Tag: Nepal Earthquake

The Buddha Who is to Come

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As we wandered the streets of Lo Manthang, we kept passing a tall red building, solid and windowless. There were rectangular holes cut into the lower part of the walls and I put my eye to them but felt only cold blackness. I turned the torch on on my phone and shone it through the hole, but its feeble light was no match for that darkness.

There was one thing I was determined to see in Lo Manthang, and that was the enormous statue of the Buddha that Michel Peissel had come across in his explorations, and I suspected that this dark building was where it sat.

Jit arranged for us to see the three monasteries of Lo Manthang. We first visited the Chode monastery where the monastic school is located and heard eighty-three small monks reciting their scriptures. Next to the monastery was a chorten that contains the body of a powerful lama. It also contains a relic from an abbott who had died twelve years before and the guide told us that when he died, snow fell in Kathmandu for the first time in sixty-two years.

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Door of Jampa Monastery

Another guide, Tashi, carrying a large torch, led us along the streets and into a courtyard. We climbed some steps to the walkway above and he unlocked the padlock on a heavy, carved wooden door. The sound echoed as in a large cavern and we stepped into the gloom. As my eyes adjusted, there opposite, rising up out of the gloom below, was the great, golden statue of the Maitreya, the Buddha who is to come, at once benevolent and forbidding. For 600 years, since the founding of Lo Monthang, it had sat there. On the altar against the railing before it, as well as butter lamps and bowls of water, were offerings of rice, money, biscuits, a juice popper, and a cylinder of Pringles chips. A woman stood, fervently intoning prayers.

Leaning over the railing, I peered down into the lower floor where the base of the statue sat. Beyond the base, impenetrable darkness.

I asked Tashi what was in the floor above and he told me it was a Mahakala room and therefore dangerous to enter. Mahakala is the fierce protector god.

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Second and third floors of Jampa Monastery

Tashi then took us to the Tubchen monastery. We entered what I can only describe as a vast cathedral. Great pillars, thirty-five of them, the width of whole tree trunks held up the roof, almost eight metres high, the floor space 28 by 18 metres. The brackets atop the pillars were intricately carved and around the edge of the skylight recess were snow lions, mythical creatures of the Himalayas symbolising fearlessness and unconditional, youthful joy.

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Entrance to Tubchen Monastery

Tashi was one of a group of artists working with Italian experts to restore the Jampa and Tubchen monasteries. In both, the paintings had deteriorated from age, soot from the butter lamps and incense, and water leaking from the ceilings. The walls had been cleaned and, in some places, resurfaced and new paint added. In some places, whole new paintings were being added to replace those completely lost.

Thousands of dollars of foreign money is being spent on the restoration, but younger Lobas are leaving and those with money invest it abroad. In a place that has no health facility beyond a health post staffed by the equivalent of a paramedic, there is tension about the money being spent on the restorations. While some people feel it is important to maintain their heritage and culture, others feel it is the foreigners who really want it. There is speculation that the palace will not be restored before the Raja is too old to return and that it may become a museum.

Will Lo Manthang eventually become just one great, remote museum for foreigners to visit?

 

Enter the Walled City

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We first saw, over to the west, the red monastery of Namgyal, perched on a rocky outcrop, halfway up the mountain. High on the crest of a barren brown hill were the ruins of a round tower and a wall—the fortress of Ketcher Dzong, built by the warrior and first king of Mustang, Ame Pal, who founded the kingdom of Lo in 1380. We saw Lo Monthang long before we actually arrived. It seemed close, but as we wearily trudged towards it, with that feeling of fatigue that begins to descend when you know you’re close to your destination, it didn’t seem to come any closer. What we saw was a sprawl of buildings and green trees in the midst of which was a concentration of buildings, the red monasteries standing tall above the rest.

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Crossing a small stream we ambled up and along the south wall to our lodge. We’d arrived but all I could feel was grateful to be stopping in the same place for three nights.

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After unloading at the lodge, we went in search of the “real” coffee that was reputed to be found in at least one establishment in Lo Manthang. We found it, just a few doors up from our lodge, at the Hotel Mystique. One small coffee machine sits on a counter next to a water purifier and takes ten minutes to heat the water, which was no problem for us as we weren’t rushing anywhere. The proprietor, a tall young woman in traditional dress, told us that since the installation of the solar plant, just outside of the city, things were much better for her business as she could now use her machine all day.

The 70 kilowatt plant was installed just two weeks before we arrived, fully funded and constructed by the Chinese government. 300 solar panels now stand in three rows outside the city to the south and power poles line the streets surrounding Lo Manthang. Electricity wires now accompany the fluttering prayer flags, surreptitiously snaking under walk-ways and along walls, attached to the ancient mud walls and hitched above the doorways of monasteries built long before electricity was ever discovered.

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The entry gate Lo Monthang

After our coffee we walked into Lo Monthang. I found it to be one giant maze and no matter how much we walked around I could never get my bearings. It felt like we kept going in circles and when I thought we’d seen it all, Neville assured me we hadn’t.

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The palace

Although Upper Mustang was annexed by Nepal in the late 1800s, it still has its own King or Raja, albeit with only local authority. The palace was damaged in the earthquake so the Raja and Rajini had moved to Kathmandu and it’s unclear when or even if they’ll return.

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The main square

The main square, where the festivals and other gatherings are held, was full of rubble and a new building was being constructed on one side.

That night, we celebrated with hot lemon drinks “coloured”, as Jit liked to say, with some Kukri rum. We’d arrived at the so-called “Forbidden City” and tomorrow we would explore.

Ghiling

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The road now climbed above Tsele heading north-west away from the excoriating wind. Neville, Jit and I set off together leaving Netra and Dabendra to finish getting the horses ready. We didn’t walk far before Nev and Jit turned off the road taking a walking track too steep and narrow for the horses. I sat and waited for the horses but was only able to ride a short distance before once more dismounting. We now joined Neville and Jit again as the track climbed very steeply clinging to the edge of the cliff face, overhung with rock in places. It was extremely hard going. It seemed like we would be climbing forever and I kept hoping that around the next bend the path would level out, but we kept climbing.

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The same track on which Peissel led his yaks

As we ascended we saw the mountains to the south rising with us. To the west, steep hills rose above us, dotted with spiky, stunted bushes. Settling on top were dark, heavy clouds that in the end brought only a brief shower.

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After a couple of hours we made a welcome stop at Samar–which name means “red earth”–crossing a small stream surrounded by a grove of trees, following the stony path through a low entry passage to the Annapurna Guest House.

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Here we sat in the kitchen where a wood fire burned in one stove and our host, a woman in traditional Tibetan dress, made us sweet milk tea on a gas cooker, ladling the tea continuously to dissolve the powdered milk.

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In a walled yard outside a man and a young girl sat breaking rocks, which they then put into canvas feed bags. In one corner of the yard dung was spread on the ground to dry for use later as fuel.

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From Samar the path led out through another gateway, down and across a bubbling, milky-blue stream, before once again climbing along the side of a cliff.

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We stopped for lunch at the tiny village of Bhena. The tea house was just three rooms: a kitchen, dining room (which was also the entry) and a bedroom with a storage loft above. A small baby lay softly mewling in the bedroom and suspended above him was a plastic beachball, the only thing resembling a toy that I saw in Mustang. His older sister, who was about five, slowly inched towards us as we sat waiting for our lunch. I took out my phone and showed her how to take a “selfie” with which she was very pleased. After a few more photos that game was exhausted so I took out my small notebook and a pencil and agave it to her to draw in. Instead, she began to write ABDEF, over and over, always leaving out the C. So I wrote it correctly for her and she copied it a few times. I then handed her the pencil, indicating that she could keep it and she skipped away to show everyone.

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After crossing the pass above Bhena, at 3800m, we descended to the impossibly green and beautiful village of Ghiling. As we approached, a man and woman called out and a loud discussion ensued; it was obvious we weren’t expected. Nev and I sat and waited while this was sorted out, but I had resigned myself to camping that night before Netra said “please come” and crossing a walled yard, where the garden was edged with empty Tuborg beer bottles, we entered the tea house via a passageway that led to an interior courtyard covered with a green translucent roof that bathed everything in a weird green light.

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Next morning, Jit took us to the monastery that perches above the village. Back in 1992, when Mustang was first opened up to tourists, thangkas (religious paintings) and statues were stolen from the monastery. Now someone sleeps on a bed inside the entrance to guard it. A square skylight let some light into the dimly lit assembly hall where I lit a butter lamp and the monk dipped a brush into a plastic container of water and flicked it over the lamps, intoning prayers. Outside we climbed onto the roof and Jit pointed to a smaller monastery above, but said it was forbidden for women to enter, and anyway it was locked.

As we looked down on the patchwork fields of Ghiling, Jit pointed to a faint track leading away to the west between low, barren hills; this would lead us to our next destination: Tragmar.

Only later did I learn that Ghiling had lost more than 60 houses in the earthquake.

Kagbeni

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We weren’t long on the trail before I had to dismount. The path along the river became slippery with smooth, wet rocks and the horse threatened to stumble. So I dismounted and walked until the path ended at a sheer rock wall that jutted into the river. Jit chose to double back and take the high path, leaving us with Netra and Dabendra to make our way around the rock. I remounted and Dabendra took off his shoes, rolled up his fraying jeans and, pulling and yelling sternly at the horse, managed to get it to enter the freezing water and over to a bank of gravel. We then went around the rock and crossed back through the water on the other side. Meanwhile, Netra rolled up his pants and, laughing at the cold water, cheerfully waded through and around the rock. I dismounted then Dabendra led the horse back around and led Neville around the same way, holding his walking poles aloft.

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Jit rejoined us after a few minutes and we continued on to the small village of Eklo Batti, just a shop and a couple of lodges, for a brief rest before continuing on to Kagbeni.

When Michel Peissel reached Kagbeni, he found a fortress town where all the houses were joined together for safety, accessed by narrow streets that tunnelled under the houses in places and was towered over by the square, red monastery. Now numerous teahouses obscure the old Kagbeni on approach and beside the old monastery, built in 1429, a new monastery is being built.

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We were the only guests at Nigiri Lodge that night, so named for the clear view of the mountain. We arrived in time for lunch—dal baht and apple fritters—which we ate in the sunny, warm dining room while the wind, which comes up every day like clockwork and builds to gale force by the afternoon, howled around the building and set the prayer flags flapping violently. This wind is driven by air heated down on the plains of India, which rises and is then funnelled up the Kali Gandaki river gorge. Peissel described it as “the ferocious wind from the south” and so it is. When we went out with Jit that afternoon to explore the town, the wind whipped dust into our eyes and stuck to the vaseline on my chapped lips and when I got changed for bed that night, grit fell from my clothes.

Jit took us to the monastery and we entered a courtyard to see small boys with shaved heads in maroon robes streaming out of the ancient building to where a monk was giving out afternoon tea. They jumped and tumbled about, one in a spiderman singlet, another in a superman jumper. The monastery had been damaged in the earthquake and a large crack ran the full length of one wall. It was not safe to go up on the roof, but we were still able to enter the main room where, like in all the monasteries we would see, two rows of seats faced each other, and gold statues of Buddha sat placidly inside glass cabinets lit from above. Seven bowls of water and some butter lamps sat along the ledge before them.

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Jit then left us to explore the village on our own and we wandered past the Yakdonalds, the 7Eleven sign, and the image of the Bon protector god with his erect penis. The smell of manure and urine permeated the whole village from the cows that wander the narrow streets. The odd chicken pecked about, old women sat in doorways turning prayer beads through their work-worn hands, and children called “Namaste”. We crossed a wooden bridge over the river and the wind threatened to whip my hat into the muddy, raging torrent below. A monk crossed over just after us and, laughing at the wind, continued on his way in the direction of Tiri.

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That night we warmed ourselves with hot lemon and homemade apple brandy, garlic soup for the effects of altitude, and more apple fritters drizzled with honey. When we retired to bed the only sounds were the calming wind, the pitiful miaowing of a cat and, in the distance, the rushing river.

To Pokhara

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Jit arrived promptly the next morning at 7.30 with a smart car and a driver. Bags loaded, Neville and I got into the back seat, which was covered with a piece of carpet. I put my seatbelt on while Nev dug around in vain for his.

“Everything Ok?” Asked Jit from the front seat.

“I can’t find my seatbelt,” Nev replied.

“Seatbelt not necessary.”

“Yes, but I’d like to wear it anyway.”

The driver started the car and we went out the hotel gate and squeezed into the rough narrow streets of Kathmandu. Nev looked at me in resignation, but after bumping along for about ten minutes, without a word the driver pulled over and got out.

“We look for seatbelt,” said Jit.

We both got out and the driver dug around down the back of the seat, but no seatbelt could be found; Nev would just have to hope.

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Women in red still lined the streets, wearing red and gold ornaments in their sleek black hair. With shoes off they sat on mats along the sides of the dusty road, oblivious to the blaring horns and traffic around them. Men with red tikka on their foreheads sat facing them and between them were plates of food.

As we wound up and out of the valley, we passed small groups of women, huddled together singing and dancing. The noise and dust of Kathmandu was gradually replaced by green hills, and soon we were passing verdant green rice paddies. High up among the terraced paddies one lone figure in red moved along a path.

It grew very warm and humid.

We passed a newly built factory by the river and I asked Jit what it was. After a short conversation with the driver he replied, “Is secret factory.”

“A secret factory?”

“Ee, yes. They were in India, now move here.”

A secret factory. I felt outraged that a company could build a secret factory. I took note of the name on the gate: Surya. Only after we returned home did I discover that Surya is a brand of cigarettes. A cigarette factory.

It was early afternoon when we drove into Pokhara, turned up a narrow drive and arrived at our hotel. Here for one last night we’d have the luxury of a modern bathroom, aircon and TV, at least when the power was on.

Lake Fewa Tal

Pokhara feels like a beachside holiday town, at least by the lake. Colourful boats sit at the waters edge waiting for hire, while Tibetans from the local refugee community offer beads and posters.

There is a large police presence, especially around the entrance to what was the holiday residence of the royal family. The monarchy was abolished in 2008. A high fence obscures the property, but from the lake a modest two-story house can be seen, sitting empty and abandoned. Another building sits out over the edge of the lake, the screens enclosing its verandah filthy and torn.

Temple Fewa Tal

From the centre of the lake smoke rises and bells can be heard from the Tal Bahari Temple which sits on a small island. Pilgrims paddle out to the island to light butter lamps and make offerings to the goddess Bahari, watched over by the Annapurnas which loom above the valley and are reflected in its lake.

Machhupachare

As the sun set, the sharp double peak of Machhupachare, the fishtail mountain, which dominates the valley, turned from glowing white to pink then purple. It is also called “Tiger Mountain” and if you look closely, you can see the sharp ear, snout, mouth, and front paws of a crouching tiger.

That evening we set out to enjoy a last good meal before we would have to endure twelve days of a bland trekking menu: rice, bread, eggs, and potato with much the same toppings and few fresh vegetables. Restaurants line the street that runs along the lake, and waiters in black pants and immaculate white shirts called to us to “just look” at their menus. We decided on a very new place, a hotel that was still being finished, and the staff were extremely eager to make a good impression, rushing to help us as soon as we made any movement and repeatedly asking if everything was ok. I asked them why there were so many police in Pokhara, and they stood trying desperately to find enough English words to explain, but in the end couldn’t; something to do with strikes was all I could gather.

We savoured our last taste of meat and toasted our upcoming journey with good wine before wandering back through the humid night air to our hotel. Many shops were still open, their owners trying to entice us in. Tourist numbers were way down since the earthquake and there was an air of quiet desperation.

Jit had asked us to meet him downstairs at 5.30 next morning. Flights between Pokhara and Jomsom, our next destination, are dependent on good weather, so we needed to be at the airport early to catch the first flight in case the weather closed in and we were forced to wait another day.

 

 

 

 

The Beginning

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The journey begins in Kathmandu.

Nepal was closed to foreigners until the 1950s, but it would be another 42 years before Upper Mustang would be opened up. After China invaded Tibet in 1950, Upper Mustang became a highly sensitive area, surrounded as it is on three sides by Tibet. Khampa warriors used Upper Mustang as a base from which to launch assaults against the Chinese. So in 1964, Michel Peissel had to apply to the King of Nepal for permission to enter. It took six months, but on April 23rd he finally set out to explore Mustang and discover for himself the city of Lo Manthang.

We arrived in Kathmandu in September 2015 during the Tij festival and the city was a sea of red. Long lines of women in beautiful red saris led down to the temple of Pashupatinath, where the dead are cremated on the bank of the Bagmati river. The Tij festival is a three-day Hindu women’s festival. On the first day the women feast. On the second day they fast and visit the temples to make offerings. On the third day they can eat again. We saw many women in groups singing and dancing. This is all done for the health and prosperity of their husbands.

 

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We arrived at our Kathmandu hotel, the International Guesthouse, and soon after our guide arrived. Jit is a highly experienced guide, but hadn’t been to Lo Manthang since2001, back when a government official had to accompany all groups entering Upper Mustang and his costs had to be covered by the guide. There were no lodges either, so trekkers had to camp. He would be packing a tent and sleeping mats in case we arrived somewhere without a lodge.

The next morning we walked out early to see Kathmandu waking up. In 1964 the Himalayas could be seen from Kathmandu. Now it is only possible on a very clear day as a haze of pollution hangs over the city. It was just five months since the earthquake that killed almost 9000 people and made thousands more homeless. The damage was most evident in Durbar square where whole temples had crumbled.

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We passed markets laden with colourful fruit and vegetables, mounds of marigolds strung together, huge chunks of pink Himalayan rock salt. In one narrow street people crowded around a man and woman frying balls of dough in hot oil.

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We joined them and walked away with two hot dumplings on a piece of torn newspaper. We wandered back through Durbar Square and saw a dog limping along, one paw held up and hanging limp. A man and woman beckoned it over and it gingerly lowered itself down and sat with them.  I bent down and patted its head and it looked up at me and shivered slightly. It was just one of many street dogs you see in Kathmandu, sick and injured, and none of us were in a position to help. I did discover later that there is a clinic for street dogs, run by foreign vets and volunteers.

Michel Peissel, his assistants Calay and Tashi, and his “six hundred and fifty pounds of excess baggage” flew from Kathmandu to Pokhara to begin his journey to Lo Manthang. We would be driving with Jit and a driver, a distance of only 200km, but a five hour drive on winding roads that cling to the sides of the mountains above the rushing Trisuli river.