Meg Noble Peterson

Greetings from wonderland, where it snows on Easter. Whatever happened to global warming? Don’t worry, we’ll get that in June! Honestly, I had never realized how gorgeous and clean the US was until I entered Newark airport after being in Delhi, and then on to Maplewood, with the pristine streets, the sidewalks, and cars stopping to let me cross, rather than seeing how close they could come before I leapt over the cliff. I felt that I was in a movie set. I remembered that only a few days ago I’d walked around Majnu Ka Tilla in Old Delhi and out to the entrance to escape the beggars, and was so appalled at the huge stinking pile of rotting garbage that I didn’t even stop to take a photo. I later talked to an Indian woman on the plane who lamented this appalling situation. So many newly rich people, she said, and still no help for the homeless, no clean water, no reliable sewage system. But lots of government corruption. These are her words and the words of many other Indians, not mine.

Let me backtrack. Cary and I walked our last kora at the temple on Monday morning, after which we were lucky to meet a young English couple at the cafe–Clair Cooke, who works as a financial news reporter for Bloomberg in New York and Bombay, and Navdeep Singh Kandola, who describes himself as a Yorkshire punjabi. They had just come from the Punjab, where Navdeep’s family has a farm. He is returning to do organic farming, having already started a collective. A farsighted couple who sees the need to preserve the planet while improving people’s health. More power to them!

After lunch we were overjoyed to see about five groups of monks involved in more debates, this time much more fiery than on the previous night. There was some good-natured shoving and at times several monks would gang up on one particular opponent. I was amazed at the synchronization of some of the arguments, where several monks would clap and stamp at the same time, as if on cue. Of course, not understanding the language, I didn’t know what led up to the crescendo and finale. And it all happened so fast that pictures were impossible.

At 6 PM I reached the “luxury” HImachal bus near the square and was overjoyed to see that Dolma and Tamara were also there to send me on my way. I had reserved a seat on the aisle, since the drive was very circuitous and if my seat partner got sick, he or she could just hang out the window. Yeah, that was the plan. All went well for the first half hour as the sun was setting and passengers were being picked up. At 10 we stopped for dal bhat and tea and by midnight, after two more stops for smokers, things seemed to be settling down. Then, my seat partner took a dive over me and just made it to the stairwell, where he lost his dinner. His parents, old Tibetans sitting in the seat in front of us, who soothed me with their mantras in the early morning, started upbraiding him for getting sick. Poor fellow, he needed sympathy not a lecture. When the bus began to stink, which was instantly, I suggested that we trade seats, so I could open the window, wrap in a blanket (this time I came prepared) and breathe some fresh air. When the temperature moved close to zero, I closed the window and managed a little sleep before our 7 AM arrival. Remind me never to take another bus!

While hanging out for the day at the Wongdhen House, I met a marvelous English woman, Linda Vickers, who had recently been in a Buddhist monastery in Scotland doing two years of practice. She is a psychotherapist and gave me some welcome insight into the kind of practice Cary will be doing. She said it is strenuous and exacting, but she never knew how clear the mind could be, nor how focused. Sounds like something I should look into? I wish I’d met her sooner. Just before I left for the airport, Anna Sibbald showed up and both women saw me off. Anna had spent the day helping a master Tibetan thangka painter from Norbulingka get papers to visit New Zealand.

The ride to the airport, due to massive traffic, was slower and less perilous than previous ones. When you arrive there, I might add, you are given FREE luggage carts, unlike in the States where you have to pay for them. I stood in a long line outside, waiting to enter. Once there, a policeman refused to let me in, since I had no printout from Continental for my E-ticket. (In three months it’s bound to get lost, but never leave home without one!) “Just go over there.” he said, pointing somewhere, and get a lift and go downstairs and you’ll find Continental.” Yeah, right. After wandering, helplessly, in circles, a sympathetic official took me by the hand and led me to Continental, where I exclaimed to the Sikh sitting behind the counter, “I’m going to kill someone and it might as well be you.” He laughed and, later, sidled up to me at the gate with the question, “Have you killed anyone, yet?” So much for the Dalai Lama‘s teaching on compassion.

At Majnu I was bitten by a lot of little gnats. (I hadn’t wanted to use those coils while I slept, for I thought they might be bad for my health.) I was scratching like mad to the point where I thought I had head lice. Did I get them from the headrest on that crumby bus from Dharamsala? Or maybe it was my fatigue and irritation with the woman next to me on the plane who kept pulling my arm, roughly, to get me to let her pass. I finally suggested, when she woke my only sleep, that she ask her friend to move and not me…we were in the three seats in the middle aisle and she felt it necessary to pee every half hour. Then I felt guilty for my lack of compassion and helped her the rest of the way. I thought she was old, but she was only fifty. I couldn’t believe it.

And then, after 15 hours of acute gastric and hip distress from so much sitting, my son-in-law, Gary Shippy, picked me up and said, “Well, I’m getting to work early these days, since I was here yesterday circling the airport for an hour and now I’ve finally found you.” Can you believe that I thought I would leave at night and get there on the same day, since I thought the US was a day behind. Martha, too, went to the airport and waited, since Gary had to go to work. I thought that was really nice. She felt it was her mistake for not realizing how long the flight was. I owe them big time!

I must say that whatever I ate last week at the Peace Cafe in Dharamsala is still with me and I wonder if I’ll ever be normal, again. (My kids have wondered that for years!) I received a few sympathetic words from my two friends who suggested the cafe, but mostly they said that I had spelled Kamal Mc Gowran’s name wrong and that Melanie was from Valais, the French part of Switzerland, not Geneva. Now I have it right, in case you want to visit. And, just because they like to live dangerously, they had another “delicious” lassi from that cafe. Just you wait….

It doesn’t take long to get into what the Buddhists call “samsara.” I call it the hamster syndrome (all day on that little wheel) or the homecoming bug. No sooner have you arrived before you start with the dirty refrigerator, then move to the plants, plucking all the dead leaves, then lollygag into the laundry, which leads to a clean up of the basement, which leads to the realization that the sump pump is working too hard, possibly explained by the water bill, which comes to your attention halfway through the day, when you discover that somehow 67,000 gallons of water seem to have been used in a house that never uses more than 3000 a month. You call the company and they say it’s not an emergency unless you have a swimming pool in the front lawn and your basement is flooded and, yes, they’ll take a look at it on April 19, by which time you may have leaked another 67,000 gallons. Well, when that gets too heavy, and you vow to return to Asia where life is simple, you go to the super market, hoping that you can remember how to turn on the car and steer the monster without hitting a Mercedes coming up the street (those tiny cars in India can maneuver much better, even, than a small Toyota). At the market you discover that oranges are 2 for $3.00, not 2 rupees each, and the same goes for bananas. You stand at the checkout counter saying to an incredulous clerk, “My, but prices have gone up in three short months,” before dropping a small fortune which could have fed and housed you for a month. Never mind the shock at the gas pump. Or your attempts to remember how to use a cell phone, or where you hid your wallet with all the credit cards in it. (in the sock drawer. But of course!). When it gets late and you don’t want to go to sleep too early, you turn on the TV, which, thank God, is now in English, and trade Bollywood for reruns of Judy Garland‘s last concert or “As Time Goes By.”

I’m thoroughly enjoying the book Cary gave me, Destructive Emotions. How Can We Overcome Them? A scientific dialogue with the Dalai Lama. It’s the compilation of one of his Mind and Life series conferences, edited by Daniel Goleman. It’s very complicated, but good for the tired brain.

My Easter ended with a glorious production of August Wilson‘s “King Hedley II” at the Signature Theater in New York City with Paul Sharar and the Goodmans. The tickets had been purchased long before we knew how bad my jet lag would be. It was the only one of Wilson’s plays about the African-American experience and heritage in America, decade by decade in the twentieth century, that I had missed, and I was eager to see it. The play took place in the 1980’s and was thrilling, but New York was cold, the winds sweeping off the Hudson River and snow flurries giving me a sample of midwinter that I had so assiduously avoided.

Thanks to all of you who have had the temerity to tackle my blog and who have so generously commented on it. Watch for the pictures, which will definitely be coming. And keep checking Cary’s blog for her adventures in India, Nepal, and Tibet. www.carypeterson.wordpress.com

In some way I feel that we’ve come back home…our Indian home, that is. It’s laughable to walk up the dark road at night, once again, and have taxis and motorcycles nearly flatten you. Our friend, Tamara, had to jump into the potato bin of a vegetable stand when one of her feet was partially run over and she feared for her life. I notice that the stand has now been removed to give the drivers more space to terrorize the pedestrians. Sidewalks are totally non-existent. You just move as close to the wall on one side as possible, or hop onto an iron grating next to a store, and even then you can feel the car brush by you. I wonder how I will adjust to being able to walk down a city street in Maplewood without worrying about the side mirror of a van clipping me.

Then there are speed bumps, which cannot be seen in the dark. I had no idea how dangerous they could be…like walking up the stairs and thinking there was another stair and sort of flying off into space. Glad my reflexes are still good!

So we returned to our beloved Kongpo Guest House (Quiet, Comfortable, and Homely). Pema Yeshe, the owner, asked me to make a new sign, now that he realizes what “homely” means, but this mistake is prevalent all over Asia. If you ever want a really neat place to stay, with great views of the mountains and near to the temple write to: : [email protected]. He won’t allow his name to be in Lonely Planet or any of the guide books, but only gets his clientele from word of mouth. The price is right and the ambiance wonderful. Oh, and the street is now being fixed, though it’s still perilous. We noted that a new wall had been constructed on one side and men are working frantically to finish a new addition to a hotel. As I saw all over India, these men work until 11 P.M. pouring concrete, carrying lumber and heavy loads of rock. I wonder if they get overtime. I doubt it. They’re a hard working lot.

We really missed our friends from the teachings, but found others of like mind at our breakfast haunt, The Tenyang. Many, like Anna Sibbald from Auckland, New Zealand, come here for several months every year. Anna was here for the teachings with her three adult children. They are artists and silversmiths and their company is Zoe & Morgan Jewelry. They work together, though one lives in Bali, one in London, and one in New Zealand.

It still amazes me to see the changes in communication since my first trip to India in 1986-7. Some of the mystery and challenge are lost, but so is much of the frustration with the convoluted bureaucracy. You may remember my writing in my book about the difficulty just to make a phone call home. Now it can be done on a computer (if you have the right equipment…I don’t). And, of course, we have email. Ain’t it wonderful? I’m glad I’ve experienced both.

Cary and I have developed a routine of walking three koras daily around the Namgyal Temple before breakfast. We walk silently with mostly Tibetans–some spinning the large prayer wheels and others doing prostrations. The sun on the mountains is glorious. One night on our way to the Namgyal Cafe we were lucky to come upon a debate going on with great gusto in the main part of the temple. It was similar to the ones we saw three years ago at the Sera Monastery in Tibet. The monks pair off. One shouts questions while the other attempts to answer them,.and they debate theology and points of Buddhist philosophy with great animation. It is an exciting ritual with the stamping of feet and one hand coming down in a loud slapping sound into the other hand when a point is made. I wish I’d had a movie camera.

Speaking of the Namgyal Cafe. This is one of our favorite haunts. Like all restaurants here, you write down your order on a small pad of paper, then sit and listen to a combination of disco and the rhythmic clanging of the huge prayer wheel next to the cafe, as people walk around it. Quite a contrast!

We hooked up with three friends we’d met at the teachings, Melanie Theytaz (from Geneva, Switzerland) and Kamel McGouran (Irish father and German mother), and Tamara Blesh , who had just returned from a ten day retreat, on the occasion of Melanie’s 21st birthday. Seldom have I met two such caring and informed young people, both doing volunteer work and about to end a long Asian journey to go back to study geology in Switzerland. Melanie is learning German, since Kamel says he’s hopeless in French, but right now they communicate in English, which they’ve been teaching to Tibetans for the last few weeks. More power to them! I will say, however, that Kamel has a strong stomach and takes some wild chances with the Indian food. I wasn’t so lucky. He gave me a suggestion for an excellent cafe (he said), which Cary and I tried two days ago. Yes, it was excellent, except that I drank my first lassi (curd which is sometimes mixed with water to give it a thinner consistency and served with sugar and fruit) since Myanmar, and got desperately sick. Food poisoning. It was probably that water, but we’ll never know. All day yesterday I couldn’t raise my head from the pillow, so missed the audience with the Karmapa I’d been looking forward to all week. Today I’m wobbling around, hoping for the best and drinking lots of bottled water. But I still think Kamel is a great guy, and nobody gets out of Asia unscathed…at least once. For me, this is twice..

If any of you want to get pictures put on a CD or printed here in Dharamsala, let me recommend Click Digital on Temple Rd. Not only did they do a great job (watch for my photos on the blog, but give me two weeks…it will be a tough selection), but they are terrific photographers. The owner, a young man, Vikrant Arora showed me photos he and five friends had taken on a recent climb to Moon Peak, one of the mountains we see everyday. It’s a strenuous five day trek over a glacier, but, typical of young men, they tried it in two, staying at the Lahesh cave. Really whet my appetite and it was nice to see that the locals also enjoy the Himalaya, not just the tourist trekkers. Another time I hope to come here when the snows are less formidable and the trail clear.

I also found a wonderful store for carpets and wall hangings. This is one of the major temptations of India. Many of the most beautiful silk hangings and rugs come from Kashmir, but the best tangkas are, in my experience, Tibetan. I met a really charming Indian, Bilal Ahmed Guna, with a sense of humor and a well-stocked inventory at Paradise Arts on Temple Rd., and spent many hours looking for just the right wall hanging. You can go mad with all the stores and the aggressive merchants pulling at your sleeve, figuratively speaking, as you run the gauntlet from one end of town to the other. But Bilal had the sense not to push me, and he was also very fair. I’m a ferocious bargainer, but if the price goes down too fast I start to worry. We hit a happy medium.

This will probably be my last entry before returning to the U.S. on April 4. On Monday evening I board the bus from hell, stomach willing, and travel twelve hours back to Majnu Ka Tilla and the Wongdhen House in Old Delhi. For one day I’ll recuperate, before spending another sleepless night on the plane. Do I sound pessimistic? No, just realistic. I don’t sleep well sitting up. Please send your sympathy my way and let me know if you’ve enjoyed my travels. My verizon email will be operative shortly after I return home. Or you can still use [email protected]

For the last three sunny days Cary and I have been in Tso Pema, the site of the sacred lake (Tso means lake and Pema means lotus), a holy place of pilgrimage for Buddhists, Hindus, and Sikhs. People come here from around the world for various retreats. It’s a lovely small town about 100 miles southeast of Dharamsala, not far from Mandi, a teaming metropolis. You drive over mountains and climb up winding roads with hairpin turns second to none, through pine forests and along cliffs which look down on terraced valleys to the Beas River flowing below. When you think you can’t go any higher you suddenly see this jewel of a lake come into view, and three Buddhist monasteries, a Hindu temple, and a Sikh temple. In the distance are the ubiquitous Himalayas with their snowy peaks.

The week after the teachings was one of celebration with the families of students Cary has helped, the first being the night before we left Dharamsala. These dinners are Tibetan feasts where we, as guests of honor, are treated to mo mos (meat or vegetable-filled pasta), unusual soups, rice, and dishes too numerous to describe or to eat. There’s the ever-present milk tea or lemon ginger served before the meal with cookies or a type of homemade fried pastry called kapse. Custom requires that you bring small gifts, usually fruit, butter, or specialty foods, and we, as guests, sit eating while our hosts and their children delight in our enjoyment of their cooking. This is unnerving at first, but you get used to it. Actually, I find these gatherings a lot of fun, mostly because of the children, who tend to act as our interpreters since their English is often better than the parents, and who are so thoughtful and attentive. One little girl even insisted on untying my shoelaces as I started to remove my shoes before entering (another tradition I like–no shoes in the house).

On March 14 we headed for Suja with Dolma Lhamo from the Dharamsala TCV school. En route we stopped at Norbulingka, the center for the preservation of Tibetan culture and arts, and visited the workshops of thangka artists, painters, and makers of exquisite wall hangings and furniture. Within walking distance was Nyingtobling, a school for Tibetans with special needs. Their artwork was outstanding. Further down the road is the monastery where the amazing Karmapa resides. We hope to visit there before we leave India.You may remember that he escaped five years ago from Tibet at the age of 16–a real blow to the Chinese, who were restricting his access to teachers and education, thus greatly curtailing his spiritual freedom.

Our next stop, as we wound over narrow country roads and through one small town after another, was the TCV (Tibetan Childrens Village) school in Gopalpur, where I met the 17-year-old student I sponsor, Tsema, who is studying art and journalism. You may be interested to know that Tibetans do not have a family name as we do. They usually have two names only. Sometimes I find this confusing, but even ‘though the first names can be the same, the second one is usually different. For example: Tsering Somo and Tsering Lhamo, or Tenzin Tselha and Tenzin Palmo.

Tsema, however, has only one name (and you thought Madonna was unusual?). He’s a bright young man who was in the middle of drawing a mountain scene on the computer when we walked in. His enthusiasm for his studies was evident. I also discovered that he and some other students have started a small band and especially like Hindi popular music (all these students speak Hindi and Tibetan, and are studying English with a ferocious intensity). He sang a song, which I recorded and played back to him, to his delight. Then we talked for an hour and Tsema was very open in discussing his feelings about leaving his family and home. He said it helped to talk about it. Like every student I was to meet, he is motivated to become educated and successful, because he knows why his parents sent him and doesn’t want to disappoint them. He considers being here a privilege and is determined not to squander it. What a wonderful visit!

As we wound around the hills I noticed that our driver was using multiple horns of varying intensity as he cut the corners or scattered the cows and people in the small villages. I asked him about this and ended up taping six different horn sounds, which he used depending on his mood and the number of people he wanted to terrify (my explanation, not his). He thoroughly enjoyed our interest and from then on played with the horn as if it were a musical instrument. It was anything but that!

For the next week we were guests of the TCV in Suja, a school for 2000 students, all of whom escaped from Tibet. The classes are set up not by age, but by the level each student has reached. Since the Chinese didn’t allow Tibetans to study their language or English, and the schools were very poor anyway, you can imagine the amount of “catching up” there is–not only in language, but also math and science. We were housed in the guest quarters and every morning, starting sometimes as early as 3:30 AM, we were awakened by young men shouting their lessons, mostly in English, as if this would plant the work more firmly in their memory. By 6 it had quieted down and you could hear the breakfast “blessings” being sung in tandem by groups of boys in the dorm near us. I have some beautiful tapes of the singing, which occurs before each meal.

I find it difficult to fathom the motivation it takes to sit outside in the early morning cold and repeat lessons over and over. But it wasn’t just in the morning that this occurred. Every free minute I would find clusters of students poring over their books. Now and then I’d stop to ask if I could help. One day I happened upon two boys sitting on the grass outside our room. The younger one was writing his ABC’s meticulously and the older one was reading a book. I asked how long they had each been in Suja.

The older boy said, “Five years, but he arrived [pointing to the younger boy] five days ago from Lhasa, where my home was.”

“Oh, did you know each other before?” I asked.

“No. But he is my friend. He is my new brother.” And he put his arm around the boy.

The day after our arrival was a school festival, with games and musical performances. A jolly fete, indeed. Like our school fund raisers, everyone bought tickets and tried to win a prize. Flowers from the field were sold and there were games of chance, games of skill, kick a soccer ball through a tire, or throw baskets for rupees. Cary really got into it, and I managed to kick a ball through a tire, to my amazement. It was a riot! (Football, which is like our soccer, is huge in India and both boys and girls play in the large field whenever they get a chance.)

The children had created a lavish museum showing dioramas of Tibetan culture, and beautiful drawings and reliefs of the temples and countryside back in Tibet. They proudly escorted me around the museum and collected three rupees for their school fund. In the evening was a rock concert with three popular Tibetan singers.

Cary and I spent Sunday morning (the one free day for students and faculty) with Tsering Tsomo, her daughters, Tenchoe and Tselha, and her husband, Sonam Hara . Mully and Cary, and the Landel family, have been sponsoring Tenchoe and Tselha for many years, and Cary visited them when she was here two years ago. We walked through the fields to Bir, where Sonam works at the Tibetan Primary Health Center, and were treated to a sumptuous meal at his nephew’s restaurant. Mo mos never tasted better, and I actually tried some salad, with no adverse effects.

In the afternoon Cary, Dolma, and I traveled along a tree-lined road to the new monastery, The Dzongzar Institute, where the monk Cary and I sponsor, Thubten Tashi, lives. The head lama is the famous film maker, Jamyang Khyentse Rinpoche, whose recent films are The Cup, and Travelers and Magicians. The monastery (500 monks!) and temple are beautifully laid out, with well-tended gardens, and we sat in Thubten’s room enjoying a peaceful hour together. Bless Dolma, who acted as interpreter. Cary is learning Tibetan, but Dolma made the experience much richer for all of us.

Every day in the late afternoon a group of women, including Dolma, Lochoe (the secretary for sponsorships), and Tashi Lhazom, an accountant at the school, gathered at Tsering’s, for milk tea, cookies, and good conversation. Tsering teaches the newly-escaped students English, Tibetan and Math, getting them ready for the regular classes. We sat together in a space the size of my dining room, where couches become beds at night and one large cupboard holds the family’s clothing. A small refrigerator stands on one wall and a small kitchen is off to the side.

I learned much in those conversations about the organization of the TCV schools and the dedication of the staff, many of whom are former TCV students themselves. As I was walking home one night I met a man carrying his small, sleeping daughter, and started talking with him. I asked if I could tape his story. He had escaped from Tibet twenty-four years earlier and TCV had become his family and home. After college he returned with his young family and now teaches social studies. “I want to give back some of the love and compassion that I experienced here at TCV so other children can lead happy, productive lives.”

Gifts are a big thing with Tibetans. Everyone gives according to his ability and takes great joy in it. Cary and I brought gifts from the U.S. for all our sponsored students, ranging in age from 8 to 17, and those sponsored by several friends and family members. They numbered 10, and we were fortunate to meet with each student as well as visit them in their respective “homes” with their housemother. (Of course, we drank lots of milk tea and ate the homemade kapses offered us.) This was a marvelous experience. Their English was excellent, and their gratitude for this connection with interested, caring people around the world extremely important to them, perhaps even more than the monetary help. They were so proud of their rooms and their housemates. Everyone, as we’d walk around the school grounds, greeted us with “Good evening,” or “How are you today?” Such smiles and such politeness! It made each walk a joyous occasion.

The day after presenting the gifts, I was given a long letter for each sponsor, written by his or her student and usually decorated with pictures and verses, in addition to the writing. These were spontaneous, with no help from an adult. I can’t wait to send them, along with a picture, to each sponsor.

We spent a day in Bir, where Cary reserved a room for April at a former monastery, now called Deer Park. She plans to practice and to study Tibetan in a retreat situation, socializing only on the weekends. We could hardly believe it, but while walking through the main street of this small town we heard “Amala” (Mother), and there was Dorje, our Tibetan guide from Mt. Kailash, once again. He was on his way to Suja, where he had been educated, and where his niece was in the infirmary. Like many recent arrivals from Tibet, she had contracted TB as a result of poor medical care by the Chinese, and a weakened immune system. Respiratory diseases and anemia are big problems for incoming students, especially female.

Next door at our guest house was a pediatric cardiologist from Vancouver, Canada, Dr. Marion Tipple. She is associated with TRAS (formerly Tibetan Refugee Aid Society and now The Trans-Himalayan Aid Society), an organization started by the Canadian author, George Woodcock in 1962 after meeting the Dalai Lama for the first time. He asked His Holiness what could be done to help and he replied, “Do something for the children. They are our future.” The organization was started to assist displaced Tibetans in India and Nepal. Shortly thereafter the Dalai Lama‘s sister, Jetsun Pema started the TCV schools and each year hundreds of children escape across the border. Nobody is turned down. TRAS has not only helped these schools, but has a very successful sponsorship scheme for Tibetan children and has expanded its work to help other areas in the Himalaya, including India, Nepal, Spiti, and Ladakh. They support grass roots projects directly, and have given millions of dollars over the past forty years to benefit the Tibetan people. The work of TRAS, except for one half-time paid executive, is all done by volunteers. ( www.tras.ca)

We had a very disturbing conversation with Marion about Chinese tourism in Tibet and how the religious and ecological sites are being trashed. “It’s become the Chinese Disneyland,” she said of her recent trip there. “The culture is being completely disregarded. It’s the total objectification of Tibet.”

Cary and I could see this three years ago with the impending (now completed) train to Lhasa, the mining, and the plans to build a resort near sacred Lake Manasarovar. Already the Chinese outnumber the Tibetans two to one, and Tibetan language and literature are not allowed to be taught in the schools.

Is it any wonder that these children and teenagers, who walked days, and sometimes weeks, before crossing the border between Nepal and Tibet to reach freedom, treasure this school, do their chores happily, and are grateful to be in a house with 45 other students and sleep in a simple bunk bed? They help prepare the meals, and keep the houses spotless. Flowers grow in pots everywhere, and I saw two pet goats that were kept in the yard. Everybody knows that grief, sorrow, and homesickness are part of the life here and can be shared and expressed. Then they must move on. They are strong, resilient children.

The day before leaving for Tso Pema Cary, Tsering, Dolma, and I made a pilgrimage to the Prohit Flower Nursery in Palumpur to buy plants and shrubs as our gift to the school. We had a jolly time picking out choice plants and watching the ladies bargain with the owner as only the Tibetans and Indians can. When we returned in late afternoon it took an hour, with everybody helping, to make a beautiful border around the new prayer wheel and the front walk near the guest house and administration office. That night there was a huge thunder and wind storm, and I despaired of our little plants ever surviving, but the next day they were standing erect and colorful. I swear I detected smiles on their faces.

On March 20, after Cary and I had taught two classes in English and thoroughly enjoyed the responsiveness and eagerness of the students, we took a clinic vehicle to Tso Pema with Dr. Tsering Dorjee , head physician at The Tibetan Primary Health Centre in Bir. It was a beautiful, hilly drive through pine forest, with the Himalayan peaks getting closer and closer, the higher we climbed. We had a lively discussion about the bleakness of Tibet’s future (“There will be no forests or animals, just a barren wasteland by the time we get it back”), the disastrous effects of U.S. policy in the Middle East, and the medical problems in India. He treats the children who recently escaped from Tibet and spoke of their severe malnutrition when they arrive, as well as the respiratory diseases I mentioned previously. He also said that his elderly patients show few of the illnesses of their western counterparts. No cases of Alzheimer’s and only one case of Parkinson’s. They seem happy and content, but many experience hypertension due to a diet high in salt ( i.e. quantities of butter tea).

In a lighter vein, I still am amused by the number of cows reclining halfway into the middle of the road, and the skill with which these drivers avoid them as well as the oncoming cars. The rides would be perilous (passing on hills and curves, avoiding huge oncoming trucks and buses) were they going fast.

We were overjoyed to arrive in Tso Pema and settle in at Sonam Hara’s apartment, which he graciously lent us for our stay. It’s conveniently located near the Zigar Monastery, in a small Tibetan enclave, and an easy walk to the lake. Prayer flags hang in great sweeping layers along the lake and thousands of sacred, but incredibly ugly carp churn the water, waiting for people to throw crackers to them. Monkeys wait, too, gathering up the remaining crumbs and cavorting noisily along the bank.

Cary had gotten in touch, upon arrival, with Lena Feral, the English interpreter for Wangdor Rinpoche, whom we had both met on Whidbey Island when he gave a teaching. After three koras around the lake, we decided to climb the hill to see her new apartment and stop on the way at the almost completed giant statue of Guru Rinpoche (Padmasambhava), the famous guru who introduced Buddhism into Tibet and is an almost mythical figure in the history of Buddhism. There are many stories about him. The one related to Tso Pema is that a king became very angry when he discovered that his daughter, Mandarava, was the guru’s consort, so he imprisoned his daughter and then attempted to burn Padmasambhava. At the end of seven days, Guru Rinpoche was still alive and there was a lake at the spot where the fire had been, with the guru sitting in the middle on a lotus flower. The king then felt great remorse and converted to Buddhism, freed his daughter, and left the two to continue their work in peace.

We walked up the steep hill to the huge unfinished statue of Padmasambhava sitting on a lotus flower. Cary was recognized by Mingchuk, the engineer in charge of the construction. They had met two years before. He was delighted to see her and showed us around, explaining about the tsa tsas, sacred texts and objects that will be put inside the body of the statue. The dimensions are enormous and his presence seems to hover over the entire town. It will be a beautiful center, with a library, meeting rooms, and restaurant, when complete.

It was great to see Lena again, and meet her partner, Joy Schulenburg, who handles the Rinpoche’s busy schedule ( www.customjuju.com/wangdorrimpoche ), and friends Pia Topgyal, a Buddhist practitioner who lives and works in India, and Nyonda Nadi, a computer consultant. I listened and learned a great deal from Lena, who had lived and practiced in the caves above Tso Pema for several years, and from Pia, who married a Tibetan Buddhist and moved from Denmark to raise her family in India. Her son is a Rinpoche and her daughter now lives in Denmark.

Lena also clued us in on a great Indian restaurant with a very unlikely name, The Chopstic Fast Food Corner, which is neither fast nor does it have chop sticks, however you want to spell them. But the Indian food (not too spicy) was unequaled in our travels. Vijay Kumar is the owner, cook, and waiter, and we spent every meal there, becoming good friends. We even told him how to improve his coffee and make a grilled cheese sandwich. The restaurant has a perfect location on a quiet street leading off the kora, opposite a smaller statue of Guru Rinpoche. Hardly any vehicles are allowed on the street, unlike Dharamsala, where sitting in front of a restaurant can be a noisy affair.

During our three days in town we met several people who are here for retreats, and all had fascinating stories. One of the young women, Jessica Black from Canada, we had met, previously, at the library in Dharamsala where she was doing research for a book. The second young woman, Audrey Haller is a practicing Tibetan Buddhist and yoga expert, whose Irish father, Ryushin Paul Haller, is the co-abbot of the Tassajara Zen Retreat Center in the San Francisco bay area. She was raised in Zen and is still assisting her father in running his many retreats. This summer she’ll go with him to Ireland for a peace meditation. Audrey and I talked a great deal and she helped me understand the three phases of the kora and many Buddhist concepts. I appreciated her clear explanation of “emptiness” from a scientific and Buddhist point of view. The young man in the group, Brook Flath from Saskatoon, Canada, has been traveling for several years and is settled here for extended practice.

While eating lunch at Vijay’s we also met Ursula Taylor from Hamburg, Germany, who comes here every year for three months of practice. She told us where to find the best parantha in town at a little stand by the bus stop, for ten rupees. What a great tip that was!

By the way, I’ve finally been able to find Indian food that doesn’t blow my head off and clear my sinuses at the same time. I’ve also branched out into a few new foods like: parantha, a chapatti filled with potato; palak paneer, spinach and veggies blended and combined with chunks of white cheese; pakora, string potatoes and some greens dipped in batter and fried, and chukki-ata, a special whole wheat chapatti. I’ve also been introduced to many kinds of curd–so much better, I think, than our yogurt–and in one case it came mixed with troma, small tubers grown in Tibet.

On our second day in Tso Pema we climbed up a steep path for an hour or more (rather than walk 11 km. up a winding paved road), past small houses and pastures, and through piles of rock to the caves when 70 nuns are living. These caves in the high mountains are Spartan, but have small stone or cinder block additions with tin roofs. Recently, electricity has been added. Cary was here two years earlier so was acquainted with several of the women. We visited two, one of whom, Orgyen Choetso, is sponsored by Cary’s friend, Mully, on Whidbey Island. We delivered some long silk underwear to her to help, during the cold winter months, alleviate her severe arthritis. It was a jolly visit, ‘though verbal communication was difficult. But there was plenty of milk tea, and, as we were leaving, Orgyen Choetso opened a large keg and gave us a bag of tsampa, the barley grain used for cereal. You mix it with a small amount of butter, tea, and sugar, and kneed it with your fingers before eating. I tried some in Suja, and it’s rather good. And certainly healthy. We didn’t understand why she gave so much to us, but she insisted. Lena said, later, that it was for Cary to use when she was on retreat. We had thought, since she mentioned the lake, that she wanted us to feed it to the fish.

Wangdor Rinpoche, who lives in a very simple room there, had headed for the monastery, so we climbed back down to town, watching the sun disappear over the mountains and the giant statue.

Lena took us to the monastery the next afternoon to visit Rinpoche. We entered his room, where he sat on a raised platform amid wall hangings, decorative candles, and piles of gifts which he, in turn, gives away. He greeted us warmly–a small man in his early seventies, who had escaped from Tibet in 1959, carrying his teacher on his back, while being pursued by the Chinese. We discussed many things, with Lena as interpreter, including his upcoming trip to the U.S. and the different Buddhist paths. The next day, before we left, we had lunch at the monastery at Rinpoche’s invitation, and were joined by Sonam Hara and his son, Thubten. We continued this discussion, which helped me understand the many facets of this powerful religion.

Before lunch we had climbed up to Lena’s, where a group of nuns from Spiti were visiting. Lena had told us the night before about their predicament since the Chinese invasion and takeover of their country. They were no longer supported by the community and compelled to do heavy road work every summer, earning about 100 rupees, or $1.25, a day (I often saw women like this in India carrying large loads of gravel on their head from one construction site to another). This money would be used for food over the winter. Some of the nuns were in poor health and getting too old for such heavy labor, but there was no other work available to them. Therefore, Lena was giving them funds to help tide them over until sponsors could be found. Cary and I decided to make a donation as well, but had not expected to be able to meet the nuns. It was an honor to help such dedicated, compassionate women.

At 1 PM on March 25 we started back to Suja, hating to leave this idyllic town, but eager to have one more evening with our TCV friends. And what an evening it was! This was Founder’s Day at the school, with speeches and dancing to celebrate the anniversary of its founding. We missed the afternoon celebration, but attended a tasty buffet where we were privileged to sit with the new director of the school and the principal. It was a treat for Cary, who received a Tibetan lesson on the spot from the director. A caring man with a great sense of humor, he tested her, urging her to translate everything I said to him. I was really impressed with her proficiency. And she was thrilled to have such a great exchange.

While at dinner we met a French lady who lives in Luxembourg, Monique Paillard, a big supporter of the TCV school in Suja. She has an organization, The Friends of Tibet, with a website ( www.amis-tibet.lu) , brochures, and tapes available. What a dedicated lady! She inspired me to start a similar project in the U.S., time and energy willing.

The next day, March 26, we were able to get a ride in a TCV car that was going to Dharamsala. Before we left, however, we had an extraordinary experience. Tsering Somo let us sit in on one of her beginning English classes, which she teaches to the children recently arriving from Tibet. What a bright-eyed, eager group they were! During the session, the new director stopped by for a word with the class. I could almost tell what he was saying by his gestures–study hard, take care of yourself and have good hygiene. Then he pointed to Cary and me (calling me Amala). Later on I found out what he’d said to the children. If they became educated they could someday take their mothers or families on a journey into the world, just as Cary was taking me.

At the end of the class I asked if I could record some folk songs. Before beginning, each child shared where he or she had come from (most were from Kham, where Cary is heading this summer), then sang in a clear voice songs that were haunting and full of passion. I looked around at the other children. They were mesmerized and following every word. One boy looked out the window as he sang about mountains and plains and his life in a nomad family. The music is so different from ours–with high runs and intervals that seem improvised, and notes held longer than usual–a timing unfamiliar to me. The tunes were intricate and flowing, painting pictures of joy, longing, and sorrow. Moments later I replayed the tapes and was treated, gleefully, to a group song before leaving.

Next episode. The return to Dharamsala.

Alas, the teachings ended at noon today and it left us with a bit of that “emptiness” that Buddhists talk about (only that has nothing to do with the wisdom of emptiness, a very important Buddhist concept…it’s even too complicated for me to explain after two weeks of hearing the teachings). People who had become friends over these past days together were leaving and everyone was attempting to clear the enormous open spaces of the cardboard and debris left by the crowd. The Dalai Lama‘s schedule had made it necessary to cut the teachings short, but I think we were all pretty drained and our brains needed a rest. We’d not only been attending during the day, but had been fortunate to have a review session each afternoon from 4:30 to 6 PM to help us understand the teachings and clarify any questions. Not easy, but we had a marvelous teacher, Geshe Dorje Damdul.

Unfortunately, the bad weather returned last Saturday (our room temperature hovers around 50) just in time for the annual March 10 celebration and march to lower Dharamsala in memory of the Tibetan uprising in Lhasa on March 10, 1959. But this didn’t dampen the spirits of the thousands of Tibetans and friends who flocked into the temple and stood in the downpour to hear the Dalai Lama‘s message. I’m sure you’ll find it on his website. He had warned the many Tibetans who crossed into India from Nepal not to attend or to show their faces, in case there were Chinese spies taking pictures, as in the past. Our friend and former guide, Dorje, had told us the danger to himself and his friends as a result of coming to the teachings, but felt it was worth the gamble. Still, they had no intention of coming to the march.

Cary dropped in at the temple gathering and said that the entire yellow canopy would fill with water and when the wind blew, would dump gallons onto the spectators below, who just laughed and continued waving Tibetan flags and singing songs of liberation. These are a hardy people who feel strongly about their cause. After the ceremonies, they marched, still singing, ten kilometers to lower Dharamsala and late that evening we encountered them returning, holding lit candles, still singing, and waving tiny flags. I was moved to tears, standing by the side of the narrow street and waving back as they passed.

I looked up the history that led to the March 10 uprising, which can be found on the internet. It’s a devastating story. I quote from the conclusion: 300,000 loyal Tibetans surrounded the Norbulinka palace in which the Dalai Lama was, forming a human sea of protection for their Yeshe Norbu (Precious Jewel).They feared he would be abducted to Beijing to attend the upcoming Chinese National Assembly. The mobilization forced the then 16-year-old Dalai Lama to cancel the army leader’s invitation. He was held prisoner by devotion.”

The rest is history, with the dramatic and courageous flight of the Dalai Lama and his family to India. Nobody knows how many perished that day, but 10,000 Lhasa Tibetans are known to have disappeared–either been killed or sent into forced labor.

I spoke to a Tibetan who runs a tour agency and asked him if he thought any of this did any good or could ever change what China is doing. He spoke, as so many do, by telling a story.

“A big strong man is bitten by a tiny mosquito. He tries to kill it but it bites him somewhere else. Hard as he tries he cannot get away from it and it makes his life miserable. China is a superpower, but after a while it will have to deal with the annoying mosquito that is Tibet. It is like a festering sore, a boil, which won’t heal and continues to give pain. We will not give up–never–and we will annoy the superpower so much that it will eventually give us our country back. It will be glad to get rid of us. And we will do all this without killing.”

The cold, rainy weather has continued, with a few rays of sun sneaking through during the day, greeted by wild applause from drenched, cold spectators standing under umbrellas. Hail greeted me as I stumbled down the hill this morning. Some evenings are beautiful as one only sees in the high mountains…clouds of varying grays tinged with white, and winds that prove their power to instill awe and terror. Last night I walked home late from the temple in another blackout (electricity is rather capricious in this town), having forgotten my flashlight, and met a car coming down our steep hill. He didn’t honk for a change, but just blinked his lights for me to come ahead. The rain and wind had turned my umbrella inside out, so I stepped into a doorway to let the car pass. Its wheel was a few inches off the road, but it continued down as I leapt off the stairs and straight into a gulley of water up to my ankles. Recovering, I hopped further and plunked my other foot into a similar “river.” I found one sliver of pavement on the side and ran the rest of the way home, laughing. Then I had to open a heavy, locked gate, which meant getting totally wet before reaching my double-locked room…and, well, you get the picture. Cary pointed out that no Himalayan trek could possibly top this experience for sheer endurance. She also lent me a pair of dry shoes. They’re big, but as I told you before, vanity has gone out the window.

By the way, you might want to catch her blog: carypeterson.wordpress.com She’ll be traveling until December and I’m sure the adventures will continue.

A word about these last two days. We had a very significant initiation into the study of the Bodhisattva for a group of monks from mainland China. This interrupted the teachings for a morning, but to me is a very significant gesture on the part of the Dalai Lama. I was surprised that Buddhists were allowed to practice in communist China.

I wish I could have taken a camera into the temple, for during the heavy rains of the last two days we all had to squash together so the Tibetans and many monks, who were sitting in the main plaza under the canopy and open sky, could have some shelter. This made for a merry meeting of cultures and a chance to show the compassion and patience the Dalai Lama has been promoting. Before this occurred, however, the winds had begun shredding the huge yellow canopy. The Tibetan flag also did its part as the wind blew the billowing material against it. There are 8 large panels with 24 designs altogether. I watched the patterns undulating in the wind and the silhouette of the solitary leafless trees against a steel sky. In the distance, when it wasn’t raining, you could see the fir trees poking through the mist. It was a lovely, very dramatic sight.

Today the canopy was completely gone and there was no shelter at all. At the end, after the “long life ceremony,” large buckets of small round cookies were distributed by the monks. Banks of people swarmed, with their hands outstretched, then stood, reverently, as the Dalai Lama left the temple.

We thought we had another day, but tomorrow will be a puja on long life for the Dalai Lama.

The Dalai Lama, during the teachings, talked a great deal about science as well as other religions. He encourages everyone to practice the religion of his or her choice, but not be lax or lazy in understanding and following it. He is a brilliant mind and continues to be a voracious student, obviously. The study of Buddhism should not be taken lightly and will not be accomplished easily.

We met several people who volunteer in the audio-visual field and are working on a documentary about the Dalai Lama‘s work as well as an upcoming conference he is hosting for world-renowned scientists. I believe they are called Mind and Life conferences and they’ve been held in the spring for eight years. The subject covers science and how it relates to Buddhism. You can find out about this on the Dalai Lama‘s website. I was struck with the selflessness of these individuals, giving their time, and requesting not to be mentioned by name. It is their service and although they are Americans, they despair of the material grasping they see in their country, and the egotistic need for adulation and recognition. As you can see, we’ve had plenty of chance for discussion during these weeks.

One rather prosaic note as I leave you. I’ve hardly seen any smokers…two I believe…and nobody drinks. The town is dry and mostly vegetarian. And there is, happily, great coffee and cappuccino.

On Friday Cary and I leave for Suja and Bir, with stops at Norbulingka and several other places I’ll relate next time. We’re hoping to get in a little trekking, or at least walking in the mountains…if it stops raining. We met Dorje, again, and talked at length after the teachings. His English has improved greatly, but I’m trying to figure out what books to send him to help in his study. Books from English to Tibetan do not comprise a burgeoning market! He said that this weather doesn’t bother his 83-year-old mother at all, because she’s used to it. Tibetans are tough.

Hey, the sun is out!! And we’ll have a sunset. Hooray!

March came in like a lion here in Dharamsala, but now we have clear skies and balmy weather and absolutely no complaints. This is a magical place! Picture thousands of monks in maroon, orange, or yellow robes, depending on their country, and add to that hundreds of people from Tibet, Asia, Western Europe, the U.S., Canada, South America, and every country where there are pilgrims eager to hear the Dalai Lama‘s teachings. And imagine all these people sitting on mats in the vast open-air piazza of the Namgyal Temple with yellow columns separating various groups, a bright yellow canopy on which is woven many replicas of the endless knot (one of the eight auspicious Buddhist symbols), fluttering over one section, and the Tibetan flag waving proudly halfway between two sturdy trees. More trees, huge firs, grace the remainder of the open area.

I walked three times around the second level of the temple early this morning, doing the kora. The sun glistened dramatically on the Himalayan peaks, which looked close enough to touch, but a bit too threatening to climb just yet. The monks were chanting, producing a low, rich sound so different from the Hindu chanting in Lakshmanjhula. The deep guttural bass boomed forth intermittently, followed by repetitive prayers, which ended with a heavy downward slur, like a record winding down. Then it would begin again, in a slightly higher key. I walked past several banks of large bronze prayer wheels. Shoes were piled next to the monks, who sat cross-legged on the floor. An incongruous sign in English and Tibetan caught my eye and I smiled: Make sure your shoes are not stolen. In a temple no less.

We were all searched and had to show our identification badge, which had been obtained at the security office beforehand. This was a thorough search, for security was tight. Once inside it was a sea of color, and amazingly orderly and quiet. We were all grateful for the good weather where the multi-colored umbrellas could be used for the sun, not the rain.

At 9 A.M. the Dalai Lama appeared and walked slowly down the center aisle flanked by monks. He bowed slightly, gesturing to friends, smiling, and greeting the throng. There was no elaborate pomp and circumstance. Just silence. The crowd was visibly moved and acknowledged him with their hands in a prayerful position. The same thing occurred at the end of each session, sometimes accompanied by low chanting and once with some kind of reed instrument. It was a quiet, dignified procession.

His Holiness sat on a large raised seat and talked without notes for two-and-a-half hours in the morning, and, again, in the afternoon. Butter tea and rolls were dispersed both in the morning and in the afternoon by monks carrying large tea kettles. Sometimes milk tea was substituted.

People had selected their “spaces” four days in advance and taped their names to the floor. A very old Tibetan lady, creased, toothless, and bent, muscled into my space, but we all managed to accommodate her and she has now become somewhat of a mascot. We move around, however, and today I sat very close to the Dalai Lama and watched, with utter fascination, as he moved and gestured, punctuating his speech with highs and lows and the deep laughter the West has found so endearing. His delivery is animated, powerful, and mesmerizing. He is, indeed, a great teacher. The interpreter, a young monk educated at Oxford, is brilliant and, to my delight, sits near my space. I’m fascinated by how he can simultaneously translate the complexities of Buddhist theology so eloquently and interpret the non-stop commentary, which is based on the teachings of the Third Dalai Lama (being used as our text). There are also French and Portuguese interpreters.

It’s now the fifth day of the teachings and I’m profoundly moved and inspired. These are not simple concepts, nor is this beginning Buddhism. It deals with 2500 years of history and the application of the Buddhist message of compassion and love in this troubled world. The Dalai Lama is a master storyteller and sometimes I turn off my FM radio and just listen to the timbre of his voice. The repetitions, the change in tone, the inflections. For me it is high drama and every moment is electric.

Outside the temple it’s a carnival. Food vendors, honking taxis trying to shove their way through intransigent crowds, beggars under foot, hawkers. Cary and I have found some fabulous Indian and Tibetan restaurants and some interesting new friends. At our guest house just up the hill from the temple are three Canadians, Doris, Jan, and Louise, two captivating Hollanders, Trees Muijlaert, and Joris Broeders, and an occupational therapist, Laura Simonian . Close by is a friend we met at Majnu Ka Tilla in Delhi, Tamara Blesh, who is a high school library technology specialist in Gardiner, Maine and is on her way to Ladakh to set up a library at Siddhartha School in Stok, 18 Kilometers south of Leh. A talented and interesting lady, who also sponsors a Tibetan student inside Tibet.

We’ve had the privilege of spending time in the home of Tenzin Youdon’s family just after Joser, the Tibetan New Year. Tenzin married an American who lives on Whidbey Island, and Cary delivered gifts to her parents and sisters, who, coincidentally, live just up the lane from our guest house. Their son is a rinpoche and two of the five daughters are living in the U.S. It was an emotional meeting as they talked about their absent children. This is a typical, very close Tibetan family.

Our most poignant experience this past week, however, was a visit to the TCV (the Tibetan Children’s Village) school in Dharamsala, a non-profit, charitable institution for the care and education of orphaned and destitute Tibetan children in exile. Cary, Martha, my grandchildren, and I, plus friends in Maplewood and Whidbey Island sponsor students at this school and the one in Suga, near Bir. The stories of their escape from Chinese oppression is well-documented and widely known, and these children are still coming across the border in ever-increasing numbers and at great cost in human suffering.

We met with Cary’s friend, Dolma Lhamo, formerly of the Suja school, and now the secretary for the sponsorship program coordinator of the Dharamsala school, Tashi Lhamo (no relation). Both women are dedicated educators whose lives are spent insuring that there will be a home for these youngsters, while at the same time they are preserving the rich heritage that is being obliterated in Tibet by Chinese persecution.

We met Martha’s sponsored “son,” Lhakpa Wanghal, an 18-year-old physics and biology student whose parents smuggled him across the border when he was only four, the youngest of six children. They wanted at least one of their children to have a future. This young man is extraordinary! He showed us his academic work and his extra-curricular projects. He had designed his own logo. and in large letters incorporated the school motto underneath: Others Before Self.

These schools are run like large families, with surrogate mothers and the children referring to one another as brother and sister. All classes from the 5th grade on are in English and the education is first rate. Many children, like Lhakpa, have not seen their parents since they left Tibet, and many never will.

I urge you to visit their website and find out more about this amazing network of schools. www.tibchild.org

I mentioned before that the owner of our guest house is a young Tibetan man named Pema Yeshe. He is also the librarian at the foreign language section of the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives here in McLeod Ganj. Cary and I walked through the woods and down the steep slopes with Pema to visit this beautiful library. We were shown ancient manuscripts that had been carried out of Tibet at the time of the Dalai Lama‘s escape in 1959. Some were written in simple block print and others were executed with gold hand-lettering. These were long, narrow rectangular pages wrapped twice in orange, then yellow cloth and tied carefully to preserve them. A large room held thousands of these precious manuscripts.

The building also housed a museum with a superb collection of artifacts that have been smuggled out of the country since the Chinese invasion of Tibet. Most of these were given to the Dalai Lama, who, in turn, entrusted them to the museum. Others can be found in famous museums throughout the world. There were two unusual mandelas, one in colored sand and one in three dimensions, as well as a superb butter statue of the Potala Palace in Lhasa.

Pema told us a great deal about the history of Buddhism, and one thing I found interesting was that the prayer flags we so often identify with Buddhism were really flags used by the Bon religion, which was being practiced at the time Buddhism was introduced into Tibet.

After leaving the library, we visited the Nechung Temple of the Oracle of Tibet, which was close by.

Every day we wander on new paths, through woods that are finally heralding spring as trees of blood-red rhododendron blossom on the hillsides. Each morning the mountains greet us, white and radiant. And although we are just above the temple, it’s quiet. We are in a world totally isolated from the frantic bustle of main street.

Greetings from Dharamsala, where it’s snowing, raining, sleeting, and generally pretty miserable, and where Cary and I are pretending we’re on a Himalayan trek or in a cave in Tibet. Just walking down our steep muddy hill is like fording a small stream. Our shoes are soaked, but we’re protected by Gore-Tex jackets and our $1.00 umbrellas. So far we’ve met some great people and are looking at this as a trial of endurance. We bought some tea, coffee, cups, ginger, lemon, and a heating coil, and with some bananas, oranges and cookies, figure we can survive a week if we get snowed it. None of these guest houses has heat, so for 50 rupees a day (a little more than $1.00) we can rent a small electric heater. So far it hasn’t brought our room temperature up beyond 50 degrees, however. Thank God for sleeping bags and comforters!

This is just another example of what global warming is doing to the weather patterns of Asia. It’s supposed to be spring, but is, instead, the winter they never had. The Tibetans and Indians I talk to are happy about the rain, for a severe water shortage was predicted. So I plan to be patient. But I do miss the wonderful views of the mountains that we could see from our balcony the first two days.

I’ll write more about this lovely place…McLeod Ganj, upper Dharamsala…after I get caught up.

Here’s a recap of my sensational time in the Rishikesh area, a part of Uttaranchal, which broke off from Uttar Pradesh in 2000. I arrived in Haridwar on February 15 after a peaceful ride on the train from Delhi. I had read that Haridwar was a very historic place for Hindus, where the Ganges emerges from its final rapids past the Shivalik Hills, to start the long, slow journey across India to the Bay of Bengal. Haridwar means the Gate (dwar) of God (Hari). It’s 214 kilometers northeast of Delhi, stretching for about 3 kilometers along a narrow strip of land between the wooded hills to the west and the Ganges to the east. This is especially revered by the Hindus for whom the Har-ki-Pairi ghat (the “Footsteps of God,” literally) marks the exact spot where the river leaves the mountains. Looking north along the vast Doon Valley you can see the Himalayan foothills rising above Rishikesh, while Haridwar, itself, faces east across the river to the Rijaji National Park (next time I’ll visit the park and maybe ride an elephant). 

When I arrived in Haridwar I hired a bicycle rickshaw and started looking for a hotel. My driver took me to a wide plaza where I saw the Ganga (the Indian word for the Ganges) for the first time, churning full throttle as it rushed under a large, impressive bridge. People sat cross-legged, watching in silence. No reasonable hotel there.

I really dig exploring a town in these rickety old rickshaws. It’s an exotic experience you cannot duplicate at home. We just don’t have the atmosphere of total abandon and the lack of inhibition that these street scenes embody. Nor the ear-splitting horns of cars and motorized rickshaws jockeying for position on crowded streets. Even our Christmas throngs in Rockefeller Center are subdued compared to the beehive of human activity in an Indian town bazaar. And this goes on from dawn until way after dusk.

I finally found a hotel in the middle of all this chaos, and the singing, shouting, and celebrating didn’t die down until the wee hours (I  found out the next day that this was because of Shiva’s birthday, Shiva Ratri, the night of Shiva).

This whole area is Vegan, so I learned to live without eggs, meat of any kind, and fish. Since I’m allergic to fish, that was not a problem, and I cultivated a taste for curd and its sweetened cousin, lassai. Fruit milkshakes are also very popular, as they were in Myanmar. My meal that evening was a total mystery, since it was only in Indian. As usual, even the non-spicy dishes brought tears to my eyes. I’m looking forward to Tibetan food.

At breakfast the next day I met a delightful Indian family, the Aroras, who are now living in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. Pankaj Arora is head of the biggest pharmaceutical complex in India, and he offered to drive me to a small town, Gitahdawan, outside Rishikesh, where I could get a motorized rickshaw to Lakshmanjhula, my hoped-for destination. He was returning home for a visit with his father, K.N. Arora, his wife, Nidhi, and two children, Sara (5, with whom I bonded immediately), and Aryan (5 months). We stopped at two temples along the way, and Pankaj explained several aspects of Hinduism to me as well as the reason for the brightly-decorated poles being carried on the shoulders of thousands of people as they streamed into Haridwar from the countryside. On both ends of the pole were small tin buckets to be used for water from the Ganga. The water would be taken back to their respective communities and offered to a favorite deity, temple, or person in need, on Shiva’s birthday. The small containers of holy water were not allowed to touch the ground. 

It was a speedy, interesting journey with lively conversation. Pankaj’s father had worked for years in a pharmaceutical plant in Rishikesh, which made penicillin, but which had recently succumbed to the vagaries of foreign competition.

Lakshmanjhula is fabulous! I approached it from a hill and looked down onto a narrow suspension bridge over the Ganga. Backpackers, and those who had come to study at the plethora of ashrams in the area, tramped across from east to west, while mischievous moneys harassed those foolish enough to look them in the eye. Scary devils they are. And aggressive.

I bumped into many Westerners from the States and Europe. They were here to study with their favorite Yogi or Guru, to attend classes, or to study yoga of all kinds and the healing arts, including Ayurvedic medicine.

Hotels, guest houses, and ashrams lined the hills on each side of the river. Most were painted pastel shades, making a colorful panorama. People were still bathing and bands were playing by the shore. Groups of women danced, and the general revelry continued all day in honor of Shiva.

I found a room in Sant Sewa Ashram, with a balcony overlooking the Ganga. What sunsets we had, but after three days I tired of the amplified chanting shattering the stillness every evening from 6 to 7. It was accompanied by harmonium and drums, and mostly out-of-tune. At night it was quiet, and I could hear the river tumbling over shallow rapids as it rounded a bend and headed downstream. But at 6 A.M. the chanting began anew, this time from an ashram on the opposite side. That side was rocky, with white pebbles leading to the water, so most people did their morning ablutions on the sandy side. Brave souls! It was cold in the early morning, as it was in the evening. I was glad for my polypro underwear and fleece jacket.

I spent a glorious week in this quaint town and even visited the impressive, but decaying ashram in Ram Jhula made famous by the Beatles in the late 60’s. On my third day I couldn’t stand the chanting any more, so moved down the lane to a smaller place, The Dev Ganga Guest House, which I highly recommend ($5.00 a day), also with a balcony over the river, and monkeys that loved to startle you as you meditated at sunset. Here I met Rosemary Lamotta (second cousin to Jake), and William Karnett, both attending satsangs and sessions at one of the large ashrams. We spent many hours at the Moonlight Cafe across the street from the guest house, eating vegetarian meals and talking. Germans, Spanish, and English joined us most evenings. 

A highlight of my week in Lakshmanjhula was getting to know the staff and the work being done at Ramana’s Garden (www.sayyesnow.org), a children’s home and primary school in Tapovan Village a few kilometers above the river. I had heard about the school from Judy Wyman, who gave money in my name last Christmas. It was started ten years ago by Dr. Prabhavati Dwabha, an American woman from Marvel,  Colorado, who saw a need to care for homeless and destitute children and designed and built this artistic compound on what was once a barren hillside. Sixty youngsters live at the school and another 180 children from the surrounding area attend one of the eight classes during the day. The classrooms are ample and the teachers all well-educated. There are vegetable and flower gardens tended by the children, cows for milk, a large playground, and charming rooms for the staff and the children. There is an excellent cafe run by Gaba, the profits of which are used to buy food for the children. Some children are orphans, others come from destitute families that can’t support them, and many were street children from Nepal and India. The children refer to each other as brother and sister.

The only financial help Prabha gets is from individuals who believe in the school and its mission and will sponsor children, and from donations she receives whenever she lectures about her work. This is something many of you might want to look into. It is truly an amazing place. Prabha is also very active in trying to get shelters for the many homeless children in the Uttaranchal state.

I met and talked with many of the staff over several days. Volunteers Cass Foste and Jessi Marlott from Colorado; Anna Vercellotti from Italy; and Adele Maze , an art teacher from California. Each one of these talented people has skills she is giving for six months to enhance the curriculum. A summer residence, called Paradise, is high in the mountains, used as a retreat and a place for the children to escape the heat of summer. Prabha thought of everything!

Two days before I left, I took a challenging trek with Anna and Kishan (the cook), 13 kilometers up a steep mountain trail to Kunjapuri Temple, a pristine white Shakti temple at the sharp point of a conical hill, with a stupendous view of the highest Himalayan peak in India, Nanda Divi. It was a beautiful climb through forests of cactus and pine with vistas of the valley leading to the Ganga. It was brutally hot, cooling down as we reached the entrance to the 325 steps (I counted!) leading to the temple. We had hoped for some food, but found nothing but water, one Kit Kat bar, and some cookies.

The sun was setting as we started down a 3 kilometer serpentine road, singing songs and chanting nonsense rap until we reached the tiny village of Hindola Khat, 15 kilometers from Rishikesh. No chance of hitching, and the taxi was way too expensive. Our only hope was the local bus, which wouldn’t arrive for half-an-hour. We were hungry and we were tired. Then a miracle occurred. The jeep from Ramana’s Garden came by, returning from the mountains, and the driver recognized Anna standing by the side of the road. We could hardly believe it. Thus began a wild ride as we descended in hairpin turns, bumping unmercifully in the back of the jeep, but praising Shiva, Buddha, and Jesus for our good fortune.

I said goodbye to the Ganga, the German Bakery and Devraj Coffee Shop early  in the morning, and boarded a luxury sleeper train from Haridwar to Delhi on February 22. I had to wait one day because of the elections, when no cars or buses would run. The sights along the way took me back twenty years to my first glimpse of labor-intensive India. Shacks and tents lined the tracks. Black shiny cows were tethered in dirt yards. Conical piles of drying cow dung filled the yards and lined every available wall. And women dug in the dirt with their bare hands, putting the soil into shallow dishes to be carried on their head to another location. Three days later, as I sped along the highway to Dharamsala in the overnight bus, I saw great earth-moving machines used to construct the ever-increasing number of roads needed in a modern India. Such contrasts can be seen every day, side by side in this tumultuous country.

It was wonderful to get to Wongdhen House in Delhi, and see Cary, and have a day to visit with Ugen, the nursing student she mentors. We were to meet several more of these students in the next three days, as well as our monk, Thubten Tashi, who caught up with us as we were wandering through the bazaar in McLeod Ganj, upper Dharamsala. He came here to see Cary, not even knowing where she was staying, and found her. But the most amazing coincidence was when Cary, jet-lagging after arriving from a week in Amsterdam, stepped out of Wongdhen House at 3 A.M. and bumped into Dorje, our Tibetan guide three years ago at Mt. Kailash in Tibet. He and his mother were making a pilgrimage and had stopped in Majnu Ka Tilla for the day. Can you imagine the emotional reunion? The next day we put them on the bus for Dharamsala, the same one we boarded  February 24th.

I can’t believe that I’ve only been in India for two weeks. And what a two weeks it has been! The words of an old man I talked with on my last day in Myanmar kept running through my head as I said goodbye to James and my Whidbey Island friends in Yangon and boarded a plane for Bangkok, alone. “The only thing in life you can depend on is change,” he said. It is the letting go of preconceptions and attachments, and the awareness of the impermanence of life that Buddhism teaches. I keep this in mind as I round every corner and am faced with surprises, disappointments, and joy.

This was the perfect time to take a break from the intensity of my time in Myanmar and meditate on the meaning of the past month. But that was not to be. It all started swimmingly. I arrived at Bangkok’s fabulous new airport and hopped into a new cab, complete with seat belts and air-conditioning, and roared down pristine highways lined with shrubbery. What a contrast from the ailing infrastructure of Myanmar. Then the traffic started. Streetlights lasted from two to five minutes as we inched our way through Friday night traffic to the student area in the old part of town. Chaos reigned, and two hours later I was still sitting in the cab, trying to find a room in a hotel or guest house. It was panic time! My son, Christopher, would have said it served me right. He always hated that I seldom made advance reservations. Lee’s suggested guest house was booked and I was stuck tramping up and down Khao San Road, the hippie heaven, which I hadn’t liked ten years before, and liked even less now.

At 9 P.M. the place was still going full throttle. I finally found a windowless room for $2.00 and went back to get my pack and ask the driver to pull up a few yards, when he slammed my door and sped off. “Stop!” I shouted. “I have a room. Let me out.”

He continued to drive saying, “No room. Holiday.” Was I being kidnapped? “Stop,” I shouted, to no avail.

Fifteen minutes later we pulled into a parking garage and the driver announced, “Hotel, Madam.” It looked like a cell block. I staggered out, grabbed my pack, which gets heavier by the hour, and was led to a fourth-floor room, blessedly air-conditioned. The streets were emptying out, with only a couple of restaurants open. I was heartened, however, by the orange juice stands where tiny oranges are squeezed on the spot, bottled, and sold for pennies. This sustained me, along with the almonds I always carry in my bag.

Bangkok was not peaceful, and I had no time to visit Chiang Mai or Songkla, my two favorites. It was noisy, polluted, and crowded. The highlight of my time there was a visit to a female dentist Lee had recommended, who gave me an hour-long cleaning, the likes of which I’d never before experienced. At the end she took a model of a set of teeth and explained the correct way to brush. She also told me to jettison my battery-operated tooth brush. All of this cost $15.00.

After this Bangkok was a whirl of street vendors and aggressive hawkers. It would have been worthwhile if I could have had a cheap face lift, but the confusion of getting around jangled my nerves, so the next day I fled to Delhi. That’s like going from the frying pan into the fire.

Lines were unbelievably long at the Bangkok airport, but when I finally got through, I spent three hours exploring the amazing new structure. I met a crazy Italian, Carlo, and two American students from Virginia, Morgan and Dwight, and we agreed to share a cab to Paharganj, the Main Bazar near the Delhi train station. I couldn’t get reservations to the Tibetan hotel where I’d been before, and was nervous about finding a room after my Bangkok experience.

Arriving late, we waited in line to get a fixed price taxi ticket for 250 rupees, half the normal price, even with a 25% charge for after 11 PM. I highly recommend this to anyone coming into Delhi’s confusing, broken-down airport. Next it became a scramble to get a cab. They were parked haphazardly around the exit and once you engaged a driver he had to extricate his cab from the jumble. Horns were honking, people were shouting, and I began to feel very sick to my stomach. Must have been some fish in the sauce they served on the plane. How could I ever make it to a hotel?

If I hadn’t felt so bad, the whole scene would have been very funny. Our driver was aggressive, even getting into a cab that was blocking his way and pushing it with one foot on the pavement. Naturally, a wrangle ensued. Delhi definitely needs a new airport and revamped transportation system.

The ride to Paharganj was as crazy as the one my first day, a month earlier. These drivers inch their way into lanes that aren’t there, and tangle with trucks and buses, fearlessly, tailgating, swerving, and honking. I was in misery, trying to decide in which direction to throw up, when we passed the Hari Krishna, a hotel The Rough Guide had recommended.

“Stop!” I shouted. And we got out.

The roof leaked, there was no top sheet, the toilet had to be flushed by pouring buckets of water down it, and there was no sink, towel, soap, or toilet paper in my room. I know, you get what you pay for! All the next day I was so sick that the desk clerk suggested a doctor. He moved me to a room off the lobby and was so solicitous that I didn’t even complain about the mouse scampering about the room. “No, it’s free, and it will give you company, Madam,” he said when I asked if I had to pay extra.

It rained the next morning and, in my weakened condition, I decided that I needed to get far away from Delhi. I didn’t have time to go to Bangladesh or southern India, so would head north. I’d been devouring my guide book, but failed to heed the warning in bold print about “touts” in India. A practiced, slick breed of hucksters I had certainly encountered before in my travels. I hailed a cab and asked to go to the main r.r. station, an easy few blocks away. I realized that we were not going to the station when he pulled into the office of OIT near the East Market. I still did not smell a rat.

“I want to go to the mountains and do some trekking,” I announced. Before I knew it, a sleazy operator named Manu had talked me into a week in Kashmir for several hundred dollars, staying in a “luxury” guest house on Dal lake in Srinagar, with the option to trek if I so desired. He said I’d better book immediately, since it was such a popular area and there might not be any plane tickets left. And he assured me that it wasn’t dangerous anymore. Manu was also proficient in the happiness line (now refined to “Madam, I can make you really satisfied.”}, saying “old is gold,” and he just happened to be free all afternoon. I was laughing by the time I left his office, and exhilarated by the thought of finally being able to get to Kashmir, a place I’d dreamed of for twenty years.

When I told those gathered at the Hari Krishna about my planned trip, they showed me a newspaper clipping telling of the ice blanketing Srinagar, and the inability to get food or people in or out of the city. There were also graphic reports of ice and snow on the TV. Predictions were for more of the same all week. Hell, I could stay in Jersey for that! I also finally read my guide books, both of which warned about the still-present danger to foreigners in that troubled area. I was livid, called Manu, immediately, and cancelled. And wonder of wonders, I was given a complete refund. Nobody believed I could do it. I think he was worried that I had too many connections in the field of women traveling alone. I didn’t even need to threaten. He knew he was wrong, but he still tried to get me to book another trip with him. Some people are totally incorrigible.

That afternoon I bought a second class ticket for 250 rupees (about $5.00) upstairs in the r.r. station where there’s an office for foreigners, and boarded a train for Haridwar at 4:30 P.M. Little did I know what an auspicious time it was to be at the “Mother Ganga,” as the Ganges is called. The next day, February 16, was Shiva’s birthday.

My next episode will bring you up-to-date, as I travel back to Delhi and on to Dharamsala, where daughter Cary and I are living in The Kongpo House, a wonderful guest house up a treacherous dirt lane, overlooking the mountains and valleys of McLeodganj, the upper section of the city. This is in the Northern Himachal, at the beginning of the Indian Himalaya. Cypress trees dot this Tibetan section of the city, and the temple where the Dalai Lama resides is at the foot of our hill. It couldn’t be better! We’re now preparing for two weeks of teachings given by the Dalai Lama.

Greetings from Myanmar (formerly known as Burma), and from the best little guest house in Yangon, The Motherland Inn (2). Friendly, helpful, clean, you name it,
they have it…and all for from $7 a night, breakfast included. See,
all you people who thought I was extravagant. You really can’t beat
these prices and can have a huge meal for about a dollar. The other
night, after spending the afternoon at the bazaar, four of us decided
to stop in the Moslem section of town to try their food. We walked in
rather late at night, sat down, and immediately were served a large
bowl of rice apiece. We thought…oh, well, this is a complimentary
appetizer. No. Along came excellent dal in small bowls. So we poured
the dal on the rice and started in with the chopsticks. More dal
arrived. We hadn’t even ordered! Soon we had each had consumed four
dals and more rice. Every time we finished something another helping
would appear. Finally we couldn’t eat any more and asked for the
check. It came to 25 cents per person in Myanmar money (that’s about
1250 kyats). We left, scratching our heads. Were they just trying to
use up the dal or what? When I saw the rice fields some days later,
and people leaning over harvesting by hand, I wondered how they could
ever sell this food for so little. All the farming, as with any
construction, is backbreaking work. Done by hand.

This town is a sprawling collection of ethnic areas. Just walking to
the center we go through Moslem, Hindu, and Buddhist enclaves, each
with its own food and flavor. Even photographs can’t capture the
charm and the smells, some of them good and others, well…there’s a
garbage problem here…but that’s pretty true throughout Asia.

There are very few cars and all of them old, emitting clouds of
exhaust. Gas is rationed at 2 gallons a day in the city and 6 gallons
a week in the country. For those who want more, you can find little
stands of gas in quart bottles around town. My favorite shot was a
seller of old mufflers, each muffler hanging on the branch of a low
tree. Incense was burning inside one of the mufflers.

I’ve gone to the usual sites here in town, like the great golden
pagoda, Shwedagon Paya, and the incredible markets where you can buy
jewelry, textiles, optics, anything for pennies compared to the U.S.
If only I had room in my pack!!

On Wednesday I headed for the famous pilgrimage spot, The Golden Rock
(Kyaiktiyo). Getting there was an adventure in itself, from the local
bus to Bago, to being packed into open air trucks (50 to a truck)
going up a bumpy, winding, hairpin-curved road in the middle of a
bamboo forest…perfect for those who didn’t get enough of roller
coasters as a child. Then came the 5-miles walk to the rock. I was
followed by several men carrying litters and hoping that I would drop
before reaching the top. If it hadn’t been so funny, it would have
been annoying. They just wouldn’t quit, even quoting “five dollars
only” until the very end. Can’t wait to show you the pictures.

Kinpun, where we stayed before and after the rock, had the usual jolly
market place, with a few good restaurants, all open on all sides,
abutting the main walkway. I was there with three friends from Whidbey
Island, with whom I connected at the Motherland–Lee Compton, Yana
Viniko, and Dale Reiger. We made quite a foursome. Dale, being 6ft.
4″ was always easy to find and when I arrived in Bago I simply asked
at the bus station where the tall man and his friends went. That’s
how we connected each time.

Just before we left to return to Bago, we were eating in the Sea Sar
Restaurant, when cameras appeared, followed by a massive crowd of
squealing young people, and buses packed to overflowing with people
hanging off the back had stopped to watch…all because two movie
stars were going to shoot a scene at the restaurant. People seem the
same everywhere. They love celebrities! It so happened that we were a
backdrop (unpaid extras) in both scenes, which was quite amusing. We
did a little horsing around to liven things up. It will probably be
cut, but we had fun!

We opted for a taxi drive both ways from Bago to Kinpun, and this gave
us time to photograph the landscape, a plethora of water buffalo with
their young, and my favorite wooden-wheeled wagon drawn by two
bullocks. Shades of the Middle Ages. It was like traveling back in
time. Everybody, including the monks, let us take pictures (we always
asked first, then showed the subject the pictures, which delighted
them, especially the children). I’m saving conversations and
observations until later. I just wanted to touch base with you all and
tell you what an amazing, delightful country this is.

Next week I head for Taungoo, a little off the beaten track, to see
some elephant farms, if possible. It will take about 8 hours by bus,
and I want to divide up my trip to Kalaw, which I’ll do at the end of
the week. Will write more about that and the trek around Inle Lake
after it happens. In the meantime, I hope Jersey enjoys its first
snow. Think of me slathered with sunscreen.

I'm off to the airport to see what I imagine is a very

different Asia. Will write when I get a chance.

Meg