It’s what all the SECMOLpas fall back on when Thalassa seems too much.
I’ve just returned from a week in the “Aryan Valley” where Alexander the Great is rumored to have passed through, leaving a people that is ethnically and culturally distinct from the rest of Ladakh. I spent many sunny afternoons in the clifftop village of Lastinags sorting almonds from a large pile of broken apricot pits—three ais (mother, in Brokpa) sat at large flat stones breaking hundreds of shells open with another large rock. Many salty butter tea breaks were had, and I felt at ease—apricot trees blooming, all the fields plowed in lovely and elaborate irrigation patterns. Only helicopters flying overhead, and the echoes of nearby blasting, reminded me that the contested Pakistani border was just a few kilometers away.
So much time has passed too quickly these last few months—I’ve trekked through the snowy passes of the Sham region, visited an artificial glacier, dug the foundation for a community center in Ursi, found snow leopard prints, explored the eleventh century monastery of Alchi, hiked to the Saspol caves, had a mokmok picnic in a ruined fort and received the Ladakhi name of Nilsa Angmo from my family in Likir where I watched Sachin lead India to a World Cup victory.
All that, and consulted several oracles as to the promises of the upcoming year. In Stok I witnessed two village oracles run around the monastery ramparts, cutting their tongues with dull sword blades and flinging roasted barley into the air. At Matho, the two oracles were monks painted entirely black, with elaborate eyes on their chests and backs, and blindfolded nine times. They wore just a belt, with tiger-pelt panels, and strange dreaded wigs (only worn when the year to come will be a bad one). They staggered around, in the falling snow, from roof to temple to ramparts, crying prophecies in anachronistic Tibetan. Despite my limited knowledge of this tongue, I believe it will be an okay year--I'm hoping for less thukpa and more cheap train tickets west.
I’m sorry to have been out of touch for so long. The more time I spend in these mountains, the more I lose track of how much time has passed and how quickly I am moving into my last days here. Today we leave for the Pangong Lake region, with plans to stay in the high village of Sachakool (sp?) (….feet). On May 10 the students will return to the United States. I will stay behind and, with my co-leader Holly and two other women, I will trek from Lama Yuru to Padum. From there I’ll take a bus to Srinigar where my dream is to find a house boat and write for a few days.
I’m doing my best to catch up on correspondence. That said, know that I’m thinking of you here, high in the Karakoram.
Kiki soso and Love!
