VII. Dharamshala: Our Heads in the Clouds

The clouds have slowly settled upon the mountainside of McLeod Ganj. A deep chill passes through our many layers of clothing – for me a ridiculous mix of Indian dress, sweatshirt, knitted sweater, dupatta scarf, Nepalese woolen socks and Birkenstocks. Our driver, Kewal (Kayval) Singh, has expertly manoeuvred our six-seater up the switchback road, bringing us at the end of the day into what is a little Tibet. A different world.

The town is perched on a steep slope of lush green, with terraced fields, cement-wall houses built in layers on the incline. The main chowk, or square, is a tight little circle of 3-storey, lighted restaurants and businesses, with narrow streets leading away, up or down hill. As the evening deepens, the shopkeepers whose businesses have been open along both sides of each street begin to bring in the wares that have been displayed on the steps out front, pulling down their great metal rolling doors with a roar.

There is a deep sadness that pervades the air here, an inexpressible grief. Yet the streets are busy. Maroon robed monks and nuns make their way through the town, greeting one another, sitting in the cafe, talking on cell phones. The colour is shared by other Tibetans and foreigners and pilgrims. Oriental art, blankets, Buddhist symbols, metal statuettes and jewelry, inspirational wall hangings, line the streets. This is the home of the Dalai Lama, leader of the Tibetan Buddhist faith community and the spiritual and political leader of Tibet in exile.

Large signs on every street show the names and the faces of Tibetans who have died for their country after it was overtaken by China. I am deeply affected by the pictures of those who have set themselves on fire in protest, explain it as best I can to Isaac who surely feels the change in atmosphere here in the highlands. "Why would anyone set themself on fire??" asks Patrick. It is the last resort of those whose anguish has not been heard.

We have asked Mr Singh to park and wait for us while we browse a few hotels, much to his chagrin; he calls Rev Stanley back at the CMC, wishing we had taken the nicer hotel he had been directed to. We wander the streets, evading hotel touts and decide on the modest Om Hotel, affiliated with the Namgyal Monastery. Down a set of stairs from an almost-alley along the mountain edge, the hotel is simple. We take the last double-room.

Near bedtime, as we all sit on our beds wrapped in blankets, visiting the internet in each our different ways, we begin to see our breath. Next morning, after a difficult sleep in our unheated rooms, we learn that the temperature has dipped to 2 degrees overnight.

Now with my Tibetan socks and multiple layers, I am prepared for a day of sidestepping the scooters along the descending streets of McLeod Ganj, and we make our way to the Tsuglagkhang Temple, monastery and museum. The complex is properly visited (circumambulated) in clockwise direction. As we do so, the monks arrive for their devotion. Their rich maroon robes exchanged for deep yellow, they sit cross-legged facing each other on 2 sides and begin to chant. It is a sound from the depth of the mountains, a primordial rumbling that seems to stop time. David and I are transfixed; Isaac kneels.

Mani Prayer Wheels filled with thousands of mantras

Turning all those mantras

with prayer flags

Inside the Temple

Back Om, we give the kids money to cover their lunch on their own at the cozy little restaurant attached to our guest house, and David and I go off in search of something Tibetan. In a small sun-warmed lunch room, as we attempt to understand the difference between momos (gyoza) and thenthuk (noodle soup), we are helped by a young PhD student from the US. Alex has been in the country many times and can interpret some of what has not been explained to us in this mountain refuge. He relates that, on his trip up the night previous, he got on one of two buses headed up our way and witnessed, as they neared Dharamshala, the bus in front of them slip sidewards off the road, rolling over and over with baggage spilling and passengers obviously tumbling inside. He said, "We stopped and I had to get out and walk and smoke a cigarette; I was shaking all over. Then we all got back in our bus and drove away. All the locals slept. I couldn't fall sleep all night."

Next day's detour around the fallen bus

We return to our little place to find the kids taking it easy online again, having chosen momos for lunch too. Isaac begins to fade and we suspect altitude sickness. He groggily asks what medicine is available for "the common barf". 

David and I are so aware of how safe we have been, how easily that is changed, and what a privilege it is to be here, ascending the mountain into others' lives for a short while. My partner turns on our rented heater. I re-braid Nicole's hair. Patrick sits at the window seat laughing at the thunderous noise as monkeys run racing and fighting on the metal roof above our heads.

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