So it goes. The bus wheels have brought us to a sleepy town named Mcleod Ganj, Mcleod being the name of a parliamentary figure during its creation, and ganj meaning Hindi for market. This awkwardly combined name suits well; here is a land of exiles from the world over: Tibetans fleeing Chinese prosecution, Kashmiris fleeing war and instability, Indians fleeing urban poverty, and, of course, monks and nuns from all over the world, fleeing the soulstrain of modern life. This is the mixture of this small mountain town - it has become a home for all those who are homeless or home-renouncing.

For many people here, no matter how difficult life may presently be, it either has been or could be much worse. This appreciation for life is evident even in a shork walk around Mcleod Ganj. Haggling for a fair price is rare. You could count on one hand the number of streets here - each emanating from the busstand/lifeline. Since it is so small, overcharging or commission-hunting by rickshaw drivers is nonexistent. Smiles and conversations are often motivated by friendship rather than business.

And what would an idyllic paradise be without surprises? Soy sauce containers look like communist penguins. On our first walk down the hill between towns, we spotted not one, not two, but three shrubberies that had sprouted human legs and were trotting downhill (As it turns out they were simply people carrying huge amounts of some sort of plant, but no matter). Grazing goats eye into the kitchen, begging for the scraps from yesterday's dinner. We were even treated to a welcome thunderstorm that lingered for hours - the first rain I'd seen in 3 months. All of these things contribute to the chance that this place might really be the Wonderland or Shangri-la that people seek.

Have You Ever Seen a Flying Monk?

Unfortunately, even paradises can challenge the hamstrings. We needed rest at a cafe halfway up the hill, and so the adage goes about smelling roses, we enjoyed a hearty serving of serendipity. There, also taking a rest was a Buddhist monk named Bagdro. Bagdro, you see, is something of a recent sensation, having written a harrowing autobiography on his four years as a political prisoner and ultimate escape to India. But, more important to this chronicle, Bagdro is also an audiophile, and the buttons on his CD boombox had collapsed into the frame. This was unacceptable. So, he had set out that fine morning to have it repaired. We determined this a fine mission, and accepted his invitation to join him down the hill to Dharamsala.

Bagdro, you see, is a man of humor. We asked why he did not ride a bike down to Dharamsala. He pointed to his robes and mentioned that you won't see many monks riding bikes because they'd be "flying monks." In between the languages, we found a kernel of truth (as well as a taste of nature's best medicine).

This, of course, does not preclude Bagdro from enjoying a drive down the Autobahn when he visits Germany.

What a place! Yet if this is a Shangri-la, it is only a temporary one. The calm and prosperity have an aura of transience. Should the Tibetan situation change and the Dalai Lama choose to move, Mcleod Ganj, as well as its better-known neaby twin, Dharamsala, will likely revert back to a pre-1950 tiny-north-Indian-town personality. And yet, this ambience of calm impermanence is, for some unqualifiable reason, soothing for that fact that it's still there when you wake in the morning.

It is this welcoming atmosphere that has inspired me to do some slowdown and loose-end-tying. Knowing that just about everything will be expensive in my future locations in Europe, I'm taking time to learn various home economics, including washing my own launddry and cooking (a skill long overdue for someone who's last name translates to "of the oven"). Soon I'll be experimenting Indian and Tibetan dishes - with a modest little gas-powered stove. I even bought a blue Tibetan jacket to ease the winter temperatures. So I guess I've begun a transition to sedentary life. Wish me luck.

However soothing this land is, one could say this is only on the surface. Certainly it is not complacent. On the day that Kate and I arrived, an annual one-month-long protest march for Tibetan independence began from Dharamsala to the Chinese embassy in Delhi, totaling 80 people. They were shortly intercepted by Indian army forces and dispersed. Numerous people were beaten with billy clubs and/or jailed. The use of such violence in a region such as this, where everyone seems dedicated to various causes of peace, political or spiritual, quickly alerted me to the realization that the Tibetan freedom movement is very much an ongoing struggle.

Complicating this is a generational problem familiar to any society, but particularly potent here. For many Tibetans who fled to India, this place is not home but a land of exile until they can return home. Other Tibetans, born and raised here, struggle with a sense of identity and purpose. The exiled Tibetan government in Dharamsala distributes a portion of Western donations directly to the people, which to a small but visible minority leads to alcoholism and barfights, according to an Indian lady who lives here.

The brighter side was illuminated when Kate and I volunteered to have English conversational exercises. We met with a man of the same age who had fled persecution in China four years previously. His views were fascinating - he was critical of how the majority of Tibetan monks in India merely retract into their spiritual practice, rather than furthering the reclamation of their land. Without their homeland, he argued, Tibetan faith, language, and culture will slowly but inevitably fade away. He had taken English at a local school here, reffering to his time not as a term or semester, but as a "one year chance." His admirable and youthful activism exudes a wisdom beyond his years and perhaps even his elders.

Valentine's Day and Losar

The sun crested the mountains and invaded the room, demanding an early rise on Valentine's Day. Kate and I had decided to be Valentines, but then encountered a problem: what to do in Mcleod Ganj for such an occasion? Well, first we cut out some paper heart chains and linked them from the evergreens, then commenced ritual pagan fertility dances, then I dressed up as Cupid, fashioned a bow and chased her through the muddy market streets, ultimately slipping on a cartful of lemons that she had upturned in panic. And I broke my bow. In other words, all or none of the above.

But here, Valentine's Day was just a preamble to Losar, the Tibetan New Year which began on the 21st and carries on through the weekend. Everyone takes this event seriously - schools and shops are closed. All the kids are now out on the streets with their weight's worth in sparklers, squealers, firecrackers, and fireworks. They toss them into busy streets and shoot them from and onto rooftops. The streets at night sound like they're in the process of a ground invasion complete with mortar attacks.

Losar is an important Tibetan holiday, and much like important American holidays, remind us of the importance of family. With many Tibetans this is a source of grief, for those who do not, cannot, and perhaps will never know the fate of their family in Tibet. Attempting to contact them could cause their family to be imprisoned or worse, so many have lived here for years sitting in that terrible suspense that is the unknowing.

Does this explain the Tibetans holiday obsessions with capguns and firecrackers? I'm not sure what to think.

In the midst of all this I must cut the entry short, for the sake of other writing projects. Till the next...

P.S. The two most common brands of toilet paper in Mcleod Ganj are "Climax" and "Dimple" ... hmm...