And, just as all the best things in my life have been, it was completely and utterly by accident.
This story begins with a planned trip all the way to the Kashmir region, over the second highest motor-able pass in the world and into the capital of Ladakh, which I personally envision as one of the most beautiful places on earth. What to be close to the spirit world? Journey through the Himalayas.
Alas, it was not meant to be. We arrive in Manali at 4 am. It's so (insert expletive of your choice here)-ing cold I decide that hell is not hot. It's freezing. We look outside of the bus (it should be noted that after a 10 hour ride on curvy mountain cliff-sides) and it's pitch black except for a couple of lights in the "bus station" and Tibetan-looking men in huge winter parkas with enormous blankets wrapped around their bodies, breath steaming from their lips as they huddle around the egg man.
This does not bode well. There's not even snow here. Manali was just the first leg of the journey. Leh is at least another 24 hours of driving (plus a night sleep) away.
We disembark and, seeing our current surroundings and taking note of the freezing Himalayan air, we decide to walk. A superior option to sitting and freezing to death. Better to die while at least attempting to live.
There's a main street, and the only signs of life are the two mules standing in the middle. I see a 24 hour ATM and for the first time in my life I am grateful for neocolonialism and globalization and the West's spread across the world. Because there a 24 hour ATM. And it is open. And it has a door, that closes. Hello WARMTH.
So at 4 am my friend and I huddled in this ATM, wearing all of the clothes we had packed and sitting on our backpacks to try and avoid the ice-cold floor. An hour later we braved the cold again, traipsing back to the bus station only to stand outside for another 2 hours along with a French couple waiting for someone to actually open the ticket window (and I am, all the while, doing the "I have to pee" leg dance in an effort to retain some heat within my skin).
At 7 am a man appears at the window. "Are there buses going to Leh?"
"No, snow, roads closed."
As my boss very clearly stated when we began our journey, "The people in Ladakh won't kill you. The weather will." This is enough of a warning for me. Of course we could just PAY someone to drive us up this treacherous pass and hope that there's not another avalanche and that we don't die of exposure. But really, I want to be warm again, and maybe have breakfast, and eventually get married and raise beautiful babies and lie topless on the beach in Italy at 65 without a care about what my wrinkling body looks like. Also I need to dance with my oburonis in Africa again.
And I just kept thinking about how pissed my Dad would be if I died.
So, no Leh.
Instead we spent two and a half glorious days relaxing in Manali, the hippy nirvana of North India, a town hidden in the bosom of the Himalayas. And then, when the mood struck us, we headed back to Dharamshala.
I'd like to think that my "accidental" happenings are actually somewhat orchestrated by fate. Because after another 10 hour ride along mountain cliffs we arrive at 4 am in Dharamshala. We are able to get a taxi up to McLeod Ganj (for an atrocious price) and, again, everything is closed. There is not a hotel room to be had.
Shocking.
I suggest that we try the Buddhist temple (also known as the Dalai Lama's temple). The Sikhs started praying in the Golden Temple at 2:30 am. So, I figure if the Buddhists aren't up at praying at 4 am then, well, they can't claim devotion and should just return to ordinary living.
They ARE awake. And they are praying. I love the monks.
We sleep on mats laid out on the temple's main floor. Odd, because last time I was here there were not mats. It takes about a half hour (thanks to my Dramamine-induced groggy state) to realize that perhaps this is because something special is happening. Such as, say, the DALAI LAMA?!
Yes. His Holiness is here. He is giving a series of lectures. You can attend. Find a hotel, leave your bags, your cameras, your cells, and bring yourselves and a radio and OF COURSE you will be able to see his Holiness (as if it was a strange question to ask if I would be able to see the most important living spiritual leader. Silly me).
I spent two hours waiting, sitting on cement with legs folded. Ecstasy does not begin to describe my state of mind. "I can't believe this is my life. I can't believe this is my life. I am going to see the dalai lama. I can't believe this is my life."
And it happened just as you would imagine. I was surrounded almost entirely by Buddhist monks, old Tibetan women interspersed between them and wide-eyed children waiting (almost) quietly. And eventually the Dalai Lama emerges through gates, following monks and the rising smoke of incense. His shoulders are hunched over, glasses perched on his nose, face smiling with hands positioned as for bow and prayer. He is peaceful but burdened, a man with the wisdom of lifetimes who has been exiled from his home and his land.
People bring milk as an offering, in boxes and bags, as their contribution to the massive amounts of tea served in ogre-sized metal tea pots. I'm lactose intolerant and ill-prepared, so I have no such contribution.
I have just my ears to offer, my ears still ringing with the sound of the Dalai Lama's laugh and his flowing Tibetan words.
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