Seven Hours in Tibet

I’ve got a little bit of a routine going now. Normally, I wake up in the mornings between 7:30 and 8:00, make tea to warm up, and sit on my balcony to watch the sun rise over the hills to the east. The rays of light have already struck the Himalayas to the northwest, and their snow-capped peaks seem to glow and shimmer golden-white and beautiful while the smaller foothills south of them are still waiting to be awakened from their nightly slumber. In these early hours before the shops open, before my neighbors start their daily chores and before the world itself wakes up, time neither flows nor stops. Instead, my perception of the flow of time and space around me enters a new dimension, one where I can just stand and wait for it to return to normal.

In these precious moments, I like to read a little, write, or call the states, where it is evening and their day is starting to wrap up. It’s peaceful, and I look forward to Shammi, the cook, to come and grace me with more knowledge of Indian cuisine. I know it seems a little weird that I have somebody to cook for me, and I’m still not used to it, but it’s getting better. I help cook, learn from him, share tidbits in broken English and sign language, and help clean after most meals to wash off the guilt. It’s just another one of those cultural differences to which I should acclimate myself.

This morning, my routine was shattered. Minutes after finishing tea, the peaceful quiet was broken by one of the most gut-wrenching sounds I have ever heard. It grew louder and louder, and soon I was able to identify the source: a group of four or five Indian women walking at the edges of the field, on the outskirts of my little neighborhood, wailing and moaning. Shawls were wrapped around their heads, and they continuously grabbed each other in anguish. Their voices rang out in the morning mist, exclaiming pain, agony and suffering.

Confused, Agata and I consulted Shammi, who had just arrived. He was able to inform us that a woman who lived several houses down had died during the night. Though we were never able to find out the cause of death, we learned that she went to a larger hospital in Chandigarh, but the doctors there were unable to help. Soon, we were able to see men assembling on the side of the hill opposite us, breaking down branches from trees and throwing them down to the bottom where a small stone structure awaited. It didn’t take long to figure out what they were preparing.

This was the most significant cultural experience I have encountered so far in my travels, and yet I felt so detached from it all. I didn’t know the person, I didn’t know family or friends, and most of all, I didn’t know how I was supposed to behave or what I was supposed to do. Agata, Harmit, Shammi and I were headed off to Dharmshala that day, so we missed most of the funeral rites and the cremation, but I will always remember that sound. It won’t haunt me for the rest of my life, but it definitely made an impression. It made me realize that no matter how much you live in a different place, there are some aspects to culture that cannot be learned or acclimated. Some things need to be truly felt, and I know that it will be some time before I can call any other culture my own.

Now, off to Dharmshala and Mcleodganj, home to the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government-in-exile. In 1950, the province of Tibet was “reacquired” by the growing Republic of China who wanted to assert their dominance over their self-proclaimed land. It’s spiritual and political leader, the Dalai Lama, was forced to flee Tibet in 1959. The Chinese had no room for organized religion in their secular government. As such, Dharmshala has become the base of operations for Tibet and Tibetan Buddhism, as well as a home for Tibetan refugees.

Going there was like going to a different county, even though we never left India (which justified the purchase of a Tibetan flag to add to my collection). The Punjabi outfits and wandering cows were replaced by crimson-robed monks and souvenir shops selling singing bowls and laughing Buddhas. Most of the faces were Tibetan, but there were a scattering of skin colors from all over the world. It was the first time I saw another white person besides Agata since I arrived in Palampur, and I briefly reflected on the fact that I am now a minority. At one point during the day, Harmit and I were having coffee and saw two girls sitting at a table across the terrace who, at least to me, were blatantly American: jeans tucked into Ugg boots, face-covering sunglasses, long shirts, big purses, and drinking Coke. It was, like, totally obvious. We bet 200 rupees on their origin. I said Midwest American, while he put his money on Toronto. They were from Iowa. I rock.

To be quite honest, there isn’t a whole lot to see in Dharmshala. Obviously it is a very important city in the world, being home to the Dalai Lama and all, and his crib deserves a spot on MTV, but the rest of the town is just one big tourist trap. That’s okay by me, because just like my run through London, I can now say I’ve been there, and this time I enjoyed my short venture with the company of friends.

There was one thing that is worth significant mention, and that is lunch. Harmit took us to a place with rooftop seating from which you could see the monastery, but that wasn’t the good part. The good part was that for the first time in my life, I had Chinese food. Real Chinese food, my friends. PF Chang’s can bite it. When Tibetans are cooking for you, it’s a whole ‘nother story. Spring rolls are not the small, greasy drumsticks you see in white boxes; they’re large, light, delicate batters barely concealing an array of fresh, crunchy vegetables that taste like they just came out of the garden. I also enjoyed my chop suey of egg, rice noodles, cabbage and other mixed vegetables in the best sweet and sour sauce I have ever had. And fried rice? Not a greasy mass of soggy rice and frozen vegetables, but a light and delicate side dish where every grain of rice, every tiny piece of onion, and every shred of lettuce or cabbage was oh-so briefly cooked, and one can taste and feel every last element of the dish, down to individual grains of rice. It was a culinary adventure in a bowl.

My guess is that Brad Pitt stayed in Tibet for seven years because the food was so good. I don’t blame him.