The road to the Rohtang makes a torturous ascent, snaking up the valley wall. The challenge is great; at thirteen thousand feet, the pass lies more than a vertical mile above Manali. For several miles the going is straight enough as the smooth, metalled surface follows the boulder-choked bed of the Beas. It is ease short lived.
Through a windscreen decorated with the distinctive decal "OM" in Tibetan script, I witnessed civilization slowly extinguished. Teeming roadside bazaars gave way to isolated, multi-storied, steep-roofed farmhouses, where human and animal shelter together over the long winters. These too soon disappeared as we climbed above the valley floor, beginning the rigorous ascent to the pass. We were entering territory alien to human life, where the road existed only by the incredible tenacity of the Border Road Organization, a paramilitary group responsible for building and maintaining some of the highest and most difficult roads on earth.
Manali, lying at well over six thousand feet, sees much snow in the winter; at the altitudes of the highway there is snow, deep snow, for a much greater part of the year. As we rose, the thick stands of the deodar forest began to thin, gradually replaced by the sub-alpine scrub of birch, juniper, and rhododendron. It was past the time of blossoming, but from experience I could imagine these hillsides covered in the bright pinks of rhododendron blossoms.
We crossed one of those ubiquitous, iron "Bailey Bridges," a legacy of the Raj. Elsewhere these bridges would be used only in an emergency, but in this ever-shifting land they are about as permanent as things get. I asked Dorje to stop and walked back, camera in hand. I wasn’t interested in photographing the bridge, which technically was illegal, but what could be seen from it. The bridge spanned a narrow but exceedingly deep gorge.
I am always a sucker for such cheap-thrill shots. When stripped of the secure platform, on which I was lodged, I knew the resulting image would look quite exciting. Lying flat on the bridge, I edged to one side, pointed the camera down, and giddily recorded the tumbling mountain stream hundreds of feet below.
Another Omni, laboring just behind, lurched around the bend. Its Lahauli passengers looked startled to see my sprawled form on the bridge, but when I stood up, camera in hand, knowing amusement replaced fear—another crazy ferenghi.
Being out in the open, photographing again, brought great relief. I felt growing freedom from all those cares, ghosts that, even in the "end of the world" of Manali, I couldn’t shake. It was as if this climb was taking me above the cares of a world increasingly distant. Yes, the Himalaya was beginning to take hold, reorienting me to another existence, another reality. I was moving farther away in both time and space from my past. Alone, surrounded by strangers who had no power over me, no shared experience with which to bind me. It was I who held the power to recast my being. My perspective was changing; I was climbing out of a valley, and from these new heights I began to see the distance again—a future. This was all happening quite imperceptibly to my mind. In my subconscious, however, it must have had an effect. Why else did I feel so happy?
That I had entered another realm became even more apparent about a quarter hour later. As we rounded a hairpin turn, two lorries blocked the road: one painted in the bright robin’s egg blue of the BRO; the other a commercial carrier, typical of the thousands which make the five-hundred mile run from the plains to the Ladakhi capital of Leh. Beyond these two, other vehicles were beginning to pile up.
While the BRO vehicle, aside from its bright color, was militarily austere, the private truck, following the fashion, was intricately decorated with paint, chrome, and brightly colored plastic knick-knacks. This particular truck was obviously Sikh-owned, for it carried the religious symbols associated with that religion: pictures of the holy Gurus, swords, and pious aphorisms. Across the tailgate was boldly written: "IN THE SERVICE OF GOD." The left and right taillights were respectively labeled "Life" and "Death." These hard drinking drivers were, because of the dangers of the profession, often very religious or, at least, superstitious men.
That their profession was dangerous was evident from the scene before me. A large crowd of coolies attached to the BRO stared over the edge of the roadway. They seemed out of place. Their dark complexions and thin bodies betrayed them as Southerners, most likely Tamils or Keralans, still wearing their simple cloth lungis despite the cold.
There were obviously fresh skid marks on the road, now no more than a muddy, rutted track. When I got to the edge, I saw what had made them. A lorry had gone off the road and down a drop of about one hundred and fifty yards, striking a ledge where it hung precipitously on its side. Parts of the truck and, what appeared to be, several bodies hung in macabre postures further down.
From the officer in charge, I learned the accident occurred in the early mourning twilight. He said it often happened this way. The drivers kept themselves going by getting high on cheap alcohol, most likely some Army-only rum like "Black Dog," which soldiers sometimes sold to civilians to make extra rupees. The thousand mile run to Leh and back was long and cold, not to mention that it traversed some of the highest and emptiest country on earth, so desolate that it often drove men mad. "I seeing ghosts, many many, on that road Sahib," one rather zoned-out driver told me. Making matters even worse was that the drivers had to fight the clock—the faster they got home, the sooner they could set out with new loads. Most had large families to feed. All these factors created incredible stress on both men and machines. A needed break, or repair put off just a little longer; speed pushed just a little higher, until….
Before me lay just such a moment. Apparently one of the lorry’s crew was still alive because movement had been seen in the cab. The problem was how to get down to the victim; there were no emergency services: ambulances, fire crews, medical helicopters. The Army, despite its heavy presence in this sensitive border region, had a few services, and these they reserved for their own personnel. If you weren’t part of their organization, or an extremely rich tourist who could pay, then you were, like these lorry-walas, in the hands of whatever God, or Gods, you ascribed to.
This wasn’t the first time I had seen such accidents. The mountain roads claimed thousands in similar tragedies. Early on, I realized that the most dangerous part of mountain travel wasn’t the ascent of a peak, the crossing of an icy torrent, or even threading a way among the deep crevasses of a glacier. It was the approach—exactly what I was doing now, traveling on the motor road to the trailhead.
The initial confusion began to subside. The lorries blocking the way had been the first on the scene and, although accidents such as this weren’t unusual, they still were unnerving. Dorje, after surveying the situation, went back to the Omni to smoke and wait. He was unhappy, not so much because of the fate of the unfortunates below, but because of the disruption to his schedule. He was a local man, a native of these mountains. He had little sympathy for these flatlanders, these Hindustanis, who were invading his mountain home. Besides this was their karma. Who was he to question the will of the Lord? The officer, a young Sikh subaltern, only just recovering from the initial shock, began to organize a rescue. In this he was blessed with manpower but little else. The immediate challenge was to get down the hundred and fifty so yards to get to any survivors.
I didn’t to witness this. A considerable number of vehicles were backed up by then. The drivers, seeing they could do little, began to think of their own schedules. In response to their complaints, the officer managed to clear enough of the roadway so that traffic could move. The air filled with the stench of diesel as black smoke belched from a dozen large Tata engines. Life was to go on; the road cleared, and the unfortunates quickly left behind. Perhaps, the horror lingered in the minds of the drivers for just a little while, making them a bit more cautious as they threaded their way up, or down, the slick switchbacks. But soon it would fade, the needs of the moment dictating a return to more reckless ways.
As we climbed higher, I had time to ponder what I had just witnessed. How quickly could such trauma be put aside. Perhaps it was essential to do so. After all, how could the drivers continue plying the roads, if they held onto images of death and destruction? Better to let it go; pretend it could never happen to you; that it was the other guy’s kismat or karma, or whatever black box your particular belief employed. Such disasters must result from something deserved, something that you, having led a more exemplary life, would avoid. I realized these mountains held no lock on this thinking. It was a universal response to the misfortune of others. Those people with AIDS, wasn’t God punishing them? Those languishing on welfare, wasn’t it because of their own laziness, their own moral turpitude? How comforting it was to see such logical causality, to envision such order. Yet what if you didn’t believe in natural order? What if you could imagine, literally see yourself in the place of the other? What if you could look beyond the chimera of order to the true ruler of the universe—the God Chaos, the God Random Chance, the God Whimsy? Jai Shiva! That was the fitting response, perhaps the only response.
While traveling, I often get lost in abstract thought. The disconnection from any fixed reality helps free the mind. In the lowlands, the stimulus of alcohol or charas helped set the mood, blocking out the more mundane cares. Now, I was reaching altitudes capable in their own right of making me "high," disconnecting me from material constraints. But I am also a highly visual person, one who takes great pleasure in watching subtle changes in light, color, texture. As a photographer, I take pride in this.
The landscape changed again; almost imperceptibly we had crossed into an alpine zone. Grassy, flower-laden meadows, stretching carpet-like to the horizons, replaced scrub vegetation. A Gaddi’s herd grazed on the lushness, filling the entire hillside with an undulating mass of sheep and goats. Here and there, small groups of ponies stopped to feed on the luxuriant flora, only to run again to another choice spot as if blown by the wind. We were high enough now to be among the clouds, remnants of the monsoon, which at this time of the year held the lowlands firmly in its grip. Yet in this high march even the power of the monsoon was broken; its leaden cover fractured into diaphanous clouds that opened to the unrelenting cobalt blue of the sky, to the fleeting warmth of the sun. If one looked closely, intricate patterns of color radiated through the air.
We reached a plateau and the Omni picked up considerable speed. Looking ahead to our course across the rolling meadows, I saw that we would soon pass through a thin tracing of civilization—a line of shanty-like structures along the road. After this outpost, the way climbed abruptly and, on the horizon, I could just perceive the outline of the pass.
As we drew closer to the structures, I saw that they were a string of dhabas, shanty-like restaurants, serving chai, snacks, and if the khaansaamaa was agreeable, a light meal. Above on a small knoll, prayer flags whipped in the wind. These thin, cotton banners with prayers or teachings inscribed by laboriously carved wood blocks, transmitted through sight, sound, or even the feel of the wind, the blessing of the Buddha.
The dhabas are a welcome break for drivers from both directions, for this is the last place for chai or a meal on the southern side of the pass, and the first when coming from Kyelang. After a few minutes we reached the line of shacks. This ramshackled assemblage can hardly be called a village as it is purely seasonal, depending on the short three month period the road is open for its existence.
Despite its temporary nature, the merchants try to make it as attractive as possible. Outside the shanties were tables and brightly colored umbrellas, almost as if the owners were imitating the feel of a Tyrol pension. But this was India not Cortina or Kitzbühel and, as a reminder, two cows and a yak grazed for tidbits among the few customers. For some reason, the merchants must have expected a large clientele. Dorje explained that occasionally busloads of Indian tourist came to romp in the snow fields and to peer out from the top of the pass at the snow-capped peaks of Lahaul.
I had Gul order an omelet, chapatis, and of course the ubiquitous Indian milk tea. For reasons I didn’t want to explore, I felt more comfortable dealing only with my servant. It allowed me to retain a certain reclusiveness. "Make all the suckers deal with Gul." That made me feel special, recalling that wandering merchant prince fantasy of the past, a time when I believed I could cast my own reality. Perhaps, in those more surreptitious days, this feeling had evolved with some purpose; it was an advantage for a smuggler to remain remote. I had worked hard to appear a patrician, a man of independent means, traveling for enlightenment and art—a man above suspicion. Sometimes in playing a role, I become possessed, mistaking fantasy for reality. If I am in control of the stage, then it is in my power to make others believe. In this sharing my fantasy would become reality. Like with the "Collective Mind"—until, of course, its collision with an even more powerful fantasy. Now my power was extremely limited, described best by ever-dwindling cash reserves. Two worlds, the internalized dream and the external reality, diverged widely. I needed no more evidence than that I now entrusted my well being to a character like Gul.
While the meal was prepared, I wandered off to take a few shots. My Puritan ethos compelled me to find justification for such luxury, and it was to be free to do such "work" that I had hired Gul. Had I wished to probe, I might have found how hollow was this reasoning, for my "work" was no longer that. These pictures might never see the light of day and, if they did, only by a few others—who was left? Yes, I would have recognized my cameras for what they were: prostheses, devices I used to compensate for my own inability to deal with life. Through the camera, I was able to remove myself from life’s ordinary flow; it was an excuse to set myself aside, remote, distant, always the observer.
Later while we ate, a young German back-packer approached. He was looking for a lift. For some reason I resented this tall, gaunt, sparsely bearded, fellow traveler trying to sponge a free ride. Oh, if he had been a foxy female, or at least accompanied by one, I would have granted the favor in a flash. But as he was alone, I had no sympathy. When I saw him approach, I instinctively knew he was going to ask for something—if it wasn’t a ride, then a meal and, if not a meal, then money. Somehow, it seemed so much more obscene for a foreigner to beg. I gestured with a shameless air of humility to Gul, implying that it was his call. Reading my mind well, he went dumb and pretended not to understand the German’s request.
I was now reaching the full height of what might be called my "I want to be alone" frenzy. This didn’t include locals, whose presence I enjoyed as long it was under my own terms. But the last thing I wanted was the company of fellow tourists. Oh, I knew this was a well-traveled route; I also expected to meet many foreigners, in particular Europeans. Yet I wanted to pretend I was alone, crossing uncharted waste, stepping where no "white eyes" had stepped before.
Again there was that need for the power and respect I derived from my "native bearers." It was a thing I could hardly expect from fellow tourists. At best, they would see me as an equal and, at worst, on one hand, "rootless wanderer," on the other, "capitalist exploiter." Besides, though I realized this was absurd, I did feel a certain noblesse oblige, surrounded by the "benighted heathen." I knew my Kipling; a complete, leather bound, gilt edged set of his works, a legacy from Grandfather, had been given to me as a child. I read each volume voraciously from cover to cover—and not just once either. When first setting out on my travels, I had fully expected the "wet and windy road," replete with all the ethnocentric trappings. Much of that has been beaten out of me over the years, both literally and figuratively. While intellectually I have moved from such beliefs, the glowing embers of tribal superiority still burn within.
Despite a veneer of sophisticated cynicism, I fantasized myself as a modern-day Younghusband, Burton, Lawrence, or any one of that mythic legion of Anglo-Saxon freebooters. Of course, they were of another time, a world long lost or, more accurately, existing only in story. But this was the stuff of my imagination, and from it I could pick and choose, make and break the rules. In this I resembled Eliot’s Dr. Casaubon, "…a ghost of an ancient, wandering about the world and trying to mentally construct it as it used to be, in spite of the ruin and confusing changes." You had only look at my photographs, favoring timeless, ahistorical themes, attempting to excise all traces of modernity, to understand that I sought out worlds locked in musty pages of "Once upon a time."
Even though it was the second week of August, we were high enough to find patches of eternal snow. Climbing again, we passed a few outlying stalls offering winter gear for rent: rubber overshoes, a ridiculous assortment of ancient winter coats—most likely remnants of misdirected CARE or OXFAM shipments—and even a few skis, sleds, and snowshoes. These were for Indian tourists venturing up from Manali to see snow for the first time. Initially, this snow was limited to small, dirt encrusted patches, but what a place this must be in the dead of winter: the snow piled a hundred feet or more, the wind whistling through the northward facing pass. This place would be serious. How many travelers had tried for some desperate reason to make the winter crossing? How many had failed?
To drive home winter’s deadly potential, we suddenly came face to face with the awesome power of nature. A great snow field, born in ice-bound crags several thousand feet above, swept down a steep col. Where the snow-field breached the road, it had been cut through, forming ice-blue, translucent walls on either side, fifty feet or more. The road at this point traversed a rock, bridge-like structure that permitted the raging snowmelt to pass underneath. It was obvious that earlier in the season the road had been tunneled; there was still a large overhang offering the barest clearance to heavily laden lorries. I felt a surge of excitement. I knew I was finally in that raw aeolic realm, where the seemingly solid forms of mountains become plastic, constantly transformed by the incredible power of snow, ice, water, and wind. This was the zone of clearly visible construction and destruction, unlike lower regions where change came imperceptibly to human eyes, over centuries and millenniums. Here nature demonstrated the full potential of her powers, revealing the true scale of human power.
The sight was too awesome for me not to take photographs and, to Dorje’s obvious annoyance, I ordered a halt. I scrambled onto the downhill section of the firn; its rock-encrusted surface pocked what mountaineers call "sun cups." Walking gingerly across the dazzling sheen of the firnspiegel, I marveled at the field’s cup-like texture engraved by the warmth of the sun.
It had been a long time since I had seen such raw wildness. Thus I was rather startled to find myself suddenly facing "exposure"—a less intimidating term used in the trekking trade, soft-pedaling that you were risking your ass. Further down this steeply-angled chute, the ice and snow abruptly ended in a snout which spewed an icy torrent, certain death for anyone so unfortunate as to slip…it would have been so easy at that moment, so quick, so clean. "Poor Sahib, he was only just starting his program. But then it is always in the hands of God."
Why I didn’t go for it then and there? I’d fantasized such a quick, clean ending so often before. But with it right there before me…I can’t explain. Even though I was in no real danger, my mind, unaccustomed to such exposure, began to flood with an uncontrolled fear. I felt inexorably drawn towards the torrent’s icy maw. The fear that my legs would give way, or my feet wouldn’t find purchase, shadowed each step. Fighting back this panic, my initial bold strides quickly became timid, mincing steps, testing the security of each new foothold.
Moments before, standing on the firm ground, I had been of a completely different mind, a mind still entangled in those clinging webs of my past. Now, when I knew one false step could mean oblivion, all previous thoughts took flight. There was only the present because, if I failed, there would be nothing more to worry about. The adrenaline of survival took hold. For that moment there would be none of those self-pitying thoughts. Again faced with oblivion, all my faculties went into action, struggling to contain fear, to overcome that dizzy giddiness, to conquer my own weakness. What a rush! What gratification to overcome so immediate a danger.
Just as I reached the safety of the edge facing the road, a lorry pulled into view, straining upwards under its heavy burden, a belching cloud of greasy black, diesel smoke violated the clear mountain air. Unfortunately for the lorry-walas, their load wasn’t only heavy, but piled too high. With a resounding crunch the lorry, barely making headway, came to a complete halt. The walas waited to see if the whole overhang would come crashing down, but the snow was at least twenty-five feet thick at the point of impact. After a few moments, during which many a prayer must have been said, the occupants emerged to survey the damage. From my vantage, I was able to assure them that the collision had produced no apparent crack on the upper surface. While they were in no danger of cave-in, they were still wedged tightly. The lorry-walas huddled, discussion, and counter-discussion. Finally, they reluctantly decided to let some air out of the tires, a tactic that permitted escape, but doomed them to the hard work of manual pumping.
I have long admired these long-haul driver-walas. They brave incredibly bad roads and harsh weather in vehicles that, in the West, would be long in the scrap heap. I first took notice of this rare breed in Afghanistan, where I rode on trucks whose engines and frames were ancient British Bedfords. Lovingly, the Afghans took these utilitarian, vehicular bones, turning them into movable palaces, filled with mirrors, colored lights, brass, elegant Islamic calligraphy, sheep skins, even ibex horns, or an occasional yak tail. In Pakistan, I had seen drivers repairing broken push rods on high mountain passes—the engine neatly spread out on ancient kilms like one of those exploded diagrams in the repair manuals. I marveled at the ingenuity of my species to overcome. Though often drunk and wildly reckless, these drivers form a unique brotherhood that gives them the strength to cross this rugged land.
The pass was directly ahead. It forms a large grassy saddle, sloped upward on either side into two breast-round peaks, whose sides at that time were a patchwork of snow fields and scree. The final approach was so gentle that I didn’t realize the top had been reached until suddenly coming upon the sign marking it. Nearby, another sign announced proudly the men "who bring you the pass, the BRO." I had to laugh at the sign which with Victorian piety proclaimed:
How some young subaltern must have labored to come up with that one. There wasn’t much else to do on long nights in these wilds. Such quaint missives were a particular predilection of the BRO, whose poetic wisdom appeared at regular intervals along all the roads. It was their way of keeping the drivers on their toes: "Attention driver your loving family awaits you. Keep alert! Do not disappoint them"; or in a more chauvinistic frame: "Dear lady do not nag your husband! Wait until he gets you home in safety."
To the north lay the gorge of the Chandra River, carving a deep "V" among a jumble of glaciated peaks whose ice-bound crests feed its waters. The sky was ominous pewter, the clouds obscuring the tops of the peaks. This was an apt reminder that, although it was the height of summer, it was also the season of the monsoon, of heavy rains, sleet, or snow at the higher elevations, even in such an arid land as Lahaul. The weather here is constantly in flux. When we reached the top, there had been only a light scattering of clouds; now we were socked in. At thirteen thousand feet, without the sun it seemed cool, even at mid-day. What would it be like on the Shingo-la, at seventeen thousand? I looked across the wide expanse of the pass to the cloud-enshrouded twin peaks of the Gyephang Massif across the Chandra Valley to the north. Beneath the mantle of gray, the line of permanent snow was visible. I tried to estimate the seventeen thousand elevation in relation to this snow line. It was well into snow.
The proliferation of prayer flags, snapping loudly in the strong chill wind, reminded that we were now in a Buddhist land. The flags marked the way of holy pilgrimage, the Middle Path, the Dharma. Not only the view mandated a halt at the top. For Buddhist travelers this was also a place of prayer and thanksgiving, rooted in that near past when to cross this pass entailed real exposure. Across a snow-fed tarn lay a flowered meadow. There were large poles carrying what must have been telephone lines between Kulu and Lahaul. From guy wires supporting the poles hung thousands of prayer flags. The climatic extremes of the pass had torn many into shreds and these littered the ground. Irreverently, I thought how it resembled the work of neighborhood kids who on Halloween would cover the local school principal’s trees with toilet paper. But this was more than unsightly litter for the locals. It was a record of the respect paid to the Buddhist pantheon, to the many Taras, for favors granted or wished—for safe passage across the pass.
The same Lahaulis who had laughed at my sprawled posture on the bridge, pulled up behind. They seemed very happy, as if they were on a picnic or holiday outing. The group was composed of several young looking, obviously affluent Lahauli couples. Perhaps they were representative of the local equivalent to Yuppiedom. They were modishly dressed in an eclectic mix of western-style sports wear—jeans, jogging suits, ski parkas, tennis shoes, and—what was for them the equally newfangled and foreign—shalwar and kameez, shawls, and intricate jewelry. As must now be apparent from my continued obsession with the opposite sex, I was starved for female company. I found these women to be strikingly attractive. Their Mongol features with rosy complexions, long black braided hair, and dark, piercing Tartar eyes only heightened the attraction—they brought back the past.
Ascending a hill, the couples carried a string of brightly colored prayer flags that they attached to the legions already flying. As I followed them, I suddenly felt my breath grow short; my heart thumped noticeably in my chest, and for the first time I began to significantly feel the effects of the altitude. Up close, I could see that many of the older flags had once shared these vivid hues. But time and weather had turned them, like leaves on a tree, a ghostly pale before finally falling in bone white shreds to the ground.
The women climbed from the road and, running among a herd of grazing ponies, tossed brightly colored paper prayers into the wind. On the papers were images of Lung-rta, the wind-horse, which were sent out to less fortunate pilgrims to ease their journey. Reflexively, I recoiled at such "littering." The men hung the banners, then built a roaring fire with boughs brought from below, filling the air with the scent of cedar. Quickly, the offering of fragrant smoke billowed up to their Gods. I felt a familiar frenzy taking over—"photo-op." Tentatively, I shot a few frames, worried that these people might take offense. This, however, seemed far from the case. The Lahaulis continued to be all smiles. They made a game of it, watching me trying to capture their unpredictable movements. I must have been quite amusing, cameras clattering, gasping for breath, trying to anticipate what would come next, yet always being a few moments behind. They would assume some inviting pose. Then, just as I was lining up the shot, they would, with a teasing laugh, tear off to a new location to repeat the process.
After the flags, the littering of paper prayers, and the offering of cedar boughs, the men performed the final obligatory task of piling loose flat rocks into a small cairn that, as in the case of the prayer flags, joined a host of others. While the men had been rock gathering, the women picked bouquets of the golden daisies that carpeted the pasture. These they placed as a final offering on the cairn. It was to Lord Buddha for his protection during the rest of the journey. Finally, they addressed the Tara, the Goddess held in great esteem by those who follow the Tibetan Buddhist tradition. To this all-compassionate deity they repetitively intoned the mantra: "Om Tare Tuttare Ture Svaha." The surrounding hills joined them, echoing the prayer.
Walking back together to the road, I chatted with the men. They all had the equivalent of high school education and thus could speak some English, albeit the rather skewed "Hindish" variety. They told me they had small farms in the Chandra Valley where they raised potatoes on a government contract. While this trade was quite lucrative, they also ran a cooperative business of extracting oil from the root of a wild herb called koot, valued in India as a base for perfume. This enterprise allowed them to buy property on "Manali-side," where they spent their winters making handicrafts—shawls, knitted goods, and blankets.
Returning to the Omni, I found Gul and Dorje had disappeared. To avert my irritation—how could I let such a petty emotion take hold in a place like this—I resorted to my usual strategy of lighting up a joint. I knew with the first drag all problems would dissolve. My mind turned to the Lahauli farmers, about the lives they described, simple, physically demanding, yet so intrinsically satisfying.
While in Manali, I had seen and bought crafts similar to the ones they made— maybe the very ones. I particularly appreciated the skilled Lahauli weaving. This was manifest in the gudmas, blankets of thick wool, and lohis, slightly smaller but finer woven shawls. I bought several of the latter, but only one has survived the journey. This I have given to Devara. He must be enjoying it, for now he seems to never take it off. Of course in this cold I don’t blame him. This lohi is cross between a blanket and shawl, made of brown yak wool, soft and warm, so much so that even Devara found difficulty in believing it came from a yak. He was impressed, saying it reminded him of shahtoosh, or king’s wool, found on rare occasion and at astronomical cost in Kashmir. I wonder how Devara, a sannyasin, knew about shahtoosh? This cloth, called kail fhamb in Kashmiri, was made from the chest hairs of the ibex, kail, or in Ladakhi, skya, an extremely rare wild goat with distinctive curved horns, inhabiting only the highest and most remote regions of Kashmir and Ladakh.
I once asked a Kashmiri merchant how he got the wool; the best quality could only come from a small patch on the neck. It was impossible to domesticate the ibex. If it had been, as it was with the Andean vicuņa, where to obtain the wool meant killing, then the ibex would have been extinct ages ago. According to the merchant—keep in mind these walas have developed a high art of intuiting what the customer might want to hear—the "harvesting" of the wool was done in a humane way. Shepherds build a circular corral of stones, topped by rough logs, or a woven mat of branches. They place fodder inside the corral. Being supreme athletes and sensing food, the ibex easily jump into the corral, eat their fill, and then leave. However, they earn their keep. Being filled with food, their exit isn’t quite as clean as their entry. In escaping, they often rub against the rough upper surface of the corral, shedding some of their precious hair. This extremely laborious process of harvesting means that the wool is extremely rare, commanding over one hundred dollars per pound. Yet for the shepherds, who are the primary gathers, this is an excellent way to pass the time and make extra cash.
As we began the steep descent to the floor of the monochromatic gorge, a wave of emotion swept me. Perhaps the ritual on the top had been, in some magical way, directed toward me. So unknown were the customs of these people, I could imagine anything to be true. This was the point of departure I always anticipated in my travels—both inward and outward—the point where the known, the expected, was left behind. The Rohtang had been just such a point. If the land of Kulu was Kulantapith, the end of the world, then here at its top, I had reached the final margin. Ahead lay the land beyond, another world, and with luck, another life.
The Chandra Valley is higher than the Beas, and snowfields stretched in patches all the way down to the river. As it is well above tree line, there is almost no trace of vegetation or, other than the roadway, no trace of human life. It was easy to envision what winter would bring; substantial remnants of snow bridges clearly remained. In the winter, the river would simply disappear under the snow as the valley turned into a frozen, white desert.
Unlike the wide, glacially carved, U-shaped Beas Valley, the Chandra is relatively narrow with high precipitous walls, evidence of extremely strong river erosion. The main valley has been down-cut at a much faster rate than the smaller tributary nalas, creating many hanging valleys perched on high. These create a profusion of spectacular waterfalls and steeply descending streams, all flowing into the Chandra. Later, after I became more accustomed to the barrenness, such landscapes wouldn’t be quite as awesome. At that moment, after the lush, pastoral beauty of Kulu, I was overwhelmed. For the first time on this journey, I felt as if I was back. All the years of separation, my seemingly endless sojourn in the uninspired drudgery of a flatland existence, dissolved. The stark beauty and tremendous scale kindled an awareness that I had returned—not only to a place, but also to a state of mind. This could be inspired only by such emptiness, a void of human presence found few places on this earth. I imagined I was where I was meant to be.
Reaching the bottom of the gorge, we turned west and picked up the road as it followed the Chandra’s long torturous track to the plains. The valley opened and here and there were solid, rectangular farm houses built of stone and mud brick, green fields, and tall, silver-barked poplar trees. Despite the stark background of ice, rock, and snow, the farms and the few inhabitants appeared prosperous. Looking upward, great peaks drifted in and out of the mist, daring me to capture them on film. Out the window of the moving Omni, I looked up and saw an incredible play of light and shadow. Momentarily, I would become lost to a particular cast of shadow, whose shape or form took my mind to some remembered image, place, or time. But before I could stop, get out, and photograph, it would be gone. Was the sun, creator of all that my eyes could see, playing the same game as the Lahaulis? Was it whetting my appetite, only to snatch the plate from me when I began to eat?
Particularly spectacular were the hanging glaciers, ending in cliffs of sheer ice thousands of feet above; their melting waters cascaded down in precipitous falls. In America, any one of these would deserve to be a National Park. A whole industry would have sprung up, replete with curio shops, hotels, fast-food stands, and theme parks. Here, it was just one of many nameless wonders.
Occasionally, as if to guide us along the path of the "Middle Way," stood small white, hemispheric structures called a chorten. These symbolic representations of Mt. Kailas, that "navel of the World" to which Devara invites me to travel, contain relics of deceased saints and sages. Mani-don further insured that we wouldn’t lose our way. These low, wide wall-like structures, running parallel to the road, were built of thousands upon thousands of piled mani, each stone inscribed with the mantra of the multi-headed saint, the "lord of mercy," Avalokita, Om mani padme Hum—literally translated as: "Hail, thou possessor of the Jewel Lotus." Its deeper meaning Buddhists believe lies uniquely within each human, believer or not, untranslatable by external symbols such as language. The spoken mantra, the teaching proclaims, "…is like water for the thirsty, a fire for the cold." Inscribing a mantra in material such as stone or cloth perpetuates its efficacy. The walls are found indifferently on either side of modern motor ways whose courses follow the pragmatic demands of the land. On ancient foot and pony tracks, however, the walls stand in the middle. This allows pious Buddhist traveling in either direction to pass with the wall to their right—or in the case of the older, pre-Buddhist Bon-pa, the left.
^ ^ ^
In mountainous lands such as Lahaul, the courses of major rivers dictate human habitation. Here are only three. The Chandra, along whose banks we were traveling, and the Bhaga that we were about to ascend, stretch like an encircling forefinger and thumb to the North. Both have their source on the slopes of the Baralacha La, which is the next great pass to the northeast, Ladakh, and the Tibetan Plateau. The Chenab, like an arm upon which the thumb and finger rest, issues from the confluence of the Chandra and Bhaga. The combined waters churn southwest through an incredibly deep gorge, spilling out onto the plains as one of the five life-giving rivers of the Punjab.
Life clings to the riverbanks in high altitude desert, but in Lahaul, unlike the wide neighboring valleys of Kulu or Zanskar, there is little on which to cling. Instead, villages and farms are built on the alluvial fans or remnants of glacial moraines that form plateaus high above the river’s course. Water is channeled either from springs and tributary streams, or else brought from a point up the main river where the elevation is that of the plateau. It is reminiscent of Chitral, Hunza, or any one of the many Himalayan communities where life is so precariously carved from a vertical land.
We entered the Bhaga Valley and were driving at considerable speed. The road was now a bare gravel track, etched from the steep scree-covered slopes, ending in a torrent some thousand feet below. The landscape was decidedly lunar. Without warning as we rounded a bend the stony waste became paradise. An oasis of green trees and purple-gold fields stretched for several miles on a plateau high above the river. This was Kyelang, the last major village and bazaar for some three hundred miles to Leh.
Dorje proudly told us that his family came from this town. It was, by far, the most important center in Lahaul, its inhabitants comprising half the population of the entire district. Thus it wasn’t surprising that Dorje welcomed the halt. He immediately took off on his own unstated business, telling Gul he would be back in an hour.
I sent Gul off to a nearby restaurant to order. He was none too pleased at my choice, a Lahauli Buddhist spot.
"Dad," he persisted, "Better dhaba down road! Kashmiri dhaba!"
"But do they have mo-mo?" I responded.
My heart was set on the delicious meat dumplings, a staple of Tibetan cuisine. He knew all too well that the Kashmiris wouldn’t serve such a dish.
"Very well, Dad, I order mo-mo."
My needs under control, I took off for a short stroll through the bazaar.
It was easy to see that this village depended on the road. This, however, didn’t mean it had only come into existence with the modern motor way. The route was the same ancient one, connecting India with Inner Asia. Traders, diplomats, soldiers, sages, and saints had passed through on their way across the eight high passes, and near one-thousand miles, that separated the plains of India from the desert cities of Western China. The road was lined with a number of stalls, jerry-built from the sides of tea boxes, sheets of plastic, pieces of old army tents. They sold things travelers might want: tea, prepared foods, cigarettes, and the locally produced woolen knit sweaters, hats, socks and gloves, whose bright fluorescent colors jumped out in an environment where natural hues predominate. Several local buses came and went, unloading and loading passengers. There was a small crowd of would-be travelers who milled about the main street, hoping for a ride on a passing lorry.
The town was mildly interesting, but I had seen places like this countless times before. It was like any other provincial center. Perhaps with differing levels of technology and patterns of culture, but the cast of characters was essentially the same—officials, merchants, and clerics, all preying on the farmer folk.
A middle-aged lama walked across my path, hand in hand with a young chout, a novice of about fourteen. Now I don’t wish to imply anything about their relationship, or the habits of lamas in general, or in Kyelang in particular—I wasn’t there long enough to be able to say with any authority. It was just that the closeness of those two reminded me of life in Chitral. In some ways, Kyelang was similar, different culture to be sure, but the essential social functions the same. I had spent considerable time in Chitral and can speak on the nature of its ways. Of course, there was no place that could be quite like Chitral—unless it was in Lewis Carroll’s dreams
^ ^ ^
How set people become in their ways. How strange and convoluted when juxtaposed one upon another over centuries. Chitral was a good example of the power of culture to create, what to an outsider might seem, an extremely deviant way of life. Yet because it had been going on for many generations, one pushing out a bit farther than the preceding, all sorts of oddities appeared, not the least being the proclivity of the local men for boys. This, I think, is some proof that as individuals we are ready to go any direction the group takes us, for to be otherwise is to be deviant. In the isolation of its mountain fastness, Chitral has evolved a whole way of life based on providing pleasure for the rulers—all the way down the ladder. The common people toiled for this elite and provided sons for their carnal pleasures. As an honored and wealthy foreigner,
I was permitted to join the elite. Besides the drinking and gambling, that for avowed Muslims was sin enough, there were the laalies—the "rosy cheeked" phonak daq or dancing boys. On the trips when Mei didn’t accompany me—she wouldn’t have tolerated such depravity for a moment—I partied with local functionaries—shazadas who once ruled, together with Government officials who now rule—and their favorite dancing boys. There wasn’t much else going on in Chitral on those long, late autumn evenings. I always seemed to wind up in Chitral in the autumn.
A group would come to my rooms to while away the night, playing music with shanai, tabla, and sitar. Before a roaring fire, the singing would become increasingly lewd while we went to the heights, or depths, on sherab, charas, and afyon.
Oh joy. On the far bank,
I see such an exquisite lad
His bottom is like a ripe peach.
Alas, the river is swift and deep,
And I cannot swim.
One old parashi, the local term for faggot (with some mirth the others called him "Squadron Leader") would whip the boys into a craziness, both figuratively and sometimes even literally, and then they were used. Yes, the nasty old barmakiri, the Pathan word for "drilling"—or I suppose more precisely to use the local term, parashtu dik, to sodomize—took place right there in front of me. I was usually too blasted to care. Once, I must confess, I even contemplated "a bit o’ brown" as they say, but was too stoned to get it up.
Later, I woke up with the parashkoti, the "pretty boy," curled up in my arms. The night before, he had seemed so feminine, so desirable with his blondish curls, deep gray eyes drawn large and deep with kohl, his skin creamy white with those famed rose-blushed cheeks—legend has it that Alexander’s troops fathered many sons and daughters in this valley. This androgyny seemed most appealing in the dim firelight to a mind fuzzed by charas and Johnny Walker—at least to hold, a warm, compliant body against the cold. However, in the clear light of dawn, when reality overtook fantasy, he wasn’t so seductive. I became the butt of many private jokes because, "Sahib, couldn’t make it."
Of course I was bringing to the act all my own cultural baggage. Doing it meant a whole different trip for me than for them. I wondered whether there was some underlying, universal prohibition based on a biologic reason that would supersede this cultural "anomaly." While thoughts of "child molester" and "fag" raced through my head, it was for them a way of entering manhood, an initiation rite. The boys took pride in performing the most outrageous feats, as they did in whose patron was the richest and most powerful. In a way it was similar to the tales a gay cellmate used to tell me about the San Francisco bath houses: "You should’ve seen that queen go for it Guy. There he was, such big international ballet star and all, but he’d be down there, begging to be buggered, not once but again and again. Those big butch fags, ya know, the lumberjacks, be lined up; just to say they’d done it to…." Anyway, it was total abandon. Many of those boys had launched successful careers. All the honchos had, at one time or other, been on the other end…so to speak.
While this behavior is recognized as theoretically sinful—most definitely proscribed by the Koran—it is winked at as a social necessity. If these men directed their needs to the local women, all hell would break loose. In the West both sexes might find outlet in friends, lovers, or professionals, anything beyond the confines of all too stale marriages. In Chitral, women, along with gold and land, were property that was zealously guarded; mess with a woman outside the strict social conventions and lives would be forfeit. For Chitralis, as with their southern neighbors the Pathans, badal or revenge was both avocation and vocation. It was a way of life that, once initiated, would extend over many generations. No, it was better to use the young men; no honor could be lost that way—later their turn would come.
Does my belaboring of this subject give cause to wonder. Certainly it puzzles me. I guess I have never really laid it out in my mind before. Oh, all these instances were in there, but as disjointed, disconnected events. I never wanted to explore them, analyze them for some possible pattern. It was all too taboo. There must be a reason I take such an interest in the "strange" sexual tastes of the Chitralis, or for that matter wondered what the lama in Kyelang was up to. I have always had a curiosity about that fine line in sexual tastes, and how easily it could have been to go the other way. Or was my hypothalamus too large to ever allow that to happen?
It was perhaps early sexual confusion that turned me away from any lasting, non-sexual male bonds. I had always put it down to an early rejection by Father; perhaps it was more. While in boarding school, during the first rush of sexual desire, I had developed some close friendships. Later, however, I realized that those relations were substitutes for a male-female attraction denied. This was evident in…my closest relations were sort of… yes, they had sexual overtones.
These were limited to showering together, mutual masturbation, and fantasy. When things became too overt, and on several occasions they had, I lost my nerve and backed-off. Boys did serve the needs of other boys, and most were ready either to serve or be served. It was with no little irony that we viewed the school’s rather pious motto, "non ministari, sed ministare." And we joked there were more of the latter than the former. But the mores of the outside world were strong enough so that no one wished to be caught.
This was long before AIDS, and I wasn’t yet really aware of the public feeling toward attraction to the same sex: fags, fairies, and queens. Yet, something inside me made me back-off. To submit would have signaled more than a momentary physical submission. It would have also been a deeper psychological surrender. This was something I was unable to do. It wasn’t so much the same sex bit, I mean as long as the dude was attractive. The most important thing was who was going to pitch and who was going to catch. That was the question.
Later, in that same all-male world, I developed deep, emotional relationships with younger, prettier boys, boys with smooth skin, deep blue eyes, supple limbs. I even fantasized how it would be to make love to them—although admittedly, my idea of making love was purely academic—the result of industrious, surreptitious study. But always I fantasized over younger, feminine boys, and always I thought of myself as the pitcher…not catcher.
^ ^ ^
"But Bhaai, you about this catching and pitching. These words like cricket game talking. Your meaning same?"
This jars me. His eyes bore into me; a mischievous grin flickers across his dark face. I used those terms so casually, in the same boy-man slang of youth. Maybe Devara is right to call me on this? Maybe they symbolize something deeper?
What about the "pitching and catching?" Aren’t they just a young boy’s metaphor for the two most basic forces of life, domination and submission. These two forces have struggled within long and hard, my sexual behavior only their most outward expression. As I attempted to construct a self, the dominant side came to the fore. But always, lurking in the background, was submission. It knew it could be patient and that, in the end, it would be to submission I would turn. Isn’t that surrender to which I once toyed, just a harbinger of the ultimate surrender I now seek?
"Ji, Bhaai, you the idea have. In all men is desire for surrender. Only in fighting for control, man apart remains. In surrender we the One rejoin. We all someday what you say, ‘catcher,’ must become…Samadhi to find. Only Mahadeva is ‘pitcher.’"
Now that I think back, Elizabeth told me she thought I might be a catcher. She had quickly assured me that it wasn’t bad. "We all must become catchers Guy." Then she let it drop. I just assumed this was a continuation of her ball-busting assault after failing to please her. Now I wonder?
All that talking makes me thirsty and, almost as if he is reading my mind, I hear Devara say: "Guy, chai, want?"
"Oh, thik Devara, shokria. Just what I need I guess. I’ve been tripping out."
"Tripping out, you go somewhere Bhaai?"
"Only in here," I reply pointing to my head.
"Acchaa, Bhaai, Devara too such journeys making. Passing time it very much help.
The break in my internal narrative, the shared joint, and the cup of tea jars my focus. Frankly, I am quite glad. All this soul searching about sexuality makes me nervous. Like most folks, I have a few skeletons in my closet. I think they might better be left there.
The steam swirls up from my chai, reminding me of the plate of mo-mo Gul brought. What I wouldn’t give for some of those dumplings. Better yet for the ones that Mei makes. They were tastier with pork, cabbage, and fresh water chestnuts…not goat meat and barley. God! How long had it been since I had tasted Mei’s dumplings?
^ ^ ^
Tentatively, I tasted the first plump dumplings. I was prepared for disappointment, but I wasn’t disappointed. They were delicious. The first fragrant taste made me realize how hungry I was.
And, yes, they did make me think of Mei’s dumplings. How she would labor over making the small round skins of dough, using whole-wheat flour in her "healthy" conscious manner. The vacuous fashion plate, the trophy with whom I had been first infatuated, turned out to be a very talented partner, good at anything she set her mind to—as long as she set her mind.
The mo-mo was order by the piece and, because the long ride had masked my hunger, I asked Gul only for a half dozen. But the walk stirred my appetite. I inhaled the mo-mo in less than a minute, yet was still ravenous. A sullen look from Gul met my order for more. I hated it.
"Dadee needs more mo-mo?"
He made me feel like a pig—although he was just disgruntled because he wanted to go to the Kashmiri restaurant to eat his halal food. Why did he always use that word "need" instead of "want"? Did he know the difference? Was it part of his diabolical plan?
While I waited, I had a chance to go up on the roof and take in more of the sights. Getting there was a trip in itself, climbing a single log with shallow notches for steps. As I was loaded down with cameras, and stiff from sitting for so long in the lurching Omni, this ascent was a formidable task. But never one to back away from challenge, after several moments of uncertainty, I was on the roof.
Below me spread the entire village and beyond its satellite fields. Although at over ten-thousand feet Kyelang is too high for the cultivation of rice, it is still low enough to grow the more traditional barley from which tsampa is made. The favored form of consumption of tsampa is in thuk’pa—a porridge-like soup, a mixture of chai, yak butter, and salt—all that is needed nutritionally in the harsh Tibetan environment. The local farmers were skilled in this cultivation, proven by the lushness of well-ordered fields and the apparent affluence of the community dependent on their support.
Kyelang is truly an oasis, a series of emerald terraces carved out of steep cliffs of folded rock, whose bared layers promise to reveal the history of the Himalaya—to those who know its secret code. The town itself is made up of flat-roofed adobe structures squeezed along the side of the road, preserving the maximum amount of arable land for farming.
Looking through my camera’s viewfinder, my focus fell on the street below. I began to record the scene of human commerce, with buyers and sellers representative of the many races of India: Ladakhi, Lahauli, Zanskari, Punjabi, and Kashmiri, office-walas from Delhi and Bombay, Tamils from the South, Biharis and Bengalis from the East. Sprinkled among the citizenry were a few tourists both from the West and Japan.
From every roof, prayer flags snapped in the strong winds funneling down from high passes to the North. In the distance, I could hear the moan of the mountain horns, rifle shots, and thudding drums. I wondered what was happening, but it sounded far away, far enough that my oxygen-starved lungs told me to pass on further investigation.
Liberated from their case, my cameras now hung suspended from my shoulders and neck—my three traveling companions. It was always a large leap to bring them out and get them going. At first they would feel awkward, and shyness would constrain me from pointing them at people. Yet long ago, I had learned that the only way to make photographs was to put aside this sort of reflectivity, this seeing of self in my subjects’ eyes. Such visions were quite frightening, the trick to become part of the instrument. I tried to transform into a mere synapse in a process that would bring what lay before me to some audience, distant both in time and location. I must forget myself, forget what others might think of me—"why is he pointing that thing at me?"—and take my best shot.
In Nam I had succeeded. I really had to lose sight of myself, to be able to set my lens into a face contorted with pain, a face that saw death hovering over my shoulder. I tried not to think how it must feel, knowing your last, agonizing seconds are being recorded for the evening news. Hell, I had been cursed, threatened, even spit on. There are some things better left alone, better left unrecorded. Somehow, I got the knack and, at times, could even believe I was invisible. What a high, just move through all that horror, yet remaining untouched. At first it took some doing, but how adaptable we humans are. Once you go around a few times, it just rolls off. You start to believe in magic. It must be magic if you can walk through this brutal world and emerge unscathed. Then one day you wake up and realize: although your body is whole, you aren’t unscathed; inside you are as much of a mess as that boy you photographed that morning, mashed by a direct hit from an RPG. They pulled the old zipper up on you too, only your bag was made from your own carcass, and what is inside, all that jumbled mess, is stuff you once thought and felt about the world. At least in Nam you could con yourself into thinking you had a mission. Oh yes, Guy, your photographs, your film, will wake up a sleeping world. Never again! Oh sure, what a joke that was. Oh, it would be never again! Next time when we came to the killing field, we would do it right by God! I was able to justify so much with that sense of mission shit. The only thought that woke up the folks back home was that, eventually, it would be their ass on the line or, if not their own, those they loved.
There were times when I wondered why in the hell I was still doing this. I had certainly lost the wake-up rationale. Yet here I was, dragging this equipment around, invading other folks’ lives. This was no longer for the money, as it had been earlier in my career, when I traded in the horror and desperation of war, the more ghastly the photo, or piece of film the greater reward. These pictures weren’t sensational; they didn’t focus on subjects that had wide interest. Deep inside, that mission shit again was working, only this time it was all about, "recording a way of life before it vanished." What kind of conceit was that? How many ways of life had bought it before photographic recording? Even after such endangered lifeways had been photographed, did we really understand anything but the shallowest surface of that life? Did we know the man Sitting Bull or Red Cloud any more through the work of Edward Curtis? Too bad Curtis didn’t give the Indians the camera. But that also was tried. Fuck! I had tried.
In my own life, the only thing I have the right to express, I had no interest. I went so far as to destroy all my childhood snapshots—it was just too painful a place to revisit. I felt no special need to tell about my own life, how I lived. That is why I was reluctant to record the more mundane aspects of life, the cities, my country, places, people, and things many others had and would photograph. Instead, I invaded other lives; my sole credential was possession of the means of production. I appropriated their experience into my images, my expression. I compensated for my own lack of a life by taking theirs. In a way, I was an image vampire sucking out a graphic essence of others’ lives so that I might vicariously live in them. What we think as a primitive response to being photographed, that fear of being robbed of your soul, was perhaps not so off the mark.
The world is running out of such places. Everywhere, I found people of my own ilk, armed with equally massive amount of technological finery. Ordinary tourists now had the means in the palm of their hand. No longer did it suffice to simply be there; now it took special vision, a gift, a talent. Deep inside I knew I didn’t cut it. When I was home—that place where I stored my stuff—I would look through the vast stores of photographs. Although technically correct—in focus, good exposure, meticulously framed—they lacked that special ingredient, that magic of universal communication I found in the works of my heroes: Cartier-Bresson, Wegee, and Eugene Smith. Perhaps, I thought, it was the level of my commitment; I always hedged my involvement, not letting the camera take over my life, somehow feeling it was too limited in its ability to capture my own inner thoughts.
I pushed the soft touch down…one more frame. Better to let the technological interface take over. Function, function, function, became my mantra. Go through the motions, maybe things will turn out. Insha’Allah, was an apt expression for such situations. It shifted the crushing burden of responsibility to a higher level, allowing human life to continue weaving the woof of hope on the warp of frustration.
"Hey, Dad, more mo-mo!" Again, I sensed a sarcastic undercurrent in Gul’s persistent use of the word "Dad." Or was I just being overly sensitive? Anyway, it was time to come back down, in all senses. Gul assumed a solicitous air—as if he was helping his ancient grandfather—perhaps in response to the presence of an extremely attractive young Punjabi girl standing nearby, a presence that also fanned my indignation. Though some twenty-odd years older than Gul, I wanted to feel no less eligible when it came to a pretty face. Yet I must have had some question. Why else would I take interest in such an extremely young girl?
In response to those doubts, to show my superior talents to this rude lackey, I photographed the girl. It was the first time on this trip I had taken a "one on one" picture. I caught her off-guard—yet unprepared to face another human, looking eye-to-eye as I snapped the shutter. That would take time. Slowly, slowly, I would remaster this skill—if such intrusion can be considered "skill"—but for the moment, this was a start. Later, in that long succession of lonely nights, I would think of her—tall and willowy in fiery vermilion chiffon, so out of place in the harsh land. Her long black hair was fashioned into a single braid with a matching ribbon, the brilliance further enhanced by a rainbow-hued dupatta, the long decorative scarf favored by Punjabi women, casually draped across her delicate shoulders. How could I not take notice of her? She was the stuff of semi-conscious, high altitude, charas-induced dreams.
After I "captured" her, I continued to gaze at this young girl, who was looking with wonder out over the valley. What was she thinking? Was she awed by the splendor stretching before her, or was she thinking about her home, in Amritsar, Chandighar, or some obscure village of which I had never heard? Taking off on the fantasy, she might have been contemplating the marriage to which she was destined—after all, this was India and rural India at that. Marriage came young. Momentary desire surged within me. It wasn’t the lust I had felt for Geeta, although they were most likely the same age. It was an entirely different need. One motivated by more paternal than carnal need: to embrace, to protect, particularly from cretins like Gul. That had been part of my feeling for Tara—father for the daughter I never had. But this was only the first stage; if there was a later, then lust would come. Had I ever been attracted to a woman for any other reason—no matter how I dressed up in the guise of noble ideals? Was I any better than Gul?
I was quite thankful to be back in the Omni and on the road again. How good it was to be moving. When I stopped, even for so short a while, it was as if my thoughts congealed, blocked, unable to go on. When in motion, it was easier to pass from thought to thought. When my mind began to wander down a dangerous path, and by now I knew the warning signs, I could alter direction, and try to find a less perilous way.
The valley narrowed, its sides both closing and gaining in verticality, They towered higher and higher into increasingly exaggerated serrations; rocky crags interspersed with gray-white tongues of the hanging glaciers. We were well over ten thousand feet and, at this altitude, only imported and well-nurtured trees survive. To the right loomed the high ridge wall, separating the Bhaga from the Chandra Valley; its boulder and scree covered slopes threatening to engulf the valley. The road etched into a cliff whose insurmountable face rose to an ice-encrusted peak hidden some two miles above. Here, there was no question of who was master. Humankind was the supplicant, surviving only at the sufferance of the land.
This raw display of power drove us to seek each other’s company. I asked Dorje what he had been doing while we had lunch. Trying not to appear nosy, I framed it with a feigned concern for whether he had eaten. Yes he had, but also he had done something else. His Uncle was severely ill, and the family feared death was near. Now though the Lahaulis are Buddhist, they also possess more ancient customs, remnants of animistic beliefs held throughout the Himalaya, before the coming of Buddhism—Bon-pa. One of these beliefs involves the cheating of death. The ritual is performed with great ceremony in extreme instances, such as that of his Uncle, when modern medicine, or the ministrations of the vaids, the traditional shaman, failed to provide relief. According to Dorje, this practice was extremely rare but, as his Uncle was very old and very traditional, the family decided it might have some efficacy.
What Dorje had been doing was to assist in a mock funeral where an effigy of the Uncle had been cremated and then the ashes interred. I looked at Gul glumly. I had explicitly instructed him to alert me to any such "photo ops." Silently, I cursed Gul and all his future generations. What a series of picture it would have made. I decided, however, to let matters slide for the time and pressed Dorje to tell me more. He was a bit embarrassed, and eager to show he didn’t believe in such an old-fashioned custom; he participated only to humor his dying Uncle.
Reluctantly, Dorje began to describe the ceremony. He had joined at the last minute, so most of the preparation had already taken place. His family made an alias corpse out of wood and barley straw, dressing it in the Uncle’s best choga, a dark red robe of homespun wool. Dorje had come along just as they were starting out for the burial ground—accompanied by the crashing of the kettle drums, the chattering of the cymbals, the wail of the long copper-clad mountain horns, this ancient cacophony punctuated by the more modern intrusion of gunfire.
This was the noise I had heard. Damn it, I complained bitterly, though silently, to myself, why didn’t Dorje invite me along. This slip into past tradition just embarrassed Dorje. He was, after all, a modern man, a technological man, a driver.
The mourners, both family and hired hands, carried the decoy effigy to the cemetery. There, it had been cut into many pieces and ceremoniously burned with the aid of a local lama, who chanted an invocation to Lord Buddha—just as if these were genuine human remains. Later, Dorje reported, there would be further prayers offered over the real Uncle. It would be announced to Mara, the Herald of Death, that the Uncle had been long dead and thus there was no need look for a soul already long departed from this world. As I listened, it suddenly dawned on me the full extent of Dorje’s reluctance. When this practice is contrasted with the orthodox Buddhist concept of death, which sees death as "the clear light" of rebirth, then it is easy to see that this traditional Lahauli concept, framed in fear and avoidance, is most different from what a true Buddhist should believe. Dorje, a pious Buddhist and schooled in modern beliefs, was highly disturbed by what he saw as a throwback to the fear and superstition of a darker age. Yet, he too was drawn to the practice, for in uncertainty the clever will please all the Gods, both old and new.
The shadows cast by the western mountains now engulfed the valley. After the Kyelang oasis, the wide valley becomes an increasingly narrow defile. Tiny villages, a few squat, stone structures, cling precariously to the steep, scree-sheathed slopes. Chortens and mani-dons invariably connect communities. Perhaps, these act as markers, reassuring the traveler that they are still on course. The coming of the road has somewhat mitigated the need for these guides. Yet I could imagine this land in winter, when all was white, the road obscured under many feet of sand-dry, drifting snow.
How comforting in such a seamless universe to look ahead and see the contour of the beckoning chorten. "Yes come this way, there are humans here, there is shelter, hot chai and tsampa, there is life." On a higher, spiritual plane, they serve as essential guides in a world grasped by the eternal snows of ignorance, where all is undifferentiated, confused, and without direction. For the pilgrim, the chorten and mani-don point the way to the next gomba serving as a way-station of Dharma, the path of righteousness, ultimately leading to the mystic Vale of Shambhala.
Of course, I don’t consider myself to be a "real" Buddhist. Having escaped the rigors of Christian discipline and loath to surrender to another, I merely dabble with Buddhist philosophy—perhaps just appropriating what catches my eye into my own understanding. I know that Budh means "awakening" in Sanskrit, and that to be a Buddhist at the most essential level is simply to seek such "awakening." I, most certainly, long for such an awakening. I like to think my own travel is a quest for awakening, and that I will someday, someway, find the Vale of Shambhala. Aren’t I continually drawn to the next valley, compelled to cross that next pass, beckoning in the distance, in the hope of finding such a place? Yet I fail to move from symbol to what is symbolized. It is easier to wander in the material world, than to make the more essential journey within mind. Up to now I haven’t been ready, I still hold too much fire, too much desire, I can’t, despite the desire, just let go.
The Omni lurched along a worsening track, cut out of a solid rock, rising from the depths of a claustrophobic defile a thousand feet or more below. As I gazed out the window, I could imagine that at any moment the walls of this deep canyon might close like a giant mouth, swallowing us as punishment for our trespass. Nothing, however, remains constant in the Himalaya. Soon we were snaking down the cliff. Ahead, I could see the mountains spreading apart; the defile opened to the sky, again to become a life-sustaining valley.
"Darcha," said Dorje.