During the ‘60s after the Chinese tightened their grip on Tibet and the Dalai Lama went for a stroll from which he never returned Mustang was a hotbed of insurgency against the Chinese led by Khampas, Tibet’s most ferocious warriors. At the height of operations there were thought to be at least 6000 soldiers in the area, as well as adjoining regions (such as Dolpo). Not surprisingly they initially had the support of the CIA (God Bless America). Everything changed when Kissinger and Nixon decided it was to time to play kissy-grabass with Mao in an effort to improve relations. After that the insurgency fizzled (with the aid of a taped plea from the Dalai Lama making the case for peaceful resistance) and, fortunately for the residents of Mustang, the 10,000 Nepali troops sent to ‘settle’ the issue became superfluous.
I
spent two days in the capital of Lo Manthang. On the morning of the
second we forayed into the surrounding hills. For this excursion we
would be enlisting the services of Nepali horses and their
accompanying horseman. I have never actually ridden a horse although
I did once have a rather comical encounter with a relative in
Thailand (by relative I mean donkey). I am not going to say I was
handed the reins to a stallion but at least I had the right
species……I think.
There
was definitely an adjustment period. In the beginning riding this
horse was akin to me sitting in an oak chair while smashing my
testicles into the seat with a repetitive up and down motion. Not so
enjoyable. Additionally, I am not sure a six foot, four inch freak of
nature is a good fit for these smallish horses. However, after a
while I did start to get the hang of things and was actually enjoying
the hell out of myself. This was made clear by my borderline maniacal
laughter and perma-grin smile. Along the route to our destination (a
cave complex to the north) I passed Team France, a hearty band of
fifty something dudes with their wives. They did not appear to be
enjoying their equine experience nearly as much. The temptation
to slap one of the Frenchies on the back and scream,
‘Eeeeeeeeeeeeee-HAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!’ while waving my hat in the
area was overwhelming. Somehow I found the strength to resist my
impulse.
These
caves were not particularly interesting although they did make for a
few excellent photo ops. If only I been privy to the existence of the
fabled caves of “Shrangra-La”. I could have mounted my own
private expedition. Next time.
Lunch was taken in a small village not far from the caves. I was brought to what I believe to be a private residence and served lunch in the host’s private prayer room, a sort of mini-monastery. Not long after I sat down an elderly gentleman entered and sat down cross-legged on the padded bench-style seats across the room. A young male I presumed to be his grandson or nephew explained to me that it was ‘prayer day’. He apologized for the interruption and offered to relocate us to another room. Apologize for engaging in sacred acts in one’s own home? Seriously?
I
informed my young host that I certainly did not mind and would like
permission to stay if I would not be intruding. I was told such was
not the case. So for the next half hour or so, while I enjoyed lunch
I watched as this devout believer performed the ancient rites
indicative of Tibetan Buddhism. As always the significance of what I
witnessed was beyond my store of knowledge. Inquiring was out of the
question for two reasons: 1) it would have been rude; and 2) I
seriously doubt he spoke even a syllable of English. I sat there
hypnotized as he rang bells, clashed mini-cymbals, banged the
traditional drum, sprinkled water from a psychedelic teapot, and
spread an unknown type of grain (probably buckwheat) upon the dirt
floor. It was a privilege just to be allowed to enjoy the spectacle
and although I was given the green light to take pictures I had not
the heart for it. I could not justify what would have felt like the
desecration of a sacrosanct moment.
After
lunch we went on an extended trot around the surrounding valley. My
horse was exchanged for another and I felt as if I’d started over
and all that horsemanship knowledge I'd acquired in the morning had
vanished. It was back to the bone jostling, ball smashing
extravaganza. Yes.
The
land we passed through was much the same as the rest of the journey
but for some reason the post apocalyptic nuclear holocaust feel to
the region seemed never more poignant than when we were hop, hop,
hopping along in the area around Lo Manthang. The brutal wind, scare
inhabitants, and the soft echo of horse steps in the dirt did nothing
to discourage the image. It felt as if I truly had located the end of
the earth.
The
late afternoon found us in the hills above Lo Manthang at yet another
ancient monastery. By now the Wind Demon was particularly ornery and
a constant gale was frequently stealing my breath. As we approached
the monastery we noticed that a signboard in front of the adjacent
school informed all visitors that classes were at an end and would be
resumed in Pokhara for the winter.
Forlorn
would not describe the place. No people, a biting wind, and only
those pleasant mastiffs I described before were stirring, if by
‘stirring’ I mean furiously barking/gurgling like they had just
been smacked in the junk with a hot poker. One was particularly
threatening and I found his/her incessant barking rather disquieting.
My uneasiness mostly sprang from the fact that Benji was not
tethered, making the only thing standing between me and a vicious
mauling was the raised concrete platform (five or six feet from
ground level) on which the monastery stood. Apparently, my threat was
not grave enough to require a death lung or the surmounting of a set
of concrete steps twenty feet away. Although Ram did not seem to
sweat Cujo as much, I still believe that an attack was not such a
outlandish idea, but what the hell do I know?
After
a few tense minutes a young guy did show up to let us have a look
inside (after paying the customary 100 rps of course) and quiet the
hounds of hell. This monastery was much less impressive than the
others I’d visited and felt a bit neglected. Then again, perhaps I
was a bit jaded, this being my fifth or sixth monastery on the trip.
The visit was short and the silence broken just before we left with,
‘So, this is the oldest monastery in the area.’ End explanation.
In the
village below the monastery I encountered two small children sitting
quietly in the dust. They both sat there in silence, the boy quietly
playing with a homemade spin toy invoking just enough interest to
warrant the activity, the girl staring in my direction if for no
other reason than that being the most natural position in which to
face her head. Something about this seen struck me. For lack of a
better word it was ‘moving’ if not entirely poetic. At first I
was simply photographing the scene behind them but upon closer
inspection was compelled to get a closer look. At no time did they
protest, or even react for that matter. No smiles, no sound. Just
quite resignation.
To
what or whom were they resigning? Their fate? The inescapable,
undeniable nature of their circumstances? That childlike wonder and
innocence that often captures my imagination was nonexistent. These
were the eyes of a village elder who long ago accepted the path the
universe had laid out for them. But these were just toddlers.
Normally, such kids are blissfully unaware of the struggle, the
potential hopelessness and sorrow that surrounds them and is the
inevitable result of existence in such a harsh environment far from
the modern world. They sat there and barely shifted as I snapped a
few photos with expressions that seemed to say, Go ahead
mister, take your photographs. It matters little to us and we have
not the strength to protest anyhow. You mean nothing to us, as we
mean nothing more to you than a pathetic scene you encountered while
on holiday. What are we to you? Nothing more than a coffee house
conversation filled with pointless conclusions about the state of the
developed world. When you return to shopping malls and high speed
internet we’ll still be here in the dust waiting for someone to
notice, to care. So go on. Snap your picture and go on your way.
On
more than one occasion I’ve felt guilty about snapping photos of
local inhabitants even when given permission. It always feels a bit
like I am exploiting their situation and somehow disrespecting their
dignity as a sentient being. This was no different but something
about the undeniable pathos permeating the scene compelled me to take
some photographs. It is amazing how in the course of two or three
minutes such a seemingly mundane scenario can stoke the fire of
emotion and stop one in his tracks.
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'Love me or hate me, but spare me your indifference.' -- Libbie Fudim