Remote and isolated.

Before I came to Ladakh, I was amazed that the only way to enter or leave in the winter is by flight. Then I went to Padum, the last "big" town on the dead-end road to the Zanskar region of Ladakh, and discovered that the only road is closed by winter snows for half the year - and there are no flights. Then I walked the two days to Phuktal Monastery, and couldn't really imagine winter there. The main route in and out during the height of winter is walking along the frozen river, which is termed traveling along the chaddar. Chad means "to freeze" and dar means "your ass off." The river doesn't always freeze through evenly, so falling through the ice is a definite risk. And in late winter, when the ice is starting to melt, the high passes are still blocked by snow, so even the relative comfort of walking along an ice-covered river is no longer available. I can't imagine. (And I complain about slow traffic at home. Hah!)

 

But not surprisingly, these are a hardy people. At Sonam's wedding, her younger brother, Tenzin, said he was walking to Manali in four days; its regularly trekked by tourists in ten days. When I said that sounded hard, he said, "NOT hard! You just walk five hours in the morning, have lunch, then walk five hours in the afternoon. Not hard." There was no bravado in his statement - he just didn't think it was hard.

 

I witnessed one of the results of the isolation of the area. In a well-touristed, relatively affluent village not far from the monastery, I saw a woman sitting on the ground with her head in her hands, like she was in pain. I asked the shopkeeper, standing beside her, if she was okay. She pointed to a rock, and on the rock I saw a long, bloody molar, freshly pulled, without any painkiller - not even aspirin. (The tooth had a cavity in it about the size of a small pea.) The patient/victim was stoic and silent, even though she was obviously in a lot of pain. The shopkeeper/dentist prepared a natural remedy of cooked barley flour, butter and sugar that the patient spooned into the hole in her jaw.

 

That seemed adequately intense, but then the shopkeeper/dentist took the dental pliers from her kid, who was playing with them on the ground, wiped them off, and went in to extract a second tooth! (Would we EVER go to the dentist if this is what it was like?) Two attempts and two bits of broken tooth later (the root stayed in) and the shopkeeper/dentist proclaimed "Done." As crude as the sidewalk dentist in Varanasi was, at least he used Novocaine. I asked why she didn't use some painkiller, and she said, "Because sometimes it doesn't work." That's your answer?! That's the sort of bewildering logic that is so common here that I didn't even ask any follow-up questions. It turns out that the shopkeeper did have some sort of government-sponsored nurse training, although I'm not sure it was on display on this day.

 

In spite of the ancient culture and simple existence of the people in the area, most of the villagers are relatively well off. They have large houses, plenty to eat, and many can afford to send their children to boarding schools, either in Leh (the capital of Ladakh,) or Manali or Jammu. The kids are typically at school for 10 months a year, and only home for two. All the subjects are taught in English (which is true of many schools in India) so the kids are quite fluent in English, and know a fair bit about the world. I wonder, though, how many of these well-educated kids will choose to stay in such a simple and remote village life.

 

I thought I was writing a letter about monks. But if my Newsletter McNuggets get too long, they won't get read. So the monk stories will have to wait...

 

Love,

Dave

 

p.s. I've left Zanskar, and I'm now in Leh. I'm plotting my (gulp) return to San Francisco for work in about two weeks.

 

There are six photos below:

 

I met this man walking on the trail. He was really a gentle soul.

 

 

You can just make out the trail on the left side of the photo.

 

 

A view from the house where I spent one night on the walk.

 

 

A kitchen inside a small tea shop.

 

 

Carrying water in a village where I don't believe anyone had running water.

 

 

It doesn't take much - hold out your camera, smile, and watch it unfold.

 

 

(The End)

More photos from Phuktal

I'm afraid I don't have time to write the stories that I'd like to. But you'll find nine photos below from the Phuktal Monastery. I may be off of e-mail for up to a week. See you soon.

Love,
Dave

A kid wearing a monk's hat.

A view of the monastery from above.

The valley beyond the monastery.

 

 

The kitchen for the monastery, set up against the cave wall.

 

One of the monks.

Another young monk. Who came up with those hats??

(The End)

Confounding moments

I'm sitting here typing on a very fast satellite internet connection in a town with no phone service of any kind. The back of my hands itch with about 25 bedbug bites from sleeping four nights in a six hundred year old monastery, as I contemplate my imminent return to San Francisco. Last night I met a young Tibetan man who fled Tibet at the age of nine (with the help of an uncle,) walking over a 19,000 foot pass into Nepal, where he had to work as a manual laborer for a year before he had the money to head south to India to get an education. And in a few weeks I'm going to put my pampered white ass on a plane to go home to work and make an unreasonable amount of money, where no callouses will be earned and no sweat will be broken.

 

It's these confounding moments that make all the grief and hassle of a trip to India worthwhile.

 

I won't cry as often when I'm home, which is a little unfortunate, because I only cry when I'm happy. And I'm not allowed to say hi to kids in my neighborhood, not because of a court order, but because of the sterilizing paranoia that passes for parental concern at home. I play with kids here on a weekly basis more than I will in a year at home. But I'll also get to practice a different kind of love. Love at arm's length is no match for the challenge of up-close, long-term love, complete with annoying habits that seem designed to aggravate. (No, I don't have any offers at the moment.)

 

"Love, pure and simple; directed to none, denied to none." What does that look like when I've left exotic goose-bumpy India and I'm back in the oh-so-familiar haunts of home? I guess we'll see.

 

Much love,

Dave

 

The photos below are from the trek to Phuktal Monastery. I'll send stories later. There are nine photos:

 

The walk followed several rivers, which are brown at this time of year, and blue-green later in the fall. It rained on us in the morning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Buddhist stupas are important religious symbols, and are found in almost every village. These are in a village of only two houses.

 

 

The central room of a Ladakhi house. Meals are cooked on the dung- and wood-fueled fire in the center, while family and visitors sit on carpets at the edge of the room.

 

 

It's really rugged territory.

 

 

 

 

 

Phuktal Monastery.

 

 

The monastery viewed from across the river, next to a small village of five houses. You can see the monastery to the center-left of the photo. The dark spot is a large cave that houses the primary meditation room. The village can be seen on the lower-right.

 

 

(The End)