Awe-Struck for Realz

So we're here at last; Dharamsala, or more specifically, McLeod Ganj, a town a few kilometers north of Dharamsala and the current residence of the Tibetan government in exile.

We've been here, now, for three days but I haven't been able to write because of an unfortunate tendancy I've developed of acquiring a new strain of influenza in every new region of India I visit. I've begun to make a collection of antibody souvenirs. This is round number three, and the pattern is becoming old hat; arrive somewhere new, take in the sights, immediately become bed ridden for three days. Then, precisely as I reach the cusp of wellness, proceed to infect Ninotchka, who in turn takes her shift in keeping our bed permanently warm. In any case, today is the first time I've felt capable of putting sentences together in a comprehensible fashion since I've arrived.

Now, to attempt to explain the experience of arriving here. As I've explained before, arriving at McLeod Ganj has been a journey two years in the making, and has for me all the trappings of a proper family movie; personal growth, interesting characters, adventure and at long last, a dream realized. It's a three hour bus ride up into the Himalayan mountains, and my sense of surreal expectancy rose with the climbing elevation; it felt like I was on a blind date with serendipity, and as we approached our agreed upon destination, I was desperately hoping she would measure up to her  surrogate in my imagination. The trip up the mountain is nothing short of perilous, or if it's not, then it's relative safety is at least thoroughly indiscernable. Swerving around hairpin turns in a bus travelling at break-neck speeds into oncoming traffic defended only by a horn and the driver's reflex is, I promise you, wholly terrifying, especially when the bus rides the edges of  precipitous drops into the valley below  so closely one cannot even see the shoulder of the road. And yet, we saw no signs of any prior wreckages, and my writing to you currently is clear enough evidence that the journey, however harrowing, was safe enough. As a scenic bonus, we were treated to a couple of troops of monkeys hanging about on the roadside, cleaning each other and watching the traffic pass.

At long last, we arrived, and I simply haven't the literary skill to convey what I experienced, so cliche will have to suffice. We are in a historical moment wherein English, having suffered a rapid and abusive decline in the variety and character of its use, has had to witness too many of its most potent words fall victim to hyperbole, leaving them tired and worn thin, their novelty spent. Advertising has been too quick to spit phrases like 'awe inspiring' and 'majestic' at us, such that I think we've largely become jaded to the pure meaning these words are meant to invoke (and these words only refer to pure meaning, so their loss is worrisome indeed). Yet, this was my experience, and I haven't any other words to use, so you'll have to try and let them resonate for a moment if you care to appreciate the inertia of my arriving here. I enjoyed a deep and profound sense of wonder, a humility that shrunk my ego to a quibbling, voiceless speck, a true and proper awe. My breath tasted better and my lungs seemed suddenly unfit to accept enough mountain air to satisfy; as a philosophy 'must not blink' was once again reified. Transfixed by the visual flood of scenery and culture, I had no cognitive space left to concentrate on walking, and had to trust such matters to reflex (truly).

McLeod Ganj is a village of about eighteen thousand permanent residences built into the mountain side, and this I mean quite literally. The town is a vertical sprawl, buildings stacked on top of eachother in a staggered overlap, like so many shingles across a roof. Narrow stairways wind between them and amongst them in a fantastical array of labyrinthine architecture, walled in so tightly by the buildings they wander between that treading them leaves you with the illusion of navigating caves. There are 215 steps to ascend from the entrance to our cottage to the nearest street above, a lung-defeating journey we make several times a day (and one which is rapidly curing me of my habit of forgetting my wallet when I leave the house).  Tibetans, Indians and all variety of tourists populate the narrow concrete streets, and the artistry of Tibet bursts from every building, every corner, each window and stall. But the real marvel of the place, so far as I am concerned, is the mountains themselves.

From our balcony (and pictures, I promise, are forth-coming) we have a stunning vista of the Kangra valley. Across from us three distinct ridges of Himalayan slopes constitute our skyline, each one stretching up behind the other so that they look almost like two-dimensional cuttings. The valley walls themselves reach so far into the sky that they cause the sun to rise almost an hour late, so when it emerges from behind them at seven o'clock, the sun is already a bright, blinding yellow. The most distant layer of rocky spire is the first of the snow-capped peaks, the ceiling of the planet where even the Indian summers never reach., and having grown up in a media-saturated environment I cannot help but feel a sensation not unlike that of meeting a celebrity in person. From the nearest ridge we can often see paragliders, tiny specks or bulbous color on the skyline, floating toward us from the next town over, some forty kilometers away (yes; when you leap, you are so high up that you can cover upwards of 60km before touching down!). The temperature here is much, much colder; in the noon sun, its easy enough to get a sun burn in heat that approaches thirty degrees, but because the ground here never warms enough to radiate that heat back into the air, such that simply stepping into the shade almost immediately warrants a sweater. The valley is covered by pine and stubborn grass, which for all the world feels like home but for the kilometers of elevation.

Finally, the socio-cultural atmosphere of the place is not like anything I have ever experienced; there is an energy, an essence, or perhaps simply an disposition if you like, of gentleness. Or peace, or harmony, or maybe just innocence; it's not easy to pin down, and maybe it's necessarily idiosyncratic. The Tibetan people have smiles that spring to their faces by ancient reflex, and although the bustling tourist industry and encroaching poverty do indeed force a thin film of needy commerce and contrived cultural commodity over the busier parts of town, there is nonetheless a pervading sense of well-being and harmony throughout the valley. Certainly people do what they need to to survive, but the culture of Tibet has been vigorously maintained here, and it shows. In the Buddhist tradition compassion is absolutely central, and it's palpable here, the concern and care, the willingness to extend oneself on behalf of another, a freedom from the burden and turmoil of inward frivolty; it's inspiring and daunting all at once, the latter sentiment being an indication of how much I have to learn from this place.

Unlike the weeks of lolling around in Mumbai, in only three days I have already more stories to tell than I can or ought to fit onto the page this time round, but I'll make a point of sharing some of the adventures that are unfolding a little more frequently so as not to skimp on the good bits. We've already had the chance to meet some amazing fellow travellers, from Scotland, Holland, England, Switzerland Chile, and Australia. Suffice it to say for now, then, that we are here and we are finding the place to be immensely satisfying.