the frontier

benares

in transit

kashmir

view from our houseboat

prayer

birds at pangong lake

at the edge of china

apricot blossoms outside my door

Call me Alaska

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!

Reaching 11,500 feet

As a lot of you know, I'm living in Leh, India for the next few months teaching English for a high school semester program called the Vermont Intercultural Semester. (Student blog) My hope for updates is to send out a short email every few weeks or so. Pictures will have to come later, as my internet connection is no good here.

I've been here for almost a month now! The first two weeks we visited cities within train distance of Delhi. Rishikesh (of Beatles and yoga fame) where we saw a puja on the river Ganges and received a blessing. Half-way through blessing me the man’s cellphone rang and he picked it up, affording me a modern spiritual moment. He was disappointed that I wouldn’t drink the herb-infused river water but so it goes. The next day we camped by the river and spent a day rafting rapids named by Edmund Hillary. We visited Haridwar, a busy, hot, place where many Hindu pilgrims come to bathe where the Ganges exits the mountains. Women bathed with all their clothes on, men stripped down on steps leading down into the river—holding onto a thick chain they were swept out into the strong current. The river was a sort of cloudy jade color, with etchings of movement over its cool surface. In Dehradun we stayed at a Library for Tibetan and Himalayan studies. There we were able to go over the basics of Buddhism with a learned Khenpo. He spoke, in simple beautiful language, of compassion, of patience, of love practiced in a modest and intelligent way. It made me feel inspired and at peace to hear him discuss such things in such appealing lyric ways. We barely spent any time in Delhi but I had a chance to visit the Bahai Lotus Temple (the most visited site in all of India). It was an incredible structure, made out of poured concrete and covered with plates of white marble. Made me begin thinking about gradschool and the portfolio I’ve left untouched for quite awhile….

The traffic in these cities is unlike any other I have ever seen; crowded with all types of vehicles—bicycles, rickshaws, tuktuks, new cars, j-walkers, huge trucks—the honking seems incessant and unnecessary. All you can do is trust in the driver (or peddler) and slowly realize that maybe all the horns are actually systematic and helpful. It’s sort of nice, once you get used to it, the way in which it all forces you to relax and let go because there’s nothing else you really can do. The subcontinent mantra effectively becomes, “All is well,” to quote the popular Indian Film Three Idiots. There’s simply no other option but to believe it. The constant proof of overwhelming poverty, however, is something that I find much more challenging to come to terms with. When we were staying in old Delhi I walked back behind the neighborhood to the river, where run-off water from the city (sewage and everything else mixed in too) ran through dug irrigation lines to water small agricultural plots. The people there lived in lean-to shacks, and I was instantly surrounded by small children grabbing on to me. It’s as heartbreaking as it is terrifying to feel yourself overpowered by a pack of children tugging at your clothes, asking for food, asking for money. It stays with you, it doesn't go away.

SECMOL, the school where we are staying is situated along the Indus River, perhaps a 40 minute drive from Leh. It is in a sort of desert plateau, with steep peaks flanking it on all sides. If it is a clear day, the heat is trapped by small greenhouses off of each building. I wait to bathe and shower on these days when it seems warm enough to dump freezing water over my head! The campus also uses composting toilets and solar cookers. During the floods the water irrigation line was washed out so now the government sends a huge truck with water every few days until the ground is thawed enough to dig a new line. I’m rambling, I could talk a lot about SECMOL and there will be more time for that later. Bottom line though: the Ladakhi students are so sweet and nice and act as if they’ve known me for a very long time. They teach me some Ladakhi, I am teaching them some French, and so we chitchat very easily.

So, I’m in India, in the Himalayas, and it’s crazy exciting. I leave for my first week-long trek tomorrow! Part of the point of writing these missives is that I want to hear back from you, know what you are up to. Also if you have India advice, know of any long-lost trekking routes, or are nearby, please let me know. Either way, SEND WORD.

As I write this, the Ladakhi students have been dancing for the last five hours to very loud Hindi music, with the occasional Shakira thrown in. I can hear them chanting "last song" so it is absolutely time I went to bed.

Love,

and Jullay (hello/goodbye/thankyou in Ladakhi)!