Quit monk'ing around

Ladakh. The temperature fluctuates between cold, really cold and oh-god-why-did-I-buy-that-flight cold. It's too cold to shave. I have the beard to prove it.

The only respite in the Little Land of Snows (the former kingdom of Ladakh, culturally and geographically similar to Tibet, is often called Little Tibet. Tibet, in turn, is known as the Land of Snows) is warm food and hot tea. Water is out of the question. Even if I wanted some of the icy stuff I'd be unable. My water bottle would routinely freeze through after a night of sitting on the desk in my room. So tea it is. The average Tibetan, it's said, will easily consume over fifty cups of tea per day during the winter time. I was doubtful about this claim until I realized that I was drinking -- on a slow day, mind you -- well into thirty cups of tea, myself! Thankfully, not all of it is caffeinated.

God save me.

I met very few foriegners in Ladakh. They say it's not the season. I can't imagine why... It is, however, festival season! The Tibetan New Year (Losar -- Happy Year of the Male Iron Tiger!) was only a handful of days back. Dosmoche, a three-day masked dance performed in several monasteries in order to defeat evil spirits, was the prior weekend. Starting today is the birthday celebration for His Holiness the Gaylwang Drukpa, head Lama ("Rinpoche") of several Ladakhi monasteries simultaneously and the head of the Drukpa sect of Tibetan Buddhism. Next weekend is another festival and so forth. It's like this all winter. I think it's what keeps people from killing themselves.

And it is, without a doubt, absolutely worth it.

One of the highlights of my (recently ended) trip to Ladakh was a visit to the enormous Hemis monastery. The town and monastery are high enough in the hills -- excuse me -- in the _mountains_ to be completely concealed from the valley below. This despite the fact that the monastery is said to house anywhere from 300 to 500 monks at any given time. Judging by size alone, I'd say the population of the monastery is around four times that of the "surrounding" town. Rhapsodizing to myself about the beauty and magic of Hemis in the winter, I determined to return and spend as much time as I could here after Dosmoche. I met a lady who agreed to let me stay in her family's house and about a week later I returned. That is, after the roads were finally cleared. The entire region had since been battered by a blizzard. A town to the west had been dumped with over three feet of snow overnight and nowhere had been unscathed.

I thought my first impression of Hemis was unbeatable. "Most magical place I've ever been," I repeated to myself. Seeing Hemis covered in snow, I happily stood corrected. I would again have to reassign this title the very next day but I'm getting ahead of myself. Overall it was a quiet stay here, meditating in a cold guest room and spinning prayer wheels in the main Gompa (monastery). The one thing I think bears mentioning before I move on is the one other foreigner I met here. After a day of trying not to slide to disaster on the nearby mountain ridges I returned to the gompa to find a monk struggling to carry water up the hill. Not initially excited to offer my help since I could barely breathe at this altitude without bearing a load, I felt the pinch of obligation and accompanied him back to his cell. Here I enjoyed one of several hundred cups of tea I had that day and was introduced to an Argentine fellow. A painter, living in Spain for the last 20 years or so, Arturo had set aside a few months in Ladakh to try and sniff out the long cold trail of another painter. The chief differences of the later from the former being that he was Russian and that he is dead. Both were in search of Shambala -- more commonly known as Shangri-La. Rumor has it that the Russian found it. The Spaniard, I'm afraid, didn't seem to be doing so well. Welcome back to the 18th century. Next stop: El Dorado.

Actually, my next stop was Gotsang. Another monastery. Another hour's breathless walk, chasing snowy peaks into the clouds. Bear in mind that I had already hiked a good hour and a half directly through snowy fields into the mountains to arrive at Hemis and you'll have a sense of how hidden Gotsang is. Known for housing a cave where the famous Guru Rinpoche (Padmasambava, the bringer of Tantra to Tibetan Buddhism) and another famous guru whose name I can't remember, but is somehow related to (or was himself thought to be a reincarnation of) Naropa, meditated for some time. At the time of my visit this new bearer of my Most-Amazing-Thing-I've-Ever-Experienced Title supported a population of four people. The caretaker; a Korean nun in the middle of a three year, three month, and three day retreat; a Vietnamese Lama, sent by his guru for the winter; and one other monk or nun with whom I didn't have the opportunity for introduction. Full of foreigners. Typical.

And so I fled to Kashmir. More on that later.

The soundtrack to Dosmoche and the Tibetan Buddhist Festival Season in general, courtesy of two monks with enormous trumpet-like 'gyaling's, and several more with cymbals, drums, bells, etc. Just add wooden masks















Three very cold wayward souls. Leh, Ladakh, India (sort of)

















Ever think that there's nothing more obnoxious than a swarm of clueless tourists? Well, you've clearly not dealt with the National Geographic folks on tour. Part of me is amused that I'll have been in attendance at an event being exoticised by the National Geographic Magazine. Look for me in the triple-wide center fold. (Third from the right. Ooh, la la.) The other part of me was busy arguing with the fellow on the left for treating people like animals. I may have jumped the gun but I certainly won't say that I feel that I was entirely wrong in my impression. My thoughts beyond that are, of course, a bit much to try and compress to photo caption-size so I'll save them for personal conversation later on if anyone's interested in more juicy details. Next issue: Andy gets schooled by Mr. N'tnl Geog.





No, really. Quit monk'ing around.

Two monks dressed as skeletons; possibly chitipati, possibly a symbol of impermanence? Either way, these guys were positively brutal. Their counterparts with less elaborately decorated skulls would offer candy or money to the crowd. If you could grab it fast enough they'd usually let you keep it. Much, much, much more often, if you try to grab the offering it would be snatched away and your knuckles would be CRACKed with a colorful wooden stick. These guys have reflexes like thunder dragons. Like Lords of the Funeral Pyre. I have another photo of an old lady cowering from one of th, hands pressed together, as he offers her money.








The famous Indus River. One of the few sections that wasn't frozen through. Photo taken on the rarest of days: a day with blue skies.

Lost in the crowd during a day of special prayers and teachings by the resident High Lama at the Shey Palace, Ladakh. Shey Palace and the neighboring Thiksay Monastery look remarkably like Lhasa's Potala Palace. There's a funny story about Thiksay in particular being constructed from a monk's drawing of Potala, quickly etched onto a carrot by a monk fleeing to a life of exile in India. By the time he arrived in Ladakh the carrot's water loss had caused it to shrink. So, too, had the drawing. And so Thiksay Monastery, or the Little Potala, as it's fondly called, was constructed as a sort of little brother to its Tibetan counterpart.