Himalayan Challenge
for
Whizz-Kidz
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Indian
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Log 2 October 30th The
overnight sleeper was long overdue into We
had arranged ourselves in a state of dimly-lit weariness amongst the luggage
on the platform, and for entertainment watched the enormous station rats
scavenging through the piles of litter and other debris on the tracks below
us. Every
few minutes a great fanfare, blasting through the station and jolting us into
wide-eyed shock, heralded another announcement. I
couldn’t remember when I’d last slept. It
was well after midnight when the train finally arrived and I suppose ‘basic’
would be a fair description of it….and blue. We
had bunks – hard and narrow. We had curtains for privacy – the sort that don’t
quite fill the space they hang in. We had sheets and blankets – clean, though
stained with the years - a bit like very well-used army surplus I guess. The
carriage we occupied, along with some of the natives, even had its own ‘en
suite’ – two toilets, one Indian and one western, the former a slightly
raised hole in the floor, access to which involved crossing your fingers,
gritting your teeth, and paddling… oh, and two wash basins. I
stayed awake, flat on my back, and fully dressed, as the carriage gently
rocked us back and forth through that long, long night. At 7.00am we were
tipped out at Chakki Bank – a crumpled jumble of
bags and startled bodies - into the cool of a beautiful Indian morning. |
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Chakki Bank
station |
As
the station gradually woke to the day, with rickshaws coming and going, a
cart rumbling by here, a bicycle passing there, and families rousing from
sleep to prepare for long journeys, we were scooped up – as if by surprise,
such was our collective state – and on to the bus that would take us to Dharamsala and McLeod Ganj. |
Outside Chakki
Bank station |
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Half
an hour, or perhaps an hour, down the road we stopped at a small hotel for
breakfast and the chance to wash away the dusty, sleepless veneer of two
days’ travel… … stretch the limbs, and absorb some fresh air and space…by
now spiked with a tiny dash of excitement! |
Breakfast view from… |
Much
of the journey to Dharamsala remains a blur, as
tiredness had forced the inevitable. But increasing altitude and the tendency
of our bus to rattle and shake quite noticeably as it lurched along the
mountain roads drew me irrevocably back to life… …and
into a world where’ vertical’ and ‘precipitous’ possibly describe most things,
and the word ‘horizontal’ probably never made it into the dictionary. Looking
at parts of the landscape, it was hard to imagine how one could safely get from
one place to another without falling off. |
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Part of the Dhauladhar range beyond Dharamsala |
A
place of refuge for pilgrims for many years, Dharamsala,
at an altitude of 6,000ft, overlooks the Unfortunately,
for these pilgrims, Dharamsala had become a ‘no go’
area due to a visit by Sonia Ghandi. Not to be deterred, however, we shot
through, with special permission, and up to McLeod Ganj. |
The main street of McLeod Ganj |
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Having
booked into a hotel, and filled our stomachs with local delicacies, we took
to the Dalai Lama’s quarters for the afternoon. He had been called away to And
clockwise is the important thing. Prayer wheels must be turned in the same
direction also. To do otherwise would seem to be a kind of blasphemy. |
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And the trick is to spin
your prayer wheel, turn a rosary in your hands and recite prayers and mantras
to yourself at the same time.
In our case no rosaries,
and a grip on only one mantra…
…’Om
mani padme hung’…the
six-syllable mantra of the Bodhisattva of Compassion, Avalokiteshvara…,
which was to remain with us throughout the coming days.
And for the rest of that
afternoon we wandered…accompanied by monkeys and children, through gardens
festooned with prayer flags…shoeless into monasteries to witness the glittering
and highly colourful décor of buddhas,
wall paintings and thangkas…and negotiated long
walls of prayer wheels.
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Turning one of the giant prayer wheels along the Mani Path or Lingkhor
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A wall of prayer wheels. A devotee will begin at one end and spin each
wheel whilst chanting.
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Each prayer wheel
contains large rolls of printed mantras and prayers, such as the name mantra
of Guru Padmasambhava and the six-syllable mantra
of Avalokiteshvara.
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The simple procedure of spinning the prayer
wheels, turning a rosary, and reciting prayers and mantras involves the
activities of body, speech and mind in spiritual practice.
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Monks circumambulating the Mani Path.
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Overlooking the Mani
Path or Lingkhor are the shrines of the three
protective deities of
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Prayer stones alongside the path through the
gardens. The stone at the top left bears the wording:
Hari om
mani padme hung…
Hail to the Jewel in the Lotus
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Seen through the trees, the
main temple, or Tsuglagkhang, of the Dalai Lama at Thekchen Choeling. Due to a limited budget, it is a plain, square
concrete structure – functional as a place for the refugees to meet and observe
their religious ceremonies.
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Late afternoon brought us
back to the narrow, dusky streets of the main part of the town…and an oasis
of time just to meander at will. Despite our ease at being able to slow the
pace, all around was still wound up with the business of the day. Time then just to observe and become part of what was going
on…and do a bit of shopping.
As in Delhi, we were often
surrounded by beggars, children and adults alike…people with
disabilities…lepers sitting or crouching at the side of the street, or coming
towards us on makeshift trolleys…holding out their disfigured arms and legs
in silent supplication. But here, no doubt due to the
smaller scale of the place, it got closer and more personal
somehow…more intimate…and harder to deal with emotionally.
And you knew that, whatever you were able do
for them as they approached, it could never be enough…that you couldn’t
change, in that moment, what really needed to be changed.
It was nearly impossible to
get rid of any money too. There were shops and stalls of every description
lining the streets…a haven for the traveller-gatherers amongst us…but you
could buy an armful of wonderful Tibetan artefacts without so much as a dent
in your wallet. We made it a general rule not to bargain with shopkeepers,
for that would have been an insult, especially to such a wonderfully kind and
gentle people. All I wanted to do was give them more, but, by the same token,
I could not have patronised them in such a way.
Dinner was preceded by one
abiding memory…of putting our trust in, and accepting an invitation by a
particularly chatty street vendor, to accompany him to his main shop. Curiosity…or stupidity…brought us face to
face with the dirty, dingy streets of another world…and the dimly-lit steps
that led interminably down to some imagined underworld, but, thankfully and
in reality, to the promised land…
I now have a singing bowl
as testament.
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