Friday, February 27, 2009

New Year Exiled

There is not party but you stumble home
There is no party but the vendor is sold out of meat
There is no party but everyone is inside off the street
Your spirit is temporarily on loan

So I walk on
And I walk on
And I walk on

Until I see you lying by the road
Crippled by the impossible load

You shouted but your voice went hoarse
Your fight, our dream,
They will succeed against our present course

you have hung your self on a short rope
Maybe next year, next year
there will be the option for hope

Monday, February 23, 2009

Saturday Afternoon

By noon on Saturday I am ready go get moving, the sun is shinning, and I have the day off from work, Julia and I walk down to lower Dharamshala to buy some fabric to get some clothes made. After two hours of pretending to be very high fashion and fabulous we went for lunch, and then to the bus station go get a ride back up the hill. A jeep with 12 people in it heading to Dharamshala, passed us by, we figured we would get the next one since that one was full. We were naive to think 12 passengers equates to “full,” the jeep reversed and came back for us.

The driver hopped out, ran around the car, opened the door, and shoved us in. It didn’t matter, no. 13 and 14 were happy to be on their way. Then the driver made and unexpected stop for petrol and (2 more passengers, 16 total). For “safety” he filled an extra container of petrol and loaded it on to Julia’s lap. And so we made our way back from of fashion excursion, me sitting on the lap of a woman half my size, Julia with a petrol can on her lap. Trying not to laugh—but not succeeding in hiding my amusement I paid the driver 5 rupees = .oo1, thinking all the while that the experience would have been a steal at 10X the price.

I am counting this as a point for the foreign ladies, the score is now
FL 2 :India 1,000,000

My First Hate Mail

I would be upset if it wasn't so funny,
And it is officially the only time I have ever been insulted and called tan in the same breath.

"U guys r just the lower level citizens
Bad blood and so fuckin tanned
I am just telling u the truth of what we think about u shitties.."

"shitties..." i love it

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Top 5 Favorite things about life in McLeod Ganj (this week)

1.Concerned citizens. In this small hill station the roads are as you would guess very narrow so the concerned drivers of the world honk their horn when their bumper is 5 feet from hitting me. It has occurred to me that by the time they honk the horn it would be too late for me to move anyway but I appreciate the concern.

2.Steep hills and endless steps, it is hard to be nervous for an interview when I have just had to climb up the mountain and am more concerned about catching my breath.

3.“yak cheese” in Tibet dried yak cheese is an enormously popular snack. Here there are no yaks and I have been assured no yak products so when the vendors ask me Hello, yak cheese? And show me a string of, what look like fermented marshmallows I am interested…

4.My Amala (mother) who daily warns me about Kashmir men and reminds me that everything begins with Chai. I am wondering if she knows something about the secret powers of chai that have so far escaped me, after all it is not red wine!

5.When asked where my office is the best way to describe it is to say “ across the street from the bushes that everyone likes to pee on,” the location is pinpointed immediately

Monday, February 16, 2009

William Dalrymple


Dhondup getting his book signed.

Dharamsala Feb 12, William Dalrymple, author of White Mongol read this poem in the Tibetan library. The words lived in the audience and I am beginning to understand what it means to be in exile.

Zafar scrolled these verses on the stable walls after his city was pulverized and he was imprisoned by the British.


When in silks you came and dazzled
Me with the beauty of your spring ,
Your brought a flower to bloom
Lover with in my being

You lived with me, breath of my breath
Being in my being, never left my side;
But now the wheel of time has turned
And you are gone—no joys abide

My life now gives mo ray of light,
I bring to solace to heart or eye;
Out of dust to dust again,
Of no use to anyone am I.

Delhi was once a paradise
Where love held sway and reigned;
But it’s charm lies ravished now
And only ruins remain.

No tears where shed when shrouded they
Where laid in common graces
No prayers were read for the noble dead
Unmarked remain their graves

The heard distressed,
The wounded flesh,
The mind, ablaze, the raising sigh;
The drops of blood, the broken heart,
Tears on the lashes of the eye.

But things cannot remain, O Zafar
Thus, for who can tell?
Through God’s great mercy and
The Prophet
All may yet be well.

After the reading and discussion I go to talk with Dalrymple, I ask him if he has found his new story here in Dharamsala. He tells me about an old man that he has found in a retirement home, if I tell you I would have to kill you (IItyiwhtky), but he has a great new story to tell. Off hand I remark to him that reading this poem in front of this audience is a story in itself, he catches on that idea and says "right" reflectively. I can’t help but think he means “write”.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

The way to Kungra Fort



The 25km journey takes us 2.5 hours. When we reach the fort we decide that it must have indeed been very secure especially if the invaders were traveling via auto-rickshaw.

Julia and I count this outing as a success because we have managed, for the first time since our arrival, to "doop" India. Yes, that's right we sent our Hindi speaking Tibetan friends, Jamyang and Ricden, to negotiate the price of the rickshaw. When we walked around the corner the driver tried to double the price, but we had him tricked--1 point for the foreign ladies.

at this point we both exclaim

"TII!" meaning: this is India. pronounced TEA!

My Student

I have been asked more than once, how my student Rinpoche became a high lama at such a young age. He was reincarnated and born as Rinpoche, so his status reflects his good works and pure heart of his previous life as the great teacher, or Rinpoche. I know him as a 30 year old monk who likes to eat meat, and read Frog and Toad stories.

Last night I asked him to tell me about his childhood. In accordance with the natural order, when an individual is born as a high lama their family suffers a great deal, this is so that good and bad remain in balance. Rinpoche was born in 19XX during one of the most oppressive times in Tibet, during this time individuals were not allowed to visit the monasteries and there were cut off from religion. At age two Rinpoche began to chant prayers, and speak about life in the monastery; prayers that had not been uttered his life time, and monastic life that did exist at that time. His father knew that his son was a reincarnated person and kept it a secret from the community and from the communists for 14 years.

During those 14 years mass starvation across Tibet, and across China, destroyed the population. Rinpoche’s family was no different, by the time he was 4 his mother, sister, and brother had died. He was left to take care of paralyzed father while his sister worked in the fields. When he was 16 there was a reasonable amount of freedom in Tibet and his father identified him to local monks. He was confirmed as a reincarnated Rinpoche. There must have been a great party at this point because when he is telling me this story he laughs and says that the village was very happy for two days. I believe him and wish I had seen it.

Three years later he made the dangerous passage to Nepal, it took him 18 days. When he arrived in Katmandu he learns that His Holiness the Dalia Lama has received to Nobel Peace Prize. He twinkles as he says this and his sincerity is palpable, he believes in good, and someday that there will be freedom in Tibet.

Monday, February 9, 2009

Press Pass

Today I went to get my press pass, laughing at myself—yet trying to be very professional. More often than not I find myself in this predicament, ie. suddenly being in a very real/professional professional situation where I am deferred to for very real/ professional decisions. For example, my first day of work. I cruse into the office a little late, check my e mail, chat- drink tea, check the internet for new news. Nothing, I sit around a little longer. Then my boss asks me if I would mind going to talk to a man abut his work. Nothing else is going on so I say I don’t mind. I climb to the top of the hill to catch a cab to the seat of the Tibetan Government compound. Suddenly I am in a rush, driving fast, honking, pausing patiently for cows in the road, it is all very exciting. When I get to the cafĂ© I am supposed to meet this man at, I ask around, and he has gone. A bystander with a badge makes a phone call, and said to me he has stopped on the road we must go catch him. He runs away and I stand there, confused. He comes back on his motorcycle and I am supposed to jump on, so naturally I do. I am terrified,---yet trying to be very professional.

We run down a car that has Ghandi’s portrait affixed to the top and various other decorative elements. Dr. x gets out, he is the man I have been looking for and my first interview takes place right there in the street. He is a human rights activist who uses his own blood to paint pictures and write appeals to the Indian government. He shows me his work, I don’t want to touch it. When the interview is over he asks if he can give me a ride somewhere (we were still in no mans land) I say no that I will walk up to town from there. He insists that he is going that way and that I should get in the front seat of his car while he and his two assistants/translators are in the back with the baggage, I am not allowed to refuse. I get in. Going up the steep slope needles slide off the dashboard and onto my lap, I think of the other refuse in the car and I am happy it is a short trip. He brings me to the front door of my office and hands me a picture of himself with His Holiness. I bust into the office, and write my first report.

Thursday, February 5, 2009

Monday, February 2, 2009

Graceland

I came home late in the afternoon humming Graceland, I was thinking about the shower I so desperately needed and was seconds from taking. There and been no water for two days and I was on a mission so I went right to my room without stopping to say hello to the family in the other room. A two minute lukewarm shower has never felt so great. I was happy, warmish, and cleanish, it was dinner time and I smelled garlic, so life was good.

Pushing aside the door hanging I went in to see my family. A monk was sitting with them talking. I was introduced to Rinpoche, he would like to learn English. I say that I can teach him, and I look over at my host father and mother and they are very pleased. Rinpoche believes that I can get special clearance to go to his office, I say I think that would be fine if someone would show me how to get there. We agree to have lessons every other day. It is a lot of work for me, but my parents are beaming so, I can’t help but to agree. My father, Rinpoche, and I eat dinner together in the living room.

When Rinpoche leaves my father looks at me and says, “very good, Rinpoche is one of the high lamas, and he is so good, and so well respected, that the Dalai Lama has given him an office in his private residence. This is very good for you, he is such a kind and happy man he will look over you as you look over his education.” The rest of the family ate dinner and discussed our visitor.

I went to bed thinking, what am I going to teach to a high lama? But, like my father said, I felt as if I was being looked over.