Chasin the Snake

VIII
Got up early to ride the bus outta here. Jouncy bouncy early morning river valley bus, out the window just a scream and a shout down the boulder ride to the glimmering Indus below, and the bus-top SWAYS over that edge and my stomach SWAYS with it. Just keep looking at the blue heart, a scratched sticker above the driver’s head- “I Love Blue-hearts”? “I Love..Love”?? “I Love Blue Love”? Jouncing bouncing along to a Ladakhi love song, Casio backbeats over a wire-high folk melody- did the synthesizer kill folk music everywhere? Ancient campfire melodies stamped on plastic bass-lines and tincan beats. Jouncing bouncing, keep looking at the blue heart, front of the bus, don’t lose yer lunch.. but the valley is a vision, pulling my eyes out the window. Dusty hills and that azure snake glimmering and swimming thickly through the valleys its eaten over the centuries, the road like a little brother humming along, imitating its bigger brother’s moves- a little less smooth, a little less deft. Hairpin!! Hold on, eyes front. A hundred knuckles go white. The men still muttering under their breath, spinning prayer wheels (ohm padme ohm) or just a grunt on the inhale, asking Indus’ little brother for deliverance. I’m praying to the Blue Heart to keep my breakfast down, feet cold in the desert air, head sweating in its yakwool toque. Chasing the snake three hours all the way back to Leh...

happy hallowe'en

VII
It’s a lonely Halloween. A cold, lonely Halloween. Although Halloween usually is . I was recording last Halloween. This year I’m in Alchi. Cobalt Indus river. Orange and yellow crispy leaves trembling on the skeleton trees. Thatch roof huts and empty streets, every guesthouse has a lock on the gate. Tourist season is o-ver. I’m eating chocolate at dusk to celebrate- 10 rupees for a Kit-Kat. They’re cold.
Got off the bus this morning from Leh at the Alchi bridge- the only disembarker there. Trudge over the bridge, up a hill between highway curves, up another hill, down a dale, round a curve- the book said 2 km, but I’ve been trudging for 40 minutes. I’m on the right track, though- people are happy to help. Hit the town, find Lotsava Guesthouse- there’s a lock on the gate. Same with the six other guesthouses and hotels around. Look in the book, and the one on the outskirts is supposed to be open all winter. Trudge trudge. Find it- it’s open! Muslim-looking worker men are eating in the Kitchen/Reception area. The young Indian doling out the dal says there’s no rooms. I get in an almost-argument with him and one of the Muslim workers, saying that there must be at least ONE dormitory bed free. Nope, just for workers- the Indian shrugs and leaves, and the Muslim placates me by offering me free lunch. It works.
After I eat I thank him- he’s strange, dark-eyed limp-handshaker toothpicker. He suggests I try the next town. Thanks, and leave. But fuck that. Walk back to town (pack and all, still) and Lotsava’s open this time. Guy in the courtyard’s about as excited to see me as he would be a stray dog, but the good news is I get a room. Four lumpy white-washed concrete walls, thin balding carpet over concrete floor, and two hospital cots pushed together. A room. I go out to see the lonely gompa, a thousand years old. I go down by the river to see how fast and cold it is. I climb up above the town at dusk and watch the fading orange on the higher hills, kids below playing tennis-ball cricket in a windshower of crinkly leaves. There’s urgency in the air with this oncoming winter- stacks of wood and yak-dung on roofs, people hurrying from the stores home- you can feel the chill deepen every night, the days shorter every day.
I buy chocolate and go back to my white-washed walls. It’s pretty and cold and lonesome here- I am the only tourist in the whole town and not a single restaurant is open. I can’t wait for the warmth of sleep and the bus in the morning to take me back to Leh. Away from the ghost-town ghosts. Happy Halloween.

YARUTSE, cont.

VI
That night it was a storytelling circle lit by candles, with the cold night pressed against the window listening with its stars. We were in Yarutse, a one-house hamlet further up the valley. Dorjey and I had the company of Englishman Sir Robert Ffolkes (who lived and worked with the people in these hills for 25 years with various NGOs and is something of a legend among them), and his guide and pony-man Lhopsang, (a man that handles ponies, not a Centaur, you nerds). I sipped chung (a lemony, homemade barley beer not unlike Hefeweizen), and each time I took a sip Lhopsang would top me up. Immediately. It’s how they do it. At some Ladakhi weddings, the chung man carries a stick to poke guests with if they refuse to drink what he pours them. Lhopsang’s a guide from Leh, maybe in his 40s- a natural storyteller with a big laugh that starts in his eyes. And then he laughs so hard that he keels over his knees- like the time the Indian army men in Kargil thought he was Japanese even though he was speaking to them in Hindi.
And between sips of chung he told of the legends of the valley, the stories of Wanla Lonpo, the robber baron who had promised to watch over his people from beyond the grave, and still was known to appear in the voice and the eyes of local farmers and shepherds.
Or the arrogant villager who’d refused to make the customary small donation to a local gompa- the monks were unhappy with it, and soon the villager fell ill with pneumonia. The local healer said that he sensed there was something that needed to be put right; so the villager’s family dispatched a rider to bring money to the gompa. Within a day the villager was fully recovered and healthy again.
I was fortunate to have Sir Robert there because he was a key into the door of these stories and legends because he either knew them already, or could translate what Lhopsang couldn’t make clear in English.
I laughed and listened in the candle’s light to stories from a far-flung place, warm and hazy from homemade brew. Our little hamlet must’ve looked like a star itself, lone and shimmering in the hillside blackness.

YARUTSE

V

Cracker of a hike today. Climbed more than 2000 feet- all in a day’s work for Dorjey, though. This is an easy day for him. Kind of. I was definitely getting sluggish when we finally saw the prayer flags in the breeze at Ganda-La pass- not so much that the muscles are tired, but the breathing is hard and the head hurts. We were at about 15000 feet. It was windy as hell when we came over the pass- it all funnels from one valley to the next through these very flags. I went over the hill to escape the icy knives while Dorjey searched with the scope for the Tibetan Argale (like Bighorn sheep) that we’d seen go over the pass an hour earlier. He found em, of course. Amazes me- these things weren’t even specks on the distant hillside, yet he somehow picks out a movement or a flash of white and then focuses in on the area. He grew up in these hills- he knows what to look for. So we sat and watched them, then ducked out of the wind to share an apple and some biscuits. I lay flat on my back, trying to regain some energy. We fritzed around taking some flying photos (see above), then we’d had enough of the wind (and it was getting dusk) so we started down.
We’d climbed a fuck of a long way. On the way down Dorjey told me how he’d started smoking after a Portuguese girl broke his heart. He thinks he’ll have a marriage arranged for him this winter. I asked him if he’d go for a love marriage with a European girl if he got the chance (like one of his friends did), and he said, Definitely. Even though it’d make his family angry. We chatted a lot on the way down. We sang some of Hotel California, stepping around rocks with the sun on the peaks and the darkness in the valley.. and when we smiled at each other in conversation something of the forced small-talk grin was gone and it felt like we were breaking a real smile together. It takes a couple days to crack a friendship.

Himalayan Trekking

IV- Rumbak

It’s Katya’s big day today- Jhalaak Dikhlaja, Indian Dancing with the Stars- here..
( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0RmFUOSqLcs ).
Wish there was a TV within a hundred miles so I could watch.
I had a rough night last night. Had a splitting headache right down to my neck, so I was dead silent through my dal-and-rice dinner with Dorjey (my mountain guide), and my host family here in Rumbak. Drank a litre of water and crawled into my bedroom at 7:30. I Tucked my pajama pants into my yak-woolly socks, slid on a wifebeater and T-shirt. Pulled my jogging pants over the pajama pants, and a long-sleeve shirt over the T-shirt. Then a sweater on top of that, and finally my hoodie. Pulled the hood up. Bundled up in three blankets and a sleeping bag in my Himalayan mountain hamlet at 12 and a half thousand feet, and did my best to sleep.
My lips are peeling off- nothing but wind and sun out here in the hills. Didn’t see any snow leopards today, but enough dizzying glorious vistas to keep my drunk for weeks. I must’ve spent a total of two hours just sitting there, staring (usually while Dorjey was scanning the cliff-faces and rockfalls with the telescope).
Mountains are know-it-alls. Stoic. Quiet when they’re rising up around you. And yes, they are in the act of rising. One thing about mountains is that they don’t seem stationary or lifeless; they seem to be breathing, watching, stretching- and they instill their life-force in you as you lay your footfalls in their tracks and rivulets. Dorjey and I hiked up up up from the village in the valley. Must’ve climbed over a thousand feet, straight up the hills, making our own trail in the loose shale and bramble. Dorjey’s a quiet fellow- we don’t say too much. But he’s cool with it, so I’m cool with it. I asked him if he’s married; he said, No, but maybe this winter. It’d be arranged with a girl from another village.
Back in my hut the ceiling is many sticks laid over log-beams and above that, thatch. The sleeping areas are on the second level, for warmth, I presume. This is a big village, Rumbak- seventy people or so. Yarutse- tomorrow’s- is a one-house hamlet. All I can hear out in the stillness is baby goats crying and the occasional donkey hissy-fit. And the men hissing SHUK! to persuade the long-haired yaks off the paths between the huts.
I wonder how long people live out here. They’ve been doing it for a thousand years, right in this village, surviving in the mountain desert at thousands and thousands of feet. Sunbaked faces. Older women (who are probably only in their forties) have facial skin like well-tanned leather. The men’s hands when you shake them are like lizard skin. This so-called simple life is a hardy one.
I sat above the village, dusk falling, high snow in the mountains beginning to glow white. Gave thanks for my luck and my health and the many beating hearts of the ones I love. Little hearts in ribcages of people I love, little candles burning far away and I can’t see the light but I can always sense the warmth. Thinking, so much to be thankful for. But then I heard a sound in the darkening hill above me and turned my head so fast that the Velcro around my chin snapped open. And then all I could think of was how silently the snow leopard must stalk his prey, and how he is known to target those vulnerable and separated from the flock. So I stumbled back down the slope between the mudbrick walls, stepping cautiously around the yaks in the corners and watching the first star appear over the dusty mountain. It’s almost a lunar landscape here.
Inside it’s a home. Worn rugs over the coldstone floor, thicker ones along the walls. Knee-high tables with steaming tea, steaming rice. When you’re in the mountains anything hot tastes good.

Hoodyhead

III- Leh

Writing by candlelight, hotwaterbottle feet, hoodyhead, trying to be warm in the very dark starry night until Norbu brings the hot water in the morning and I stand naked in the frigid shivering bathroom and douse myself, scald myself into the day. Omelette and Ladakhi bread for breakfast; I’m too shy to tell him that I don’t like eggs. He’s too sweet.
Last evening I sat in Angmo and Norbu’s living room, cat-on-lap, while they chopped and diced tomatoes to pickle for the winter around the corner. Indian soaps battled and raged on TV while the power came and went, solar backup kicking in. Talked of family and weather and wegetables and the new dam at Alchi and Bactrian camels. And Little Cat purred all the while, or begged for a piece of my mutton. It warmed me up.
I had been cold. Another day of talking only to myself in the crisp silence above the town, surrounded by the valleyed beauty spread out below my wings from up at the gompa. Prayer flags high in the breeze. And then making my way down, ducking through tunnels and steep alleyways, between mud-and-wood huts at dusk. But a home’s a home, and the glowing feeling seeps out the orange windows, through the indoor-dog’s bark or the baby brother’s laugh. I’m one of the outdoor dogs tonight. Roaming. Very few tourists around. Ate dinner twice hoping to find someone to talk to, but the restaurants (if not closed for the season) were empty. And I was cold, lonesome and homesick wending my way up the dark narrows, moon and stars overhead, donkeys wrestling in the shadows. Thinking of the gift of family. You can’t invent family or pretend it or replace it. The orange glowing. Either you’re an indoor-dog or an outdoor-dog. I trudged and sulked and got lost twice in the black and waved down a jeep for directions and there was heat in his car and kindness in his eyes and I hoped he’d offer me a ride, but no such luck. So I trudged. Headful of thin blood and dull ache. Creaky bones. Found my gate, found my door.
But then in the vegetable-slicing kitty-purring chitchatting I somehow warmed up again. Home away from home, this is Ladakhi hospitality. A little orange glowing for an outdoor dog.

Leh, LADAKH

I

I’m surrounded by towering mountains and from my bedroom I can see the sun rising over a clifftop stupa. I’m sipping hot black tea and it’s so peaceful here. I can’t hear a thing but buzzing in my ears and a morning bird outside the window.
The sun rose over the Himalayas as we flew in an hour ago; this endless sea of jagged teeth, a broken earthsmile. I could close one eye and imagine I was looking out across an Antarctic ice shelf in autumn, as its beginning crash itself together and freeze in place. Pink suntongue licking the icing sugar-frosting off the proudest peaks first, while the deep blue valleys remained in shadow; and the proudest peaks marched off into the distance with their sunlight victory, an army of snowclad megaliths, sullen and majestic, regal and imposing. Ramparts. Mountain ramparts; hard to believe human beings have conquered these barriers and these apexes when you see them from above.
It is so breathtakingly, peacefully, silently, serenely beautiful here, I don’t know how I will sleep all day.

II

Been feeling a bit of the eleven thousand foot headache, but I’m doing my best to be downright lazy while i adjust. Dozing, farting, reading- sometimes the top of my head aches like I’ve been running too long.
Norbu and Angmo run this guesthouse- they’re middle-aged, parents of college-kids, very sweet. Norbu’s family has lived in Leh for over 200 years and owns a lot of land here.
The sun has slipped behind the garden wall of the ramparts now, the moon pursed his lips, snuck up over the other garden wall, leering above the gompa, stealing focus before his cue. The town is still as ever. Even at “rush hour”. Nestled between its garden walls, huddling for a little warmth.
I’m happy here. Simple. My room is; a hard but cosy bed, couple small tables and a plastic chair; electric lights on each wall (that usually work); two walls of superb mountain views. The taps aren’t working cause the water will freeze- if I want hot water, I have to request it in a bucket. I feel so much lighter without the TV, computer, 6 pillows and a fountain-pool. I like the simplicity. Feels like it suits me better.
It’s getting colder now, you can feel it creeping in like gas. The mountain feeling. It peels me again. Maybe at eleven thousand feet my mind begins to bend. The mountain feeling. Closer to the core.