An Illuminating Day

There are many holidays throughout the year that celebrate the Buddha. Saga Dawa is, perhaps, the most important. It marks his birth and his death and contemporaneous reaching of enlightenment. It takes place on the full moon day of the fourth lunar month, otherwise known as June 7 this year. I was in Lhasa. Though celebrations were necessarily subdued, Saga Dawa was palpable — especially on the Lingkur, the 8km loop that demarcates the old city. Locals, pilgrims who manage to get into the city, grandmas, children, workaday folks, rich, poor, educated and illiterate all walked the Lingkur in the lead-up to the holiday. The walk circumambulates what used to be the city limits; now much of it is on busy sprawling streets, and on a regular day, those on the Lingkur blend in with the regular street scene. Not so on Saga Dawa and in the few weeks leading up to the holiday, then the walkers are a crowd. One part, considered the heart of the walk, was closed, perhaps because it was too narrow to handle the throngs. It is a walk that takes several hours, and some would start as early as 4AM to finish in time to go to work. Some would hit the sidewalk again at night for another round. A hardy few do the whole thing prostrating, which I understand takes several days if you keep at it all day. It was a small, almost unmarked Saga Dawa by historical standards, but it felt like the whole city turned out for this walk — a quiet way of celebrating.

Along one arm of the river

Leaving the quiet part, heading into the city

Carved prayer stones for sale

Route crossing a wide city street

Behind the Potala, many do extra loops

In the newer part of the city

Busy Lingkur

the new Lhasa

Picture Taking, Knit Hat Making

Photos are posted!

West of Saga, the towns are smaller, and begging is less.  It’s hard for me, seeing beggars, but I can’t blame them.  So much traffic is tourism, and many locals are only tangentially affected by the tourism business.

Locals take a turn at knitting my hat (her mask is for dust, cold, warmth, sun)

This area is poor — yet left alone, it does provide for its people a rough and tumble life.  Impossible beauty of landscape and tradition.  I wish I had time to compose, pontificate, write a poem.  At the last camp, some girls take interest in my knitting and take over for a few rows.  Their skill is unparalleled, yet they do not do for themselves.  Mostly, they buy clothes from the stores in town.  Wives and mothers do knit sweaters for the family while they are in the fields with the animals.  But if the family makes yarn from yak hair or sheep wool (most do), they sell it — for knitting sweaters, I only see store-bought acrylic yarn.  I never quite got a clear answer on why.  I suppose the wool just simply isn’t valued.  Still, they were excited to see this foreigner using it.

I don’t know what to call it, perhaps ‘cultural support’ for knitting a sweater is still there.  But for being self-sufficient, using one’s own produce, it is fading.  Young people don’t eat what their parents ate, or dress in the traditional clothing.  And the older generations are beginning to prefer store-bought to handmade.  The convenience and price of a manufactured product, and its fashion, seem to be outweighing the independence of using what is created locally.

A snowstorm closed one pass (June 12) that is often taken by walking pilgrims.  Some people following our trip were worried that we might have had problems with this weather, but so far it remains dry.

In evening, the light is a beautiful, Changthang, honey yellow.  Stunning time for photography.  Actually, the only time for photography.  Mid-day photography creates subjects that are white on top, completely in shadow below.  And it’s difficult to photograph a face without their eyes being in shadow from the an ever-present wide-brimmed hat.

Light angle needs to be at around 90 degrees to the subject so it creates some depth.  Light behind the photographer is too bright; backlit, too intense.  A photo of the girls knitting would never have worked in the middle of the day.  The evening is truly magic hour, though, and I’ve been finding myself wandering out with my camera after setting up camp.

Driving westward in Tibet

Dris graze before summer rainstorm outside Saga

Sitting in the quiet world of Vermont, where it rains more than Indian monsoon this year, I turn my thoughts back to dusty, dry upper Tibet.  I’ve been going through my notes, tracing the rough path of the expedition I helped organize to Mt. Kailash.

A drive northwest takes a visitor into terrain made for the minimalist.  High, dry, and isolated.  And stunningly beautiful.  Traditionally, semi-nomadic communities relied on yak (and their female counterpart dris), sheep and (more recently) goat herding, and on trading their produce with farmers.  Products included meat, yogurt, butter, yarn, rope, cloth, etc.  These days, the main road, a dirt track built up and under constant construction, carries products to this area from mainland China and the required funds to create towns along the road.  In this way, villages and meeting places became the modern-day whistle stops of the Kailash route.  Saga and Paryang see, perhaps, the most traffic, as they are logical overnight stops on the tourist track.  Mid-day stops, such as Lagtsang, also are growing rapidly.

Dust comes immediately with the building of a town, or even a homestead or teahouse, in upper Tibet.  A fine, insidious dust that gets into everything before it is noticed, and the whiteness of a wool sweater is quickly forgotten.  Soil is so thin that once it is disturbed for building, it does not regenerate — digging big holes and then filling them in and putting down sod and landscaping as we do in other climes would never work.  This is a treeless environment, for one.  And so dry that grasses, desert plants and scrub brush are the most common flora.  New policies that forbid the cutting of certain brush species are helping in places.

Another migrant to the area along with dust is fencing.  Miles and miles of fencing, given to nomads to demarcate their seasonal pastureland.  An old woman outside one small encampment says she likes the fencing — it keeps squabbles down.  Sometimes, it is clear that the fencing isn’t serving so well, and is then seen to be taken down in places or the wires pushed up to the top of a few fenceposts to allow animals to pass underneath.

The drive westward rewards with incredible scenery.  The Himalaya, to the south, stand high and snow covered.  The Yarlung Tsangpo river valley affords many areas for grazing and for the khyang, Tibet’s sturdy wild asses.  Photos are coming soon.

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.