There was a small list of things I was hoping to do in India before I left. One of them was to go on a nice hike through the countryside. Dharamsala seemed the perfect place to complete this goal. And also I am rapidly running out of time in India. I woke up at 5 am to get an early start to the day. I packed a daypack full of water and snacks and set my eyes on a little campsite about four miles outside the small city of Dharamsala. Rain wasn't forecast until three in the afternoon so I figured I had plenty of time to make it back. India, as it always seems to, had other plans though.
I had made it a mile out of Dharamsala, just on the cusp on what you could call a suburb of Dharamsala but it is little more than a few tea stops and one or two guest houses. I stopped into one tea house just as rain began to come down. I sat with a cup of chai and a sandwitch and watched for a while as rain began to come down by the bucket it seemed. The small shop filled up with folks trying to escape the rain. A few Belgians looking for a place to stay, a few groups of Indians all chatting amongst themselves and a couple Tibetans trying to keep their wool vests from becoming soaked. A motorcycle came to a screeching halt outside the shop. A boisterous Australian in personality and size alike came in. "BLOODY GREAT TIME FOR THE RAIN TO START, ME BEING RIGHT OUT FRONT, HOW YA DOING MATE? IMRAM YOU BACK THERE?" He came in through as more of a storm than the monsoon. Moving deftly among the jumble of chairs in the store so to keep people safe from his soaked clothing. I have never encountered someone who seemed to be more out of place and yet right where he is supposed to be in my life. Grinning and bald he towered above us, an Aboriginal design tattooed to the back of his neck. The staff knew him and greeted him with open arms. We didn't know him but it seemed like it was like we were compelled to do the same. "WHERE YOU OFF TO IN YOUR THONGS?" He asked me. I told him my destination to which he let out a bellowing yawp. "GOOD BLOODY LUCK MATE, IT'S A BITCH TO FIND WHEN IT ISN'T PISSING OUTSIDE!" We all stood in the doorway, watching the rain and drinking tea. Steam rising off our damp bodies and traditional Indian music playing softly in the background. As the rain let up and he clapped me on the back so that I lurched forward out onto the road. I could hear him suiting up revving his bike to take off from whatever strange dimension he roared in from. I desperately hope he pops up somewhere else in my life sometime.
As it would turn out, he was quite right .The path to the Triund campsite was indeed a bitch to keep track of. I got to a fork in the road that didn't appear on my map when I decided to turn back. I am up for adventure, but being lost in the dense Indian mountainside forests during monsoon season isn't ideal. I set my sites on a closer campground named Leta. It was on a road just past a beautiful waterfall that has a few swimming holes as it descends the mountain. I followed a Tibetan monk up the winding stairs beside the waterfall, stopping at each swimming hole to dip our feet in the water for a little while. When we reached the top it was my time to veer off across the river and up the mountain side.
A two miles of steep switch backs up rock scrambles still slick and wet from the recent rain. A few scrapes to the knees and palms as I lost footing under loose rocks. More than a few stinging nettles to the ankles. from the overgrown trail, better suited for mules than men. The dense pine trees gave way to broad leaf trees as the elevation and the temperature rose hand in hand. After sometime the trail began to level out. I stopped to catch my breath when I heard a branch snap not far from me but concealed by the trees. I crouched down trying to listen. Tigers leaping from my mind into the forest around me. Heavy breathing behind the leaves in front of me. Rustling. Movement. Branches began to shift in my view. A big black cow stumbled out of the brush in front of me. It looked at me curiously, then right back to grazing. I hadn't expected a cow of this high with that climb. Feeling a tad foolish I walked on.
At the peak of the mountain a small village sat. Eight stone houses with tin roofs. The roof had caved in on two making only six appear habitable. A man came out of his house followed by a jumpy white dog. He looked at me and walked up over the crest of a little hill. I followed him to a small spring in front of a temple where a woman was washing pieces of a goat that had been freshly butchered. I took a seat on a rock and began to sketch. The eyes of the man, the woman and the decapitated goat all seemed to make glances at me suspiciously. "Triund?" the woman asked me. "Leta." I said in return. She spread her arms around her, motioning to the land. "Leta." was her response.
After a short while I descended the mountain and made my way back to town. At each swimming hole I did a couple rounds in the shallow pools. I made it back to town around 4pm. Just in time to head to LHA. LHA is a local organization designed to help Tibetan refugees. They offer classes in different languages, employment skills and basic living in India. Every weekday from 4 to 5 they host English conversation classes where volunteers come in just to speak to Tibetans for an hour to practice their English. I made my way up the dark steps to the offices. I poked my head in the secretary's room and asked where to go. He lead me to a small library where I had a seat with other foriegners. After chatting for a few minutes and filling out some paperwork we were all lead down the hall. Three doors opened. We all poked our heads in the nearest room. I was greeted by what must have been twenty some Tibetans sitting cross legged on small cushions. Every few seats were open for one of us. As I stepped in they all motioned to the nearest cushion to them excitedly, all eager to practice their English. I grabbed a seat among three Buddhist nuns and a middle aged man and woman. Quickly I was being shot questions from every direction. A couple were too embarassed to say much but the rest latched on to any conversation they could. Pausing every now and again to ask how to say something to a twenty two year old nun who sat next to me. She was by far the most practiced. They asked me about my sister, how America is, what sports I liked, any range of questions.
"What's your sister like?"
"You're not married?"
"Do you love the Dalai Lama?"
"Do you sing?"
Dance?"
I had an absolute blast speaking with my small little group. In seemed like we had barely started when the door opened up. We all looked at the clock on the wall. 5pm. We said our goodbyes and parted ways. If the already long list of things to bring me back to Dharamsala is not enough, more conversation with Sonam, Palmoi, Dolma, Lobsang and Wozer is more than enough to bring me back.
