The sleeper train to Delhi was uneventful as far as I know. I slept. The taxi ride to my hotel took forty-five minutes. We drove from the train station near the Red Fort, past Chodni Chawk and India Gate, to Nehru Place in South Delhi. I was struck by how different Delhi appears to be from Jodhpur. The streets are wide and tree lined, a far cry from the sandy alleyways of the Blue City. I didn’t see any camels or horse-drawn carriages, and Delhi’s rickshaws are painted green; they run on clean natural gas.
I went for a walk after checking in and was startled by the lack of garnered stares. I realized as I retreated to my hotel, that I was experiencing a sort of unexpected culture shock. If this is what it’s like transitioning from the third work to the “second world,” I wonder how I will fair when I return to Portland.
I was at Indira Gandhi well before sunrise and in the air at about six o’clock. The descent into Leh was spectacular. Cruising at 30,000 ft, the jagged peaks of the Indian Himalaya appeared much closer than that. Viewed from above it is obvious that the Himalaya is a young range. The glacier carved valleys are shallow and the knifed ridges have not been as affected by erosion as, say, the Appalachian.
Leh is located in the Zanskar Range of the Himalaya, a high desert with picturesque towns nestled between soaring snow-capped peaks. The snowiest of those, at just over 20,000 ft, is Stok Kangri, the tallest mountain in the range.
At a headache inducing 11,500 ft, Leh has become a haven for treckers and climbers. The town of 28,000 is part of the Ladakh district of Jammu & Kashmir and because of its proximity to Chinese occupied Tibet it is heavily populated with Tibetan refugees. I didn’t fully realize until I arrived here that I might as well have traveled to a different country. The people here speak Ladakhi, a language that sounds to me more oriental than Indic. It’s strange to all of a sudden not be able to use the Hindi I have picked up over the summer. Even so, it’s easy to get by with just one Ladakhi word, “joo-lay,” which means, ‘hello’, ‘goodbye’, ‘please’, and, ‘thank you.’
The people here are beautiful; light skinned with Asian features and permanently blushed cheeks. The women wear their hair in long braided pigtails tied together at the small of their back with pink yarn. They wear turquoise bracelets, draping beaded necklaces, and quilted top hats that flare above their ears. The men wear long, yak-wool overcoats, colorful Kashmir sweaters, and pashmina scarves. Many of the people here have light colored eyes; perhaps, I was told, a genetic remnant of the armies of Alexander the Great.
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The people of Leh are friendly, warm, and interestingly almost all speak fluent English. Even the monks in the town’s many gompas, seemingly removed from the influences of the modern world, greet you in English.
One monk, again in perfect barely-accented English, told me the history of his fifteenth century monastery before walking me through and explaining the significance of the thousands of painted representations of the Buddha that adorned the interior walls.
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The city itself is a maze of shops, guesthouses, and restaurants. Tibetan handicraft stores sell shawls, buddah figurines, hook-loop carpets, and an array of knit clothes, socks, and shoulder bags. Between the craft stalls are outfitters that peddle insulated army jackets, knock-off North Face sleeping bags, crampons, and well-used ice axes. There are tons of tourists here. They consist mostly of the trekking and ex-pat crowd. Lots of beards, even more backpacks, and the per capita dreadlock rate in Leh might even outdo Portland. The downside is that it is expensive here. A cup of chai masala (some of the best I’ve had in India) is twenty rupees whereas it cost only three in Jodhpur.
The shopkeepers are pushy but amicable. Each one from whom I have made a purchase remembers me by name and, when I walk past, comes from their store to shake hands and chat for a minute.
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It isn’t so much the six-foot python around my neck but the cobra inches from my face that has me a little freaked out in this picture
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The restaurants here are fantastic. Many are on rooftops with views of the valley and mountains. Compared to my diet this summer in Rajasthan, this is heaven. There is little ghee used, and not every dish is either dripping in oil or fried in it. Enjoying steaming hot thenthuk or thukpa soup on a sunny but chilly rooftop as prayer flags flutter in the afternoon mountain breeze is about as close as I have ever come to moksha.
Delicate momos, saffron tea, mushroom chow mein, and steamed vegetables have replaced crispy samosas, butter lassis, gut-busting bhiryani, and murg mutton and, frankly, I couldn’t be more relieved. Instead of snacking on my usual vice, pani puri, I have been taking full advantage of the regional specialty of Ladakh: apricots. Dried apricots, fresh apricots, dehydrated apricots, apricot seeds, apricot juice, and apricot jerky; all of it is delicious and doesn’t slow you down like fried chatt does.
The mountains and hilltops that surround the city are topped with gompas (Tibetan Buddhist monasteries), stupas, ruined forts, and palaces. Leh Palace, uninhabited for what seems like centuries is perched on a hill overlooking the main bazaar. The bare interior is unlit and I was thankful for the burst flash on my camera; the dirt floors are crumbling and a misstep could result in a one-way express ticket to the basement. A steep switchback trail leads from the palace to the ruins of Tsemo Gompa. Prayer flags radiate from chortens surrounding the dilapidated building and the views of the Indus Valley are heart stopping.
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On the way back down from Tsemo a monk invited me into Chambo Gompa. At first glance the interior looked surprisingly plain. That was until the monk pulled back the curtain that divided the room. Behind it was a thirty-foot, psychedelically painted, seated Buddha statue, flanked on each side by fearsome fanged creatures.
There are many surrounding villages that are well worth visiting. Thiksey, about twenty kilometers from Leh, is a gompa but it might as well be called a village. Hundreds of monks live and work among the white washed huts that spill from the temple at the top of a dramatic hill. Prayer wheels line the staircase paths that wind around the entire place. An English sigh above some of the wheels reads, “Spin in a clockwise fashion. This will be very beneficial.” The prayer chamber has gorgeous hardwood floors, is covered in colorful patterned trim work, and above an alter is a framed portrait of the smiling Dalai Lama.
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On my first full day in Leh I woke up to a frigid morning. I followed the crowd to the main bazaar and by 6:30am found myself squeezed into a minibus that was a cramped on the roof as it was inside. The bus descended an impossibly steep road down into the valley and unloaded us in Choglamsar, a village seven kilometers from Leh. I followed the flowing red robes, the top hats, and the spinning handheld prayer wheels towards a lush green field bordered by thousands of multicolored prayer flags. A soldier with an AK-47 patted me down while another with a Sten machine gun inspected my satchel. I was directed to the “foreigners section” and was surprised and thrilled to find a spot in the grass only fifty feet from the stage. Looking around at the well-bundled masses I made a note to purchase a shawl that afternoon.
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After haveing sat there waiting for two hours a murmur began to sweep through the crowd. First, deep Tibetan horns filled the valley with an electrifying vibration. Higher pitched ones joined in - hundreds of them – all with different squealing pitches and varying intensities.
For most of the morning the thousands of monks that surrounded me had remained calm and pensive. Now, as the crush of base drums erupted around us they seemed to be overcome with emotion. They trembled with excitement and smiled joyously; the way one might in the presence of a beloved grandfather.
The murmur turned into a deafening monotone chant. “Ohm mani padme hum…ohm mani padme hum…ohm mani padme hum,” over and over.
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A procession of men in gold mohawked hats led an old monk to the flower-strewn stage. The other monks on the platform raised their praying hands to their foreheads and then, as the high horns, low horns, and base drums reached a crescendo, they bowed before the old man, the Dalai Lama.
The music and mantra stopped abruptly and the Dalai Lama turned, smiling at the crowd of around 15,000 people. He took a seat on a massive gold-leafed throne and began to speak in Tibetan.
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His voice was amplified by massive speakers that, unfortunately, drowned out the English translation which was being provided to the foreigners’ section.
I heard the translator say that the teaching would be on the Dharma Discourses but other than that I was only able to pick out key words such as, “virtue, piety, and selflessness.” Not being able to understand the Dalai Lama didn’t bother me too much, though. I was enamored just watching him and observing the effect that his words precipitated in the crowd. It was obvious, however, that some of the English speaking enlightenment seekers around me were devastated. I felt genuinely bad for them; those people who must have planned their trip to Leh specifically to see the Dalai Lama. For them it must have been like buying a ticket to the Superbowl only to find out on game day that their prized seat had an obstructed view. I on the other hand, replete with dumb luck as of late, didn’t know about the teaching until I arrived here.
Leh is a spectacular place. The past five days have been relaxing and revitalizing. Since I started writing this, I have visited many more gompas and palaces, and have met countless people who I wish I had more time to write about.
Tomorrow morning I leave for the town of Stok. Hopefully the four donkeys that I have arranged for my attempt of Stok Kangri will be there. With a little dumb luck, and a lot of hiking, all will go as planned and I will be back in Leh on August 30th. Until then, “joo-lay.”
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