PacRim 2011-12

Dharamsala is amazing and breathtaking with its crisp and fresh air, mountainous regions of the Himalayas covered in snow, and countless colorful prayer flags hanging from tree branch to tree branch or from one side of the terrace to the other. I forget that I am in India sometimes, as Dharamsala feels like it is its own country as a Tibetan colony.

Om Mani Padme Hum Sign after you turn the corner in kora before the prayer wheels

My experience has been changed by this opportunity for a home stay. These past two weeks, I feel as if I have gotten an insight into local culture at a close-up level that I would not have gotten, even if I were staying here for a month! I love the customs and traditions, the delicious food, and the beautiful chupa, which is a Tibetan traditional dress that women wear. Kristi is my PacRim host sister and my host family is fantastic. We are made up of a pa-la (father) an ama-la (mother), and three cho-cho-la (brothers), but the youngest is 17-years-old and away at boarding school, which is quite common, while the middle brother who is 19-years-old is studying for a huge exam. The eldest, I have become very close friends with. His name is Tenzin Gyurmey. I call him Gyurmey because Tenzin is a very common name amongst Tibetans.

Gyurmey walking in kora, coming up to the prayer flags

Gyurmey has shown me many remarkable and incredible sites around Dharamsala like Bhagsu Nag (waterfall) with its vibrant prayer flags, clean and rushing stream, and marvelous hike through nature; and Gangkyi, which is the home of Tibetan history in its library archives and where the Tibetan government-in-exile is located. I wish I could write about every single day of my experience in Dharamsala, but I will spare you my ranting and tell you about kora in the McLeod Ganj district of Dharamsala.

Kari and Kristi turning the prayer wheels in kora

Kora is the large circumambulation around the Main Temple of about 1 to 2 kilometers. The scene is stunning, overlooking much of the town of Dharamsala. As you walk along and recite the six-syllable mantra OM MANI PADME HUM, you come across a spectacular site of prayer flags. When you turn the corner, a plaque of Tashi Delek and OM MANI PADME HUM in Tibetan script greets you, then a myriad of prayer wheels. Give yourself a burst of energy to hike the hill up after you finish turning the prayer wheels clockwise. Close your eyes and inhale deeply; fill your lungs with the fresh air that flows in everything and keep walking. Keep walking. Keep walking. Let me tell you a secret about kora, which is how I came to fall in love with it: as a circumambulation, there is no beginning nor an end, which means there is no stop or start because it is all continuous. I walked kora at least once every day, sometimes once in the morning and once in the evening, in addition to circumambulating the Main Temple three times and paying respect to the Buddhist deities. With my religious and spiritual home stay family, I got in touch with my clock of internal happiness and I am so grateful. Dharamsala opened my eyes to a world of infinite possibilities. It is the place from PacRim that I found: one) my spiritual home, and two) my home away from home with the Lhadey family.

Kari

Tashi Delek sign after you turn the corner in kora before the prayer wheels

Another thing to kick off the bucket list – well, sort of. Honestly I have never really thought about paragliding. Someday I do want to go skydiving… But, a few Pacrimmers went paragliding last week, and a group of us decided that we too wanted to go, and the more I thought about it the more excited I got.

I actually love doing things that scare the crap out of me. I love the adrenalin rush and the feeling of accomplishment.

7 of us – me, Anna, Anna’s mom (who was visiting until the end of spring break), Rachel, Monica, Connie, and Stuart, all went to the travel agent, booked a 7-person van to take us to the cliff where we would jump off of, and experience REAL FLIGHT!

It was pretty amazing. I was terrified when I got strapped into a large backpack-like contraption, and the fear grew as I stood with a guy behind me holding a bunch of strings that were supposed to keep us suspended in air. Honestly, nothing about paragliding makes any sense. For starters, anyone who wants to literally RUN off the side of a cliff is clearly nuts. Secondly, the only thing keeping you in the air are a bunch of strings, and some nylon-like material that probably weighs one-tenth of my body weight….but I just went with it.

As I prepared to take my leap, I kept getting asked my weight – they put me with the skinniest guy there – and each time I was asked “your weight miss?” the image of me and this poor guy jumping off the side of a cliff and falling like a rock into oblivion grew stronger and stronger.

But, as the white flag attached to a stick wavered indicating a bit of wind blowing, I felt oddly at ease at the aspect of running off the edge of the mountain. Three men instructed me saying, “do not sit, do not jump, just keep running”. After running 4 half marathons and countless other races, running, is something I can do – not well mind you, but it is something I am fully capable of. And thus, with an “okay- GO!”I ran directly into to open space and suddenly felt myself suspended in air. It was amazing and crazy and terrifying all at once, and I am so glad I did it.

My guide and I were flying through the air for maybe ten or fifteen minutes and it all went by pretty quickly. The wind blew through my hair and blossoming trees and colorful houses were scattered below me in the unique Indian landscape. When it came time to land I was told to keep my feet in the air, and before I knew it we both hit the ground and slid to safety. It was all oddly relaxing – not what I first imagined paragliding to be like, but it was another experience for the records, and something to tide me over until the urge to jump out of a plane arises.

Sarah

I am thoroughly enjoying the return to routine here in Dharamsala, though of course the routine is a bit unconventional. We have been splitting our time between our host families’ homes and three hotel rooms in town where we keep our luggage, take showers, and reconnect with each other. Breakfast and dinner are eaten at “home” and the afternoons are spent in class or doing schoolwork in one of the many WiFi enabled cafes around town. It’s a weird system, but then again nothing on PacRim is normal.

Despite all the running around, this place has given me a sense of belonging unlike that of many of our previous temporary homes. Maybe its something about adjusting my internal clock to the daylight hours – waking up around 7am and crawling into bed, exhausted, no later than 10pm – that just feels good. Or maybe it’s the knowledge that someone is awaiting my arrival at the end of the day, curious about my experiences and interested in sharing theirs. Whatever it is, I am so grateful for the chance to make ties here and feel a little more connected to my surroundings.

Anna and her Amala walking along Kora

Anna and I were lucky enough to have been paired with a family that’s “totally our style” as we like to say. They’ve shared their home with plenty of students before us, so they know the drill. But even beyond that they seem to have the same understanding of life’s transience that we on PacRim have become so accustomed to. They are the epitome of “go with the flow,” not fazed by our consecutive bouts of stomach flu, always ready and willing to offer help in any way they can, and more than happy to fit us into their daily routine. They have the best kind of generosity – not stifling or superficial, but genuine and relaxed; it is as though we are visiting old family friends. We are given a considerable amount of independence, but the degree to which we are cared for, and cared about, is never in question. I can’t help but think that a family with a similar attitude would be hard to find back home.

Also telling is their attitude toward the increasingly tense political situation in Tibet and amongst the displaced Tibetans abroad. Rather than resorting to dogmatism or negativity, they have an unyieldingly confident and practical attitude toward their situation. It is as though they know what needs to be done to achieve peace in Tibet, and are just doing their part and calmly awaiting the outcome. When I asked my host mother about whether or not she had ever considered gaining Indian citizenship, she replied with a calm face and a slight shake of the head, “No. I’m going back to Tibet.”

Her blasé attitude proved to be quite misleading at times, most memorably on March 9th, the day before Tibet’s National Uprising Day, when Anna and I followed Amala to the temple, completely unaware that His Holiness the Dalai Lama was in attendance that day. The unusually tight security and overwhelming crowd should have tipped us off, but unfortunately they didn’t. We remained completely oblivious until the moment we were ushered through a narrow pathway of people to a space in front of His Holiness’s throne where we quickly bowed our heads and tried to catch our breath. And Amala hadn’t said a word all morning! I take it as nothing but a reflection of her wisdom and respect for the way things are. There is no need to make a fuss in her mind. Things will happen as they happen, “step by step, one by one” as she always says.

Grace with her Pala

I am left wishing there was more I could do to express my gratitude for everything they’ve done for me and for my experience in Dharamsala. It reminds me of a passage from one of my favorite books, The Alchemist, which has proven relevant to my experience on PacRim time and time again. After leaving the comfort and routine of his home for the first time, the main character comes to a realization about the nature of his relationships with those he meets:
“There was a language in the world that everyone understood…It was the language of enthusiasm, of things
accomplished with love and purpose, and as part of a search for something believed in and desired.”

I’ve never known this to be truer than after my homestay experience. Despite the language barrier between my family and I, their generosity and constant kindness spoke volumes, and inspired me to be selfless in just the same way. On top of that, their ceaseless faith and devotion to their nation said more about them and their Tibetan heritage than any book or class ever could have. I have to believe that by this same token, I was able to express my gratitude, appreciation and respect for them as well.

Grace

Anna, Grace and Their Amala

India is shockingly dirty. It is extreme in all aspects: colors, smells, heat, flavors, sounds – but these things can be adjusted to and even appreciated and loved. However, the amount of dust and trash and men peeing everywhere is impossible to get used to. It remains shocking the whole time.  Even way up in Dharamshala, the current home of his Holiness the Dalai Lama, there is trash everywhere. People dump it down ravines and throw it on the street. Massive bulls wander around rooting through the trash for food and once or twice a week a truck drives around and picks up most of it and dumps it somewhere else.

Since Dharmashala has so many young hip cool tourists from everywhere, the whole green movement has taken root. The travelers are somewhat more aware of their impact, thus a plastic reduction initiative, in the form of refilling Nalgenes and water bottles for a few rupees has begun. This phenomenon seems to be sprouting up in a number of places in India, especially in places with more tourism. This method of reducing plastic is great, as long as the water is really clean.

In Dharmashala the water was double filtered and boiled, so it was very clean and available in a number of hostels and a few shops.  Down in Goa however, the eco-friendly and green resort my mum and I stayed at, provided only filtered the water.  If we hadn’t had such success in Dharmashala with the water being clean I don’t think we ever would have drunk anything but bottled water in Goa. But we did have that success, so we drank the filtered water in Goa. Alas, the water made us both very ill and our entire break was spent in very close proximity to the water closet.

This experience with unclean water is one anyone who travels will probably face at least once in his or her lifetime. Drinking only reliable bottled water, (in Cambodia they will sometimes repackage any old water into water bottles and sell it), seems to be the best option. Although you can purify water in a number of ways like boiling, using a Steripen, and iodine tablets, buying bottled water is often cheaper and tastier.  It seems that India needs to come up with a better way of dealing with their trash, recycling would be a good start.

Luisa

Mutton.  She could smell it even before stepping into her temporary Tibetan abode, the home of a wonderful Tibetan couple whose two daughters lived in southern India, their vacancy allowing an entire room for which to host intrepid American university students.  Mutton.  The familiar, gut-wrenching scent wafted through the intricately wired kitchen window flaunting lotus designs, rusted over the decades much like the precariously constructed metal roofing in the adjacent apartment block.  Bending down to untie her shoes, her olfactory nerves howled in terror at what certainly lay quivering in the pot just beyond the window.  She saw her amala stirring – what was that?  Soup? – at the nearby counter, back facing what was clearly becoming an awkward period of hesitation to any chance onlookers.  Her movements slowed, post-traumatic stress disorder forcing perspiration to the base of her palms.  Quickly, she considered her options.

With night quickly descending upon Dharamsala’s chilly, vehicle and cow poop-infested roads, what could she possibly do?  The taxis transporting lazy European hippies to their downhill guesthouse destinations may as well have been tanks in the city’s narrow roads, the cow poop deadly land mines.  One, she could run back the way she’d come to her advisor’s hotel, screaming curses of dead, musty, very old, very dead sheep chunks whose odd scent reminded her of exasperated grandmothers who secretly wish upon their children hasty infertility so that the sixth, seventh, and eighth snotty grandchildren never arrive.  Two, she could announce her entry with unpleasant, albeit fake, gurgle sounds originating from her vocal chords rather than the sensitive gut newly blessed with diarrhea-inducing bacteria she could attempt staging.  Or, three, she could sit down at the dinner table, greeting amala and pala like she did every evening, and proceed to devour the always scrumptious Tibetan dinner meals, inquiring about the day’s events.  A kind, patient couple, they always entertained her naïve questions regarding Tibetan sovereignty, politics, and local happenings, laughing at her silly American habits.  Of course she couldn’t skip out on dinner.  With minor pangs of guilt flooding her in fact perfectly healthy gut, she took a deep breath, swallowed memories of those musty, gamey, Mongolian chunks of old-people-smelling, very old sheep, and gave into fate.  She proceeded into the house.

Mutton.  Such grand memories.  Like many locations throughout the Asian continent, Dharamsala offered in many restaurants, guesthouses, and Pacrimmers’ homestays the savory, unique food item.  Present in many dishes, mutton often materialized in momo, traditional Tibetan dumplings not unlike Chinese jiaozi, Japanese gyoza, or Mongolian buuz.  Deceivingly simple-looking, momo is best when made by Tibetan women with over 30 years of experience under their belt.  Alternatively, mutton makes its appearance in thenthuk, or traditional fat noodles served in soup.  The chunks of dead sheep made their Indian debut in the form of the latter, and, very much to the author’s surprise, were entirely delicious.

Yes, that’s right.  Delicious.

Mutton.  How on Earth could so disgusting a concept so suddenly be redeemed?  But it was true.  And as our hero sat in disbelief, blinking rapidly at the oily, tasty soup in the warm bowl she cradled, she thought.  And thought.  Fat, filling noodles circled like hungry carp with every sip, their meaty counterparts swimming in perfect unity.  Finally, the world made sense.  She may have been incapable of comprehending even the most elementary of Tibetan Buddhist concepts, but this revelation was all that mattered.  Her samsaric toil and fear of mutton temporarily relieved, happiness flooded our hero’s eyes and still perfect gut.  It was as if mutton could actually taste good if prepared the right way.  The same way any other food item’s preparation might dictate its presentation.  It was as if mutton was just like everything else, not wanting to be discriminated wrongly against.  Suddenly, like that which happens every time His Holiness the Dalai Lama smiles, everything was right with the world.

Bottom line: some prejudices are impermanent.

Erin