The first Excursion to McLeod Ganj

My view of early morning light

6th May

I wake early and enjoy the early morning light over the mountains.

I am undecided whether to go to McLeod Ganj or Norbulinka, part of this is to do with the prospect of figuring out the public transport system – although I have had fairly precise instructions about it, so head up to Fatehpur for a coffee. 

On the way I pass many domestic and rural scenes, including neighbours chatting with their small children lined up and staring at me – I give them a “Namaste” and the children are encouraged by their mothers to respond appropriately.  School age children, I say “hello” and for the most part receive a similar response.

The picture does not really reflect
the way the mountains loom over one

As I walk through the back country lanes (shortcut) to Fatehpur, I am awed by the peaks of the Dhauladhaer Range, the highest of which looms more than 4,000m above me.  I pass a couple washing what looks like a huge quantity of rice but upon closer inspection and inquiry, it is wheat they are separating from the chaff.  I have only seen this done previously by winnowing, not by water.

At the coffee shop, I peruse the cakes, which show incredible evidence of being super sweet, and resist.  I sit enjoying my coffee, then ask for directions to Norbulinka, but as I step outside, I notice a bus at the bus station so change my plans.  The bus pulls out before I get there, but stops when I flag it down.  The fare is an incredibly expensive 7 rupees!

Travelling by bus - rarely this empty

The ancient vehicle shakes and shudders, grinds and groans, its way up the hill – a narrow road, most of the way a long strip of shops and other businesses.  We manage to avoid all the cows, as well as the pedestrians and other vehicles and finally arrive at the Dharamsala bus station after stopping to pick up and let down people at what appear to be random place, but well might be well planned and organized bus stops… who knows?

We have passed a collection of “troop carriers” lined up on the side of the road and I wonder if these are the “jeeps” which transport people the remainder of the way to McLeod Gang – on a road often deemed unsuitable for bus travel.  The first person I ask points me in the opposite direction, and I wander uncertainly until one young man with better English asks if I need help and points me in the direction of the aforementioned vehicles.

McLeod Ganj main square

There is one that already looks overloaded, with 3 in the front, 4 in the middle and already 4 on the bench seats in the back – apparently there is room for 2 more, so I wedge half a buttock onto the edge of the bench seat, and pray that the door does not fly open en route. 

It does pass my mind that had I been in Bhutan, there would have been a reshuffling of people to enable me to be more comfortably seated, but there my role was known – here I am probably assumed to be just another tourist.

I am unable to see much in this simulation of a sardine tin, but the road switches back and forth as we climb through pine forests, and at one point, we pass the Anglican Church which is a point of interest for exploring some other time.  We also pass a number of signs about the health of the side of the road and the inadvisability of parking thereon or generally getting too close, including one sign that advises that the “Road is Ailing”.

Temple Road, McLeod Ganj

We finally come to a stop, and I try not to tumble unceremoniously out of the vehicle.  I also try to determine if a few new itchy spots are due to the collection of an unwanted insect or two in my clothing. 

I wander in the general direction of the Dalai Lama temple, noting another temple I might want to visit later.  I am solicited regularly by stall holders, many of whom have wares which look remarkably similar to other stall holders up the road.  I am also invited into several shops, which look a little more substantial than others.  Some I decline, some I enter, advising that I am just looking. 

There is one, which has some delightfully fine, but I think rather good quality cashmere shawls, but I don’t really want to enter into discussions about them at the moment.  Another had some rather nice jewellery with precious stones – well, that’s the story.  Actually, I suspect these may have been genuine.

One man who invites me into his shop, and shows me a seat to better appreciate his wares, also offers me tea.  When I decline tea, I am invited to have dinner with him – rather a startling jump, but never mind.  I decline, on the basis that the students will be cooking me dinner tonight, I am not staying the night in McLeod Ganj.

The fates of some Buddhist scholars and spiritual leaders 

I get to the Tsuglagkhang Temple, the Dalai Lama’s temple, and am a little awed by it, but also disturbed by its necessity to be in this location.  It was built in 1969 as the equivalent of the Jokhang temple in Lhasa, the most sacred and important temple in Tibet.

I am also reminded that the 11^th Panchen Lama (the successor to the Dalai Lama) was taken 3 days after he had been identified by the Dalai Lama, along with his family, by Chinese authorities in 1995 and has not been seen since.  The Chinese authorities named another boy in his place.    At 6 years old when he “disappeared”, the real Panchen Lama is considered the world’s youngest political prisoner.

Part of McLeod Ganj

I spin the many prayer wheels as I circumambulate the temple 3 times, and find space amongst the Indian tourists taking selfies inside to perform my prostrations, as taught by my Bhutanese friends.  I note that after this, one Indian father has his family do likewise.  Others are still busily engrossed in selfies, despite the sign outside suggesting this is not the most desirable activity.

I also find the small museum which is associated with the temple.  It documents the past and current actions of the Chinese administration in Tibet – all of which are very disturbing from so many perspectives.  So much pointless destruction; so much loss of life and attempts at subjugation of those who remain.  And so much abuse of the environment as well – I was unaware that the Chinese were doing nuclear tests in Tibet!

However, the British did their bit to at the turn of the 20^th century, and in their invasion of Tibet, there was destruction of ancient buildings and a fair amount of wanton killing.

I find a café for lunch and order a decadent chocolate pancake and a latte, the pancake is my first real treat in 3 weeks, but the latte is fairly ordinary.  I enjoy sitting on the tiny balcony and watching the world go by. Almost literally.  McLeod Ganj was a hill retreat for the British Raj, and Indians still consider the hills as a good place for a holiday.  Plus there are many from all over the world who come as a pilgrims to this place.  Nuns and monks in their maroon Buddhist robes pass, along with others in orange or saffron robes – I am not sure who they are.  There are Indian men in the traditional white trousers and over shirts, ladies in gorgeous saris or salwar kameez – the loose long trousers with overdresses, Sikhs with their turbans, ladies in traditional Tibetan dresses and of course the full range of “western” casual clothing.

The street, despite being narrow and filled with the throng on foot, also sustains a stream of motorbikes, three wheelers, cars, small trucks and the bigger “tourist vehicles” – almost small buses.

I wander back towards the main square pausing to look at some of the stalls run by Tibetans, and am attracted by one that has a little brochure about an initiative for unemployed refugees – glass bead jewellery.  The young man has only a little on display, but tells me the factory is close by and I can visit.  On my way I seek additional directions (necessary in this maze of streets) and find another stall selling glass beads.  The young man here, Tenzin, says he can take me to the factory but better that I buy from the stall first (better for him, he receives a commission of 20-30 rupees for each item – a rather small amount, so I purchase one)  He takes me to the factory (via a shortcut through several sets of internal stairs in buildings) and I am impressed by what I see (but no photos allowed – not sure whether that is about the process, the design or identification of the refugees).  About 20 people working on making these lovely items (from Italian glass), and I buy one more bracelet.  He does not receive commission on this, so as we walk back, I give him the commission equivalent, which he politely refuses, but only once.

By then it’s pretty well time for me to head back, as I want to be sure of getting back to the school before dark – I’m not yet that confident about finding my way from Fatiphur through the lanes, although my torch is in my backpack!

The driver of the “jeep” about to leave for Dharmasala encourages me to climb into an already crowded vehicle.  I make the fourth person across the back seat.  It is a smaller vehicle than the one in which I arrived, but that does not stop the driver adding one more lady – the result of which is one of the men in the very back is sitting on another’s knee.   A short way down the road we pick up an additional person who squeezes into the front seat – making 3 passengers plus the driver in the front.  The driver’s elbows, in order to steer, are pretty much across the full face and body of the passenger seated next to him.  One of the men with whom I am sharing the back seat notes my expression and grins and tells me the next person will come in the back seat with us – I ask him if his knees are strong, and he says “enough”!  Sardine tin imitations yet again.

Back at the bus station at Dharamsala (which we do reach safely, despite all odds – and of course the driver does not have change when I hand him 20 for the 15 fare!) I am directed to a bus which will pass through Fatiphur, and board it as it is leaving.  This bus descends the hill with much squealing of brakes, taking on sufficient passengers for about 3 buses on the way.  At my destination I almost don’t reach the door in time, but the conductor register’s my intent, and bullies a few people out of the way, using a whistle to hold any action from the driver until I have alighted.

Dinner, cooked by Thupten, is plentiful and filling

I walk the remaining 20 minutes, encountering some students on the way, and get back to a very quiet school.  It is just Thupten and me.  My first priority is to divest myself of my clothing, which I am convinced is harboring at least one small biting insect, and bathe.  Clothing is dumped into a bucket, with some soapy water.  Drowning insects is possibly not consistent with local philosophy, but does that really apply to fleas in my clothing?

I figure that dinner may or not happen and indulge in the remains of my pineapple from Thursday’s shopping, and some nuts.  I also sneak along the balcony to better listen to Thupten singing.  He has a wonderful voice.

In due course he comes to see if I would like dinner:  fried potatoes and rice.  I am a little hungry, so he brings me a giant plateful (by my standards), and I manage about three quarters of it.