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.

BBBack in Bangalore

Except not.

Just got into Delhi this morning after forty-some odd hours on a train and booked a flight straight away to Leh, capital of the semi-state of Ladakh. Now, Ladakh is my antidote to the heat of the south. In the heart of the Himalaya, in the same general region as K2, this is said to be the only still-remaining home of untouched Tibetan-influenced tantric Buddhism in the world. It also contains a little town that's supposed to be the coldest inhabited place on earth behind only some town in Siberia.

I'm flying in and out because all roads, which go through some of the highest passes in the world, have been snow-closed for months. I'm very excited about all this and very much hoping that I have enough layers of clothing to pull this thing off. The plan is to make a return to the California winter in a month or so feel absolutely tropical. It's hard to imagine the plan not working.

Delhi. I still don't really know what to say about Delhi except that she's lost her fangs. The sky is almost blue today. The pollution has miraculously parted, making the Delhi air breathable! I know my way around town, I know how much things I want are supposed to cost, have become much better at haggling, standing my ground against the particular brand of Indian scammers and so forth since I first stumbled, confused, through town on my way to Nepal. So back into the mountains! Back into the cold! Bring on the red nose! Bring on the shivers and daydreams of warmth and the "why am I here?"s!

I'll post photos soon if I can find an internet connection. Promise.

PS I had the opportunity to pay a very lacklustre visit to the largest remaining mangrove forest in the world. I'm (bittersweetly) happy to report that it is not being damaged by tourism. The average visiter can no more wander through this tiger-laden treasure, spanning two countries, than secure a private audience with the Pope.

George W Bush spotted in Bangalore!

Now maybe it's just me....

Maybe better not shared?

A passage, direct from my journal.

This is -- against my original judgment -- just too good not to share.


1.8.010
Within no more than a minute's time the entire trainload of people had lept [sic!] from their seats and vacated the train, leaving me sitting stunned, nearly alone, in the once-full car. Rushing after the crowd, streaming over the tracks to our replacement train, I leap from the platform landing and into the railway ditch where the tracks are lain. And land, both feet squarely planted ankle-deep in a thick river of human shit. Oh, India. Oh, India



Missing home,
andy

Filling in the blanks

I guess the photos give away what comes next, but I thought I'd try for an intermission since I feel like I'm writing an essay. I'm reading a book by a Professor of Vedic Studies, written in the 19th century. It's a collection of lectures he gave at Cambridge to a group of students who were soon to graduate and fill positions of rulership and administration in the British colony of India. It's a fascinating peak into the minds of the British at the time. For example, he simply takes it for granted that the reader assumes all Indians to be immoral, backward people and never hopes to try and convince anybody otherwise, but only to try and persuade the students that there are some positive aspects to Indian culture, etc. Anyway, the reason that I mention it is that I think the super-formal, lecture style writing of this book has seeped into my own writing. I spent the intermission trying to break out of it, but I apologize if I didn't quite kick it. I'm trying!

In Bodhgaya, too, I was soon on intermission. The Dalai Lama was due to be in town for a five-day series of teachings. I wanted to stick around for the his arrival but the price of a room in town had begun to skyrocket so I took a quick trip back to the mountains then came back for the last few days of the DL's talks -- including a special audience for Westerns, spoken in English. The contrast between seeing him here and trying to see him in Berkeley but being kept on the other side of a wall by security (and forced to pace, not stand and listen) was absolutely astounding. In a security guard's worst nightmare, after a special address given in English for the Western attendees, he invited people to come up to the stage for a souvenir group photo in which I stood some fifteen feet from him. Tragically, I didnt have my camera with me.

First on my Bodhgaya interlude was a stop Darjeeling and then I was quickly off to the tiny state of Sikkim, wedged between Tibet, Bhutan and Nepal. You need a special permit to go there (luckily, free) so the culture has remained notably distinct from the rest of India. The dominant language is Nepali, the culture is heavily Nepali/Tibetan influenced and the people even look more Mongolian and Tibetan than Indian. All in all, I felt more like I was back in Nepal than anywhere in India and I was glad for the break. Back in the cold. But it's easy to bear the cold when returning to the beautiful and mellow Himalaya.

I'll leave off there since this has gotten so wordy. I'll try and reply to the few individual emails that I have. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to respond -- I haven't been able to email anybody, partly because finding internet has been such a bear and partly because I've spent what time I was able to get online filling out different applications and trying to rebuild a two-year-old resume for a deadline that only passed two days ago. Maybe I'll write about it later. For now I just feel like I'm in grave danger of some serious rambling and side-tracking!

If you're interested you can see thirty-some beautiful photos of the teachings that I attended by the Dalai Lama in Bodhgaya at http://dalailama.com/gallery/album/0/34

Word from Kolkata

So.

A lot has happened since I last had the opportunity to write so I'll try to be either concise or, more likely, try to give a few brief illustrations that I hope you'll find interesting. I'm now writing from the heart of Kolkata (the post independence, de-Anglicized name for the city that used to be Calcutta).

I left off as I arrived in Varanasi. I wish I had the words to describe this place but I'm not entirely sure it's even possible. V'nasi is, in a sense, a microcosm of India. It is to India what India is to the world and, just like India, many love it and many hate it but most develop a complicated and personal love-hate relationship with the place. The hotel where I spent most of my time was about a block removed from the part of the Ganges where a constant parade of dead bodies was carried, day and night, to their open-air funeral pyres. I don't know of anywhere else in the world where the line between life and death has been so blurred; the two so intermingled.

I've also never seen a people so obsessed with the sky. There are often more kites in the sky than the hundreds of birds, themselves being fed along the waterfront and led in enormous arks across the sky by men on rooftops, taunting them with food and scaring them off with enormous sticks and flags. The influence of the elements on people's psyche is also incredibly interesting. In most places, the earth is the dominant natural force in people's lives. So, too, the ocean or, in mountainous towns, so, too, the sky -- but always coupled with the weight of the earth below; the rock, the sand, &c. Not so in Varanasi. The thin, labyrinthine alleys, patrolled by minotaur-like bulls, make up the entire old town; all growth is upward. As I mentioned, the sky is a major influence. As is the river, the focal point of the entire town. It's virtual raison d'etre. In courts people swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and so forth with a hand placed over Ganges water. It's a big deal. And fire. Few places in the world are so dominated by fire. But unlike volcanic lands and other natural-fire type places, the constant fire here is that which I mentioned above -- the constant burning of corpses along the riverside. And so I've developed a theory that this abnormal balance of basic natural influences in people's lives is a large part of the totally unique "feeling" of V'nasi, the feeling that so many people wandering through describe as addictive. It's not uncommon for people to arrive with the intention of staying for a week and wind up spending a month or two wandering the alleys and ghats of Varanasi.

I, however, had a set date for my departure from the moment I arrived. Two weeks later I was back on the train, headed to Bodhgaya, the historical place where the Buddha finally achieved enlightenment. Here I had enrolled in a meditation course. I won't say much about it since it's so similar to the ones offered in the US.

--- Intermission ---






A testament to the enduring capability of foot power and another reminder of the abject poverty all around, Kolkata is one of the last places where you still see an abundance of foot-powered rickshaws. There's a guy in front of my hotel who can be found either sitting or sleeping on/under his rickshaw at all hours of the day. Unlike many of his fellow rickshaw "drivers," I've never actually seen this fellow pulling anybody.












A view from the hills: the peak at the top right of this photograph, named Katchenjunga (sp?), is the third-tallest peak in the world. Here, it's a slightly fake looking backdrop to the mountain city of Darjeeling.















Despondent looks from a guy in an aisle of many others, just like him, selling these fuzzy hand puppets who squeal and fire their tongues into the air when you squeeze your hands. The men selling the things in question, staring at each other squealing all day, by noon all look like they want to kill themselves.












A peak from the back of an enormous tent of His Holiness the Dalai Lama in a mid-lecture pose.

A quickie

I don't have a whole lot of time to write much of anything right now, but since questions had begun to arise about my health I thought I'd just share a couple photos and announce that I'm still alive.

I made it back to India on the 6th and have been in the city of Varanasi since. Directly on the river Ganges, this is considered a very (the most?) holy place for Hindus. There's so much to say about this incredibly powerful and frustrating and beautiful city but, like I said, I'm about to run off so that'll have to wait for another time. In any case, this is one of those places that you "feel" more than you can "see" and describing it in its personal significance to me, I imagine, would be a real task indeed.

I'm going to be starting a Vipassana course in a few days then trying to catch a boat to the Andaman Islands (wish me luck), so it'll probably be after the new year before I can give a proper update. Until then, I hope you're all healthy and happy!


Here are some photos of things that I saw since I last wrote.






This explosion of color is at Lumbini, the birthplace of the Buddha. The back lawn area has been overtaken by a million prayer flags. This is a guy who wanted me to take his photo after I showed him a photo I took of a little girl that was also there.








Blue Lassie. Oh man. This is the place to be in Varanasi. Yogurt and fruit drinks (lassies) is all they serve here, with the exception of a delicious desert that comes only in the night. The best in town, and this fellow here is watching the magic in action.






















This massive golden door is at a temple in Sarnath, the town where the Buddha gave his first sermon after his enlightenment. The temple in question is not actually the one in the place that the town is famous for, but immediately next to it. It's a long story, but I wound up never actually making it inside the gate. Oh, well.









And, finally, back in Varanasi and on a ghat along the Ganges, is a man performing some sort of puja. He was actually in a group of about four or five, but this was my favorite photo of the bunch.