His Holiness the Dalai Lama is in the House

14 November 2014

I arrived in Dharamsala several days in advance of a three day teaching His Holiness the Dalai Lama was giving at the request of Koreans on Nagurjuna's teaching on the Middle Way. I registered for the teachings at the Branch Security Office, and put down a cushion two days in advance, along with many many others. 

The experience alone of being at HHDL's teachings in Dharamsala was itself a full experience (for a later blog), but the subject of this blog is what happened on the morning of the third day of his teachings.

Back in June, when I knew I was going to make this trip, I requested, humbly and with no expectation, a 5-minute private audience with HH. I knew it was out of the question, and I communicated as much to The Office of HH. I recieved from them, withing a couple of weeks of sending my letter, an email explaining that they seldom grant private audiences with HHDL, but that it was possible that I could be included in a receiving line and be greeted and blessed by HHDL during the teachings. I was to email the office on November 7 to check in, which of course I did. I affirmed that I would be in town attending the teachings and would be grateful to be included in a receiving blessing line should that work out. Several days later (on November 11th) I received a message from HHDL's Secretary saying that I would be able to be included in a recieving line, and to come to the Reception Office after Wednesday's teaching to register. I showed up, was given a form, and was asked to show up at 6:30 the next morning with the filled out form and my passport.

I woke up at 5:45 am on Thursday morning to get myself over to the Reception Office at His Holiness the Dalai Lama's compound to register for the reception blessing line. I had no idea really what to expect. I didn't sleep very well, I think a bit in anticipation of this meeting--thinking about how little I deserved the honor of meeting possibly the spiritual leader of the world (I know, the Pope is pretty serious, but HH the Dalai Lama has won a Nobel Prize for Peace and has been doing this a crazy long time). I had rehearsed in my head (for better or worse) a message the cultural guide in Tibet asked me to pass on to HHDL should I meet him. Tsering (our guide) had spent about 9 years here in Dharamsala after leaving Tibet (across the border through the Himalayas). When he went back to see his parents, he was arrested and spent 4 years in jail for the illegal travel. He asked that I send the Dalai Lama his love. 

When I got to the office the security guy took my passport and asked me to wait in a waiting room. He called different groups one at a time. The first group was the Romanians. Next, the Chinese, the Mongolians, the Russians (a small group of three--they looked Chinese, but spoke Russian, it was so strange), then me. There was a small group of Indian men, and a group of Tibetans (they were last). I went through security (for a second time) and left my purse and my coat behind. I noticed that they were collecting things to be blessed by HH, and a bit in a daze, I have to admit, I took off my mala (which I had put on this morning), and took one off my wrist (that I had bought the day before), and I put them in the "blessings" tray.  I was then standing in line (between the Mongolian group and the 3 Russians, who were very friendly with each other) waiting for my next instruction. This sensation has been so much a part of my trip--especially in India: I never seem to really know what's happening until it's happened. And I couldn't believe that I was about to have this once in a lifetime opportunity, and one that I felt I didn't really deserve. I'm not Tibetan, I don't come from a Buddhist culture (as most everyone else had, well, except for the Romanians!), I am not a person of note. 

As we were waiting, one of the Chinese Russians who spoke impeccable English started chatting with me. It was very comforting, actually. She also seemed to know what was going on. I noticed that I could (should?) have brought a Tibetan white scarf (I had three that had been bestowed upon me in Tibet, though they were all in KTM), available at many stands along the road, but I didn't think or know to. She asked if anyone in the Mongolian group had an extra one (which was so kind of her). I figured it wasn't a big deal in the scheme of things--I was about to meet HHDL, scarf or no! (And it turned out it didn't really matter, since he didn't put scarves on any one, per se, and no one seemed to notice I lacked one.) At some point we moved up the hill to meet with HH. He was standing in the area that I guess must be the entrance to his residence and offices where people come to meet him--it's kind of a roundabout that we were coming around. I was toward the end of the line, so I got to see him greet and engage with the different groups, which was fun, and I also got to learn a little about what to expect. And he was there glowing and laughing and making jokes with the first group (Koreans), then he put on some funny (really little) hat that the Romanians had brought him. Then he met with the Chinese, and the women got on their knees, he made them get up. Smiles, some sobs, pictures. 

There was a little reorganizing of me as we drew closer--I was alone, American. Everyone else appeared to be in a group, even a small one. At first I was grouped in with the Mongolians and Russians (an honorary Russian/Mongolian, "all the same" one woman said to me). Then, they determined I should be somewhere else in the line. "Where are you from?" "Are you alone?" one of the handlers asked me. "United States, I am alone, just me." I was shuffled in front of the Russians, behind the Chinese, and right behind a lone woman from India. HH asked her what state she was from, she didn't know what to say. One of his people asked her again...I didn't hear her response. He laughed, they had a picture. It was my turn. I had been guided a couple of times to where I supposed to go, and as I got closer, each step was gently indicated by one of HH's security handlers. "Wait here." "Stand here." "Step forward." As I watched the Indian woman in front of me, just a few yards away, I started to realize, "I'm about to meet His Holiness the Dalai Lama, I'm meeting His Holiness the Dalai Lama." By now I had a little bit of a sense of what would happen, and I also had no sense. I was asked to step forward, guided to HH. Time dissolved a bit. They announce my name "Jennifer Hellwarth." I lowered my body, hands at heart position (as they had been for yards now, as everyone's had). He takes my hands with his. I was utterly overwhelmed. "Your Holiness" I blurted out. Voice shaking. Was I crying? "I have recently come from Tibet and our guide,Tsering, asked that I send you his love." He smiles at me, nodding. "Yes. Yes." He says. And then "Good, good" and "thank you, thank you." I think I muttered something else. I have no idea what. I am standing with him his hands holding mine for longer than I would have imagined, though I tried not to imagine much.  At some point someone turns my attention to the camera. We stand together, smiling, or I'm trying to smile--His Holiness is beaming as he does. I'm overwhelmed and starting to cry. For joy? For being given this most amazing blessing? For all those suffering and for those who His Holiness the Dalai Lama seeks to heal? The camera clicks a couple of times-two, three? Someone in there, perhaps His Holiness? hands me something, a small packet. I'm gently guided away from HH and I start down the path to retrieve my things (I've left my purse and jacket at the security office as have many others). I meet one of HH's many security guys on my walk down the hill. At this point I'm crying. Looking (or at least feeling) overwhelmed and a bit bewildered. The security guy nods at me. When I go to retrieve my things, the woman and man who held them for me see me and they smile at me, knowingly, in a kind way. They must think I'm a little nuts, those crazy Americans, not even Buddhists, wanting to see the Dalai Lama, weeping. But I also realize that this is my own self-judgement, and that if there is anybody in the world who would not judge me, it would be His Holiness the Dalai Lama. And if I have learned nothing else from His Holiness during these last few days of his teachings on the practice of Bodhicitta and "emptiness," it is to cultivate compassion for self and others, and to carry that compassion into the world as best as I can.

Later on in the day after the morning's teachings, I ran into the Russian (Chinese) woman I met in the receiving line. We chatted about where to pick up the pictures that had been taken (she knew where to go, what to do somehow). And we talked about our experience. Again, I felt comforted--she, too had felt overwhelmed. And then she said. "It is a great day." "Yes," I said. "A great day, indeed."

Some tips for the receiving line:

Bring as few things as possible and leave your cell phone and camera in your room.

Don't be late--if they tell you to arrive (with your passport and forms) at 6:30 am, show up a few minutes early.

Do bring a Tibetan scarf. It's not a big deal if you don't but it's part of the ritual--almost everyone was wearing one when they met His Holiness (I wasn't).

There is a blessing table where people place items (usually Tangkas and malas and other sacred objects) to be blessed by His Holiness after the receiving line.

Bring tissue.

Keep breathing.

Be present (I think you probably can't help it when you are in His presence).

Namaste.

The Magnet that is Mt. Everest

29 October 2014

We have arrived back in Kathmandu, still buzzing from the part of the ride to and from Mt. Everest Base Camp from Rongbuk Monastery on the Tibet side of Mt. Everest. Our original itinerary called for a 42-hairpin turn ride from Tingri up to Ronbuk Monastery where we would camp, the next day riding up to Base Camp, then another night camping near the Monastery, and then a ride back down toward Tingri, then on to Zhang Mu, a town in Tibet on the border of Nepal, and on the "rain" side of the Himalayas (and a much lower altitude). But our riding schedule needed to be shifted-the road to Mt. Everest was currently under construction (the roads, by and large, in Tibet were really quite good), and the alternate road was NOT in great condition, and the riding and camping conditions, both along that road and at Ronbuk Monastery, were not great, either, according to our Sherpa (in whom we trust). The camping season had ended (too cold!), and the winds were such that camping would be difficult (and we had ridden and camped in about 30 knot winds the previous night). So we piled our bikes in the truck and rode in the van to Mt. Everest. This was itself an experience!

The bridge was being repaired, so we drove through the water--our truck (with bikes and camping gear and everything else) goes first.

The Road to Everest, it turns out, isn't paved. At least this one wasn't. But the Mountain was definitely calling...

Once at Rongbuk Monastery, the highest monastery in the world, not surprisingly, we ate a quick lunch of noodles heroically prepared by our cooks in the courtyard of the Guest House run by the monastery (it was 3 pm by now). We then jumped on our bikes for the 8km ride to Base Camp. Tingri is at 14,268 ft (about 12.2% oxygen). Rongbuk Monastery is (depending on who you ask) at about 16,732 ft (5,100 meters and about 11% oxygen). We had gained over 2,000 ft in altitude from Tingri to Rongbuk Monastery, and we were about to gain an additional 600+ feet (200 meters) as we headed up to Base Camp. As a point of comparison, at sea level the air we breath contains (according to a couple of seemingly credible websites) about 20.9% oxygen. So we were dealing with a lot less oxygen. And we all could feel it. Pedaling uphill to Base Camp, it felt like each three inhales amounted to about one inhale in terms of oxygen. But there's something about Everest that is a magnet, and the lure of the mountain kept me pushing forward through those (relatively) short (but breathless!) 8 kms. 

Yukking it up with the Yaks on the road to Mt. Everest.

Advertised in our itinerary was the opportunity to take a donkey cart, or even a bus, to Base Camp if one chose not to ride. But not one of us would have done that even if we could (the carts and buses had stopped running--it was too late in the season). It just seemed like one had to bike if one could. 

I won't lie, my struggle was real (as my son would say) riding up to Base Camp, but I took it slow (of course!) when I needed to in order to catch my breath, sometimes stopping. This also gave me a couple of opportunities to take photos of ever approaching Everest. Every time I stopped to look at it I was amazed. 

Mt. Everest Base Camp road selfie. No private vehicles are allowed, and a permit is also required. Thouugh no one was there to check it that day.

This happened: me at Mt. Everest.

At the very end of the ride on the way back to the Monastery Guest House (which was largely down hill, predictably), there was one uphill stretch. It was so close to the Guest House and the end of the ride, I decided (what on earth was I thinking?) to give it a little push, attack the hill (like one might at a sensible altitude). Within 10 yards I had to stop and was desperately gasping for air. I had several seconds of fully not being able to breath (it seemed a lot longer). I was telling myself, "be calm, slow inhale, you will get air." But the experience reminded me--again--of the very real challenge of functioning at very high altitude.

Yak time after the ride. We are checking each other out. I didn't want to get any closer, as you can see.

North Face and Tibetan Prayer Flags. Totally cool.

Ironically, it was one of the best biking days that we had had in days. There  was hardly any wind, and it was, strangely enough, warmer than recent riding days. 

When we got back to the Guest House, we found our way to our very modest accommodations. No running water, no bathroom, no heat. But there were walls. And, as a saving grace, the beds had electric mattress pads. I pre-heated mine while we were eating dinner. What a wonderful moment, after several nights of camping in weather so cold that my water bottle and Camelbak container froze solid (from hot water) in the tent, finally to be warm. 

In another two days we would be down to 6,562 ft from 14,268 ft in one day.  

"Light headwind, low pass, no problem"

25 October 2014

When I got back on the bike after a couple days off for illness (altitude, sinus infection, and fever), I tried to do it sensibly. And our Sherpa (a Nepalese) was pretty clear about what he thought I should do, though he humored me pretty well. He had very good sense of humor, and we became buddies, especially since he was often waiting around for me for the first part of the day's ride with a cheerful "You okay?" when I would wheel up to wherever it was he was hanging out for me (the others often off ahead some many kms, usually out of sight even on the expansive, arid roads). "Yes, good!" I would (usually) say..."just slow." I'm not even sure why I was so slow, except that, you know, the breathing thing.

The cold air and the breathing difficulties led to one of the many conundrums for me in biking and camping at this high, cold altitude. And it turned out that I was not alone in this...we had many a conversation that went something like this: "It was so cold I put my face mask on, and that helped warm up the air, but then I couldn't get enough oxygen" Or, "the exhaust and dust from the passing cars is so bad, I need to cover my nose and mouth, but then I can't get enough air." Or, "It was so cold last night I pulled my sleeping bag over my head..." you get the idea. A constant battle to get oxygen. 

When we started our rides, we got the low down from the Sherpa what the terrain looked like for the day, how many kms (I was always trying to convert to miles, of course, because that's what my bike computer worked in), how flat, "wavy" or uphill, how many meters we would climb that day, what altitude the highest pass, and at what altitude we would be sleeping. (By the way, "wavy" meant rolling hills, which, translated from Himalayan to sea level oftentimes meant "mountain.") So, it became a kind of running joke between the Sherpa (Kalden) and me, and then a running joke in my own head (I spent a fair amount of time riding alone, so I had time to make jokes with myself, when I could maintain a sense of humor): he would describe the day to me as  "Light headwind, low pass, no problem." And this was actually pretty all true on day six of the ride, and even portions of day seven. But it wasn't always true--almost never actually. Including one brutal day that went perfectly well for the first 38 miles, I mean, you know, except for the breathing thing. This was the day we travelled from Shegar to Tingri. When I arrived in Tingri, folks were hanging out scoping out the scene, enjoying the local market. 

Tingri and the sign for the road to Mt. Everest. It turns out the road to Mt. Everest isn't so much a road as it is a bumpy, gravelly, sometimes washed out direction. Another post, perhaps!

In Tingri, Kalden told us the campsite was (just) 10 kms further--and flat. I was feeling pretty good at that point, and only 6.2 (flat!) miles--no problem! Ha! The headwinds were so strong, the last 5k of the ride were among the most demoralizing I think I rode. I kept wondering where was the campsite, the next turn? Battling the headwinds, the cold air, the stupid, relentless cough. Eventually I washed up, windblown, at our campsite. As I stumbled into the tent where we ate our meals and hung out (and trying to look more upbeat than I felt), the rest of the group greeted me cheerfully. I announced, as much to myself as to the group, "light headwind, low pass, no problem." I could have a sense of humor at that moment, but 15 minutes earlier I was wondering, "what was I thinking?" 

This was the view from the toilet at our campsite outside of Tingri; this campsite easily won the "Best View from the Toilet" award, having (as was not uncommon) no roof, and a view of Mt. Everest.

Karel (an amazingly stalwart rider and storyteller from the Czech Republic) mused about Murphy's Law of biking (and I'll try to get it right here) which says that in biking it's almost always uphill, and that there's ALWAYS a headwind. This is certainly true in the Himalayas!

This is the fantastic chart of our ride (distances and heights), thanks to my great tent/roommate Philippa Crocker (and a seriously badass biker!):

Standing on the Edge of the Roof

15 October 2014

Our first day biking out of Lhasa was relatively flat, though, as I came to discover was not unusual, we had headwinds in the afternoon. While the terrain was not too arduous, riding out of the city of Lhasa was a challenge--the traffic, the dust, the exhaust--and was not particularly pretty. By lunchtime I had already proven myself to be a slow rider, a role I filled with dedication. For the last part of the day's ride one of the riders had me draft behind him, and this helped me to conserve energy and travel a little faster. He was an amazingly strong (and fast!) rider, but on more than one occasion he rode with me to allow me drafting opportunities. He earned a lot of good biking karma for his generosity with me (and others), and he also (perhaps paradoxically?) had a treasure trove of Russian jokes (he was from the Czech Republic).This day, as on many, I struggled to find a strategy of riding that worked for me--none of my sensible altitude level methods made sense at 12,000-17,000 feet, where even taking a drink of water was a challenge in terms of catching one's breath.

Approaching the campsite

The second day was a difficult day. I clearly was having sinus and cough issues, and, at over 13,000 feet, I was still struggling with the manifestations of altitude sickness (beyond the gasping for breath and sleeping issues)--I woke up with a splitting headache, and I felt dizzy and mildly disoriented, but I cheerfully got on my bike (a half an hour before the others because of being slow), and started up the first 25 km of the day--an all-uphill climb--that was actually one of the steeper climbs we had. I made it to about 23 km and could not go any further, so I took a lift in the van the last 2-3 km to the top, where I then piled on the clothes for the downhill to lunch, and a subsequent ride around the turquoise sacred lake to our campsite. You would imagine that I could make the last couple of kilometers, but at least two times before--starting at around the 20 km mark, I felt like I had hit my limit. At 20 km it started to snow--just lightly--and I wondered to myself (I still had a sense of humor at that moment) what good was it being on the "Roof of the World" if I really just wanted to jump off?

On the way up to the pass

The valley below (from whence we came)

I imagined after lunch that, even though I was exhausted from the morning and struggling with the altitude, I might be able to make the last 30-40 km, which was largely flat. It turns out, I really didn't have it in me--the strong headwinds, the cold, and my altitude and sinus troubles made it seem longer. At about 20 km from camp, I called for back up--not even drafting could help me. By the time I got to camp, shivering and increasingly disoriented, I started to doubt whether I would last the trip. That night with a fever and headache, nausea and general disorientation and slight dilerium, I wondered (again!) what I was thinking. The next day I rode in the truck to our next camp--300 meters higher than our previous night--where our Sherpa decided to send me on to the next stop--Gyanatse--ahead of the group to a lower altitude, and where I had the option of going to the hospital, should the need arise. Mercifully, it didn't and I immediately felt better at the lower altitude, though I was clearly also suffering from a sinus infection and a bad cough, both of which I nursed by resting most of the day while my fellow bikers rode into town. I continued on with the group for the rest of the trip, but I took a couple of days off the bike to recover (and continued to acclimate). 

The effects of the altitude and my illness gave me the opportunity to enjoy negotiating with my ego (who wanted me to ride and get over myself) and with my (relative) reality, which necessitated some discernment and care (and which dictated that I rest and get over myself). 

The view from the pass and the sacred lake below.