Tower Bridge, first night here

Now in London and starting my master’s at LSE, I walk often to school.  It takes about a 35 minutes, from Borough on the south side of the Thames over to campus in the city center.  I pass a lot of famous places, like the Borough Market, the Globe Theatre, the Tate Modern, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Royal Courts of Justice…. and the bar that was used for Bridget Jones’ house, which is apparently one of the most popular tourist stop-offs in the area.

My flatmates and I were discussing our famous-place walk over a pint last night, one mentioning that he had been raving to friends back home about how interesting the route was.  He threw in the views as well: London Eye, Tower Bridge, Big Ben (which is sort of around the river bend, but I guess if you squint?).

It got me thinking about what I really look at when I’m walking.  First day, the big sights.  And my map.  Second day, I started noticing more.  The winding streets of the old neighborhoods offer innumerable sidewalk pubs and cafes, brick residences covered in ivy and potted plants on doorsteps.  Newer parts are a contemporary style, aluminum accents and trendy furniture.  Small colleges, like a school training accountants (whose population seems to be mostly South Asian), and design-oriented businesses occupy some of these newer buildings.  Many are also empty, and the most common sign I see is “To Let”.  Which I invariably skim and read as “toilet” at first.  In this one sense I do prefer the American “For Rent” as a more clear message.

I’m certainly not the first American to be amused by British signs and bulletins.  Signs are something I often notice when I’m traveling, but here — perhaps it’s the coming training in Anthropology — I’m noticing more.  The first is one of my favorites, on a narrow lane I cut through.

By whose definition?

Yeah, I get confused by the left and right here too.

Men's and Disabled. Ladies room?

But the real reason that all of this is here is not for my cheeky enjoyment, it’s for the people.  And the people make the city.

The Millennium Bridge, a footbridge that spans the river between the Tate and St. Paul’s Cathedral, is a particularly good place for people watching. And depending on what time of day I make my pilgrimage to the city center, I encounter any array of characters.  Early in the morning, it’s runners and walkers, a few teenage boys dressed in suits going to the City of London School on the north bank.  A bit later, more suits go to work, women in skirts and walking shoes, heels in handbags.  Mid-morning, are the school groups, the tourists, kids cutting class.  And everyone is just passing through: it’s a transit point.  At most, a quick stop on the bridge for a photo or a chat.  And later on, the runners come back around lunchtime, and the process reverses for the rest of the day.  Suits go back the other way, walkers come out to enjoy the sunset, and so on.

Busker's viewpoint

Like everyone else, I pass quickly over the bridge.  Really, I don’t see much of this movement on any one day.  For that, one would have to stop and observe.  The only folks I’ve seen so far who do this, are the panhandlers and buskers who set up on the entrance to the south side of the bridge.  What a vantage point, to watch the city rush by.

Evening on the Bridge, same (almost) point.

It’s interesting — it’s not necessarily the most famous or the biggest place that can be the most instructive.  And, while I actually don’t think this is the most photogenic place in London… at all… I might consider taking photos here regularly, just to see how this very busy place looks over time.

Glacial Moraine on Kailash Approach

One of the holiest places for Tibetans lies on the massif of Mt. Kailash itself. Geologically, Serdung Chusum (Tibetan = gser dung bcu gsum) is little more than a horizontal crack in the southern side of the massif, but culturally and spiritually it is the sacred heart. Tradition holds that it is a restricted place. The outer kora of Kailash, a 51 km loop around the river valleys and the pass of Drolma La (sgrol ma la) must be completed 13 times before entrance to the so-called inner kora is allowed.

The whole region of the inner kora is encapsulated by high, rugged ridges that point southwards from Mt. Kailash. There is now a road that goes up from Darchen, switchbacking up to Gyangdrag Gonpa on an eastern fork or Serlung Gonpa on a western fork. It’s wild country: the Serlung river streams down from glacial remnants on Kailash itself. Round-bottomed glacial valleys are sided by cliffs and glacial moraine. Loose talus is the only kind of footing.

Evidence of permanent human habitation tops out around 5300 m in the Serlung river valley, a good hike above Serlung Gonpa itself. This is the Zhang Zhung site Sheldra, in another horizontal cleft in the cliffs of the valley wall. Beyond this point, the environment turns harsh: no surface water, exposure to the weather and the wind. At the base of the Kailash massif is a large terminal and lateral glacial moraine. It indicates there may have been water and more glacier there at some point, but I speculated at the time that it couldn’t have been much — there simply isn’t room for a glacial nursery there. A steep, loose footing, sometimes hand-over-hand climb brought us to the thirteen chortens at Serdung Chusum (chusum – Tibetan = bcu gsum, meaning 13). There are actually 14 chortens, 13 main and newer ones and 1 older, lone one beyond the actual cleft. An ancient, and powerful place.

The ledge is maybe 2 meters wide, and several hundred meters up from the base of the valley. Above, the hulking shoulder of Kailash looms straight up. The place is windy and shaded. It’s far from water, and impossibly cold. The temperature on the day I visited was 20 degrees Fahrenheit at 1:30 in the afternoon. In mid-June. On a sunny day. This climate, in this place, has a merciless quality to it. The site is rarely visited and only in the most special of circumstances, and seems utterly timeless. It is not quiet and serene, like a retreat site, but formidable. One could imagine ancient adepts going there, though it is fairly clear that no normal human could have lived there.

A few years ago, a National Geographic article shared the acclaim of the place, the author visiting during Ta Lo (rta lo), the year of the horse, when one outer kora would suffice before heading to the inner kora.  Since then, a few western visitors to the Kailash area have been requesting to go there.  According to our porters, they entertain such requests 3 or 4 times per year.  Yet these kinds of places have a feel that they are meant to be left alone.  I hope that the ruggedness and remoteness and sacredness of Serdung Chusum will keep all but the most respectful away.  That is the best kind of preservation we can go for, in this delicate place.

As I will soon be heading off to London for grad school, I figured I should hurry up and finish writing about my last adventure — so I have room to write about the next. Yet archaeological exploration in western Tibet cannot be rushed — in practice or writing — so, let’s get to western Tibet:

The southern lap of Mt. Kailash and the outer kora are sprinkled with ancient ruins. The environment is so high and harsh that soil hardly accumulates on the rocky terrain, meaning that most ruins are visible on the surface, not buried. However, the ancients built their homes, retreat areas and temples on high rocky outcrops and in high cliff caves. This makes the finding and surveying of them quite an adventure.

Each day, breakfast early and out the door with a paltry lunch and a few liters of water. A route mapped out to cover both new and familiar terrain. The goal was twofold: to document anything not yet surveyed, and to determine the highest ruins in the area. This meant hiking to the highest perceived one, then hiking above it. If no more ruins, or prospect of ruins, was found, then the previous one could likely be the highest. It’s quick and dirty archaeology, on the ground and running around. Asking around for advice from locals. Serious discipline is required, to make sure that exploration remains systematic — not running in different directions at each exciting possibility on the next ridge.

The environs of the highest ruins have several common characteristics: they are above water, but no more than around 1000′ in elevation. They are on high ridges, but protected from the north by some kind of natural barrier. They have stupendous views of Mt. Kailash, the sacred lakes of Ma pang or La ngak, or other power places around the area. And they are often (just barely) within the realm of environment where grasses and other hardy vegetation grow.

The ruins are the enigmatic Zhang Zhung all-stone buildings, with stone walls that stand sans mortar and stone roofs supported by stone beams. Rooms tend to be small, though some complexes are quite elaborate with a number of interconnected spaces, and walls with niches. The highest was found just under 5500 m above sea level — quite a feat of survival at those altitudes. Many questions surround who lived in these places, and how. There must have been quite a support team to supply the inhabitants.

Next we’ll go to Serdung Chusum, a pilgrimage site above 19,000′.

Old timers say that not so long ago, maybe 15 years ago, the town of Darchen, at the base of Mt. Kailash, was mostly a few tents, most of the year. Permanent houses, tucked near the mouth of the canyon that leads to Mt. Kailash’s sacred inner kora, were small traditional homes. Pilgrims and traders who came for the summer season would pitch their nomad’s tents in the plains, a transient summer mecca.

Today, Darchen is a district capital and slated for new development. This spring, while I was there, a road was being paved through the town and out to the highway that connects towards the west and east. Lower in the plains, new homes, hotels, restaurants, shops, and government buildings rise against the dust of the plateau. The older buildings, closer to the ridges and valleys of Kailash, remain.

Darchen is a staging area for any visit to Mt. Kailash. It is also home to a trio of exciting projects: a traditional Tibetan medicine factory, medical school and clinic. And a small guest house. This spring there were several dozen medical students arriving for class.

For us, Darchen was to be a base for 10 or so days of hiking around the inner and outer kora areas. Dank hotel rooms, electricity from 6-10 pm, no Internet, and no running water, made it not the most luxurious accommodations, but it would do. The locals, called gang ri wa (Tibetan = gangs ri ba), make it an especially interesting place. Many, especially the elders, still dress traditionally and are happy to talk about those good ol’ days when the town was mostly tents. A jovial community, thus, is findable in the winding alleyways of the older part of town.

After a brief hiatus from writing up notes from my trip in Tibet, here’s another installment.

Mt. Kailash is Asia’s most holy mountain. Set off from other major mountain ranges, it stands alone, snow-capped, in a vast plain of flats and lower-lying ridges. The final day’s approach passes Ngari Pusum and ends at Manasrovar, where I noted the following:

Puppies play and a family cards/brushes sheep wool from a small flock of pashmina goats and sheep. Later, at a checkpoint a patroller wanders around stopped tourist and supply vehicles, peering in at the passers-through. He plays patriotic Tibetan music on a cell phone that probably doesn’t get service. Blustery wind buffets a small encampment where we stopped for lunch — sandwiches, cold pakoras, tea, and a chocolate ration of 1 Dove bar per day.

After crossing the 5200m pass of Maryum La, we dropped down to a final long valley, passing the length of Gung Gyu Lake. Dust devils, like small twisters, spring up and die down. I danced with the khyang (Tibetan wild asses) this morning, angling for a close photo. Fox, marmot, pica also abound today.

The first view of Mt. Kailash is from far away, at the eastern edge of the sacred lake Manasrovar (Mapam Yumtsho to Tibetan Buddhists, Mapang Yumtsho to Bonpo). On this day, clouds cover most of the mountain and only dissipate enough to provide brief glimpses of the snow-covered peak. We speculate about snowfall on the area we are expected to explore in the coming days.

Two nights at Manasrovar provide acclimatization and rest time. The first night it snowed a dusting, which sublimated by noon. Snow higher up may have stayed a bit longer. Clouds hovered on the Himalayan range to the south, and we went back and forth between wishing for the rain to cross over, to water the parched Tibetan grasses, and hoping for clear exploration weather.

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.

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.

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.

[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.

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.