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Manang
Snow Day
Manang
April 6, 2001
Day. One
thought, my poor father.
I worry that to him it may seem that
by the very act of my travel, my "self-exploration", I reject his
ideals. I do not reject them, I am only beginning to understand
them.
Currently I feel I begin to understand what is good and
noble and true in them: they carry with them the forces of tradition
and Honor. Moments like dressing up for church or getting ready for
a dinner-party at my godparents. I can tell these things are a
source of joy for him. At the same time I can tell they are dated
and are slowly passing away (the kind of feeling I observe in these
acts is passing away) out of American culture before my very
eyes.
Even understanding this I am sure I only understand a
hundredth part of his joy and tradition.
Eight now all of us
lay on our beds in the Yak hotel room we share. Heather was up all
night with trips to the bathroom vomiting etc. Shane dutifully rose
each time to console and comfort her. I lay in bed with my
intestines boiling, passing copious methane and avoiding the
inevitable. At one point I felt a wave of nausea which faded as I
passed back into sleep. This morning I was also sick with diarreah.
It is unlcear what was the cause.
They both are sleeping now
and we may stay another night here in Manang. Luckily the Himalayan
Rescue Association is just accross the path from us and Manang has
everything available in food, supplies and medicine.
It is
overcast today and outside in the steely diffused light I can see
thin wispy blankets of snow lying in patches along the fence posts
and on the terraced mountainside against the eroded barren landscape
here. High desert with peaks of blue and white soaring up to 26,000
and 27,000 feet beyond the river. We can watch videos here as there
is a place offering movies up the path.
Last night when the
snow was first coming down I left Shane and Heather cuddling
together in our stone-walled chilly room and went out to explore the
monastaries that dot the mountains above us. White fat flakes
floated lazily down melting on contact and sticking to my
fleece.
I first checked out the telecom hut with its powerful
array if solar panels, satellite dishes and antennae. $10 US for the
first minute and 20 cents for each minute of callback. I'll wait
till Jomsom to call home.
I walked up the mountain and from
there explored an empty monastary, continued past it to the base of
the gorge that separates Manang knoll from the next ridge East,
crossed the gorge skipping from rock to rock over the burbling water
and up to the other ridgeside.
Scrambling up the scree slope
of frozen washed mud and fine grit I reached the jagged ridge top
just as the swirling snow became thick and hid almost everything
from my eyes. Wandering among the chortens and boulders I worked my
way down the ridge until out of the greyness emerged a crumbling
fortress and an abrupt lump of flaking ridgetop. The walls were
sheer. I charged my way up the steep side of the ruin and made my
way around its base until I reached an opening. Once inside I
switched on my head lamp and looked through the maze of rooms bare,
without any adornment or even plaster, the roof collapsing in some
places to the earth's gravitational siren's song and the snow
gliding down naturally through the openings, reclaiming this space
for nature.
Further down the ridge I saw the square
golden-crowned shape of the Gompa emerge from the greyness. The
faint sound of singing penetrated the snow's hush. I straightened my
jacket and took off the absurd looking headlamp, my steps quickening
down the slope to the Gompa. Coming around the side of the building
I looked in the lighted window . Those inside, all villagers, mostly
women dressed in traditional Tibetan woolen robes, rocked gently
back and forth on the floor, on long benches facing my window,
crosslegged and chanting from thin sheaves of paper stacked in their
hands. Some of them noticed me, and turning around to look the
singing of the whole room paused. I ducked my head in the window and
hurried away.
I made my way around to the enterance of the
Gompa and passing by a gnarled old pepul tree entered inside the
courtyard, the snow settling everywhere and the prayer wheels sunk
into the wall were still. I sat at the open door of the temple and
looked in as the chorus of womens voices shrilly rose up and down
together, vibrating each voice at its own frequency.
In the
warmth of the doorway I felt calm and relaxed, focusing on the sound
of the chanting.
Men and women came and left, those leaving
muttering "om mani peme hum" to themselves and sending all the
prayer wheels spinning in turn as they exited, giving one last slap
to the cowbell hanging on the dorframe as they stepped out into the
wind. One lama in passing asked me "which is your country?" to which
I replied "America ho" hoping to let him know that I speak some
Nepali and we could talk further - he only nodded and continued out
the door.
Finally one of the lamas came out and ushered me in
to the warmer inside, carrying a large sack of something inside with
him. I came and sat back by the wall removing my boots as I
entered.
In the faint yellow light of the lanterns I could
read the lines of the older ladie's faces, their brown nobby hands
clutching at prayer beads as they rocked and chanted. The younger
ladies read from the oblong sheets of paper, flipping them over
every once in a while.
The golden glitter of the chinese
characters against the crimson background of the tapestries and
banners, the shiney green surface of the drums hanging from the
ceiling, the altar, the flowers, incense and ribbons covering the
altar, the silver luster of the necklaces, rings and turquoise
jewelry of the villagers – all glowed dully in the glare of the
hissing cyclone lantern hanging overhead.
Druing a pause I
asked one of the younger aldies how aold the Gompa is. “2000 years
or so” she said “very old.” Nodding and smiling the older ladies
greeted me as I reached for my boots to leave. The lady nearest to
me gave me a sweet smile and with a nod pointed to me and and bent
the wrinkled old face down to rest it on her palm to indicate that
she understood I was off to bed. “Sleep” I said in Nepali “I feel
tired.” Understanding me she laughed and I left spinning the prayer
wheels and knocking the clanging cowbell as I went.
With a
light heart and smile playing across my lips I struggled through the
snowy darkness sliding and tripping down the steep mountainside
towards the lights of Manang.
Next Entry
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