Passage Through India, part 3

November 11, 2014
Dharamshala/McLeod Ganj

After a week of yoga and Ayurvedic healing (among other things),  I left Rishikesh on (another) overnight journey, this time to Dharamshala. It turns out that there is a bus that leaves Rishikesh daily at 4pm for Dharamshala, arriving somewhere around 6 or 7 am. It's a harrowing ride through the foothills of the Himalayas (which would be considered mountains almost anywhere else), in the dark, on narrow, windy roads, along steep precipices, at speeds which always seem just a little too fast (there's a reason why so many drivers in India have a little statue of Ganesha--the god who is the remover of obstacles--on their dashboard). The bus itself was deluxe by Indian standards--we all had our own seats, which also reclined. But the brakes screeched loudly and the tires squealed relentlessly around each curve. And there were ALOT of curves. And even though, at some point, I had given myself over to releasing control over the situation (I had to trust it would all be fine--because looking out the window and thinking about the drive wasn't going to change the outcome of any of it anyway), I was still jolted out of a teetering doze every few seconds or so by an extra loud screech or an extra long squeal. The honking, well, that just become part of the scenery.

But arriving in Dharamshala (McLeod Ganj more precisely) was a blessing--and in so many ways. I met a group of young people (in their 20s) from England, Sweden, and Chile, on the overnight bus and we spent some time together hiking and at HHDL's teachings, and for a few meals. I also met some travelers from India.  One couple, who now live in Qatar, explained to me their unusual relationship status--that is, that they were dating without arrangement by their parents. And the woman was the oldest daughter and not yet married (at over 30). I also met a group of young men from Delhi while I was on a hike with my new friends from the overnight bus. We spent a nice long afternoon tea and snack in a hillside "cafe." I learned about what this particular group of men thought about "Englishers" and the relationship between their present and the colonial past of India.

Fellow Travelers on the Path! (Including the dog, who travelled with us a couple of hours on our pretty rocky and steep hike.)

 
Friends from the overnight bus ride on a hike in the hills above McLeod Ganj (which is already about 2,000+ meters-or 6,800 feet).

Loving some Tibetan food in McLeod Ganj.

In addition, I had some really interesting interactions and conversations with the very kind Kashmiri brothers who ran the hotel I stayed in in Mcleod Ganj. I also met a Kashmiri man on one of my many walks to and from His Holiness' compound;  I had several chats with him (and a cup of tea or two) about the relationship between Kashmiris and Indians. I also enjoyed several conversations with aTibetan monk (and his nephew who translated for us) and several other refugees from Tibet. I felt such a profound connection with those who I met in the shadow (or rather in the light!) of His Holiness the Dalai Lama's compound. And of course, the teachings and presence of His Holiness was, to say the least, inspiring and transformative. And another blog post...

Long live His Holiness the Dalai Lama.

A Passage Through India, part 2

November 5, 2014
Rishikesh
Arriving the following evening in Haridwar, I grabbed a motorized pedicab to Rishikesh, the self-proclaimed "unofficial yoga capital of the world." My dad had sent me a link in the summer about Rishikesh and its relationship to yoga (I'm not sure he actually intended for me to read it and, you know, go there) and I thought it looked like a place I ought to visit--as a Beatles fan (thank you Maharishi) and as a yoga practitioner (if I may be so crass as to label myself that). Already I could tell that Haridwar was slightly less confounding then Varanasi (though I couldn't tell you how, exactly), and that Rishikesh--and in particular the High Bank side of this small(ish) city--had a different kind of energy, though also on the Ganges (but a part that ran quickly and, in some places, dangerously). The pilgrims here are comprised of a wide range of tourists, many of whom have come to seek peace, love, and yoga (much like the Beatles in the late '60s did from the Maharishi). So many yoga ashrams, so little time! I visited a few, had a fascinating Ayurvedic experience or two, and participated in just enough yoga classes during my week there to get just a little bit of the feel for yoga in Rishikesh at least.

 


I came to Rishikesh, I think, to experience (perhaps naively?) yoga in a more "true" form--closer to the source. I mean, Rishikesh is the "yoga capital of the world" and (though I've been teaching yoga for only a short time) it seemed like the thing to do. Again, my experience was complicated. I loved roaming around Rishikesh, taking "Laughter Yoga" (seriously, it was the best time ever), riding a bicycle in the hills, meeting folks on the side roads and pedestrian suspension bridge.  But I can also say that, in my limited experience, I found at least some of the practices steeped in what felt like a patriarchal system (not surprising based on my experience of how men treat the women). I also winced (literally) at some of the mechanics and insistence on postures being just so (heels must reach the floor in Downward Facing Dog), regardless of body type or limitations. Was I coming with my Western Orientalist limited mindset to appropriate a tradition not my own, and for my own colonizing purposes (a conversation for another day)? Or was I reacting to the ways in which this patriarchal culture seeks to keep women and others (Muslims, for example) in their place? How can I be judgmental about that which I know not? And about a place which I have over the years come to idealize, but have so little experience or knowledge? All of my reactions, responses, experiences reveal my limitations. India helped me see and work with those limitations.

A Passage Through India, part 1

15 November 2014

I recognize the complexity of referencing E.M. Forrester's A Passage to India in the title of this blog, but some of my experiences of India were seen through through a lens that I imagine many Americans (and perhaps all Westerners?) experience India, and that is through an in part idealized, exotic, awe-filled, and in part fear-filled lens. At least that's how I remember A Passage to India (though it was more than a couple of decades or so that I read it). And that is certainly how I experienced India. I have at any given moment here felt at once filled with reverence and joy, fascination and shock, fear and awe; I have felt like I was always meant to be here, and I have felt utterly alien to the landscape. To say that I have experienced India as confounding is somewhat of an understatement. I've observed myself both with amusement and with some discomfort my responses, and it is with some trepidation I share those experiences, but, you know, I wouldn't want to pretend my experience wasn't what it was, or that I am not who I am in this crazy, beautiful, complicated planet (did I also mention messy?). I can say with certainty that, as I met people in contexts that didn't center around me as a consuming tourist (not that there is any thing wrong with that), I felt connected to my experience in ways that didn't involve some of those other layers of fear, idealization, exocitism, etc.


Varanasi
My first introduction to India (outside the airport transfers in Mumbai and Calcutta) was in Varanasi. I can't remember if I read it somewhere, or if someone I interacted with on my trip reflected to me, that Varanasi as a first entry point is a bit of a "baptism by fire" experience. And that was nearly literally true for me. Varanasi teems with energy both sacred and profane. The narrow pathways in the old city along the sacred goddess Ganges river are home to touts angling to sell you goods, offer you a daybreak boat ride, smoke weed with you; they are home to cows and water buffalo (and dung and urine); they are home to those on holy pilgrimage; they are home to motorcyclists and bicycles. They are a tangle of energies that lead to a multitude of "ghats" along the Ganges, each with its own feel and distinguishing characteristics.

Cows CAN walk down steps, at least in Varanasi

I'll leave the full descriptions to the Lonely Planet India guide. For me, each foray out into the streets and pathways of Varanasi (and a day trip to Sarnath, place of the Buddha's first sermon), was an exercise in balancing trust and wariness, open heartedness and guardedness. Example: on one late afternoon I was watching the funeral rituals at the burning ghat, where bodies are brought for a washing in the sacred Ganges and then cremated on a pyre of wood. It's considered the most prodigious place in India to be cremated and it's happening 24 hours/day. As with so many things in India, I observed with a combination (and from a distance, literally and figuratively) of humility, reverence, speechlessness, and occasionally disbelief. A young man offered to explain the ritual to me so that I might understand better what it was all about. Why no women (family members) were allowed near the burnings; how the flame from which the fires were lit was sacred and had been burning for generations; how the cost of the wood needed for burning the bodies was calculated; who carried the bodies to the ghat. He led me around the ghat amongst those carrying wood and fire, amongst family members and holy men--much closer than I would have ventured on my own, or even really wanted to venture accompanied. I again found myself in a confounded state of reverence with a tinge of uneasiness and nauseousness.

The Sacred Ganges at Sunrise

That night I took the overnight train from Varanasi northwest to Haridwar. The train was scheduled to leave at 1 am but was running late, so I sat in the train station from about midnight (I didn't want to miss my train!) until 3:30 am, hoping I might figure out which train was mine, and which platform. I was the only white person at the station that night, but I think we were all experiencing the fatigue of waiting in the chill of the evening for a train to come, ousted from a seat on a bench by a limping cow eating (and flinging) trash from the nearby trashcan, and trying to find a comfortable way to be. This was definitely one of those "I'm too old for this" moments, huddled over my duffle bag in the middle of the night, trying to figure out which train, which train car, which berth, (there were two people sitting on my berth when I finally found it, but they politely moved), which train station, was mine.

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.

The Roof of the World

I arrived in Lhasa, Tibet, along with 8 others for a bike ride from Lhasa to Kathmandu, in the late afternoon of October 10th. The  airport was surprisingly modern and orderly, especially compared to Kathmandu (pictured below--9 riders and 9 bikes trying to get checked in on an Air China flight). Lhasa makes one catch one's breath--figuratively and quite literally. I could feel the effects of the "thin" air of the high altitude within 10-15 minutes. (What have I done? I wondered.) But the fantastic beauty of the place, which I can't even really describe, made me forget, for a while at least, the shortness of breath and my slight disorientation. The sky here is intensely blue, the mountains intensely close, the sun intense--of course, with so little in the way of atmosphere! And our directive to combat the altitude illness (Lhasa is at 12,000 feet, we'll ride upwards towards 17,000--what was I thinking? I wondered) was to drink 5 liters of water per day. This is a daunting task even for me, a pretty heavy water drinker. It also means a lot of trips to the toilet, and the toilets in Tibet are an adventure in themselves. 

But they also come with some spectacular view, as the one below in the Potala Palace.

Of course the Palace itself was a wonder--also not describable or particularly capturable in photos.

It was also a humbling 1088 steps to the top, which felt like much more and had me (and the others except for our Tibetan guide) quite winded. Again, I found myself worrying, what was I thinking? This was just a short walk, though steep as you can see. But the absolute wonder of the edifice and the spirit of the place was captivating. 

Did I mention my fellow bike riders (7 men, 1 other woman) appear ALL to have significant touring experience? What was I thinking? For a moment upon arriving I felt excited. Now mostly I just feel terrified. Was it a dream I had last night that I couldn't breath or did I really wake up not being able to breathe? This will give me a great opportunity to face the demands (demons?) of my ego and the practice of eternal patience. And acceptance

But I first need to put together the bike--probably tomorrow morning (though a couple of folks have put theirs together already). I'm a little stressed (a lot actually) because the bottom of the box was open when I picked it up in Mumbai (it was upside down at the Oversize Luggage Claim area). It looked okay, but since I didn't pack it (I left it to the professionals for the very reason of safe transit), I don't know what may have been on the bottom that fell out. Hopefully nothing that can't be replaced in Lhasa. What happened in Mumbai next is a story for another blog. Today I'm really more interested relating the great experience of the Potala Palace and the Sera Monastary, the latter of which incluided the famous activity of debating Monks (all monks in Tibet appreat to be, well, Tibetan monks) which took place, not surpisingly, in the Debate Court.

The one standing asks a question of the sitting one (What is the meaning of emptiness?, for example) and the sitting one responds. They debate. Lots of yelling and hand slapping, but lots of smiling and laughing, too. It's quite fascinating, and apparently quite an old tradition.

It was humbling, intriguing, and inspiring to be in the Portala Palace and the Sera Monastary. But that discussion, on the apparent state of Tibetan Buddhism in China (just my observations), in another post, perhaps. Let's just say that when we were getting our debriefing on going to TIbet, in addition to being advised to drink 5 liters of water per day, we were also told to leave any photos of the Dalai Lama, and our "Free Tibet" t-shirts, or any other item like that, behind. 

October 11th, 2014

Namaste.

In the Chute

I leave for Tibet (India and Nepal) on Tuesday Oct 7, though I'm pretty sure I don't arrive in Lhasa until Friday. When I signed up for this-in particular the 22-day bike ride-I'm not sure exactly what I was thinking. I was reminded of this when my (18-year-old) daughter asked me why I was taking this 2 month trip and I actually drew a blank. Why AM I doing this? Because it's there? Or rather, I'm here working on forgiveness (still!) and acceptance and trying to move into a new way of being in the world. So i seemed like leaving the country might be a way to get something going there. And things are moving, These last few days I've been moving between excitement and fear. As a good friend of mine observed to me, this trip, particularly the 700-mile bike ride across the Himalayas from Lhasa to Kathmandu, is a kind of spiritual practice. My work is to get on my bike and ride until we reach the day's destination. Ideally with compassion and discernment. It will be a daily spiritual practice to stay present to my experience. I'm excited about the ride and seeing a part of the world I have really no experience with. I'm afraid of the physical demands of the altitude and the distance and the hills. And of my ego. I will embrace and keep opening to possibility... 

Nine Weeks

Middle Age + Sabbatical=Bike Ride across the Himalayas from Lhasa to Kathmandu.

Yes, I recognize there is a certain craziness to riding a bike across the Himalayas at age 53. But I also realize that (newsflash) I'm very much not getting younger. So, I figure that when the opportunity presents itself, and the body is reasonably able, then I must take the proverbial plunge and get on my bike and ride. So, this year, a very different year than when I began this journey (though in some ways I face some similar internal challenges), will have its own potentially dangerous drives. Beginning with the training in preparation for my departure for Kathmandu nine weeks from today.

Let the preparations begin, both external and internal. External: preparing for 5-7 hours of "tough" biking per day at high altitudes. Internal: Well, I guess I'm still stuck on forgiveness. It's my purpose, my point. More on all of this in the coming weeks...

Namaste

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