Waiting for rainy season

[More thoughts and notes from Tibet]

Most pilgrims traveling to Kailash from the subcontinent leave Nyalam after a few days of acclimatization and head for higher ground.  They cross the 5100 m Tong La pass and then leave the Friendship Highway to sneak off-road on a shortcut that goes due west towards Saga, the next major town a day’s drive away.  The drive goes through a range of landscapes — open grassland with vistas of Shishapangma mountain, dry desert-like, rolling hills, and it skirts one whole side of a beautiful lake called Pekud Tsho (pad khud mtsho in Tibetan script).   This lake is a popular stop-and-photo spot for most groups (with the requisite detritus included at the photo-op spot).  A tiny compound with a tea house supports passers-through and is manned by a few local ladies and older men.  It is usually a rather poor area, and especially at the time of year that my group passed through: after winter, but before the rains.  The summer rains, the bits of monsoon that make it over the high mountains, are essential for the health of nomads and farmers on the Plateau.  High grasses can’t grow much, and are low on nutrients, until the rains come.  This means that animals continue to graze the moister winter and spring pastures, instead of giving them a rest by heading for higher, summer grounds.  What does get planted in these areas can’t start growing until the rains come, and the season is so short that late rains are often ineffectual.  Steady rain is needed also — too much just causes swollen rivers, and small showers dry quickly without really soaking the soil.  Rain was late this year, but it was starting to arrive by the end of June.  The grazing areas are huge expanses, high mountain ridges and wide plains, that turn emerald green and fluorescent green when the sprinkles did come.  And the clouds rolling in and out made for spectacular light.

South side of the Himalaya

Greetings from Kathmandu!  I came out of Tibet almost a week ago, and have finally finished digging myself out of a mountain of email and to-do items.

The past month sent me from Lhasa to western Tibet on the KM-III expedition, a journey to the sacred area of Mt. Kailash at the behest of an international group of Jains.  The mission was to explore the roots of Mt. Kailash for evidence of the  fabled Jain temple, Sri Ashtapad, purportedly built there in quite opulence sometime in forgotten antiquity. I went along to help with logistics, exploration, and synthesis.

Briefly stated, we did not find any palpable evidence of Jain presence at Mt. Kailash, though we did make some exciting discoveries of ancient indigenous, Zhang Zhung, ruins and were able to clarify some understanding of what the cultural landscape of Mt. Kailash might have been like.  A report on the substantive findings can be found here.  My notes, photos and thoughts from this trip will come out slowly over time on this blog.

The trip began by stepping briefly off the Plateau (after 2 weeks in Lhasa) to meet some of the KM-III team members in Nyalam, a ramshackle town in which every overland pilgrimage group spends 2 or 3 nights for acclimatization.  It is situated between the Himalayan pass of Tong La and the Nepal-Tibet border at around 12,400 feet.  I am told that even a few years ago, Nyalam was a small cluster of huts, and a few military and administrative buildings.  Now, like many towns slated for (and given funding to finance) development, it is in the midst of a construction boom.  Until the road to the border was built, it was a rather sleepy, rarely-visited area.  Traditional travel and trade route went through more easily traveled terrain to the west.

The town perches on a steep, unstable hillside made of river stone and a fine dirt.  The nicest hotel in town is a mostly grungy guest house with a courtyard that fills up with Indian pilgrims’ Land Cruisers each night, and with exhaust in the morning as they leave.  Shared squat toilets, open sinks and no showers.  Its northern wall drops precipitously down to a wasteland and a fast-rushing river.  Spit toothpaste out the window and try to see where it lands.

Most of the town’s businesses are lined along one new road at the bottom of town.  Small general stores and dingy restaurants make up the vast majority.  The expedition cook, an eager-to-please Tibetan man of about 40, had sheepishly informed us that he underestimated our honey needs, so a stash of 1/2 kilo extra was procured from a Nepali gentleman running a small eatery.

Above the commercial area, if one knows the right alleyways to wind through, the old village is still found.  Traditional Tibetan style houses, of stone and mud, stand close together.  An old monastery nearby.  Local industry and pursuit is often limited to the most basic of jobs.  Locals, often bored, heckle and chat up the town’s frequent visitors.  Talk in the town is of road closures.  Between Nyalam and the Nepal border, elevation drops from 12,000 feet down to 6,000 feet, down a deep and virtually impassible gorge.  Chinese engineers managed to build a road through this area and work constantly to shore up and maintain it, frequently clearing water damage and landslides.  During this time, the road was only open at night.  Above Nyalam, significant road work is part of an ambitious effort to pave the entire Lhasa-Kathmandu “Friendship Highway”, a two-lane road running over high passes and long Plateau expanses.

The climate of this area is known for being cold and damp.  Weather from the subcontinent hits the Himalayan range and sticks on its southern expanse, enclosing the landscape in fog and stirring up strong winds and a good deal of rain.  During an acclimatization day, a walk up an adjacent valley towards the massive Mt. Shishapangma revealed a veritable botanical wonderland.  Wild irises grace the area around an old mani (prayer) wall, azalea and the ancient sacred juniper abound.  Yaks and dzos (yak and cow mix) graze among high potato fields.  At night, a group of road workers and farmers, with shovels over shoulders, walked the main road to town, backlit by setting sun.

After a few nights in Nyalam, the group moved on to the Plateau to begin the long drive to Kailash.

Moving

I am on the move away from most communications infrastructure now… most likely no more updates until early July.  Best wishes everyone!

Posted via email from Sally’s posterous

Playing Mirror

Lhasa supports a small community of contemporary painters, and I had
the opportunity to visit a few of them and see one of the galleries at
which they display their work. The artists are remarkably diverse:
Chinese, Tibetan, Chinese-Tibetan mix, atheist, Buddhist, Muslim, men
and women. Each artist’s work is surprisingly unique in style,
distinctive in technique, color, subject matter. Yet a singular theme
runs through it all, that of aggressive change, the coming of
modernity in a high, traditional culture, and the rough merging of
Chinese and Tibetan lives on the high Plateau.
 
Several of the artists were trained as thangka painters, the
traditional depictions of Buddhist figures and iconography — sacred
art. Their free-form work is often inspired by this age old style,
though quite a departure from it. One artist, Gade, is known for his
iconographic style of showing contemporary culture, in an old style:
antiqued canvases, earthy tones, thangka-like composition, but Mickey
Mouse as a Buddha-figure, the Incredible Hulk as protector deity. His
vision for his work is to be a mirror of the vast changes of the
culture here.
 
Other artists depart completely from the traditional Tibetan religious
artistic style. Abstract, impressionistic, surrealistic styles
abound, though the work remains distinctively Tibetan. The subjects
are nomads, pilgrims, iconographic places such as the Potala Palace or
momentous events such as the coming of the Chinese railroad.
 
There is no Shangri-La depicted in these paintings. They are edgy,
they make the viewer uncomfortable, needing to think about and process
the emotion, motivation, and subjects. Folk subjects clash with
modern objects, expressing the speed and pain of this quickly changing
society.
 
This is no underground group of beatnik poets; many are savvy, famous,
wealthy artists. Their work, though provocative, is often
well-received around Tibet, mainland China, and the rest of the world.
 Some receive criticism for riffing on traditional, sacred styles.
Some are not well-understood, or are young in their careers. Still, I
see their work as a valuable personal catharsis and important
representation of this world, that is changing so quickly that most
people can’t even keep abreast of all that is new. Some of it is
displayed at asianart.com. I highly recommend checking it out.

Posted via email from Sally’s posterous

Drak Yerpa

Drak Yerpa is a cave retreat complex, near to Lhasa and famous for its
place in the history of Buddhism’s takeover as the dominant religion
of Tibet. In the 7th Century King Tsongsten Gampo came there to do
divinations to determine the appropriate location for the Jokhang
(which is situated in the middle of the old city of Lhasa).
Guru Rinpoche is said to have meditated there, and left a number of
‘rangjung’ formations, supposedly self-formed rock formations that
look like his footprints, handprints, etc.
 
Drak Yerpa was, of course, an important religious site even before the
Buddhist revolution. It had to have been — why else would it have
been of such interest to the Buddhists? Its location was also prime
for a religious retreat: high caves, and ample room for many people,
yet quite close to a fertile valley. Thus it would have been
relatively easy to support meditators.
 
As of a few years ago, a new road leads up to Drak Yerpa from the main
cut-off. It snakes upwards in sweeping switchbacks, through what had
been an ancient sod meadow but is now gravel and retaining walls. A
dusty parking lot, a few chow mein shops, and a ticket office await at
the top. If one can outrun the ticket collector, one can leave that
money in the temples that pepper the hillside, and with the monks and
nuns that maintain them. Most of the temples were built around cave
sanctuaries: superstructures in front hold assembly halls, a shrine or
two, and room for devotional practice. In the back, a passageway
might lead to a cave, with shrines, butter lamps, and someone to tell
the story of the place.
 
Drak Yerpa isn’t really a tourist stop yet, but one monk estimated it
sees about 1000 people each day — mostly daytrippers from Lhasa,
well-to-do Tibetans who come to light some incense, say a prayer, and
have a picnic on a nearby hill. There are no practitioners there
anymore — just enough monastics to keep the shrines open but not
enough to practice and meditate on the teachings. For some of them it
is too busy for extended meditation. Most visitors only come to pay
respects; the ability to perform ceremonies or give teachings is not
there. The young visitors, especially, exude a sense of connection to
their religion but it is clear they haven’t had the benefit of growing
up steeped deeply in its philosophical teachings — beyond that which
seeps into the rich everyday culture. Still, the connection is
powerful and it is inspiring to see young people with their friends,
multi-generational families, and solo pilgrims make a day out of a
visit to this wonderful place.

Posted via email from Sally’s posterous

Quick stop in Nepal

I’d been hearing stories all spring about the situation in Nepal.  Minimal electrical production was commanding load shedding of 18 hours  or more each day, water shortages, social unrest, government failure  to form a coalition, continued failure to integrate the Maoist and royal armies, or to create a new constitution.

Flying to Kathmandu on Monday, the plane crossed the rural and mountainous areas of Nepal, which look almost empty from the high vantage point of the plane. Then, dropping into the Kathmandu valley, it is all of a sudden back-to-back residential and business areas. The whole valley is full. 2.5 million people now live here, compared to a fraction a few years before.

The weather was blessedly cooler than the Indian plains, and in many ways Kathmandu felt the way it has been described by foreigners for decades: hospitable, friendly, full of culture and history, interesting places, art and artisans.

In some ways, it is still all those things. But there is an overall deterioration of morale and infrastructure too — even since what I noticed last fall. Petty money-making schemes are on the rise, from the oldest cheap-taxi-ride-if-you-go-to-the-hotel-where-I-get-commission scam, which was rare in Nepal and is now blatant at the airport, to a  new service tax at restaurants, which is compounded with other taxes to bring the rate to 24% for every meal.

The biggest challenge right now is uncertainty. Day-to-day, things may run as normal. But one never knows when that will change. A is a universal truth, I suppose.

[Having started this post a few days ago but never finishing it, I am now posting from Lhasa -- arrived here last night after a grueling 2-day overland trip here.]

Posted via email from Sally’s posterous

Ritually

Somehow it became mid-May, and I have left Dharamsala.  I had a wonderful last few days in Dharamsala and a very special send-off.  10 hours of hard driving brought us to Dolanji, the epicenter in exile of the Bon religion (Tibet’s native religion, now so-called 5th school of Buddhism), for a few days.  An overnight haul to the Delhi airport, then yesterday onward to Kathmandu.

In Dolanji, the idea of ritual came up in myriad conversations.  What is a ritual, why do we do them, what is the benefit or downside.  We have rituals for almost every part of life, that vary depending on the culture.  American kids learn to brush their teeth twice a day.  Indian kids serve tea to guests on a little tray.  We do work before play, give thanks before we eat.  We hold doors for others, greet new people with a handshake, a bow, a how-do-you-do.  These are all rituals, though of course the most obvious rituals take place within religion.

In the most direct Buddhist and Bon teachings, there is nothing to learn, nothing to strive for.  There is simply interconnectedness and space.  Yet both religions are full of ritual.  And why?  Rituals and ceremonies are expensive.  They are distracting, taking monks and lay communities (and resources) away from their otherwise day-to-day study and work.  Some ritual texts take a week or more just to read through, let alone perform.  They have special requirements, perhaps special foods, objects.  Sometimes grueling schedules, requiring round-the-clock attention. They are powerful, though.  They must be, or we would have stopped doing them.

I have long been skeptical of the ritual side of these religions, thinking that there is some loss of the whole point of the teachings if they’re wrapped up in ceremony.  It is true that many parts of religion have become over-ritualized, with not enough emphasis on the core practices and too much emphasis on ceremony, the conferring of blessings, etc.  Lately, however, I’ve been thinking of ritual in another way.  It is clear that for most people, in order for some concept to sink in, they must engage that concept tactically — reading about it is not enough.  Same goes for religion.  Buddhist and Bon doctrines encourage the processing of teachings by hearing, contemplating, and meditating.  And by putting them into action. There are different meditation techniques, because different techniques encourage the facing of different desired experiences.  Likewise, performing a ritual text brings it to life.  It makes the participants slow down, feel the outcomes and consequences of the ceremony.  Then, the material is remembered, integrated, digested, discussed, and it sinks in at a deep level.

Ode to a Chiku

India has many lovely and surprising fruits. Most of those that are grown in mountainous Himachal Pradesh — in Kinnaur and Kullu and a few more local — are delicious but short in season. There’s a real ‘now you see ‘em, now you don’t’ feel. A  lot of these fruits are not readily found in the West.  Not because they’re not growable there, but perhaps not amenable to the requirements of grocery store lifestyle.

One of these is the chiku, a wintertime yield from southern India (and also Latin America, and parts of southeast Asia). Chikus are not a beautiful fruit, not showy or appealing to the eye like an apple or a mango. They look more like potatoes, and the insides are a soft brown mush. And they are finicky. Eaten one day too early, they’re cheek-puckering sour and the fibers catch in the throat. When they’re ripe, they turn soft and are easily crushed under the weight of just a single other chiku. They have to be monitored daily until they are ripe, at which time they have to be eaten immediately.

The flavor is not vibrant like other tropical fruits, say, banana and papaya. It’s not floral like a fig. It’s more an earthy, brown sugar flavor. There is no ‘proper’ way to eat one. The skins are thin and the insides lack structural integrity, so they can’t really be peeled and served. Nor can the skins be eaten. They have a few almond-shaped large seeds inside, that must be avoided.

Yet this is one of my favorite fruits. It demands to be taken on its own terms. And when it is respected in this way, it rewards handsomely. I baby them until they are ready to eat, then place two thumbs at the top and press into the fruit, splitting it in half. The insides do separate into a manner of sections, so pieces can be broken off, seeds removed, and eaten. Preferably outside, in the shade.

Last December chikus were available by the cart-load in Delhi and a few kilos made it with us up to Dharamsala (though not entirely unscathed). When I arrived back here in March, they were to be found in the market, but only rarely and quite small and hard. Every once in awhile we would procure some, and often cut into them too soon, which is highly unpleasant (see above). Hence the thumb-opening technique. If they’re ripe, they open easily. If any force is required, they’re not ready, and then the eater is advised to stay away.

Last weekend I was in Mumbai for a bit of work. One of the fringe benefits of having to go to Mumbai was the opportunity to partake of much more plentiful fruit. Chikus the size of baseballs were available. A few hardy ones were found, brought back to the hotel, and then carefully hand-carried all the way back to Dharamsala. The last ones were eaten yesterday. Yum!

So Far from the Oak Grove

Finger Trees below Nadi

I’ve pontificated on water, global warming, traditional arts and culinary misadventure. Seems, then, like it’s time to talk about wood. The forests around the lower Himalaya are historically lush, ranging from semi-tropical rainforest to high alpine jungle. They boast a wider array of flora and fauna than that seen in most parts of the world. In one day, I could count dozens of kinds of butterflies and insects of all shapes, colors and sizes. Larger animals too, of course — from wild chickens and other similarly sized birds, to no fewer than seven or eight types of wild cats. We may have spotted the fleeing end of a leopard today. Or maybe just a local monkey. There are dozens of varieties of rhododendron, and many many other kinds of trees, undergrowth plants, and flowers.

Yet the forests are fragile. Warmer climate has combined with overpopulation in the mountains to place inordinate pressure on the ecosystems. I am learning that felling of trees for timber, cutting of branches for fodder for animals, and construction of roads on steep mountainsides all play a role.

Good grazing ground for cows and other animals is too scarce for the load of the growing population. The popularity of cow breeds (namely the Jersey), deemed to be greater milk producers but actually not so good when not fed their premium diet, have made matters worse. They cannot graze the steep slopes as their more nimble mountain cow counterparts can, and thus their owners resort to chopping branches from trees to feed. Whole forests of oak are slowly dying because of this, over-chopped of their prolific boughs. Government- and privately-controlled lands, and places too far away from villages, are the last vestiges of uncut forest. I’ve started calling them ‘finger trees’, for the way they appear like fingers pointing towards the sky.

Roads, though a boon for development, new forms of livelihood, and communication, are not such a boon to the forest. Since the terrain is so steep, huge swaths must be cut to make switchbacks, and often the re-engineered banks cannot support the old growth.

In the place of ancient forest, many slopes now only support a peppering of large, piney trees — tapped by the locals for the makings of turpentine. These trees do not support the kind of lush microclimates that the old forests did, and they allow for continued drying-out of soils and ecosystem.

That’s the bad news. The good news is that there are some places that have never seen an axe taken to their old trees. High up and away from the margin of human habitation, virgin forests still exist. And while also affected by climate change, it’s a little less conspicuous.

Vista near Laka

Last Saturday the weather allowed for visit. On a scramble up to Laka, an outlook and mountain saddle at around 11,300 ft, climbing along the ridge from Dharamkot towards the first high range of the Himalaya, ancient herder trails weave from high, lush pasture through gnarled groves of long-standing oak and pine. Snow lingered on the northern slope and I dreamt of skiing. From there, the route to the high range is traceable in one direction. In the other direction, one can see clear down to the plains, to lower Dharamsala, Kangra, and beyond. Yet tucked away from direct sight of the nearest towns of McLeod Ganj and Bagsu, it is quiet. The high perch meadow of Triund, a popular day-hike destination, nestles 1,700 ft below.

This is the abode of passing Gaddi herders, crows, spirits, and the occasional rambler-through. Though I don’t know — but doubt — that these areas are formally protected, they are as-yet unaccessible to the general population, and seem safe for the time being.

[points to anyone who got the obscure reference to the young adult bestseller, So Far from the Bamboo Grove]

Dari Melee

“Mela” is “fair” in Hindi, and Easter Sunday here coincided with the Dari mela. Dari is one of the villages just below the main town of Dharamsala. The fair, which clogged the town’s artery road with vendors on both sides, and spilled out into what I assume is normally an empty field, drew village and townsfolk from around the region.

It was a good excuse for an outing, perhaps a bit of adventure, and some hoped-for additional tea mugs. A funny array of goods and kitch were for sale. In the typical fashion I’ve come to expect in India, row after row of stalls sold very similar goods, either socks and underwear, kitchen ware, gaudy marbles in glass jars, or food. It is one of the larger fairs in Himachal Pradesh and people really came out of the woodwork. Announcers, rides, the whole deal.

And, the tea mugs were to be found! There were already a few here in the kitchen, found in the McLeod Ganj fair last fall. They’re these great little terra-cotta looking cups — and I broke one a few weeks ago — so we got another 10 (plus 2 glasses) for 100 rupees. All in all, very much worth braving the melee.