For Langtang Lirung
may we meet in our dreams
In Station
“We’re back in Terrapin
for good or ill again…”
As we rushed towards the border the towns became smaller a
few dusty roadside villages with colorfully clad women in flowing scarves selling
vegetables along the street. The driver was accelerating down the back road only
slowing down for speed bumps within town limits. It was a straight road lined
with bent trees, between settlements open plains and a gravely riverbed.
Eventually the foothills of the Himalaya poked through a screen of haze and I
hoped we’d reach the gate before my bladder exploded like a water balloon.
Along the road headstone markers ticked off kilometers to Daranga until we lit
upon the bazaar with rusty bikes, rickshaws, the mosaic church with beckoning Silver
Christ, and finally the ornate Dragon Gate marked by a painted tiger. I leapt
out thanked my driver who didn’t speak English threw my pack in the border hut
and hit the outhouse just in time. After that I sat in the same office where
the twins were processed and Pema Dorji a nice young lad with an earring
adorning his gho stamped me through the portal. While we did paperwork Muslim
prayers could be heard blaring from a loudspeaker over on the Indian side of
the palm lined brick wall.
Everything is mellower on the Bhutanese side although
Samdrop Jonkhar blurs with the subcontinent Assamese milling with long skirts
and wrapped heads. Meanwhile Bhutanese stroll at their own pace with innocent faces
doma drool on their lips dribbling down their chins staining the pavement red.
It had been an exciting journey through the chaotic plains of Assam providing a
sense of arrival that was palpable. It was GREAT to be HOME recognized by the
restaurant owner at Shambala where I haven’t been in over two years. I spent
the night at the comfortable mountain hotel where I enjoyed a two minute hot
shower and a hard clean bed. The next day at the taxi stand I saw Pema Chedup a
class ten student from T.M.S.S who was happy to see me saying he thought he saw
sir but wasn’t sure. Well it was me in the flesh and we chatted about our
holidays. Pema had been in Phuntsholing working at a steel factory a typical
scenario for our students. I packed myself into a shared taxi with screaming
kid and we made the arduous drive into the mighty Himalayas. After waiting out
a roadblock we passed all the usual Eastern settlements stopping in Khaling for
lunch. At 3:00 P.M they dropped me off at Chazam and twenty minutes later
returned with my bag of forgotten vegetables. Finally I hitchhiked to Yartse
and walked the last 2 miles home in the twilight.
Upon arrival I immediately went to Karlos and Sonam’s shop
to see their new baby who was born on my birthday! Pema Namgay is adorable with
a perfect mongoloid face but I can’t say who he looks like more Karlos or
Sonam. Sonam Choden makes an excellent ama and Karma a proper apa but they had
banished Dawa Dema to Sep to live with Sonam’s mom and Nawang which made me
sad. Karlos just stares at precious Pema with a look of pure adoration. I had
supper with the happy family then went home to assess the rat’s damage which
was calculable. The rat ate everything, a GNH cap, my best shirt that Morgan
gave me with wonderful fabric that the rat apparently fancied too, and several
other shirts and underwear. He shit everywhere including countertops, my bed,
on clothes, in the closet, pots and plates. Apparently he’s a dope fiend too
since he ate my antibiotics chewing through the plastic bottles and ate my hand
warmers which are poisonous than shat on everything. I went through the bag
salvaging what I could recalling the money I spent with my mom in Rite Aid for
medicine now ruined. All told he caused hundreds of dollars in damage. It
wasn’t merely negligence although I should of rat proofed better, my neighbor
lost a gho and Scott’s neighbor in Yadi a 300 dollar Kira, it’ just a part of
life here.
I finally got water and started the cleaning process, NASTY!
I saw the culprit last night dark and large with prickly black hair. NASTY! So
the hut is in disarray and I have a lot more cleaning to do including my entire
wardrobe of tired apparel covered in sunflower seed looking poop. It’s not
healthy breathing air and I have to start washing clothes tomorrow. It’s hard
not to look like a ragamuffin since ghos seem to outlast shirt and pants. Hand
washing just never gets the job done although the Bhutanese can do it. Back to
Hard Living!
Before no water was flowing from the tap so I fetched H2O
from the pipe on campus to make my K WA and spent my first two days in the
woods hiking to Shakshing and Nankhar Gompa’s and checking out the rhododendron
bushes in the evergreen grove. Winter is a time of solitude on the mountain
with hazy skies limiting the views from Trashigang to Blithing. It’s an
introspective season in the west end of the Tawang Valley with oak leaves
carpeting the forest floor perfuming the air with a delicious musk yet all is
not dead with muted green leaves, hardy ferns and lurid scarlet rhododendrons
burst into bloom. It’s one of my favorite times in the forest bare grey trees
and fallow fields punctuated by stunning rhody blossoms rubies of deep winter
studding the hillsides. I took tea from Rinchen Wangmo and her Ama charged me
like a rhino then pulled back at the last instant, hilarious. I visited the
temple and shouted to students from across barren terraced slopes. The best
moment since I returned was when my student Poop ran up the slope to greet me
exuding boundless affection with a huge smile saying that she had dreamed of me.
I asked what she dreamt and she replied that I had come back. I told her that
it was her dream come true since there I was. Obviously I had done something
right to deserve such a greeting that I will never forget. Other students were
typically reticent sticking out tongues and hiding behind elders. It was a fine
day getting a blessing up at Shakshing and Becky called from Chume at the
auspicious moment I was standing beside the foundation of the Dakini Chorten being
constructed near the Nankhar lama’s house. She described her new world where
shafts of light penetrated the Bumthang mist a crack between realms. On my
side, returning to campus in the hazy gloaming familiar faces shooting hoops a
mix of boys and girls from several grades. Kezang Nima was there as was little Dechen
and many others happily playing.
Outside my house six tiny black puppies fight for life and
the little girl from the farmhouse below spends her day absorbed in these pups.
Her name is Pema Lhamo she finally told me after three days, when she’s not
tormenting her puppies like the loony tunes character she’s knocking on my door
then bounding over the precipice vanishing into the void just as I fling the
door open. I made a bed for the pups using the scraps from Morgan’s shirt and
fed them my leftover fried rice which they ate greedily pushing the runt aside
but I placed him where he could nibble. It’s been a week of long meetings but I
am stoked to be teaching 7 & 8 with 28 periods. I will be the class teacher
of 7A, Social Service Club Master, and coordinator of the afterschool library
program as well as Assistant Warden (Yikes!)
I just got back from a lovely overnight in Sep Sonam
Choden’s village. The reunion with Moon doggy Dawa Dema was memorable too as
she bounded over a wood fence and lavished me with love bites and wet licks and
she’s not really a kisser. She frantically whimpered rolling around in my lap
gnawing on my appendages; she looks great with long blonde hair and kickers
flaring from her elbows. Later that day I took her for a walk through the
idyllic village of Sep which is now slumbering within fallow hillside terraces
with Shampula looming above. We went up to Karma Om’s primary school and down
the channel towards the perched prayer wheel, painted blue serpent and split
towards Omba. Yonder is a secret valley a wall of green vegetation descending
from the heights of Bromla towards the bone dry Kiney. Enormous fern fronds
thrive unaware that it’s actually wintertime everywhere else in the valley. Dawa
is a great companion she walks without leash, keeps up, and is satisfied to sit
for long spells staring and listening to noises interrupt the void. My time at
Sep was wonderful interspersed with moments of boredom. Ultimately though these
are the days I will value the most completely immersed in Bhutanese culture.
Village life is primal down and dirty, until two years ago Sep was not
connected by a farm road. The little used road has not impacted the spirit of
the village which toils blissfully in antiquity. People tend to be earthier
there then Tsenkharla with dirtier clothes and snottier kids with permanently dirty
feet. The custom of forcibly refilling ones drink or plate after every bite or
sip and if you refuse you must cover your plate like a running back cradling
the pigskin. Bhutanese are affable, gentle, good humored and wise and I am
honored to be privy to their hospitality. Sep is simple and the government had
installed a new brick hearth courtesy of Japanese donations in the kitchen
where we huddled. Karma disappeared to search for vegetables but when he came
home hours later he smelled like local brew and had no veggies. He married into
Sep through Sonam Choden but after 3 years seems completely at home in the
small community. I shudder to think of life in Bhutan without Karlos and Sonam
who have been my family here since day one. My first week on the hill they got
married and now Karma cradles little Pema Namgay lovingly just staring for
hours. Sonam Choden’s mother now a widow and Abi is a perfect example of a
traditional elder and her neighbors turned out to offer money to the newborn
placing the grubby bills on the baby’s forehead. Primal! The afternoon was
spent drinking Ara and the neighbors also brought Coke and I wondered if it was
coincidence or that my habit is known far and wide. It can be a bit intense
sitting in the middle of rowdy Sharchop getting their drink on while
breastfeeding infants and shouting Phelincpa this or that but it’s all in good fun
and I don’t seem to damper their party. They were already gossiping about
Lynn’s arrival down at Kiney and Karma was trying to initiate a conversation
between a village man and myself. He was Monpa and had hit all the hot spots in
the forbidden domain, Sela Pass, Tezpur, Bomdilla, Dirang Dzong, and even
Itanegar. Our meal was emadatsi, fatty pork, and cow stomach which I ate
greedily. Nawang who runs hot and cold was extremely outgoing making my pallet
in the altar room and working on her English skills more loquacious than ever.
I awoke at 3 A.M to baby Pema crying and a puja being broadcast over the waves
of Radio Shangri-La. The raspy grind of puja horns emanated from a PA through
the pitch black hamlet reverberating off the face of Shampula which was good
since the puja was for the local Goddess who resides up there. The next day was
cloudy and cold but I took Dawa out finding a cluster of white vertical prayer
flags that like Father Mackay says were blowing upwards. I couldn’t wait for a
taxi any longer and hoofed it home in the twilight meeting two former Class 10 students
en route, one who had barely qualified and one who just missed the mark. The
one who missed was Sangay Wangdi a handsome and hardworking lad who used to
come by for help with homework. It was awesome to see the list of my original
batch that’d made it through and sad to see the names that didn’t. Ones you
might know, Namkith Lepcha now in Phuntsholing passed along with Sangay Tobgay
and Mess Captain Pema Yangdon. Pema Choki the intense four foot something that
orchestrated the Christmas card for my mother and had a furrowed brow most of
the term placed 3rd overall and boy did she earn it! It was
vindicating to see my own efforts payoff but also humbling to think of how I
could’ve done better. Overall English scores were high and I felt proud of our
department which is hard working, if not always as a team. This was tangible
proof that I’m making a positive contribution, but test scores are not the only
proof of a good teacher or student. The real impact lies in between the lines
as I think of the feedback from students about their past foreign teachers like
Nancy, Mr. Mark, Nick Morris, Sheal, Sabrina and Kendra the list goes on and
on…These teachers and more altered and impacted the lives of their students in
innumerable positive ways.
The first few days of school have been interesting. Nima
Gyeltson came by for dinner and we cleaned the hut. I breathed in copious
amounts of rat shit and woke up unable to breath and with unrelated stomach
pain. My body knows where it is and knows the fight is on. At school I
reconnected with my beloved students who were shy at first but warmed up with
the day. I really will miss my class eight kids who drove me crazy but are true
characters. Karma Sonam (Lucky Star) fondly recalled the great peach incident
and Sherab now grinning remarked about how hard she cried that day. Like my
Aunt Mare I apologized profusely for being myself and assured them I loved them
all. I was sad to hear that Tashi Wangmo (Broomsha/pumpkin’s) mother died over
break; damn these kids have a hard life. Now they will drift out of orbit and I
will be on the periphery engaged with my new 7 and 8 students. Not much happens
right away but we did have to procure tables and chairs for our remote
classroom an original building as old as your author on the upper part of
campus. Next textbook distribution and rehearsal for our Rigsar dance for HM’s
birthday. Tswing Choden (bunny rabbit) took charge teaching the boys the steps
that she had created for the Druk Pop tune. It’s well known that she wishes to
be a celebrity some day and we‘re all rooting for her.
Female Wooden Sheep
Year
“Let my inspiration flow…”
Today is Losar (Chinese New Year) and all are celebrating. I
watched the male staff play kuru which is darts for big boys. They throw these
darts that could impale a man twenty five yards at a small target and if they
hit it, a song and dance commences and the victor gets a strip of colored
fabric to hang from his belt. There’s all sorts of hooting and hollering and
frequent trips to the tent for slugs of local brewed Ara which looks innocent
as water in a plastic jug. The match is eight hours long and afterwards the men
in ghos adjourn inside to circle dance singing gaily. This is how the Bhutanese
males ring in the New Year getting high on culture. I have not received an
official Losar invitation but have been supping heartily nonetheless. Last
night was Pema Namgay’s baby shower and today I lunched with the kuru clan. Who
knows when I’ll be eating like this again with bits of chicken and chunks of
“real “pork. Thanks to the four legged and fowl who nourish me. I’ve been a bit
like a starving Ethiopian at a buffet and I’ve had Bhutan belly. The house is
coming along I’ve done laundry and cleaned all the stool and mold but that
infernal rodent was back in the wee hours. The new batch of BCF teachers are
peopled in the hills and valleys around the region but I’ve only met Lynn the Australian
teacher placed below at Kiney when BCF Karma came to collect fees and take my
passports for an updated Visa stamp. I still haven’t met 2nd year
teacher Ash in Yangtse and I remember when I was the only teacher in the
Dzongkhag. I got a call from pistil Piet today he’s back in Yangtse and was en
route with some coworkers to a remote Dzong on the Yangtse/Mongar border. Our
Becky is putting down roots in the alpine paradise of Chume a wildcat’s whisker
away from Tibet. From what I can tell it’s an enchanted land of mist, snow,
creeks, pines, and Bumtops but she’s far out of this tiger’s habitat.
I got my first dose of significant Bhutan belly and was up
all night it wasn’t much diarrhea but stomach pain that kept me up until the
silver dawn over Tsang Tsang Ma then I wasted the whole day sleeping waking up
at 6 P.M. I forgot that Bhutan can sap ones strength and one must be vigilant.
It might have been droplets of water left in a tea cup or anything really.
During my long sleep I had my reoccurring nightmare where I am a soldier and a
fierce battle is coming and I am paralyzed with fear desperate to run away
which sometimes I do as the artillery and shooting begins. The fear is so
potent and not once have I faced this battle. You don’t have to be Yung to
figure that one out. I also had two good dreams one vignette where a squat
swarthy girl kissed me on the cheek and one where I met HM in a great hall with
many people and he remembered my name and commended me for my service. He was
so lifelike in the encounter wearing a gold sash just like when I had met him
at Trashigang Dzong.
February 21 was His Majesty’s 35 Birthday! We had our own
celebration filled with pomp and culture. Pine needles were spread out in the
VIP tent. There was marching with the little ones resembling March of the
Penguins in their little ghos and kiras. I even danced with the staff in front
of 500 students. I’m happy to report I have improved since my first try but I’m
still terrible. All day I marveled at what a remarkable culture this is and His
Majesty is one of the people I admire most.
What to do in
Kathmandu…
“Until things we’ve never seen seem familiar…”
 |
| Ganeshy Mall |
Arriving in Kathmandu is a shocking experience. Judging by
the streets outside the airport one might think they’re in Kabul or Mozambique.
The rubble is not remnants from the Maoist insurgency yet just a lack of
infrastructure and hallmark of Nepal. After checking into Ganesh Himal (The
Hotel California) I took a rickshaw ride around Thamel to reorient myself with
the locality. There are no street signs in this historic shopping district
where just about everything is for sale. The narrow mid evil streets and
alleyways are peopled with brick boutiques and shops selling Buddhist Tankas
inlayed with gold, trekking gear, and food. The broken cobblestone streets are lined
with brick facades buttressed by wood beams adorned with intricate carvings, the
Newari architecture is some of the finest in the world. Kathmandu is a gothic
city with millions of inhabitants with buildings filling the entire capacious
valley. The valley which must have been paradise on earth once (The Garden of
Eden) is ringed by Himalayan peaks that occasionally peep through the mountain
dust and thick haze. Once when patrolling the narrow avenues of Thamel trying
not to get run over by motorbikes and rickshaws (one ran over my toe) I spotted
a snowcapped peak turning salmon in the afternoon light. Kathmandu is a crush
of humanity and constant cacophony of beeping horns, dinging Rickshaw bells and
ten thousand other sounds not to mention the aromas of the city ranging from
stool to perfumed incense and every imaginable scent in between. My second day
in the city I had to go to the US embassy to apply for a new passport and was
strange to see the stars and stripes waving in a foreign dominion. Security was
air tight and the atmosphere sterile like you had to pass through a metal
detector just to take a piss. So much of my vacation was spent at embassy’s
waiting in queues for this stamp or that. It was clear early on that this was
more an adventure of self discovery than a mere holiday and I was never alone
since the Dharma was my constant companion ally and adversary. After living in
the secluded Kingdom of Bhutan it’s hard to be a tourist lacking the depth that
staying put in a village offers, although the food is remarkably better on the
outside. In Kathmandu I enjoyed a sublime Buffalo burger, beef steak, chicken
and many Non Veg delights. My favorite were banana Lassies a yogurt based drink
and banana crepes from Ganeshy Mall. I would have the boy bring one crepe with
syrup every night as my bed time snack before enjoying a hot bath and episode
of the Simpsons. I would be in and out of the capital several times before I
left Nepal.
Chitty Chitty Bang
Bang!
“She takes her fan and
throws it in the lion’s den…”
 |
| Chitwan Riverside |
My first excursion was visiting Chitwan National Park. If I
wasn’t to be found climbing a mountain or refreshing at the Mars Hotel I
would’ve been spotted on a local bus. Public transportation in Nepal is an
unforgettable experience often with busses that feel like sardine cans with
passengers packed to the gills including standing in the isle. There is always
blaring Nepali music which is as expressive as the natives themselves. The
roads are similar to Bhutan except a little wider but with more traffic. What’s
scary is how fast everybody attempts to navigate the twisty roads with many
games of chicken ensuing, and they’re always close calls that leave the stomach
in the throat. My ride to Chitwan was actually in a tourist grade bus that left
the city and descended through the sprawling middle hills that are much more
populated than the hills of Bhutan. Nepal has 33 times more denizens than the
Kingdom with approximately 33 million. After exiting the foothills the bus
encounters one of many large cities in the Terai. The Terai is a strip of dusty
plains that border India and include several national parks and many towns with
poor conditions. I arrived at the bus park on the outskirts of the park mid
afternoon and hoofed to town avoiding the touts the road cutting through
dazzling yellow mustard fields. Once reaching the strip of tourist shops and
hotels I checked into the same lodge I had stayed at on my first trip two years
ago. It was a nice mild day compared to the mountains and I headed right for
the community forest on the riverbank opposite the park for a great walk
through savannah. Terai villagers walked the trails with baskets balanced on
their heads talking in a tonal language that seemed in perfect harmony with the
day. An occasional trumpeting elephant could be heard from the breeding center
nearby. Since I don’t spend much time inside the boundary the place to be is
the river with its gently flowing blue water a life giving goddess supporting a
plethora of birds and all the game if the area. It’s one of my most cherished
rivers whispering primordial wisdom to my spirit. Restaurants and lawn chairs
dot the shoreline where well off tourist smoke hookahs and sip cocktails. It’s
not very crowded in winter in fact it seems deserted. It’s a peaceful place
despite the Omni present hammering from construction projects. Still one can
hear far-out bird songs and see water fowl gliding upriver. The development
zone faces east providing stunning fiery sunset’s illuminating feathery cirrus
clouds imprinted on the flaming sky. Nice places to sip a glass bottle of coke
(250 ML Grenade) and listen to the jungle come to life. Yes there are tigers
out there waking up for the hunt along with many other animals including wild
elephants, One Horned Rhinoceros, snakes, monkeys, and countless other creepy
crawlies. One recalls the large dusty city they passed 30 minutes before arriving
at Chitwan and the outskirts of that city running all the way until the bus park.
From my lawn chair I am viewing the edge of a wilderness harboring some of the
planets most endangered species.
I spent less than two days in the area spending one full day
in the park. I started out in the foggy morning with an elephant ride. I have mixed
feelings about riding elephants and have done it twice and don’t really need to
again. When my bra rode one in Africa that’s another story but this excursion
was not so much a wildlife expedition as exposition on elephant cruelty. That’s
taking it a little far but I’ll illustrate my point soon. I was seated on the
back of a lumbering moderately sized pachyderm along with an Indian couple and
Chinese guy. Elephants have a rolling gait as they rumble along through the
forest. The skin of the elephant felt warm with some course hairs sprouting
from the wrinkly grey epidermis. The animal conveyed intelligence in deportment
and mannerisms and at present had our lives in its hand. We had to brush away
leaves from the lower branches and I heard the lovely cry of a peacock over the
chatter of all the Chinese from their respective elephants. I love peacocks
with their exotic unfettered cries of freedom. They look brown but when they
flare their plumage is a vibrant blue streak. Their cry goes A RIE A RIE. A
RIE. It was a gloomy morning rocking and rolling through misty canopy on
elephant back. We came across some barking deer in the forest then crossed a
bog arriving in a strip of grasslands. Here was when things got weird. The
mahouts started racing the elephants with us aboard and seemed to be
deliberately agitating the creatures. I realize that I don’t understand the
dynamics of this intimate Mahout pachyderm relationship but I know who’s in
charge. The masters carry hooks and sit on the elephant’s brow once in awhile
digging the hook into the soft tissue above their eyes. This is how control is
maintained. Our mahout jumped off the elephant and let her run amuck with us in
the carriage. On the elephant next to us a little Indian girl in bright yellow
parka and braided hair was flipping out crying hysterically. Meanwhile the
elephants were growling and trumpeting to beat the band. About an hour after
departure we docked at the platforms and returned to earth. The elephants were
led away to start eating no doubt their favorite part of the day where they
hopefully can forget their cares for a spell. I had my park pass for the day so
I opted for a canoe trip and jungle walk in the afternoon. Two guides are
required anytime one enters the park since animals are a legit threat. The canoe
was a thin dugout wood vessel long and sleek. I had a hard time balancing
making my way to my seat in the middle of the boat that held 15 passengers. I
didn’t have to row so I just sat very still constantly thinking the boat might
capsize. It was calm on the water and the current moved us along with nary a
rapid except one spot in 10 inches of water. The deep parts were smooth and
everyone on this excursion was quiet birdwatchers or nature enthusiasts. We saw
Siberian ducks; I love these birds from my first visit in 2013. They winter at
Chitwan migrating all the way from the tundra and boreal forests of Siberia.
They’re light brown and white with beautiful honks and are famous for monogamy.
I can’t describe the vibe I get from them but it’s everything delightful about
creation wrapped up in a feathery bird. Graceful. We also drifted by a magnificent
gharel Crocodile with corkscrew snout. His menacing toothy grin and opaque eyes
are eerily prehistoric but he took no heed and continued his sunbath, taking us
back into forever B.C when only reptiles roamed. And he has endured with a wicked
smile! Finally we pulled on shore and each group went separate ways in the
jungle for their walks. My two guides and I followed the riverbed through thick
sal forests with albino trunks and olive leaves dappled with sunlight. We
stepped over mounds of rhino dung our only protection the staffs that the men
carried. Slogging through Jungle is difficult stepping through vines and over
stumps. Eventually we emerged into savannah where we saw a tiger pug imprinted
in the sand. We also observed scratches in tree trunks from cantankerous sloth
bears sharpening their razor sharp claws, evidence abound but so far no big
game to speak of. It didn’t help our chances that the parks towering elephant
grass had not been slashed yet, the huge tufts of grass can conceal a full
grown elephant and certainly a snoozing big cat. Suddenly one of the guides who
had scouted the route came back excited ushering us along the trail over a rise
to a clearing with a bog where a female rhino was enjoying a soak. She stood in
calf deep water before a backdrop of distant hills. The Asian One Horned
Rhinoceros like a unicorn is a rare and treasured species. I can’t describe the
components that make up this astounding animal with plated coat of armor over
protruding ribcage, thick crinkled skin pointy ears and its distinctive horn.
The animal was fifty yards away, docile in the afternoon sun but these are the
meanest vegetarians on earth and can kill by charging. But she just swished her
tail and splashed her head in the water exposing her meaty rump. This is one of
the most magical animals I’ve seen in my life another prehistoric creature that
emanates a certain magic and POWER. There is something unmistakably dinosaur
about the Rhinoceros and I wanted to stare. When I had to leave I put a part of
the rhino inside my heart where I can keep it and call on its power. The
afternoon was dying and howling monkeys hooted along with barking deer as a
bloody sun oozed through the forest. Finally we crossed over by canoe to the
other shore and I treated myself to an ice cream cone. On one of dozens of solo
candlelight dinners I devoured a buffalo steak which was nice and gamey.
Sizzlers are also good grub after a safari chicken or buff served on a sizzling
skillet.
I never saw a tiger but I know there out there along with
many other animals in one of the few bastions of habitat remaining on the
subcontinent. These great animals rival those of Africa but are pushed into
limited strips strung together like emeralds so tigers and elephants can move from
place to place freely. Chitwan holds a special spot in my heart and part of me
remains there prowling for supper under a hazy yellow moon.
Lumbini Zucchini
“His job is to shed
light not to master…”
The Lumbini bus was a local all the way, a small tan vehicle
with puddles of liquid on each seat. The ride was long trundling through a
sequence of Terai cities all with wide dirty streets and dilapidated buildings
with Newari style facades. Not the great architecture but the peasant designs
tiled houses with balcony rooftops. Rickshaws packed the streets some bicycle
driven and other carriages pulled by barefoot men. Every hundred yards the same
scene endlessly loops; men selling oranges by the roadway or women banging on
the side of the bus trying to hawk roasted ears of maize. Billboards advertise
study abroad programs in Japan which doesn’t seem possible when I look out my
window. This is a typically Indian way of life in fact the Terai has ties with
the Indian plains across the border. The bus lumbered over a surprising segment
of hills before descending into smaller Terai towns no more salubrious than the
cities only smaller and maybe poorer. My god it was the dustiest place on earth
with the ubiquitous acrid smell of burning trash which is always present in
India. At one point the driver shouted for the Lumbini passengers to unload and
board a larger jam packed local which trundled into Lumbini bazaar an hour
later. First impressions Lumbini Zucchini! No wonder Buddha split although he
might have considered going north but instead became a jungle ascetic merging
with the astral plane. It might have been the saddest town on the whole line
with smog stained Buddha statue meditating on a pile of trash. The road
followed the endless dingy yellow wall with a river of trash strewn at its
base. This was the barrier of the Lumbini Develop Zone which held all the
monasteries I would never see and the birthplace of Buddha Gautama. I hopped
off the bus stretched my legs and turned down the DUSTY main street in search
of lodgings, singing the Weight, “Pulled into Nazareth.” Although it was Lonely
Planet recommended I didn’t like my first option since Lumbini seemed
depressing enough I wanted nicer digs so I opted for a tourist hotel across
from the archway of the compound. My interactions with human beings were
bizarre and made me ruminate on possibilities of aliens in Lumbini. The hotel
clerk had dewy vacant eyes like he wasn’t really there asking me to sign the
register.
Legend backed by archeology states that Buddha was born in a
field in present day Lumbini more than 2,500 years ago, a full half millennium
before Christ. In my opinion his philosophy is unrivaled to date and that’s why
he endures and has my respect. Of course I only know him through others just
like I know tigers exist in Chitwan through others telling me so. It’s been a
long lineage branching into the Himalayas and its crazy saints but it started
here and that’s why I came. Guru Rinpoche, Tsangma, Drukpa Kunley, all spring
from this source. Therefore Yeshi is here too although I don’t feel her
strongly walking down the concrete walkway past scrawny monkeys grooming each
other adjacent to a hazy wetland. A brick walkway leads to the entrance to the
holy complex. Hanging on the fence a rusty sign announces this as the
birthplace of Buddha. Can’t they install a better sign? Pilgrims remove their
shoes and go through a metal detector arriving in the field where the monument
resides. The “exact” birth spot in enclosed by a building that one friend
compared to a mental hospital, a utilitarian white building with an
underwhelming Chorten fused to the top. It indicated Buddha’s humble beginnings
but I’ve seen such lavish temples in Thailand and Bhutan you’d figure they’d
spruce up one of the most sacred Buddhist places. You check in with an armed
guard then enter the sterile building walking on a raised plinth over bare
earth with excavated brick cairns dating back 2,500 years which is hard to
believe since the ruddy bricks are remarkably intact. The walkway goes in a
square and sunbeams flow in from some unseen windows above making IT seem like
a dream. Others walk the plinth clockwise including a Chinese man ahead of me.
People bunched up when we got to the alcove where Buddha emerged from Mother
Mayi Deva revered by Hindus as a Goddess. She is akin to the Virgin Mary except
the conception was not immaculate and Buddha was born a prince. Her party was
traveling back to the palace where Buddha spent the first 29 years of his life
when she went into labor. Much is assumed about the life of Buddha and I
couldn’t help wonder if he ever passed by this place in adulthood or even gave
it any thought. I mean how many of us think about the spot where we were born.
Emperor Ashoka came from China and put a pillar up hundreds of years later and
that pillar was destroyed by lightning and Lumbini was forgotten reclaimed by a
phantom forest that no longer exists. Eventually the region and Lumbini was
rediscovered before fading once more and again being unearthed. 30 miles away is
the palace where Buddha lit out from on a moonlit night deserting his wife and
newborn on an ambiguous journey into the heart of suffering. How many nights he
must’ve cried in the jungle doubting his path? The weeping Buddha, in my mind’s
eye it was the Palace that I wanted to see since that’s where his thoughts and
feeling arose but I never got there.
Back to the spot where Buddha was born pilgrims rubbed gold
dust from the brick wall and smudged their foreheads with it. I didn’t know the
meaning of this so I simply touched my forehead to the cool goldbricks and
clasped my hands together in reverence. The energy in the grotto was magnified
and intense with so much fervent prayer over so many years directed to a
pinpointed rock and slate carved slab encased in glass the rock that Mayi Deva
grabbed onto when giving birth. People toss money around the spot (not tacky in
Buddhism although it should go for a new monument) and white scarves are strewn
over gold satin cloth. I felt an overwhelming presence of the human spirit the
essence of our own Buddha Nature which burns or flickers in all of us waiting
to ignite and I can’t deny I felt the Buddha to my marrow there-a moment of
true faith. I imbibed the strong worship of Mayi Deva the Queen of a small
empire spanning the current day Indo/Nepal border in the Central Terai. Even if
Siddhartha never returned to his birthplace on this “exact spot” his impact is
felt here and now spreading a glow around the world.
Outside the asylum the sacred pond where Mayi Deva bathed
looks more like a skuzzy pool could it truly be the same pond from millenniums
ago? Beyond the pond is a papal tree with monks in saffron robes meditating
alongside two aging hipsters that looked like they’d been to Freak Street too
many times. A group of orthodox men were chanting prayers. Around the tree and
pond in the field are scattered cairns and crumbled plinths, walls of ancient
obelisks reportedly dating back 2,500 years according to placards. I tripped out
on the tree almost banyan style with sacred alter placed at its roots with
smoldering incense and some figurines smudged with marigolds the mark of the
Hindu. Some wacky toothless crone was shouting at the pilgrims reciting prayers
and shouting at the tree itself either blessing or cursing everything in her
path. This hunched withered body encased a firecracker ready to explode you
could see her wick shrinking. Near the monument the restored Ashoka pillar
looked suspiciously like a smokestack from a tugboat at Disneyland. Walking out
I poked my head in the Nepali and Tibetan monasteries at the latter met a
crippled man in wheelchair with twisted legs spinning a handheld prayer wheel.
He was being wheeled by a red robed monk. We struck up a conversation and
somehow talked about Bhutan when he said Tashi Delek. He wasn’t Tibetan he was
local but somehow prayed that way, he must have a tough life real suffering in
the heart of Lumbini. Then an unfortunate confrontation when I said hello to a
group of women who looked Muslim with their heads covered only exposing face
and wearing black robes, except one of the group wore colorful garb that looked
like a fairytale princess. I commented on the clothes and asked where they were
from and they mocked me imitating my voice then telling me to go away, “Go Go!”
fanning me away with their hands as people in this part of the world do. I shot
back that they ought to lighten up and that they didn’t understand the message
of Buddha. Then I laughed at my defensive posture realizing I wasn’t getting it
either. A Lonely situation as I walked alone feeling desolate watching the sun
sink over the papal tree and white blocked monument and I guarantee at a time
Gautama felt exactly the same way I did at that moment. Exiting the park I
observed more lonesomeness watching the vapid faces in candlelit stalls dusting
off identical Buddha statues waiting for pilgrims to purchase one. The streets
were almost empty except of straggling locals and the shops had no snickers
only warm Pepsi and Lotte pies. Beside the stale potato chips Lumbini couldn’t
have improved much in 3,000 years. I witnessed the same type of decay and
suffering that sent Gautama on his quest for enlightenment. I felt an oppressive
lonesomeness and started to get that Buddha is in my toenail feeling and
plotted an escape in a similar fashion to Siddhartha himself.
I wanted to get the hell out of Lumbini aborting my trip to
the ruined palace instead boarding a morning bus bound for Kathmandu. It’s a 10
hour trip passing through the Terai, Middle Hills, finally arriving in the
Kathmandu Valley. About two hours from Lumbini we stopped at a bus park in
Butwal, a classic Terai town. The large city is an ancient trading center between
India and Tibet and sits at the foot of the Himalayan foothills but is still a
Terai town to the bone. It took us more than an hour to get out of there
stopping every so often for no reason on the side of the road near vegetable
stalls. I jumped off the bus and took a pee in a dodgy potty that looked like
it had never been cleaned and bought an orange. This was a nice tourist grade
bus and we stopped for lunch in a spot set off the busy throughway. The road
through the hills weaves and the bus careened past motorbikes and roadside shops
tooting its Ta Ta style horn as we hit the inevitable traffic jam on the turns
outside the entrance to Kathmandu Valley.
(Christmas in Kathmandu Interlude)
I spent Christmas in
Kathmandu puttering around Thamel feeling lonesome. It was a pathetic holiday
meal stranded in the Penguin Dinner waiting an hour for a subpar chicken
sandwich and handful of fries. The cafe was a dingy place with only one other
group of Nepali in the corner making merry. Beleaguered I went back to Ganeshy
Mall and soaked in the bathtub where I could hear the din of Thamel fading outside.
I listened to Simon & Garfunkel shedding a tear for “Bridge over Troubled
Water” (Sail on silver girl…sail on by) It was the first teardrop to fall from
my eyes in years and quickly my stone cold soul iced it. I talked to my family
which was the highlight of an uneventful Christmas, staring out the frosty
window at the ancient empty streets to dead for dreaming.
Oranga-Langtang
“Some rise, some fall, some climb, to get to
Terrapin…”
 |
| langtang |
It wasn’t even dawn but the disheveled streets on the
outskirts of the city were awake bustling with people sweeping (pushing the
dirt around) and pulling carts of vegetables to the bazaar. Kathmandu is always
caught up in human commerce, the crush of humanity rolling by. I bought my
ticket to Sera Besi from a man sipping chi tea from a tiny plastic cup nestled in
a candlelit cubby. By the time the sun came up our dented green bus was
chugging into the adjacent valley where I caught my first glimpse of a few
snowcapped peaks. The bus was packed with locals many with Tibetan features and
embroidered caps, there was one group from the UK with their guide. The
Langtang Trek is the least popular of the teahouse treks receiving far fewer
visitors than Everest or the Annapurna treks. I chose Langtang over the
Annapurna Circuit where 20 trekkers died recently in a freak storm in October,
they froze on the mountainside unable to make it back to shelter buried alive
in a blizzard, a week later the route was reopened but I had resolved on
Langtang following my intuition. Now I was on an interminable journey my
destination a hundred odd miles from the capital took eight hours following a
narrow scantly paved road. It was a ride I took four times always stopping for
lunch at the same roadside canteen serving some of the finest Dal Bat on the
planet. Dal Bat is the Nepali staple dish served on a tin divided plate (prison
style) the dish consists of steamed rice, a vegetable curry usually potato, a
crispy wafer, and pickled vegetable. The centerpiece is Dal a lentil based and
spiced soup. Despite its simplicity Dal Bat can be a delightful sup and I fancy
myself a connoisseur always searching for the ultimate Dal favoring the darker
richer blends. This is Himalayan soul food like Emadatsi but the two are
distinctly different in character. Despite rolling up the foothills of the
Himalayan range I felt a world apart from Bhutan.
The bus stopped many times
boarded by Nepali soldiers in blue camouflage who checked and rechecked my
permit due to the parks proximity to China. Finally we reached Dunche the
gateway village to the park which touts its resident Red Pandas a species of small
ruddy panda found in Bumdeling, Sakteng and other pockets across the Himalayas
and China. The bus continued on to Sera Besi where I disembarked grabbing my
pack from the roof rack, immediately I walked up the road and found the
trailhead which was not marked, crossed a suspension bridge threading through a
cluster of lodges. It was 2:38 P.M when I initiated my trek up a dry portion of
the canyon which would run in congruent segments all the way to the Langtang
Valley. The sun had already gone behind the wall and a breeze kicked up but
soon I was shadowing the turquoise river on a cliff which I absentmindedly
nearly stepped off. I checked myself remembering where I was and that a lapse
in mindfulness might mean death. I passed a handsome couple from England near a
viewpoint where I ate an orange near a cluster of boulders and bamboo. About an
hour later just before twilight I ascended into a riverside cluster of trekking
lodges known as Bamboo. I took shelter at the first lodge which housed a big
family who didn’t speak much English. The standard of living is similar to
village conditions in Bhutan except the lodges are isolated and seasonal
existing only for the tourist. Some families make a small garden but all
supplies must be trekked in by Sherpa dudes and that’s why the price of Coke
increases the higher one goes. The lodges also become more basic the higher you
go, at Bamboo I ate Dal Bat around a bukari while little kids stared at me.
Trekking in Nepal is a great way to get a sampling of authentic Himalayan
culture and cuisine along with breathtaking views. The rooms were set apart
from the family’s quarter five basic units with windows and a hard planked bed.
It’s clean and perfect. The rooms are cheap where the proprietors make profit
is on the food. I didn’t sleep well on that first night and many others too but
I was rearing to go at first light biding ado to Bamboo. Langtang is a lovely
trail and I say that with love in my heart. Trails all have their own character
and Langtang seems to guide the walker with ease. This trek didn’t match the
grandeur of ABC (Annapurna Base Camp) but it also didn’t have the dreaded stone
steps. The trail does ascend 10,000 feet and is hard work but there is a
cadence that encourages the wayfarer. Perhaps it’s the lush forest along the
swooshing river that soothes the soul or the solitude. It was on that second
morning I witnessed a trail miracle in an emerald forest alone at sunrise. A
troop of languor’s skimming through the canopy bounded over the flexible
branches with long limbs and enormous graceful swooping tails. These primates
flew through the trees performing arboreal acrobatics moving incredibly fast
leaping from the treetops before catching a branch and springing to the next
branch Tarzan style. They made it look so easy and made me feel clumsy in my own
primate body. Their sleek bodies were covered in white and grey fur with black
tufts around their intelligent faces and liquid brown eyes. The forest was calm
except for their clicks and whistles that reminded me of dolphins. I was
overwhelmed, agape, tranquilized by the beauty of the moment and stood
transfixed grateful to be a part of the scene. I might be clumsy in the trees
but humans are expert distant walkers and in that spirit I resumed my quest.
Soon I encountered another strange creature on the trail a changeling.
I was taking a break (always less than 4 minutes) and this entity collided with
me. She was carrying wood on her back in a wicker basket with a strap across
her forehead the traditional way of totting loads. We had a quarrel as to who
should proceed first and it struck me as a long dialogue since it took place in
a language unknown to both of us. A lot of hand gestures decided she would lead
but she waited for me eagerly at every turn grabbing my hand with her boiled fingers
before bopping along with cropped hair and china cat eyes. Eventually we came
to Lama Hotel an important junction with a dozen closely clustered lodges
mostly vacant in wintertime. She waved goodbye as the trail became steeper
travelling through deep woodland along the riverside. The river a braided
silver swath spiraling in the canyon it’s small cascading waterfalls dropping
over rock ledges cutting the shape of the narrow gorge. Next, a series of
undulating passes gaining several thousand feet in elevation as the grand firs
and twisted oaks began to shrink. The last in these chains of minor passes was
a wooded knoll decked in rainbow prayer flags and a small Mani wall. The river
whooshed below the dusty trail at a point where I saw one of only two solo
trekkers on my journey a man with a lopping gait. After the requisite Namaste
greeting I continued upwards and through a bushel of bamboo caught my first
glimpse of Langtang Lirung, a dazzling white peak both soft and hard in
essence. A peak of boundless magic, a goddess protecting her dominion the
borderlands of Nepal and Tibet now called China. Langtang would enchant me both
in wakeful and dreamful hours gashing a deep imprint firmly entrenched in my
ragged heart. Her name is Langtang…Fear, admire, and revere her…
The afternoon was creeping on when I stopped for lunch. I
foolishly didn’t bring enough money which meant I took inadequate food and
pushed harder than necessary but it might have been fate since I wanted to run
like Buck in Call of the Wild taken over by the trail. My poor boy lunch was
two boiled eggs and an orange under Langtang which now towered 15,000 feet
directly overhead barely visible crowning a vertical rock face. I had to crane
my neck for a look and soon I’d be too close even to see. The trail continued
to twist up the canyon through stunted vegetation leaving the luscious forests
and languor’s far behind. My beloved trail became more complicated sandy and
muddy navigating through a labyrinth of boulders requiring some fancy high
stepping. Occasionally a group of Koreans would come clacking down the pitch
with their ski poles and it seemed I was the only one without poles. There
would come a time when I’d trade my kingdom for a set of poles but at the
moment I enjoyed the freedom of swinging arms. The Koreans love their gear and
dress the same when patrolling a mound outside Seoul as climbing Everest Base
Camp. Most of the Koreans are in their
40-50’s and must be admired for their tenaciousness. Ajamahs plodding along in
bright parkas, floppy hats, and sunglasses, their poles click clacking on bare
earth. I sport my worn boots with holes in them stitched up too many times to
count but still taking me where I want to go. And on this day I wanted to make
it all the way to Langtang Valley which required a hardy push in the afternoon
and elevation was now affecting me breathing thinner air. At around 11,000 feet
one begins to notice subtle changes and the body begins the process of
acclimation. At the end of the great canyon was a military camp where I
surrendered my permit and TIM’s card (Trekking information management system
for solo trekkers) to a soldier who entered me in the ledger. Exiting the
canyon I entered the astounding Langtang Valley gateway to the Greater
Himalayas (that’s your big boys!) 7,000 meters or as Yanks calculate 20,000 feet
plus. Langtang might be lesser in height than Annapurna South the hearth
goddess but in this valley there’s but one queen and she had vanished again,
stretching north a ring of frozen peaks and South the Langtang Glacier reining from
heaven licks the valley floor strewn with giant boulders. Strips of dwarf pine
cling for dear life on the opposite bank of the galloping river and along the
trail a few scattered bushes and clumps of brown grass hang on. Regrettably I
stopped for Yak Curd at a teahouse, it was a bowl of sourness that turned my stomach
but to be polite I consumed the rancid elixir of Shangri-La thanked the old
woman who sold it to me and continued to my destination with an acute stomach
ache. It looked so appealing on the painted sign that announced, “Fresh Yak
Curd”
Langtang trekking village must be busy in October but just
after Christmas was a ghost town, two dozen lodges strung out over a rise in
the valley on a plateau. I picked a lodge with a few other tourists including a
German couple who’d I see in the future, an older Korean couple approximately the
same age as the Germans and 3 young Nepali including a gal from the Terai who
the tiger terrorized in the dining room. A retiring teenager named Maya did
chores with Monpa apple cheeks and braided hair that hung to her waist. She
possessed Tibetan high cheekbones and eyes of light complimenting her graceful
deportment. She and her heavyset mother ran the joint which had a Guru shrine
in the family room with seven bowls of water set before it. Soon after arrival
the Himalayan lightshow commenced setting Langtang on fire! The peak was barely
visible protruding violently scarlet over the brown crags capped by a royal
blue sky. In that other unreachable world spindrift swirled off her rocky crown
evaporating into frozen ether, a view that left a hole in the pit of the
stomach, or was that the Yak curd? It was a helluva first full day on the trail
and I was already looking forward to my birthday but first I had to endure an
extremely cold and windy night. In the blackness the jet stream dipped into the
valley threatening to blow us all away but there were windier nights ahead. And
thanks to that wind I awoke to clear blue skies and slathered my face in
sunscreen before heading out with a daypack towards the end of the line. The
Terai girl Dill Maya wished me happy birthday as I lit out since I had told the
group the night before as we sat around the woodstove chatting in broken
English.
Snow and ice now became a factor on the trail. In the
Langtang Valley ice was the adversary especially in the frozen dawn as I
trudged slew foot style past a row of primitive stone Chortens brothers to the
whitewashed Bhutanese Chortens. These stone stupas are of Tibetan design and
the valley is home to the Tamang ethnic group tracing their lineage directly
from Tibet speaking a language that is similar to Tibetan. Tibet is vast though
with countless ethnicities and the Tamang folks are a long way from Lhasa and
even further from Kham and the Eastern tribes. Although people in the Himalayas
share many traits and characteristics the geography keeps them secluded. For
example the locals knew nothing of the happenings in Bhutan if they had heard
of the Kingdom at all. I suffer from the sin of excessive pride in my Bhutan
residency believing that it brings some street cred with the Tamang folk but it
doesn’t. Like in Bhutan I am a perpetual interloper in Shangri La. Yaks graze
the remnants of grass along the trail, they look like bulls with shaggy coats
and piercing longhorns. These are prized creatures in the Himalayas living only
above the tree line. They provide dairy products and if butchered tasty meat.
It was an auspicious start to my birthday sauntering among towering peaks in a
valley that felt high and wide offering a fine taste of Tibet for the hungry
ghost now 37 years old! But my stomach wasn’t completely empty since I ate
doughy Tibetan flat bread for breakfast that was hard to swallow even with
water.
This section of trail followed a gradual gradient rising to
the last station on the line a place called Kyanjin Gompa. This was the end of
the line with two dozen lodges nestled under an expanse of swooping peaks at the foot of the Langtang Glacier. One can
creep further up the snowbound valley but I only proceeded as far as a gnarled
dwarf evergreen tree which might’ve been the last conifer before the frozen
peaks of Tibet. I meditated a spell watching ravens playing in the wind
noticing a few songbirds darting around the underbrush. It was a stellar
noontime with electric blue skies and gleaming white mountains unified in a tantric
embrace. The sparse valley was awash with boulders deposited from the ice flow,
rudimentary stone chortens, and well placed water driven prayer wheel. Ah but
the trail was in my blood now and called me to retrace it’s steps rapidly
flowing from the sublime openness of the high Himalaya into the thick riverside
forests of fir and sweet stands of bamboo. By birthdays end I was alone at an
offbeat lodge with an oddball proprietor who drove me batty dialing and
redialing his mobile only to be denied by an automotive operator the mechanical
voice of Nepal telecom.
The next day was a hard worn battle on the trail as I left
Langtang initially missing my shortcut and having to re-climb a tough pitch. A
nice boy took me back to the split off the main trail marked by an elusive blue
arrow painted on an ankle high rock. From here on I would be lost most of the
time on the trail less travelled.
(Connection Interlude)
My destination seemed
viable on a map but it was a grinder from the get go. The luxurious trail that
was Langtang had shot into a trail that was reminiscent of hiking in East
Bhutan. No more passable parts since now I was on single track switchbacks that
lumbered up the mountain through stunted bushes offering no views of any kind.
Sweating, I came to a lone tea house where a mother was working a loom while
her little daughter stared at me wide eyed. I declined lunch and took a moment
too appreciate the scene and catch my bearings. The next portion took me
through bamboo clusters on a flat ridge, always a rarity in the Himalayas. A
clearing revealed the settlement of Thulu Syabru which would prove to be a
disruption in the temporal continuum a vortex that would rule me for two days
and a night. It all seemed simple enough get up to that village and proceed but
it was a helluva climb from the suspension bridge across a river up to the
ridge top settlement. When I reached the first teahouse it was another hour to
the crest through a functional village with empty lodges interspersed. The sun
beat down mercilessly and I felt like I would faint by the time I arrived at a
rundown schoolhouse and Chorten and the shortcut to Gosainkund Lake. It was
about 2 PM when I slumped down along a Mani Wall snacking on Pringles and
hydrating with H2O. What to do? Push on or stay put since the map looked sparse
with unreliable accommodations. A resident warned me that no lodges were open
on the next stretch but I thought he was only trying to ply me for patronage.
He was right however but how could I know so I lit out again on a trail that
had no markings and several offshoots. Those little faded blue arrows were my
only beacons as patches of snow began to appear on the footpath. Furthermore
the sun had melted the mud and I was sliding around biffing more than once and
making a mess of my clothing. My treads had no traction and soon six inches of
fresh muck caked my boots. I struggled up to a gorgeous Chorten with slate Guru
carving and views in all directions of forest, terraces, and snowcapped peaks.
Again my heart filled with the joy facilitated by these magical mountains, a
scope unparallel on our lonely planet. It was torturous climbing on an exposed
slope to what I reckoned was my stopover point teasing me on. When I finally
huffed and puffed into station I found it locked and deserted as was one
further up the slippery slope. At the second lodge I encountered two locals descending
who spoke no English but pointed the way. I waited at the deserted quarters
wondering what to do and watching a three legged cow hop around the forsaken
yard while a weather vane twirled aimlessly in the wind. A lonelier scene one
couldn’t imagine… I thought of breaking into one of the abandoned dorms to
sleep but opted to push on with a dwindling water supply. I hadn’t seen another
trekker since departing the Langtang trail and afternoon was advancing in
shadows across the valley. I could still hear echoes of faint laughter from
children in Tharu below or it might’ve been an audio mirage. On a false summit
a Chorten and a split in the trail caused my body to fill with anxiety a
fearful spring always near bubbling to the surface. I went left and soon was
crunching through crusty patches of snow through a brooding fur forest with the
largest trees I’ve seen in the Himalaya with thick mossy trunks. It was eerily
silent with nary a birdsong for company, only thick air, an oppressive
consuming quiet. I was tired and drank my last sip of water and felt on the
edge of safety and heard my mother’s voice imploring me to retreat. I pondered my
situation near a towering tree the king of this lonesome woodland and
eventually did turn back feeling annoyed and defeated in the middle of fucking
nowhere. On the way back I slipped in the mud wallowing on my back like a
terrapin but fortunately only my pride and backbone were bruised. I’d be okay
but wondered if my crack at Gosainkund Lake might fade into oblivion. And that’s
how I ended up back in Tharu three and a half hours after departing that same
place slogging into a friendly lodge just before sunset. The German couple had
caught up with me and I spent the evening watching the sunset glinting off
Ganesh Himal on the distant horizon and talking with three sisters all with
apple cheeks and thick braided black hair. I slept fitfully plotting my attack
for the next day and considered heading back to the lower hills and
civilization. You must know that I decided to press on at first light lumbering
back up the 2,000 feet I had covered the previous afternoon past both deserted
lodges, to the same unmarked Chorten and into the brooding fur forest now
dappled with sunlight. Fortuitously I saw a local who pointed the way only
responding to Gosainkund. I had the right trail all along but who knows if I
could’ve made it the two hours of snowbound unmarked segments to the next
lodge. Even in the bright morning I thought I had lost my way a half dozen
times following crusty tracks of ghosts who had made the journey before. The
morning was spent in the forest sometimes in ankle deep snow crisscrossing
ridges making several wrong turns and backtracking every so often coming across
an abandoned lodge not to reopen until the spring season. Gratefully I emerged
out of deep cover and onto a ridge with five lodges and one of them was
actually open. I had made my connection and now was on the trail bound for Gosainkund
lakes!
Gosainkund (Are you
kind Lake)
“A rare and different
tune, Terrapin Station…”
 |
| Whata Whata! |
I ducked through a fence the portal to another universe and
on December 30th made steady progress exulting on a flat pine topped
ridge with sweeping vista, singing songs, chatting away with all the green
leaved entities who are always fine listeners. I even ran antelope style
kicking up a tail of dust. The sun was also on the move across the celestial
plane but a fine afternoon stretched ahead on a day where time stood still or
at least crept along in shades of eternity. Again I plundered into deep forest
and I began to understand what I’d been through although Tharu seemed light years
behind, using Ganesh Himal as a beacon I attempted to orient in the vastness of
this range. I had a ways to go but had sprouted wings and like Hermes soared
along, touching life lightly then letting it sift through my fingers like dry
snowflakes. Faith had brought me this far and deliverance was under foot. It
felt good to be treading upon the earth Yo! Father sky above and Mother Earth
below, I AM a part of everything now and forever…This is Tim’s bell…I arrived at Sing Goempa at the foot of a seven
story mountain where I took a rest rallying my spirit for the huge ascent that
followed. I asked the two dudes working the lodge how far to Laurembina Yak and
they replied two hours. The climb started immediately as the lush forest gave
way to stunted vegetation that tapered along the rutted trail. It was
approximately a 2,000 foot climb up to the bluff, a collection of lodges known
as Laurebina Yak. I arrived in mid afternoon and although I wasn’t currently
lost I had to decide whether to push on for the Lakes or overnight at the
bucolic bluff with stunning view of Ganesh Himal range due west. I pushed on
although the guidebook strongly suggested acclimation to avoid altitude
sickness. I monitored myself closely and did feel a tad dizzy on the windy
exposed terrain of ice and rock. I tried to step on bare rock but had to
negotiate ice most of the time. I saw a woman and guide descending near a
simple Chorten housing a Guru shrine. The painted Guru smiled enticingly
holding his scepter with impaled skulls, and I wondered if I was one of them. I
asked for his blessing before continuing over the craggy crest and onto a ridge
of lichen covered boulders, cliff faces,
and drop-offs. All the vegetation had dried up except the strange fluorescent
lichens and ravens somersaulted above. Another shrine carved into rock this
time good old Ganeshy the god of obstacles, he removes them but also places
them in ones path a trickster in essence portrayed as an elephant. Ganesh is
ancient Hindu and he was sentry to Gosainkund where in May thousands of Hindu
pilgrims make the arduous trek to bathe in the lake to cleanse their sins. It’s
said that Shiva bathed there (or was it Krishna) to cleanse after being
poisoned. Hence they come to purge the poison of the mind a toxin we all share.
I was treading on sacred ground and I wish it was possible to bring you along
since I know these words are but a shadow of what I witnessed and felt. The raw
seed of the moment tainted by consciousness and here my craft falls woefully
short. I can only say when I finally peeped the frozen lake I dropped to my
knees in reverence beyond mortal tears. An icy grey pool nestled in an
amphitheater of snowbound mountains, this was not a pond but a small frozen
lake suspended in space on the verge of pouring into the abyss over its
shoulder. This was the first in a chain of four frozen lakes the second of
which and largest being Gosainkund where three lodges stood. One of these three
was open and contained a group of Thai’s who had been scripting Thailand in the
snow for many miles and had turned back from Laurebina La that day, their
guides, and a Japanese man and solo trekker who spoke no English and was
intense. The sunset on the lake was a spell bounding scarlet with mist rising
from the cobalt half frozen waters. When I dropped to my knees I had heard the
lake speaking or the ice groaning a peculiarly primal sound, the music of
mother earth. We all chatted amicably and I was inspired by the three Thais who
had never seen snow and made it that far. One worked on an oil rig in the Gulf
of Thailand for an American company and was in charge of safety. It was a
freezing night with little sleep as the temperature dipped to negative 10
degrees Celsius a cold that permeated the core and had me curled up in fetal position
praying for dawn. Already my gear was woefully inadequate, I had no poles to
help navigate the deep pockets of snow and leather boots with holes in them
that were already soaked, and a light shelled jacket. Fortunately the boots
were flash freeze dried in the unbelievable chill and good to go for the next
morning. It was so cold
I could barely manage sitting in the dining room for my
fried potatoes and tea and soon the Jap with proper gear and poles was off with
me tailing ten minutes behind. At the lakeshore was a Hindu shrine decked with
some prayer flags too. The Hindu touches were the bells which I rang out in the
frozen dawn asking Shiva for safe passage. The Jap made good time and pushed
farther ahead but the trail was covered now and only a series of footsteps in
the ice lead me onward up the treacherous pitch directly over the lake. It
wouldn’t have been a good place to fall and when I did stumble I made sure it
was not towards lakeside. I placed my feet in the impressions made by others in
days past but this sometimes was problematic so I tried making fresh tracks
which also was iffy. The snow was inconsistent and at this point I was relying
heavily on my past experiences hiking with skies on my back to Keyhole or
Estelle Bowl. Slowly if not steadily I made my way up the peak until the Jap
disappeared altogether. I would later surmise that he had gone a different way
towards a 5,000 meter peak and not to Laurenbina La. I can only assume with his
grit that he succeeded but at the moment I was preoccupied that I had no one to
follow and would be on my own in a precarious situation. There has come a point
in all my treks where I am pushed to the limit and must take a few tenuous
steps beyond IT. I considered turning back more than once on the way to Laurebina
La but always tottered a few more steps and then a few more after that. To my
left now another in the chain of frozen lakes this one completely submerged in
snow and only the depression hinted at a lake. The drop offs here weren’t
deadly in themselves although a fall would have meant sliding a hundred yards
into the gulch or worse yet onto the ice of the lake. My biggest concern was
twisting an ankle in the permafrost footprints but when I tried to blaze my own
trail I fell through the snow to my hips and had to wiggle out. The ridgeline
became very scary but at that point turning back seemed just as harrowing so I
endured and things leveled out a bit near the pass. For me this was the apex of
the world and the highest I’ve ever been. Laurebina La is cradled by Matterhorn
peaks on both sides and has a view of the Ganesh Range and lower hills of Nepal.
In fact the trail carries on towards Kathmandu but the footsteps stopped near
the pass and I would’ve never made it further. In this area two infamous
occurrences a Thai airbus crash and Australian trekker getting lost and found
alive after 46 days. The pass is located at 4,600 meters (around 15,000 feet)
and marked by a simple stone cairn amassed in whipping prayer flags. Who had
put them there because on this day there wasn’t a living soul around not even a
winged creature just me, the snow and wind. It was a silence so golden that
death itself couldn’t compare in its perfect solitude. I broke the spell with a
rebel yell that could be heard in the four corners of the universe “Victory to
the Gods!” I loitered as long as I could before returning and just like those
who perish on Everest I knew the descent was equally if not more dangerous and
I took a few spills on the steepest pitch above Gosainkund but was relieved to
find myself trembling lakeshore watching a yellow and grey bird picking along
the edge of the frozen ripples. I had a snickers for breakfast then started off
for Laurebina Yak past Ganesh and Guru falling many times since I had a
tendency to rush being in only ankle deep snow. At Laurenbina Yak I saw the
German couple still trucking and on the way to Sing Goempa I face planted near
a slate painting of a blue Buddha copulating with his nude Dakini. I wiped mud
from my face and vowed to slowdown but was soon running the flattop ridge on a
rigorous day that would see me descending more than 10,00 feet! I passed the
Thais and made the last descent thousands of feet pounding endless dusty
switchbacks through regal pines, oak and bamboo finally crashing into a lush
forest of thick vegetation where I spotted another troop of languor’s swooping
in the canopy clicking like dolphins. I felt beat down by the time I picked up
the dirt road into Dhuntshe just as evening fell. It was New Years Eve in the dirty
mountain town where likely most of the residents spent all their days without
ever venturing to the holy lakes two days walk above. The inhabitants were a
mix of Newari and Tibetan folk and from the filthy streets I could see the
towering peaks that concealed the lakes although Laurenbina was too high to be
spotted tucked away in its own dominion with its own deities. It was a
depressing setting for NYE but I was much too exhausted to care, I wolfed down
some questionable chowmein bought a bus ticket to Kathmandu and crawled into my
fart sack counting sheep for my countdown and kissing my hand.
What to do in
Kathmandu II
It was my second leg of the four legged beastly journey
between Dhuntshe and the capital on this ride a fight broke out and I woke up
to find a kinky old Tibetan Auntie rubbing my leg. She eventually removed her
hand snorting some sort of powder up her nose that smelled like patchouli. The
girl behind me was retching for hours and barfing green bile into a plastic
bag. It smelled rank but it was so crowded that it didn’t even seem to matter.
This bus serves as a local as Tibetans clamor on and off at each outpost. Then
soldiers checking for poached animal parts or contraband of some sort prod the
luggage opening bags. In the hills the roadside towns get bigger and nosier and
now Hindu’s with flowing saris like Disney Princesses embark and disembark with
big red dots painted on their brows. School children in wool uniforms and thin
neckties hop on and off going home for lunch and finally on the outskirts of
the Dew rowdy teenage boys in fashionable clothes shouting at one another. Some
Tibetans are still onboard for shopping outings in Kathmandu.
When I get off the bus I’m shaking all the way in the cab to
Ganeshy where I gulp my welcome Masala Tea then take a hot shower. The drain is
clogged but I continue to soak and when I’m done I’ve flooded the fourth floor,
luckily I’m a preferred customer at the Mars Hotel and the Tibetan maids just laugh
gesturing “No matter” and I get transferred to a new room.
The next day I set out to Bodhi a wonder of the Buddhist
world the great Stupa built thousands of years ago sacked in the thirteenth
century by pesky Mughals then rebuilt and expanded. My VP told me just the
other night a myth about the origin of the stupa and three sons who made wishes
and one of them prophesized the birth of Guru Rinpoche who is inexorably linked
to the Stupa. That would further explain how it is the center for Tibetan
exiles that fled after the Chinese invasion of their homeland that resulted in
massive loss of life, culture, and artifacts. It’s also said that a bone of
Lord Buddha is entombed inside the Stupa and I can’t help ruminate about what
else is in there? Anyhow it’s one of the big three holy places along with
Lumbini and Bodgaya where Buddha attained enlightenment under the papal tree
after thwarting a barrage of phantasmagorical nightmarish images sent fort by
Mara (a devil centuries older than Lucifer) The last card Mara played was
sending three frolicking maidens that tried to seduce Gautama touching him in
all the right places but he merely saw them for the illusion that they were and
they became crones and turned to dust infuriating Mara who still seeks revenge
in the trenches of Samsara, Bangkok Whorehouses and Las Vegas Casinos.
Bodhi once was surrounded by forest but now the pilgrim buys
a ticket at the ornate gate stepping from the chaos of a bustling shopping
district into the relative calmness of the sanctuary. Compared to little
Chorten Kora the stupa is immense with a shinning white dome reminiscent to the
head of a well shaped penis. Surrounding the walkway where pilgrims have
circumambulated for thousands of years are rows of shops selling expensive
Tankas, Buddhist kitsch, and pepperoni pizza which I sampled overlooking the
marvelous shrine. What would Buddha say about all this commercialism? Atop the
dome are the bloodshot blue eyes of Buddha who most certainly didn’t possess
blue eyes any more than Jesus did. Above his eyes a bullion rod and mobile stretches
into the ether transmitting messages to the mother ship. All Hail the jewel in
the Lotus! OM MANI PADME HUM! I also
found out recently that Buddha who did not want to be worshipped as a god
(oops) prophesized that he would be born from a lotus fully awake and be called
Guru Pema and so it came to pass that our freewheeling second incarnation of
Buddha subjugated the bloodletting lake worshipping Bonpo tribes of Tibet with
his scepter and magic powers. All hail the jewel in the Lotus Yo! And so that’s
why the power resides at the great stupa of Bodhi in a Hindu land that is of
incalculable value for Buddhists. Kathmandu is a city of Stupas and this is the
greatest. Tibetan red robed lamas fervently keep the flame alive praying night
and day in the monasteries tucked around the stupa. But on this day it was some
Sharchop puja with Bhutanese lamas and a gathering of thousands with bleating
puja horns and crashing symbols that made me think of all my students toiling in
obscure villages in the oblivion of east Bhutan. It seemed auspicious on a
sparkling bluebird day with billowing nimbus clouds stretching and yawning into
the stratosphere. It had rained the night before cleansing the smoggy valley
washing the world anew. There were legions of maroon and gold chanting for
Buddha, for our own Buddha Nature the compassionate seed within us watered by
the sadness of Samsara. The weeping Buddha who shed rivers of tears for all of
us just as Jesus shed his blood for all of us. They are the same and WE are the
same but too asleep to know it! I am also asleep but enjoy the dream of this
day ambling in somnolent circles around the stupa inhaling plumes of incense
smoke plainly people watching. Western tourists, Tibetan old timers hunched
over spinning rosary beads, and Nepali folks just hanging out with their
families we are all part of the human family. (BE GOOD FAMILY) All playing some
part in the heart of gold band. I thought of Becky since it seems her place
more than mine. I had made it back to Bodhi, what a fucking blessing! What a
world we call our home and what a shit show it has become but all the goodness
is still present, every last mutated drop of life’s nectarous elixir as sweet
as Coca Cola, also for sale at Bodhi along with Baskin Robbins ice cream. I
climbed onto the jam packed plinth past banks of butter lamps and inconspicuous
Hindu deities and climbed on the crowded stupa past rows of mantra mumbling
monks. Below the plinth the wacky calisthenics of full length prostrates women
sliding on wooden planks then bounding to their feet again before plunging
earthward, full tilt boogie. We all experience the Dharma in our own way even
if we don’t know what Dharma is and that is where my faith lies. Despite its
lineage from the Hindu pantheon of gods and adaptation of Bon superstitions
Buddhism at its essence is merely a Science of the Mind or lesson in detachment
from non reality or the shimmering illusion containing both immense suffering
and immeasurable pleasure seen as two sides of the same rusty coin. How we flip
that coin is Dharma. In Hindu it means divine law or simply the teachings of
Buddha but for me it’s life in your face challenging you 24/7 imploring release
from the craziness of the cycle, a perverse merrygoround complete with flashing
lights and circus music.
On that note I departed Bodhi making the cross town journey
through traffic and ever beeping horns back to congested Thamel and Ganeshy
Mall AKA the Hotel California to enjoy room service, a late night crepe and
smooth yogurt lassi. DELICIOUS! The reason I had to return to Kathmandu was the
logistical nightmare of obtaining an Indian Visa, claiming my passport, and
transferring my Nepali Visa but not in that order. My myriad of taxi rides did
however give me a fair overview of the sprawling city from industrial zones to
shopping districts and even some overcrowded neighborhoods. The easiest was the
USA embassy go figure but dealing with the Nepal bureaucrats and the Indians,
not so much. The Nepali sent me up and down the stairs obtaining signatures
from the same three guys in different order then went on lunch break just to
ice me. But the Injuns topped the cake, arriving at 9 A.M on a cold sidewalk
was akin to lining up early back in the days when you bought your Dead tickets
at record stores. Wookies of all ages and nationalities lined up waiting to be
admitted to the outside courtyard embassy where we took numbers Deli (not
Delhi) style and when I got #1 I knew it was too good to be true since they
rejected my paperwork since I put down Timothy Grossman omitting the Kristopher
that appears on my passport. When I went to pay the internet café next door to
redo it promptly and properly I met a foxy lady who was 28 and working at a
nonprofit in Kolkata on a Visa run. We made fast friends and she asked if I
wanted to go to the North Face Outlet for shopping. I could tell she was lonely
and wanted companionship in the city much like Claire two years ago except she
was sexier than Claire with sleek legs in tight jeans and a sharp but
attractive face. She vanished to do her paperwork and I ditched her since my
driver was waiting and frankly I thought it wasn’t worth the effort. What has
become of my priorities preferring to be alone then in the company of a woman who
in the states wouldn’t give me the time of day? Either way I already forgot her
name but I would have to return to the embassy with trash pile burning next
door for a third time to claim my Indian Visa. It’s what writers call
foreshadowing.
Lost in Tibet (The
Tamang Heritage Trail)
“In the shadow of the moon, Terrapin
Station…”
 |
| Tibetan Peaks |
The next day I was back on the bus to Langtang after getting
another National Park Permit and TIM’s Card from the same attractive Nepali
clerk who did ring my bell but wouldn’t give me the time of day. The Nepali
chicks “valley girls” are so hip with nose rings long raven tresses and baggy
genie pants. GRRRRR BABY! VERY GRRRRRR! I will spare you a description of the
bus ride but I think you get the picture by now. This time it took even longer
to lumber into Seri Besi the last outpost on the Nepali frontier where a
gravelly road forks towards Tibet. The bus passed that road climbing on dirt
track and I didn’t know where to get off on this village bound local sardine
can teetering on the edge of bottomless cliff, Bubba Ganush would’ve flipped
her lid. The lone English speaker advised I get off on the pass and I did then
another youngster pointed me towards Gotlang the traditional village that was
supposed to be the second stop of the trek. I had bypassed half a day on that
bus out of Seri Besi and now was walking an anonymous dirt road with electrical
wires as wet snow began to fall soaking my clothes. Soon I took my chances on a
dirt track and sure enough followed a group of young girls with flip flops
totting baskets of straw strapped to their foreheads getting a big kick out of
me and asking for chocolate and pens as kids of that region do, “gimmie
chocolate!” But the rural urchins led me into the attractive stone village just
as night fell and I sought shelter in the first guesthouse but on this trek
they’re touted as “home stays” That’s not far off since the vibe on the Tamang
Heritage Trail is different than other treks. Margaret a middle-aged (like me)
German and her guide were staying there too. She was nice and reserved like the
other Germans and was an eye doctor and that prompted me to launch into my
congenital nastagmus lament. For dinner I had Dindo which looked like a growler
on a plate but the brown lump of Tibetan origin was made out of wheat and I had
to work to get it down with copious swigs of water. I lit out before Margaret
but would see her several more times since I was perpetually lost on this trek
backtracking too many times to recall.
It was a morning as fresh as the first day on earth, snow
dusted the fallow terraces and beyond the village a jumble of snowy peaks. I
felt close to Tibet whatever that entails following a descending row of stone
stupas more primitive than the whitewashed versions in Bhutan. Mani slates with
Tibetan script adorned the stupas and I felt the juice of life coursing through
my veins. Damn it was good to be out of that confounded city and in the mighty
range again. I was headed away from those jagged peaks and stone dwellings with
wisps of wood smoke curling from chimneys dropping rapidly into a narrow
valley. I got confused not knowing when to leave the dirt road that was
constructed for the Hydro project below. Finally some locals in Tamang attire
confirmed my pointing on the map responding to the buzz word Tatapaini my
intended destination. Except I said the name wrong half a dozen times before
they got it and we all had a good laugh. Finally I was on a bonafide trail
cutting rapid switchbacks through cute clusters of bamboo and dwarf pines
coming onto a swift river. Things were looking up but tuned bleak when instead
of a quant village I came upon a muddy gravelly worksite where Big Boy Tonka
trucks were tearing at the base of the mountain for their hydro project
sponsored by the Nepali/China Friendship attempting to harness the goddess for
electricity for urban centers below. Unfortunately for all her POWER the
Goddess cannot fight back (overtly) instead gracefully flowing allowing herself
to be diverted and manipulated and yet she provides to our capricious whims
anyway. HO!
It was yucky slogging through that mud and for the better
part of two days I’d hear that tick tick of the toothy Tonka tank gouging the
base of that coned mountain. I cleared the site and soon was lost again scrabbling
over fallow terraces before another local (no one spoke English out there)
pointed me back in that comical way that all Himalayan peeps do gesticulating
wildly with hand flourishes.
An hour later and several more stops for
directions I was on the unmarked trail that Lonely Planet remarks is difficult
for route finding. Yeah that’s putting it mildly guys. A brutal climb in the
hot sun with nary a tree for shade for hours I climbed up passing Tamang folk
in colorful purple and pink dress with embroidered disc hats and turquoise
jewelry completing their regalia. I rolled into Tatapaini by 2 and by 3 was
soaking in the Hot Springs. At first glance I was disappointed at the hot
springs with cement pools spigot and copper mineral waters. The water wasn’t too
hot but very warm and made for a good soak after all. A Nepali couple or maybe
Indian soaked all day since I took two soaks and a break and they were there both
times. The springs didn’t have a mountain view but prayer flags adorned huge
fir trees on the ridge above the pools and I warmed up to the place especially
at twilight. Three white girls and a German they had hooked in with arrived on
the scene. I had met the trio at Ganeshy Mall but as I said before I prefer the
dark meat. They worked in Indonesia as ESL teachers but didn’t see me like an
alligator lurking in the steamy waters. I chose a bad guesthouse that was
pretty much abandoned but I did coax mediocre Dal Bat from the hostess and made
friends with a young man who soaked with me the second time. He also looked
Indian. It was a weird place tucked near the Tibetan border but many of the
inhabitants looked mountain Indian like they came from Sikkim or somewhere. I
never could figure it out but I did meet Mandarava incarnated as a lass wearing
purple, she was a thing of beauty and when she uttered my name (saying it was
sweet) it was like some holy incantation. She vanished into another room or
dimension and I adjourned upstairs to the empty quarter where I spent a
sleepless night with a violent wind that threatened to blow us all off the
mountain, shaking the building and blowing my door open sending chills up and
down my spine as I had to crawl out of my sleeping bag in the freezing cold and
shut the door. Shudders clacked and the foundations shook the whinny of the
wind trilling like Satan’s War horse. By daybreak the wind had died down some
but outside tree branches littered the trail and I missed my turn ending up in
some barren wasteland before retracing my route and sure enough meeting Margaret
and her guide who I accompanied for about an hour to a viewpoint at an old
ruined fort. Look! Ganesh Himal what a surprise now closer than I’d seen the
25,000 foot peak from Laurebina Yak a week before. When you put the three treks
together it was a remarkable overview of the region from the gorgeous glacier
of Langtang Valley, the awesome Gosainkund Lakes and still the best views of
beloved Langtang Peak were yet to come but I didn’t know that yet. Soon I let
Margaret roll by wanting to be alone on my trip but kept an eye on her and her
guide as they ascended a succession of rolling bluffs gaining hundreds of feet
in elevation with each hump. If you trained your ear you could still hear that
damn truck thousands of feet below. Mostly though it was perfectly peaceful and
I diverted from the trail towards my next point on the map but soon was slewing
in the slushy afternoon corn arriving at the deserted “Great Wall Guest House”
The name indicated its proximity to China which might have been any of those peaks
beyond Langtang which now rose righteously across the valley. I was back in her
bosom and had finer views from her backside than ever on the Langtang Trek
itself. Go figure this world is full of surprises and if you hang with it long
enough you are always rewarded in kind. But I had the dilemma of finding a
place to sleep so I bushwhacked over dead grass to the top of the plateau where
I met Margaret, the trio of white girls, their German tagalong, and guides all
assembled at the only open lodge. We all had lunch chatting amicably and were
joined by two Austrians a brother and sister. The brother was suffering from
blisters but took it in stride. I would only get one blister not from my soft
well travelled boots but wet socks the next day. It’s still benevolently
residing on my heel. After lunch the whole bunch bugged out but I was attracted
to this plateau with fine views of Langtang on one side and Ganesh Himal on the
other so I stayed on roving along the 10,000 foot bluff with views in every
direction of high peaks and the lowland hills from which I had come. The vista
was dominated though by Ganesh and Langtang on opposing sides, A POWER SPOT. The
lodge was operated by a Tamang couple who spoke no English beyond items on the
menu. They did have expensive Coke and it was uncut fructose goodness. The
sunset was unbelievable as Langtang was a scarlet fire finally fading to bruised
purple. Nighttime the three of us huddled around the hearth and the man plucked
at his lute but he was a beginner for sure. The night sky was full of low
hanging stars and I reached up and played with them like a baby swiping at a
mobile over his crib. The dipper burned brightly its ladle upside down pouring
starlight onto the slated peak of Ganesh Himal (slightly higher than Langtang)
a gibbous moon was frozen in its celestial sector illuminating the peaks in a
ghostly whiteness.
The next day I decided to trek to a viewpoint that the
guides said was closed, but how is a viewpoint closed. What it meant was that
it was snowbound and the Tamang proprietor reiterated this fact in broken
English but also somehow conveyed that one could see deep into Tibet from
there. I was game so I decided to go for it. On this long day the heritage
trail would transform into the hermitage trail and then I’d be off the trail
and on “the path” At about 9 A.M I entered the dark woods following a defined
trail which soon became lost in snow but fortunately like the parable of
Christ’s footprints in the sand I tracked footprints for the next 4 hours through
ominous terrain.
There was heavy snow in this country that plopped down off
overburdened limbs sometimes baptizing me in slushiness. Sometimes the
evergreens were regal and other times stout with inspiring views of Langtang
through clearings. The mountain seemed to be getting bigger with each step.
Funny the relationships we forge with inanimate landscapes but are they really
just made of rock and snow or are our dreams hopes and fears in there too. Can
a mountain feel love, it sure can inspire it! I stopped at a bench thoughtfully
constructed by someone and there some logs were placed over the trail. Was this
the point of no return the closure the guides had prophesized? I high stepped
over the barricade and waded through drifts with inconsistent layers which made
for slow slogging. Soon the trail emerged from the forest onto an exposed
ridgeline in the intense winter sun beating off the snow, thank goodness for
sunglasses. It was getting steeper and each time I convinced myself that it
would be the final push I would only arrive at a false summit and a new pitch
would be revealed mocking me. Trekking is a labor of love and sometimes a pain
in the butt but through that effort immeasurable satisfaction arises. This was
a memorable trail and it was wonderful to be alone with no one even remotely
close. I knew if something happened the proprietor knew where I was headed but
all the same I exercised caution but really you gotta just let it ride. This is
Tim’s bell! Ding! Finally the real summit loomed above. What a treat, its
exceedingly rare to actually summit anything in this part of the world since
the peaks piggyback one another until oxygen runs out and you bang your head on
the roof of the world. This vista though was the top of a round mountain and as
I tackled the steepest section of the slope the snow lessened and I was able to
pick my way on bare rock. By the end I was scampering and sliding backwards on
slick snow clawing and crawling until I made it to the top! And there sure
enough I was rewarded with a heart throbbing view deep into Tibet a jigsaw of
razor sharp indistinct peaks and pinnacles stretching back over the curve of
the horizon. Uninhabited and unconcerned about political boundaries, even the
Red Chinese had no real claim here. Only Yeshi and her Guru might tell of their
secrets from astral adventures in secluded mountainside caves in places much
like where I was standing now. I projected my own being out of body and made a
foray into that forbidden domain. The secrets I learned there were not revealed
to my conscious mind but like I said the best things are left undiscovered. A
knee high cairn bedecked with rainbow flags flapped in a light breeze. I romped
in the midriff drifts of powder dry flakes each one unique trying to navigate
the ridgeline towards Ganesh Himal a mountain that I admire immensely complimenting
Langtang Lirung like the tantric union of male and female energies. The union
of sky and earth represented in celestial beings painted on stone slates
engaged in coitus. A blue Buddha in lotus position with a slender Oriental
Dakini sporting pert breasts perched on his member penetrating her essence. I
lived and died many thousands of times on that summit experiencing ecstasy and
anxiety the gamut of worldly emotions and desires coursing through me like the
jet stream blowing spindrift off the crystalline peak of Langtang. Actually the
peak is a million tiny peaks all protruding from ONE massif. Each one with its
own lines, shadows, affinities, and moods but tied together spiraling towards
the tippy top although it’s hard to tell the true apex as the lesser peaks
coalesce into three major peaks that still retain their oneness. Intricate
cornices and depressions are carved on the crystalline entity I blink and shut
my eyes and see colored worms swimming behind my lids and hear loud ringing in
my ears. When I reopen them the mountain is fluid and alive, again I see her
face but now she’s smiling at me with twinkling icy eyes. Turning I see Ganesh
his slated rock and snow peak resting on a strong back with trumpeting trunk
the feature obviously responsible for his name. Remember Ganesh the God of
obstacles who I knew before Guru Pema, this is his domain and he and Langtang
are connected and currently both beam down their energies engulfing my heart in
blissfulness beyond earthy comprehension. On the Tibetan horizon a jigsaw of
jagged peaks with all the saints and their dakini’s dancing in a sundog around
our sacred star.
When I rejoined my body I realized my boots were soaked and
I couldn’t feel my toes but I know from skiing that it was only temporary as
long as I descended so reluctantly I began my descent immediately sliding feet
first twenty yards down the icy slope before clawing my way to a stop. It was a
long way down to that special bench and then back through the enchanted black
forest to the lodge where I had left most of my gear taking only a lightened
pack. I ordered up some chowmein slugged a coke from a plastic bottle and
decided to keep heading down to avoid another frigid night on the plateau. The
plateau was called Nagthali Ghyang and the viewpoint Tharuche.
I passed some grazing yaks beside a blossoming tree with red
berries one shaggy black yak had piercing curved horns framing Langtang in a
perfect bulls eye. The trail resumed at the old “Great Wall” guesthouse forlorn
and empty. It was muddy and the snow had refrozen into treacherous ice and I
took a hard fall struggling to get a foothold. I had to plan every step but got
out of that tight spot and dropped onto a series of descending bluffs with
Langtang getting closer and closer towering higher than any mountain ever has
with golden light gilding all her lovely spires, a golden crystal pure as a
snow virgin yet ruthless as any woman and I hate to think that man has climbed
on her. The lower I went the higher she rose and soon I was singing and dancing
on bullion bluffs prancing past a water driven prayer wheel with a tiny bell
clanging with each revolution chiming only to the wind and water. I was
abruptly gobbled up by a black forest with fir trees of unimaginable height and
girth with sprawling crooked limbs draped in a thick carpet of moss and
Langtang turning a multitude of warm hues was the only beacon. It was cold and
quiet and even the birds whispered. I was dropping fast and again took a nasty
spill landing face first on the rocks but was unscathed save a scratched wrist.
I took a break since my spirit was outpacing my legs and I had to rebalance my
body and mind. I was on my way to another traditional village called Thuman a
cluster of stone houses some doubling as lodges with guestrooms. I found one
with a nice view of my goddess and was served blue ribbon Dal Bat with bean
curry instead of potato, and not green beans but Mexican style with out of this
world rich Dal that made the knees buckle. Himalayan soul food! My stomach was
a bit upset from the less salubrious plateau cook but it wasn’t that bad. Now I
was in the domain of the Dithang a splinter tribe of the Tamang also directly
linked to Tibet but with a different custom and language. Only one ridge
separated the two tribes but after the walkabout it made perfect sense. My last
sunset on Langtang luminous rays creeping up her broad shoulders and cropped hair
illuminating the strong and gentle features of her face finally twinkling in
her kind brown eyes holding me there for just a moment before fading into
silver gloaming. Kids ran around in the adjacent field burning something in a smoldering
fire pit. Haystacks rested in raised lofts and the stone dwellings made Thuman
a nice holdover for the night and one last chance for mingling our dreams
together of turquoise horses leaping off stenciled prayer flags cantering
through this dimension. I want the realm where we can be ONE where I can stay
forever.
I’m not a morning person even on the trail and when I said
goodbye to Langtang now a pensive grey I never thought it would truly be the
last time. I soon entered an arid village and then the trail was obliterated by
a sinister road in progress and angry machine clawing gracelessly at the
mountainside. A group of villagers pointed out the bypass and I ended up
hanging off a small embankment my feet dangling five feet over gashed earth. I
let go and dropped to the mangled earth with the deafening roar of the tractor
spouting noxious fumes. I retreated down that evil track until I came to a
roughly paved roadway and bridge where one Chinese looking man was shoveling
gravel. In one direction was Seri Besi only 3 KM away and in the other Timure
and the Tibetan border connected by this scant gravel road. I stood my ground
deliberating before turning left towards the border. It was a hard slog 3 hours
to the border and I always find rode walking more tedious than the most
strenuous trail especially with a pack. I wasn’t expecting much but felt
inclined to make it to that manmade line that defines the boundary of Tibet,
nexus of tantric Buddhism. Bhutan is the last bastion of Mahayana Buddhism but Tibet
is the cradle of all the schools in this sect including the old school
Nyingmapa which Thegsey adheres too. It’s where the Guru amassed his POWER
before heading south to Bhutan. So I felt inclined to look but I knew it would
be a melancholy journey. Tibet is vast and I was a long way from Lhasa the
central power and even further from the green rolling mountains of Kham very
near to Tsenkharla and Tawang. It’s comprised of diverse ethnic groups and
traditionally tribal Kham is not affiliated with the political structure of
Lhasa but now all these parts are ruled mercilessly by China. When I came to
Bhutan I thought that Buddhism was a peace loving religion that wouldn’t hurt a
fly, literally. But no religion is bloodless since they are comprised of men.
Tibet at one time captured lands in central China and made repeated invasions
into Bhutan being repelled at Drukyul in the West and Trashigang Dzong in the
East. Some Bhutanese have it that Guru Rinpoche prophesized the invasion too. Yet
it was China who struck the deathblow in 1959 with bombs and machine guns
massacring many Tibetans and destroying many monasteries. They kept a few as an
investment and I’m not entirely sure the circumstances that prevail today. I’m
sure some monks are left but the Dali Lama and many thousands of citizens fled
to Nepal and India where his holiness resides today in exile.
The Chinese built road with occasional Ta Ta traffic and
zipping motorbikes follows a pure vein of turquoise water braided with creamy
rapids through a narrow canyon walled in steep hills. The place resembles the
lead into Doksom and the two places share a sinister fate. Hydropower. Here, a
major hydro project is underway and upriver the Chinese/Nepali Friendship
bullshit company is tearing up the mountain diverting the sacred waters into
channels and all sorts of unholy shenanigans, All for POWER and money. The
valley must have been paradise lowland Shangri La, a Bey Yul or hidden land
comparable to the Tamang side of the ridge and now both valleys are being raped
and plundered the thoughtless commerce of the Chinese spilling over into Nepal.
The labor camp looked dismal with workers eating gruel and men and women in
monkey suits and hardhats who looked Han Chinese carrying around clipboards or
shovels. Closer to the border excavators roam like terminators scratching at
the bedrock piling gravel in a huge swath of destruction. In the last unspoiled
beach I knelt down splashing some of that cold clear water on my face and
asking for one rock to give my best friend. The river looked so good after
enduring the torture of the trucks and channels but I’m still disturbed and
wonder about the outrage of local deities.
Timure at first glance is dismal and dusty with dozens of Ta
Ta trucks parked along the roadside. Ironically most have murals and sayings of
Buddha painted on them and I wonder if the drivers are Chinese or Nepali. It’s
not a heavily trafficked road and the main entry point from Nepal into China is
at Borderlands and the Friendship Bridge 3 hours from Kathmandu. Why did they
need another road? the answer was stretched before me, the hydro project POWER
and money. The Chinese have ongoing disputes on every border from Tawang where
they fought a war in 1962 blood oozing
into the soil of my beloved valley and copters crashing in Sakteng, to Leh on
the Indo/Pakistan frontier. They have reclaimed Tajikistan in a conflict I know
very little about but there it was unfolding before my eyes as I walked the
last few dusty miles around a bend the pillaging beginning at the border
itself. Near the border a huge iced peak overshadows the canyon and a cluster
of stone dwellings with erect prayer flags seems eerily out of place in this
construction zone. Then it appeared like the Death Star before the Millennium
Falcon, a huge tan edifice 25 stories high. A square block with ominous black
mirrored windows an enormous façade with the road running through the middle
like a gaping maw. It’s a sinister yet alluring building emanating ruthlessness.
Mandarin script and the Chinese seal seem otherworldly yet surprisingly no
Chinese flag unfurls. No prayer flags either just neon pennants that look like
they’re from a racetrack the edifice is sterile and grand at once. The old border
gates from a more civilized era still stand rusticating. One has auspicious
Buddhist symbols like the conch and a few yards in front of that an old iron
archway of barred iron reads “Welcome to Nepal” on its frame. At one point I
would have been standing in Tibet but the Chinese “graciously” receded they’re
border a whole quarter mile so now I was still in Nepal when I approached the
huge bridge with spotless smooth pavement. The massive border building is newer
than any building I’d seen in Nepal and an old tangent suspension bridge
sporting prayer flags on the Nepal side runs into a parking lot on the Chinese
side (A bridge to nowhere) No one passes here without authorization says the
friendly Nepali soldier who was just placed there a few days prior. He’s
handsome, tall with Anglican features and dressed in blue fatigues. He says I
can step out on the bridge and take a photo but my camera lens had frozen the
day before. I do however oblige and step into no-man’s-land onto the immaculate
four lane bridge since you know how I love borderlands even despondent ones.
Energies always coalesce at borders, the good the bad and the ugly. It’s
strangely quiet over on their side with no armed sentries no vehicles but I
imagine them Han Chinese peering out from behind opaque glass sitting behind
desks with ledgers and a big red phone linked directly to Beijing. I was
enthralled and very sad at once. I returned in late afternoon to an even
stranger scene there, a ruined fort on the Nepali bank that’s fenced off and
now I’m sitting on a chair at the shed but the Nepali soldiers are gone. A lone
Chinese soldier and vehicle sit at the other side of the bridge. The Nepali
roadblock is a flimsy barbed wire fence scaffold with sticks. The dichotomy
couldn’t be more apparent between the two countries. I try to look suspicious
and draw the Reds out but they pay no heed and I sit in the gathering dusk
fixated on that building the color of the rock wall behind it. There are no
views of Tibet the road immediately turns right from the customs tunnel and
heads around a bend near a building that looks like a Doubletree Hotel probably
housing the seemingly invisible throngs of employees and soldiers if they exist
at all. From here I couldn’t advance but
my heart goes on into the heartland of the Guru, origin of Milapara, Drukpa
Kunley and Tsangma. The birthplace of CRAZY WISDOM! On the sorrowful walk back
to Timure past the ramshackle shops I see a rock niche with a framed picture of
Yeshi Tshogyel with a few frayed rupees crammed into crevices and I offer a
note. Oh Yeshi this would break your heart and I know you know and for that I’d
weep if my tears still flowed. Oh Yeshi you are so loved and you who loved your
enemies as brothers. Oh Yeshi why are WE
this way? Tell me Yeshi WHY? Only silence and the whoosh of the river
but I know she has heard my cry and for that I am pacified.
A peach peak peeks out of Tibet my last sunset in the Nepali
Himalaya a country that encompasses a third of the range and shares claim to
the highest mountain on earth, Mt Everest with China who of course has built a
road all the way to the 16,000 foot base camp. Timure is peculiar even for a
border town and people walk around with stars in their eyes and vapid
expressions. The shops display cup of noodles with Chinese kids on the package
and Chinese Pepsi, the men sit around puffing those funny looking Chinaman
cigarettes. Of all the bus rides that last one was the most grueling taking
nine hours to travel 150 miles from the border back to Kathmandu.
What to do in
Kathmandu III
“Is this the end or
beginning…”
 |
| Durbar |
My pal Jon and his brother Dave had just arrived in
Kathmandu and we all hung out for two days. Jon taught in Wamrong and will be
working at a private school in Thimphu this year and living with Ian and Vicky.
He’s a funny guy and we encourage one another riffing endlessly on what the
other says. Sometimes we get a little bawdy. His brother is more reserved
living in New York City but a cool guy too. It was refreshing to make human
contact and I fear I dominated the conversations having diarrhea of the mouth
since I’d been on my own so long. We breakfasted on a roof top veranda then hit
Kathmandu Durbar Square. This is world class people watching and offers prime
examples of Newari architecture which has Hindu significance and Buddhist
touches. You might duck into a secret cloister and see brick plinths with
Ganesh shrines topped by stupas with Buddha Eyes. This is where the two faiths
mix indiscriminately and we must remember that Prince Siddhartha (who later
became Buddha) was born into a royal Hindu line much like Christ was a Jew. I
find the mixing very refreshing and love these secret courtyards set off the
brick avenues near the main square. The main square is vast with a collection
of Newari pagodas made of brick and wood beams with intricate carvings with
strange Hindu mythological creatures. One huge White House looking edifice is a
relic from the colonial British. Nepal has had a crazy history and recently the
entire royal family including king was slain by the prince in 2001 thus ending
a 200 year reign. Recently the Maoist gained sway and there was fighting in the
last decade. Nepal has significant poverty amongst its 33 million people and
just in Thamel you get a taste. Beggars asking for milk money for their babes
wander the corridors while inside well to do Nepali families eat pizza.
On our second day together we went to Bhaktapur one off
Kathmandu’s three ancient city states and probably the best example of the
classic Newari style. It takes nearly an hour to fight through ever present
traffic to the outskirts of the modern city where Bhaktapur stands reeking of
ancient culture. The mid evil city-state traces its roots to the 12th
century when it served as a trade post between India and Tibet. The streets and
buildings are all ruddy brick inlayed with cubbyhole shops that one must duck into. The Durbar Square is a happening
gathering spot around sunset for Nepali’s of all stripes, sitting on the brick
plinths among gilded penises, lion and elephant statues. The architecture is
the finest I’ve ever seen although I’m still partial to Bhutanese however the
dark carved wood blends so naturally with the brick and exudes a certain
brooding intensity that is MID-EVIL. Nepali lovers walking hand in hand seem so
at home superimposed against the bricks glowing gold in the sunset. It’s a
great way to spend a day with friends having tea on a rooftop enjoying good
conversation. Becky dubbed this part of my trip “Mr. Tim’s Social hour” which
is true because the next day Jon and Dave went to Pokhara and Becky arrived all
the way from the USA. The visits didn’t really overlap but they did see each
other briefly reuniting three BCF chums.
My four days with Becky were a blessing and the first day we
puttered around Thamel browsing in many bookstores. She surprised me with a
pocket Turtle Island to go along with the pocket Pema she gave me last year.
Now I have a great book for each pocket since that’s the kind of friend she is.
We exchanged simple gifts are first night, she brought me chocolate from Abu
Dhabi and I gave her a simple green rock from the Tibetan river. One afternoon
we headed up the hilly avenues on the edge of the valley to the famous Monkey
Temple or Swayambhunath that is perched on a hillock overlooking the expanse of
the valley completely packed with buildings, an overview of that crush of
humanity. The stupa is smaller than Bodhi but also less developed with only a
few quant souvenir concessions. To reach the stupa the pilgrim climbs what
seems like the world’s longest and steepest staircase, crooked and uneven stairs
rising hundreds of feet from street level past statues of Buddha and snow
lions. There is a distinct Hindu flavor at the temple and even the Buddha eyes
atop the eggshell Chorten have a pronounced bindi on them. In fact I was seeing
red dots everywhere including a huge smudge on the forehead of a beautiful
young woman as I remarked to Becky, “look at the size of that red dot!” and the
lassie overheard. For once I wasn’t misinterpreted and the fetching woman
laughed batting her luxuriant lashes in a universally flirtatious manner. HO!
Sunset at the monkey temple is magical with surprises everywhere including a
wood carving of Jamyung the god of wisdom wielding a sword. The lines of this
stupa are not as wide as Bodhi but are also a classic. Emperor Ashoka from China
visited 2,000 years ago but the first confirmed activity is around 500 A.D.
Like Bohdnath those pesky Mughals sacked and shattered the Stupa in the 13th
century plundering its crackerjack prizes but today the Monkey Temple shines
again (It can be seen from the rooftop patio of Ganeshy Mall) The reason it’s
called the monkey temple is because it’s overrun by cantankerous monkeys all
battered and scared from infighting. I recall on my visit with Claire one
agitated monkey with pink face accosting me for the coke I was holding. These
monkeys are bold and sort of ugly. They must have lived here when there was
forests and now are stranded on their little monkey island. There is still a
patch of forest behind the temple and beyond the relatively affluent neighborhoods
stacked against the emerald hills ringing the valley. A bit below the great
stupa, a wishing well and hundreds of strands of prayer flags flapping in the
breeze. The Nepali stand around the well tossing coins into the water presumably
making wishes and if I was to take a poll I estimate most of them are Hindu. I
have seen Koreans and other Asian pilgrims circling the temple as well since
Nepal is a Buddhist haven.
The next afternoon we went to Patan another mid evil city
state although not as well preserved as Bhaktapur. The Durbar Square area had
some treats including my all time favorite pagoda a five tiered and slender
ancient edifice with pigeons roosting near the top. Can you imagine the thought
and action that went into designing and building this one pagoda hundreds of
years ago. It’s said that it was the Nepali not the Chinese who invented this
classic Asian style of ascending and narrowing tiers, this one had unrivaled
grace and I put it in my heart as a keepsake. I’ve never seen anything even
remotely as elegant in America for all our wealth and dominance. Kathmandu
although at times confounding has become one of the few cities that I cherish
along with San Francisco, New Orleans, and Seoul. Another amazing experience
was spying the Golden Temple in an enclave off an indiscriminant alleyway. The
Golden Temple (Kwa Bahal) is a Buddhist temple built in the 12th
century but to this day is immaculately kept. Imagine the hundreds of
caretakers who put their hearts and minds into maintaining this jewel hidden in
an alcove. Hundreds of years before Columbus set sail devotees were making
offerings at this place and now here I stand. It would be an easy place to miss
and the wanderer must explore the numerous hidden courtyards and cloisters that
people the neighborhoods. This ornate temple was Nepali to the bone with Hindu
touches but there are Tibetan friezes on the wall with Yeshi, Buddha’s floating
in their bubbles and the wheel of life with its wild boar encompassing ALL. The
courtyard temple is a slender and ornate pagoda with every point, tangent, and
angle gilded in bronze. Prayer wheels line the main shrine with golden Buddha
statue inside. Plumes of sweet incense waft through the air and a dozen elderly
are around praying or simply reading the newspaper. The place gave me a special
feeling and again I put it in the recesses of my heart as a keepsake.
We hailed a taxi and rolled across town to Bohdnath (Becky’s
Stupa) it was my second trip to the holy Chorten with Becky and my how far
we’ve come since then. Today the Stupa seemed quiet compared to the Puja a few
weeks prior. We circumambulated spinning wheels and people watching then went
up to a rooftop for tea peering down on the complex with a bird’s eye view as
an airplane zoomed overhead. After tea we went on a famous Becky walking tour
which is always a grand adventure as she is much more patient and less
itinerary driven in her travels which often yields dividends. She led us out
the back gate of the temple into a funky residential neighborhood that was one
of my favorite areas of Kathmandu. We tried our best not to get run over
navigating a maze of backstreets in the endless labyrinth that is the city. For
me Becky’s presence is strongly connected to the Stupa and I always associate
the two. While taking last licks around the Great Stupa I remarked that this
might be a place you’d spot Singye the Caucasian Monk and BCF alum. Ironically
Becky and Jon spotted him at Bohdnath a week later on the mendicant trail
between Bodgaya (the tree where Buddha attained enlightenment) and the Great
Stupa. His search for peace of mind in this mixed up world is admirable and I
heard he misses the Kingdom so. With the Buddhist moniker Roaring Lion how can
he fail his quest? Another famous alum Ashleigh was reputedly in Pokhara on
tour with a local rock band while vacationing from her job in Dubai. We are a
class of our own, isn’t it?
For are grand finale Bunks and I had a grand misadventure to
Narakuat, Narogot, or kumquat. I never did get the name right and kept saying
it wrong to any and everyone to her bemusement. This is a tourist trap located
an hour outside the city touting its views of the Himalayan range. A host of
ridge top hotels exist for no other reason along with a poor unhygienic
village. First the hotel we got dropped at didn’t offer mountain views and thus
began our Goldilocks adventure skipping from one hotel to another looking for
the one that was just right. This one’s too expensive, this one is musty with a
heart shaped mattress, and this one is a dive. We never did get one that was just
right but we eventually had to settle on something a somewhat dilapidated hotel
with a room whose door wouldn’t close and a burning pile of trash blowing
towards the balcony. As for the views it was cloudy and hazy that afternoon so
we didn’t see anything but the expansive valley below. We walked to the luxury
hotel and sipped tea on the balcony before it started to sprinkle and they
threw us out. We tried to do the nature loop but the first 100 yards had been
used as a public toilet. Becky put it like this, “There was stool of every
shape, size, color, smell, and consistency.” We covered our noses with our
sleeves and ran out of the woods hopping over mounds of feces. At night the
room was cold and when I asked for an extra blanket they gave me one bombed by
mothballs (a harsh chemical) that clung to my clothes the whole night lingering
in my nostrils and making me sick. I smelled like Miss Havenshim or whoever
that old maid was who pranced round in her wedding dress in the attic for 150
years. We passed the night away laughing about Narapot and listening to
Leftover and I dozed off to the shenanigans of Vince Herman having dreams of
hoedowns in the Big Red Barn. ESKIMO! The next day was hazy but clear as a cherry
red sunrise scorched a slivered moon. We went back to the luxury hotel but the
balcony was closed until 11 AM so we couldn’t get the full view. We did see a
partial view of some peaks from the helicopter pad but were already over it and
hailed a taxi back into the valley. It was sad to say goodbye to Becky and
Nepal but the next day I departed for India.
goa in a trance
“While you were gone
these spaces filled with darkness, the obvious was hidden…”
Goa was a harsh comedown in every way except financially
since it was an expensive destination. Sure it had its moments and I bonded
with the Ocean like never before but the trip was peppered with loneliness and
isolation. India is a pain in the ass from start to finish and although the
flight was smooth enough they make you jump through many hoops. In Bombay I
barely made my connecting flight first wandering through a thoroughfare with
acres of a puke colored rug like one of those connecter terminals in Vegas
linking Excalibur and Circus Circus. Next an air-conditioned capacious customs
checkpoint with marble floors and voluminous ceilings that made me aware of all
the shanties outside with starving people living a hopeless existence. India
has a wide gap between rich and poor and the divide is staggering. I had to leave
the airport and go to a domestic terminal which meant boarding a bus with hundreds
of blowfish faced Indians who looked ready for a fight and seemed unwilling to
answer my questions. Through openings on the concrete freeway I spotted the
infamous shanties with some of the most destitute conditions on the planet,
ramshackle shacks piled atop each other. I barely made it and at 6 P.M arrived
in Goa taking a two hour taxi to Arambol rolling the windows down and enjoying
the warm trash tinged breezes. It had been a long time since I left the
mountains and a change of scenery was the purpose of my visit. As it turns out though
I’m a mountain man to the core and all that sun, surf, and sand proved
unnerving and I never really felt myself down there. Midway through the trip I
even chaffed in the saddle and had to procure diaper cream. Later my face broke
out and it seemed I was experiencing the problems of a babe and a teen. My digs
at Arambol were not impressive a bamboo beach hut on the waterfront, the rolly
Polly proprietor warned me that theft was a problem and my unit had been broken
into a few days prior, not exactly comforting news on arrival. There was
blasting music nearby which seemed alright since I thought I might get my
boogie on and went to check it out. Sure enough there was a party in progress
at the beach shack with groovy DJ mixing premium trance. Some Wookies were
assembled and the typical hip Euro crowd that represents North Goa along with
swarms of cigarette smoking Russians. I gyrated to the midst of the sandbox
dance floor and for a brief moment was encompassed by five mermaids of Atlantis,
the closest looked Israeli with humus colored skin, a Hasidic nose, and chestnut
medusa curls gathered in a lofty bun. A promising start to the action little
did I know that it was an anomaly and that it would be my first and last dance
party. If I had known I would have stayed on till sunrise with the booming wamp
wamp beats instead of trying to sleep through it.
One thing you’ll find living in Bhutan is how amazing it is
to be part of a community. In Goa I was just a tourist with everyone after “my”
money. Even if you’re lying on the beach touts will wake you up and try to sell
you jewelry. One woman remarked when I said I had no money, “No money no
honey.” In this place they want money just for use of a lawn chair. That gets
old quick as does solo candle lit dinners although food was the highlight of
the Goa experience (although it’s not quite on par with Thailand) I enjoyed
amazing red snapper both tandori and butter garlic style. They had lobsters
with no claws but I opted for tiger prawns instead which were to die for along
with hundreds of grenades and Lassi’s. I didn’t sleep well in Gho or most of
the vacation. I was itchy with mosquito bites and had sand in my bed. I left
Arambol having to visit the one ATM in the adjacent town waiting in line with
some very crispy critters. Goa has some wacky ones mixed in with a lot of
Indian tourists. I saw a man resembling Crazy George strolling on the beach in
a banana hammock, neo hippies banging drums, dakini’s in bikinis, some ladies so
shriveled by the sun they looked like California Raisins, and a blubbery
Englishmen with an accent so thick that he made my own language sound foreign.
On my last day at Arambol I went to the Northern tip of the beach where there’s
a sweet water lagoon and a banyan tree claimed by neo Hindu white dudes in
Sadhu robes, weird.
I headed 3 hours South to a great beach called Agonda with
pounding surf and grainy copper sand. Becky had turned me onto Cuba resorts
when Ashleigh, her and I went to Goa last year so for the remainder of my trip
I booked with Cuba establishments (“Where time takes a break”) My room at
Agonda Cuba faced the street but I spent my time walking the long and sparsely
populated beach the foam of the Arabian sea lapping over my toes. I read a lot
in Goa which was nice including a handful of Paulo Coelho books which are sort
of my guilty pleasure. I also read Coo Coo’s Nest and Carlos Casteneda since
you inquired Mare. Agonda was a pleasant blur and probably the most relaxing
part of the trip with fantastic sunsets with our sun a huge orange ball
splashing into the Arabian Sea, submerging until it was nothing more than a red
pinpoint than a green flash. From Agonda one sees the curvature of the Earth
like a water filled drum. For hundreds of years Goa was claimed by the
Portuguese who left behind architecture and Jesus Christ and both are quite
popular on the South coast of the subcontinent. I like the Christ’s decked with
marigolds a little Hindu meet’s Jesus action. Most of the fishing boats that
look like big canoes have names like St. Francis but some are called Guru
Krupa.
After Agonda I ended up on the wrong beach called Pallolem,
the lovelier one Becky recommended was 5 miles South and I did a few daytrips
there. Pallolem was not a bad beach but it was overcrowded and loud. Every
resort had its own music blasting so Marley was competing with Floyd and both
were losing out to trance beats all played at excessive volume. It grated on
the nerves and it wasn’t until 2 AM that this racket ceased. Yet with all this
music no one was dancing anywhere, what to do? The one nightclub was on the
road between Agonda and Pallolem called Leopard Valley with a heavily
advertised party once a week on Friday. I imagined scanty clad cougars of every
imaginable strips and spots tearing there male victims to shreds in an
orgiastic feast. I envisioned a place where all were free to do naughty to
their hearts delight but when Friday rolled around I balked and never made it
out. My colorful beach hut was nice and the swimming was delightful with a
shallow sandy slope and gentle surf allowing one to frolic far offshore letting
warm waves roll through them, bobbing around in the Arabian Sea. Once I spotted
an Indian mermaid who swam around for the sun’s splashdown. Another good moment
was at 3 A.M on my patio when all the music had stopped, crickets chirped, a
train whistle blew, the moon radiated, and fairy lights draped over palms
swayed. Goa has many crows that wake you up early and one fledging had fallen
from the tree and broken a wing I spent the morning watching him die and it was
very sad. Later a worker came and carried him off for an unceremonious burial. He
had just as much right to life as you or me and was calling out to the treetops
to his friends but they couldn’t help him and didn’t even fly down to his sandy
death bed. Goa was full of Dharma moments and a pool of great sadness welled
within me most of that two weeks.
The receptionist at Cuba was named Gunja (Flower) and I
asked her for a walk she agreed but stood me up and I joked about it each time
I saw her afterwards. Like so many others she’s from Northern India or Nepal
and comes down for seasonal work. The tourist season runs from October to May
with summers a virtual rainout. This year the industry is suffering since the
Russians have been told by Putin not to travel due to the economic strife from
the Ukraine conflict (It’s a small world after all) but there seemed enough of
them blowing cig smoke in my face. In Paulo’s book he spoke of ordinary
miracles that presents themselves everyday and that we must seize those
opportunities or they’ll pass us by. One night I was walking alone on the beach
watching a huge sandcastle resembling Angkor Wat melting into the surf when
they started blasting fireworks above the sexy smell of sulfur filling the air
and primary colors bursting like bombs overhead. Standing nearby a lonely Asian
gal just my type looking very approachable but I couldn’t do it and later on
saw her walking the beach with some guy who I could tell she’d just met. My
opportunity had indeed passed me by.
My favorite beach was patonem a serene spot on the Southern
end of Goa. One side of the beach is deserted and here one can finally bond
with the wildest of all wildernesses from which the mountains and all life
emerged. Chasing crabs over the sand or letting the undertow tug at your heels
surrendering to the sea that runs in our blood. I spent my last night there and
the morning I left a tan monkey with sweeping tail was perched on my porch but when
I opened the door he bounded into the palm fronds and disappeared.
(Banged Up in
Bangalore Interlude)
Vacation was winding
up and I was homeward bound with no fresh seafood in my future. Next stop
Bangalore a landlocked Indian city in South India. The sky was clear but it was
not a good omen since I was about to experience a classic Indian
bamboozle. My mom who is my shining star
helped me book many hotels along the trip taking a kickback from my bonus.
Unfortunately things didn’t work out well in Bangalore. The hotel called Ring
Valley ended up being 40 miles away from the airport and it took two hours in
traffic to reach that part of town. Except when we arrived the hotel was
nowhere to be found. The driver who spoke very little English was a nice guy
and to his credit didn’t abandon me in the ghetto. As it turns out Ring Valley
was bankrupt and now calling themselves Enzo, a hotel we passed half a dozen
times. He found this out after many stops for directions talking with many
strangers while I huddled in the cab feeling overwhelmed by the aggressive
scenes outside. Like all Indian hotels in big cities it was a dismal place with
dingy white walls no hot water and a window looking out on the highway which
had traffic zooming all night long, a thousand beeping horns in the midnight
hour and I sat dismally by the window watching the endless stream of cars whiz
by and making up stories for the people inside. I ventured onto the street
looking for a Dominoes pizza but almost got run over. The sidewalks reeked of
human feces and it was what Americans would consider a very poor area. I ate
fried rice at a street stall and remarkably didn’t get sick. Looking back it
was an interesting misadventure but at the time seemed like hell on earth.
Eight hours later the taxi driver returned and for another 50 bucks took me to
the international terminal. All told I had spent 100 bucks to go a long way to
sleep in a dive and I never did find out if my mom got her money back from
Expedia for the hotel that didn’t exist.
Panther Dream:
Mission to Manas
“With nothing to
believe in the compass always points to terrapin…”
 |
| Hiya! |
I flew to Guwhatti via Kolkata and in the air noticed the
entire continent was covered with a layer of filthy haze. On our approach to
Guwhatti I saw a white peak poking out of the grime and it must’ve been in
Arrunachal or Bhutan. It really impacted me that all this disgusting pollution
lingered on my doorstep and suddenly Bhutan seemed in peril a tiny island in a
world gone mad.
After all the Guwhatti airport is less than 200 miles from
Tsenkharla just a three hour drive to Samdrop. I figured I’d be in the border
town by late afternoon and assumed I’d buried my dream to go to Manas National
Park. But as we made our approach I struck up a conversation with a man on the
isle who was visiting his family and had lived in Santa Clara, he told me that Tom
Brady and the Pats had won the Super Bowl and I thought Jon’s bro Dave must be
happy. He remarked some friends had just sent him photos from their rafting
excursion in Manas meaning the park was reopened. The park and Assam had been
on temporary lockdown after the massacre of 80 people by the Bodo Front a group
seeking independence from Assam hoping to form their own state. These are the
same terrorist that set off a bomb in Gelephu and hid in the jungles of
Southeastern Bhutan prompting the fourth King to lead an attack ultimately irradiating
the cell driving them back over the border. They had made themselves
comfortable even shopping in Pan Bang and other border villages in the South of
the Kingdom. The Fourth King had met with them diplomatically many times but
they refused to leave so he took action to protect his people. The Bodo’s and
other related factions never went away wreaking havoc in Assam storing AK 47’s
poaching rhino’s for their horns (used for impotent Chinamen) and every so
often massacring a village like they did over Christmas. As a result Barpeda
and Manas along with most of Assam was under strict curfew and the military
shut down the park. Manas Park receives few tourists and is basically
undeveloped, the park joins Royal Manas National park in Bhutan forming a huge
wildlife corridor for species like Royal Bengal Tigers, wild elephants, Indian
One Horned Rhino’s, black panther’s, clouded leopards, golden languor’s, and
many endangered birds and snakes. The aforementioned beasts and critters are a
drop in the bucket as the park boasts copious amounts of wildlife. It’s hard to
believe that these animals can still find a home in India and the park serves
as a sanctuary for some of our planets rarest species.
We touched down in Guwhatti considered the Gateway to
Northeast India the least developed part of the massive country. The NE is
connected to mainland India by the Chicken Neck a thirty mile wide strip
sneaking between Nepal and Bangladesh before it widens into the Northeast. I
claimed my bag from the carrousel and went to the prepaid taxi stand. It was
the moment of truth. I promised my mom I wouldn’t go to Manas unless it was
safe so I asked the guy three times and he assured me it was alright by
shrugging so I went all in and for 3,500 rupees had a stub for Manas. I was
assigned a driver and his buddy who spoke not a word of English and we sped off
through the ramshackle shanties surrounding the airport.
Assam is a fascinating place with a long and illustrious
history. The main feature of the region is the mighty Brahmaputra River that
flows from tiny streams in Tibet advancing through Arrunachal Pradesh joined by
the Manas from Bhutan eventually snaking through Guwhatti as a wide river on
its journey to the sea. Assam also produces 80% of India’s tea export but the region
is poor and plagued by violence. And that’s the way it has always been with
many civilizations rising and falling with huge battles fought in present day
Guwhatti a polluted city of one million. Migration and invasions came from
Burma and China and at one time the Southern border of Bhutan extended into the
Duars past Rangia and Coche Behr. Guwhatti has many Hindu temples and mosques
and is the launch pad for Tezpur, Tawang, and outlying Nagaland on the Burmese
border. It’s also a half days drive to the border of Bangladesh and the biggest
city in this part of the world. I went there once and that was enough and I
always chuckle when I think about mom and Bubba on a leaky boat in the
Brahmaputra a very unlikely destination for the twins. Guwhatti is considered
safe but the Bodo’s terrorize the villages along the Indo- Bhutan border from
SJ to Phuntsholing and every year you read about kidnappings for ransom in
Kuensal.
The taxi a rundown car bypassed the city heading into the
countryside an endless repetition of roadside villages tucked in palm groves
with dusty stands of bamboo and banana trees. Between villages swampy bogs and
wasteland layered by a perpetual haze. Shacks have scummy ponds or cesspools in
their yards and along the shoulder swarthy school children in blouses and
neckties walk home from school and I’m struck at how many there are with each
town having its own rundown school. Bhutan schools seem like paradise compared
to these sorry campuses with dilapidated schoolhouses on parched grounds. When the
kids see me a few smile but they don’t wave like Bhutanese kids. Each town is a
carbon copy with dusty bazaars selling vegetables, papal trees at a crossroads
with men dosing beneath. It’s all similar, crumbling buildings containing
furniture, crappy junk food and gas cans. Undecorated rickshaws mostly idle
with torn canvas roofs and barefoot men napping in the carriages they’re feet
propped up on the handlebars. We fly through one after another and the drivers
have no clue where Manas actually is as they stop frequently to ask directions.
I keep mumbling Barpeda since I know that’s the nearest railhead and sure
enough late in the afternoon we arrive in the large hub with its railroad
tracks, belching smokestacks, Ta Ta’s and one legged women hopping around on
crutches. Every ones face looks worn and people aren’t smiling even the kid’s
faces lack innocence. It’s a tough place bustling with commerce, barefooted men
pulling handheld carriages down Main Street among bicycles, scooters and cars; all
this under a cloud of dust like the one that surrounds the Peanuts character
Pigpen. We rattle over the tracks onto Old Barpeda Road with huge craters but
as we get out of town hints of nature begin to appear. A cluster of bamboo here
a colorful darting bird there. My heart is racing on the threshold of my dream
and soon we turn left where a banner reads Manas 5 KM. It’s a straight shot now
and before I know it I see the arched gate that I had first viewed on a
computer screen from the comfort of Bay Point four years ago. It all seems so
familiar somehow and right outside the gate is the Bonsbari Lodge my base of
operations. Standing outside the Gate a group of soldiers armed with semi
automatic rifles were casually talking.
The Lodge is a spacious government building leased out part
of the year for tourists. The park has been receiving visitors for 15 years but
only a fraction compared to other wildlife Parks. This is not Chitwan. On the
other side Royal Manas is even less developed with only the occasional rafting
trip from those shelling out the $300 tariff, needless to say there’s potential
for development. The staff at the hotel was friendly and only one other party
was lodging there, Surgit a sergeant in the army and his family. He was a
safari enthusiast visiting all the parks in India even claiming to have seen a
tiger in the wild. I had one of the staff an unenthusiastic young man take me
to the river which was an offshoot of the Manas set in a gravely bed. Later I
went back myself for sunset and the guys at the lodge were concerned telling me
that a village woman was gored by a Water Buffalo and several others injured
near the gate just last week while gathering wood. I promised I wouldn’t
venture out alone again and they were appeased. Indeed one could slip through
the porous fence and into the jungle easily enough. Apparently the woman died
in an ambulance en route to Barpeda confirming that the jungle is a dangerous
place. A gibbous moon on its second cycle on my Himalayan Odyssey was rising
over the jungle where strange sounds emanated either monkeys or barking deer.
The Ari…Ari of flamboyant peacocks rang out in the dusk. I had a nice buffet
dinner as my meals outside the Kingdom were becoming more basic and dwindling.
I borrowed some brochures on Assam and passed the evening reading on a wicker
chair in the lounge arranging my jeep safari for the morning.
It was a chilly and clear dawn a thin haze permeated the
branches of the Sal forests within the park boundary. Old Barpeda Road was now
a jeep track which also connected Pan Bang on the other side of the border in
Zhemgang. The landscape alternated
between savannah with towering elephant grass concealing many beasts and jungle
comprised mostly of Sal with dark deciduous leaves and light colored trunks with
creepers wrapped around. I really enjoyed the various shades. Manas a haven for
birds, and straight away we observed a majestic eagle swooping over the canopy.
The Raven is my totem but nothing compares to the flight of an eagle that stops
the heart in its tracks. It might have been out for an early morning hunt
patrolling the jungle for snacks. I missed some animals especially birdlife
since I have limited vision and since I gaze to the left they never think I’m
looking where they’re pointing. Early on we saw three wild boars that ran into
the tangled underbrush when they heard our motor. The wild pigs were black with
course hair and large snouts and piggy wiggly tails. Next an Indian Guar
concealed in tufts of golden elephant grass a horned herbivore. Nearby a group
of Wild Asian Buffalo the same species that killed the villager.
The Asian buffalo
has less fur than its American relative but longer horns. We came into a field
where the rangers had already burned the grass and my guides spotted two wild
elephants except they were very far off and looked like grey dots. When I asked
if I could go closer on foot they said no. We drove around through the jungle
on sidetracks seeing birds here and there eventually reconnecting with the main
dirt track where I saw the most interesting wildlife of my Safari, a taxi full
of doma chewing Bhutanese in gho and kira packed in a car from Pan Bang bound
for Barpeda. Although Indians cannot enter the park Bhutanese enjoy special
privilege although they’re probably instructed to keep to the main track. Soon
we crossed a small bridge over a dried riverbed reaching a ranger station on
the banks of the Manas Chu. It had been a dear dream of mine to see this river
which my beloved Dangme Chu merges. It was lovelier than my dream with cobalt
water murmuring softly interspersed with gurgling rapids. On the Bhutanese
shore the forested foothills of the Himalaya abruptly rose. It was a power
packed spot and although the acrid smell of India still faintly lingered over
Bhutan the skies became bluer. I wanted to plunge right in and make it for the
other shore but I simply took a handful of liquid and baptized my brow. We
returned on the dirt track seeing a wild pigeon and a cute spotted doe with
cotton ball tail BAMBI that ran in circles terrified at our approach possessing
the primal fear of prey. Although I AM a tiger I am equally a spotted deer
always running scared through the mean jungles of life. She scampered away and
I can only hope is still out there beating the odds. I was supposed to get 3
hours of Safari but this was still India after all and we pulled into the lodge
half an hour short. I was satisfied but a pang of jealousy when Surgit’s jeep
rolled in and he showed me a photo on his pricey camera of a massive tusked wild
elephant they had encountered. That’s the way it goes on safari you win some
you lose some. When I was brooding about the elephant it hit me, all my life I
expect things from the world, another show, a girlfriend, attention but what do
I give back? I did see an elephant as I left the lodge a huge domestic one with
mahout lumbering towards the Manas portal with the words Tiger Project and
World Heritage Site painted in red on its arch. Along Old Barpeda women wearing
wimples were hunched over harvesting tea.
Another local driver who had to turn back when the lodge
called explaining I had left my cell phone and a bag of electronics in the
room. We zoomed back fifteen minutes to the banner where the young man on his
scooter met us. We raced off again down Old Barpeda Road and in town I went to
three ATM’s all of them broken before finding one that spit out rupees. From
there we found a highway with the occasional wandering cow eventually rolling
into Rangia. I had been there once before in a Bhutanese convey from
Phuntsholing. They had deposited me before continuing to SJ but not before
commandeering me a ride to Guwhatti. Rangia is simply a smaller version of
Barpeda and on the outskirts of town a small blue arrow pointed the way to
Bhutan. We took the diversion through a construction zone and connected with a
back road. The milestone that resembled a gravestone read 49 KM to
Daaranga.
Welcome Home
 |
| Rhody |
Back in the days when I was sliding on the Great Rainbow
there was a common expression used in that circle, “Welcome Home!” The traveler
would be greeted with these words when they entered the site and I remember
hearing this expression on a dappled Ozark trail, “Welcome Home!” Perhaps even
then I was searching for our collective root. It took many years and many miles
but I have found that root at Tsenkharla. Since I come from a place that has no
culture and since my people slaughtered or corralled America’s Natives I was
born deprived. Bhutan is in essence a Native Society although the impact of
Western Civilization is eroding their identity thanks to multimedia and
television. Today gangs clash on the streets of Thimphu but out here in the
East culture is still Omni present and I’m glad to be privy to it. Today was
Thursday and students wore rachu and kubney draped over their national dress. When
I returned from my Himalayan Odyssey although the mountains looked the same
everything felt different, I realized I had come home. I had never had a home
before including Marin County the place I was raised or even Donner Lake where
I had played as a child on warm summer days. Sure there are places I cherish like
Mount Tam and Yosemite but never was I truly home. It’s not merely the land
(Tawang Valley) which courses in my blood but also the people that make this
community my heart-home. The thing I
miss about America is my family but in Bhutan I’m building a life for the first
time in my life.
I have been back in station for three weeks and I’m starting
to get my feet under me. My adversary the rat still plagues me wiggling through
the barriers I placed over all the holes. I dislike him but he must be
respected for his agility and determination, he’s a smart rodent always coming
around the same time after lights out and at this point the battlefield is as
much his as mine. Daily chores constitute a lot of a BCF teachers time here.
Cooking dinner and doing the dishes takes an hour and half and I’d like to
thank my mom for doing all these things for me for so many years. Washing
clothes is also taxing especially in the cold soaking the garments then banging
them against the cement floor like an otter cracking an abalone shell and in
the end they just don’t seem that fresh or clean. It’s best to take Pema
Chodron’s advice and take pleasure in mundane tasks always striving to
cultivate a perfect cup of tea. MINDFULNESS!
We had 5 days off in honor of Losar and HM’s birthday
celebration and I spent most of the time prepping lesson plans, completing my
yearly blocks, and club action plan. This year I’m determined to do it by the
book and shore up one of my weaknesses, organization. I did however find some
time to roam in my beloved forest on two immaculate winter afternoons. I
enjoyed views up and down the valley, to my left the rounded hump of Shampula
and beyond the snowy twin peaks. To the right Tsang Tsang Ma and the Dragon’s
Tail a ridge of spiked pinnacles some more rounded in appearance. At the
eastern end of the valley a snowy saddle and to the West a large rounded peak
overshadowing Kunglung. I’ve never seen a place with more mountains and
Tsenkharla seems to be the center of this wheel a baby surrounded by a radial
of giants. It’s no wonder Prince Tsangma built his redoubt here after
journeying from Tibet to Paro then continuing East to Old Rangthangwoong. Some
thoughtful denizen excavated another wall that connects to the main structure
which I never knew existed. I like to go up to my thrown a niche in the primary
castle of uneven stones where I plop down and try to conjure the spirit of the
great prince so we can communicate. So far not much luck but it’s still a great
spot to watch ravens and ponder the nature of things. At one time this deserted
obelisk was the center of the Sharchop Universe and all descendents in this
part of the Tawang Valley and much of East Bhutan are descendent from his royal
line. Originally the Sharchop people of the East might have came over Sela Pass
from Burma a completely different Diaspora then the Western inhabitants who
mainly came down from Tibet. Most Sharchop are Ningma Buddhist a direct line
tracing back to Guru Rinpoche.
Classes have begun and I have started teaching. We are all a
little rusty but it feels good to be back in action. I have come to terms with
what I’m doing here and no longer feel so out of place in the path I’ve chosen.
I realize that the only reason I became a teacher is to teach in Bhutan. I have
no desire to work in the American Public School System that would eat me alive.
This is a perfect place for me to develop my skill set where effort and intent
is enough and people aren’t waiting to judge or knock you out. I know I’ll never be a perfect teacher and
that it goes against my grain but I also realize that in this nurturing
environment I can succeed and positively influence students. On a hike I met
Sangay Wangdi a lad who just missed the mark for class ten and was plowing the
slopes beneath Shakshing for 300 NU a day ($6) He was so happy to see me
running on the farm road wearing gumboots. He told me that he was going for an
interview in Paro for a job with the police department and I told him that he
needed to find a friend to rehearse in English. By the end of our chat he had
already began speaking clearer and more confidently. He thanked me for my
teaching and told me that he missed me which obviously made me smile. Sangay is
strikingly handsome with the Anglican touches of the Nepali countenance. He’s
no longer the class 8 boy sitting in the back row but a grown man. I am so
fortunate to be a part of his life and to have made an impression on this fine
young person. This feedback makes all the struggles I’ve endured worth it.
Coming home to familiar faces and I am stoked to be teaching
7 and 8 meaning that I already know the majority of my students. When I arrived
I struggled to learn names but finally I can look out on a crowd of fuzzy faces
and identify hundreds of students. This makes my job more fun since once you
know a name you can then build a relationship. Today was the first day of
teaching and it went smoothly. For my first lesson I simply had students come
to the front of the class and introduce themselves encouraging the audience to
be active listeners. Sangay Lhamo a tall girl from Shakshing was intently
listening with nothing in her hands. Last year her eyes would wander and she
would fidget and I was thrilled to see her improvement by her own effort. These
are the moments that make a teachers day and make up for the less thrilling
exchanges. I am sad my first batch of kids moved on but there are plenty who
remain that I love and many more to meet. Bhutanese kids are not malicious and
any problems are purely mischief even grubby Karma Wangchuk who is repeating
the seventh grade is a joy to teach.
During the Losar holiday I discovered a new part of the
grove much like Alice sliding down a steep embankment on a thick layer of duff
into a spacious clearing encompassed by wispy cypresses with feathery needles. I
took off my shirt and basked in sunshine. I visited a special Chorten where the
elves dwell and once made the trail disappear just to stir my ire. All over the
mountain scarlet Rhody blooms burst from grey branches sometimes over a hundred
to a tree. Some our squat bushes but the queen is a fifty foot tree called Ruby
near the Delog’s house in a fairytale village. Kids eat the petals which have
only a faint scent and stick them in crevices on Mani walls. I wandered to the
Bey Yul beyond Nankhar and chilled in a brooding thicket before traversing a
lower ridge between Sep and Kiney with naked trees and a thick carpet of
crunchy leaves. Above me Dakini Clouds (As Becky calls them) sprouted like
mushrooms from Shampula and Broom La. On my way down the curvaceous ridge a
swarm of wasps engulfed me sending me hollering for cover.
Afterschool I was so exhausted that I went directly to sleep
for three hours. My lack of energy is a powerful adversary in Bhutan and
sometimes gets me worrying. Part of it is teaching since I felt a tad that way
in Korea and during student teaching as if the concentration required for the
day obliterates my energy. For example I am never half that tired after a hard
day on the trail. In this way I know teaching is not for me and only love keeps
me going. In Bhutan diet also might contribute to this acute fatigue which
usually subsides after an off day or two. I wake up with puffy eyes that make
me look like I had been at Studio 54 all night even if I went to bed at 8:30.
These are the challenges that give East Bhutan the moniker “The Land of Terror”
a life I love so much that tests me to the limit every moment.
Presently it’s Thursday Evening and the Thunder Dragon has returned
announcing his presence with authority over Tawang. It’s good to be home. I’m
trying to wash up since Nima Gyelston and Pema Chedup are coming for dinner and
a game of Monopoly.
Out of Station
After a little bit of coaching Pema Chedup wiped me out in
Monopoly and seemed quite happy about it. He’s so much like me as a young boy
explaining that he was just visiting his houses to check up on things. Saturday
was a tough day, after teaching I handed out some photos of students with the
twins from last year then got into my rags and walked out the front gate
towards Trashigang. The PE teacher caught me telling me we had a meeting. I
proceeded (in raggedy Ratdog sweatshirt) to the meeting hall and was publically
scolded by Principal for being tardy. In his defense he never used my name
saying that we should not be late for meetings and it’s our responsibility to
know the happenings according to the school calendar. Since I was the only one
late bursting in and interrupting meditation the message was clear. I
vehemently defended myself explaining I didn’t know we had a meeting and no one
informed me and he retorted that it was my responsibility to check the yearly
calendar that was posted on the notice board. Well I didn’t even know the
school calendar was posted on the notice board since no one ever told me that.
Often BCF teachers feel left out of the loop since such announcements are
usually made in Dzonkha. Anyway Principal Sir was within his rights and I got
the message and felt miserable since I’m consciously trying to be a team player
and all that. Then staff members were ribbing me about my torn sweatshirt and
for being late which was in good fun but at times it seems that they ONLY joke
with me and never say anything positive which I said out loud to no one in
particular. Then I felt bad that I’m still so defensive which led to feeling
shitty about all my other hang-ups like clinging to ego wanting everything to
work out in my favor and being jealous of others good fortune. I took a nap and
by sunset at Prince Tsangma’s ruin I was feeling pretty lousy about things when
I got a text from Piet inviting me for a hike. The problem was it was twilight
time and Yangtse was far away. Nonetheless I repacked a bag and started walking
to Zongposar 9 KM down the curvaceous road at the three way junction for
Yangtse, Tsenkharla, and Trashigang. I
got to the Y around 7:30 and finally at 8 was scooped up by a shared taxi and
made it to Yangtse in time for a late supper at a canteen. I went immediately
to the Karmaling and banged on the door and was given a room for 1,000 NU
upstairs. It seemed my fortunes had turned until I awoke at 3 AM with diarrhea.
Even so at 7:30 AM I was at the bridge spanning the Kulong Chu to meet Piet.
Piet is Dutch or from the Netherlands if that’s the same or not i’m not sure.
He’s in his early 50’s but a superhuman athlete riding his bike to Thimphu and
hiking like an ironman and whenever he guides me he probably goes at half
speed. When I meet Piet for a hike it’s a mixed feeling of excitement and
dread, I know I’m going places I couldn’t reach on my own but I also know I’m
gonna get whipped. This Sunday was no different since Piet doesn’t take breaks
with lopping strides probing with his lone trekking pole.
Our trail started
from near the bridge in the Bumdeling buffer zone ascending straight up to a
small village overlooking the Yangtse valley. The mountains surrounding
Trashiyangtse are lush even in winter with vibrant red rhody blossoms (a few
white ones too) magnolias, honeysuckles and ferns. Along the way we discussed
the ongoing trash problem and the impending Kulong Chu Project with legions of laborers
on the way. It breaks my heart that they’re damning this wild one that unites
from two smaller rivulets high in the Himalaya. The trail entered a majestic
oak forest with trunks dripping in luscious moss underfoot pellets of barking
deer scat littered the trail along with an occasional plastic wrapper. After
two hours we had risen about 3,000 feet above the valley floor and were looking
back at the tiny buildings of Yangtse town. The trail ceased and from there on
out we were bushwhacking with Piet in the lead hacking brush with his pole. The
vegetation became a thick tangle of bamboo a species I have come to appreciate
in all varieties. Passing some prayer flags hoisted with bamboo poles instead
of wood we came to a knoll with a stunning view of my entire universe. To my
right the jumbled hills including comely Tsenkharla Ridge and the snowy patch
on Yellang side that I see from Shakshing. Simple enough right. But moving the
eye left the mountains over Yangtse dusted in snow are considerably higher than
my own marking the border with Arrunachal Pradesh. Even further left Bumdeling
valley layout with the Kulong Chu snaking through its sandy bed and all the way
stage left the granddaddy of them all a cluster of soaring peaks on the Tibetan
border! I’ve only glimpsed Tibet twice from East Bhutan save for the Matterhorn
peaks that jut out from behind Shampula. But this was a layered segment of the
Himalayan Range with several titanic peaks in an uninhabited swath between
Bhutan and China, between those peaks and Tsenkharla a sea of emerald
mountains. There it was the Greater Himalaya a continues spine rising from the
hills of Burma crossing Arrunachal Pradesh, Bhutan, Tibet, Sikkim, Nepal,
Himachel Pradesh, Pakistan, and finally becoming the Hindu Kush in Afghanistan.
In the sky a bright corona encompassed the sun while two other sundogs colored
clouds nearby. In that same sky three Black Eagles (Piet is an animal expert)
glided in ascending circles higher and higher into the ether. A more
unbelievable scene is hard to imagine and I apologize for a woefully inadequate
description. Leaving the view behind we bushwhacked another thousand feet up to
a glade resting flat on a ridgeline with grasses uprooted by wild boars. We
were in leopard country now the domain of black bears and other fierce
predators, a wild land. We lunched in a meadow ringed by ancient boulders where
Piet gave me a geology lesson but my mind was still with those peaks in Tibet
so I can’t report the lesson to you. We descended via a steep shortcut where I
had to jump off a rock sticking the landing like Shawn Johnson from the vault,
Applause! Next we came to a hermitage site and were surprised to see three nuns
with shaved heads who were living in a hut for six months but details were
sketchy since they didn’t speak more than a few words of English. Above the hut
a sacred cave with prayer flags wedged into the crags where Guru Rinpoche himself
meditated. We dropped the last two thousand feet through bamboo and oak groves until
we hit the valley floor just as my legs turned to noodles. I had just enough
energy to circumambulate Chorten Kora 3X the Kora looked splendid recently
whitewashed now the color of that great snowy pyramid in Tibet. The Monpa
return in a week for their special celebration paying homage to that virgin
entombed inside. Monpa means barbaric folk from the land of darkness and I bet
they’re in Lumla preparing as we speak. I hitched home in a packed taxi knowing
that this was a very special day.
Tim on Duty
You better believe I checked the schedule twice after
Saturday’s scolding and reported bright and early for my T.O.D (Teacher on
Duty) the sun was blotted out by stratus clouds but you could see down the
valley all the way to the saddleback, layers of mountains overlapping with
Bhutan in the forefront and India in the background. We magically look back in
time a half hour into Arrunachal the “Land of dawn lit mountains” living up to
its moniker on this reflective morn. It was good to chat up the students
(speaking practice) but I miss the class tens from last year who were more
outgoing. Some younger ones have dropped out or transferred vanishing off my
radar. Simple Tswering Wangmo who tried so hard but was not book smart dropped
and now resides in Kumdung. Soft spoken Tendy Zangmo has a new best friend
since Sonam Wangmo has disappeared. Karma Wangchuk spends more time out of the
classroom than anyone always going to the toilet with perpetual shooting
diarrhea. Tashi Wangmo “Broomsha” says she misses my teaching and Guru Wangmo
says I should find a Monpa Abi (Grandmother) to marry at Chorten Kora. They are
now immersed in routine starting before sunup with prayers and continuing until
9:30 lights out. I checked the calendar and the next three Saturdays have
programs so I won’t be able to do my work in T-Gang for a month or more.
Welcome to life at a boarding school. At least I can leave in the afternoon and
hike or shop although I am controlled by the panoptic wheel nonetheless.
Foucault would have a freaking field day observing Bhutan where everyone
watches closely. The Monarchy, religion, scholastic institutions, and the bear
of culture all keep us towing the line happily in Bhutan, GNH right? How about
the hydro project that reeks of GDP isn’t it? What of the local deities who
reside in the river the giver of all life to all creatures in various
catchments? I’m sure they’ll do a helluva puja at the dam site.
T.M.S.S has become a central school which means little ones
are now boarding, tough life for a six year old but overall we have less
students (650) sending some sections of 9 to another school across the gorge.
Overall the discipline creates students that can stand still as statues for 40
minute assemblies. I get restless and wander around after 20 minutes my ADD
kicking in. All over the Kingdom, kids are preparing for another day of school
some traipsing through the woods including the day scholars en route to T.M.S.S
from Daka. God Bess them All!
You reap what you sow funny I start this paragraph with a
proverb since I just had a lengthy discussion with Pema Lhamo about how
proverbs are redundant and unnecessary in writing. Bhutanese students overuse
them and often they have nothing to do with the point of the speech or essay.
My friend had a list going about all the phrases he wouldn’t except from his
students writing. Another cliché, Mr. Tim was on the warpath today. I had a
positive attitude but my students were not following directions and I was very
hard on them (a knock at my door the boys want a rematch in Monopoly) anyway
tonight I need some space so I set the rematch for tomorrow. In one class when
I said something a boy mocked my voice. I must sound very funny since that
happens a lot to me in Asia. It really bothered me and I demanded to know who
did it and no one stepped forward. So I held the class overtime and waited for
the culprit to step forward which never happened. By then I was in too deep and
sentenced the entire class to Social Work for lunch tomorrow (trash picking) my
justification is that we are a family and we must be honest or we all suffer. I
reiterated that the boy would not be punished I just wanted him to step forward
whoever it was. I probably handled the situation wrong and know that students
take advantage of my good nature. I’m more lenient than Bhutanese teachers
partly to encourage a relaxed environment for speaking but that leads to
misbehavior which will be detrimental to other students in the end. It’s a
balance that I haven’t achieved and it seems I will have to toughen up and be
stricter yet remain positive. I can’t have public backbiting though. The whole
scene was a learning experience and I feel motivated to make improvements. I
have been working very hard planning all my lessons thus far in great detail
and I really want to have a breakthrough year at my craft. During the day there
was a fierce wind (rare for Tsenkharla) that knocked many leaves off branches
and made for a chilly viewing of the basketball game after school. At night I
sat in on prayer since I was T.O.D and my neighbor Lopen Kinzang was there with
a tiny stick. Even when not beating Bhutanese teachers love to carry sticks
around the children. I feel like an interloper in the prayer hall and don’t
want to distract anyone with my presence. The dirges are hauntingly beautiful
morphing into soaring melodies praising Guru Pema and imploring the release of
all sentient beings from Samsara releasing us into Zangtopelri, Gurus Nirvana.
I stood with Lopen on the stage and directly below Tashi Wangmo (Broomsha) was
fervently praying and I wondered how she was coping after losing her mom. The
students are in a trance transforming into a Buddhist hive imbibing the Dharma
honeycomb. Looking at the faces I’ve known for three years it made me feel
grateful to still be here and plaintive that I’m an outsider. Mainly I remember
to have compassion for myself and the students especially when they drive me
batty.
We received a new teacher today a beautiful Southerner (Nepali)
named Nir Mala Tapa and when I saw her I thought I might throw up. She has a
plain beauty that is alluring and even said good morning which no other lady
teacher ever does. I haven’t felt those butterflies in many years (ironically
she’s replacing Butterfly) but already a Bhutanese male teacher seems to be
swooping in and I know how quickly they’ll pair. Not that I have designs since
courting a Bhutanese is nearly impossible. Last night my neighbor Lopen Kinzang
stopped by and we had what he joked was a panel discussion for over an hour.
One topic was the difference in culture between Bhutanese and the Western
world. The main dichotomy is in family dynamics, in the USA a child is encouraged
to leave home at 18 and it’s seen as a burden to take in elderly parents where
in Bhutan it’s an honor to take in elderly parents and often three generations
live under the same roof (often in the same room) This sums it up and is one
reason a Bhutanese woman would not hitch her star to a Phelincpa’s wagon. First
of all her parents and community would not approve and Bhutanese are very
conscious of what other Bhutanese think. Secondly a Bhutanese girl would not
leave Bhutan forever and it’s nearly impossible for foreigners to stay in
Bhutan. There are some documented interracial marriages including the author of
Dawa the Dog who married a Swiss but this is exceedingly rare. Therefore I
can’t even throw my hat in the ring even if I had any self confidence remaining
after nearly a decade alone. My neighbor also taught me something of the realms
of rebirth which I will relay the best I can. Humans are those who have earned
a body through merit seen higher than animals (that means even Hitler had
accumulated good merit in a previous incarnation which is hard to fathom) Due
to demerit one can drop to animal, hell, or hungry ghost. Hungry ghosts are
those of us who cling too much and hoard in this life and I’m concerned I’m on
my way to that fate. Also when we die and enter the Bardo we have to follow the
correct colored light beams and beacons to be reborn in a higher state. Once we
attain enlightenment we aren’t punished with a body anymore and live as free
energy beings. Reincarnation makes sense on some levels but as usual I am
perpetually on the agnostic fence not knowing what to believe, a consummate
doubting Thomas. Fate has led me to Bhutan where I observe a better way of life
than where I come from, a place where community trumps the individual. Yet I’m
Western to the core and value my privacy and independence although slowly I’m
trying to open up and let some fresh air into my stingy heart.
It’s a gorgeous day although smoke billows from a cirque in
Lumla however the valley is clear like a popup book with Dakini clouds dancing
in the ocean of the sky. Classes went well and maybe with love and attention I
can maintain positivity and discipline together. My neighbor told me a tale of
Milapara a Tibetan Saint who once was a murderer and black magician before
embracing Dharma. His Guru told him to build a 12 story house alone and every
time it was nearly complete that Guru destroyed it and told him to build
another one in a different shape so Milapara began again. That’s the attitude I
have about my work here, I will persevere! Today was Guru Wangmo’s 15th
b-day so we sang to her in class and she passed out sweets.
Tashi Delek!
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| Tibetan/Yangtse border |
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