Moonscape Musings

Ladakh, literally 'the land of high passes', separates the peaks of the western Himalaya from the vast Tibetan plateau. It sits in northeast India, precipitously close to the China and Pakistan borders: an amalgam of Muslim Kashmir, Buddhist Ladakh and Hindu Jammu cultures. The friction between cultures and religions has plagued relations between India and Pakistan since partition and the northwest region of Kashmir still remains volatile. There are military posts and rifle toting soldiers at every corner and in the middle of vast landscapes. Yet, the place remains distinctively Indian. Just outside a military camp rests a sign singing 'Spread Happiness.'

Ladakh only opened up to tourism in 1974 and is called 'Little Tibet' due to its similarities in topography and culture with Tibet. This is particularly evident in the Indus Valley as the oldest river in Idian/Ancient civilization gushes past whitewashed gompas (Buddhist monasteries) precariously perched on hillsides. Due to its high climate and crown of mountains exceeding 7000 meters, Ladakh is only accessible on land between May and October. The landscape during this summer season is like a moonscape - an arid desert with splashes of green spilling out from the riverbeds and resulting villages within the green zones. The mountains rise high and fortess-like with spectacular snow-capped peaks and blue skys covered by fluffy white clouds and a very, very, very strong sun. Leh, the capital of Ladakh is 3505 meters high. We are practically touching the sky and everything - the sun, the moon, the twinkling of the stars and Venus (bright pink twinkling planet that looks like you can touch it) - seems as if its RIGHT. NEXT.TO. YOU.

This is a land of meditation and calm and contradictions of nature juxtaposing extremes. The arid landscape spreads for miles with rocks and shrubs containing bright orange berries and the occasional donkey and then suddenly erupts into a plot of vibrant, verdant, lush green filled with flowers, apricot trees, apple trees, vegetable gardens, mustard seed plants, rhodedendrons and grass. The Ladakhis are terrific gardeners and take full advantage of the limited sun months by prolifically planting all of their fruits and vegetables to use for the remainder of the year. Meandering streams flush from the Indus and wend through small villages decked by cows, donkeys, sheeps and village people in traditional dress. This means old ladies, wrinkled prunelike from the sun, smiling beneath a furry top-hat and thick red/black dress and equally wrinkled and smiling men peering beneath their topi hats as they spin their prayer wheels with one hand and with their other hand direct their heard of animals with a walking stick and occasional "tsks." When the sun ducks behind a cloud or finally sets at 8 p.m., the cold spills over the barren landscape and there is no escape from its chill. Each restaurant in Leh is outdoors, so you bundle up in woolen blankets, hats and socks to enjoy the vast night sky stretching its milky way in a rainbow arch above the valley. When the moon is full, the land glows white and silver - vibrant and ghostlike. The night sky literally dances with falling stars and twinkling lights that enchant and beguile those down in the cold with their proximate luminosity.

The whole place, Ladakh, as far as I have explored thus far is peaceful, mystical and calm. It is a marvel of nature and a testament to human survival and ingenuity in the harshest of conditions. I like it here.

I met a lovely lady named Sarah in Rishikesh. She is the best travel partner I have ever met and we have become close friends. She is a school psychologist from Philadelphia, aged 31, and left for India on her own for her very first international holiday. I respect the woman and am glad to share so much of the following with her.

We ran into eachother in Agra and decided to take a tour together the next day with a rickshaw driver. For some reason, I expected the city of Taj Mahal to be a calm, small place. Little did I know that it was literally the heart of India in all ways - traffic, pollution, beautiful saris, camels and cows and donkeys and bulls and bull carts and ox carts and motorcycles and lepers and screeching cars and black belching rickshaws and beggars and rich Indians flashing gold and muslim women ducking underneath gorgeous bright colored scarves and deliciuos fried foods from makeshift "restaurants" and sweet masala chai steaming in dark hovels and donkeys and pariahs and saddhus (holy men) and tourists and snot-nosed children in tattered rags scheming and playing amid dung and exhaust and horns (always the horns) and ancient temples dating back hundreds of centuries amid the lush river valley that makes up Agra. Chaos. Incredible. India.

So, we are sitting in traffic and wondering at how nine Indian women can fit into the rickshaw next to us. The heat and the gawking of men are so unbearable that we fully cover our faces with scarves (our bodies are already veiled), only leaving space for our sunglasses to rest over our eyes. It is preferable to be hidden from sight in this way and I get at least one reason why the women are happy to veil in foreign countries. The sun is bearable and the men almost let you pass by without a stare - at least it is fleeting - and that feels nice as their lascivious looks can sit on you like a bad odor that taints the moment.

We have seen the beautiful Taj Mahal and rested in the shady gardens, watching hindus and muslims go by with beams of pride as they approach the greatest tomb ever built in the name of love. It is lovely and white and full of optical illusions - a playful, respectful place along the river. Its neighbor on one side is a hindu temple with burning ghats for cremations and the other side is a leather factory (they use camels and goats - not the holy cows, of course). Across the river is a vacant plot of land where the raj planned to build a black taj, equal in size and splendor to the white taj (mahal), but the raj's plans were foiled by his son who promptly imprisoned him in the ancient red fort and took over the kingdom. The red fort looks over the existing and planned taj and is particularly cruel and dramatic. I would like to read about this father son dynamic. Sounds unique and is an important part of Indian history. Apparently, the raj didn't care that the people of Agra were starving and wanted to spend even more money creating a tomb for himself. Didn't happen.

We went to the 'Baby Taj' and took a break just across the street from its entrance. We enjoyed pokoras and papadams from a dirty man and his piping hot griddle set up alongside the road. From nowhere, a crone appeared and offered us masala chai - sweetened with sugar, cinnamon and cardomon. We trust that it is boiled and sip away. We watch as the tour buses roll in and dispense the tourists directly to the entrance. They barely notice the ebb and flow of India on the street as they enter and exit the gate and disappear into the bus just in time for the next bus to roll in. A gang of Indian children is begging for money from the travellers. Between buses, they come over to the stall and stare at us. I take off my sunglasses and give the leader, a mischevious looking adorable eight year old, a knowing look - "I know you, troublemaker" I think with a smile, and she is prideful as she blushes back at me - she understands. She smiles and continues to stare, but doesn't ask us for money. It's like that. Calm reality in the midst of chaos. The food is delicious, the tea sweet and another man appears with a tiny chess board and offers us a game. Unfortunately, neither of us play and our rickshaw driver wouldn't be too thrilled if we took the time to learn. So, we leave our Indian hotspot and cross the street into Baby Taj.

We both prefer this to the Taj Mahal as the floral designs and jeweled inlay designs are more intricate and abundant. It feels more feminine here. We love it. On our way home, I ask the driver to take us to "real, spicy Indian food restaurant" and he takes us to a simple place called 'Family Restaurant.' We proceed to have the most deliciuos Indian food thali I have had in my entire life. The whole meal costs about$1.50 each. We decide we'll celebrate India and buy a bottle of Indian red wine to have on the roof of our guesthouse overlooking the Taj Mahal that evening. We slowly get used to the acrid red wine as the prayers from the muslim mosque screech out into the streets at sunset and the Taj Mahal glows pink and calm. I see a couple of mexicans that I met at the Dehli train station on the roof next door and we join them as we finish the bottle and celebrate the glory of India into the night.

From Agra, we returned to Delhi by train at 6 a.m. the next morning. The train was hot and dusty and uneventful. I bought several chais in dixi cups for 5 rupees each - but they tasted nothing like the delicious sweet concoctions we enjoyed on the side of the road across from the Baby Taj. Delhi was everything that everyone says about it - crazy, sad, hot, unpleasant. But it was also full of culture and shopping and interesting scams. There are museums and representatives from all over India selling their local handicrafts. I purchased a camera to replace the one stolen in Nepal. I bought two pairs of jeans to keep warm in Leh.

I paid one baba 300 rupees to tell me how to obtain calm. "Be more courageous." That was about it after 30 minutes of mystical palm reading and pointing at saddus on a photograph, etc. I knew it was a scam, but was curious. Rusty Wells already told the entire class to choose courage, not fear, about 400 days ago. This is a maxim I hold true and always have. Perhaps the baba was a reminder of the same. Whatever.

Not wanting to drive along the precipitous cliffs on a three day journey by bus from Delhi to Leh, we both took flights to Leh. It was incredible to fly over the snow-capped Himalayas and to land in a peaceful, calm place that felt like an entirely different country full of contrasts. In the one-room airport, buddhist monks floated past military men decking the doors with full rifles and either a tilted beret or a punjabi head wrap. The sun slapped my face the instant I walked outside, yet it was only 7:00 a.m. and the brittle chill seemed to emanate directly from the snowy peaks surrounding the barren, dusty valley.

Sarah had been here before and we took a taxi into town and went straight to a German Bakery for delicious pastries made with Kashmiri apples and yak butter. The bakery was owned by a happy sikh man and his son with shining eyes and broad smiles. We were delirious from the altitude sickness and giggled our way through pastries and black tea. A man joined us and told us all about his journeys through Ladakh. Neither of us really cared and he didn't seem to mind that we didn't care - he just kept talking. This was even funnier. He is the first of many Israelis travelling through Leh.

This place is filled with Israeli tourists in their 20s on one side and older French tourists on the other side. The rumble of Royal Enfield motorcycles ripples through town and reminds me of the motorcycle journey through Nepal. I miss Ed and Alex and hope to see them again. I also wish that I can find another motorcyclist with whom I can explore this mysterious place.

We spend our first day at a restaurant with no walls or ceilings called La Pizzeria. I am watercoloring the scene around me and the owner asks me to paint the outside wall alongside the street. I agree. Another person is seeking a yoga teacher. These are inviting prospects. I become friends with the owner, Praful from Kashmir, and we talk for hours about hinduism, yoga and life. He tells me again and again with a laugh "you are such an indian!" Well, allright, then. It's nice to be here.

Voila! My third night here I meet an international group on a motorbike tour at La Pizzeria b/c I offer to take their picture for them in Spanish. They are all men in their early 40s (mostly) - three spaniards, one argentinian, a scottsman and two frenchman. They invite me to join them the following morning. I do. The following day, I bring Sarah along and all of us tour the valley for two more days. It is incredible!

Day 1: We drive two hours up to Khardung La, the highest motorable pass in the world at 5,606 meters. I hop on the back of the frenchman, Christian's, bike at the suggestion of the Argentian lawyer named Miguel. Christian has been riding for 20 years and is an expert navigator through the fallen rocks and narrow roads suddenly filled by honking ta ta trucks and buses. He is very french as he tells the drivers with his hands to move to the left. Of course, they ignore him until the very last second.

He maintains airplanes for a living as an aeronautics engineer so I ask him whether one plane could've actually destroyed the world trade center. He apologizes, says he's studied this a lot, and it is impossible. I tell him about the movie 'Zeitgeist' I have seen and we discuss the sad (very real) possibility that 9-11 was an insider job consisting of bombs planted within the twin towers to detonate the steel beams and level the buildings in conjunction with the plane's impact. An insider job to create a catastrophe to incense a sleeping giant to wage war. For oil. Horrible if true. And I believe it is. Please see 'Zeitgeist.' It will explain so much.

My hands get cold and Christian covers them with one of his own as we ascend even higher into cold air. A sweet gesture. We get to the top of Kardung La and it's so high that we can see the snow capped mountains of Pakistan three ranges away. There are prayer flags and snow at the top. I bow to Shiva in the temple, sing him a little Shiva song, ring the bell underneath an om flag and carry on to the hiking trail. I am breathless and dizzy, but climb to a high stone to look on high all alone. It is marvelously calm and quiet as the wind whispers past me with icy licks I find delirious.

I head down the path to meet Christian, who offers to give me the 'highest kiss in the world.' I accept the kiss on my cheek and thank my luck as I actually 'check him out' for the first time and admire his arched eyebrows, big lips, dimpled smile, full head of wavy dark brown hair, nice teeth and very french style of a white scarf, black jeans and pefectly tailored army green overcoat. He's 41, a world traveller, intelligent, tall, smells nice, owns a house where he's from in the Alsace region of France, loves wine and motorcycles, has financial freedom as he works on a contract basis in his country of choice and is single b/c "he hasn't met the right woman yet." Hmmm...

As we ride down the mountain, out of nowhere he tells me that after driving up from Manali - a truly adventurous ride, i.e. to pass a bus on a one lane road that already has another bus passing on the other side, you may very well teeter on the edge of a cliff and if you put your foot down, you will fall thousands of meters down the cliff to your death, it's really nice to have me on the back of his bike. "You are like the unexpected cherry on a cake," he says. "Wow," I think - "where did that come from?"

We discuss where he has lived: Uzbekistan, the Isle of Mann, Rome, France, Germany and his stay in Chile. He volunteered three weeks in an orphanage and after noting the deplorable state of the toilets, he tore them up and rebuilt the with tiles and proper plumbing - all of which he did himself for 150 Euros. I hug him tighter and appreciate that he is manly, resourceful and has a heart. What luck to be on his bike. Hurray!

We head to a nearby monastery overlooking Leh Palace that is hundreds of years old. The gompa wafts prayer flags down the barren cliffs. Inside the monastery are beautiful paintings of Buddhist images, a green Tara and a wrathful looking deity reminding the monks of the destruction of ignorance and evil and materialism. I wish for George Bush to have this vision and perhaps change a bit... Pablo, the Spanish leader of the group, is always on a time frame and doesn't seem to relish the spirituality of the monastery - we leave quickly. Too quickly.

We return to town for a delicious meal and a discussion of science and spirituality initiated by yours truly. I say everything is all one - all interconnected by a vibration/ripple. Christian is a skeptic - he says his theory on life is "I'm right until someone proves me wrong." Red flag. Definately.

We later head up to Shanti Stupa, a pagoda dedicated to peace and visited by the Dalai Lama in 1985. It is lovely and white and illuminated at night. There are buddhas on each of the four sides representing the wheel of dharma, birth, overcoming evil and something else that I can't read that looks like peaceful existence amid chaos. Christian tells me that he doesn't want me to leave and I laugh, saying 'you're the one whose leaving, I'm here until Sept.' and also wonder why on earth he's telling me this. We stop by Sarah's guesthouse and invite us to join us the next day. He gives me a kiss on the lips in the garden of my guesthouse seven times and I'm floored.

The next day, we take a long trip for four hours along marvelous canyons with the rushing Indus that display purple and pink and yellow sands cascading from high mountain tops decked with snow. It is incredible! Along the way, we pass countless construction workers chipping away at the rocky craggs which make the road by hand. They are black with soot and grit and it's miraculous that these people regularly maintain the roads as they try to conquer the elements taking over the roads. We arrive in Lamayuru, 125 kms from Leh, and it is gorgeous as it overlooks a valley of white houses spilling over a cliff into the great river valley.

We spin prayer wheels along with three old ladies with fur on their backs and top hapts to keep warm - even though its blazing hot. Lamayuru is one of the oldest and the most important monasteries set in a landscape that looks like a moon. The peace and mysticism is palpable.

We head back and stop at a sikh temple for tea. Even though we are in the middle of nowhere, sikhs have made pilgrimages all the way from Punjab just to be here. I don't understand the spirituality, but appreciate how very faithful the people of India are. I wish I had such faith. We have dinner and Sarah and I head home early for a night's sleep. Her driver, the other frenchman, has clearly expressed an interest in her. It is unreciprocated.

The third day, we head for Thiksey and Hemis. Both are impressive monasteries overlooking small towns spilling over cliffs. They are centuries old and contain impressive paintings and statues of buddhist deities. Thiksey has a buddha that is three stories tall and is absolutely beautiful and calm. I love these places and want to understand them more. Hemis has a spiritual residential retreat program. I may return here soon. Westop by Stok Palace, where the royal family of Ladakh resides and view artifacts in the museum, including ritual objects and jewelry. I am again amazed by the fortitude of these people to live and worship in the harshest of conditions during the winter months.

That night we have dinner and Christian tries to convince me to come to Kathmandu with he and the other frenchman as they have agreed to explore Kathmandu Valley by motorbike. My answer to return to Nepal for a motorbike tour during the monsoon is unequivocal, even though he offers to pay for everything including my return ticket: no. Again, I am surprised by his level of interest. I think it is funny that I have an invitation back to Kathmandu. They leave the next morning and Christian tells me he may return after one week in Nepal. I tell him I'm happy either way and to do what he wants.

I'm a little put off by the dutch man who came to Kathmandu from Thailand to be with me. It didn't really work out and the last report from Kathmandu was that he was still there instead of on his planned journey of Cambodia and Laos. I refuse to be a factor of another traveller changing his plans for the sake of romance. So, he goes.

The following day, Sarah and I wake up early and attend a 6 a.m. puja (spiritual ceremony) at Thiksey monastery. They chant and eat ladakhi bread with butter tea for two hours. I don't know what they're saying, but it's a good experience into their rituals, nonetheless. We head to Shey palace on the way and appreciate a two-storey buddha - maitreya - the boddhisatva of compassion that will come in the future to enlighten all sentient beings. I bow my head and hope that whenever he comes, I am sentient enough for enlightenment. I miss travelling these roads by motorbike.

I start reading a book called "Jesus lived in India" and see that Isah/Jesus allegedly travelled through these same roads and monasteries hundreds of years ago. Proof of his travels was contained in the library of the Hemis Monastery until the 1900s. Wow!

We book a trip to the Nubra Valley - a land of sand dunes, rivers, monasteries, lush valleys and rivers. We decide to share a taxi with two other people to save money. The prospect of two 20-something Israeli girls is not promising. We're about to leave when a swami in white robes and several mala beads with moses like long grey black hair and beard and his disciple enter the building looking for the same trip. The decision is easy. We leave after two days.

The day in between, Christian writes an e-mail saying he made a mistake, should've never left, and will return in one week for his last week of vacation. He'd like me to join him for more touring of the valley by motorbike. Okay!

The swami's is named Swami Dayunanda and spends the majority of his trip talking about yoga and how famous he is. "People bow down to kiss my feet when they see me," "this is impossible for americans to understand." He offers to teach Sarah and I kundalini yoga back in Leh. Perhaps. Then, he tells us that Bush and Clinton know him but he doesn't know them. He then tells Sarah that they are videotaping him all the time, even now, in the garden in Sumoor - a little village in the Nubra Valley. While Sarah says that schizophrenics make the best teachers with their subject of choice, I decide to defer study with him.

The Nubra Valley is beautiful. We eat in Disket and stay the night in Hunder in a tent by the river. The swami and disciple get rooms inside. Sarah and I walk up to the monastery in the hills and sing songs that I teach her in hindi until sunset. That night, our driver takes Sarah and I into the sand dunes. It is nearly a new moon and the stars are twinkling closer and brighter than ever in the calm quiet of the billowing dunes.

The next morning, the four of us return to the dunes for a camel ride. It is again quiet and calm and I enjoy the way the swami looks riding a camel ahead of me in the dunes as his white robe ripples with the gentle breeze. But, it's hot. We're all roasting and Sarah and I look like muslims again as we cover our heads with pajminas and sunglasses.We head to the other side of the valley after waiting for construction to end.

The other side is gorgeous and verdant. Sarah and I take a long walk down to the river and meditate and sing even more hindu songs that I teach her (thanks, Rusty and Janet and Jennika and Marina!) until sunset. We go to a morning puja with the head lama and a three-year-old Rinpoche who falls asleep during the ceremony. They serve us masala tea, black tea and delicious homemade ladakhi bread with yak butter and yak cheese. Locals come in making abulations to the lama and rinpoche. We sit in the corner taking it all in. It's incredible! Again, I wish I understood what was going on.

Sarah and I spend that day in the garden of our guesthouse relaxing while the swami and devotee go to hot mineral baths and another temple. We need a break. It's refreshing and lovely. I write 16 pages in my journal (the unedited version of this blog). I feel content and at peace. I love Sumoor very, very much!

On our way home, the car breaks down and we're picked up by four rich Indian women and one man on holiday from Bombay. They ask if we know any hindu songs and b/c Sarah and I have been singing them throughout this trip, we do. We take turns selecting and singing songs all the way home. Just as I'm trying to remember a song Rusty always sang in San Francisco, the women next to me sings it to me and I follow. She takes my face in both of her hands and says in hindi that I am sent to her from God. It is very sweet.

The next day, Sarah and I head to a festival in Phyang - yet another monastery and village in the middle of nowhere - yet this one sits amid a verdant green patch spilling out on either side from the river. We see traditional dances performed by monks dressed as the deities we've seen on the walls in the monastery courtyard. There are other monks wearing silly looking head dresses playing horns, flutes, cymbals and drums. It is spectacular and the performance has something to do with overcoming evil and ignorance in the name of enlightenment. I buy one apricot, one apple and a bronze ganesh figure. We hike out to the gompa overlookng the valley and again meditate in the tranquil, majestic calm of Ladakh.

We return to Leh and get a full ayuverdic massage, facial and pedicure. It is oily, but incredible b/c my skin is so dry from this high altitude that my feet are cracked and I have laugh lines visible around my eyes and mouth (more than ever). She massages my breasts several times and I wonder if this is standard procedure. Sarah confirms that it is. I feel nourished and refreshed and we head to La Pizzeria yet again for dinner and a chat with Praful. Another wonderful day and evening. I have numerous magic dreams that night of flying (for the first time) and the beauty of change.

The next day, Christian arrives and we look for a motorbike to rent. I take him to the ayuverdic place for a nasal cleanse since he's been stuffed up for one month since he's been in India. He looks a little frazzled when he gets out. We have delicious Tibetan food for lunch - momos and salad - and plan our adventure up to Kargil - on the way to Srinigar, Kashmir. He is not too talkative about why he came back and I don't press it. I'm just happy that he's returned and that we will explore this valley even further.

He would like someone to organize the thousands of beautiful photos he's taken in his travels over the years. He's an exceptionally talented photographer. I suggest that if he flies me to and from Europe, lets me live in his house in Alsace (he lives in Germany) and pays me a salary, I'll do it for him. He needs to teach me first and I think it's an interesting idea to learn and do this. He agrees. We will see what happens next...

Today, I woke up, did yoga and met Christian for breakfast. We were told that a good bike will come into town this evening. I hope so. The bike we have now is rickety, at best. Time will tell...

All in all, Ladakh is magic. I am going with the flow and it's easy and restful and mystical and now, romantic, too. I love this life.