Hi Friends, Not one of our bodies has caught up to Eastern Standard Time. No wonder. We hurtle at 36,000 feet for 15 hours over Russia, and then Poland, and finally Greenland, and Canada, and then cross into American air space, and stagger into a line of New Jersey Customs Officers at 4:30 a.m., who ask, Have you been on a farm? No, I answer, but my mind thinks, The whole of western Nepal is a farm, and the luckier parts of the Kathmandu Valley as well, though Sushma Joshi is right that the Valley's rivers are choking on plastic. I have been within spitting distance of yaks and monkeys, water buffalo and black cobras, rabid dogs and yarchen gonpo (the fabled summer grass/winter worm--or is it the other way around?--the seemingly dual plant/animal that Tibetans drop into their moonshine).
Next question: Was I there, in Nepal, on business? No, I answer again, but if you want to talk about spiritual profits, then yes. Am I carrying any food into the country? I 'fess up. Yes, I stammer, and unzip my luggage to show my plastic-sealed Haldiram's bhujia. "That's okay," he concedes, but he misses by thousands of miles. A bag of bhujia is the life of my pre-dawn parties since I've been back. Awake at 4 a.m.? No problem. Put on the kettle to make my first cups of Darjeeling tea, and unzip the bhujia. It's called Indian and Nepali junk food, but please: its crunchy vermicelli-tiny bits of chick pea flour squiggle, with salt and chili powder. If Paul Simon had traveled to Nepal, he would have written the song about Bhujia instead of Kodachrome. Same tune, and same refrain: Please don't take my bhujia away. Bhujia is what Jenna and I took to the Ambassador and his wife when we went for dinner on our final night in Nepal. Jenna defended our choice as we handed over a giant bag of bhujia. "No," the Ambassador intervened. "This stuff is great."
So now (this is my wild pre-dawn party) I sit in a house full of cats and paintings and objects collected since my first travels to south Asia in 1985. I walk around the yard (even before it is light outside--I want to hear the shy wood thrushes). Tall phlox is the flower of the week, taller than I am, with clusters of Pepto Bismol pink and lavender-pink blossoms that look spectacular against my turquoise house. Their perfume is like a sweet black pepper, especially in the dark.
On my lap is Mary, my oldest cat, who lived through a horrible injury just before I traveled in June, and who had to have stints and antibiotics while I was away. Only because my friends Jessica and Barbara Vance and Marlene Benson, who care for the cats while I am away--only because these women have absolute compassion for life--could my old friend Mary live for us to sit together again. Mary is not going to live long--she is skeletal. But her face and her eyes are bright. And she is purring.
I have just turned the calendar page to August. I have a great Frida Kahlo calendar, and this month, the painting is one of her zigzag cut watermelons, into one of whose drenched pink insides is written, Viva la vida. Long live life.
That's the motto for my wild pre-dawn parties from now on. Whenever I may have the chance again to travel and return, to be charged as I am now with the warp of circumscribing the planet, whenever, from now on, I feel home and far from home, Frida's invocation will be my banner. Long live life. And let's toast also (lift your cup of Darjeeling with mine) to what Buddha said: As you walk and eat and travel, be wherever you are; otherwise, you will miss most of your own life.
We DO miss Nepal already. Scott and Leija DeLisi, our new friends--what an inspiring last evening with you. We miss you. And all of our old friends, weeping with us at the airport, we miss you.
But let's see what new happinesses we can grow here, now, like a crop: what new paintings, and what other new reasons for wild pre-dawn parties like mine today, right now. Here are the seeds and the supplies I have: my family, my friends, my animals, my gardens, my woods, my students, my paintings, and one more unsiezed bag of bhujia. Viva la vida. Jane
Monday, August 9, 2010
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Saying goodbyes and anticipating hellos
We will be heading to the airport in a couple of hours. Yesterday we walked around Kathmandu within the 2-3 block radius around the Guest House that we have roamed multiple times a day for 12 days now. Yes, we could walk further, but within those blocks lies everything in the world you can imagine that you would ever need to buy. There must be dozens of jewelry shops, shops that sell pashima wool (like our friend Sunil), thankas, wood carvings, brass statues, embroidered rugs and tapestries, groceries, books, clothes and tailor shops.
We went by our friend Firdoz's gem shop to say goodbye and promise to keep in touch. He especially wants Mary and Ella to email his children so they can remember each other and maybe see each other again. We stopped in the photo shop where our friend Rajif, who has printed hundreds of photos for us, has asked us about our names, jobs, families and insisted we come say goodbye before we leave. Even the street people, as I call them, who walk around and approach you with their musical instruments or little purses, or the rickshaw drivers who ask you for the 10th time if you want a ride, know how many days we have left because every day they ask. I'm trying to resist the urge to buy those little things that I have eyed for days. Things I don't really need, but just like. Feeding Mary and Ella here is costing me enough rupees per day, so I have tried to be conservative, although you won't believe me when you see some of the things I bring home :)
The shop owners who called out to us insistently the first few days to come into their shop, "Please come look, looking is free, Madam!", now just nod politely or say "Namaste!" when we pass. The ones who have not been too pushy, who have treated us like guests and not like tourists, I have tried to at least visit their shops and support them a bit.
I logged on this morning, our last morning, to do a last minute email check to be sure nothing has changed with flights or our DC pickup. I found emails from friends wishing us a safe journey home. I read the sweetest comments ever on our blog or on Facebook. Now I'm getting all emotional, darn it, to see you all. I will refrain from getting all sappy, except to say thanks. Your time reading and commenting, your thoughts and prayer....it means everything.
See you soon.
Reba
We went by our friend Firdoz's gem shop to say goodbye and promise to keep in touch. He especially wants Mary and Ella to email his children so they can remember each other and maybe see each other again. We stopped in the photo shop where our friend Rajif, who has printed hundreds of photos for us, has asked us about our names, jobs, families and insisted we come say goodbye before we leave. Even the street people, as I call them, who walk around and approach you with their musical instruments or little purses, or the rickshaw drivers who ask you for the 10th time if you want a ride, know how many days we have left because every day they ask. I'm trying to resist the urge to buy those little things that I have eyed for days. Things I don't really need, but just like. Feeding Mary and Ella here is costing me enough rupees per day, so I have tried to be conservative, although you won't believe me when you see some of the things I bring home :)
The shop owners who called out to us insistently the first few days to come into their shop, "Please come look, looking is free, Madam!", now just nod politely or say "Namaste!" when we pass. The ones who have not been too pushy, who have treated us like guests and not like tourists, I have tried to at least visit their shops and support them a bit.
I logged on this morning, our last morning, to do a last minute email check to be sure nothing has changed with flights or our DC pickup. I found emails from friends wishing us a safe journey home. I read the sweetest comments ever on our blog or on Facebook. Now I'm getting all emotional, darn it, to see you all. I will refrain from getting all sappy, except to say thanks. Your time reading and commenting, your thoughts and prayer....it means everything.
See you soon.
Reba
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
from Jane, August 4th: Last full day in Kathmandu
Hi Friends, I should say, I THINK it is our last full day in Kathmandu.
It's the morning of the 4th in Kathmandu, and the evening of the 3rd in Blacksburg, and as yet we have no printed tickets (e-ticketing makes me anxious), but today, the gods and the electricity willing, we will see actual plane tickets for tomorrow afternoon's flight to Delhi, and then onward home.
We have packing to do.
And goodbyes. To our friends, Pema Dhoka and Tenjin Thakuri, Mr. Bhatt and Yusef, to Sunil and Sarita, to Firdoze, to Narayan, to our new English friend, Tracy Litterick, on her way to Tibet, to Mingma Sherpa, and to all of our old friends at the Kathmandu Guest House, from the CEO, Rajan Sakya, to the housekeepers and the amazing gardener, to the tame supermodel-thin cats who are allowed to sleep in the garden in exchange for ratting duties.
Once we get to Delhi, we also have to say goodbye to Ashleigh Shepherd and to Mika Maloney (who returned to Kathmandu last night,
having spent glorious days in Pokhara, after her trek around the full circuit of the Annapurna; Moms and Dads, both Ashleigh and Mika look glamorous and glowing). We will miss them both terribly, but both are on their way to India for their first visits. They go with our admiration and love. Our summer was richer for their presence, and I am confident that their experience of Nepal will bloom into greater and greater
meaning, once they return to Virginia.
I hope so. My son, Emerson, about to start law school at UVa, says that his weeks with us at the beginning of this trip are definitely blooming for him. My daughter Iris, in med school at UVa, who has so sweetly followed every move and twitch of this trip, and who these
places when she was a child, still feels the exquisite effects of knowing Nepal.
Mary and Ella Hoffman, although they are only 12 and 8, have grown into capable world travelers in these six weeks, and, thanks to their amazing Mom's brilliant job mothering AND sharing her kids, Mary and Ella already plan their own returns.
We have already said our goodbyes to Tsampa and his family--they are all in Jomsom now, out west, in the high country--a world away. They will spend the day pitting apricots, and harvesting apples from Tsampa's orchard in Dhumpa.
Thank goodness it isn't easy to bring Nepali cats--and dogs--back to Virginia. I would be in real trouble.
Tonight, Jenna and I are invited back to His Excellency Ambassador Scott DeLisi's home, for a private, casual dinner with him and his wife Leija. How fortunate to have their company as a send-off. We liked them so much at the gala event they hosted to show A Gift for the Village to 52 amazing people this past Saturday evening. We are honored.
There is no re-capping a trip like this, but it is worth recalling that at the beginning of our Summer 2010 in Nepal, our hopes were to have the film shown in Kathmandu--which we have done, with great success; we didn't know back in June that our documentary would show in the Ambassador's home, as well as at the incredible Indigo Gallery, thanks to director/curator/artistic powerhouse of Nepal, James Giambrone, as well as in the Kathmandu Guest House Film Hall.
We had the dream of walking our film 155 miles, to show the film to the 25th hereditary King of Lo. We didn't know back in June that in fact the film would first have a private audience first with the Prince's nephew, our friend Raju Bista, in the beautiful Upper Mustang village of Ghemi, who is Pema Dhoka's brother-in-law, and then a private audience screening with the King, the Prince, and the Princess.
And then, on July 17 evening, with explicit royal permission and request, a screening indeed on the Palace adobe outer wall, for the village of Lo.
I must say that the generator and the sound system were perfect there, and that, seeing our film show in huge and perfect focus on that dark evening, on the medieval wall of Lo Monthang's Palace, at the request of King Jigme Palwar Bista, was a feeling I will never forget.
Our audience that night included villagers, the few other trekkers who had made it to Lo, and our incredible friend Luigi Fieni, the head of restoration for the American Himalayan Foundation, who has spent twelve years, so far, restoring the oldest giant temple in Lo, so important in part because there are several fresco Tibetan deities painted there that are to be found nowhere else in the world.
The next morning, Jenna filmed a rooftop conversation between Luigi and me, one of our favorite hours in Nepal. What impressed youa bout the film, we asked, and Luigi was extremely supportive. My compliment from him was that what surprised him, seeing a Gift for the Village and my commitment to Tibetan art and its ideas was, "Ahh, here is a Lady Luigi."
Such a beautiful Italian man, and such a charismatic compliment. He laughed hard when I rejoined, "Ahh, you meant to say, here (pointing to him) is a Gentleman Jane."
Luigi and Jenna and I hope to collaborate on a show--we double-promised to do so. His photographs, with my paintings, with Jenna's videography documenting, and to some extent creating, the effects of this blend. I can't wait.
I never want to end a trip to Nepal without thanking Jenna, my best friend and travel partner since 1999. I said, at the end of our 2007 trip, that Jenna continues to amaze me. She still does.
Jenna and Tracy (from Sheffield, England) went mountain-biking with our guide Narayan yesterday--an epic adventure that included riding on top of a crazy bus, WITH their bikes, over seriously bumpy roads and on cliff edges, bouncing and screaming and laughing, ducking powerlines and being slapped by tree limbs--let alone the hour of riding IN Kathmandu traffic, to Bhaktapur, sucking diesel smoke and eating grit. The bikes, Tracy added, didn't really have brakes. But they went up to Nagarkot, and rode down, and lived to tell the story. They probably went 25 miles, each safe rotation of their wheels a miracle.
Jenna came back grinning from the adventure. One day, when she turns 108 (lucky Buddhist number) and she does leave this earth, look for her as a cloud shaped like a superfit woman riding a superslick mountain bike (a supercool videocamera strapped to her supermuscular back).
And, once you have spotted her, just TRY to clock the speed with which that beautiful cloud--unlike all the other clouds in the sky, who have all accepted preconceptions about the limited things a cloud can do--just TRY to clock the speed, or measure the grace--as that Jenna-form takes off.
Many thanks to all of you who have followed our trip.
I give a talk at The Taubman Museum, part of their midday Lunchbox Series, a few days before our film premiere on the evening of September 16th. Tom Landon will help post (please, Tom!) the time and date of that presentation. I have worked on it in the last few days in Kathmandu, and feel pleased with finished essay.
Tashi deleg and orche to all of our friends and family here and back home. So so so so la! Victory to the gods. Victory over the causes of suffering. Victory to the wisdom and compassion in the human heart. Jane
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Dinner with Nepali friends, by Reba
It's Monday, and we have only three full days left here in Kathmandu. In the last few days, we have had the pleasure of having meals with friends in their homes. First, Sunil and Sarita hosted us again, and this time we got to meet their new granddaughter. Their son Saroj and his wife Arun live with them, and they welcomed a new baby just two weeks ago. She is absolutely perfect, although she was not impressed that there was a houseful of Americans oooh-ing and aaahing over her....she slept the whole time we were there. As usual, Sarita fixed a LOT of food, and they also had Jane a birthday cake.
Next we were invited to the home of Firdos, who runs the Gem Empire store where Mary and Ella got beautiful necklaces. Mary's is a black opal set with a green amethyst, Ella chose a gorgeous tiger-eye. Firdos has many finished pieces, but Mary and Ella sat down and went through his collection of loose stones and chose their favorites (within a reasonable price range) and he put them in silver settings.
We walked with Firdos to his home after he closed his shop one evening, and as we entered his home, his mother was doing her evening prayers on the kitchen floor. They are Muslim, and it was quite the culteral experience for all of us. We entered a room and sat on the floor, and Firdos brought us the food prepared by his wife. He told us that he would not be eating with us, but would eat later with the family. His 6 year old son, Aaman, ate with us. He was studying English in school and could understand our questions, and answered in very good English. He also had some well-rehearsed speeches that he recited for us. Atiya is Firdos' 8 year old daughter who was too shy to interact with us, although she watched and listened.
Firdos' parents and brother also live there, and we had an audience while we ate. It was odd to me, being invited to dinner but not eating with our hosts. I have no experience and very little knowledge of the Muslim faith and customs, but I felt so welcomed and comfortable. I'm not sure if our limited contact with his wife was a cultural thing or whether it was due to her inability to talk with us, but his mother, who also did not speak English, came in and sat down with us. Several times she fussed at us through Firdos that we were not eating enough.
Finally, yesterday we went to our upper Mustang guide Narayan's home. His wife delivered their second child, a son, just 10 days ago while we were returning from our trek. They share their home with Narayan's brother who is an artist, and his sister, who lost her husband a year ago and has a young daughter. Juice first, then tea, then french fries and vegetable pokura, then finally dhal batt with rice and greens. Then tea again. We were there for four hours, holding the baby and playing with his smart 5 year old daughter, Nikita, who loved Ella.
We are so lucky. We are guests here, and like other tourists have visited the popular sites, eaten in the restaurants and stayed in guest houses. But I wonder how many visitors to Nepal get invited into homes for meals and are treated like family? Mary and Ella have had very rich experiences and interactions here, and have been very well recieved. I hope the impression we have left is a favorable one.
In all three Nepali homes, extended families live together. They work together and share everything, and I can't help but notice how happy they all seem to be, especially the kids. How wonderful for these children to have so much family around them to depend on. I want this for all kids. For my kids.
Which reminds me of how much I miss everyone back home. I can't wait to be with family and friends again, even to talk about routine things and catch up on thier lives. I'm anxious to hear the stories Mary and Ella will tell their dad, my Mom and Dad, Grandma Rose, Kristi, Lawrence and Rachel, and Grandpa Richard. It will be so much fun to hear it all again from their perspective.
See you all soon. We love you.
Next we were invited to the home of Firdos, who runs the Gem Empire store where Mary and Ella got beautiful necklaces. Mary's is a black opal set with a green amethyst, Ella chose a gorgeous tiger-eye. Firdos has many finished pieces, but Mary and Ella sat down and went through his collection of loose stones and chose their favorites (within a reasonable price range) and he put them in silver settings.
We walked with Firdos to his home after he closed his shop one evening, and as we entered his home, his mother was doing her evening prayers on the kitchen floor. They are Muslim, and it was quite the culteral experience for all of us. We entered a room and sat on the floor, and Firdos brought us the food prepared by his wife. He told us that he would not be eating with us, but would eat later with the family. His 6 year old son, Aaman, ate with us. He was studying English in school and could understand our questions, and answered in very good English. He also had some well-rehearsed speeches that he recited for us. Atiya is Firdos' 8 year old daughter who was too shy to interact with us, although she watched and listened.
Firdos' parents and brother also live there, and we had an audience while we ate. It was odd to me, being invited to dinner but not eating with our hosts. I have no experience and very little knowledge of the Muslim faith and customs, but I felt so welcomed and comfortable. I'm not sure if our limited contact with his wife was a cultural thing or whether it was due to her inability to talk with us, but his mother, who also did not speak English, came in and sat down with us. Several times she fussed at us through Firdos that we were not eating enough.
Finally, yesterday we went to our upper Mustang guide Narayan's home. His wife delivered their second child, a son, just 10 days ago while we were returning from our trek. They share their home with Narayan's brother who is an artist, and his sister, who lost her husband a year ago and has a young daughter. Juice first, then tea, then french fries and vegetable pokura, then finally dhal batt with rice and greens. Then tea again. We were there for four hours, holding the baby and playing with his smart 5 year old daughter, Nikita, who loved Ella.
We are so lucky. We are guests here, and like other tourists have visited the popular sites, eaten in the restaurants and stayed in guest houses. But I wonder how many visitors to Nepal get invited into homes for meals and are treated like family? Mary and Ella have had very rich experiences and interactions here, and have been very well recieved. I hope the impression we have left is a favorable one.
In all three Nepali homes, extended families live together. They work together and share everything, and I can't help but notice how happy they all seem to be, especially the kids. How wonderful for these children to have so much family around them to depend on. I want this for all kids. For my kids.
Which reminds me of how much I miss everyone back home. I can't wait to be with family and friends again, even to talk about routine things and catch up on thier lives. I'm anxious to hear the stories Mary and Ella will tell their dad, my Mom and Dad, Grandma Rose, Kristi, Lawrence and Rachel, and Grandpa Richard. It will be so much fun to hear it all again from their perspective.
See you all soon. We love you.
August 1, from Jane
Friends, It has taken me 24 hours to think of how to begin this e-mail.
What if suddenly there were a new color, a lemonwhite, for example, off the ordinarily visible chart, that has a scent associated, gardenia and frangipani, jasmine and New Orleans ginger blanc and tea olive, all at once, a heaven of white flower perfumes blending into a color so soothing and exciting and sweet, we can barely imagine it.
This clear, sweet, unimaginable perfume was our evening at His Excellency Ambassador Scott DeLisi and his wife Leija DeLisi's home last night.
Fifty-two incredibly accomplished people, including the Ambassadors from Switzerland and Holland, filmmakers, the best bronze and thangka artists and monastery restorers in Nepal, newspaper columnists, authors, doctors, television reporters, humanitarians, healers: these stunningly gracious, highly skilled professionals, each one friendly and intelligent, beautiful and poised, all gathered and heard the most elegant, seemingly impromptu introductions from the Ambassador, who didn't need a single note in front of him. Only when I heard Jane Goodall speak did I see this level of calm mastery and absolutely flawless eloquent delivery.
After greeting us personally with rich blessing scarves, and greeting all of his other guests, the Ambassador introduced the evening, and his words were all about A Gift for the Village as an example of the bridges we all need to attempt, that Nepal itself needs to attempt within its politics, that are every individual's greatest goals to aspire to help build. Jenna and Tsampa (in his most formal electric-marigold lama robes) and I could not have been accorded greater honor.
Ambassador DeLisi is an incredible statesman and an inspirational orator, and a gem of a human being, and Leia is brilliant and generous. What a night.
The film showed, followed by an incredible dinner at tables all around their magnificent home full of breathtaking art, and everyone circulated and told each other stories and very lavishly praised our film.
Jenna and I have been invited to return on our last night in Nepal for a very casual private dinner with the Ambassador and his wife. We can't wait.
A Gift for the Village grew wings last night. So did we. Jane
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Firing up the publicity machine...
While Jenna and Jane prepare for their big night at the US Embassy in Kathmandu, Tom sat down with Bruce Bryan of 101.5FM in Roanoke to talk about the film and the premiere. You can listen live Sunday Morning, August 1 at 8.am. or listen live or after the fact at the station's website:
http://www.1015themusicplace.com/program-descriptions/roanoke-valley-conversations.html
http://www.1015themusicplace.com/program-descriptions/roanoke-valley-conversations.html
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Our Pleasure, please: An Ambassador's Invitation, from Jane, July 29
Today Jenna and I picked up four invitations, for Jenna, Amchi Tsampa, his daughter Lhakpa Dhoma, and me. We must R.S.V.P. by phone as well as present the invitations at the security gate. Each invitation is individually printed, and embossed with a golden great seal of the United States of America. The text of mine reads:
The Ambassador of the United States of America
and Mrs. Scott H. DeLisi
request the pleasure of the company of
Ms. Jane Vance
at the screening of "A Gift for the Village" with the Amchi Lama
followed by Buffet Dinner
on Saturday, July 31, 2010
at six-thirty o'clock p.m.
Included in each envelope is also a nice synopsis of our project and an introduction to the film.
Dress, praise the gods for my sake, is casual. Jenna has bought a beautiful salwar khameez--a long, flowing top and Arabian pants--in hot terracotta shades, so she will look ravishing, whereas my beauty will reside (where else?) in my necklaces.
I am so proud of my team, that this film now creates an evening event for an American Ambassador and his guests. How exciting.
I am so grateful to be part of a collaboration based on gifts. The heart of our film, in my mind, happens when Jenna speaks, near the end: "The gift happened long before the festival." She talks about reciprocation, and the synchronicity and confluence of so much generosity when two cultures really come together to share an experience.
We can't wait to bring the film to American audiences as well, once we are home. Jane
The Ambassador of the United States of America
and Mrs. Scott H. DeLisi
request the pleasure of the company of
Ms. Jane Vance
at the screening of "A Gift for the Village" with the Amchi Lama
followed by Buffet Dinner
on Saturday, July 31, 2010
at six-thirty o'clock p.m.
Included in each envelope is also a nice synopsis of our project and an introduction to the film.
Dress, praise the gods for my sake, is casual. Jenna has bought a beautiful salwar khameez--a long, flowing top and Arabian pants--in hot terracotta shades, so she will look ravishing, whereas my beauty will reside (where else?) in my necklaces.
I am so proud of my team, that this film now creates an evening event for an American Ambassador and his guests. How exciting.
I am so grateful to be part of a collaboration based on gifts. The heart of our film, in my mind, happens when Jenna speaks, near the end: "The gift happened long before the festival." She talks about reciprocation, and the synchronicity and confluence of so much generosity when two cultures really come together to share an experience.
We can't wait to bring the film to American audiences as well, once we are home. Jane
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
E-mail from a Prince, from Jane, July 28
Today we have a wonderful e-mail from Jigme Bista, the Prince of Lo, in western Nepal. It is proper to say "former" Prince when you are here in Kathmandu, but out in Upper Mustang, that disentitlement is never spoken. Nepal's governmental structure is in flux, but the twenty-five generations of royalty in Upper Mustang is hundreds of years older than the current feuds, and Prince Jigme is so elegant and articulate and compassionate that I will always remember him simply as the Prince. Here is his e-mail:
Dear Jane,
A big congratulation to you on your documentary film!
Although we, the people of Lo (Mustang), don't know much
about modern art, you've touched our hearts and minds with your art and
inspired us. The various colors that you used in the painting and the amount of
detail you paid attention to is remarkable. I hope there will be aspiring artists in Mustang in the years to come.
I say this with immense gratitude that you have in a way contributed
in conserving our culture and traditions. I'm certain many will watch it with
great interest and enthusiasm.
I wish you luck and happiness.
Best regards,
Jigme S. P. Bista.
(Former Prince of Mustang)
Dear Jane,
A big congratulation to you on your documentary film!
Although we, the people of Lo (Mustang), don't know much
about modern art, you've touched our hearts and minds with your art and
inspired us. The various colors that you used in the painting and the amount of
detail you paid attention to is remarkable. I hope there will be aspiring artists in Mustang in the years to come.
I say this with immense gratitude that you have in a way contributed
in conserving our culture and traditions. I'm certain many will watch it with
great interest and enthusiasm.
I wish you luck and happiness.
Best regards,
Jigme S. P. Bista.
(Former Prince of Mustang)
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Ashes and Names: July 27, from Jane again
I can't help but notice that this is our 108th blog post. Buddhist malas (prayer necklaces, like Catholic rosaries) have 108 beads. A very lucky number.
Today, our chivalrous, handsome, selfless guide for the extreme Upper Mustang trek, Narayan Bhatta, wrote me a very sweet e-mail in response to a request he made early on our last morning in Jomsom, when he told me that he had just learned he had a new son--born in the wee hours of July 23rd. He requested that I give his son one name--which will stay with him, and be joined by a Nepali name, once the priests decide which name is right--in about five months.
I wrote Narayan with my suggestion, and tonight, I got this response:
-----------------
Dear Jane mom
Thank you so much for your kind mail, i feel so good mom, and glad to have a son name, thank you so much for lovely name, from now he's name is Emerson Bhatta.
-----------------
This news marks one of the sweetest parts yet of our bridge now between America and Nepal. Emerson Bhatta, like my own son Emerson, is family.
My friend in Blacksburg, Alwyn Moss, has written about the importance of naming, and Narayan's sweet e-mail has got me thinking tonight about this idea, about names, and giving a name, and naming what you give.
If you do not give something a name, you may not see it.
If you never see it, you may not believe there is anything there to take care of.
If you have no obligations toward it, you have no need to give.
And, as the proverb from the poorest slums of Calcutta, India, teaches (quoted in Dominique LaPierre's great book, City of Joy), Everything not given is lost.
Jenna and I love that proverb. So does our friend Lucinda Roy.
Everything not given is lost.
Before I left for Nepal, I visited my student Morgan Harrington's mother, Gil. I wrote to Mrs. Harrington because I had two of Morgan's essays, in the original, with two of her drawings.
I had contacted detectives early during what turned out to be 101 days of searching for Morgan before we all learned that she had been murdered. Morgan was in my Creative Process class the semester before she died, and I loved her. She sat in the front row. All of my other students in that class remember her, bright, beautiful, witty, humble.
Just a week after Morgan was missing, a wonderful, gentle, patient special agent came to Blacksburg and interviewed me for two hours, talking about Morgan, her writing for my class, my impressions, every angle of intuition and possibility I could brainstorm. I wanted with all my heart to be helpful.
The agent allowed that if Morgan were alive, and in some kind of hostage situation, she might--possibly--somehow--be allowed to see who was trying to write to her, in which case, he advised, it might be good if I wrote to her, as her professor.
In those 101 days, I wrote sixty e-mails to Morgan. She had expressed a strong interest in coming to Nepal with me one day, and especially in seeing the Elements Temple at Mukhtinath which 8-year-old Ella Hoffman wrote about a few days ago. I promised her that I would take her.
After her class visited, Morgan also said that she needed to show my house and the paintings to her parents. Yes, I said. Please bring them to my home one day.
As it happens, Morgan is in our documentary, three times. First, when Jenna filmed a class at my home--each of my Creative Process classes comes to my home for dinner at the end of the semester, while I teach a lesson on Visual Yoga and Narrative Art--the class she happened to film was Morgan's. There is Morgan, sitting on my living room floor, beaming, as she takes in the large paintings all around her.
Secondly, we also use a still photograph of Tsampa when he was at Virginia Tech, after teaching my class for an afternoon, all of us standing before the chalkboard. In the photograph, a group shot, I am standing to Tsampa's immediate right. To his immediate left stands Morgan, looking especially beautiful.
I had not contacted the Harringtons during the 101 days of their ordeal, when Morgan was missing. I did not know them--only their daughter--though she had written intimately to me of her intense admiration and love for her mother and her father. I did not want to cause them any grain of additional pain, being a stranger, contacting them possibly at some wrong moment.
But before this trip to Nepal, I wrote to them. I introduced myself, and explained that I had some of Morgan's work, and that I wanted them to have it when the time was right. Before a hard trip to Nepal, with the uncertainties of our long trek, I wanted to be sure I contacted the Harringtons, because I had what belonged to them.
Gil Harrington wrote back to me immediately, with breathtaking graciousness, and invited me to her home--just days before I left on this trip.
I drove there, and I can not remember spending a more powerful few hours in my life.
For me, Morgan's professor, to be led upstairs to her room--to see the copy of the Amchi painting that I had signed for her, framed and opposite her bed--to see Morgan's closet, her walls, her own stunning paintings--to see the house that was her home--to sit with her mother--to be with Gil while she read the incredible, detailed dedications that Morgan wrote about both of her parents--to comprehend that Morgan had INSISTED that I keep these papers. "But Morgan, these are YOUR papers. Make me a copy. You have gotten A's on them, really strong A's. Your parents will want to see this work," I had said at the end of the semester. "No," she had said, "YOU keep these."
And although we met during the week of my departure, Gil and I felt so much kinship that we squeezed in Morgan's wish for her parents to come and see my home, and the paintings, before I left for Nepal. I didn't know I could love anyone quite in the way I love Gil, but I love Dan that much, too. What incredible human beings, BOTH Dan and Gil. We had the best evening together, a feast of companionship. No wonder Morgan wrote with such wisdom and compassion. No wonder she was so beautiful.
Gil and Dan gave me the extreme honor of bringing some of Morgan's ashes to the Himalayas.
I carried them in a beautiful packet which had Morgan's photograph on it, hidden among my traveler's cheques and identification cards. Often, I checked the packet, and looked at Morgan.
When our team reached the west of Nepal, I had to give her up.
And I found that I was terribly emotional, really resistant, to give up Morgan's ashes.
But I had carried them to give them, the way you give a name.
And as I have given two Emersons, I gave Morgan to two places. She is at Mukhtinath, the Elements Temple, at 14,000 feet, and when I delivered her ashes there, dozens of Tibetan nuns happened to be chanting on three sides inside the shrine, like a vibrating hive of otherworldly bees. I have been to Mukhtinath three times, but this was the first time nuns were there, singing prayers and smiling and nodding as our team came in--the only visitors--and smiling, as I wept, to give up part of Morgan.
The other part, I gave to Tsampa, after explaining Morgan's murder. He took the other part of her ashes to do an extremely special ceremony on Dhumpa Mountain, where the air is full of dakinis, sky-dancers, female wisdom-beings who can contact a consciousness after it has left its body, who can remove obstacles for that consciousness, and who can empower a happy and richly enabled rebirth. Tsampa's tradition and training are rare, and his rituals are old and strong. I was thrilled that he offered this gift to Morgan. This was the greatest honor I could have hoped for her ashes.
And so, like a name, they are given.
The third and final time Morgan Harrington appears in A Gift for the Village is her name. When what you have is a name, and you love that name, you give it as a dedication. At the end, our documentary is honored to carry and to give Morgan's beautiful name.
Everything not given is lost.
I also believe in the sweet corollary: Everything given goes on. Jane
Today, our chivalrous, handsome, selfless guide for the extreme Upper Mustang trek, Narayan Bhatta, wrote me a very sweet e-mail in response to a request he made early on our last morning in Jomsom, when he told me that he had just learned he had a new son--born in the wee hours of July 23rd. He requested that I give his son one name--which will stay with him, and be joined by a Nepali name, once the priests decide which name is right--in about five months.
I wrote Narayan with my suggestion, and tonight, I got this response:
-----------------
Dear Jane mom
Thank you so much for your kind mail, i feel so good mom, and glad to have a son name, thank you so much for lovely name, from now he's name is Emerson Bhatta.
-----------------
This news marks one of the sweetest parts yet of our bridge now between America and Nepal. Emerson Bhatta, like my own son Emerson, is family.
My friend in Blacksburg, Alwyn Moss, has written about the importance of naming, and Narayan's sweet e-mail has got me thinking tonight about this idea, about names, and giving a name, and naming what you give.
If you do not give something a name, you may not see it.
If you never see it, you may not believe there is anything there to take care of.
If you have no obligations toward it, you have no need to give.
And, as the proverb from the poorest slums of Calcutta, India, teaches (quoted in Dominique LaPierre's great book, City of Joy), Everything not given is lost.
Jenna and I love that proverb. So does our friend Lucinda Roy.
Everything not given is lost.
Before I left for Nepal, I visited my student Morgan Harrington's mother, Gil. I wrote to Mrs. Harrington because I had two of Morgan's essays, in the original, with two of her drawings.
I had contacted detectives early during what turned out to be 101 days of searching for Morgan before we all learned that she had been murdered. Morgan was in my Creative Process class the semester before she died, and I loved her. She sat in the front row. All of my other students in that class remember her, bright, beautiful, witty, humble.
Just a week after Morgan was missing, a wonderful, gentle, patient special agent came to Blacksburg and interviewed me for two hours, talking about Morgan, her writing for my class, my impressions, every angle of intuition and possibility I could brainstorm. I wanted with all my heart to be helpful.
The agent allowed that if Morgan were alive, and in some kind of hostage situation, she might--possibly--somehow--be allowed to see who was trying to write to her, in which case, he advised, it might be good if I wrote to her, as her professor.
In those 101 days, I wrote sixty e-mails to Morgan. She had expressed a strong interest in coming to Nepal with me one day, and especially in seeing the Elements Temple at Mukhtinath which 8-year-old Ella Hoffman wrote about a few days ago. I promised her that I would take her.
After her class visited, Morgan also said that she needed to show my house and the paintings to her parents. Yes, I said. Please bring them to my home one day.
As it happens, Morgan is in our documentary, three times. First, when Jenna filmed a class at my home--each of my Creative Process classes comes to my home for dinner at the end of the semester, while I teach a lesson on Visual Yoga and Narrative Art--the class she happened to film was Morgan's. There is Morgan, sitting on my living room floor, beaming, as she takes in the large paintings all around her.
Secondly, we also use a still photograph of Tsampa when he was at Virginia Tech, after teaching my class for an afternoon, all of us standing before the chalkboard. In the photograph, a group shot, I am standing to Tsampa's immediate right. To his immediate left stands Morgan, looking especially beautiful.
I had not contacted the Harringtons during the 101 days of their ordeal, when Morgan was missing. I did not know them--only their daughter--though she had written intimately to me of her intense admiration and love for her mother and her father. I did not want to cause them any grain of additional pain, being a stranger, contacting them possibly at some wrong moment.
But before this trip to Nepal, I wrote to them. I introduced myself, and explained that I had some of Morgan's work, and that I wanted them to have it when the time was right. Before a hard trip to Nepal, with the uncertainties of our long trek, I wanted to be sure I contacted the Harringtons, because I had what belonged to them.
Gil Harrington wrote back to me immediately, with breathtaking graciousness, and invited me to her home--just days before I left on this trip.
I drove there, and I can not remember spending a more powerful few hours in my life.
For me, Morgan's professor, to be led upstairs to her room--to see the copy of the Amchi painting that I had signed for her, framed and opposite her bed--to see Morgan's closet, her walls, her own stunning paintings--to see the house that was her home--to sit with her mother--to be with Gil while she read the incredible, detailed dedications that Morgan wrote about both of her parents--to comprehend that Morgan had INSISTED that I keep these papers. "But Morgan, these are YOUR papers. Make me a copy. You have gotten A's on them, really strong A's. Your parents will want to see this work," I had said at the end of the semester. "No," she had said, "YOU keep these."
And although we met during the week of my departure, Gil and I felt so much kinship that we squeezed in Morgan's wish for her parents to come and see my home, and the paintings, before I left for Nepal. I didn't know I could love anyone quite in the way I love Gil, but I love Dan that much, too. What incredible human beings, BOTH Dan and Gil. We had the best evening together, a feast of companionship. No wonder Morgan wrote with such wisdom and compassion. No wonder she was so beautiful.
Gil and Dan gave me the extreme honor of bringing some of Morgan's ashes to the Himalayas.
I carried them in a beautiful packet which had Morgan's photograph on it, hidden among my traveler's cheques and identification cards. Often, I checked the packet, and looked at Morgan.
When our team reached the west of Nepal, I had to give her up.
And I found that I was terribly emotional, really resistant, to give up Morgan's ashes.
But I had carried them to give them, the way you give a name.
And as I have given two Emersons, I gave Morgan to two places. She is at Mukhtinath, the Elements Temple, at 14,000 feet, and when I delivered her ashes there, dozens of Tibetan nuns happened to be chanting on three sides inside the shrine, like a vibrating hive of otherworldly bees. I have been to Mukhtinath three times, but this was the first time nuns were there, singing prayers and smiling and nodding as our team came in--the only visitors--and smiling, as I wept, to give up part of Morgan.
The other part, I gave to Tsampa, after explaining Morgan's murder. He took the other part of her ashes to do an extremely special ceremony on Dhumpa Mountain, where the air is full of dakinis, sky-dancers, female wisdom-beings who can contact a consciousness after it has left its body, who can remove obstacles for that consciousness, and who can empower a happy and richly enabled rebirth. Tsampa's tradition and training are rare, and his rituals are old and strong. I was thrilled that he offered this gift to Morgan. This was the greatest honor I could have hoped for her ashes.
And so, like a name, they are given.
The third and final time Morgan Harrington appears in A Gift for the Village is her name. When what you have is a name, and you love that name, you give it as a dedication. At the end, our documentary is honored to carry and to give Morgan's beautiful name.
Everything not given is lost.
I also believe in the sweet corollary: Everything given goes on. Jane
from Jane, July 27
Hi Friends, Yesterday was my 52nd birthday, and our team spent it in great places. Our dear friend Sunil, whom I met as a driver for The Kathmandu Guest House 15 years ago (who now counts as family, and who has been to our homes in Virginia, and who has welcomed us into his home more times than is conscienable) took us out of the congestion and into the countryside.
The Kathmandu Valley is shaped like a circle, twenty-five miles in diameter, ringed by the Himalayas. On some edges of the valley there is still a sense of clean air, pastoral green, and wildlife. We went to those greener places.
We started in Patan, a former kingdom unto itself, with possibly the richest collection of wood and sundried brick pagodas and ornate resplendent Hindu and Buddhist temples in the Valley. We saw the Temple of the Thousand Buddhas, temples to preservers and destroyers and creators, temples to rare forms of certain gods and goddesses, temples so old that their central stone images--having been touched so much over the centuries--are soft illegible stone forms, worn down like fading sandcastles. We saw tables and tables of split coconuts, red hibiscus flowers, marigolds, neem leaves, and sequined gauze napkins, offerings to the images.
In the shops, we saw some of the best bronze statues in the world, and small exquisite Buddhas carved with the help of the artists' magnifying glasses into the spines of conch shells. We saw crystal Padmasambhavas and crystal phurbus, studded with emeralds and raw rubies.
We visited an old village, Bungamati, a sleepy two-street settlement which is a carver's village. I bought a sublime camphorwood Buddha, smelling like eucalyptus and peppermint all at once. Pema and her husband Tenjin Serap Thakuri found us--thanks to our friends' cell phones and Tenjin's motorcycle--and she presented me with a red birthday blessing scarf, a wooden sugarbowl, and a bronze protector Buddha. Hand in hand, I walked with Pema, past the watertank where the water buffalo were being allowed to bathe and dally; past the small clusters of mallards, past the old women with their earthen feet crossed at the ankle, past the medieval brick homes with their huge braids of red chilies and garlic hanging Rapunzel-fashion.
We drive on to Chobar Gorge, where Manjushri's sword--in mythological time--cut the earth, and the Kathmandu Valley, having once been a lake full of Nagas, drained.
We visited many amazing places, like the hilltop village of Kirtipur, where the fierce god Bhairav is worshiped in his tiger form, Singhabhairava. Dozens of cobwebbed buffalo skulls hung on the old mural walls there, with ghee-gooey bronze bells in huge metal snarls, and weapons in the multiple hands of all the wooden hipshot gods and goddesses on the second- and third-level pagoda temple struts: each weapon, a way to cut your own ego, to remove your mind from old habits of self-worship and other forms of illusion that lead to our old friends, sorrow, anxiety, and confusion. I for one need the whole arsenal.
Back at the Guest House, I had a message from the Cultural Affairs Officer for the American Ambassador here in Kathmandu. The Ambassador requested that I write a brief biography of Tsampa Ngawang, the amazing individual in the painting I began in 2001, which became the ostensible Gift for the Village. The Ambassador also requested an early copy of our documentary, so that he could tailor his remarks on the evening of the 31st, when we attend an event at his private home, in honor of our film. A runner from the American Embassy picked up A Gift for the Village this morning. I was told I will be asked to speak about our project, to forty assembled dignitaries and guests. What an honor, to have our film requested by the Ambassador! As another honor, the Ambassador has also extended airplane tickets to Tsampa from Jomsom to Kathmandu and back so that he and his daughter Lhakpa Dhoma can also attend the film event at his home. So Amchi Tsampa flies to town today.
Thanks for my birthday wishes, from my old friend Waruna, in the hills of Sri Lanka, and from my children, and from such great friends. Much love from Kathmandu, Jane
The Kathmandu Valley is shaped like a circle, twenty-five miles in diameter, ringed by the Himalayas. On some edges of the valley there is still a sense of clean air, pastoral green, and wildlife. We went to those greener places.
We started in Patan, a former kingdom unto itself, with possibly the richest collection of wood and sundried brick pagodas and ornate resplendent Hindu and Buddhist temples in the Valley. We saw the Temple of the Thousand Buddhas, temples to preservers and destroyers and creators, temples to rare forms of certain gods and goddesses, temples so old that their central stone images--having been touched so much over the centuries--are soft illegible stone forms, worn down like fading sandcastles. We saw tables and tables of split coconuts, red hibiscus flowers, marigolds, neem leaves, and sequined gauze napkins, offerings to the images.
In the shops, we saw some of the best bronze statues in the world, and small exquisite Buddhas carved with the help of the artists' magnifying glasses into the spines of conch shells. We saw crystal Padmasambhavas and crystal phurbus, studded with emeralds and raw rubies.
We visited an old village, Bungamati, a sleepy two-street settlement which is a carver's village. I bought a sublime camphorwood Buddha, smelling like eucalyptus and peppermint all at once. Pema and her husband Tenjin Serap Thakuri found us--thanks to our friends' cell phones and Tenjin's motorcycle--and she presented me with a red birthday blessing scarf, a wooden sugarbowl, and a bronze protector Buddha. Hand in hand, I walked with Pema, past the watertank where the water buffalo were being allowed to bathe and dally; past the small clusters of mallards, past the old women with their earthen feet crossed at the ankle, past the medieval brick homes with their huge braids of red chilies and garlic hanging Rapunzel-fashion.
We drive on to Chobar Gorge, where Manjushri's sword--in mythological time--cut the earth, and the Kathmandu Valley, having once been a lake full of Nagas, drained.
We visited many amazing places, like the hilltop village of Kirtipur, where the fierce god Bhairav is worshiped in his tiger form, Singhabhairava. Dozens of cobwebbed buffalo skulls hung on the old mural walls there, with ghee-gooey bronze bells in huge metal snarls, and weapons in the multiple hands of all the wooden hipshot gods and goddesses on the second- and third-level pagoda temple struts: each weapon, a way to cut your own ego, to remove your mind from old habits of self-worship and other forms of illusion that lead to our old friends, sorrow, anxiety, and confusion. I for one need the whole arsenal.
Back at the Guest House, I had a message from the Cultural Affairs Officer for the American Ambassador here in Kathmandu. The Ambassador requested that I write a brief biography of Tsampa Ngawang, the amazing individual in the painting I began in 2001, which became the ostensible Gift for the Village. The Ambassador also requested an early copy of our documentary, so that he could tailor his remarks on the evening of the 31st, when we attend an event at his private home, in honor of our film. A runner from the American Embassy picked up A Gift for the Village this morning. I was told I will be asked to speak about our project, to forty assembled dignitaries and guests. What an honor, to have our film requested by the Ambassador! As another honor, the Ambassador has also extended airplane tickets to Tsampa from Jomsom to Kathmandu and back so that he and his daughter Lhakpa Dhoma can also attend the film event at his home. So Amchi Tsampa flies to town today.
Thanks for my birthday wishes, from my old friend Waruna, in the hills of Sri Lanka, and from my children, and from such great friends. Much love from Kathmandu, Jane
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Landscapes: A message from Ashleigh
When asked what I might like to write about on the blog, the first thing that came to mind is the indescribable landscape of Jomsom, Kagbeni and the trail to Lo Manthang. I feel certain that the particular combination of colors and textures that make this land an astonishing work of art is indescribable, but I will do my best:
Seabuckthorn kindness,
A smile like rain quenching thirst,
Mr. Bhakti gives.
Jomsom sits by a river that has carved, for endless years, painted canyons of tundra-like majesty. Sheer, steep cliffs made of scree and compressed threads of prehistoric sediments. Cy and I find, in winding conversation, that this place reminds us both of the Beartooths in southern Montana mixed with the mountainous deserts of Idaho with a hint of California scrub. But, comparisons will not do: the wind of this valley is unlike any current I have every met.
Animals graze in high mountain-top pastures, quietly hidden in the clouds. I love how farmers set their animals free during the summer months--they can look after themselves as the rains fall on the valley. Amidst the rock and dust and afternoon wind that howls and screams and beats on our faces and fingers, are green fields: of the greenest I've ever seen. I realize how skilled the Mustang farmers are with their systems of irrigation. As the documentary shows, Mustang farmers have built wood-cast and stone channels that guide the flow of the waters so it will be most effective. People of Mustang are proud of their land and excitedly show us the way to their fields and describe every plant new and old, its properties, challenges and successes in growing AND offer us gifts of fruits and jam to take for the journey. Like Mr. Bhakti of Marpha, a town just an hour's walk from Jomsom. He greets us with great enthusiasm and quickly rearranges his day so that he can be our devoted guide. His name suits him: Bhakti means Devotion in Sanskrit.
Mr. Bhakti is a very accomplished man. He calls himself a social-worker. Even in our brief visit, I gather that he is a dedicated community leader. With great English, Mr. Bhakti weaves stories of apricot trees, Maoist infiltration, global warming and medicinal flowers. He offers us seabuckthorn berry juice and handfuls of fresh apricots: two varieties, local and Kashmiri. "Different taste," he says with a smile. He leads us along a pathway that opens at the edge of green fields. Each field is marked with a white stone at the center. The stone identifies to whom the field belongs. He joyfully shares news of his latest projects: he recently built solar powered showers and a clothes-washing tap for the lower caste people of his village, who cannot afford to wash. "This way, in my village, there is a smaller gap between rich and poor." He also talks about how, in Marpha, prices are adjusted for those families who cannot afford to pay full price on food and goods. What a noble man. His commitment, his devotion to making change happen NOW inspires me to commit to a community and, with courage and humility, become the change I wish to see in the world. Many thanks to our friend Mr. Bhakti.
Who can paint the wind?
Prayer flags in Upper Mustang.
Dust-storm dancing, blow.
...and so this is Kagbeni: the gateway to Upper Mustang, the gateway to restricted territory. From the edge of town, we see the door to the canyon, cliff-crossing trek that will lead us to Lo Manthang. Prayers are carved in stone and fingertips turn prayer-wheels to offer blessings to the wind. I imagine, for a moment, that wind is the breath of the world and we now reside in one of the windiest stone villages on earth. My face is covered in a layer of dust; my eyes squint with a thousand tiny sand crystals peeking through. The wind sweeps prayers and breath and even energy, perhaps -- but this sacred, quiet expanse nourishes the exhaustion back to life: as if we could be liberated of all our lesser qualities as the wind passes through. And what remains? A strong skeleton of possibility: naked and ready for seeds of newness. This is where I am: Kagbeni; wind-city; the gateway to Upper Mustang.
Fantastical world.
Red rock and windswept daydream,
unbelievable.
This land makes me feel quiet. How else to respond to something so unbelievable? The painted canyons carved like the red-heartwood of madrone or fallen oak; scratched by the claws of a giant cat: panther in the sky, snow-leopard paw. This land makes one believe in fantastical creatures. What else to say? I feel quiet. Riverbed, sharp canyon, speckled tundra, snow-capped peaks, irrigated green harvest. Pema Dhoka runs from the field to greet us. Her hands are covered in ashen earth from digging potatoes. She rushes to make us tea, make us lunch. Hardly stopping to take a breath, but always smiling. She loves to shower us with the gifts she knows, the abundance she grows and the spirit of the windy land she calls home. Gratitude.
Jaw drops at first sight,
Silk riverbeds grow gray gold.
Painted canyons hum.
Jane calls out: "Isn't this beautiful!" I laugh a little through my smile thinking of how I would be blind to disagree. I am drowning in disbelief: entering into a fantasy world where sheer red cliffs rise from silk riverbeds whose stones are fossilized history books of what flows and grows and changes as water passes over rock. What is most shocking is the contrast of colors and shapes and textures. The red-orange drip-castle shapes of Canyonlands, Utah (stretched in breadth and height) rise through a magnifying glass toward the sky. And burnt-purple embers burned by ash, not by fire; resin cooked in smoke, not in flame. The gray dust that sparkles blue in the sunlight and ices the red castles like sugar on gingerbread cookies. No -- more magnificent and robust than gingerbread cookies. ...The gray dust that sparkles blue in the sunlight and ices the red castles like like clear shoe polish, but more surprising. With my camera angled just-so, I try to capture the palette of colors laid bare before my eyes: Quartz white speckled with river-stones of blue, gray and golden-brown. Dry-wood brown sediment compressed flat by weight and time. Virginia red-clay angled like shards of glass or books stacked sideways. Dusty-green paint, almost like ether, speckling the tundra, but smoother than speckled. And the riverbed mud shines like fools gold. I resist the temptation of stopping every few meters to snap a photos of the marble blues and grays and whites: swirling, curling, playing with the trickle of the tiny streams like hair-strands or witch-fingers. Swimming in beauty. We walk across scree and sandy earth and wind plays with our scarves and hair. The climate is extreme: when the wind blows, it Blows. When the sun shines, it Beats down like a hot iron. When the clouds roll in, they are low and full and heavy. We enjoy the rise and fall of this land: remarkable and remote.
...Remote for but a few years longer. The government is funding the building of roads into Upper Mustang. As we walked out of Kagbeni, we had to share the road with a monstrous leveling machine. The one whose wheels look like a centipede rolling, rolling, rolling and flattening the rocky earth: making way for more landslides, more traffic, more tourists sleeping in the back of tour-buses. I felt like an insect in the Ferngully Forest, being ground to dust by the neon noise. After the unlikely and incredible bridge built by 10 years of hard work on A Gift for the Village, perhaps the most outstanding characteristic of our journey to Lo Manthang is the timing. Machines move quickly: uprooting earth that has kept the secrets of this land for centuries.
But for now, my heart is grateful to witness the grandeur of the gray-gold rivers, the blood-red pulsing canyons, the blue-ether painted watercolor mountains, the sharp snow-capped magic high peaks, and the sunlight-colored generosity of the friends and strangers we meet. Thank you, Jane and Jenna, for welcoming me on the journey. Just breathing here expands my belief in what is possible.
Seabuckthorn kindness,
A smile like rain quenching thirst,
Mr. Bhakti gives.
Jomsom sits by a river that has carved, for endless years, painted canyons of tundra-like majesty. Sheer, steep cliffs made of scree and compressed threads of prehistoric sediments. Cy and I find, in winding conversation, that this place reminds us both of the Beartooths in southern Montana mixed with the mountainous deserts of Idaho with a hint of California scrub. But, comparisons will not do: the wind of this valley is unlike any current I have every met.
Animals graze in high mountain-top pastures, quietly hidden in the clouds. I love how farmers set their animals free during the summer months--they can look after themselves as the rains fall on the valley. Amidst the rock and dust and afternoon wind that howls and screams and beats on our faces and fingers, are green fields: of the greenest I've ever seen. I realize how skilled the Mustang farmers are with their systems of irrigation. As the documentary shows, Mustang farmers have built wood-cast and stone channels that guide the flow of the waters so it will be most effective. People of Mustang are proud of their land and excitedly show us the way to their fields and describe every plant new and old, its properties, challenges and successes in growing AND offer us gifts of fruits and jam to take for the journey. Like Mr. Bhakti of Marpha, a town just an hour's walk from Jomsom. He greets us with great enthusiasm and quickly rearranges his day so that he can be our devoted guide. His name suits him: Bhakti means Devotion in Sanskrit.
Mr. Bhakti is a very accomplished man. He calls himself a social-worker. Even in our brief visit, I gather that he is a dedicated community leader. With great English, Mr. Bhakti weaves stories of apricot trees, Maoist infiltration, global warming and medicinal flowers. He offers us seabuckthorn berry juice and handfuls of fresh apricots: two varieties, local and Kashmiri. "Different taste," he says with a smile. He leads us along a pathway that opens at the edge of green fields. Each field is marked with a white stone at the center. The stone identifies to whom the field belongs. He joyfully shares news of his latest projects: he recently built solar powered showers and a clothes-washing tap for the lower caste people of his village, who cannot afford to wash. "This way, in my village, there is a smaller gap between rich and poor." He also talks about how, in Marpha, prices are adjusted for those families who cannot afford to pay full price on food and goods. What a noble man. His commitment, his devotion to making change happen NOW inspires me to commit to a community and, with courage and humility, become the change I wish to see in the world. Many thanks to our friend Mr. Bhakti.
Who can paint the wind?
Prayer flags in Upper Mustang.
Dust-storm dancing, blow.
...and so this is Kagbeni: the gateway to Upper Mustang, the gateway to restricted territory. From the edge of town, we see the door to the canyon, cliff-crossing trek that will lead us to Lo Manthang. Prayers are carved in stone and fingertips turn prayer-wheels to offer blessings to the wind. I imagine, for a moment, that wind is the breath of the world and we now reside in one of the windiest stone villages on earth. My face is covered in a layer of dust; my eyes squint with a thousand tiny sand crystals peeking through. The wind sweeps prayers and breath and even energy, perhaps -- but this sacred, quiet expanse nourishes the exhaustion back to life: as if we could be liberated of all our lesser qualities as the wind passes through. And what remains? A strong skeleton of possibility: naked and ready for seeds of newness. This is where I am: Kagbeni; wind-city; the gateway to Upper Mustang.
Fantastical world.
Red rock and windswept daydream,
unbelievable.
This land makes me feel quiet. How else to respond to something so unbelievable? The painted canyons carved like the red-heartwood of madrone or fallen oak; scratched by the claws of a giant cat: panther in the sky, snow-leopard paw. This land makes one believe in fantastical creatures. What else to say? I feel quiet. Riverbed, sharp canyon, speckled tundra, snow-capped peaks, irrigated green harvest. Pema Dhoka runs from the field to greet us. Her hands are covered in ashen earth from digging potatoes. She rushes to make us tea, make us lunch. Hardly stopping to take a breath, but always smiling. She loves to shower us with the gifts she knows, the abundance she grows and the spirit of the windy land she calls home. Gratitude.
Jaw drops at first sight,
Silk riverbeds grow gray gold.
Painted canyons hum.
Jane calls out: "Isn't this beautiful!" I laugh a little through my smile thinking of how I would be blind to disagree. I am drowning in disbelief: entering into a fantasy world where sheer red cliffs rise from silk riverbeds whose stones are fossilized history books of what flows and grows and changes as water passes over rock. What is most shocking is the contrast of colors and shapes and textures. The red-orange drip-castle shapes of Canyonlands, Utah (stretched in breadth and height) rise through a magnifying glass toward the sky. And burnt-purple embers burned by ash, not by fire; resin cooked in smoke, not in flame. The gray dust that sparkles blue in the sunlight and ices the red castles like sugar on gingerbread cookies. No -- more magnificent and robust than gingerbread cookies. ...The gray dust that sparkles blue in the sunlight and ices the red castles like like clear shoe polish, but more surprising. With my camera angled just-so, I try to capture the palette of colors laid bare before my eyes: Quartz white speckled with river-stones of blue, gray and golden-brown. Dry-wood brown sediment compressed flat by weight and time. Virginia red-clay angled like shards of glass or books stacked sideways. Dusty-green paint, almost like ether, speckling the tundra, but smoother than speckled. And the riverbed mud shines like fools gold. I resist the temptation of stopping every few meters to snap a photos of the marble blues and grays and whites: swirling, curling, playing with the trickle of the tiny streams like hair-strands or witch-fingers. Swimming in beauty. We walk across scree and sandy earth and wind plays with our scarves and hair. The climate is extreme: when the wind blows, it Blows. When the sun shines, it Beats down like a hot iron. When the clouds roll in, they are low and full and heavy. We enjoy the rise and fall of this land: remarkable and remote.
...Remote for but a few years longer. The government is funding the building of roads into Upper Mustang. As we walked out of Kagbeni, we had to share the road with a monstrous leveling machine. The one whose wheels look like a centipede rolling, rolling, rolling and flattening the rocky earth: making way for more landslides, more traffic, more tourists sleeping in the back of tour-buses. I felt like an insect in the Ferngully Forest, being ground to dust by the neon noise. After the unlikely and incredible bridge built by 10 years of hard work on A Gift for the Village, perhaps the most outstanding characteristic of our journey to Lo Manthang is the timing. Machines move quickly: uprooting earth that has kept the secrets of this land for centuries.
But for now, my heart is grateful to witness the grandeur of the gray-gold rivers, the blood-red pulsing canyons, the blue-ether painted watercolor mountains, the sharp snow-capped magic high peaks, and the sunlight-colored generosity of the friends and strangers we meet. Thank you, Jane and Jenna, for welcoming me on the journey. Just breathing here expands my belief in what is possible.
A different trip with kids......
We are back in Kathmandu. Back to hot showers, towels, beds with sheets and pillows and the Kathmandu congestion and chaos. The difference between upper Mustang and this city is astounding. Here are more comforts and variety of foods, there we had serene landscape and primitive living.
I guess my focus has been how different this trip has been for me because of the girls. Our friend Pema, who lives in Kagbeni at the famous Red House, went with us to Lo. She said that we needed 7 people, because 7 was luckier than 6. She took her horse Sakpa for Ella to ride. Before we left for the trek, the girls came running into our room telling me that Pema showed them how to milk her cow!
Carol, Pema has the sign that your students made for her when she visited your classroom framed and hanging in the Red House!
When we get past Jomsom, the toilets are squats, not commodes. Ella would try, but she just couldn't let go when she was in there. She was so worried that she would get her clothes wet, so I started undressing her from the waist down every time she needed to go. Suddenly, she announced to me that she could use the "squattee" by herself and didn't need me anymore. We teased Mary that although she was potty trained before Ella, Ella was "squattee-trained" at an earlier age than she was.
Our second night, Mary woke me up at midnight (we went to bed at 8) with a stomach ache. We have to get up and get dressed and get a head lamp to go to the toilet (which is a separate, closet sized room from the bath (shower) room. Actually, there isn't a toilet at all, but a squat, and Mary has the distinction of being the first to throw up in a squattee. That night for me was anxious, because after 2 days of trekking in the middle of what feels like nowhere, I was scared to death that Mary was really ill and I was wondering what I was going to do. There were no cars...would I stay behind with her for a day and let her rest? I thought I could get her a horse but would she be able to ride? I knew Narayan would help me but in the middle of the night I didn't know what that help would be, so I lay awake, questioning for the first time my decision to bring the girls with me.
Thankfully she slept the rest of the night with no more vomiting, and announced at breakfast that she was fine and ate 2 packets of oatmeal. She wanted no part of riding Sakpa, she wanted to walk. I could have danced with joy. I love my tough girl!
Ella draws a lot of attention. Several times as we walk through villages, especially the older women will blow past all of us and walk up to Ella, smiling and holding her face in their hands. Because of her short hair, she is often thought to be a boy, but she takes it all in stride and smiles and gives them her sweetest "Namaste." They are sweet to Mary, too, but she is taller than most of them, and I don't think they realize she is only 12.
The girls don't mind the DAYS between showers. The only warm one on our trek was at Pema's sister Thari's guest house. There we were also able to wash out some laundry, by hand, in a bucket in the shower. I got to do pants, underwear, shirts, socks times THREE! Ella helped me rinse and hang everything on the line.
The trekking is HARD. I am well aware now of how old and NOT in shape I am. I think, after a 45 minute steep, zig-zagged climb, that it HAS to be the end of climbing for the day. But no.......we start descending, then cross a stream, then back up we go. Then we do it two more times. My legs feel like a combination of twisted knots and jello. Whenever one of us stumbles on a rock or slides on loose dirt, we say, "Nice Yak-Dance!" The porters are great, and one of them stays right with each of us. They are very watchful for dangerous places, and especially great about knowing when to get Ella off her horse to walk. We see wild blue sheep, running up and down sheer cliffs that I can't imagine a bug walking without falling.
Watching Mary walking way ahead with the strong girls Jenna and Ashley, watching the porters shower Ella with protective and playful attention, listening to Narayan, our guide, tell the girls the story of why the mountains are three different colors (ask one of them to tell you), the shock of walking into Karma's kithcn in the Dancing Yak and seeing Ella in her chuba Pema gave her, chopping greens and cauliflower and washing dishes, acting quite at home....these are some of my many memories. And they solidify my decision to bring them here with me.
We miss everyone back home. Mary and Ella talk about who they want to see, who they will tell/show different things, what they want to eat when they get back to Blacksburg. Ella REALLY wants a Mike's burger. Please know that all of your comments are like the baked chocolate Snickers...real cherished treats.
Thanks for thinking of us.
Love, Reba
I guess my focus has been how different this trip has been for me because of the girls. Our friend Pema, who lives in Kagbeni at the famous Red House, went with us to Lo. She said that we needed 7 people, because 7 was luckier than 6. She took her horse Sakpa for Ella to ride. Before we left for the trek, the girls came running into our room telling me that Pema showed them how to milk her cow!
Carol, Pema has the sign that your students made for her when she visited your classroom framed and hanging in the Red House!
When we get past Jomsom, the toilets are squats, not commodes. Ella would try, but she just couldn't let go when she was in there. She was so worried that she would get her clothes wet, so I started undressing her from the waist down every time she needed to go. Suddenly, she announced to me that she could use the "squattee" by herself and didn't need me anymore. We teased Mary that although she was potty trained before Ella, Ella was "squattee-trained" at an earlier age than she was.
Our second night, Mary woke me up at midnight (we went to bed at 8) with a stomach ache. We have to get up and get dressed and get a head lamp to go to the toilet (which is a separate, closet sized room from the bath (shower) room. Actually, there isn't a toilet at all, but a squat, and Mary has the distinction of being the first to throw up in a squattee. That night for me was anxious, because after 2 days of trekking in the middle of what feels like nowhere, I was scared to death that Mary was really ill and I was wondering what I was going to do. There were no cars...would I stay behind with her for a day and let her rest? I thought I could get her a horse but would she be able to ride? I knew Narayan would help me but in the middle of the night I didn't know what that help would be, so I lay awake, questioning for the first time my decision to bring the girls with me.
Thankfully she slept the rest of the night with no more vomiting, and announced at breakfast that she was fine and ate 2 packets of oatmeal. She wanted no part of riding Sakpa, she wanted to walk. I could have danced with joy. I love my tough girl!
Ella draws a lot of attention. Several times as we walk through villages, especially the older women will blow past all of us and walk up to Ella, smiling and holding her face in their hands. Because of her short hair, she is often thought to be a boy, but she takes it all in stride and smiles and gives them her sweetest "Namaste." They are sweet to Mary, too, but she is taller than most of them, and I don't think they realize she is only 12.
The girls don't mind the DAYS between showers. The only warm one on our trek was at Pema's sister Thari's guest house. There we were also able to wash out some laundry, by hand, in a bucket in the shower. I got to do pants, underwear, shirts, socks times THREE! Ella helped me rinse and hang everything on the line.
The trekking is HARD. I am well aware now of how old and NOT in shape I am. I think, after a 45 minute steep, zig-zagged climb, that it HAS to be the end of climbing for the day. But no.......we start descending, then cross a stream, then back up we go. Then we do it two more times. My legs feel like a combination of twisted knots and jello. Whenever one of us stumbles on a rock or slides on loose dirt, we say, "Nice Yak-Dance!" The porters are great, and one of them stays right with each of us. They are very watchful for dangerous places, and especially great about knowing when to get Ella off her horse to walk. We see wild blue sheep, running up and down sheer cliffs that I can't imagine a bug walking without falling.
Watching Mary walking way ahead with the strong girls Jenna and Ashley, watching the porters shower Ella with protective and playful attention, listening to Narayan, our guide, tell the girls the story of why the mountains are three different colors (ask one of them to tell you), the shock of walking into Karma's kithcn in the Dancing Yak and seeing Ella in her chuba Pema gave her, chopping greens and cauliflower and washing dishes, acting quite at home....these are some of my many memories. And they solidify my decision to bring them here with me.
We miss everyone back home. Mary and Ella talk about who they want to see, who they will tell/show different things, what they want to eat when they get back to Blacksburg. Ella REALLY wants a Mike's burger. Please know that all of your comments are like the baked chocolate Snickers...real cherished treats.
Thanks for thinking of us.
Love, Reba
Muktinath and Jomsom, by Ella
We got back from our trek! One of the villages we stayed in had a hotel called the Mona Lisa. One of my favorite places was Muktinath. We saw a blue fire, trickling water and nuns chanting all in one place. It is called the agni (fire) temple. It is also called the elements temple because earth, fire, water and mind are all together. There were many prayer flags, almost as many as the monkey temple. Jane hung prayer flags for her brother-in-law Neal and her former student Morgan. Jenna hung prayer flags for her aunt Ree, Kelsey, Kendall and Wilson and another strand for Cindy and Tyler.
We stayed in Kagbeni at Pema's house. She gave me her horse Sakpa to ride on the trek. He was the best horse I have ever ridden, aka, the only horse I have ever ridden! But every stumble and trip he did, I still loved him. Pema also gave me a Tibetan dress called a chuba that belonged to her oldest daughter, who is also 8. Her name is Tcheten. Her middle daughter is Nima she is 6 and her youngest is Sela Lillian she is 1 or 2.
In Jomsom we stayed at the Dancing Yak. I worked there! I washed dishes while squatting on the side of the sink with Laxmi. I cooked and served food, and cleaned. It was very very fun.
I miss Dad. And I LOVE BABY MONKEYS!
Ella
We stayed in Kagbeni at Pema's house. She gave me her horse Sakpa to ride on the trek. He was the best horse I have ever ridden, aka, the only horse I have ever ridden! But every stumble and trip he did, I still loved him. Pema also gave me a Tibetan dress called a chuba that belonged to her oldest daughter, who is also 8. Her name is Tcheten. Her middle daughter is Nima she is 6 and her youngest is Sela Lillian she is 1 or 2.
In Jomsom we stayed at the Dancing Yak. I worked there! I washed dishes while squatting on the side of the sink with Laxmi. I cooked and served food, and cleaned. It was very very fun.
I miss Dad. And I LOVE BABY MONKEYS!
Ella
About the porters, from Mary
We had the best group of porters anyone could have. Along with Narayan, our guide, seven total. Seven is a lucky number, and a lucky number it was. Tek, our runner, always ran ahead to make sure we had rooms to sleep in at night. He was fun, and was always willing to lend a hand. Monoj was sweet and was always walking with someone and waiting if one of us was held back. Menesh was kind and always helpful. Roshan was a bit quiet at first, but warmed up quickly and was joking around. Lexman, who gave Ella the Nepali name Kangi, meaning younger, or smaller, was fun and always had an arm around Ella. Binaya was quiet, but also loved playing around with Ella. last, but not least, is our guide, Narayan, who loved joking around and was always checking to make sure we were ok, if the food was ok, and was always saying, "little bit up, little bit down...", which wasn't always the case. We had a race once, against Narayan and I, on the way to Jomsom from Kagbeni, and I beat him. Lexman called out, "Mary's won the Jomsom race, Mary's won the Jomsom race!!" It was sweet. Narayan had his back-pack on though. I think we should race again, without the pack. We also liked to arm wrestle. He beat me both times we played(I'll beat him next trime though!!!).They loved playing Barrel of Monkeys, and always wanted us to pull it out after dinner, or anytime we were resting. One night in Chele, after dinner, they brought out baked snikers. At first we thought it was a joke, but to our surprise, there it was, right in front of us, snikers rolled up in bread and baked like a crossaint. It was great!! After that when Narayan asked us if we needed anything else after dinner, Ella and I would say, "Can we have baked snikers?" It was fun. In Kagbeni, one night we served them their food!! They had always served us our food, and there we were, serving them!! We all had a good laugh out of it (Great idea Jenna-la!!). That same night, they sang us the trekking song. They all have beautiful voices. On our last night with them in Jomsom, Jenna, Jane, Ashleigh, Mom, Ella and I laid out little gifts for them and their children (If they had children), and when we called them up to see their gifts, it a treat to see the looks on their faces. They were so happy. Narayan has a little girl, and a newborn son, born on the night we were in Jomsom. Tek has a little girl, Lexman has a two little boys, not to mention he also has a twin brother, and Manesh has a little girl. The next morning, while we were getting ready to fly out of Jomsom, the time came to say good-bye. It was hard and heart-breaking to see everyone who we had been so close to for so long leave the airport slowly. Narayan and Lexman flew with us, but didn't fly with us to Kathmandu. We miss them all and hope in the future, when we come back, we get to have them again.
Friday, July 23, 2010
July 24, from Jane
Good Morning from Kathmandu. Please don't worry: after this post, the other team members' voices should chime in. Last night we conferred about which of us would like to write about what parts of our experience. Ella and Mary were the first to pipe up. But I'll let them (and Jenna and Reba and Ashleigh) say what they have decided as their topics.
What I chose to write about is our return to The Cave of the Snow Leopard.
Three years ago, in 2007, our Gift for the Village team became (as we explain in our documentary) the third group of climbers to reach this recently rediscovered cave, which is chiseled out of a sheer 16,000-foot cliff. The back wall of the cave is entirely covered with fresco, a thousand years old. In our documentary, we theorize about who may have painted these excellent panels, and our conclusions hint at a tremendously unexpected story about the cave's artist.
As a flightless gnat would labor with a sense of inadequacy and even deformity to climb and descend skyscraper after skyscraper, so we struggled. This ascent, or series of ascents, was the most difficult of many intense climbs, although I am not speaking exclusively about technical difficulties like elevation or angle.
Here, you do not proceed with pride, and pride is a hard backpack to leave behind. There should be no frivolity on this walk. This climb is a pilgrimage, because the cave frescoes which have watched a thousand winter blizzards swirl past are painted prayers, homages and thanks to a series of the artist's teachers. This place is a cave which honors the idea of relationship, teaching, guru wisdom, and humility.
Be quiet here. See the beautiful landscape on the way to the Cave, of course, but turn your mind toward what you do not see. Do not poeticize your lovely heartbeat or your flights of gratitude here. Do not marvel about your skin tingling or your smile broadening to fit the enormous landscape. Be quiet. Stop seeing yourself.
Tsampa has taught me this much.
To reach the Cave, you must walk for hours past Lo Monthang, which is itself described as the Holy Grail of remote places.
You must enter a tiny village and find the Keeper of the Key, a local man whose ancient, wrapped rag contains the Key to the Cliff Door. He must walk with you past the Valley of the White Rocks, where, a quarter century ago, a glacial avalanche sent down a shattering of icy river and hundreds of thousands of huge, tumbling, snow-white boulders, some like basketballs, some like elepahants.
This torrent hit Chosar Valley at midnight. Ninety percent of the homes, the animals, and the villagers were never found. The Chosar Valley, with its white boulder tombstones, covers that midnight of agony. The Keeper of the Key, walking with us, was a young child at the time. He lost most people he knew, his village, and its landscape. He told his story to Pema, who translated for us, as we walked through that Valley, the Valley of the White Shadow of Death. I could not help but think of the skeletons beneath us, in archaeopteryx positions, the fossils of a terrible night.
You walk past a sky-burial site, a long flat boulder, a little like an ossified lounge chair, shin-high. The rock would not be noticeable except for the heavy ropes that tie around it, and, since Tsampa showed us last time, for the nearby rock, under which are tucked three rustworn handmade blades belonging to the sky burial priest, and the rag-clothing he wears during the rites he perform.
In Tibet, there is a saying: Everyone should see a sky burial at least once, in order to understand impermanence.
But first, allow me to explain: in Tibetan Buddhism, there are five types of burial, to match the five elements.
Earth burials, in Upper Mustang, are virtually impossible, because there is no earth to dig. The land here is rock, or rock-silt. Water-burial isn't tasteful, because, although a chopped corpse benefits the tiny fish in the rivers here, the body pollutes the water for the villagers downstream.
Cremation, or fire-burial, is a highly respectful form, but costly to the Mustangis. Our friend Pema explained that the wood which is piled all along every Mustang home is not primarily firewood, but "our wealth, and our duty." At death-time, a family needs enough wood to cremate the body. Not having this wood is considered shameful. Upper Mustang is high-desert, and wood is rare; there are no trees to fell--only the bonsai-twisted stubs of tortured juniper or other low-scrub. But this wood is necessary for a cremation, and fire is considered extremely clean. A cremation is an honor.
There are two other kinds of burial in Tibetan Buddhism. One, the rarest, is mind-burial. Mind is the fifth element as Tibetans organize the universe. (In China, the fifth element, or sometimes the sixth, is, instead, iron.) Highly-accomplished practitioners of Buddhist mind and body control can decide consciously to leave their body in order to choose a specific rebirth. Tibetans believe in a space between death and rebirth called The Bardo. In this in-between realm, which is not a holding tank, but more like a wind-tunnel, your consciousness goes careening.
Think of your after-death consciousness as a Kleenex blown forcefully into a completely dark wind-tunnel. You go zooming and twisting and fluttering, upside-down, a parachutist without a familiar body, but with some sense of your own blind being. It is a terrifying disorienting tumble--UNLESS you have trained for it. The meditations that His Holiness the Dalai Lama does, for instance, prepare his unbodied consciousness for this ride. Only, he will be able to steer.
There are Tibetan lamas (teachers, priests) so accomplished and learned that they can not only speak to a dying person's mind as the body dies, to help instruct the mind during the transition into the windy Bardo, but who can find a consciousness even after it has tumbled and taken rebirth, and educate the consciousness about how to prepare for the next death and the next chance to steer into a better next rebirth.
Sky-burial causes rainbows--not big arches--but tiny wisps of rainbow, which jet more like butterflies. The rainbow body of a mind burial may last for days, like evanescent northern lights, but in the daytime. Tibetans point to a place in the distant landscape and say, "Ah! Such and such lama has died. See the rainbow body."
But back to the fourth kind of burial: sky-burial. Sky-burial is the most visceral, and, for my temperament, the burial of choice. A corpse is taken to a long-frequented rock (as in, hundreds of years of use), like the one we stood before on our walk to the Cave of the Snow Leopard. A qualified Buddhist cuts the hard corpse into cubes, and powders them with roasted barley flour. These cubes are scattered out to the lammergiers, the giant condor-like Himalayan vultures. They are called the corpse-eaters, and I have one of their gigantic feathers from this trek. When I am home, I will make a strong painting called The Corpse-Eater's Feather.
These birds know the ritual. The body is cubed and fed to them, and they take flight. Their enormous messy nests are dinosaur confabulations that you sometimes see high on the most inaccessible cliffs. Their fledglings are fed with the power of the corpses that their mothers have gulped, and then the young lammergiers grow their own feathers. The birds fledge, and reincarnated forms festoon the thin air.
The ropes on the rock, Tsampa explained three years ago, are to thwart the lammmergiers' over-eagerness. Yes, they know the ritual, but the birds would just as soon get to the point. These animals are so massive, their talons so tiger-like, that they sometimes pick up entire corpses and lift them up to their cliff-nests. But this frenzy reeks of greed, and the sky-burial wants to show hor forms give to one another, not take for themselves. Thus the ropes: they hold down the impulse to take too much.
Such are the landmarks on the way to the climb to the Cave.
And then, on a frighteningly thin cliff edge, you find, preposterously, suddenly, a door. A door with a lock.
The door is built into nowhere. It is simply a door, in a door frame, upright on the trail itself. There is no building anywhere.
The door divides, seemingly, nothing from nothing.
It can be opened only with the Keeper's Key.
I was told three years ago, after much discussion as I first beheld this cliff-door, that it stands as a kind of compassionate warning. Its meaning? After this point, the trail really becomes difficult.
Our Roanoke friend, Stephanie Koehler, saw a photograph of this door on my bedroom wall, and by now she may have written a blog about it.
I told Stephanie that I am awed by the idea of this social symbol, this physical prompt that what you are about to enter is extremely difficult. What a gift! A door to tell you the truth. There are few enough such doors. Conversations with my friend Suzi Gablik feel like this door. Even being near my children Iris and Emerson, and seeing how they tailor their studies toward the opportunity to help people, feels like this door. Every word and every idea my best friend Jenna shares, how I always see her treat people and think of what other people need, feels like this door. My team, and why we have worked so hard to make this film, feels like this door. I see the two sides separated: where we learn and love--at any cost--and where we have nothing but our own self-interest ahead of us, a ghastly-thin, fearful trail. May the gods always provide such doors. May all sentient beings be allowed the fortune to go beyond them.
The last part of the trail is "improved." This year, there is a thin wire, somewhat staked into the ground, wrapped in a twirl of hairy yak rawhide. You can hold this "rope" to scale down one of the worst vertical descents. Because of this "improvement," you now pay one hundred rupees to continue from this point. Pema slipped here--badly--and would have dropped thousands of feet to her almost certain death. But two porters caught her. And then we reached the Cave.
In three years, the Cave of the Snow Leopard has suffered more damage than in its lonely thousand. In 2007, I did see a set of claw marks from a snow leopard's stretching. Those parallel marks seemed the best signature in the Himalayas.
This time, there were other problems, and Jenna spent much of her time there, explaining how much good work the guide had in his power, to ask people not to rest their hands on the surface of the paintings, and not to carve out indentations to hold sticks of incense. And definitely not to redraw the faded lines of the worn faces. The Cave is not ruined, but many of its subtleties are gone.
Still, I visited with old friends. In 2009, I made an oil painting called The Cave of the Snow Leopard, for which I used our photographs of the frescoes for the background. The King of Lo, and the monastery restorer Luigi Fieni, really liked this painting. It was wonderful to be near the unruined details of some of my favorite panels. And to observe a few new details, a few new secrets.
Photography is no longer allowed in the Cave, which seems a kindness, at this point.
We heard later from Luigi that one visitor in the intervening years has brought her infant to the Cave. But Mary and Ella are the youngest self-propelled kids ever to see The Cave of the Snow Leopard, which looks out onto Tibet, and where, I like to think, snow leopards on the far cliffs had their green eyes trained on us.
Last night, I got an e-mail bearing unbearable news. My old friend Anna Sankei died three days ago of a heart attack, in Lier, Norway. She was waiting for a bus to go to a ceremony where her older daughter, Tina, was to receive a medal for her six months of military service in Afghanistan. Her younger daughter Agnes would have been there too.
I met Anna on our first day of class, freshman year, 1976, at William and Mary. We were the two who were early, waiting for the door to be unlocked. The course was called Contemporary Religious Thought. By the time the professor and the other four students arrived, Anna and I were friends.
She lived in a place where she liked to find ostrich eggs in her garden, which she would bead. One day I could visit her village, she said, across the Rift Valley, in Kenya. I would see many giraffes on my way. I should notice their eyelashes.
That Thanksgiving, Anna spent with me, at my parents' home in North Carolina. She lived with two rather cheerless nuns, back in Virginia, who never knew about my naughty father's gift to Anna, as she took the bus back from Raleigh to Hampton. She carried two huge bottles of Johnston County moonshine, strong enough to unlacquer your living room furniture.
Anna sang "Oh, Shenendoah, I love to hear you, oh, away, you raging river," in the prettiest Kenyan-English I have ever heard. My tears stream to think of that singing. We were eighteen years old then. In two days, I turn 52.
I did go to Anna's Kenyan village. I met her beautiful mother. Anna showed me lions, wild ones in the bush, and she showed me the Mara River hippos. She told me that the Cape Buffalo were the only grouches in Africa. They would charge just out of meanness. I took my baby Iris there when she was four months old. I loved Anna that much.
And Anna brought her daughters to see me, in America, twice. Jenna took Tina white-water rafting. When Agnes was a little girl, she hid in my wood shed, because she didn't want to leave.
This morning, having awakened to a full day in which there is no Anna on this earth, I must braid a bridge to cross this sadness.
I must see a door on a thin cliff-trail, and go through the door.
I must send my mind spinning out to Gil and Dan Harrington, because there is no Morgan on this earth, and to my niece and nephew Maura and Vance, because there is no Neal on this earth, and to my friend Bailey, who rides Emily Jane Hilscher's favorite Virginia Tech horse, Impulse, a swatch of whose mane now flies in Upper Mustang (thank you, Bailey, for helping me honor your friend and her love of horses; Emily died on April 16th in our Virginia Tech massacre).
I must be small. And see the swirls of all the elements diminishing every form as I also diminish.
But: in the brief time I have to see, I must love as hard and as impassively as the snow leopard gazes. Love, in order to find the most remote safe places, past the most daunting doors, in the most treacherous wilds. I must see from Kenya to Norway to Virginia and North Carolina to Kathmandu, and see from now to yesterday and now to tomorrow.
All we have are these doors and these bridges. This good vision, this astonishing view, our brief gardens. "Safe" means only a place where what we do reincarnates, finds some other form; where, amazingly enough, what has been beautiful is not altogether lost.
My love to Tina and Agnes. Your mother was a strong and beautiful woman. She loved you both so incredibly much. She was brave enough to be unselfish, and to act with kindness toward whomever happened into her life, whatever the impact, whatever the seeming impracticality of the broad reach of her heart. I will always carry your mother, wherever I go. I will never forget Anna Sankei. Farewell, beautiful friend. May we find one another again. Jane
What I chose to write about is our return to The Cave of the Snow Leopard.
Three years ago, in 2007, our Gift for the Village team became (as we explain in our documentary) the third group of climbers to reach this recently rediscovered cave, which is chiseled out of a sheer 16,000-foot cliff. The back wall of the cave is entirely covered with fresco, a thousand years old. In our documentary, we theorize about who may have painted these excellent panels, and our conclusions hint at a tremendously unexpected story about the cave's artist.
As a flightless gnat would labor with a sense of inadequacy and even deformity to climb and descend skyscraper after skyscraper, so we struggled. This ascent, or series of ascents, was the most difficult of many intense climbs, although I am not speaking exclusively about technical difficulties like elevation or angle.
Here, you do not proceed with pride, and pride is a hard backpack to leave behind. There should be no frivolity on this walk. This climb is a pilgrimage, because the cave frescoes which have watched a thousand winter blizzards swirl past are painted prayers, homages and thanks to a series of the artist's teachers. This place is a cave which honors the idea of relationship, teaching, guru wisdom, and humility.
Be quiet here. See the beautiful landscape on the way to the Cave, of course, but turn your mind toward what you do not see. Do not poeticize your lovely heartbeat or your flights of gratitude here. Do not marvel about your skin tingling or your smile broadening to fit the enormous landscape. Be quiet. Stop seeing yourself.
Tsampa has taught me this much.
To reach the Cave, you must walk for hours past Lo Monthang, which is itself described as the Holy Grail of remote places.
You must enter a tiny village and find the Keeper of the Key, a local man whose ancient, wrapped rag contains the Key to the Cliff Door. He must walk with you past the Valley of the White Rocks, where, a quarter century ago, a glacial avalanche sent down a shattering of icy river and hundreds of thousands of huge, tumbling, snow-white boulders, some like basketballs, some like elepahants.
This torrent hit Chosar Valley at midnight. Ninety percent of the homes, the animals, and the villagers were never found. The Chosar Valley, with its white boulder tombstones, covers that midnight of agony. The Keeper of the Key, walking with us, was a young child at the time. He lost most people he knew, his village, and its landscape. He told his story to Pema, who translated for us, as we walked through that Valley, the Valley of the White Shadow of Death. I could not help but think of the skeletons beneath us, in archaeopteryx positions, the fossils of a terrible night.
You walk past a sky-burial site, a long flat boulder, a little like an ossified lounge chair, shin-high. The rock would not be noticeable except for the heavy ropes that tie around it, and, since Tsampa showed us last time, for the nearby rock, under which are tucked three rustworn handmade blades belonging to the sky burial priest, and the rag-clothing he wears during the rites he perform.
In Tibet, there is a saying: Everyone should see a sky burial at least once, in order to understand impermanence.
But first, allow me to explain: in Tibetan Buddhism, there are five types of burial, to match the five elements.
Earth burials, in Upper Mustang, are virtually impossible, because there is no earth to dig. The land here is rock, or rock-silt. Water-burial isn't tasteful, because, although a chopped corpse benefits the tiny fish in the rivers here, the body pollutes the water for the villagers downstream.
Cremation, or fire-burial, is a highly respectful form, but costly to the Mustangis. Our friend Pema explained that the wood which is piled all along every Mustang home is not primarily firewood, but "our wealth, and our duty." At death-time, a family needs enough wood to cremate the body. Not having this wood is considered shameful. Upper Mustang is high-desert, and wood is rare; there are no trees to fell--only the bonsai-twisted stubs of tortured juniper or other low-scrub. But this wood is necessary for a cremation, and fire is considered extremely clean. A cremation is an honor.
There are two other kinds of burial in Tibetan Buddhism. One, the rarest, is mind-burial. Mind is the fifth element as Tibetans organize the universe. (In China, the fifth element, or sometimes the sixth, is, instead, iron.) Highly-accomplished practitioners of Buddhist mind and body control can decide consciously to leave their body in order to choose a specific rebirth. Tibetans believe in a space between death and rebirth called The Bardo. In this in-between realm, which is not a holding tank, but more like a wind-tunnel, your consciousness goes careening.
Think of your after-death consciousness as a Kleenex blown forcefully into a completely dark wind-tunnel. You go zooming and twisting and fluttering, upside-down, a parachutist without a familiar body, but with some sense of your own blind being. It is a terrifying disorienting tumble--UNLESS you have trained for it. The meditations that His Holiness the Dalai Lama does, for instance, prepare his unbodied consciousness for this ride. Only, he will be able to steer.
There are Tibetan lamas (teachers, priests) so accomplished and learned that they can not only speak to a dying person's mind as the body dies, to help instruct the mind during the transition into the windy Bardo, but who can find a consciousness even after it has tumbled and taken rebirth, and educate the consciousness about how to prepare for the next death and the next chance to steer into a better next rebirth.
Sky-burial causes rainbows--not big arches--but tiny wisps of rainbow, which jet more like butterflies. The rainbow body of a mind burial may last for days, like evanescent northern lights, but in the daytime. Tibetans point to a place in the distant landscape and say, "Ah! Such and such lama has died. See the rainbow body."
But back to the fourth kind of burial: sky-burial. Sky-burial is the most visceral, and, for my temperament, the burial of choice. A corpse is taken to a long-frequented rock (as in, hundreds of years of use), like the one we stood before on our walk to the Cave of the Snow Leopard. A qualified Buddhist cuts the hard corpse into cubes, and powders them with roasted barley flour. These cubes are scattered out to the lammergiers, the giant condor-like Himalayan vultures. They are called the corpse-eaters, and I have one of their gigantic feathers from this trek. When I am home, I will make a strong painting called The Corpse-Eater's Feather.
These birds know the ritual. The body is cubed and fed to them, and they take flight. Their enormous messy nests are dinosaur confabulations that you sometimes see high on the most inaccessible cliffs. Their fledglings are fed with the power of the corpses that their mothers have gulped, and then the young lammergiers grow their own feathers. The birds fledge, and reincarnated forms festoon the thin air.
The ropes on the rock, Tsampa explained three years ago, are to thwart the lammmergiers' over-eagerness. Yes, they know the ritual, but the birds would just as soon get to the point. These animals are so massive, their talons so tiger-like, that they sometimes pick up entire corpses and lift them up to their cliff-nests. But this frenzy reeks of greed, and the sky-burial wants to show hor forms give to one another, not take for themselves. Thus the ropes: they hold down the impulse to take too much.
Such are the landmarks on the way to the climb to the Cave.
And then, on a frighteningly thin cliff edge, you find, preposterously, suddenly, a door. A door with a lock.
The door is built into nowhere. It is simply a door, in a door frame, upright on the trail itself. There is no building anywhere.
The door divides, seemingly, nothing from nothing.
It can be opened only with the Keeper's Key.
I was told three years ago, after much discussion as I first beheld this cliff-door, that it stands as a kind of compassionate warning. Its meaning? After this point, the trail really becomes difficult.
Our Roanoke friend, Stephanie Koehler, saw a photograph of this door on my bedroom wall, and by now she may have written a blog about it.
I told Stephanie that I am awed by the idea of this social symbol, this physical prompt that what you are about to enter is extremely difficult. What a gift! A door to tell you the truth. There are few enough such doors. Conversations with my friend Suzi Gablik feel like this door. Even being near my children Iris and Emerson, and seeing how they tailor their studies toward the opportunity to help people, feels like this door. Every word and every idea my best friend Jenna shares, how I always see her treat people and think of what other people need, feels like this door. My team, and why we have worked so hard to make this film, feels like this door. I see the two sides separated: where we learn and love--at any cost--and where we have nothing but our own self-interest ahead of us, a ghastly-thin, fearful trail. May the gods always provide such doors. May all sentient beings be allowed the fortune to go beyond them.
The last part of the trail is "improved." This year, there is a thin wire, somewhat staked into the ground, wrapped in a twirl of hairy yak rawhide. You can hold this "rope" to scale down one of the worst vertical descents. Because of this "improvement," you now pay one hundred rupees to continue from this point. Pema slipped here--badly--and would have dropped thousands of feet to her almost certain death. But two porters caught her. And then we reached the Cave.
In three years, the Cave of the Snow Leopard has suffered more damage than in its lonely thousand. In 2007, I did see a set of claw marks from a snow leopard's stretching. Those parallel marks seemed the best signature in the Himalayas.
This time, there were other problems, and Jenna spent much of her time there, explaining how much good work the guide had in his power, to ask people not to rest their hands on the surface of the paintings, and not to carve out indentations to hold sticks of incense. And definitely not to redraw the faded lines of the worn faces. The Cave is not ruined, but many of its subtleties are gone.
Still, I visited with old friends. In 2009, I made an oil painting called The Cave of the Snow Leopard, for which I used our photographs of the frescoes for the background. The King of Lo, and the monastery restorer Luigi Fieni, really liked this painting. It was wonderful to be near the unruined details of some of my favorite panels. And to observe a few new details, a few new secrets.
Photography is no longer allowed in the Cave, which seems a kindness, at this point.
We heard later from Luigi that one visitor in the intervening years has brought her infant to the Cave. But Mary and Ella are the youngest self-propelled kids ever to see The Cave of the Snow Leopard, which looks out onto Tibet, and where, I like to think, snow leopards on the far cliffs had their green eyes trained on us.
Last night, I got an e-mail bearing unbearable news. My old friend Anna Sankei died three days ago of a heart attack, in Lier, Norway. She was waiting for a bus to go to a ceremony where her older daughter, Tina, was to receive a medal for her six months of military service in Afghanistan. Her younger daughter Agnes would have been there too.
I met Anna on our first day of class, freshman year, 1976, at William and Mary. We were the two who were early, waiting for the door to be unlocked. The course was called Contemporary Religious Thought. By the time the professor and the other four students arrived, Anna and I were friends.
She lived in a place where she liked to find ostrich eggs in her garden, which she would bead. One day I could visit her village, she said, across the Rift Valley, in Kenya. I would see many giraffes on my way. I should notice their eyelashes.
That Thanksgiving, Anna spent with me, at my parents' home in North Carolina. She lived with two rather cheerless nuns, back in Virginia, who never knew about my naughty father's gift to Anna, as she took the bus back from Raleigh to Hampton. She carried two huge bottles of Johnston County moonshine, strong enough to unlacquer your living room furniture.
Anna sang "Oh, Shenendoah, I love to hear you, oh, away, you raging river," in the prettiest Kenyan-English I have ever heard. My tears stream to think of that singing. We were eighteen years old then. In two days, I turn 52.
I did go to Anna's Kenyan village. I met her beautiful mother. Anna showed me lions, wild ones in the bush, and she showed me the Mara River hippos. She told me that the Cape Buffalo were the only grouches in Africa. They would charge just out of meanness. I took my baby Iris there when she was four months old. I loved Anna that much.
And Anna brought her daughters to see me, in America, twice. Jenna took Tina white-water rafting. When Agnes was a little girl, she hid in my wood shed, because she didn't want to leave.
This morning, having awakened to a full day in which there is no Anna on this earth, I must braid a bridge to cross this sadness.
I must see a door on a thin cliff-trail, and go through the door.
I must send my mind spinning out to Gil and Dan Harrington, because there is no Morgan on this earth, and to my niece and nephew Maura and Vance, because there is no Neal on this earth, and to my friend Bailey, who rides Emily Jane Hilscher's favorite Virginia Tech horse, Impulse, a swatch of whose mane now flies in Upper Mustang (thank you, Bailey, for helping me honor your friend and her love of horses; Emily died on April 16th in our Virginia Tech massacre).
I must be small. And see the swirls of all the elements diminishing every form as I also diminish.
But: in the brief time I have to see, I must love as hard and as impassively as the snow leopard gazes. Love, in order to find the most remote safe places, past the most daunting doors, in the most treacherous wilds. I must see from Kenya to Norway to Virginia and North Carolina to Kathmandu, and see from now to yesterday and now to tomorrow.
All we have are these doors and these bridges. This good vision, this astonishing view, our brief gardens. "Safe" means only a place where what we do reincarnates, finds some other form; where, amazingly enough, what has been beautiful is not altogether lost.
My love to Tina and Agnes. Your mother was a strong and beautiful woman. She loved you both so incredibly much. She was brave enough to be unselfish, and to act with kindness toward whomever happened into her life, whatever the impact, whatever the seeming impracticality of the broad reach of her heart. I will always carry your mother, wherever I go. I will never forget Anna Sankei. Farewell, beautiful friend. May we find one another again. Jane
July 23, from Jane
Hi Friends, We are back in Kathmandu, safe, sound, amazed. Thanks for the great comments and responses here and on facebook. Thanks for caring where we are.
We woke at 4:30 in our Dancing Yak bedrooms in Tsampa's home, to learn that Narayan, our guide and friend, had gotten a call at 2 a.m. that his second child, a little boy, had been born, in Gurkha, in central Nepal. We knew about his birth before the grandparents: Narayan's parents don't have a phone. It will take some time for a village friend to take the news to them. Narayan has asked me to give his son one American name, to go with his Nepali names. This Gurkha boy will carry the name Emerson.
We had sweet tea, carried our backpacks downstairs, and waited to see if any flights were able to penetrate the woolen clouds that hang so thickly during all of Nepal's monsoon season. Mostly, for days and days, no flights have been able to come in or out of Jomsom's tiny airstrip. But today--flights.
I could not believe our fortune.
We flew, and the flight was one of the most spectacular treats I have ever enjoyed, and not just because I knew we were avoiding the rain, the mud, the uncertainties of moving with our baggage downtrail, through waterfalls and grungy flood-prone river-villages.
We flew over the land before time, close to the tops of dozens of green bulging mountains, over tiger and python jungle. Slivers and nicks of white, as we approached, grew into tremendous waterfalls, dozens of them, and overarching the verdure were the breathtaking granite-faced Annapurna goddesses, the 26,000-foot snow-faced immortals. We flew easily and calmly through dawn-colored clouds and over villages too small to have names.
I remembered the scene near the end of David Lean's beautiful film adaptation of E. M. Forster's great novel, A Passage to India, when Dr. Fielding and Stella stop the car just to stand and look up at the closeness and the enormity of the Kashmiri Himalayas. They can say nothing in response to the magnitude of these things. Only Maurice Jarre's score can speak the emotions of being near the Himalayas. Not being crushed by them seems so improbable, so generous. The mountains feel bigger than concepts which remain theoretical, bigger than the universe, bigger than eternity.
And then we landed in Pokhara, a world aways from western Nepal, and then we got our next flight to Kathmandu, and before noon, we were all seated at Pilgrim's, waiting for our masala dosas and palak paneer and buttered naan and fried rice. We are in culture-warp shock, for the flights to have worked, and to have catapulted us back to Kathmandu so flawlessly. Just days ago we were having audience with a King in a faraway medieval palace.
To celebrate our safe return to Kathmandu, I ordered a dozen peanut sticks from the German Bakery, which will be ready tomorrow. They are not unlike biscotti, not too sweet, not as good as my friends the Passalacquas have made, but pretty damned wonderful, cinnamon and peanut. Which reminds me: Carol Fox, I am scandalized that you want to join the pack of chocolate-carnivores and that you lust in sympathy with my team, for those deep-fried Snickers. (Thanks for the great comment, Carol! We miss you and Joe.)
Tonight maybe we will apportion certain topics for each of our team members to write about, but for now, hot showers, laundry, food choices, the greatest bookstore in Asia--just next door to the Kathmandu Guest House, publicity for our film ("Madame, I have read about your team and your film in our newspapers"), and an upcoming dinner with the American Ambassador, to show him A Gift for the Village.
I am so proud of our team, and of our film. We are really looking forward to our American premiere at The Taubman Museum in Roanoke on September 16th. Please plan to join us that evening. And sometime before that premiere, I have the honor of giving a Lunchbox (midday) Talk at the Taubman Museum. I think I have been given 45 minutes. My Virginia Tech students will smile to think of Ms. Vance trying to condense ANYTHING into that brief slot.
Much love from all of us, back in the crazy city. I love this crazy city. Jane
We woke at 4:30 in our Dancing Yak bedrooms in Tsampa's home, to learn that Narayan, our guide and friend, had gotten a call at 2 a.m. that his second child, a little boy, had been born, in Gurkha, in central Nepal. We knew about his birth before the grandparents: Narayan's parents don't have a phone. It will take some time for a village friend to take the news to them. Narayan has asked me to give his son one American name, to go with his Nepali names. This Gurkha boy will carry the name Emerson.
We had sweet tea, carried our backpacks downstairs, and waited to see if any flights were able to penetrate the woolen clouds that hang so thickly during all of Nepal's monsoon season. Mostly, for days and days, no flights have been able to come in or out of Jomsom's tiny airstrip. But today--flights.
I could not believe our fortune.
We flew, and the flight was one of the most spectacular treats I have ever enjoyed, and not just because I knew we were avoiding the rain, the mud, the uncertainties of moving with our baggage downtrail, through waterfalls and grungy flood-prone river-villages.
We flew over the land before time, close to the tops of dozens of green bulging mountains, over tiger and python jungle. Slivers and nicks of white, as we approached, grew into tremendous waterfalls, dozens of them, and overarching the verdure were the breathtaking granite-faced Annapurna goddesses, the 26,000-foot snow-faced immortals. We flew easily and calmly through dawn-colored clouds and over villages too small to have names.
I remembered the scene near the end of David Lean's beautiful film adaptation of E. M. Forster's great novel, A Passage to India, when Dr. Fielding and Stella stop the car just to stand and look up at the closeness and the enormity of the Kashmiri Himalayas. They can say nothing in response to the magnitude of these things. Only Maurice Jarre's score can speak the emotions of being near the Himalayas. Not being crushed by them seems so improbable, so generous. The mountains feel bigger than concepts which remain theoretical, bigger than the universe, bigger than eternity.
And then we landed in Pokhara, a world aways from western Nepal, and then we got our next flight to Kathmandu, and before noon, we were all seated at Pilgrim's, waiting for our masala dosas and palak paneer and buttered naan and fried rice. We are in culture-warp shock, for the flights to have worked, and to have catapulted us back to Kathmandu so flawlessly. Just days ago we were having audience with a King in a faraway medieval palace.
To celebrate our safe return to Kathmandu, I ordered a dozen peanut sticks from the German Bakery, which will be ready tomorrow. They are not unlike biscotti, not too sweet, not as good as my friends the Passalacquas have made, but pretty damned wonderful, cinnamon and peanut. Which reminds me: Carol Fox, I am scandalized that you want to join the pack of chocolate-carnivores and that you lust in sympathy with my team, for those deep-fried Snickers. (Thanks for the great comment, Carol! We miss you and Joe.)
Tonight maybe we will apportion certain topics for each of our team members to write about, but for now, hot showers, laundry, food choices, the greatest bookstore in Asia--just next door to the Kathmandu Guest House, publicity for our film ("Madame, I have read about your team and your film in our newspapers"), and an upcoming dinner with the American Ambassador, to show him A Gift for the Village.
I am so proud of our team, and of our film. We are really looking forward to our American premiere at The Taubman Museum in Roanoke on September 16th. Please plan to join us that evening. And sometime before that premiere, I have the honor of giving a Lunchbox (midday) Talk at the Taubman Museum. I think I have been given 45 minutes. My Virginia Tech students will smile to think of Ms. Vance trying to condense ANYTHING into that brief slot.
Much love from all of us, back in the crazy city. I love this crazy city. Jane
Thursday, July 22, 2010
from Jane on June 22, in Jomsom
E-mail is a snowflake in an updraft here: it exists, but may quickly disappear toward some faraway infinity. Still, we hope so much that you who are following us, my Tech students, our families, our friends, know that your support (and comments) matter so much to us. At The Dancing Yak Hotel, we have arranged gift piles for our porters and our guide, Narayan. After dinner, we will present these amazing young men with their presents and tips, to thank them for taking us through the roughest territory in our collective experience.
I want to say again that 8-year-old Ella and 12-year-old Mary Hoffman, Reba's girls, were absolute champions on this adventure. Mary now carries the nickname Jenna Junior as an honorific, because she walked nine-hour days at extreme altitudes on rocky, treacherous slopes and cliff edges with NO problem, and Ella is now an accomplished equestrian, having ridden Pema's noble horse Sakpa through most of Upper Mustang (though on the wildest cliffs, Ella walked--without any complaint).
Reba is so happy that the girls are thriving, loving the great people here, and gorging on dhal bhatt meals--rice and lentils and curried vegetables. On the last night in Upper Mustang, Narayan, our lead guide, brought in fried Snicker bars, coated in oily hot dough. As the only team member who would rather eat cardboard than chocolate, I had a view of my team as chocolate-carnivores, absolutely POUNCING on this dessert--and I am NOT just talking about Mary and Ella.
Cross your fingers and squeeze your amulets that the plane flies tomorrow morning, and that it flies safely. It really will be a small miracle if we are able to fly on schedule. The monsoon clouds look like Michelangelo's torsos. Muscular and unprepared to be easily bypassed.
Anyway, we can't wait to share our stories. Out the window, there are teams of pack mules ringing their neck-bells as they head down Main Street. There is also a very occasional motorcycle, weird with its huge noise. Jason and Sherrie will remember the roasted peanut rooftop restaurant down the street--Jenna and I had those hot peanuts as a treat today.
We look forward to having more leisure to write in Kathmandu. Hope all of you are well. Jane
I want to say again that 8-year-old Ella and 12-year-old Mary Hoffman, Reba's girls, were absolute champions on this adventure. Mary now carries the nickname Jenna Junior as an honorific, because she walked nine-hour days at extreme altitudes on rocky, treacherous slopes and cliff edges with NO problem, and Ella is now an accomplished equestrian, having ridden Pema's noble horse Sakpa through most of Upper Mustang (though on the wildest cliffs, Ella walked--without any complaint).
Reba is so happy that the girls are thriving, loving the great people here, and gorging on dhal bhatt meals--rice and lentils and curried vegetables. On the last night in Upper Mustang, Narayan, our lead guide, brought in fried Snicker bars, coated in oily hot dough. As the only team member who would rather eat cardboard than chocolate, I had a view of my team as chocolate-carnivores, absolutely POUNCING on this dessert--and I am NOT just talking about Mary and Ella.
Cross your fingers and squeeze your amulets that the plane flies tomorrow morning, and that it flies safely. It really will be a small miracle if we are able to fly on schedule. The monsoon clouds look like Michelangelo's torsos. Muscular and unprepared to be easily bypassed.
Anyway, we can't wait to share our stories. Out the window, there are teams of pack mules ringing their neck-bells as they head down Main Street. There is also a very occasional motorcycle, weird with its huge noise. Jason and Sherrie will remember the roasted peanut rooftop restaurant down the street--Jenna and I had those hot peanuts as a treat today.
We look forward to having more leisure to write in Kathmandu. Hope all of you are well. Jane
from Jenna
Hi Friends and Family.
We have made it to the gateway of the Annapurna. Tomorrow we either fly to KYM or we wait one more day then we walk out. Today is cloudy and there was little chance that the 6:30 Am flight would go, but just now-- 12:56 it took off. Wish us luck.
There is so much to tell,but since my computer is SLOW and missing a few important keys, I will save the stories for KTM.
A few notes: What fun to travel as a group of 7 women (and girls)!! our friend Pema joined us for the trip to Lo as well. Unfortunately Tsampa could not. Mary and Ella are at home here. It is fun to watch them!!!
Jason, Sherrie, Tom, Debra, Eric, and Joey we miss you!! Pema says she loves you all and misses you-- Sunil Sarita and Tsampa also asked about you all. Debra the honey made it. Tsampa was thrilled. You have a beautiful Bhatt piece on the way, and tell Joey I am working really hard on his wish list, esp the ball tree. Jason thanks to you my pack was no problem in Lo (but I do have some GREAT blisters on my feet)! We did make it to the cave again--- more about that later.
MORE SOON!!! j
We have made it to the gateway of the Annapurna. Tomorrow we either fly to KYM or we wait one more day then we walk out. Today is cloudy and there was little chance that the 6:30 Am flight would go, but just now-- 12:56 it took off. Wish us luck.
There is so much to tell,but since my computer is SLOW and missing a few important keys, I will save the stories for KTM.
A few notes: What fun to travel as a group of 7 women (and girls)!! our friend Pema joined us for the trip to Lo as well. Unfortunately Tsampa could not. Mary and Ella are at home here. It is fun to watch them!!!
Jason, Sherrie, Tom, Debra, Eric, and Joey we miss you!! Pema says she loves you all and misses you-- Sunil Sarita and Tsampa also asked about you all. Debra the honey made it. Tsampa was thrilled. You have a beautiful Bhatt piece on the way, and tell Joey I am working really hard on his wish list, esp the ball tree. Jason thanks to you my pack was no problem in Lo (but I do have some GREAT blisters on my feet)! We did make it to the cave again--- more about that later.
MORE SOON!!! j
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
July 21, from Jane
Hello Friends and Family, We are all well--and Mary and Ella are strong and perfect. We have just ten minutes ago shuffled back into Kagbeni after ten successful and amazing days and 155 miles into Upper Mustang, where the King of Lo as well as the Prince and Princess loved A Gift for the Village and where indeed our film showed on the left outside wall of the Royal Palace. We have many stories to tell, but I have to go drink tea and soup. Every one of us is completely fine, amazed by our experiences, and rich in our hearts. Pema of the Red House made the entie trek with us, even up into the Cave of the Snow Leopard. Tomorrow we walk back to Jomsom, and then the next day, the 23rd, we attempt to fly to Pokhara and on to Kathmandu. Otherwise if the winds and clouds are playing havoc then we begin the descent by trail eventually to Pokhara, and somehow or other back to Kathmandu. On the 31st of July we have been invited to the Ambassador's home to show our film. By then, pray, we will have bathed. So so so so la! Victory to the gods! Jane
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
July 8th, from Jane
Hello Friends and especially our BMS friends in exile, I may be 13,000 miles from home, but let me say first that I am so sad that our School Board has taken the decision to move the Middle School to Old Christiansburg High School.
We have made it to Jomsom in the Annapurnas. Our flight happened yesterday, solving many frightening problems.
This morning, Pema Dhoka Thakuri from a village three hours up the Kali Gandaki came to the Dancing Yak because word had traveled upvalley last night that we had arrived. She is the Tibetan friend who came to stay with us in Blacksburg two years ago. It is so amazing to see her!
And Tsampa was standing at the edge of the tarmac to greet us, and so was Cy and Karma, Tampa's wife, and Lhakpa Dolma, Tsampa's daughter. It feels GREAT to be here!
Yesterday we were ushered into our new rooms--built on the back side of the hotel--with our OWN bathrooms! An we were given a basket of Tsampa's orchard's fresh apricots which ALL of us can't stop eating. Ella says they are the best things she has ever eaten. And pretty soon, we were hiking--across the iron bridge, up to Dhumpa Lake and monastery, where the air is full of dakinis, the locals say--sky-dancing female spirits who can intervene in the lives of people, and who are present but not visible.
We are in high country now, with snow-capped mountains all around us.
And last night we showed the film to Tsampa! And to his family, and to friends. The Dancing Yak was the theatre. What an uproarious great hour! I think we will have a reshow tonight. Everyone was thrilled, and it was anarchy in the audience, laughing and being amazed and yelling out approval and joy. Jenna videoed. WOW.
The thang-ka I painted in 2001 is hanging up and looks completely at home. We have made it to the first position of the Dancing Yak menu, where the hotel lists its specialties and services, for example, having a Tibetan doctor on call, or being able to help a tourist rent a trekking pony. But the first listing: Amchi thang-ka of Holy Man Tsampa Ngawang lineage portrait hangs here.
It is thrilling to have made it here, and thrilling for Emerson to be back in the really high mountains with me, and wonderful to see Ashleigh and Mary and Ella drop their jaws at the land and the vistas and the sheer age of the buildings here--and great to see Reba walking with her completely free fossil- and bone-hunting daughters--and as always, a privilege to be with Jenna.
Tsampa looks as young as ever-- Emerson says he looks exactly the same as the last time he saw him.
We are full of apricots, popcorn, dhal batt, greens, AND summer worm/winter grass liquor, a rare Tibetan herbal (well, for a vegetarian, the summer worm part is disturbing!) concoction to celebrate the film and to give us long life.
Our love to everyone. E-mail is expensive and unpredictable, but the trek to Lo is on schedule, and our friends are here with us. Emerson will be leaving with Cy tomorrow to head downtrail on foot--should be a spectacular adventure--and it looks like we are on target to show A Gift for the Village both in Kagbeni at the Red House and to Raja Jigme, the King of Lo Monthang. Love, Jane
We have made it to Jomsom in the Annapurnas. Our flight happened yesterday, solving many frightening problems.
This morning, Pema Dhoka Thakuri from a village three hours up the Kali Gandaki came to the Dancing Yak because word had traveled upvalley last night that we had arrived. She is the Tibetan friend who came to stay with us in Blacksburg two years ago. It is so amazing to see her!
And Tsampa was standing at the edge of the tarmac to greet us, and so was Cy and Karma, Tampa's wife, and Lhakpa Dolma, Tsampa's daughter. It feels GREAT to be here!
Yesterday we were ushered into our new rooms--built on the back side of the hotel--with our OWN bathrooms! An we were given a basket of Tsampa's orchard's fresh apricots which ALL of us can't stop eating. Ella says they are the best things she has ever eaten. And pretty soon, we were hiking--across the iron bridge, up to Dhumpa Lake and monastery, where the air is full of dakinis, the locals say--sky-dancing female spirits who can intervene in the lives of people, and who are present but not visible.
We are in high country now, with snow-capped mountains all around us.
And last night we showed the film to Tsampa! And to his family, and to friends. The Dancing Yak was the theatre. What an uproarious great hour! I think we will have a reshow tonight. Everyone was thrilled, and it was anarchy in the audience, laughing and being amazed and yelling out approval and joy. Jenna videoed. WOW.
The thang-ka I painted in 2001 is hanging up and looks completely at home. We have made it to the first position of the Dancing Yak menu, where the hotel lists its specialties and services, for example, having a Tibetan doctor on call, or being able to help a tourist rent a trekking pony. But the first listing: Amchi thang-ka of Holy Man Tsampa Ngawang lineage portrait hangs here.
It is thrilling to have made it here, and thrilling for Emerson to be back in the really high mountains with me, and wonderful to see Ashleigh and Mary and Ella drop their jaws at the land and the vistas and the sheer age of the buildings here--and great to see Reba walking with her completely free fossil- and bone-hunting daughters--and as always, a privilege to be with Jenna.
Tsampa looks as young as ever-- Emerson says he looks exactly the same as the last time he saw him.
We are full of apricots, popcorn, dhal batt, greens, AND summer worm/winter grass liquor, a rare Tibetan herbal (well, for a vegetarian, the summer worm part is disturbing!) concoction to celebrate the film and to give us long life.
Our love to everyone. E-mail is expensive and unpredictable, but the trek to Lo is on schedule, and our friends are here with us. Emerson will be leaving with Cy tomorrow to head downtrail on foot--should be a spectacular adventure--and it looks like we are on target to show A Gift for the Village both in Kagbeni at the Red House and to Raja Jigme, the King of Lo Monthang. Love, Jane
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
a few side notes from Jenna
ON BIKING: did i mention that i had to ask which side on the road to ride on and several times during our ride in town I could not figure out why cars and motorcycles were heading straight for me? In Nepal, I am pretty sure there is a law saying that anytime you are driving a car or riding a bike or motorcycle you should beep your horn or ring your bell as much as possible. I have to say that Ashleigh was much better with the bell ringing than me-- I was so busy dragging my feet to stop the bike on down hills and trying to figure out why everyone else was on the wrong side of the road to worry about the darn bell. Thanks Ashleigh-- your bell ringing saved us a few times!
ON FLYING TO JOMSOM: I have to say that i was really nervous about the flight. We were looking out the airport window at a cloud covered sky and a light rain and the lady told me "Jomsom weather very bad mam, very difficult for plane land" After waiting 5 1/2 hours we were led onto the tarmac. tHE RAIN HAD STOPPED AND THERE WERE HINTS OF BLUE SKY, BUT NOT MUCH, (oops caps) We were told that the pilot would take us up and see if he could land. It wasn't until I saw the female co-pilot look out of the cockpit and smile at Mary and Ella that I started feeling okay about the attempt. Then as were were just about to take off the pilot looked over his shoulder, surveyed the FULL flight of 16 passengers, smiled and turned back around. It was if he was saying, I see you, I see who you are, and I will take care of you. The flight is no more than 20 minutes. Today, after 20 minutes, we had circled about five times, dropping and ascending to dodge clouds-- mind you our pilot was flying by sight! no instruments helping with navigation, only altimeters and a few other gadgets....
ON HIKING: that last two days, despite the oppressive heat we have done two amazing treks to the mountain tops around Pokhara. Ella joined us for the trek to the World Peace Pagoda and Mary trekked to the top of Sarangkot Mtn. today. It feels good to be getting our legs ready for the long trekking days ahead. Our walks took us up steep rock stair cases, threw villages and rice fields, past men herding water buffalo in for the evening and women carrying massive baskets of corn or rocks, or buckets of water on their heads. It never ceases to amaze me where women have set up their tables or blankets full of goods-- we climbed up a steep rock ledge to find women up there waiting for us. As we trek threw villages, we are greeted in one of a few ways..."Namaste-- which country?" or "Hallo-- what your name?" "Come, just a look, no cost to look."
ON BLOGGIN: As I was nearing the end of this blog, my computer started beeping, as if the timer to an explosive was counting down-- I tried to post, no luck, I tried to copy and save, no luck, so I called over the attendant who simply nodded his head back and forth side to side and ran his fingers a few keys on the keyboard and the beeping stopped and the computer seemed to unlock. HUM????? I hope this is the last blog for a while. If it is, it means we have flown. Keep your fingers crossed for a clear sky and safe journey. Also, as i am typing there are 3 laughing geckos in sight of me. We see them everywhere and they really do laugh. There was one right above Mary's head as we ate dinner the other night.
I'm going to post now before a gecko drops down on my keyboard and the beeping starts again!
ON FLYING TO JOMSOM: I have to say that i was really nervous about the flight. We were looking out the airport window at a cloud covered sky and a light rain and the lady told me "Jomsom weather very bad mam, very difficult for plane land" After waiting 5 1/2 hours we were led onto the tarmac. tHE RAIN HAD STOPPED AND THERE WERE HINTS OF BLUE SKY, BUT NOT MUCH, (oops caps) We were told that the pilot would take us up and see if he could land. It wasn't until I saw the female co-pilot look out of the cockpit and smile at Mary and Ella that I started feeling okay about the attempt. Then as were were just about to take off the pilot looked over his shoulder, surveyed the FULL flight of 16 passengers, smiled and turned back around. It was if he was saying, I see you, I see who you are, and I will take care of you. The flight is no more than 20 minutes. Today, after 20 minutes, we had circled about five times, dropping and ascending to dodge clouds-- mind you our pilot was flying by sight! no instruments helping with navigation, only altimeters and a few other gadgets....
ON HIKING: that last two days, despite the oppressive heat we have done two amazing treks to the mountain tops around Pokhara. Ella joined us for the trek to the World Peace Pagoda and Mary trekked to the top of Sarangkot Mtn. today. It feels good to be getting our legs ready for the long trekking days ahead. Our walks took us up steep rock stair cases, threw villages and rice fields, past men herding water buffalo in for the evening and women carrying massive baskets of corn or rocks, or buckets of water on their heads. It never ceases to amaze me where women have set up their tables or blankets full of goods-- we climbed up a steep rock ledge to find women up there waiting for us. As we trek threw villages, we are greeted in one of a few ways..."Namaste-- which country?" or "Hallo-- what your name?" "Come, just a look, no cost to look."
ON BLOGGIN: As I was nearing the end of this blog, my computer started beeping, as if the timer to an explosive was counting down-- I tried to post, no luck, I tried to copy and save, no luck, so I called over the attendant who simply nodded his head back and forth side to side and ran his fingers a few keys on the keyboard and the beeping stopped and the computer seemed to unlock. HUM????? I hope this is the last blog for a while. If it is, it means we have flown. Keep your fingers crossed for a clear sky and safe journey. Also, as i am typing there are 3 laughing geckos in sight of me. We see them everywhere and they really do laugh. There was one right above Mary's head as we ate dinner the other night.
I'm going to post now before a gecko drops down on my keyboard and the beeping starts again!
July 6, evening, from Jane
Hi Friends, My eyes are drooping but I wanted to wish Blacksburg Middle School no amputation and no dislocation.
On our unexpected day in Pokhara, Jenna and Mary and Ashleigh and I walked up to Sarangkot, the big hill between Machupuchchare and Phewa Lake. From this hill, hang-gliders take off. We walked in fields and along the one switchback-looped road, past mahogany and neem forests and stone walls covered in ferns and wild crown-of-thorn. This was a really vertical walk, and I for one was as drenched from the exertion as if I had jumped in a swimming pool.
At the top, we met a little girl named Pushpanjali, thin and beautiful-eyed, but extremely forward physically, touching our necklaces, and wanting us to sit near her. I wondered if she might be a child who at Blacksburg Middle School would be one of my special kids, and I guess so: her older sister gestured to Pushpanjali and said (to our sadness), "No mind," shaking her head. Maybe not, but we would have taken this little girl with us so quickly, if we could have spoken to her easily, and if there weren't a Great Wall of regulations to barricade such a bond. She was cheerful and lithe, and happy. She seemed bright, but eccentric, possibly repetitive, or plaintive, in her affection. So far, where is the flaw?
On the drive downhill (because we decided to take a car down, to avoid the time of evening when black cobras cross the road), let's just be glad that our raft guide was in the front seat. Our driver seemed at one point distracted by a vision in the faraway distance,, and our car began to drift toward the cliff. Jenna TOOK that steering wheel and turned it, and the driver was good-natured about the correction. Go Jenna! May your raft guiding always extend to other service fields, like saving your friends from a car-flight over a Nepali precipice.
So again we try to fly tomorrow. Looking in the direction of Mustang is like looking into a mix of octopus ink and milk. I can't imagine the break in the clouds that we will need, but then again, not much of what we are doing is easy for me to imagine, even when I am seeing and being here. Like watching the silk Amchi shirt-artist: a blur and whir of stitchery keeps turning into adventures which keep turning into gifts which keep turning into friendships and then back into celebrations. Sounds as if I am drunk, but in fact I am too tired to lift a beer.
Goodnight, Pushpanjali. You may never remember us in your life, but we will never forget you. Tiny wisp of a mountain girl, walking near the stars, looking down on Phewa Lake from such a height that you could believe your own mind is nothing but clear light and empty endless sky-space. May all your dreams be as fresh as cloud and as light as mist. May flowers be bright every season of your life. May your unchecked sweetness and enthusiasm heal a thousand sadnesses in your village.
We miss our friends and family. Iris, you are always in my heart. Love, Jane
On our unexpected day in Pokhara, Jenna and Mary and Ashleigh and I walked up to Sarangkot, the big hill between Machupuchchare and Phewa Lake. From this hill, hang-gliders take off. We walked in fields and along the one switchback-looped road, past mahogany and neem forests and stone walls covered in ferns and wild crown-of-thorn. This was a really vertical walk, and I for one was as drenched from the exertion as if I had jumped in a swimming pool.
At the top, we met a little girl named Pushpanjali, thin and beautiful-eyed, but extremely forward physically, touching our necklaces, and wanting us to sit near her. I wondered if she might be a child who at Blacksburg Middle School would be one of my special kids, and I guess so: her older sister gestured to Pushpanjali and said (to our sadness), "No mind," shaking her head. Maybe not, but we would have taken this little girl with us so quickly, if we could have spoken to her easily, and if there weren't a Great Wall of regulations to barricade such a bond. She was cheerful and lithe, and happy. She seemed bright, but eccentric, possibly repetitive, or plaintive, in her affection. So far, where is the flaw?
On the drive downhill (because we decided to take a car down, to avoid the time of evening when black cobras cross the road), let's just be glad that our raft guide was in the front seat. Our driver seemed at one point distracted by a vision in the faraway distance,, and our car began to drift toward the cliff. Jenna TOOK that steering wheel and turned it, and the driver was good-natured about the correction. Go Jenna! May your raft guiding always extend to other service fields, like saving your friends from a car-flight over a Nepali precipice.
So again we try to fly tomorrow. Looking in the direction of Mustang is like looking into a mix of octopus ink and milk. I can't imagine the break in the clouds that we will need, but then again, not much of what we are doing is easy for me to imagine, even when I am seeing and being here. Like watching the silk Amchi shirt-artist: a blur and whir of stitchery keeps turning into adventures which keep turning into gifts which keep turning into friendships and then back into celebrations. Sounds as if I am drunk, but in fact I am too tired to lift a beer.
Goodnight, Pushpanjali. You may never remember us in your life, but we will never forget you. Tiny wisp of a mountain girl, walking near the stars, looking down on Phewa Lake from such a height that you could believe your own mind is nothing but clear light and empty endless sky-space. May all your dreams be as fresh as cloud and as light as mist. May flowers be bright every season of your life. May your unchecked sweetness and enthusiasm heal a thousand sadnesses in your village.
We miss our friends and family. Iris, you are always in my heart. Love, Jane
From Jane, July 6th
Hello Friends, We are NOT in Jomsom, but instead still in Pokhara.
The skies this morning were heavy with low clouds, and although we were at the little airport by 5:30 a.m., we had to wait until about 11 a.m. to hear that the first four flights to Jomsom were all totally canceled but that Agni Air WAS going to try the fifth and final flight of the day. So our team of seven and a sprinkling of locals (sixteen, counting crew) boarded the tiny twin-engine, with some trepidation and some hope.
And although we came face to face with the mighty Goddess Annapurna (over 26,000 feet, her stone face), and although we circled and circled among the thick clouds, our landing was not to be. Jenna gave thumbs up to the pilots in their open cockpit when they announced there was no entering Jomsom today. We appreciated the attempt AND our crew's reluctance. Flying into Jomsom--as our documentary shows--is not cake. You have to commit to a ravine, descend along the river, arc hard in a bowl, and stop before the runway turns into a mountain face. Today, the ravine was a cauldron of cloud, and, as Nepali pilots like to say, our clouds have rocks in them.
So we came close.
Fortunately we are already booked for attempting the second flight tomorrow morning (Usually if you miss a flight, you are pushed to lowly stand-by position, stressful for us since we are a group of seven, and don't want to split up). But the Agni representatives were excellent, and stored three of our heaviest bags at the airport, making tomorrow morning's attempt a little less burdensome.
Still, our position is not easy. Each day we can't fly, the roads--sorry, the "roads"--to Jomsom are more waterlogged and possibly blocked by mudslide or rock-avalanche. Each night in Pokhara is another $30 per person for an air-conditioned room--an expense we weren't counting on, ideally. A jeep is devilishly expensive, as quoted here in Pokhara, and so we have our friend Mingma in Kathmandu trying to get us a better deal on a good jeep. May I add that having a shop owner connect a phone here to our friend Mingma in Kathmandu is itself a trip.
If we DO opt to be driven, we will do so ONLY in a good jeep, not on public transport. Jenna and I have seen the roads, and a public "bus" on those "roads" is outside my definition of reasonable. We have considered a heliocopter, but we doubt we can afford the option.
Anyway, we spent a decompression lunch upstairs at a familiar restaurant and navigated everyone's response to the mild trauma of circling but not being able to land in Jomsom.
Most disappointed was Mary, partly because her ears ached a little fom the flight and partly because she so much wanted to land in our next place and get that much closer to snow leopards.
Mingma informed us, upon my asking the dire question of whether any of our Upper Mustang fees would be refundable, if we can not get to Kagbeni at the appointed time to start the trek to Lo, that no, unfortunately, our contract is signed and the fees are paid for the special permissions given by various government ministers for us to enter the Forbidden Kingdom. Those are big bucks to have flutter out of our grasp. And big hopes to lose from our grasp.
So wish us well, getting to Mustang. My young cousin Cy is there (he took the local bus, but, for the life of me, I can't feel great about that choice for my team), who informed Emerson last night by crackly phone that there may not be a working projector in Jomsom, and therefore we may not be able to show the documentary where the festival was held, which is a shame. But in the walled fortress-city of Lo, there IS a generator, a projector, and a King expecting us and the documentary.
All we have to do to show A Gift for the Village there is, first, to solve the puzzle of how to outwit the monsoon sky and its wrath upon the roads, and, second, to walk 155 miles. As our friends here often say: Is problem? No problem.
But outside the ring of obstacles I have described, what an amazing event in Pokhara yesterday! I met a young man, Udhav Shrestha, 23, and his handsome father, Krishna. There was something about Udhav. I wish I knew how to recollect exactly what made me sense that he was an artist. All he did is name some prices on t-shirts. But there was something...
I can honestly say that until I SAW Udhav I had not had the idea, but something in his expression...
I said, "I have a project I want to suggest. It may be impossible, and you can simply say no. I can not imagine you wlll say yes, but there is something in your face, something in your smile, which causes me to ask."
So I showed him a photograph of the Amchi Painting.
I told him about our project, our documentary, about Tsampa Ngawang and my long support of Tibet, and I read him the Dalai Lama's letter endorsing A Gift for the Village. Udhav listened.
I said, "I wonder if you could, with silk thread, reproduce this Amchi painting--in silk--on a black t-shirt. I know it is complicated. It is possibly impossible."
Udhav smiled and shook his head, as if in disbelief, and then introduced me to his father, who had been listening, and who said, "I think you are very lucky. If you had asked any other person in all of Pokhara, not one other person would even try. I don't tell you this as a selling point. But to do what you ask requires more than tailoring skills. As it happens, yes. We are father and son, and yes, we can do this work. We are the only two within sight of Phewa Lake who can sew like artists. How did you know to ask?"
Hopefully, Tom Landon can link our site to Krishna and Udhav's business, Shrestha Embroidery Shop, where you can see the kind of artistry these men have, although I can not imagine that ANY custom design on their site can compare to the Amchi shirt I am currently wearing. Their site is: www.embroiderynepal.weebly.com. As soon as we can, we will send a jpeg of the Amchi shirt, so you can see for yourselves.
Unbelievable. Quite a feeling, to have your large Tibetan lineage painting sewn into a silken t-shirt design, before your eyes, with son and father bent over the hoop, and the son reminding the father how to shape the grimace of the snow lions' faces, and the father working all the necessary colors into the peacock feathers (each, smaller than a cumin seed).
I think we will take a walk today. Just to stretch our legs and work out the kinks from the disappointment of not being able to land in Jomsom. Not yet.
Love to all of our family and friends, Jane
The skies this morning were heavy with low clouds, and although we were at the little airport by 5:30 a.m., we had to wait until about 11 a.m. to hear that the first four flights to Jomsom were all totally canceled but that Agni Air WAS going to try the fifth and final flight of the day. So our team of seven and a sprinkling of locals (sixteen, counting crew) boarded the tiny twin-engine, with some trepidation and some hope.
And although we came face to face with the mighty Goddess Annapurna (over 26,000 feet, her stone face), and although we circled and circled among the thick clouds, our landing was not to be. Jenna gave thumbs up to the pilots in their open cockpit when they announced there was no entering Jomsom today. We appreciated the attempt AND our crew's reluctance. Flying into Jomsom--as our documentary shows--is not cake. You have to commit to a ravine, descend along the river, arc hard in a bowl, and stop before the runway turns into a mountain face. Today, the ravine was a cauldron of cloud, and, as Nepali pilots like to say, our clouds have rocks in them.
So we came close.
Fortunately we are already booked for attempting the second flight tomorrow morning (Usually if you miss a flight, you are pushed to lowly stand-by position, stressful for us since we are a group of seven, and don't want to split up). But the Agni representatives were excellent, and stored three of our heaviest bags at the airport, making tomorrow morning's attempt a little less burdensome.
Still, our position is not easy. Each day we can't fly, the roads--sorry, the "roads"--to Jomsom are more waterlogged and possibly blocked by mudslide or rock-avalanche. Each night in Pokhara is another $30 per person for an air-conditioned room--an expense we weren't counting on, ideally. A jeep is devilishly expensive, as quoted here in Pokhara, and so we have our friend Mingma in Kathmandu trying to get us a better deal on a good jeep. May I add that having a shop owner connect a phone here to our friend Mingma in Kathmandu is itself a trip.
If we DO opt to be driven, we will do so ONLY in a good jeep, not on public transport. Jenna and I have seen the roads, and a public "bus" on those "roads" is outside my definition of reasonable. We have considered a heliocopter, but we doubt we can afford the option.
Anyway, we spent a decompression lunch upstairs at a familiar restaurant and navigated everyone's response to the mild trauma of circling but not being able to land in Jomsom.
Most disappointed was Mary, partly because her ears ached a little fom the flight and partly because she so much wanted to land in our next place and get that much closer to snow leopards.
Mingma informed us, upon my asking the dire question of whether any of our Upper Mustang fees would be refundable, if we can not get to Kagbeni at the appointed time to start the trek to Lo, that no, unfortunately, our contract is signed and the fees are paid for the special permissions given by various government ministers for us to enter the Forbidden Kingdom. Those are big bucks to have flutter out of our grasp. And big hopes to lose from our grasp.
So wish us well, getting to Mustang. My young cousin Cy is there (he took the local bus, but, for the life of me, I can't feel great about that choice for my team), who informed Emerson last night by crackly phone that there may not be a working projector in Jomsom, and therefore we may not be able to show the documentary where the festival was held, which is a shame. But in the walled fortress-city of Lo, there IS a generator, a projector, and a King expecting us and the documentary.
All we have to do to show A Gift for the Village there is, first, to solve the puzzle of how to outwit the monsoon sky and its wrath upon the roads, and, second, to walk 155 miles. As our friends here often say: Is problem? No problem.
But outside the ring of obstacles I have described, what an amazing event in Pokhara yesterday! I met a young man, Udhav Shrestha, 23, and his handsome father, Krishna. There was something about Udhav. I wish I knew how to recollect exactly what made me sense that he was an artist. All he did is name some prices on t-shirts. But there was something...
I can honestly say that until I SAW Udhav I had not had the idea, but something in his expression...
I said, "I have a project I want to suggest. It may be impossible, and you can simply say no. I can not imagine you wlll say yes, but there is something in your face, something in your smile, which causes me to ask."
So I showed him a photograph of the Amchi Painting.
I told him about our project, our documentary, about Tsampa Ngawang and my long support of Tibet, and I read him the Dalai Lama's letter endorsing A Gift for the Village. Udhav listened.
I said, "I wonder if you could, with silk thread, reproduce this Amchi painting--in silk--on a black t-shirt. I know it is complicated. It is possibly impossible."
Udhav smiled and shook his head, as if in disbelief, and then introduced me to his father, who had been listening, and who said, "I think you are very lucky. If you had asked any other person in all of Pokhara, not one other person would even try. I don't tell you this as a selling point. But to do what you ask requires more than tailoring skills. As it happens, yes. We are father and son, and yes, we can do this work. We are the only two within sight of Phewa Lake who can sew like artists. How did you know to ask?"
Hopefully, Tom Landon can link our site to Krishna and Udhav's business, Shrestha Embroidery Shop, where you can see the kind of artistry these men have, although I can not imagine that ANY custom design on their site can compare to the Amchi shirt I am currently wearing. Their site is: www.embroiderynepal.weebly.com. As soon as we can, we will send a jpeg of the Amchi shirt, so you can see for yourselves.
Unbelievable. Quite a feeling, to have your large Tibetan lineage painting sewn into a silken t-shirt design, before your eyes, with son and father bent over the hoop, and the son reminding the father how to shape the grimace of the snow lions' faces, and the father working all the necessary colors into the peacock feathers (each, smaller than a cumin seed).
I think we will take a walk today. Just to stretch our legs and work out the kinks from the disappointment of not being able to land in Jomsom. Not yet.
Love to all of our family and friends, Jane
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