No Cure for the Travel Bug

CHAPTER 1

Himachal Pradesh: Northern India

Ki Monastery—Spiti Valley.

One person who seems to get respect around the world is the Dalai Lama. We all remember his smile and his glasses.

So, when we had the opportunity of attending some lessons he was giving in northern India, we took it.

Lian had been in contact with his office over the Internet, but then heard that a Buddhist group based in Singapore had already arranged for three days of lessons in September. We decided to go with them, but make our own travel and accommodation arrangements.

Flights were booked, and visas obtained, making allowance for a few days to get from Delhi to Dharamsala, and then having a week or more afterwards for further sightseeing.

But for a week or so prior to our departure, there were horrific floods in the areas to the west and the northeast of our destination, and we wondered whether this trip should be aborted.

Delhi.

The 5-hour flight to Delhi went without incident, and despite a speedy immigration procedure, my bag took ages to reach the carousel.

We had no choice but to hire an old Ambassador taxi to take us to the old railway station, but soon found ourselves in a bad traffic jam. All the cars, taxis and buses continue to push and shove, and no one will give way. Their horns never cease.

It was drizzling, but the window wipers only worked once. The driver asked if I smoked, as he wanted to light up. We both shouted No!

If only the new overhead railway system had started, but we were told we would have to wait another month for this to happen.

Then, the traffic seemed to ease a little, and some progress was made, so we would not miss our pre-booked train.

The station was a seething mass of people: standing, walking, or sprawled sleeping on the platforms. We struggled up some stairs as our train was waiting at a platform on the other side.

We had booked a 1st class sleeper (two lower berths) with air-conditioning. We inspected a printed sheet of paper stuck to the outside of the carriage, adjacent to a door, and found our names and berth numbers. I crammed our bags under the seats, and Lian set off down the platform to buy some bottled water.

The carriage had seen better days, but we were supplied with two white sheets and blanket.

Two Sikh gentlemen joined us. The elder one owned a factory making nuts and bolts of different types, and his nephew worked for him. They were returning home after a business trip.

They both took off their turbans with extreme care in order not to mess up their shape, and laid them side-by-side on a top bunk. The elder then allowed his nephew to roll off his socks and place them in his shoes, after which he sat crossed legged like a Maharajah at one end of Lian’s bunk.

At 10:30 pm the train slowly left the station, only twenty minutes late.

We chatted for a while, before Kuldeep gives us his card and says we can call him night or day if we need anything. He then enquired as to whether we wanted to go to sleep. As our answer was in the affirmative, our new friends climbed up onto their own bunks.

The train was to take us to Pathankot, and from there we would continue our journey by road. The train may have been named ‘The Dauladhar Express’, but it stopped every few miles to let goods and other trains pass in the other direction, as most of the line is single track.

Our companions left us at dawn, so I did not get to see whether the nephew had the job of putting on his uncle’s socks. But I was awake in time to see how they slowly lowered and adjusted the turbans onto their heads, and used the topknot to anchor it. The Sikhs are a very proud people.

We had a few hours on our own before the train reached Pathankot.

Lian used our heating coil to boil some water to make us some coffee to go with the fruitcake we had brought. The power outlet is only 110volt, so it took a while to boil.

At 9:10 am we pulled into Pathankot station, and ten minutes later we were in a taxi on our way to the small village of McLeod Ganj, where the Dalai Lama has his residence and temple. The village is about 5 miles (8 km) above the town of Dharamsala.

McLeod Ganj and Dharamsala.

The road is narrow and in poor condition. Our driver stops for a rest and a cigarette, and Lian buys some freshly fried samosa from a village stall.

We passed through Dharamsala, and arrived in McLeod Ganj in just over 3 hours, before checking into a room at the Akash Hotel. This hotel is run by a German woman and her Kashmiri husband.

The room was comfortable despite the orange walls. From our small balcony, we had views across the valley, and when the clouds and mist part, one has great views up a valley. As they recede into the distance, the colour of the mountains become a lighter and lighter grey.

The bathroom has a hot water shower, which we try out. The rain starts, so we rest until it stops, before walking up the steep road into the centre of town. When we reached the monastery, we were frisked, and our bags were searched before they let us enter. Even the monks in their dark maroon clothes were searched.

As the sun set, we opened our duty-free drinks and enjoyed some nuts on our balcony. We looked at the houses clinging to the sides of the steep hills. Most are flat-roofed, as in this part of the world owners have the habit of adding another storey as soon as they can afford it. The older pitched roofs are finished with large slate tiles that are laid without the usual horizontal stagger, and the newer ones have corrugated iron sheeting, much of which is rusted.

McLeod Ganj is a very Tibetan oriented village, with the majority of the occupants from Tibetan stock with features quite different from the Indians. Shops sell Tibetan clothes, souvenirs and food. Many Kashmiris have also opened shops here following the troubles they are having in their own state to the north.

It would certainly be fair to say that without the Dalai Lama’s presence in Dharamsala and McLeod Ganj, these towns would be mere backwaters.

In the evening, we wandered up the road deciding what to eat. In deference to our health, the order of the day seemed to be something vegetarian, and hot in temperature. A pizza seemed a good compromise, and it was.

When we got back to the hotel, a group of musicians were beating tom-toms and playing what looked like an Australian didgeridoo. There was also a guitar in there somewhere.

Would we be able to sleep through this sound barrier? Indeed, it was too early to complain.

Our hotel’s bedding comprised a highly patterned bottom bed-sheet, and a thick fleece blanket. So, we brought out our own cotton sleeping bags to go under the blankets, and were soon in the Land of Nod.

We had found on the Internet that one of the hotels was said to have a resident bird-watching guide. We thought we would go and find the ‘Eagles Nest’, doing some bird-watching on the way.

It was a pleasant stroll up the hill through a pine forest, and an hour later we reached the Himalayan Tea-House on the outskirts of Dharamkot. We pass a worker using a long branch of a tree like a broom, clearing the road of pebbles.

Asked directions from a local, who pointed us to a track to the west. Walked for a long way along the track, that kept to the same contour. We were just about to give up when we met someone who said there was a turn off around the next bend. We found the turning, and the track started climbing again. Steep and rocky in places, we saw several pieces of broken mud flaps and number plates. Vehicles have been using the route. Soon after passing a small Hindu shrine, we were surprised to come upon another small coffee house, named the ‘Rest a While’. A car was there and a couple of motorbikes. A group were sitting in the open and enjoying the surrounding clouds.

A dog waggled over to be patted, with its tail flailing.

Given our new directions, we followed the path to our destination. The dog came with us and led the way. This was strictly a non-vehicular path, but we did see a few hoof prints. A ten-minute walk later and we reached the ‘Eagles Nest’, comprising a few two-storey buildings set around a lawn.

The owner was kind enough to show us around and give us a cup of tea. The guide we had come to find was not around.

We had come upon the new jeep track as far as the ‘Rest a While’, and from there we were advised to take a shortcut down, using the old mule track.

We set off, this time accompanied by another dog. Met an American couple staying at the ‘Eagles Nest’, and had a chat with them. They advised us to take care, as some of the rocks on the shortcut are very slippery.

Just passed the Hindu shrine, when we saw the rocky path. This undoubtedly saved a lot of time, but it was indeed slippery at times.

As we reached the Himalayan Tea-House, it started a gentle drizzle, and this kept up all the way back to the hotel. Our return journey took us just two hours.

When the rain stopped, we explored a shortcut to take us to the main temple, which is located on the other side of a hill. It is a real ‘rat run’ up some sets of steps and alleyways until we reach the summit, and then drops down to the main entrance of the complex. It took us several trips before we could complete the route in either direction without getting lost on the way.

That evening we had a different pizza in a different restaurant. Tried the Kingfisher Strong beer, which turns out to be very palatable, and Lian could share some to make a shandy.

Next morning, we decided to visit the Norbulingka Institute, a 9-mile (15km) public bus ride away.

One bus took us down to Dharamsala, and another from there along to within about a kilometre of the Institute.

The road down to Dharamsala passes through several army encampments, with side lanes leading to army barracks, quarters and messes.

The Norbulingka Institute was set up to keep alive the traditional Tibetan art and skills needed to adorn the monasteries and holy places. Here young Tibetans can learn to paint the sacred ‘tankas’ using natural hand-ground pigments, or make them with silk and needlework. The thread is made of horsehair wrapped with coloured fine silk thread.

They also have rooms teaching carving, and a metal-shop making large and complicated Buddha figures from brass and copper sheets. The buildings are set out in a beautifully landscaped area, all designed by a Japanese architect, but in a Tibetan style.

One exhibit not to be missed here is the doll museum. The dolls are dressed in the various ethnic costumes of the many tribes making up Tibet. And there are a surprisingly large number of different tribes.

On the way back to McLeod Ganj, the bus horn was not working, so the driver pulled into the side of the road, and his conductor reached through the bus window and broke off a small twig of a similar diameter to an ordinary fuse. He then stripped a piece of wire with his bare teeth and wrapped it along the piece of wood, and pushed it into the fuse board. And voila— the horn worked again.

In the evening we went to the Carpe Diem restaurant to try their pizza. We took a table on the first floor near the window. Then Lian noticed a big tan coloured dog lying under our table, with his head against the wall. She said he smelt, and asked a waiter to move him or her. But the dog did not want to go, and resisted until it had no more options, when it walked across the room and down the stairs. Then to everyone’s surprise and laughter, a different black dog appeared and made a beeline for the vacated spot. He too was persuaded to move in the end.

We awoke to blue skies and unobstructed views of the mountains. Today is the day we are to meet up with the Singaporean group at 2 pm and collect our registration papers etc.

After breakfast, we decided to walk the kilometre down the road through the pine forest to have a look at the church ‘St. John’s in the Wilderness’. This Anglican church was built in 1852 when the British had a garrison nearby.

There is a memorial to Lord Elgin (James Bruce), who died in 1863 of a heart attack at the young age of 52, while crossing a bridge in the Spiti Valley. He had already been Ambassador to China, Governor General of Canada, Governor of Jamaica, and finally Viceroy and Governor General of India.

We saw a man sweeping, and he asked if we wanted to go into the church. It turns out that he is the resident priest, but only has one service a week.

They still have some very impressive stained-glass windows, and many fascinating plaques on the wall commemorating soldiers. There are so many stories to be told here:

‘Lieutenant R.D. Angelo, who died in Waziristan, 30th November 1894. Killed in action against the Mahsuds . …’

‘Lieutenant S.R. Master who died in Sima, Upper Burma, 6th January 1893, of wounds received in action against the Kachins . …’

‘Captain J.L. Barry, MBE … . who died at Moffat on 21st January 1924, aged 25 years on the eve of his marriage . …’

We then strolled along to the graveyard with its 499 graves, and sat and did some contemplation, together with some bird-watching, as the sun warmed our backs. A few cows wandered around and acted as grass cutters. Many of the graves had been vandalised or broken over the years.

We met the priest again, who said he had been there over twenty years. Before that time the place had been abandoned. He stays and sleeps in the church. At first, he was kept awake by strange noises and things walking about outside, until they held an exorcism. From then onwards the place was quiet and no more damage was done to the graves.

Lessons with His Holiness the Dalai Lama.

At 1:45 pm we set off for the Tsuglagkhang Temple to meet the others. Many people had already registered, and we joined a long queue of independent travellers. At last, we received our red-ribboned security passes which had our photos on, together with a plastic folder containing nine pages of instructions and information. Also included were books entitled ‘His Holiness Dalai Lama, Southeast Asia Teaching Prayer Book’ and ‘Commentary on the Thirty Seven Practices of a Bodhisattva’ by HH the XIV Dalai Lama. We had plenty of homework.

We were then asked to hold on for further instructions.

The Singapore group organiser then asked us to line up behind the relevant numbered flag, corresponding to the number shown on the back of our security pass. Each group comprised about 18 persons, and we were in group number 16 of the 17.

Ours was a multinational group: we had several from Singapore, a Bruneian, a few Malaysians, a Frenchman, a Ukranian, a Mexican, another Mexican who in fact was a Brit, and ourselves. We were told that we would be entering the teaching hall in strict order and to follow our flags. The order of entry would be changed at each lesson, so we would all have a chance of sitting close to the Dalai Lama. This sounded very fair.

Once back at the hotel I recharged my iPod battery, as we would be sharing this, using the FM radio attachment, whenever translations were made from Tibetan.

It rained all night, but the mountains were at their clearest this morning. The town was full of people, and one could almost taste the excitement.

After coffee and carrot cake in the room, we set off at 7:15 am, taking the shortcut to the temple.

There was a very long queue for the women’s security, but a much shorter one for the men. The security check was very thorough, and any cameras and telephones were confiscated. All pockets and bags had to be opened for inspection.

As well as the Singaporean group, there were hundreds of monks, nuns and other Tibetans and foreigners who would fill all the areas surrounding the main prayer hall, and some would watch the instructions on closed-circuit TV screens.

We chatted with our group until it was time to follow our flag up the stairs to the main hall, took off our shoes, and moved into the hall, which was already packed. The whole floor inside was covered with thin mattresses for us to sit on.

One is supposed to sit cross-legged in the lotus position. But my old European knees, ankles and legs are not telescopic, and I had to move my lower anatomy every fifteen minutes or so. Also, one is not supposed to point one’s feet at the Dalai Lama, as this is considered rude and disrespectful. At a later session, I also found out from a senior monk, that neither could I rest a prayer book on the floor, as this too was disrespectful. The monk would simply pick up the offending book, touch it to the crown of his head, and pass it back to me with a smile and a nod.

The hall had two wide-open doorways each side and two low windows either side of the door. The people sitting outside do therefore have a chance of looking into the main hall and hear what is spoken, even if they cannot see the Dalai Lama. Senior monks have been allocated the main exterior viewing points.

When we were seated, the chanting started. A nun on the central raised dais began with Ohm made padre hum, repeated over and over again in a beautiful clear melodious voice, and we all slowly followed her.

I look around and could see a civilian guard in the corridor outside armed with a small machine gun. They are indeed taking security very seriously here.

It was nearly 9:30 am when the people outside started to stir and stand. The Dalai Lama was coming, walking along the outside corridor, nodding and greeting participants.

He entered the hall, and sits on a small throne at the front of the dais, and addresses us in English. He said that his office had also included some Christians, non-believers, and about twenty Muslims for the lessons.

He said he had met many Muslim priests, and said that the terrorists were not good Muslims. He then said he admired the Christians, as they had brought education to so many people. However, the Christians had spoilt things by trying to convert people. He said that one should not convert, but continue to follow one’s own religion.

Then some monks came around with small buckets full of small flat loaves and huge kettles of butter tea. They trod between the people and somehow managed to serve without spilling any. This indeed was a small miracle. We had to wait until the Dalai Lama said a short prayer before starting our breakfast. This wait caught out several of those around us.

Speaking again about Buddhism, he considers Tibetan Buddhism to be the most modern of all the major religions, as it is all about today, and does not include a lot of out-dated customs which are not relevant to the 21st century.

At any time he was not sure of his words or the correct definition, he would look at one of the younger monks sitting at the side, who would whisper a prompt, or explanation.

The main theme of the lessons is the so-called ‘Heart Sutra’, a short ancient text, with a major theme of emptiness, i.e. ‘Form is empty. Emptiness is Form’.

Pretty deep thoughts, and certainly way above my head.

The end of the morning’s lesson reverted to Tibetan, so we all rushed to get our FM radios out and tuned into the translator.

At 11:30 am, he blessed some nuns and handed them some blessed white scarves, before repeating a similar action with a grey-clad Vietnamese group.

It was time for the lunch break. Our SEA group had a fenced off area where they served us a vegetarian buffet lunch which was surprisingly tasty. Monks came with buckets of food to keep the various serving dishes full.

There was a lot left over, and some of the outsiders were allowed in to take what was left. Our group were paying for the food for all the attendees over the three days, as well as contributing to an orphanage.

We were seated again in the Ghompa by 12:30 pm and the Dalai Lama continued his lesson from 1:15 pm to 3:30 pm with a little of the history of Tibetan Buddhism, and the importance of questioning all the early teaching as there were many contradictions. Buddhism shows you a path, but it is up to you whether or not you follow it. He then went on to discuss ‘cause and effect’, and the concept of truth, stressing the importance of education and continual reading.

At 4 pm the groups reassembled to go through what they had learnt, but our path led back to the hotel for a hot coffee and a fruitcake.

Next day, we were up again early to join Group 16.

We were shocked to learn that the 72-year-old Singaporean in our group had passed away the previous evening with a heart attack in his room. By the time he reached the hospital, he was gone. He was there with his son, who was one of the official photographers. I suppose it is a good place to die if you are a Buddhist.

The chant was changed this day to Tayato o muni muni aha munier swahaa, which sounded very soothing.

Both the morning and afternoon sessions were in Tibetan.

The Dalai Lama announced that on the 3rd day he would be holding a rarely held service, where he would plant a symbolic seed of Buddhism, and then anyone could take any oaths they felt happy with. Everyone seemed to be very excited about this, as it would be an honour for us to be present at such an occasion.

He then proceeded to talk about ‘The 37 Practices of Bodhisattva’, a list of do’s and don’ts for a Buddhist.

Then at 3:10 pm, he grinned and said in English, I have finished—so holiday, holiday.

The next evening we would be leaving, so before setting off for the last day of lessons, we checked out of our hotel and left our bags in their store.

On the way of the shortcut, we surprised a mongoose, but it soon scurried away.

Then, as we arrived, the Dalai Lama walked from his house to the prayer hall, where he sat hidden behind a small screen in prayer and meditation. We were led into the hall, and today we have places in the front. We were told to sit quietly in ‘noble silence’ while a nun chanted the mantra.

We had been each given a disc in which was a seed, together with a red ribbon. After 50 minutes, the screen was taken away, and the Dali Lama moved to his throne. He then started a very low chant. We were then each handed a few rice grains.

He then talked about the five main vows of never: killing, telling big lies, stealing, and consuming alcohol. He suggested that as alcoholic drinks also had a pleasant smell, then perhaps we could just smell them—then his face broke into a wide grin. We could individually choose to omit any of these from our vows. Lian and I looked at each other, and decided to skip the last one.

After another excellent lunch, we reconvened for a question and answer session, to be followed by a photo session.

Once again his sense of humour came through strongly.

He was asked one question about having possessions. Yes, he said, I have a watch, pulling on its elasticated strap. and I have shoes—made in China. He himself led the peals of laughter. He then said, We have ten fingers, but it would look stupid if we had many rings on every finger.

There followed a series of photo sessions where we all had the chance to have large group photos with an ever-smiling His Holiness.

It was mid-afternoon by the time we finished and said our goodbyes to the others in our group.

The road to Manali.

That evening we set out on the second sector of this holiday. We would be attempting to make a sizeable circular tour, passing through the Spiti Valley, and hoped to be able to obtain the necessary permits which would take us close to the border with Tibet / China. This route is open for only four months in the year, as for the rest of the time the valley is cut off due to snow, ice and rains which close the high passes. We would go as far as we could, without having to backtrack. With any luck, we could reach Shimla, and from there the journey back to Delhi should be easy.

So we took a small 9-seater bus from McLeod Ganj at about 9 pm and arrived in the town of Manali at 5 am as dawn was breaking. During the night, we had a stop for the driver to rest for half an hour. No toilet facilities, so we had to find somewhere along the road to relieve oneself. The journey was bumpy and uncomfortable.

On arrival, Lian set off to find some accommodation, whilst I looked after the bags. While there I was chatting with a man called Gudu who was trying to persuade me to stay at his place in an orchard in Old Manali. He said he would give us transport back to the bus depot whenever we needed it. So we crammed into his car and set off.

It seemed a long way from the town up narrow roads. Then he parked and asked us to follow him. The bags to stay in the car and would be brought to us later. It was just light enough to see him ahead, and we walked as fast as we could down a very narrow pathway, pass some very old houses with stone slate roofs and cattle peering out from the lower storeys. By now Lian was getting very apprehensive and worried. But at long last, he turned into a more modern house and announced that we had arrived.

I must say it was a delightful place and we had a big corner bedroom on the first floor, with an excellent attached bathroom. The balcony was wide, and apple trees all ready for harvesting surrounded us. The orchard is situated in a valley protected by mountains on either side. We could see cascading waterfalls and some snow on the upper levels of the mountains.

We sat on the balcony and enjoyed a cup of ‘masala chai’, a milky tea spiced with cinnamon, ginger and cardamom, before taking nice hot showers.

Soon after 8 am, we took a walk back to the old village. There were so many photo opportunities: the old tumbled down houses, the orchards, the apple collection point where they were being boxed for the long road journey to Delhi, and women doing their laundry at the village well.

Stopped for breakfast at the ‘English Bakery’.

All the tourists here seemed to be Israeli. A couple of girls explained that following the compulsory national service, most Israelis take off for a long holiday. India is a favourite destination, and Himachal Pradesh is especially popular.

We continued down through the old village, crossing a bridge, and then taking a delightful shortcut through a pine forest to the new town of Manali.

By the time we got back we were tired, and got lost for some time taking the last twisting path down to the ‘Orchard House’. We asked directions from men who were picking apples in the many orchards, and also those carrying big baskets of apples on their backs, but they did not understand what we wanted, and kept pointing in conflicting directions.

To Kaza and the Spiti Valley.

Gudu had arranged for us to take a ‘shared taxi’ on to Kaza the next morning. So, after tea in our room, we had our torches out to struggle up the path in order to be at the roadside for 5:45 am. Gudu’s wife carried Lian’s bag, but I was on my own. The taxi was half an hour late. We had booked the front seats, being the only ones with any semblance of legroom. Behind us were two rows of four seats, so space is at a premium. Luggage goes on the top. It was 7 am before all the passengers had been picked up from surrounding villages, and we were at last on our way.

The road was rough, and zig-zagged its way via hairpin bends up through grass-covered mountains. We were approaching the Rothang Pass. I thought we were there an hour or so later, but no, we could still see the road snaking up into the clouds above us. Some landslides made the road muddy in places and strictly single file for some distance. Our driver overtook everything before us: be they cars, lorries or buses. Just sound the horn, flash the lights, and pray to God as we skid around blind corners.

We all wanted a pee stop, and when at last we reached the summit at about 9:30 am, there was a general rush off into the cloud and mist to relieve ourselves. We were at 12,600ft (3,845m).

From there the rough road had slowly dropped by about 2,000ft (600m), when we stopped a couple of hours later for a food stop for the driver and ourselves. After crossing a river on a Bailey bridge, some enterprising people had built a dry stonewall waist high and erected an orange tarpaulin tent over it. Here you could buy tea or soft drinks and eat a hot meal. We had a few chapattis that were freshly cooked and singed over a primus stove.

From here the road followed the river valley down, so was much straighter. But then the switchback started as we climbed again to the 14,650 feet (4,470m) Kumjum Pass. We stopped at a stupa complex draped with Tibetan prayer flags. It was windy, but the sky was clear, and at this height, our breathing was certainly laboured.

Once again the road followed along the side of a valley, following the river as it flowed down to the Spiti Valley. At the small outpost of Lossar, a barrier was raised, and we had to stop and show our passports at