far worse, karmicly, than never taking them. 

 

 

I won’t try to explain them here – I’m certainly not qualified, but I’ll present them as Thich Naht Hahn outlines in his Plum Village Chanting and Recitation book. (pp 63 – 68)

 

The Three Refuges

 

I take refuge in the Buddha,

the one who shows me the way in this life.

 

I take refuge in the Dharma,

the way of understanding and of love.

 

I take refuge in the Sangha,

the community that lives in harmony and awareness.

 

The Five Mindfulness Trainings

 

1) Aware of the suffering caused by the destruction of life, I am committed to cultivating compassion and learning ways to protect the lives of people, animals, plants and minerals.  I am determined not to kill, not to let others kill, and not to support any act of killing in the world, in my thinking, and in my way of life,

 

2) Aware of the suffering caused by exploitation, social injustice, stealing, and oppression, I am committed to cultivating loving kindness and learning ways to work for the well-being of people, animals, plants and minerals.  I will practice generosity by sharing my time, energy, and material resources with those who are in real need.  I am determined not to steal and not to possess anything that should belong to others.  I will respect the property of others, but I will prevent others from profiting from human suffering or the suffering of other species on Earth.

 

3) Aware of the suffering caused by sexual misconduct, I am committed to cultivating responsibility and learning ways to protect the safety and integrity of individuals, couples, families, and society.  I am determined not to engage in sexual relations without love and a long-term commitment.  To preserve the happiness of myself and others, I am determined to respect my commitments and the commitments of others.  I will do everything in my power to protect children from sexual abuse and to prevent couples and families from being broken by sexual misconduct.

 

4) Aware of the suffering caused by unmindful speech and the inability to listen to others, I am committed to cultivating loving speech and deep listening in order to bring joy and happiness to others and relieve others of their suffering.  Knowing that words can create happiness or suffering, I am determined to speak truthfully, with words that inspire self-confidence, joy, and hope.  I will not spread news I do not know to be certain and will not criticize or condemn things of which I am not sure.  I will refrain from uttering words that can cause division or discord, or that can cause the family or community to break.  I am determined to make all efforts to reconcile and resolve all conflicts, however small

 

5) Aware of the suffering caused by unmindful consumption, I am committed to cultivating good health, both physical and mental, for myself, my family, and my society by practicing mindful eating, drinking, and consuming.  I will ingest only items that preserve peace, well-being, and joy in my body, in my consciousness, and in the collective body and consciousness of my family and society.  I am determined not to use alcohol or any other intoxicant or to ingest foods or other items that contain toxins, such as certain TV programs, magazines, books, films, and conversations.  I am aware that to damage my body or my consciousness with these poisons is to betray my ancestors, my parents, my society, and future generations.  I will work to transform violence, fear, anger, and confusion in myself and society by practicing a diet for myself and for society.  I understand that a proper diet is crucial for self-transformation and for the transformation of society.

 

A bit on Thay’s teachings (as I understand them), and how they leave me looking for more.  Thich Naht Hahn teaches in a predominantly Zen-Buddhism style, which is minimalist and makes heavy use of analogies to make very powerful points on non-dualism, inter-being, and the basics of Buddhism.  (I’m not going to try to explain Buddhism here – I’m still exploring it myself, however if you’re interested in exploring further I’ve listed some of the more impactful books in my section on Buddhism).  I’ve been struggling with this for a few years now, and am constantly on the lookout for better tools and techniques for mediation and developing awareness.  For a couple of years I’ve been reading writings by Tibetan Buddhists that I’ve found very clear and present what appears to me to be a very clear path to peace and enlightenment.  It’s due to these writers that I sought out his Holiness’ teachings as a means to evaluate a couple of thoughts:

 

1) is Tibetan Buddhism the “system” (for lack of a better word) that I should focus on in my practice and daily life?  And if so;

2) should I consider relocating myself and family to McLeod Ganj to undertake an emersion approach to my studies – say for 10 years or until my girls are ready for college?

 

I stumbled across a unique opportunity to evaluate both these questions last fall when a good friend, who is studying with a Tibetan Lama (Sogan Rinpoche) in the Bay Area, invited me to a public teaching.  We had discussed my interests before, and she had mentioned that His Holiness was to give teachings in India in March, but this gave me a chance to see a lama first hand, and to ask him directly if I could accompany his group of students to India and attend the teachings with them.

 

Sogan Rinpoche is described by his followers as:

 

Venerable Sogan Rinpoche, Tulku Pema Lodoe, was born in the Golok region of Amdo, Tibet.  As a child, he was recognized by H.H. the XIVth Dalai Lama as the VIth Sogan Rinpoche and was enthroned at Abu Sera Monastery, which was founded by his predecessor in East Kham.  He is also the head lama of Bayan Monastery in Amdo-Golok.  Rinpoche has studied with many great masters in all traditions of Tibetan
Buddhism. His principal teacher was Khenpo Munsel, who was one of the greatest Dzogchen masters of the 20th century and a student of Khenpo Ngag
Chung.  After many years of study, pilgrimage and solitary retreat, Rinpoche was forced to flee his homeland in 1992.  He is currently teaching in the San Francisco Bay Area, where he is the spiritual director of Tupten Osel Choling, a California-based Dharma Center.

 

Several months later, I met up with a small group of Rinpoche’s students in the San Francisco airport and flew with them to India to begin a month long exploration of the Tibetan belief system and McLeod Ganj.

 

March 1 – 3 Leave taking to Dehli

 

After months of first thinking about, then planning, then committing to this trip, the day finally arrived.  I’d spent the last week frenetically gathering the things I felt I needed for the journey – anti-malarial pills, enough Cipro to cure a small village, a light weight, British commando sleeping bag (for those bed-bug ridden hotels), a new wheeled backpack with detachable daypack, oh the list goes on and on.  I have a good laugh every now and then just thinking of all the material things I accumulated for this ultimate in non-material journey.  Lastly, I’d finished up my project at my client and closed down shop to clear my calendar, despite the fact I could probably have kept on working indefinitely.  Everything boiled down to the last few moments waiting for the taxi to arrive and take me to the airport.

 

Leave-taking is never easy, but knowing I was going for better than a month made it hard on everyone.  Margaret was despondent, begging me not to go; unable to comprehend (as a 7 year old) why I would choose to leave her for so long.  Camille was much more stoic, playing the elder sister, but I could tell it was hurting her as well.  I almost couldn’t get myself to leave, but after a final round of goodbyes, including thanking Camille for her support, I found myself in the taxi, whisked off to the airport some 3 hours before my flight (early as usual).

 

I expected a mess at the Singapore Airlines counter and wanted to get there early to ensure I had a decent seat assignment (not having had one assigned due to my ultra low fair basis – probably beyond “Q”), however I arrived at the check in counter to find an orderly line of perhaps a dozen people ahead of me.  We haltingly moved forward until I found myself lighter by a piece of luggage and a boarding pass in hand.  It is true, by the way, what you hear about Singapore Airlines – they certainly are the nicest, friendliest airline I’ve ever flown (which I think says a lot having maintained the highest status on three airlines at once and having flown over 100 flights a year for 6 years straight.)

 

There’s not a lot to do in the international terminal of San Francisco airport at 9 PM on a Sunday night.  After perusing the requisite bookshops outside customs and security (and failing to find a single interesting title), I decided to take a look on the other side.  Once again, I was early enough in the evening to avoid lines or commotion, and got through in a matter of minutes.

 

After wandering a bit, I decided to go to United Airline’s Red Carpet Room (I had one month left on my annual membership) and relax.  The place was empty so I found a spot in the back of the business services area and decided to do some yoga to prepare for this 20+ hour journey I was about to embark on.  Almost thirty minutes into my practice, after a cleansing 10 minute headstand, there was a tremendous ripping sound as I managed to completely shred my comfortable silk Hawaiian shirt (my favorite, black silk with colorful flowers) in a forward bend.  Fortunately I’d brought a change for Singapore and I was able to change there on the spot.  After a bit more stretching, I got a couple of bottles of orange juice for the flight and headed to the gate – about 1 ½ hours early.

 

Waiting and waiting – if you’ve ever traveled you’ll understand.  I purposefully sat outside the boarding area (down the escalators) and continued my stretching as I looked for Henny.  More waiting; cultivating a sense of timelessness, almost a meditative state as I purposefully avoid looking at clocks or my watch.  There were supposed to be several others from our group on the flight, but I knew not what they looked like – Henny was my one link to them.  Finally Henny arrived, at a more reasonable 30 minutes before boarding time, and she connected he dots to the remainder of the group – Ellen, Annie, Laura and Jennie.  Rapid hellos, the group wanders to the boarding line, and we’re on the flight.

 

The rest of the trip – sitting, reading, eating (great Indian vegetarian meals); disembarking in Hong Kong during a lay-over getting lost in the terminal looking for the departure section (there are no markings for “return to flight departures” once you get out into terminal, you have to guess that the door labeled “Exit to Ferries” behind a security cordon is the way); amazed at the body temperature cameras that HK and Singapore use, to spot potential SARS victims I’m told – I spent 5 minutes watching the colorful screens as the security personnel scanned everyone getting off my fight as I waited for my companions to disembark.

 

Group yoga in the departure lounge (raised a few eyebrows there …), checking emails at the free kiosks, and finally the flight to Singapore. 

 

After much discussion, we made group trip via commuter train into the Malay district of Singapore.  Temples, fruit, lounging on the grass, return to the terminal, a thunderstorm on the way. 

 

A shower and shave in the airport hotel ( jokingly I said I’d willingly pay $50 for a shower, turns out it was all of about $US 5 for a shower, shaver, shaving cream, fresh towels and a cool mineral water to shower your insides afterwards) and finally, the final 5 hour flight, which, after 17 hours of flight and 8 hours of layover stretched forever into the night.

 

Watching the Indian landscape unfold beneath us at 10:30 at night as we approached, and then circled Dehli and made our final approach, I was ready to be on the ground for a while.  Strangely, I arrived feeling refreshed and ready to go.  (This changed in a few hours as I crashed into the fleabag hotel I was checked into, but I get ahead of myself).

 

I waited for all my traveling companions to disembark before heading to customs.  A long line snaking back and forth awaited me – we were at the end of the line with perhaps 15 or 20 people behind us.  Most of us had packed for the cold – after all we’re headed to the Himalayas aren’t we? – and struggle with the fleece or winter coats in the heat. 

 

The people behind us are interesting in their behavior – they continually try to push past us in the line, but do so in a non-aggressive way; it’s difficult to explain how this works, but I had a great time watching my reaction to their gentle pushing of a bag past my ankles, or sliding up to the point where their groins practically rubbed against my butt.

 

Finally I made it to a customs officer and, having scrutinized my passport, visa and entry declaration, I was the proud recipient of a stamped passport and was able to proceed into the baggage claim area.

 

Baggage claim was a zoo to put it mildly.  People running everywhere, carts loaded, no over-loaded with bags, boxes tied with rope and taped.  Luggage toppled off carts over to fall on the ground, barely missing the children running about on the tiled floor.  Old women were struggling with bags three times their weight.  Several of our bags appeared to have gone missing and only after asking four or five officials were we able to find them where they’d been stashed in a corner.

 

My bags had appeared almost immediately, both wheeled, so I took them over to the Thomas Cook’s to exchange a couple hundred dollars into rupees while I waited for everyone else.  Finally, at about 1:30 AM (3 hours after we’d landed), we were ready to brave the final customs checkpoint and head out into the lobby to look for the person who was to greet us.  Fervently hoping they, for we had no idea who was meeting us other than it was Rinpoche’s cousin Tsering (who could be either male or female, we weren’t sure) would still be there we entered the sweltering greeting area and looked around.

 

A few minutes of search uncovered Tsering, a tall Tibetan man who wears a perpetual smile – one of the calmest and self assured people I’ve met in a long time.  Tsering has an overwhelming faith in things working out – “No worries” is his motto, and strangely everything seemed to work perfectly if he had any involvement in it.

 

We had to walk about a quarter mile out to the parking lot where Tsering found us a vehicles to take us to Manju Ka Tilla, a Tibetan enclave on the northern side of New Dehli where we were supposed to have to hotel reservations.  To call it a cab would be a misnomer – this was an SUV, our luggage tied down to the rack on top after passing it up to the driver (and some of these bags were 65 pounds or more, crammed full of clothes for the orphanage, or medicines, or winter clothes than no one would need in the sweltering late spring heat.

 

The parking lot was mass chaos – thousands of people, hundreds of cars, all trying to occupy the same space at the same time.  This, as it turned out, is a fairly typical Indian situation – India seems more crowded than China to me, with people almost having to stand on other people due to crowding.  We piled into the SUV and, after what seemed to be almost armed combat - honking, gesticulating, a shout here or there - we made our way out of the airport and on to the 40 minute drive to the hotels.

 

2:30 AM and the streets were still busy – Vespas, motorcycles, little cars, enormous trucks, gaudily painted in bright oranges and yellow, with “Please Honk” painted across their rears (and everyone did – there’s a never ceasing cacophony of honks as you go anywhere in India – it’s almost as if it’s obligatory, however there’s no anger or aggressiveness behind the honks – it’s a part of the signaling drivers give to each other), little auto rickshaws and donkey drawn carts all share the same road.  Vehicles cut in and out of the traffic, narrowly missing each other – all in a moment’s navigation.

 

We came upon another group of travelers from our flight (from Vancouver and British Columbia, the first of several groups we were to get to know along the way – originally we’d met up in the waiting area in Singapore) that had been rear ended and our driver stopped to make sure they were OK.  Ellen, our resident physician was out and at their aide in an instant; homeopathic pills here, recommendations there.  Fortunately a sore neck appeared to be the worst thing anyone had.  After using a mobile phone to make sure that another vehicle was on the way, we continued.

 

It was hot, almost too hot after 2 days on an air-conditioned plane.  Singapore had been hot and humid, this was just hot.  And it smelled like they were burning crap (probably were), as the perpetual smog that seems to engulf and embrace all of India wrapped itself around us and assailed our olfactory senses.

 

The driver refused to enter Manju Ka Tilla – a bit disconcerting at 3 in the morning.  As things turn out the alleyways are too tight, the corners too sharp, for a large vehicle to enter, but in the dead of the night on the side of what appeared to be a dusty and abandoned highway, it was a bit much to offload our luggage, and then drag it through the stone filled streets.

 

The alleys of Manju Ka Tilla were abandoned, except for a stray dog or two, as we lugged our baggage through the streets.  An auto rickshaw had been commandeered for the larger, unwheeled pieces, and we walked the four or so blocks into the village area.  Tsering had been unable to get us all rooms in the same hotel, so we needed to make multiple stops.  I was the first to go in – my room apparently was on the 4^th floor of the Potala Hotel.  Tsering woke the night watchman, had a quick conversation and left me in the Hotel lobby, waiting for the proprietress to get me a key.  he lobby was a grimy little room behind a folding metal gate, a couch (now made as a bed for the watchman) and a well worn upholstered chair facing a low coffee table.  A counter with a box on the wall for the room keys (actually, as I was to find out, to keyed padlocks that served as room locks) and to the side a locked chilled beverage cabinet full of water.  To the right was a wall with windows that separated the lobby from the hotel’s corridor-like restaurant (which in the morning I was to discover had excellent food), and beyond the registration desk a stairway led up to the 5 stories of rooms – now completely blacked out due to a loss of electrical power in the hotel, although strangely the lobby had electric light.

 

As luck would have it, the owner couldn’t figure out whether I had a reservation, and told me that, absent one, she was completely sold out and that I couldn’t have a room – all this at 3 in the morning with no Tsering about.  I couldn’t remember Tsering’s name at this point, and hence was unable to find the reservation he had assured me was there.  The dusty alleyway outside with the wandering dogs was looking decidedly uninviting after two days of travel, and my body was beginning to tell me that I needed to be supine, anywhere would do.

 

A young Japanese couple came in at this point; I’d met them in Singapore waiting in the lounge, and they (of course) had a reservation – the owner gladly took them to their room as I continued to wait.  Finally she took pity on me and offered to put me in a room until we sorted things out in the morning (so much for being sold out).  After begging a candle and a lighter off the night watchman, I followed her up to the 4^th floor and into a tiny room with three cots arranged around the walls, what proved to be an uncloseable window (attested to by the numerous mosquito bites I found upon my legs arms and face in the morning, and a very interesting bathroom to the side (hey – at least I had a bathroom).  I had fun walking in the dark back to the ground floor for my luggage (I couldn’t figure out how to carry a lighted candle with the 60 plus pounds of luggage in two bags back up the stairs) and, at a little past 3:30 in the morning I was finally able to unpack a bit and crawl into the cot for a restless 5 hours of sleep. 

 

 

The candle light flickered in the small room as I inspected the costs and selected the least offensive looking of the three to bed down in.  I inspected the bathroom off to the side of the room and marveled at its simplicity – a sink with a drainpipe that snaked to a hole in the center of the tiled room, commode in the corner practically under a waterspout in the wall for showers.  No toilet paper (the first inkling I had that I must carry TP for the remainder of my trip), a large plastic bucket (remnants of a bucket of oil or some other cooking product) placed in the corner for those desiring a “bath” rather than a shower. 

 

After taking stock of the room and unpacking the next day’s clothes, I climbed into the selected cot and pulled the woolen covers up over my body in a vain attempt to avoid being bitten during the night.  Cursing my lack of foresight in purchasing a flashlight, I blew out the candle and settled in for what I hoped to be a decent night’s sleep. (Mosquitoes and bedbugs plagued me terribly – I put bug juice on but they seemed impervious to its powers – but somehow I managed.  Put it down to shear exhaustion that I got any sleep, for in the morning I had at least a dozen bites – and was fervently hoping that the anti-malarial medication I’d begun taking a day ago had already taken effect.

 

March 4 – Dehli and the Red Fort

 

Up in the morning at a little past daylight, I peered out my window into the courtyard that the buildings made around my window.  Prayer flags and large plastic cisterns adorned the roofs of all the buildings; an offering to the birds was scattered about the roof of the building opposite and pigeons were settled in for their morning fare.  Already the heat was evident – pushing its stifling lethargy into my room through the hole-filled screens and uncloseable windows.

 

A quick shower, (HOT water!  There is a silver lining to this place after all) and I headed downstairs in fresh clothes to search out breakfast.  We had agreed to meet at 11 AM in the hotel lobby so I had a good amount of time to eat and wander about.  Breakfast was in the dining area below (vegetable omelet and butter toast with chai, what was to be a staple breakfast throughout my trip), as I studiously evaded the proprietress – hoping that my Tibetan guide (Tsering) would appear and clarify my status for me.

 

Henny and Annie appeared after a while and we shared a table, struggling with chairs that seemed to want to disintegrate beneath us (the glue in the joints had been worn away by countless guests leaning back in them.)  The Japanese couple came and left; some Tibetan monastics sat and enjoyed tea and their breakfasts.

 

We wandered the streets in search of an internet café or phones to call home, urchins following us imploring us to give them “money money”, or to have our shoes repaired.  An elderly man was wandering the streets offering to clean your ears with a brass rod and some cotton balls.  Fruit and gewgaw vendors had set up in the narrow alleyways, making them narrower and less maneuverable.  The internet cafes were closed – their connections were down.

 

Around 11 we all converged on the Potala Hotel and awaited Tsering’s return.  Eventually he appeared with his brother Phuntsok, who would later accompany us to Mcleod Ganj in a marathon drive.  For now we all discussed our plans.  After last night’s experience I couldn’t get out of here fast enough – the insect bites were itching and I had no desire to hang around any longer.  However most people wanted to rest the remainder of the day, so we decided to split into two groups – one headed to the Red Fort in Dehli for a bit of tourism, the other to a bazaar nearby for a bit of commercialism.  I chose the Fort because I couldn’t see lugging around a ton of stuff all over India, and besides, I was going to have a couple of days in Dehli on my way back.

 

 

 

 

Piling into a few auto rickshaws from the queue that had assembled outside Manju Ka Tila, we took the 15 minute ride back to the Red Fort (we’d passed it the night before on our way here).  Another experience of insanity while driving – dodging and darting through the traffic – donkey pulled carts alongside modern tourist busses, trucks that were so gaudily painted and arrayed with images of Shiva, Ganesha, and other Hindu deities that you could barely recognize them as trucks.  Buses with men piled up top with the luggage.  Ceaseless honking as drivers signaled their intentions to one and other.  Mercedes and other high end cars were zipping around in between all the above at incredible speeds; all this without an accident to be seen.

 

We were deposited outside the Red Fort (and paying RS 40 per rickshaw for the journey) and immediately set upon by young women with children in hand – begging for food, water, money – anything that we could give them.  Later I would give them some water, but for now I couldn’t handle them – plus I realized if I gave one of them anything, I’d never make it out of there.  I only had bills as well, and, in a country where someone will work all day at hard labor for RS 5, handing out RS 20 bills seemed (about 50 cents US) seemed to be too extravagant.  We huddled together as a group, making it past the beggars and then were intercepted by the various hawkers that formed a line in the path to the Red Fort.  Postcards, maps, tourist books, Sikh moustaches, funny looking monkeys on a stick – you name it and they were probably trying to sell it to you.  With interest I engaged a postcard vendor in some bargaining – little packets of postcards were going for RS 50 apiece, 3 for RS 100 – a princely sum.  As I walked away the price dropped to 70, then 50, then how much do I want to pay?  I nodded in his direction and said I’d see him on the way out (I did, and bout 1 packet for RS 20 – probably twice what I should have paid, but still less than half his original asking price.)  Someone in our group actually paid asking price and Tsering berated her (and the rest of us for even thinking of it) for buying without asking him to negotiate for him.  There are clearly two prices – one for the locals and the other for tourists.

 

The path to the gate was lined by mobile fences, guiding us to a sandbagged enclosure about the entrance to the forts redoubt.  Soldiers armed with rifles, a machine gun squad up high, officers with pistols, all languidly watching the small number of tourists that made their way into the fort.  We made our way over to the ticket booth – two prices prominently displayed – Locals RS 10, Tourists RS 110.  After getting our tickets we headed to the entrance to the fort. 

 

Passing through the unanticipated metal detectors I sheepishly surrendered by “Plan B” commando knife which I pretty much always carried with me.  A note on this – it’s primarily for paring and peeling fruit, and the only blood it’s ever spilled is my own while sharpening.  I was taken to the commander who, toying with the 3 inch blade in one hand surveyed me as he indicated to his guards that it was OK for me to enter with the knife.  Relief must have been evident in my face as I made my way through the gate and caught up with the rest of my group.

 

We hired a guide in the Chatta Chowk, a sort of bazaar right inside the Lahore Gate.  He turned out to be entirely unsatisfactory (his command of English wasn’t sufficient) so we had him find us another who proved to be a veritable cornucopia of information about the various buildings, their history, and the sordid history of the Mughal emperors and the British Empire.

 

 

We wandered the Red Fort as a group for about three hours – an amazing place.  A good short description of the fort can be found at http://www.meadev.nic.in/tourism/forts/redfort.htm.

 

 

Finally, exhausted by the heat, and the climb to the war museum in the Naubat Khana, we rested a bit on the grass before heading back to get an auto rickshaw back to Manju Ka Tila.  On the way out we were once again accosted by hawkers and beggars.  After parting with RS 50 for 3 packs of post cards and a bottle of water for a girl with child, we negotiated for the cabs and headed out.

 

After leaving the fort we chased each other in our auto rickshaws, shooting pictures of each other as we passed one another.  The rickshaw driver got a huge laugh out of this, and, after observing us using these tremendously expensive digital cameras, tried to stiff us on the fare – RS 70 (almost double the inbound fare we negotiated earlier in the day) by saying he didn’t have change for a 100.  I was going to give him a 20 tip, but after this I got change from the rest of my group and paid exact fare.

 

Hot and thirsty we stumbled into Manju Ka Tilla in the lengthening shadows late afternoon / early evening.  After dinner I headed to the room for a much needed shower and night of sleep, and anticipating the early morning departure, I set the travel alarm to 3 AM.

 

 

March 5

 

We left Delhi in a caravan of vehicles - 3 Toyota SUVs with 14 people in all.  I'm traveling with an ever growing group of people who are great to be with - very diverse, and loads of laughs even when we're completely exhausted.  We got up at 3AM and hit the road about 4:15 AM.  In the dark we loaded the SUVs with our luggage and negotiated who would ride with whom, and then set off.

 

Even at four in the morning the roads were packed.  There are no highways like we have in the States - everything is a 4 lane road at best with tons of cars.  Lane usage is optional - at times we'd have 4 cars next to each other on the 2 lane road we were on.

 

We stopped for coffee / tea at a roadside place.  The sun was yet to come up, and it smelled as if they were burning poop in the fields (They probably were.)  The place was so filthy that we had a single cup and took off - driving another 2 hours to stop for breakfast.

A couple of people in my vehicle saw an elephant by the side of the road as we were driving; somehow I missed out, dozing off in the back seat probably.  Jupiter was somehow penetrating the soot and smoke above our heads in the predawn, and the moon was almost full.  As we left Dehli, beyond the roadside stop, we passed what must have been hundreds of people of every age (infant to octogenarian) making their way to the fields to till the land – all this at 5 AM or so.  It was eerie to see them emerge by the side of the road out of the smog that surrounded us, and unnerving to see them cross the roads that carried such heavy traffic – no one was slowing or stopping for them.

 

After another couple of hours we stopped at a much better place for a sit down breakfast.  While most my companions had eggs and toast, I tried the dhal and rice – delicious, and rounded it off with a couple of pots of tea.  We made sure to have our drivers join us, although they stayed at their own tables and Phutsok seemed to think it a horrible waste of money.

 

 

 

 

Flat, hot and dusty roads

 

Tree-lined thoroughfares with trucks stopped here and there, some blocking the way.  Cannabis grew along the shady parts of the road for miles, just waiting to be harvested.  A thin cover of dust over all turning what should have been verdant greens to grays.  The roadway frequently gives way from pavement to dirt as we happen upon road improvement projects.  Four lanes to two, to one shared by three vehicles. 

 

 

Buses, crammed full, with men riding on top in the luggage racks. Strangely, a small car sporting a CalPoly banner in the rear window.  We stop briefly for small bottles of Coke drunk through long, extremely narrow straws (hits the spot after the dust.)

 

Along the way we went through several large towns, the largest being Chandigarh, a city of about 750,000 that stretched interminably through the hot dusty day.  After forcing our way through the uncertain hysteria of many rotaries (a free for all of rickshaws, horse drawn carts, autos, trucks, Vespas and bicycles, all going at exactly the same time through the maze of the rotary) we were able to get through to the north and into the final flat part of our journey before climbing into the foothills of the Himalayas beyond.  Chandigarh was probably the most developed and westernized place I visited (outside Dehli), with a clear middle class.  Women drove their own Vespas and cars (in striking contrast to the rest of the journey), making a striking appearance as their brightly colored saris fluttered in the breeze.

 

Beyond Chandigarh we came to a set of arches, a sort of strange looking l'Arc de Triumphes (Hindi style of course), that spanned the four lane highway which we were traveling.  We had long since lost sight of the other two vehicles that were traveling with us.  As things turned out, one of the vehicles had stopped for an emergency toilet break and fallen behind the other two.  The other had gotten far ahead of us and stopped under the arch, waiting for us to catch up, disgorging the female occupants onto a grassy strip beside the road and underneath   a large set of columns that spanned the road -.)  By the time our vehicle had caught up they were surrounded by 15-20 Hindi men - all sitting about 10 feet away and gawking at this spectacle of Western women.  I, of course, had to join them in their Yogic activities – a headstand and several handstands added to the spectacle, especially the wad of 100 rupee bills that spilled out of my pocket into the heated, becalmed afternoon.  We waited about 20 minutes for the third car to catch up and then we were on our way.

 

Tomorrow is Holly, a Hindi festival of colors, and everywhere here there are people riding in trailers towed by farm equipment or horses, going from place to place where free food and fresh water are served.  Men vigorously wave to us to stop and enjoy their offerings.  Tomorrow, the driver tells us, all the young men will run about the streets with dyes of many colors, and plaster each other and everyone walking in the streets with the colors.  It’s considered an insult to refuse, and will likely result in being plastered even more heavily.  Oh, and the dye stings the eyes, won’t come out of the skin for more than a week, and will ruin you clothes.  Or so we’re told.

 

We pass through another city and are caught in an enormous traffic jam as a procession of Sikhs makes their way to a glittering temple in the center of the town.  The temple is enormous, with what must be broken glass lining its faces and spires – it’s quite spectacular, the sunlight scintillating off the temple and blinding you as you look.  People are singing in megaphones, a cacophony of music deafening us as we sit stalled in the line of traffic.  A cart pulled by a horse is laden with young boys who wave as we push out small convoy through the slow moving procession.  Old men with weathered faces, enormous mustaches and stylish turbans glance at us as we drive by – I’m worried about insulting them as we are guests in their country after all.

 

The younger men are stylishly dressed with brightly colored turbans – pinks, day-glow greens, purples – quite surprising as all the Sikhs I’ve met in the states have worn grays and blank and white and rather staid colors, but here it’s a festival of colors (right – for Holly you may be thinking, but 3 weeks from now we traverse the same ground and I make the same observation, almost experiencing it anew.)

 

Another hour or so and we’re starting to climb into the hills.  The terrain is no longer flat, and the ground has turned clay red and is getting rocky.  The lead vehicle decided to stop and flags the other two down (we’d actually driven right by and had to turn around and come back) to have lunch at a restaurant / game room on the side of the road.  The 15 of us crowd into a large, open air restaurant (and wedding palace as we’re reminded by the signs).  Out back there is a beautiful green lawn, an artificial lake with paddle boats of all things.  I think they have a skeet range, and in the basement there are video games (several of the group go off to check this out.)

 

The husband / wife proprietors come and dote on us – their son has moved to the South Bay in California (Fremont? Hayward?), and they’re amazed to have such a large group of nearly neighbors drop by.  Our food appears – delicious – and the obligatory group photos taken.  After lunch we enjoy small cups of Nescafe chai (out of an automated machine, it tastes great.)  Before climbing back in our Range Rovers they have us pose for a group photo with them.  And off we go.

 

The roads narrow, becoming tracks almost – single lane roads that switch back as we climb and climb.  Through hand hewn tunnels a single lane wide (no traffic signals here, you just hope no one comes through as you’re traveling.)  The trucks seem to have supreme right of way out here.  Past an ancient fort up on the skyline above us the other side of a river.  Over bridges, up the other side, passing slow moving cars on insanely tight curves, the valley’s bottom miles below us just over the precipitous drop off to the side of the road.  A stop for photographing monkeys by the side of the road and down into the Kangra valley, which is cloaked in a smoggy haze.  In the distance are snow clad mountains, towering over everything else – a promise of clean air and distant views – I’ll have to climb those I tell myself.

 

We drove for 13 1/2 hours to get from New Dehli to McLeod Ganj - It's actually where His Holiness the Dalai Lama maintains his government in exile (not Dharamsala as I’d thought on the way out here), and a good 3 - 4000 feet higher up than Dharamsala which we drove through on the way.  (I’ll go to Dharamsala later in the trip).

 

It’s quite the cluster as we arrive.  The Kalsang Guesthouse is up TIPA Way (for Tibetan Institute of Performing Arts – located about a mile further up the road) and the guesthouse is up a set of stairs (never counted them, but probably 60-70 in all) that wander through a couple of other buildings that cling to the mountainside. 

 

We’ve a ton of luggage (personal luggage – as things turn out we all over packed with warm clothes, clothing to donate to an orphanage, medicines for the same) that is dropped off behind the vehicles in the dusty road.  We look up the stairs (stretching at this point to what point we have no idea,) and wonder how we’re getting the luggage up.  Miraculously (actually through the devices of Phutsok who runs up to the guesthouse,) a set of house boys (late teens) show up and carry our luggage up to check in.  After much ado, the party figures out the sleeping arrangements – somehow I’ve wound up with a single room (which turns out to be a blessing later in the trip).

 

March 6

 

After my first really good night's sleep, and a frigid shower (because I didn't know I needed to flip the circuit breaker outside in the hall way) I got up at 5AM and decided to wander the streets.

 

The Kalsang is precariously placed about 50 feet above one of the narrow alleyways that serve for streets here, on the side of a mountain above town.  There's a balcony outside my door that gives a panoramic vista of the town as well as the valley far below and the mountains to the north (we're a third of the way up a 14,000 foot mountain, and Triund looms above us – a plateau at 9,000 feet).  In the dark the sky above is full of stars – most I haven’t seen in years due to the light pollution in San Francisco.  The mountains are looming shadows to the north, the town a set of lights, stretches out below me and the Kangra river valley is lost in the mists below.

 

To the street below.

 

Wandering the streets in the darkness of the town, I came across a pack of dogs - they barked and snarled and looked viscous as they checked me out, but I hushed them and they came up tails wagging.  One of them was a mother dog, still nursing, and she has 2 pups - latter in the afternoon I saw her and her pups more clearly, and their father lying in the street right next to them.  Apparently the only dogs that people actually own are little fluffy white dogs – breed unknown – every other dog is a free agent on the streets.

 

His Holiness was to give a puja (a cleansing ritual) at 6 AM, so I decided to follow the monastics down the otherwise deserted alleyways to the temple and see where it was.  The alleys, which last night had been bustling with street merchants, vendors, and beggars, were abandoned except for the monastics and a few Europeans that were also out.

 

I walked the 2 KM or so to the temple, but didn't go in because I didn't have my pass yet (more about that later).  So I got some Tibetan bread from a street merchant (sort of like an oversized English muffin) and headed back.  They’ve set up just inside the main Temple Gates – a tarp strung up across the cooking area – they have bread and the makings for soups that they assemble at the last moment when you order.  The shops were starting to open - I saw one where a family of 10 or so had rolled out of their shop and they were all bathing and cooking breakfast in the street outside their shop.

 

I spent most of the day today standing in a little antechamber outside the Tibetan security office waiting to get my pass to His Holiness' talk starting tomorrow.  We'd been told that they would open at 9 AM, and they finally turned up at a quarter to 1 in the afternoon.  Lot's of fun talking with the assorted trekkers, college kids and WAY serious dharma bums that showed up to this teaching.  Everyone was pretty good about the uncertainty and the tight quarters.  And we could come and go (bathroom breaks, coffee / tea runs etc.) since 9 of us were on line together.

A bathroom break and lunch break reminded me that today is Holy – there are many young (teens and early twenties) Hindis running around throwing colors on people.  Up here they’re civilized about it – they ask and respect it if you have a firm “no” in response, but a moment’s hesitation and you’re covered with Pinks and Yellows and Reds (lots of red).  Irena (from Switzerland – she and 3 of her friends are right behind us in line and has accompanied me to the bathroom and in search of food) places her hands in Namaste and shakes her head no – “please, please – no thank you”.  Annie, one of my party, is less fortunate – she apparently said OK to one young man, and was plastered by several – but her face looks cool in its multi-colored splendor.  We return to the line with papayas, bananas, lime to squeeze over them, momos (little steamed pot stickers with blazing hot sauce to dip in) and chais from the Sunrise Café across the street.

 

Finally one person showed up and processed applications - since I was about 7th in line (the line was about 800 people in all stretching down the street) I was out pretty quickly.  I was a little worried that my passport photo wasn’t standard sized (as I’d made them myself), but I needn’t have worried; the security officer simply cut out a silhouette and pasted it to my badge, stapling the other to my application.  Rs 5 later I emerged, the proud owner of the right to enter the teachings tomorrow.

 

The rest of the day went quickly - a trip to the temple to stake out a place to sit (mostly taping pieces of scrounged cardboard with our names written on them to the thin reed mats that have been rolled out over the concrete floor), circumambulating the temple (or doing the kora as it’s called) and dinner. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Annie got creamed by the Holly partiers– the color took a couple of days to come off, but her outside matched her inside disposition for days following Holly.

 

 

Dinner seems to be a trial – I guess in every group there’s someone who HAS to lead – ours seems to have 2 or three, who vie for the right to select where we’ll go, and when.  We’re still new to the locale, so we cluster together this evening (safety in numbers?) and go in search of a place to eat.  Lonely Planet says the Snow Lion or the Shangri-La are good places (they’re also right next to each other on Middle Way (or Cow Poop Alley as we take to calling it after the obvious…) so we head out en masse for them.  After checking them both out, and discovering neither of them can handle a party of our size, we split into two groups for dinner, and I eat in the Shangri-La.  I can say now, after the trip, that this was about the best restaurant in the town for Tibetan fare.  Run by monks from a monastery, it’s homey, pictures of His Holiness and the Karmapa and other incarnations of the Pachen Lama hang on the wall above diners, and monks bring out your servings as they’re prepared – which can lead to a rather prolonged dining experience, and eating cold food if you don’t dig in right when your plate (or bowl) is given to you.

 

 

 

 

After dinner I go in search of a zafu (meditation cushion) to bring down to the temple for sitting, but only find some thin square cushions (nice colors in reds and purples, lousy for a sit though).  I buy two (RS 90 apiece) to carry down tomorrow.  It isn’t until day 10 or so that I find an honest to goodness zafu with carry handle (RS 120) on the side of Temple road after forgetting to bring my cushions that day.

 

Tomorrow the teachings start around 1 PM - we're going to try and get there early to have a place to sit.  Later this week I'll probably hike up into the Himalayas (I hear there's a glacier within a day trek from here)

 

March 7

 

 

This morning Henny and Jennie and Laura and I got up and circumambulated the temple (or walked the kora as it’s known) - it's about a two mile walk with some very steep climbs and a breathtaking view of the valley below.  This emerges as one of my daily rituals here – a good hike in the pre-dawn.

 

To get to the start of the kora you have to walk past the main entrance to the Temple, down the hill and past a Shiva Temple, which even at 6 AM has loud music emanating from within.  The path itself is paved and about 1 foot wide – not really wide enough to pass someone who is walking slower (or prostrating themselves on the ground after each step), so a long slow line often results, with people quickly (but respectfully) passing in the wider areas.

 

On the backside of the temple - about half way through the walk, is a prayer site - three huge prayer wheels, and scores (probably over 100) of smaller ones - you walk past and spin the wheels which are covered with Tibetan prayers – every time one of the wheels spins around you've sent a message of hope and goodwill into the universe (Each is inscribed with the Tibetan for Om Mani Padme Hung) - a nice thought.  I try to keep my mind focused on this thought and find it comforting and enabling, but somehow the prostrations almost everyone else goes through seem too much – seems the ego clings tightly.

 

Behind the prayer wheels and up the hill are three Stupas with holy relics, and the entire area is covered by prayer flags - there's a solid wall of them in their Yellows and Greens and Whites and Reds.  Each flag has a complex prayer that as the flag waves in the breeze is again broadcast into the universe.  (Apparently you can’t simply purchase a flag and put it up – you should have it blessed by your lama first.)

 

We walk back to our rooms and then head off to the Gaeki (spelling I’m not sure of) which seems to be the best place to eat breakfast in McLeod Ganj.  Afterwards we all rush back to our rooms, gather our sitting materials (mine consist of a day pack with the core teaching texts, some bananas and tangerines, a couple of bottles of water, and a transistor radio with headsets), and head down to the temple to claim our spots.  Good thing that we arrived early (10:30 AM) because it was starting to fill up.  Cameras aren’t allowed so I’ve no pictures of the masses of humanity or His Holiness inside the teachings.

 

Sitting nearby are a Russian party against the wall and another in the open seating area, next to me is a woman from Germany (from a town up the Rhine from Wiesbaden where Petra and I lived so many years ago), and her companion (chance from here?, well known from Europe? I’m not sure) Fran from (you guessed it) France.  Up towards the wall next to Ellen is Drew – we double-take on meeting someone with the same name – who is ex-British military communications.  Given my background (Russian Voice Intercept) we immediately bond.  He’s reading a book by Thich Naht Hahn – not Living Buddha Living Christ, but something similar, and I ask him how he’s finding it.  Turns out he’s on about page 8, so we agree to catch up later in the teachings to hear about his findings.

 

The teachings began around 1 PM with His Holiness coming out around 12:30 to chanting and much fanfare.  Westerners listen to translations of the Tibetan teachings (some simultaneous, others paraphrases depending on the acumen of the translator) that are broadcast over ancient low wattage transmitters – 8 batteries in a row, single frequency, about half a watt.  Today there is absolutely NO English transmission.  It’s humorous to watch all the English speaking attendees moving their antennae around, pointing this way and that – there’s a faint signal, no it’s gone – oh I though it was 91.5, or is it 92?  Here’s the French broadcast, the Chinese, the Russian, but no English.  After a while the grumbling starts – I came all this way and I can’t even understand what’s going on? 

 

It’s hot under the Gere (yes Richard) roof that defines the Western Section, the Tibetans of course sit out under the blazing sun (on later days it turns into a patchwork of multi colored tarps that are strung to the building uprights and trees growing the in the yard, even later the Tibetans slowly begin to infiltrate the Western Section, and westerners infiltrate the outdoor area in search of better radio transmission, but I get ahead of myself).  Monkeys scamper over the roof with a chatter and noisy footsteps, and throw things at each other.  Birds soar overhead in the cloudless sky.  His Holiness sings on in the melodious tones of reading and commentary.

 

The tension continues to rise – Matt leaves in a huff (can’t blame him) and I’d be ready to follow, except I’ve tuned into the Russian broadcast and can follow along.  The translation is poor and halting – basically paraphrasing every now and then, but I can understand that His Holiness is giving a recitation of his qualifications to give the teachings we’re about to partake of.  So and so taught him this, and so and so that – all high lamas in their own right, and thus he’s in a position to transmit the teachings to the audience.  He repeatedly reflects how he is but a simple monk, not enlightened, and it is in that capacity he will be teaching.

 

I’ll review the method of teaching later, but the four texts we’re using for this year’s teachings are:

 

1) Words of My Perfect Teacher by Patrul Rinpoche

2) Kindly Bent to Ease Us (check this one) by Longchenpa.

3) The Story of Milarepa

4) 100,000 songs of Milarepa.

 

Sogan Rinpoche, the lama with whom the group I’ve traveled with from the States studies has compiled a Tibetan book for the Tibetan speakers, the rest of us have either lugged the texts from where ever we’ve come from, or tried to buy them in the few bookstores.  Many westerners are reading the Tibetan versions along with His Holiness.

 

So, His Holiness is nothing if not a jokester - I mean this, of course in the most respectful way possible - but he has this childish laugh and lilting to his speech which, if you've seen Seven Years in Tibet, is well captured by the film's child actors. He says the most profound and simple things with this laugh, a "hmpf" as he changes gears or directions, that the translator can not capture.

 

Enough on the context, on with the words that I think were perhaps the most meaningful to me in the entire trip – I can’t remember when they came, so I’ll put them right up front where they belong, sort of the executive summary of the entire experience for me.  Very simply –

 

Blessed are those that challenge us, for where else would we find the fuel to grow?

 

Life is full of so many challenges - the welfare people in the pews of my Church (First Unitarian Universalist Society of San Francisco) that take away from the blue blood atmosphere we all, (certainly?), would prefer to find ourselves in (I cannot emphasis enough the sarcasm here in this statement).  The paranoid, schizophrenic, or otherwise mentally disturbed that make us wonder if we'll be alright turning our backs for a moment, or when they'll next have an outburst.  The other idiots on the road that inconsiderately push their way in front of us (hey – I’m supposed to be first aren’t I?).  The interminable wait in the supermarket checkout line – somehow I always chose the slowest.  All these challenges face us and in their own, karmic ways, if we’re listening, help us to grow.

 

We can react with abhorrence, with fear, with rejection and withdrawal, with anger as we're often wont to do.  Or perhaps we can realize the true blessing these challenges represent - the fractured mirror in which we can really see ourselves for a moment - stripped of our pretenses and facades, and - maybe, just maybe - they can act as a catalyst for the much needed growth we all could use.  Lately I’ve taken to choosing the longest line, and letting others in front of me.  I’m trying to not react to the lane cutters on the roads, and whenever I’m mindful, let the other person go first, even if they got to the intersection after me.  Oh, and to resist the urge to flip off the person behind me who honks at me for not rushing through the intersection, preferably ahead of everyone else so as to get out of their way as quickly as possible.

 

I've yet to meet an enlightened being (unless it’s Thich Naht Hahn) - His Holiness freely and frequently admits to any and all comers that he isn't one.  Perhaps if we all looked at the world a little more like him do we'd be a little closer. 

 

I leave the teachings this day a little disappointed – I hear all around me mutterings of “I came all this way and I can’t even understand what I’m hearing” and think to myself how true.  Ellen and Carrie remind me that it isn’t important that you understand the teachings, that’s not critical to receive the transmission, but somehow I’m not buying it – even here on Day One I can’t let go of the fact (as I see it) that a Spiritual Journey is inherently a unique path for each individual, and that what’s important is NOT checking the box on this or that transmission, or just showing up, but how you process the event and its inner teachings / meanings, and what you personally take away from it.  I hope that the next day will bring better radio transmission as I make my way out in the sea of crimson robes to Temple Road and the 2 kilometer walk back up to my guesthouse, a seated toilet, and at some point, dinner.

 

 

March 8

 

Today was a real scorcher - clear skies and little wind.  I definitely over packed on the warm clothes so far.  Today rather than give a recounting of what happened I thought I'd give some impressions of what's going on around me.

 

Cows

 

There are cows all over the place.  In the alleyways that serve for streets, on the hillsides, everywhere.  These are large, black haired cows with horns and lazy brown eyes.  They wander the streets eating the garbage - people drive them away from their shops and stands with sticks or by throwing buckets of water on them. The water seems a blessing as most of them are covered in cow poop, which, by the way, you need to watch out for as you walk through the streets.  I'm wearing only sandals so this is some matter of concern for me as I wend my way through the alleys in the dark in the morning.  The amazing thing is how everyone takes them for granted - there's absolutely nothing unusual or wrong with a cow wandering about in the street blocking traffic.

Traffic

 

Strangely there are traffic jams here – I wouldn't even attempt driving in this place and there are trucks (with puffs of diesel smoke clogging your lungs) and buses and cars and range rovers and auto rickshaws (little 4 wheelers that putt about with horns like geese) and motor cycles and Vespas - all in a space you can barely walk through much less think about driving.  The drivers plow through the crowds of people, madly honking their horns to let you know that they're coming.  People nonchalantly step aside and cover their mouths and noses as the fumes of diesel and dust spews about them.  In the bus turnaround people climb down from the top of the bus where they’ve ridden, at least for the 10 kms up the twisting road from the valley below.

 

Air

 

There is very little of it in the town.  In the morning the street sweepers appear from out of the woodwork (literally, I saw one of them unroll a tarp that they'd wrapped themselves in by the side of the road and start sweeping). Dust billows out and fills the alleys -you'd really rather not breathe the dust, knowing it contains cow dung and every other form of trash known to man.  Later in the morning I see them cart the piles of trash to a burn site where the plastic bottles and wrappers of many different things are incinerated - black plumes of smoke trailing into the still air.  A constant haze hangs over the town, and the Kangra river valley - 3-4000 feet below us - disappears into haze almost immediately.  This must have been a breathtaking place 100 years ago, now it's barely habitable from a breathing standpoint.

There are public kerosene tanks on the sides of some of the roads and one of them leaks out onto TIPA way just down the hill from my guesthouse - it makes me nauseous when I walk by so I don't - there's a long cut that avoids it that I climb up - a small set of stairs then up the exposed concrete piping (complete with holes in them - watch out in the dark) to another set of stairs.

 

Gwas and Kas

 

Really – supposedly these are the names of the giant eagles (gwas) and the smaller hawks (kas)  that soar everywhere. The eagles are amazingly brave - they swoop down into the town’s streets to snatch things from the ground and fly off, barely missing the maze of power lines haphazardly strung over head.  I saw one make three attempts at the same thing (outside a roadside slaughter house where they dis-assemble goats) only to be chased away by a vendor.

 

The Gwas are golden colored on their undersides and dark brown or black on their tops.  The Kas are dark brown all over, and they seem to fly along with the Gwas. It's beautiful in the morning to see them soaring over the mountains.

 

Food

 

I've been eating mostly Tibetan fare since I got to McLeod Ganj (except tonight we had a really good Indian dinner).

 

In the mornings we go to the Sunrise cafe (opens at 7:45) for "the best Chai in Asia" - little glass cups of steaming hot milk tea with ginger, cardamom and other spices.  Actually it's become somewhat of a ritual to go there several times a day - "Let's get some of the best Chai in Asia" someone will say, and off we go.  This is also one of the gathering points for the regulars (people who return year after year), so it’s a place to learn what’s up in town and get guidance.

 

The Tibetan food is awesome - I've had mostly soups for dinner since getting here - noodles or chopped pasta in vegetable broth with vegetables and eggs.  For breakfast it’s a large bowl of curds and honey, or tsampa (mashed fried barley paste - sort of like pureed oatmeal) with honey and bananas.  Sometimes its Tibetan bread with butter and honey, but always it’s accompanied by several glasses of hot chai.

 

Lunch is some fresh tangerines and bananas purchased from a street stall, and if I'm really lucky Tibetan momos (sort of like steamed pot stickers stuffed with vegetables).

 

The prices are ridiculously inexpensive- the breakfast I described, plus a couple of chais will run about RS (Rupees) 70-or about $1.70  Dinner with tea and a lhasi will be around RS80 ($1.90)- Tangerines are RS25 (60cents) a kilo.

 

So - I tire - it's been a big day today - we hiked up to a meditation center (Toshita Meditation center, one of a couple of meditations centers on the ridgeline above the town) in the morning for some additional teachings - I was completely winded by the time we got there.  Then rush back for the teachings (yea! the radios work today – apparently yesterday they had set the antenna up wrapped about a metal support column and the signal grounded before even making its way into the ether – really, as if they hadn’t even taken Radio Propagation Theory 101) and then back for dinner.  It was a very full day yet somehow everything happened at a very leisurely pace.

 

 

March 9

 

So today was fairly uneventful in the scheme of things - I decided to skip the morning review session at the Toshita Meditation Center and focus on getting a small monk's bag to carry the things I need to His Holiness' teachings - my daypack from the backpack I got is actually too large to fit in between everyone's legs. So I wandered down into the town and finally found one.  I also picked up a tin cup so I could have tea when the monks come into the crowd to serve tea (after the first 2 1/2 hours of teachings) and a new radio in hopes of better receptivity.  All this took long enough that I was ready to head to the temple around10:30 AM (For a 1 PM teaching - just to be sure that I have a space).

Picking up some bananas and tangerines along the way (a kilo of each to share), I went through security and found the place about 1/2 full (in other words almost empty).  The usual crowd around me has changed today - there's a new couple for the USA - not very talkative, a woman from Ingelshiem (near Mainz across the river from where Petra and I used to live in Germany).  There's Barry - he's lived in McLeod Ganj for 20 years studying Tibetan and the Dharma, and now lives in Auckland, NZ - he's an herbal doctor.  Barry's interesting to watch during the teachings - he reads aloud from the Tibetan manuscripts and chats with the monks amongst us in Tibetan of course.  There's Matt - he's a freelance journalist who's a permanent resident in Kathmandu.  Used to work at the Smithsonian, now he travels to Tibet 3-4 times a year and writes for the Tibetans.  Jessica and her partner (from Oakland across the Bay) have dropped out of sight (although I run into her partner at the Sunrise Cafe later in the evening over a cup of chai).

 

Today there seems to be a lot of space around us at first - later people squeeze into the free space but at first it's great - room to adjust my legs and everything.

 

So a little on sitting for 5-6 hours.

 

The floor is concrete with a thin mat over it - I haven't brought a mat to the teachings yet - so after 20 minutes or so my ankles go numb and I'm compelled to shift.  When it's tight this always has me bumping into people - they're generally pretty fine with this - since they're bumping into me as well.  It's cooler today - there was fog in the morning and it's overcast - almost seemed to threaten rain early in the day, so I don't sweat quite as much (until the afternoon when the sun burns through the clouds and it warms up.)

 

After the first 2 1/2 hours I'm ready for the tea break - we've covered the readings from Longchenpa's Kindly Bent to Ease Us and Patrul Rinpoche's Words of my Perfect Teacher - His Holiness reading the core text, monks and Tibetans (and Barry of course) following, some mouthing the words, along in their texts, and the English translator reading from the English version as we read along.  Every now and then His Holiness will break into a discussion on the personal meaning of a particular portion of the reading, or its implication for the world.

 

This is one of the three classical forms of instruction in Tibetan Buddhism (the others being pure Text Reading or pure Dharma talk with no reading).  (I've learned something at the Toshita Center after all...)

 

My legs are numb - my back is killing me.  I try twists and adjusting my posture / pose to no avail.  At tea break we all stand.  Food comes out and is shared - my bananas and tangerines disappear in a moment - I score some almonds and a couple of cookies.  The monastics sing prayers for the tea break which runs about 10 - 15 minutes and then we settle in for the second half of the teachings - continuation of the story of Milarepa.

 

About 10 minutes into the reading the monks make it to us with the tea.  At Matt's suggestion I make sure I'm getting sweet tea (as opposed to Tibetan butter tea).  My cup is 500ml - very large, and the monk fills it nearly to the brim.  Three other people pass theirs down to me to have filled and we all settle in for a good tea and the story telling.

 

For a while the story is so entrancing that I forget I'm now sweating and my back is killing me.  My knees ache.  I itch everywhere.

 

So Milarepa - this is a great story; I'm going to look for the translation of it while I'm here.  Matt is in contact with a filmmaker (who also made "the Cup" - a movie everyone says we need to see) that's filmed it and is in final editing - looking for a channel into the US.  Anyways, Milarepa was born into a very rich family and has a sister.  His father dies when he's about 7 and leaves everything to him once he reaches majority, and entrusts the management of his estate (houses, livestock, gold etc) to his brother - Milarepa's Uncle.  You guessed it - Milarepa's uncle is evil - he treats them as slaves, takes everything and when Milarepa hits majority says that there's nothing for him.  He says get out of my house you ungrateful wretches and don't come back unless you have an army or huge sorcery. Milarepa's mother is furious, sells everything she has left, and sends him to study Black Magic with a lama.  Milarepa perseveres and learns the magic of creating hailstorms, returns to his village in time to catch his aunt and uncle in their house with a bunch of wedding guests (who all by the way sup[ported his uncle against him) and destroys the house and all its inhabitants.  From here the story gets a bit obscure - you'll have to read it, but it's a lesson in impermanence and the destruction of ego on the path to Buddhahood.  Milarepa in the end becomes a true Buddha, and returns from Mount Kailash, flying through the air.

 

So this reading goes on for an interminable period of time - my back is ready to go out - both upper and lower.  I fidget, unable to keep still.  I look at my watch, especially when His Holiness finishes the reading and goes on to read from Milarepa's 100,000 songs - another text that we're covering.  Finally he decides enough is enough (4:45 - we've been sitting for almost 6 hours) and the teaching is over.

 

Standing up, my legs feel like jelly, my knees aren't there, just sharp pain.  I have a pressure in my bladder like you wouldn't believe and it's a long walk (about 1.5 miles uphill) back to the room - I won't use the bathrooms here after the experience the other day.  I walk quickly back to the room.

 

 

Tomorrow I plan to hike up to a glacier in the mountains - should be about 11,000 to 12,000 feet high.  We need to get back in time for dinner with Sogan Rinpoche - I'm tagging along with the group on just about everything. 

 

March 10

 

Hiking the Himalayas

Today is Tibetan Uprising Day, so there are no teachings in memorium.

Whew am I bushed - I got up at 5:30 AM and did the kora (the circumambulation of His Holiness' temple and residence) and made it back for breakfast.  After that I went on a 35 km (there and back again) hike with a 6500 foot vertical ascent - we climbed from  McLeod Ganj (about 5000 feet) to a saddle just short of the path to the pass between the Kangra valley and the next valley (don't know its name right now.)  I was hip deep in snow at the saddle (around 11,500 feet) when we decided to turn around.  To put this in perspective, I climbed higher than the Sierras rise to in one day and returned.

 

The path we took (Dale and I) seemed as though it was a couple of thousand years old, but apparently was built by colonial British in the 19^th century  - It's built up out of stone blocks, and most of the difficult parts that would have entailed climbing are bridged with stairs, ramps, or causeways.  It was spectacular.

Climbing through 7,000 feet we hit our first rest stop - a tea house where the proprietor has hauled up a small store by burro or donkey.  Peering down into the hazy valley below, the entire hill side was covered in rhododendrons - most in full flaming red/pink bloom.  We met up with an Aussie (Cory), who's lived here for the past year who told us that they would be in full bloom in about 2 weeks, covering the hillside with their flames - we won't be back up here for that unfortunately.  At this point we also picked up with a couple of young Monks from Nepal that were climbing today.

Climbing higher we got to 9,000 feet to a plateau called Triund where there was another tea shack awaiting us where we had lunch (beats carrying it up ourselves).  We had the tea shack proprietor make us chais and an egg - pancake omelet (sort of like a crepe), and shared the meal with the monks and Cory and admired the alpine meadow we were in, the ravens that swarmed about, the gwas that soared even higher than us, and the bright blue flowers that had pushed up out of the grass, despite the snow pack still on the ground around us.

 

Above us is a stupa, high on a rocky crag, surrounded by prayer flags.  Immediately below it are a few caves, complete with rocks forming walls to cover their entrances.   Cory and the Monks tell us that that's where travelers spend their nights - Cory tells us how he spent a few nights in one the previous summer, and how a large black dog (which happens to be sitting next to us trying to score a meal too) joined him and enjoyed some crackers, but refused to eat the chocolate he offered.  Later he tells us that it was foolish of him to let the dog sleep with him - apparently the leopards that inhabit the mountains are very fond of dog, and might have gone into the cave to eat him.

 

We climb up out of the alpine meadow - itself a saddle on the climb up.  Above us - to the east and west - stretch mountains - the pass we're heading for is 14,500 feet height, and the peaks go up another few hundred feet - this is the first range of the Himalayas and it's already taller than just about every mountain in North America.  The entire surroundings are awe inspiring, especially as I'm here climbing.

 

Dale and I head off a few minutes ahead of the monks and Cory - we're on a strict timeline as we need to make dinner with Rinpoche tonight - we've agreed that, no matter where we are, at 1 PM we're turning back - shooting to climb down in 3 hours what took 5 hours to get up.

 

We get lost - somehow we miss a turn on the path and head down some goat traces.  It's sort of scary - we're holding on to tufts of grass, traversing a slope that drops off at maybe 60 - 70 degrees for at least 2000 feet - if we slipped I don't think we'd be coming back.  We scramble up several hundred feet and I see a flash of a crimson robe above - a sigh of relief.

 

Up on the trail we chase after the monks - my head is pounding - we're at about 10,500 feet now, have climbed about a mile, and every step up the mountain is painful.  I have to stop for a while as altitude sickness sets in.  Resting a while, we press on - we have to traverse an area where the snow has completely covered the path, and there's a 200 foot cliff at the edge of the snow.  Things get very vivid to me - every step is a live moment - step forward = I've here = step forward = I'm here.  Not a single thought except the focus on the next step - I feel totally alive in the moment in a way that I understand my walking practice is supposed to get me.

 

Somehow we traverse the field (understanding we'll have to do it again on the way back) and head further up.  It's 12:40.  Dale asks if we can turn back at the next switchback if we don't see the saddle we're shooting for.  I'm non-committal.  We reach the switchback, round the curve of the mountain and - no saddle, but it looks like a clear shot now - the trail is leveling out, well defined.  We're above the tree line and standing in snow.  I say I want to try the next one and take off.  Quickly I walk until we hit a clear filed of snow.  Amazingly I have a burst of energy and run across the field - I want to make it - I'm jogging, then running (it's 11,000 feet or more now) with no ill effect.  I crest the horizon and there we are - the monks are resting in a snow field on some rocks and beyond them the pass stretches into the sky - its top obscured by the clouds that are precipitating off the snow melt in the sun.

 

We get to the monks, wading hip deep through the snow (I'm in sneakers and a short sleeve shirt).  On two sides of us it heads down, behind us there’s a summit, maybe 500 feet above where we are, ahead of us the pass heads up - a 60 degree angle, completely covered in snow.

 

There are some little stone huts a little below us - I'm told for those making it this far and needing to shelter for the night.  It's a four day hike into the next valley.

 

We have a snowball fight, take pictures, and then turn around to head back.

 

On the way back we're hit with a hail and rainstorm - all that snowmelt precipitating out of the sky on us.  I meet a woman (Ol'ga) from Yaroslavl (Russia, outside of Moscow) who's been traveling in India for 6 months when we get to the tea shack and get a chance to use my Russian for the first time in a decade - I'm pretty good she tells me.

We pause for photos and then head down from Triund. 

 

 

 

 

 

All the way down my knees and ankles ache.  But we make good time and are back to the rooms by 4 PM - right on schedule.

 

After a quick shower we head down to the Ashoka – supposedly the best Indian Restaurant in town (but we find a better one later).  As today is Tibetan Uprising Day, all of the Tibetan businesses are closed – which means that most the restaurants in town are shut down.  Fortunately we’ve reserved a large table for dinner – we have about 20 people in all.  Rinpoche, his brother and family (including Tsering and Phuntsok) and the rest of us fill almost the entire second floor of the restaurant.  Dinner is a fixed menu (Terry and Greg picked the menu for everyone) and the dishes arrive sporadically through the meal.  For almost 2 hours we eat and talk – every five minutes someone pokes their head upstairs in search of a place to sit, wide eyed views the spectacle in front of them (this looks a lot like the Last Supper with some humor), and heads downstairs.  I’m tired and worn out from the hike, and the meal can’t end soon enough for me.  About 4 liters of water later, we’re settling the tab (Rinpoche and family having departed), and I’m free to head to the Internet Café and write this up, and then to head back to the room for another shower and a brief bit of reading before turning the light off.

 

I'll sleep well tonight.

 

11 March

 

After trying to eat my breakfast, I feel terrible and really concerned - I wondered if I'd gotten food poisoning or something close to it.  I slept until about noon (from 8:30) in fits and starts - stomach aching, popping Pepto-Bismol and generally feeling sicker than I have in a while.  Around noon I woke and felt like I needed to go down to the teachings so I pulled myself together and headed out.  In retrospect I understand this was probably my body recovering from the hike and altitude effects, and maybe a little de-hydration, but in the moment it certainly felt like food poisoning.

 

I'd already decided not to go into the teachings proper (to avoid the crushing of the crowds), but to sit outside in the shade somewhere and listen there so I could move around if I wanted to.  I sat down on the grass and settled in, only to find I couldn't get reception, so I moved further down the terrace I was sitting in.  Wandering about I found some semblance of a signal and again settled in.  For about 45 minutes I sat there and tried to get the station clearly, finally I accomplished this by using two radios - one as an antenna multiplier.

 

While I was sitting there a cow wandered down the steps and amongst us - looking here and there - before heading down the next stairs.  It was sort of disconcerting - we're all sitting and this, what - 1000 pound? cow with long pointy horns to boot, comes meandering through us.

 

Finally the broadcast worked, just in time to find out we were reading the Hell Realms chapter (the one chapter out of Patrul Rinpoche’s book I can't abide by) - so I packed up and left.

 

The rest of the day I tried to download pictures from my camera and send them (unsuccessfully, the internet connection here at times leaves a lot to be desired), and wandered the streets.  I was looking for some spare cloth to mend the hole that's appeared in my blue jeans' knees.  I did find a tailor that will fix them - but I have to wait for my other pair to come out of the laundry tomorrow first.  I couldn't find any new pants that I wanted to buy.

 

Then I got Mustafa'd.  Mustafa is a Kashmiri vendor who is down for the first part of the teachings before heading back to his village.  He's got a tremendous assortment of carpets that have been made in his village and travels to large gatherings to sell them in a cooperative manner.  I'd been in his shop two days ago with another of the group on our way to dinner (she was buying a runner for her mother) and he'd shown some wonderful carpets to us -   one of which I wanted for a wall hanging (these really are too good to put on the floor with cats).

 

Long story, but he's packing up today and wanted me to come back in.  So a little while later and some not too intensive bargaining, I bought an exquisite 3 1/2  x 5 foot hand woven silk rug off him and arranged to have it shipped home.  It should get there in a couple of weeks.  My thought is to hang it in the entry hall as a wall hanging - I think its gold hues will go well with the blue.

 

After this I went up to the hotel to read a bit and recover, and then off to dinner.  At dinner I was appalled to see the kitchen staff (washing dishes) were kids no older than my 10 year old daughter Camille, exhaustedly wiping the dishes I was about to eat off - I won't be eating there again (the Snow Lion), but something tells me that this is common practice.  It seriously took away from the dining experience.

 

So some slices of life from the day -

 

Beggars

 

They're everywhere - twisted, deformed, bandaged, filthy, pitiful, legless, crying out "money money" as I walk by.  Most of these I've grown inured to, however the most pitiful are the women with their children in tow - they haven't bathed in days.  If you give a rupee to one of them they all surround you - and they're tenacious - one followed me up the hill for a quarter mile (money money).

 

Latter a young boy (again about Camille's age) came up to me asking if I needed something repaired (I've seen him repairing shoes - he's repaired two of my company's shoes already).  However I'm wearing my Tevas that don't need any fixing, so I told him no.  He asks me a series of questions (You from America?  From where?  First time in India?  How long?) repeating the questions as if I haven't answered them.   Finally he gets to the point – “you buy me milk?  Please, very hungry, sisters very hungry.”  Lonely Planet has called this one out as a genuine scam - you buy the milk and they then sell it back to the vendor - I move on feeling vaguely uncomfortable after telling him no once again.

 

Food

 

So the food here is tremendous - I'm trying to eat Tibetan as often as possible.  They have marvelous soups - Thangtup (I believe) is a chopped noodle soup with all sorts of vegetables in it.  You put hot peppers in it and have a fire pot of sorts.  Lots of curds (yoghurt) with honey and fruit, tsampa for breakfast (roasted barley that's cooked into a sort of paste - basically a cream of wheat styled from barley).

 

We've eaten Indian twice up here at the Ashoka Restaurant (named after the famous Indian warlord Ashok who unified much of India in a series of bloody conquests, only to convert to Buddhism and renounce his thrown and all it entailed).  The dhal is one I've never had before - pinto beans with black lentils.  (Makhani dhal)

12 March

 

Dusk - the sky quickly changes shade from light blue to dark blue to purple, an azure brownish haze on the western horizon where the Kangra valley leads off to the north and west.  Stars peek out over head - Venus shining in mighty glory on the horizon, Mars somewhere overhead in the darkening sky, Jupiter rising above the Himalayas to the east.  Orion girds his mighty belt almost directly overhead and as the sky continues to darken a multitude of stars, usually hidden from sight appear.

 

Moments before true dusk began to strike we had arrived back at the Kalsang Guest House, full from a meal at the Tibet house.  Dale's lights were off and he immediately went for the candles - "Damn, power's out in my room again."

 

I flip on the switch to the room that is to the left of every hotel room in India (at least the one's I've seen so far) and walk over to his bed to flick on the night light - it comes on, only to suddenly go out.  Oh - it blew the light, I think to myself - then I notice that all the lights in the hotel have gone out - I peer out his door on the veranda, which over looks the town of McLeod Ganj.   No, let me rephrase that - all the power in the city has gone out.  Just another evening in McLeod Ganj.  We were lucky to have decided to eat early I think - I'm not sure how many places will be open - perhaps they've all lite candles and made a romantic evening of it all - somehow I'd expect that they'd be prepared.

 

So more observations as I type in the dark.  Today I went in search of a new pair of pants - my blue jeans having split apart at the knee.  The first pair I purchased were blue jeans - size 36 purportedly at a stand in the street right outside the Chorten downtown.  The Chorten in a sort of temple in the center of town - it rises above most the buildings in an almost pagoda style, and one the ground floor is a circuit of prayer wheels that you walk clockwise about, spinning them and sending their messages reverberating into the universe.  Om mani padma hung or the equivalent.  Irritatingly, many of the tourists and most of the Hindus show no compunction of using the Chorten as a shortcut between Temple street and Middle Way.

 

So, I examine the thin jeans, unable to judge if they'll fit (I'm currently a 34 waist, but my massive legs and ample butt require the full 36 size in the states.  I decide to buy them, asking if I can return them if they don't fit.  300 rupees is the strike price (I really don't negotiate much, this is about 9 dollars for a pair of jeans) and I go back to try them on.  For those of you who find yourself buying jeans in India, I'd guess that a size 36 is maybe equivalent to a 32 inch waist n the US.  I returned them, and went further to find a very nice cotton pair of pants with 7 pockets - a steal at 450 rupees.  I change in the shop (not just your street side vendor this time - probably why it cost more) and chuck the soiled and torn jeans in a truck that's used to haul refuse away from town (funded by the Gere Foundation according to the hand painted letters on the side of the vehicle - thank goodness Richard has done this, or we'd be chest deep in refuse and cow dung by now).

 

The teachings, later in the day, were inspiring - His Holiness taught on the afflictions of Samsara, and the experiences we all have through life and death that should build and maintain compassion for all beings in us all.  Somehow appropriately he began by noting the deaths of 160+ people in Spain from terrorism the day before (news to me, I'm not keeping track of anything that's going on in the world right now - I can barely tell you what day it is.)  Once again I sat on a little terrace just outside security - radio reception is good there (I've figured out how to properly align two radio antennas to get better reception), there's shade, and most importantly, there's plenty of room.

 

I brought tangerines and mangos, and also picked up some pistachios - these make my lunch.

 

A bit on the mango

 

This was the first day mangos appeared in the street side vendors’ wares - and I got two of them, trusting the vendor's recommendation.  They're strange mangos - mostly green, with a very sharply curved end - large and sticky on the outside.  And quite possibly the best mangos I've ever had.  According to Lonely Planet, India has over 2500 kinds of mangos - and this one was great.  I shared it with Dale before he headed home to nap the afternoon away (I think he's got whatever I had yesterday.)  Later I saw another of my party (Jenny) seated in the grassy area above the terrace and threw a pistachio at her during the opening prayer chants.  She looked very surprised at the pistachio that had manifested itself in her lap (a very lucky throw - some 25-30 feet with a pistachio to actually hit my intended victim) and wouldn't have figured out who it was if the gent next to her hadn't pointed me out.  I wanted to give her more, but I knew this was a once in a lifetime shot, and I didn't want to move and disturb the radio alignment that seemed to be working so perfectly.  So all she got was the one.

 

Down here on the terrace it has a feeling of a large picnic - Tibetan families arrive with their blankets, children in tow and, after their prostrations - sit and congregate, munching on snacks of fruit and cookies (with the occasional momo - sort of like a pot sticker).  Today there was  5 year old boy raising Cain by running all over, and an 18 month old toddler, dressed in traditional garb with the exception of his Mickey Mouse shoes (American culture, or lack thereof, truly is pervasive) trying to catch up with him.  The 5 year old was given a 20 rupee note by his father, and he and his mother went off to the market to return 10 minutes later with a bag of bananas and some cookies (20 rupees is about 45 cents).

 

The cow returned today, rambling down the staircase from the security point above to be shooed down the next stairs by a Tibetan woman (you can tell the married from unmarried women by their multicolored aprons that they wear - I guess it's the equivalent of a wedding band).  The cow looked strange walking down the stairs intended for humans - ergonomically I think it left much to be desired.  As she disappeared behind the concrete retaining wall, long pointed horns and all, her flanks were undulating at weird angles.

 

Midway through the Patrul Rinpoche reading (Chapter three, the end of the discourse on Samsara - thank goodness we were past the hell realms) a dog appeared - a young black dog with long hair (really a pup), wandered in - apparently the temple dogs stay in a small building just off the terrace, and he was mightily startled to find a woman sleeping in the entrance on the hay that was stacked there.  He was so startled that he started barking - ran away about 20 feet and barked non stop until the woman got up and went to pet him – which drove him away.  Everyone was duly amused by this, somehow it was appropriate - you really shouldn't be sleeping while His Holiness teaches.

 

I left at tea time today, feeling I'd gotten enough, and headed up the mountain to  McLeod Ganj to pick up laundry and later spend some time sipping chai with two women from Brazil who'd also been sitting next to me on the Terrance (Johanna and someone else whose name I can't remember - both from Rio - Johanna's on her 7th month here in Nepal, and has ducked into India to renew her visa - sort of the opposite of most stories I hear where people go to Nepal to renew their Indian Visa).  They had ducked out to buy a present for a lama they were to meet tonight - a 9 year old Tolku - and had picked up a Chuppa pop and a word game.  The Chai was great, and the company better - there are a million fascinating stories to be heard up here in the mountains.

 

More Beggars

 

Leaving the temple I heard a great commotion down on the street below (the short road to Dharamsala - it's 4 km long and not recommended for large vehicles - many switchbacks, narrow, and feeds into  McLeod Ganj right at the entrance to His Holiness' residence.   So below (maybe 30 feet down) I could see about half a dozen beggar women (children more aptly - they're 16-17 years old) carrying their children, and they were being attacked by an extremely well dressed Hindi woman - she actually slapped one of the girls.

 

You don't want to give any of them money - the moment you do you're swarmed by them and the little children that roam the streets alone (5-6 years old or so) - "Money money, very hungry, child sick" it goes on.  The feeling of utter futility sets in - I can't possibly help all of these people, which ones really need help?  I usually have only a few coins with me so I run out of change immediately.  I've adopted an elderly woman who's staked out the turf at the top of our short cut down the hill - I give her a 5 rupee piece (extravagant by beggar standards - all of about 9 cents) in the morning and she smiles at me the rest of the day - Namaste - namaste.

 

Illness seems to be striking our group - it's about right, we've been here almost 2 weeks - and Ellen, our resident accompanying homeopathic physician / acupuncturist is busy - Matt, Ed, Henny - they all have minor maladies  colds, sore throats.  Ellen is great about this - always available and willing to help.

 

I've been typing almost an hour - with a few interruptions - and the power shows no signs of returning.  I think I'm going to call it a night at this point and head down the hill for a chai and some company...

 

And miraculously the power comes back on.  I've headed down to the one place that seems to have a card reader to see if I can post this out tonight - but all the computers are busy - the proprietor gestures to take a seat and wait - there's only one computer that has a reader so it could be quite a wait.

 

Eagles

 

Today I saw a pair of bald eagles soaring above the teachings - not American Bald eagles mind you, White headed nonetheless.  They're white from their heads through their wings, with the tips of the wings and the trailing feathers a black or dark brown, seemingly framing the white

 

Seems it's mating season - the golden eagles fight with one and other overhead, diving from heights to attack.  I haven't seen one hit another yet, but it makes for a spectacular sight against the cloud-shrouded Himalayas.

 

More Monkeys

 

We were visited by an entire clan of monkeys today at the hotel.  20 or more of the golden furred monkeys clambered all about the ironwork and terrorized the small dogs.  I stood on the veranda and watched it all, somehow at ease with them scampering all about.  Someday soon I guess it will seem normal, but for now it's a novel experience.

 

I begin to loose patience with waiting for a computer - no doubt everyone arrived moments before me as the lights came back on.  But this is the only place I've found with a card reader.

 

 

 

 

Saturday 13 March

 

Shopping

 

Today was a shopping experience as I looked for gifts and tried to find things that are "just right" for the few people that I plan to bring things back for.  It's hard, and I don't particularly like it.  Somehow in the back of my mind I know I'm being taken advantage of - I don't particularly like to negotiate, and the prices for things are ridiculously low to begin with - I don't have much heart to try to take that $8.50 item and get it for $6.75.  However it's part of the game so I engage in the mandatory bargaining - usually getting about 20% off the asking price, knowing that I should get 40-50%

 

There are many wonderful things to buy - statues, religious artifacts, shawls, carvings, banners, pillow covers, rugs, jewelry, but somehow I really don't covet them.  Perhaps it's because I know I'll be traveling so much after I leave McLeod Ganj, perhaps it's because I hate the thought of negotiating, perhaps it's because I really don't want them after all.

 

Street vendors both sophisticated ("good day sir, would you like to see my shop - I'll make you special deals") and crass - the drum vendor pushing his wares in my face and playing them, the flute vendor doing the same.  Colors flashing from every shop front - reds, bright greens, brass glinting in the sun, silver beckoning from the windows.  Rakesh leaning out into the street - "Sir.. .Sir...."  I walk on by.

 

There's one shop I've gotten comfortable in, which is a dangerous thing.  Some companions of mine walked in this shop the day after we got here and bought a couple of rugs (hand stitched silken rugs - suitable as wall hangings - Chanda was so entranced with the wonderful colors that she bought them on the spot.)  They had some singing bowls that I fell in love with - cast brass with etched vajra symbols - the eight symbols of power - and the best tone I've heard yet.  I keep walking by this shop and telling them I'll come by later.  Today I dropped in looking for something else - it's actually 3 shops linked together by one Kashmiri family spread out through the town - if one shop doesn't have what I'm looking for the other ones will have it.

 

I'm very aware of being too comfortable with these guys -  they say you buy from people you like and I like these guys - they've a compelling story (representing their Kashmiri villages in going direct to market - somehow I wonder ...) and a laise-faire demeanor that I like - no hard sell here, just an abiding faith that you'll return.

 

I introduced Henny to the shop and she immediately bought several items (I'd just bought about 5 or 6 items earlier in the morning and met Henny at the Western Union as I got more Rupees and she was doing the same.)  Unfortunately when I took Henny there I saw something else I think I have to buy - it's expensive but worth it (in the states things would be 5 - 6 times the price at least.)

 

However, I've spent more today than I meant to, so I forgo the additional purchase (even though it's the only one in the shop, somehow I'm confident that if they were to sell this one, somewhere out of a storage locker they'd manifest another.)

 

Teachings

 

Today I arrived just as His Holiness began his discourse.  Cory was seated slightly in the sun in my now usual section so I joined him.  I'd picked up a kilo of tangerines, a mango, a bag of pistachios, and five momos to munch on during the teachings.  I always plan to give away food at the teachings so I always bring more than I can eat.

 

Today was children day - school must have been out or something because the entire area was overrun with 5 - 8 year old Tibetan children.  So this was a unique experience today, listening to His Holiness on the loudspeakers, the translation on the headsets (very good and consistent broadcast today), and having dozens of kids yelling, running and screaming - having the time of their lives - all around me.

 

I shared several tangerines and about half my pistachios with some young kids behind me - they shyly looked at me as I passed them the fruit, and then eagerly devoured the pistachios.  A very young boy became entranced with my sun glasses (I think - otherwise it was my stellar looks that captivated him so) and kept returning to stare into my face - glancing over at his mother about 20 feet away.  Finally he worked up his courage and grabbed my metal tea cup and ran away to his mother with it - I guess that's what had kept him coming back after all.  His mother talked to him calmly for about 2-3 minutes and he reluctantly returned with his stolen goods to return them.  I fished out a tangerine, offered the trade, and with a great grin from ear to ear he returned to his mother to have it peeled for him.  These are the kindest people on Earth, despite what the Chinese and Samsara have done to them over the past 40-50 years.

 

All the while this was happening, His Holiness read from Longchenpa on the values of a spiritual guide - venerate your Lama as the 4th jewel (Buddha, Dharma, Sangha and now Lama), and even above the Buddha as your Lama is your spiritual guide and hence accessible, while the Buddha lived so many thousands of years ago and, while aspirational, is not accessible.  He went on to explain that good Lamas exhibit the three disciplines (Morality, Meditation and Wisdom) plus have the ability to explain - they are perfect beings that have animated into imperfect bodies a\that make mistakes and show faults so as to be accessible to us.  Further, accepting a Lama as your spiritual guide, or teacher, is something to be done extremely carefully - you should spy on your lama for some while before accepting them.

 

A good part of me is skeptical at this point - isn't it convenient that an entire socio-economic system has evolved around these Lamas, and that the Buddha's original 3 jewels are now expanded to include the Lama - to even hold the Lama above the Buddha?  I remind myself to have an open mind (Beginner's Mind as Suzuki puts it), but this is exceptionally hard for me - somehow hearing this instead of reading it serves to harden my growing conviction that Krishnamurti is right, that you shouldn't take a guru and are totally and irrevocably responsible for your own path in Samsara.

 

So enough theology - I know not what I speak (or type in this case) and should remain silent on these points.  Give me another 20 years and I may have something worth saying - I'm amazed at how humble His Holiness is as he relates his personal experience with the teachings - he constantly notes he has little if any personal experience with particular points, and constantly defers to others in the realm of experience.

 

I left at tea time again - the tale of Milarepa has gotten past the juicy parts and I thought I'd sit at the Sunrise Cafe and share a Chai with whoever appeared.

 

Millions of Tales

 

So people, as expected appeared. I met Maya, from Devonshire, England - an acupuncturist, who for the past 10 years has vacationed in Dharamsala for 1-2 months every year.  She meets up with the same, but growing crowd, of folks from all over the world to hang out and socialize in this spiritual community.  Her friend (missed her name) joins her - she's sick after arriving from Amritsar today.  Two more of her crowd show up - Hilary and Peter who I'd seen in the Kalsang lobby trying to get a room in this overbooked town.  Apparently we're staying in the rooms they've stayed in for the past 8 years.  These two are fascinating as I discovered later this evening over cake with Matt and Irene (Matt's with my group and Irene I met in line the first day here waiting to get our passes to the teachings - she's a nurse from Switzerland - Basel - who's bumming around India for 6-8 months).  They travel to Asia in the winter to escape the Brits - in '91 they spent 3 months self touring China (with no understanding of Chinese).  Finally they flew to Lhasa under pretty close guard - slipped their watchers, and were arrested and interrogated by the PSB for a day before being forcibly evicted to Kathmandu (however it took a week to do this as they'd just missed the once a week flight.)

 

14 March

I have about 10 days left in McLeod Ganj - more than I think I want to stay right now, but I'll make the best of it before taking a car back to Dehli with Henny on the 23rd.

 

Losen (Tibetan New Years) is now half over.  In the early morning light, as the sun peeks out over the mountains to the east and north  and casts long shadows over the town and into the Kangra valley below (still obscured by the eternal haze of smog), the moon is somewhat less than half full above, fading into the brilliant pale blue sky.

 

We're now a week into the teachings which began at the full moon and have been every day except the 10th (Tibetan Uprising Day).  It seems like forever, it seems like only an instant.  This place has a strange affect on my internal calendar - somehow it's timeless as I sit in teachings, hike in the mountains or drink the first of many chais for the day.

It's chilly in the shadows as I nurse my chai and watch the town awake, across from the Sun Rise Cafe (Best Chai in Asia.  Even the stay dogs feel the cold, repositioning themselves into the first bits of sun to grace the buildings across the alleyway from me.  These are the same dogs that accosted me the first morning here as I wandered the streets at 5:30 AM, unable to sleep - and then made friends with.

 

Traffic, both foot and vehicular, begins to pick up - mostly Tibetans in their grays, browns and other drab colors and the chance monk in brilliant scarlet and saffron-yellow - few Europeans or Americans are up with me this morning.  The vehicles are varied - many auto-rickshaws coming from Bhagsu down the way with brightly clothed Hindis (mostly women) on their way to - where? - the bus stand down the block?, empty tourist buses headed back into the hills to pick up their fares, and trucks laden with the day's wares making their way through this narrow alleyway.  The shop keepers have thoughtfully sprayed the dusty ground with water from bottles, the caps of which are pierced with multiple holes to make sprayers, to keep the dust down.  Later in the day they won't even make the effort - the heat, traffic ands dust become uncontrollable.

 

10AM

 

Back at the Best Chai in Asia - this is the place to hang out and meet people - it's like Rome, all roads in McLeod Ganj seem to lead to here - after a breakfast at the Shangri-La (run by a monastery and home to the best Tibetan Soups) with Annie.

 

I'm the old hand now after a week in McLeod Ganj - as  people pass by they ask me directions and I actually know where they're going, and my sense of direction is good enough to give them what I hope are useful directions.  Nobieh from Teheran is traveling with Scott from San Diego (who focuses in on my Stanford University t-shirt - "are you from California") and want to know where the Himalayan Iyengar Institute is - they want to spend a month there studying (up TIPA Road past my guesthouse about a kilometer and a half to the yellow sign, then on down into the valley - how far after that I do not know.  Yes I think it's walkable, but if you have luggage I'd use a rickshaw.

 

Hindi prayers are being broadcast from out of the Barnali Ornaments house across the way - complete with (to me) totally unintelligible commentaries.  I recognize them from the CDs at home - familiar, yet somehow different as they're sung with no musical accompaniment.

 

The road is a series of these ramble-down shacks of metal sheeting, wood scraps, \plastic tarps and brick, all somehow hanging together at the base of the brick and wood houses that cling to the slope above.  On the sheet metal roofs dogs will lounge in the afternoon sun and large grey rocks with sharp edges hold the roofs in place from the wind while serving as the occasional head rest.

 

Monkeys scamper overhead, climbing hand and foot over hand and foot across the power and phone lines that haphazardly clutter the sky above me.  The other day a huge plop of monkey poop barely missed me - it would have put to shame the seagull poop experiences I've had before.

 

Gwas (the brown / golden eagles) soar overhead, 10 to 15 feet above the rooftops.  Beyond them flutter multicolored prayer flags in the gentle morning breeze framed against the blue, cloudless skies.  The clouds won’t come until afternoon when the sun burns off the snow melt to create huge, white, billowing thunderheads that threaten, but never deliver, on rain.

 

Street vendors with every sort of vegetable and fruit line the alleyways, their wares neatly spread out on the burlap sacks in which they carried them from the surrounding villages into town for sale.  Archaic scales with hunks of metal to counterbalance, cabbages, cauliflowers, eggplants, tomatoes, bananas, mangos, papayas, potatoes, the reddest carrots I've ever seen ...

 

Evening

 

We found a restaurant that serves salads that are washed in iodized water (the Lhasa, two stories above the central bus square - noisy, service is terrible even by this place's standards) - supposedly killing all the bacteria.  I risked it, as I miss my salads, and got a terrific mixed salad with a light vinaigrette dressing.  Dinner was with Henny, Cassie and Jennie - I had a chance to talk with Cassie for the first time this trip - she's on an overseas program (self made) with the New College, studying in Kathmandu through August, and down for the teachings - Jennie is her advisor from the College.  She's writing her paper for the term on the Heart Sutra - I can't imagine a much better combination of places to do this from.

 

Teachings

Once again I left at tea time - this time feeling quite ill.  It must have been a combination of not enough water, too much sun and no real lunch because after I'd walked the mile & a half back to the guesthouse and sat down with a liter of water I felt much better (might have been the 5 hand stands and 2 headstands that I pulled off as well, or reading Salmon Rushdie on the veranda, 5 stories above the rest of the town in the sun in my shorts and no shirt, but I'll stick with the water...)

 

Today's teachings continued to focus on the role of a spiritual guide, or Lama, building upon yesterday's teachings.  While yesterday focused on the qualities required of a Lama, and your obligation to verify for yourself the validity of the lama before taking them as your teacher, today's teachings focused on the veneration to be given the Lama, and the mindset you should take in your practice.  I'll start with the mindset because it's the easiest and least controversial to me:

 

Longchenpa (and Patrul Rinpoche) both cite three states of practitioners, or ways of seeking refuge, using slightly different terminology - His Holiness covered both:

 

First, those of low intentions - those who seek personal release from their individual suffering in this life.

 

Next, those of middle intentions - those who seek personal release from Samsara (the cycle of existence and suffering) and are focused on their multiple lives.

 

Third, and the highest aspiration, those of high intentions - those who seek release of all beings from the cycle of Samsara.

 

Personally I'd like to think of myself as in the third category - at least intellectually I place myself there, but I struggle so much in this life I almost wonder if I'm in the first category.  Something to meditate on - or to go back to the chapter on the Hell Realms and reconsider the plight of all beings again...

 

The second major part of the lesson today (both Longchenpa and Patrul Rinpoche) was the proper veneration to be given Lamas.  I think I mentioned yesterday how His Holiness stated there are really four jewels - Buddha, Dharma, Sangha and Lama, and that the Lama is the highest jewel, even higher than the Buddha.  I think I understand a bit of this after thinking on it and re-reading the materials - the Lama is considered to be a Bodhisattva (Buddha like in nature) who has returned to teach and enable others to overcome Samsara.  In this nature they are true emanations of the Buddha and, regardless of the affectations they may take on in their worldly life, they are to be considered the Buddha.  So this makes sense - if and only if (remember the old geometry annotation IFF) your Lama is truly a Buddha.  And how can you tell?  His Holiness (and Longchenpa and Patrul Rinpoche...) says to study your Lama extensively (10-17 years) before accepting them as your teacher.  I suppose after this due diligence you should be sure.  However (here's the tough part) once you've accepted them as your teacher you should give yourself over to them, serving them, doing everything they say, and venerate them above all others (yes, even your family).  Somehow Krishnamurti comes back to me at this point and I have a problem with this unconditional surrender to your teacher.

 

Net net net ... I'm convinced that while Tibetan Buddhism has many strengths and tools that I plan to explore further, that I will continue on the multiple path that I find myself on.  Thich Naht Hahn, more Vipassana retreats at Spirit Rock and, yes, I think I'll be attending Sogan Rinpoche's teachings in California when he returns.  There's something here - behind the shamanism I see having been adapted from the Bon religion, beyond the unconditional surrender that I somehow can't get beyond, there are constructs, tools, techniques and approaches that I am finding useful.  However, I don't find myself compelled to return to Dharamsala again at this point - I think I've gotten what I came for - not what I was hoping for, not what I was expecting, but a greater clarity of the path that lies before me.

 

I'm still a little under the weather here, I think I'm going to make an early evening of it, go back to the room and read my new book - a non-Buddhist book for the first time in forever...

 

The Ides of March -

 

Sogan Rinpoche has been trying to get us an audience with His Holiness, the Dalai Lama.  Last night I got back to the room, completely wiped out, and found that today was to be the day.  No kidding.  Everyone was euphoric, in a state of disbelief.  It's as though someone had said you could meet with the Buddha himself (actually the Tibetans consider His Holiness to be a reincarnation of Avoliketeshvara - the Buddha of great compassion.)  There was a quick primer on how to act, what to bring, how to dress (clean clothes), and the need for Katags (pronounced Katas) - the ceremonial scarves that you offer His Holiness, and wrap anything to be blessed.  We all ran out at 9 PM in search of Katags and bought several.

 

I slept well, despite the anticipation, and after breakfast joined in a walk down to His Holiness' residence.  Along the way I picked up a Thangka (a ceremonial hanging) of Avoliketeshvara to be blessed, and brought a few other things as well.  An offering envelop was required for the cash offering (optional, but certainly in good taste).  Around 10:15 we met up at the main temple gates and proceeded en masse to the security checkpoint.

 

No cameras are allowed inside of security for the teachings so we weren't going to be able to take pictures, but somehow this seemed appropriate - if all reality is transitory and subject to mental interpretation, and if we all meet each other infinite times in all our lives, why should we expect a photo of this auspicious event?  Somehow, I think, to have such a picture would demean the experience (I discuss this with Henny who agrees), but also somehow I think to myself - I'd like a photo - that way I can look at it and tell myself that it really happened.  But who knows?

 

After going through security (where everyone's carefully wrapped items for blessing had to be unwrapped and inspected) we proceeded to the gate house of His Holiness' residence.

 

Each day for the teachings the Dalai Lama exits from a large gate in a wall at the back of the temple - the gate opens into the teaching area, a wide expanse in front of the Temple itself, and is placed in a gatehouse centered on a wall across the back of the teaching space.  On the right hand side is a small building that I hadn't noticed before, and into this we had to go, fill out additional forms, and then wait.

 

All this time I was trying to keep my composure and think good thoughts for His Holiness, avoid anxiety (will we get in, boy there are a lot of other people here too, what happpens behind the curtains we obviously have to go through…).  Finally we were ushered in through what would have been a good security point at an airport.  Metal detectors, people frisking you again, unwrapping the items for blessing again, sighing your name in the guest book, and then you're out into a courtyard behind the wall.

 

It was beautiful in there - trees and light colored buildings, pale yellow butterflies winging through the air, a gentle breeze keeping us cool.  Juxtaposing this, armed sentinels from the Indian Security Forces, His Holiness' own security with Uzis at the ready - it brings tears to my eyes just to think someone would want to harm this man, but I guess that's the world we live in.

 

A moment of confusion - there's a table with items obviously positioned for blessing, we begin piling our various things on the table, only to be told no, we should bring these with us.  Gathering everything up, we're lead to a stone wall along the path that leads to His Holiness' residence.  It's cool in the shade as we wait and looking up at His residence I can see movement through the windows - nothing more than silhouettes, but it occurs to me that we're probably looking at him getting ready.  There are about 45 people in front of us and maybe 10 behind us as suddenly the coordinator motions for us to proceed up the hill - "quickly, quickly".  Somehow, I don't know how or why, I'm at the head of our group as we get in line.  This doesn't feel right - as if somehow the honor should go to someone else, someone part of Sogan Rinpoche’s core group.

 

At the top of the hill it's sunny, and hot.  There He is under a multicolored umbrella standing in front of His residence with His retinue.  Groups are processed efficiently, and before I'm ready it's our turn.

 

What do you say to a living Buddha?  What would you ask for in terms of a blessing?  My eyes tear as I walk towards Him, I'm completely overwhelmed, almost speechless, it's all I can do to stutter out "Your Holiness” as he takes my shoulder and then I'm standing next to him on the left, the other 13 of us gather around him and it turns out you could take a camera after all - someone from the group behind us agrees to take our photo and email it to us, and we pose with His Holiness for a photo.

 

After this things get confused - His Holiness looks about and says "All Buddhists?" to which we all nod our heads vigorously.  He grasps my hands after taking a small golden Buddha, placing it atop his head, and then hands it to me, blessing the Buddha, me, and the things I've brought.  And it's over.  Tears stream down my cheeks as I head back down the hill.  Everyone I'm with is speechless - even now, almost six hours later I can't begin to express the event, what happened in my head, to those around me.  Mostly I remember the butterflies and His Holiness' smile.

 

Waterfall climbing

 

After meeting with His Holiness, somehow I needed to get away - the thought of sitting through another day of teachings was more than I could face.  Dale agreed, and the two of us headed off to climb a waterfall that lies beyond Bhagshu - a short walk (2-3 KM) away. The road to Bhagshu is dusty, and auto rickshaws fly by, kicking up more dust and driving you near the edge of the road, where a steep slope / cliff rolls downwards, perhaps 400-500 feet to the river valley below, which opens eventually into the Kangra valley by Dharamsala some 4000 feet lower.  Across from us are terraced mountain slopes - some green, some not, with houses aloft, perhaps a thousand feet above us below the ridgeline.  Small trails, seemingly fit for goats at best, lead up from the valley floor to the homes.

 

For some reason a black dog decides to adopt us for our walk, accompanying us along the way.  His tongue hangs out and he pants in the heat – it’s a real scorcher today.  He castes looks back our way as if to say - speed it up, his paws leaving imprints in the red clay-dust road.

 

Below, in the valley, we can see a camping park - "Nature Camping" a sign implores the passer by to drop down and check it out.  4 or five large tents are strung up, with a couple of stone buildings that probably are the concession stand and the bathing facilities.

 

We wind our way through Bhagshu, a Hindu town in the fits of expansion - many multistoried buildings - hotels, restaurants, shops, under construction by the auto-rickshaw stand.  Dale stops to admire the stonework covering the brickwork behind - things here are definitely upscale - polished marble, nice lighting, swept and clean.  A stark contrast to the McLeod Ganj we've left behind. 

 

Further through the town, down twisting paths of stone slab with vendors’ wares out for nobody in the streets we reach a pool with monks cavorting about in the cold water.  Little girls wander about in their finest clothes - this is clearly a resort town.  Through a small gate in the wall and we're on the path to the waterfall.  Past a sign painted in clear black letters, very serious - "Do not go to the waterfalls, the path is very dangerous."

 

Ignoring the sign we walk on.  A crooked broken path once paved with flagstones taken from the scree along the waterfall's course - you can see the tumbledown piles of it off in the distance - leads up and up to the first waterfall, perhaps a 500 foot climb over 1 - 2 kilometers.  Stairs, crumbling here, non-existent there, turn to dirt and dust under countless feet and the many annual freezings and thawings.  This is a new path - the concrete attests to that - but somehow the flagstones have been pried up - to support the bustling growth back in the village?

 

At the base of the final climb to the top of the first waterfall (there are many along the watercourse, stretching up to probably 7000 feet), there is a stone shack selling the usual bottled water, juices and snacks, with something new - here you can paint flat stones and leave them.  The area is covered with stones in bright primary colors - some with designs, others with words - words in many different languages - English, Hindi, Tibetan, German, French, Arabic, Hebrew, an occasional Russian.  All striving for something original to say, somehow a microcosm of the Dharamsala experience - the polyglot, multicultural pop-like culture that permeates this valley and its towns.  From inside the shack waft strains of Pink Floyd - somehow not out of place - and several people, dressed in appropriately bright colors, paint their rocks - I think they're speaking Hebrew.

 

We climb.

 

Rocks, tumble down, huge, slides of shale on the sides, blue slate, yellow quartz, huge boulders driven into place by forces unimaginable.  Stacked high, climbing, the falls stretch to the sky, one after another as far as you can see.  Snow melt - frigid water to cool my feet, hot from the climb. 

 

We rest.

 

Up on top of the first course there is a group of young Hindi men - early 20s at best - perhaps late teens, lounging in the warm sun  and cold waters.  They eye us and several nod their heads with a "Namaste."  Later I'll debate foreign policy and universal disdain of George W with one of them, but for now we reply with our own "Namaste".  They continue lounging. We hike on.

 

I've been nervous on the broken path leading up to here - the loose rocks and dirt seemed to be conspiring to hurl me to my demise down the hundred some odd foot drop to the bottom of the fall, but here I feel like a nimble mountain goat - leaping from boulder to boulder in the blinding sun, scaling that 45 degree rock   the size of a house - casually tossed there by the water melt eons ago - or maybe this spring with the winter melt.

 

Little pools frequent the course and we stop frequently to rest and catch our breath.  We hit the second waterfall, smaller than the first, but more difficult to get to the top of.  There's no path.   My fingers merge with bare rock finding crevasses and hand holds the bare eye cannot perceive as I pull myself up ever larger verticals.  My confidence builds with each conquest - I'm able to take on climbs I wouldn't have dreamed of even moments before.  I'm frightfully aware that we're miles from anywhere, up a creek and waterfall course and I'm not sure how / if they'd be able to get me out of here with a broken leg - somehow I'm assured in my grip and footing.

 

I dance - leaping from pointed rock to the net - arms outstretched to maintain my balance.  I can remember dreaming of flying - this is about as close as I've come.

 

We crest the third waterfall. On our left are the ruins of a small stone building, or perhaps one under construction.  It's maybe 20 feet up a grassy slope / cliff on what looks to be the only flat piece of earth out of the flood plane.  Nothing more than rocks piled one atop the other, the roof is missing - if ever it was there.  A low stone wall, with a hole in it for the path, or handholds better - for the climb down to the water course – surrounds the grassy tabletop.  Four young western women, accompanied by two western men make their appearance as the scale their way down from this spot, accompanied by a small crowd of youthful Hindis.

 

Hindi men seem fascinated by western women - they'll stop everything they're doing to watch or follow them.  We saw this outside of Chandrigarh, and today is no different - as we climb in separate groups - Dale & I, the women and their escorts, and the 6, no 8, no 10 (the number seems to be growing like bees attracted to honey) Hindis - the men joke and boisterously clown about - vying for attention like so many adolescents.  Irene tells me (after 6 months traveling India by herself) that she's been accosted several times, but all she has to do is loudly call out their unwanted advances and touches  (nothing too serious- a touch on the arm, grasping her hand) and the attention of the crowd is enough to shame the miscreant back into place.  "They're like little boys," she tells me.  Apparently it's a huge social faux pas to touch a woman.  Here I think we have American cinema in action - we portray, certainly by Indian standards, loose women as a norm in our films and I think they're seeing for themselves.  But I digress.

 

Soon we come to some heads carved out of the boulders- a large Chinese looking head made out of one huge slab, and what looks like an American Indian carved out of some quartz laden rock.  Dale & I have been climbing non-stop for some time and decide to stop to rest.  I take off my shirt and sandals and lie back on a warm flat rock.  After a few minutes I decide to take pictures of the carven heads and begin snapping away (a digital camera is a joy to have - take as many as you'd like, just erase the ones that don't come out.)  We're passed by the westerners - now that I can hear them talking I can tell they're German (actually as things turned out they were German and Israeli).  One offers to snap a picture of me with the carved head and struggles with the camera, before realizing she's taken three pictures.  I thank her and examine the pictures.  Later I’ll return the favor up the waterfall, and offer my email to her friend to write me and have me send it to her (If you’re reading this email me and I’ll send it to you…)

 

So I've lost something like 40 pounds in the past year and a half, been practicing yoga for over a year, and still have a folded stomach in the picture - time to do more sit ups I guess.  My pride / self image is wounded by what I see in the picture - slouched over (to get close to the head) I paint a scary picture of the middle age condition.  But enough self pity / awareness...

 

 

 

We climb much higher to where the watercourse splits - on the left - a series of three water falls falling 300 - 500 feet - a mountain goat could climb up there.  To the right I climb about 50 feet up tumbled boulders (the largest so far) and come to a gently valley - it's sides covered by rhododendrons in full glorious neon red bloom.  Several pictures later I return to find Dale scaling the water course’s opposite wall.

 

I rest a while, while Dale explores above.  Looking at the small waterfall in front of me I discern a rainbow in the water vapor and try my hand and photographing it.

 

Here we stop and rest - we could keep going but I've lost my water bottle somewhere below, left to get a grip on a rock and now I can't remember or find it.  Painfully aware of my thirst, it’s time to head back.  Strangely I'm reluctant to partake of the Himalayan snowmelt waters that course all about me - this is probably about the cleanest water on earth and I'm too worried about errant microbes to try it. 

 

We descend quickly - now looking into the sun - practically blinded during the climb down.  This is the dangerous part.  I keep telling myself - gravity's working for me, pulling me down, it'd be hard to stop if I had to.  I'm tired and prone to mistakes. But I fly - jumping from rock to rock, sliding - on my butt - down 60 degree rocks to land on a flat rock below. 

 

We descend to the first water fall where I find the same group of Hindis, and an Irish girl (maybe 19, maybe 20) named Alma.  Alma's staying in Bhagshu (not attending the teachings) and has been living in Shanghai and other places in China for the past year.  It seems she's gradually making her way back to the Emerald Isle.

 

Enter Sanjay.  Sanjay is 18, maybe 20 years old.  He comes over and squats next to us (actually next to me - Alma is on a rock about 6 feet higher than I am).  Directly in front of us is a small pool of water, captured by the rocks and silty sediment before it takes its final cascade over the falls into the valley below.  Amazingly there's a tadpole - trying to hide beneath a rock from my prying eyes.

 

Sanjay's skin is dark, his teeth crooked and parted in the middle - a little yellow.  His smile is endearing as he looks me in the eyes and says very directly, opening a conversation - "I hate USC."

 

I'm somewhat taken aback - here I am deep in India - almost in Kashmir - and Sanjay not only has heard of USC, but knows he hates it.  I want to ask if maybe he prefers CalPoly?, but instead answer, somewhat flippantly, "that's ok, I'm from Northern California."

 

"No - I hate USC"

 

"OK"

 

"No - U ... S .... A"

 

It takes a moment for this to process.  What is Sanjay, with the engaging smile and his 3 companions trying to do here?  Suddenly I realize I'm the only person, other than Alma, in sight here, above a 100 foot waterfall.  Later I realize that he was trying to showoff for Alma, like his friends were doing jumping and yelling and smartalecking around, but for now I'm a little uneasy.

 

"So why do you hate the USA?" I ask.

 

"George Bush."

 

And then out comes a combination of national pride and disdain for American Foreign Policy.  According to Sanjay, the US is a coward - fighting third rate countries like Iraq and Afghanistan, while avoiding a more substantive and manly / heroic fight with real military nations.  Further, we're ignoring the center of terrorism, where Sanjay personally assures me he KNOWS Osama bin Laden is clothed, hidden and cared for, that is Pakistan.  Why don't we take them on?  We're cowards, that's why, come fight India and we'll show you a real war.

 

I'm really staggered - this incredibly articulate youth is doing his best to get me riled up.  So I take a tact he probably never expected me to take - I agree with him.  Except.... I ask him why the US would want to attack India?  He had no good answer, save perhaps, youthful bravado.  I asked him not to imagine that all Americans support W in his Empire building, his mad rush to war, and ill-conceived thoughts of an occupational peace.   I tell him of the millions of Americans that marched against the war, but his eyes glaze over (I think in retrospect this was the wrong tact - he wanted to talk about war - not peace).  He still insisted "I hate USA", but then got to the point - he wants the US to attack Pakistan from the West with India attacking from the East.

 

To finish the conversation he abruptly left - leaving me to discuss chads, how Florida isn't the largest US state, and the electoral college to Alma - only to return a few moments later with some freshly picked rhododendron flower clusters.  Two, shyly, for Alma, one, almost as a peace offering, to me.

 

His final words were "I make a joke to you", as I shook his hand and wished him the best.  As I left Alma was immersed in conversation with the now seemingly harmless Sanjay and his friends.  I later gave the blooms to a little girl - daughter of a street vendor in Bhagshu - large brown eyes in a small brown face, looking in wonder from the flowers to me, back to the flowers.  Her smile gave our hike / climb its final closure.  A great afternoon all in all.

 

March 21

 

Tashe Dalek

 

This is apparently how the Tibetans say hello, or good day, or good evening ... sort of a universal greeting.

 

So - one day remaining here before it's time to pack it up and make the mad dash to make the boarding process for the 11:15 PM flight to Singapore.  Henny's convinced, based on anecdotes from others, that we can do this in a single day (albeit leaving at 3 AM in the morning), so I'm keeping my fingers crossed.  Most people I've talked to recommend allotting two days to get to Dehli and catch your flight.  If we miss the flight I'm sure we can simply rebook on the next one, but it'll be painful, and there are no guarantees that we'll actually make the next day out.

 

So the flight itself to Hong Kong is 5 1/2 - 6 hours to Singapore, a four hour layover (time, I hope for a shower and a change of underwear), and then another 3 1/2 hour flight – getting there in the afternoon - about 36 hours later.  After the flight out here a piece of cake - right?  I've yet to hear back from my brother Eric so I'm not sure that he'll be able to meet me at the airport - but I have his address and phone numbers - I'll figure it out.

 

All in all this has been a great trip to date - a few hiccups on the health front, but nothing I haven't been able to deal with. 

 

I'm just getting over some severe de-hydration that I experienced on the Thursday hike up to Triund - but this was probably my best day here yet - a wonderful and peaceful 3 1/2 hours upon a 9000 foot ridgeline - above the hustle and bustle and polluted air and honking of the horns from auto rickshaws, trucks and cars alike.  You could hear the wind in the rocks and trees below, stare in awe at the mountains - so close - and the wisps of vapor that accumulated into storm clouds and then dissipated again - all without a drop of rain.  Three majestic peaks close by - wrapped in their cottony shawls, waiting for the sunset to glow in ambers and oranges before turning to deep purples and finally merging to the blacks of the heavens above - outlined in their absence of stars and planets.

 

While up on Triund I managed to do a headstand on the grass – this is where two weeks ago there were remnants of snow drifts.  Today it’s green grass and warm and sunny.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The other evening I saw three satellites fly overhead - which is three more than I've seen in 7 years in San Francisco - fast moving points of light that appeared out of nowhere and disappeared as quickly into nowhere.  The heavens have been spectacular, even through the perpetual haze that hangs over McLeod Ganj.  Venus has reigned supreme in the western sky every evening, with Jupiter rising in the east shortly after sunset. Mars remains obscured to me - there are too many reddish stars in sight overhead - at least 4 or 5 more than I'm used to seeing and I can't tell which one is the god of war, and which ones are simply lesser celestial beings.

 

On the way down we stopped to help a poor Hindu man - he had collapsed on the path and was groaning. Fortunately he spoke enough English that we could tell he was suffering from heat stroke (he'd been walking since before daybreak with no water), give him my 3/4 full bottle of water, a couple of Odwalla bars, and understand his younger daughter had ran ahead to get help.  He was concerned about the energy bars (“No eat mutton”), but I assured him they were vegetarian if not vegan, and that they would surely help him.

 

A couple of men carrying enormous bags of rhododendron flowers (to be made into jam from what I understand) also stopped and were able to converse with him as well.  As we started walking down he had gotten to his feet and was making his way down the mountain.  About 30 minutes later, we'd stopped at the first sign of a road for a brief break, and he made it to a waiting van.  He waved and held up his water bottle to us as he passed - hopefully to some medical attention.

 

On my way down I discovered I was terribly sun-burnt (having forgotten my sun-screen in my bag until after it was too late), and began to shiver uncontrollably in the dusk that covered us as we stumbled down the broken rock trail.  Dinner was a hilarious discussion on top of a building in the middle of McLeod Ganj that I’d never been to before – me wrapped in a shawl I bought in the market to get warm in, Irena and a chance friend providing witty repartee.

 

The teachings are over - today was a long life puja - I was able to stay for His Holiness arrival - in full regalia, lead by the leaders of the four schools of Tibetan Buddhism, Lamas with ceremonial headsets and blowing from gigantic horns, and a complete procession. They ascended to the roof of the temple and began the puja (service).  And my bowels would not cooperate.  Leaving was a real trial - there already was not a spare place on the ground, and the tide of humanity crushing (literally at points, I saw an elderly woman fall from the pressing behind her, but was lifted up a second later) in made it difficult to step over the seated masses of people.  I left by a back way (under the security tape labeled Do NOT CROSS) only to be surrounded by a 1/4 mile double line of monastics and lay women trying to enter through the side - a door I didn't even know existed.  How, or if, they all fit I do not know - I made it back to my room through the completely stalled streets in the nick of time.

 

23 March

Waiting in the lounge, Indira Gandhi International Airport.

 

15 hours after starting our journey from McLeod Ganj, Henny & I made it to the airport.  We began at 3 AM - after about 4 hours of fitful sleep, and came tumbling off the mountain, through valleys, cross rivers, up and down twisted tracks in the mountains to get the plateau that stretches from the Himalayas clear through to New Dehli.  Dale was with us and had to get out of the car and wretch - it was quite the experience, hovering through the tree lined trails that serve as major thoroughfares above the valleys, oh some hundreds of feet below off that very abrupt incline with absolutely NOTHING between us and the abyss other than a prayer and the fervent hope that our driver had somehow eked out enough sleep behind the wheel.

 

I won't bore you with the tedium of the journey once we got to the flat lands - other than to say it was HOT and LONG.  In the mountains we came upon a truck that somehow had managed to get stuck across the narrow path and block it entirely - how, I don't know - the drive wheels were stuck in the red clay/mud (where'd that water come from anyway?) and spinning.  Fortunately because we had a 4 wheel drive vehicle and an expert driver, we were able to get around.  Double fortunately we got there at 4 in the morning and avoided the huge traffic snarl that must have ensued shortly thereafter.

 

After dropping Dale off at the Potola House (his flight was in the morning), we took an unintended 2 hour tour of Dehli as our driver had NO CLUE where the airport was.  We had to stop about 20 times, roll down the window, and shout at passers-by - U international airport? (OR something to that effect), and then watch in awe the hand gesticulations, head movements, and general body communication as they yammered away in Hindi, which, fortunately for us, our driver speaks (and a little bit of English as well).

 

Dehli is truly a hell-hole, a place if I never return to I’ll be happy.  Although I’ll be hard pressed to get back to the Himalayas without at least transiting Dehli.  It’s HOT (yes, with capitals), and dusty, and filled with endless slums and winding roads and beggars on every street corner.  The slums are flung up – multi-storey – using building techniques that must have been ancient when the pyramids were raised some 4000 years ago.  Traffic never ceases, and every lane appears to not only be optional, but must be shared with at least another car, auto rickshaw, bicycle laden with a tone of recycled rags, and a Vespa to boot. But I digress again – come to Dehli and see for yourself – I’m sure someone must love it.

 

We're an hour from being able to enter the ticketing area - where we'll find out if the man I spoke to last week actually updated our travel records to fly tonight - I'm having some doubts now as I'm 100 feet from the ticket counter...

 

Should be in Hong Kong tomorrow by 3 PM - dead tired after 36 hours of straight travel, and ready to explore somewhere new with my brother Eric.