It was special to leave city smog behind and head into the spearmint
fresh mountains. The telling traverse towards the mountainous north was in itself
an eye opener. Snaking up to altitude, narrow roads hug the contours of ascending
mountains. As a fly fisherman launches his gutted rod, tempting the lurking
fish, the roads flick flack back and forth opening vistas across valleys or
closing views through dense forest. As
dispersed beads on a necklace, small villages pop up, clearing forest. Their
tightly clustered stores hug the rapidly rushing roads edge clamouring for
passer-by-attention falling over themselves like frenzied fans at a Michael
Jackson concert. As large rivers cut through the landscape, tight-rope lean bridges
straddle the plummet.
I stayed about 13km from Dharamshala in a wee town called Kangar. Outside the back door rose the steep, giant charcoal-black Himalayas. At their feet terraced landscaping lapped at my motel door. The oxygen-thin altitude and the snow-dusted peaks chilled the blue-gray air. A cold bite gnawed at my body sending a gooseberry-bump harvest racing across my exposed skin. My legs weary from inaction, needed to be walked. Throwing on my stove pipe stiff jeans and a red-riding hoodie, we tumbled down the steepness to come to a stop in a teeny tiny town. Jingle jangle, i dug into my pants, offloaded some Indian rupees for a beer, hiked back up the incline, saw the sun got sank by the eight ball, cracked open a Kingfisher ale, controlled remotely the telly, lay heavily on the bouncy bed and soon drifted as a golden yellow falling New England autumnal leaf into a deep dooz.
Mcleaod Ghanj with its curio-shop lined streets, harbours the Dalai Lama who escaped the Chinese demolition of Tibet. I didn’t get to meet the Cheshire-cat toothy pint-sized wine-red robed spiritual leader but I got to see his influence in the Tibetan Indian village. His and the Tibetan influence clings to the town like the fresh lavender scent of a just laundered jumper. It’s peaceful and it is respite-ful.
The wee little hillside city hugs the mountains edge, holding baby-bear tightly fearing letting go, for the ravine below is not a way away. A multitude of macaroon-pastel coloured buildings anchor themselves on the valley-facing aspect of the conifer-tree spotted mountain. Roads and narrow slope-y shop-lined streets that don’t follow contour rise and fall clawing their way up and down the mountain like a cats scratch. The Tibetan complex, the temple, the prayer spaces and the Mani Prayer Wheel withdrew thoughts of the past from my memory bank-those sunny Sunday mornings, a sweat towel, and us kids sitting backseat on an adventure to yoga practice. Hari Ohm, Ohm Tatsat. Spiritual upliftment and a marshmallow-soft coffee sweet for the road home.
Walking to the video store on a Sunday afternoon with my sibling. There we’d hover like drifting ghosts through the labyrinthine white towering shelves filled high with video cassettes. We’d drag our hands across the face of the movie covers as if our hands decided on the movie the day demanded. On this day I chose Bud Spence &Terence Hill, and my older brother who was already reading and understanding Time magazine, chose Brad Pitt’s 7 Years in Tibet. Only one movie we were allowed. Ching chong cha wouldnt resolve it. Only age, maturity and a mightier fist would do.
Since that day of being glued stuck to the tube watching Brad Pitt clamouring through Tibet, i’ve held hostage a desire to glimpse the mighty Himalayas. What a blessing to have seen this gargantuan hulk pulled from the earth like whisked eggs whites stiff. To have travelled so darn far, to have beaten death while traversing the country’s roads, there they stood lurking high before me.
