#those flags are prayer flags and would occasionally be placed around Nepal

[221bornottobe]

Upper Pisang, Nepal (11000 ft elevation) to Manang, Nepal (11500 ft elevation)

Day two of hiking Annapurna Circuit Trek

[littlestorygirl]

Scenes from Dharamshala

Temple in Upper Bhagsu

Sunlight filtering in through latticed walls. Birds flitting in and out of the temple to perch on a copper bowl of rice and daal, the remaining fog from a breath of compassion that moved through this space. Shoes outside, in the road, compressing gently under the wheels of a leaking truck. The sound of bells as a farmer walks his donkeys up the steep village streets, backs laden with gravel. Everything outside of the temple seems to lilt in through the lattice, the way the gods and goddesses would hear the commotion of the earth from their balcony. Perhaps I can sit a while. This is not my place, I do not know it’s rules. But India is so free, and I feel no tension sitting here. I felt no tension slipping off my shoes to seek refuge in these walls. I feel no tension chanting and singing, my voice joining with all the voices ringing through these streets. The metallic statues of Parvati and Shiva, Ganesh and Avalokiteshvara are jumbled in with lesser gods in a large display. Books are scattered, and scarves. I climb through a door, the mouth of an enormous dragon. I crawl along it’s intestines as the passage narrows. Deep in the belly of the beast lies a shrine. Incense still burns here, smoke curling in the thick air. The sounds of the village are muffled. Where is the Bodhisattva that keeps this space? I looked over my shoulder. No one was there in the deep shrine, but I felt a presence. A power that I wasn’t sure I should witness. India is free. Perhaps because of a deep respect of the spiritual, the ethereal, the moral. I felt that I should not linger, so I stepped carefully around the shrine and shimmied down the other intestine, emerging back into the blissful, light temple out of the mouth of a roaring bear. My momentum propelled me out of the temple and back into the streets. Stillness crashed against commotion. Somehow, in this moment, no one noticed my presence. Somewhat of a miracle, as a rare foreigner during the Himalayan winter. I picked my path along the cobblestones and ice.

Empty Hookah Lounge on LSD

The snow glows under the full moon. I emerged from the cafe giggling and bumping shoulders and cheeks with Ari, my partner and adventure bud. The cafe sat at the top of a gorge, built of stacked river rocks, adorned with sketches of Siddhartha. A roaring waterfall cascades over icy rocks to our left. Stars twinkle, mountains crowd the sky. Far ahead the lights of Dharamshala paint pastel pinks over the deep blue night. We stretch our cracking, stiff legs, rambling down the hill, down the stone steps. The magic of LSD is that it reminds us how much of a game it is, to be here in this body. Winter brings aches and pains. It also brings a glow-in-the-dark world. What a beautiful game! Sandy’s Hookah Lounge. At least ten Indians clatter around in the open lower level of the establishment. The ceiling is dissected and wires tumble down around one man on a ladder. There are no walls, just wooden pillars. The lounge perches above us all like Baba Yaga’s hut on chicken legs. We peer our smiling faces in, grab a menu, and slide upstairs. Soon one man comes up with a pile of blankets. We spread out in a cushion-lined corner, sitting cross legged, shying away from the expansive glass windows dominating the walls. The night grows colder and we can see our breath as we laugh about whatever. It is a miracle, the conversation that somehow still bubbles up between two people who share so much of each other’s knowledge and memory. A miracle the way waves of energy push the mind towards novelty. We send for a hookah, french fries, and a lassi. The silence is filled by insane scribbling on a napkin, punctuated by insane chuckling. A great boobed monster appears out of the ether. Tears are shed. No other tourists are around, which we are finding to be a typical experience in these northern regions. Only the crazed visit the Himalayas in February. The hookah arrives, coal crackling upon a great bed of shisha. An exploration ensues. When, where, and how to blow clouds of smoke? Into frosty glasses, onto the table, out of the nose, in great O’s. Until our heads are light, until our toes are cold, until the coal is old and grey.

Prayer Wheel Path

‘Emptiness, tell me of your nature, maybe I’ve been getting you wrong’ - Adrianne Lenker

Open eye meditation, because the crystalline mountain air swirling through the gulf between here and there taps on my eyelids. Sunlight gracing the ice along jagged slopes jumps, ringing, towards me. The sound of the prayer flags fluttering is so seductive, I need to watch their every shiver. A bull stands still, staring softly at me. Behind him, in front of him, layers of prayer flags. Prayer flags hang like vines in the jungle; anywhere. Prayer wheels line the path. I walk always with them to my right, I spin them clockwise always. Like riding a bicycle, I will remember how to spin them. I can close my eyes and see them. Old wooden ones, with faded reds and greens. Cheery plastic ones, with scenes full of gods and goddesses twirling by so fast they jump straight into my subconscious. The path is a long one. Monks walk with us. Monks in deep maroon robes, with smooth, shiny, freckled, weathered, tan, brown, baby pink heads. Monks with light, gold wire glasses. Monks bent over their smartphones, monks with canes, monks with heavy books tucked under an arm. A long path circling tall stone walls. Inside, the Dalai Llama sits somewhere. To imagine his journey, across the mountains in fear and hunger. So many have arrived here in rags and frost. I breathe deep, taste sweet comfort and stillness. Here is a sanctuary. Open eye meditation, to paint a portrait of my travel companion. Brown eyes with long lashes. Eyes that look at me from the side, as if the angle keeps more of his soul within. Soft movements, soft breath. Pink, smooth lips. Pale skin like the moon and its craters detailed lightly on a stuffed animal.

Som’s Military House and Hashish

It’s almost unfair how hashish unlocks the energy of the night. Som sits on his bed, while his two friends, Ari, and I sit scattered around the room on plastic chairs. A relaxed circle in an unadorned room. There is a desk, a portable blazing red speaker, and a barrage of noise. Hashish smoke curls in it’s special way upwards, to relax on the ceiling. Hashish rolled in paper, with a bit of tobacco to even the burn. The smoke is thick and likes to coat my fingers as it escapes the cherry. The taste is sweet, the tobacco goes straight to my head. I lean forward in my seat, grasping it’s underside, legs locking, feet floating off the floor, head leaning towards my thighs as I giggle. Then I snap upwards to make eye contact, to project my voice over the mayhem. “Thank you, Shiva! Hashish, the gods love it” “The story of the Bhagavad Gita is the best, bro, the best adventure you could imagine” “Ari, bro, are you okay? Are you ---high?” “What is it really like, in the USA?” “Our generation, we all understand each other because we are all connected, all watch the same movies, listen to the same music, because it’s so easy to travel now” Layers of conversation, darting and spinning around the four walls. Smiling faces and pink eyes. Bowls of chickpeas with onions and tomatoes next to our beers and whiskey cokes. Campfire smoke clings to our jackets, frosty fingers wriggling in our pockets, between our warm thighs. Strange militant politeness layers over an inclination to be as loud and hectic as the busy streets of India. Pervasive idealization of America layered over an undying pride of India, over an easy cool gained living in a country where people sing as they work. Where families stay together and a trip anywhere could take all day. Yet Som speaks of his upcoming move to the USA. I struggle with a desire to spit criticisms about my country and a slow realization that I, too, can be proud of where I am from. Like a child, I fumble to explain my country, it’s history, it’s government, it’s mythology.

Cafe with a View of the Mountains

“you know some girls are bright as the morning, and some have a dark turn of mind” --Gillian Welch

Ilitrate perches on the edge of a gulf between mountain ranges. Modern, intellectual Indians and foreign wanderers in need of coworking space sit with their laptops, bracing against stiff alpine winds. Technology and good taste are put in perspective against the backdrop of the Himalayas. New, nearly virtual, realities of our own creation. Technology, good taste. In-concrete. The sun is blinding the way it reflects off the snow. Far in the distance, perched way up there, is the occasional gompa, temple, home. I close my eyes and imagine someone milking their cow, stoking a fire, a long days walk from anywhere. I trace the ridgeline with my gaze, savoring the way the peaks come to such distinct points. The way the snow builds up in pillowy piles that soften those jagged cliffs. With too strong of a gust our napkins, notes, even cellphones flutter off the cliff. My numb fingers struggle to plan our path to Nepal on my cracked phone, reserving a jumble of busses and trains. Squinting at tiny text, fighting snow-blindness. My hands buzz with the reverberations of strong espresso. With nearly every song that comes on, Ari and I look up at each other with approving excitement. My lips twitch as I look around. The cafe is composed of glass walls and strong dark wooden panels. The effect is airy and almost voyeuristic. Near the entrance, and the busy street on solid ground, the building transitions to muted brick and is covered in small framed paintings. I walk back to the barista to get some water. I try to elongate our conversation, searching her as if I could find her story in the pocket of her flannel, or maybe a button hole. Where does such a woman of two worlds come from, and how? Speaking to the cooks in perfect Hindi and to me in flawless English. At home here, Dharamshala, yet the competent face of an establishment that out-hipsters most cafes in the United States. I take a breath and let the yearning fade. I can only guess at the worlds of others. I am thankful to take home a memory. The knowledge that such places, people, exist. Still, I sit in a squishy leather armchair facing the counter as my eyes rest on a book. The Tibetan Yogas of Dream and Sleep. So strange, how twisted my mind is in the night. I do not understand why my head brims full of hedonism, screams, stalking, phantoms, and relentless anxiety. Tensions that I do not exude but rather that pool within the network of muscles around my lips and eyes. Tension that gives me tenderness in my waking hours. To consume media that is full of horror and bile is to bring pain into this world. I suffer enough. Dream yoga, the page reads, unravels these bad dreams as they appear, allows the karma to release. I look at my trembling hands, feel my twitching cheeks, hear my quivering heart. Will I ever be free of this awkward existence? Ever feel bliss, easy intimacy, invigorating friendships that last? Where do my evils lie... is that the heart of the matter? I try to remember, through the veils of the years, what crime I have committed. Like a holy book, I caress the spine as I get up to return to my chair on the balcony. As I sit down on the cold metal, look back out at the mountains, I calm down. We all will become Buddhas, whether in this life or in one hundred more. Laundry and prayer flags flutter on the porch next door. A group of monkeys chase one another along the colorful tin roofs below me. I am doing the work. I have taken control of my destiny, in coming here. As the world spins, the workforce grinds, I step away.