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The problem is that we are quite bad guests on this planet. Tourists
and not travelers. Not real travelers but tourists. Look what we are doing
to the Earth. Tourism is just a legal form of terrorism - traveling is a
wavelength, a mental and heart frequency.
Wherever the traveler goes the host takes a moment to be. Everyone
rest in this internal no man’s land carried everywhere within himself. So
when he leaves what was there before becomes even stronger and more
obvious.
The tourist leaves nothing behind but hungry ghosts and they are only
interested about the next tourist season. The Koran quotes Jesus: „… life is
a bridge, it is foolish to build a house on it” – not to mention heavy
industry, highways and tourism.
Like a radio frequency: the one who listens to the same station is
recognized before even saying anything. There are not so many if there
are still some at all. And it needs only a mental infrastructure, a special
mental plug-in that either exists or not.
8:09 PM. The ladakhi girls are busy in the kitchen with my supper. My
boarding is free but I don’t know yet how much will my meals cost. I hope
they will not hand me a hefty bill at the end. However, Namgyal offered
me a short car trip for tomorrow, he will come to pick me up at 6 AM. He is
taking one of his customers to a monastery close by to participate at the
morning Puja. I am happy and grateful for this chance.
(-)
Then I took off for the Mahabodhi Center I thought I’d stylishly finish
the day with a set of Vipasana meditation. It was closed. Going there I said
hello to Namgyal while on my way back he called out to invite me in. We
talked about his web site, etc. and I explained to him the function of the
AdWords. Luckily I am sort of a web-geek, hence it is a pleasure to teach
the Ladakhi yuppie in the name of Google – I am just like the
Singaporeans… I heartily laugh at myself and at the situation.
(-)
Sometimes I think it was the middle class that fucked up the whole
thing. With such attitudes as “I want a subwoofer too, I want a TV too”.
There was once a higher culture (mostly religious or political) and there
was the folk art as a lower one. The latter one is clean and simple while
the former rose to the sky. Only some people can practice both of them.
And the middle class, the tepid want it all. They pay to take pictures of it
though they mostly don’t understand any of it. And above all they love to
eat, be comfortable and the thought that they can have everything.
Indeed as I sit here in Little Tibet I listen to the same car alarm beneath
my window that stirs my blood back home in Transylvania. There is no
hope. At all.
2 Tibetan beer
(July 1., Leh)
A joyful mantra reciting. On the bus from Shey three old monks sat
besides each other in the back row. They were talking exuberantly – at
times they broke into some mantras, one began, the other continued while
the third finished it – and they heartily laughed at it.
Foreplay To Madness
What the hell am I doing here?
3 www.vivarte.ro
a secret one. I wish for success since I already got to know the world back
home, somewhat; again, then on this trip I also want to know myself
(Hamvas4) somewhat, again.
After a long gaze the old rickshaw man smiled back and he was me.
This is India where “all and everyone is one” in the most trivial way. As
many languages as people but all languages are of one man, of one being
– in Hungarian we don’t have a word for that. The Hindus do and they
built an entire spiritual empire on that. At least the memory of it can be
seen here and there.
The loud Buddhist propaganda is vociferous; you can hear it all over
the Tibetan colony of Majnu Ka Tilla. There is no escape from it. It doesn’t
matter if the speakers roar Communist marching songs or democratic
ones – they are actual manifestation of an era’s spiritual addictions. It
doesn’t really matter if the planes drop bombs on a city or it is some
fireworks, all we people need is blasting and noise and circus.
(-)
I never yearned for India. What kept Csoma here? Perhaps I’ll have
some inkling about it at the end of my trip. For why didn’t he return home?
Perhaps he found something else here than what was he looking for? I
never longed for Tibet either nor did I want to visit any traditional Buddhist
sites. So my trip in this sense is odd many times over and it probably will
continue as an inner experience above all, I think. Buddhism exists only
4 www.hamvasbela.org
5 taken from one of Csoma’s studies on Buddhism
when it does not exist. Visits to the usual pilgrimage sites (Agra, Benares,
Bodgaya, etc.) at the end of my journey are more repelling than attracting
to me based on the Lonely Planet guidebook – here and now I feel it will be
enough to pay my respects at Csoma’s grave in Darjeeling. And not to
place a stone on his grave from home as most Hungarian pilgrims do but
to take one to home from there.
Today a fit-looking monk in his high-tech Nike polo shirt sat beside me
in the hall. He made me think of the Sakyong’s6. I asked him if he had any
idea about where could I find Csoma’s Tibetan-English Dictionary (I already
leafed through the Yellow Pages for bookshops) and I show him the picture
of Csoma. He asked who did it but he seemed not really interested or
excited about it. Just like back home people cannot really bear Csoma’s
strange story. No one was really interested back then in Csoma’s “cause”
(finding the Hungarians’ roots in Asia) as most of the people I meet think
my “cause” (walking in Csoma’s shoes) is also pretty weird. If I had a
traveler’s blog it would be all over the newspapers at home. But I don’t
have one and I don’t want one. I’m a simpleton: I only have one goal.
(H.B.)
(-)
Today I walked a lot around the old city and hardly saw any
Westerners. (Here I am also a Westerner). The locals behave pretty much
like flies. Every second someone, mostly motorized or simple rickshaw
driver, merchant, beggar or kid, comes to me. I gave twice one or two
Rupees to the beggars although neither of them said thank you, they
6 www.mipham.com
didn’t even smiled or anything.
At the Tibetan colony beside the Buddhist Temple (a larger but scabby
and smelly place in the alleys) the ceremony (Karmapa’s birthday
celebration) just ended when a young Western photographer saluted me
right away and I did the same. Are you here for the show? – he asks. Will
there be a show? – I answer back hoping there will be some kind of a nice
spiritual show. He asked what am I doing here, I told him. I even mention
Sylvain Jouty’s freshly printed new book7 when I discover he is a
Frenchman but it was futile, neither was he interested in Csoma’s story.
It would truly be interesting to put all this directly into a blog together
with my pictures and wait for the comments (if any). But that would be an
even stronger umbilical cord. Writing is quite binding already, not to
mention my strange native language and our world at home, my project,
Csoma and myself. All are binding. This is not a real voyage. To travel is
The day after tomorrow I’ll leave at dawn. To the North and will be
there before 8 AM. Although it doesn’t really bother me but I am still
scared of oxygen deprivation and what is waiting for me up there. Perhaps
it’s a question of time but most importantly with whom and how will I
become in contact.
(-)
I had a glimpse of myself in the tuk-tuk’s mirror today. I didn’t see this
face of mine for a long time and I hardly recognized it. I was strong and
awake (concentrated) with shining eyes. And simply joyful. I realized
suddenly that I left my hat in the hotel, again!
*
Huxley figured it out that how much the circle of silence is tightening
yearly (H.B.). Even he noticed it already. There are not many spots left
(the Himalayas, oceans) and who is there is the lucky one. I am here only
fleetingly so the great noise doesn’t touch me. And the hell of home
(quads, motorbikes, mopeds and the endless streams and rivers of cars)
seems to be far away. The area where I am going at 3 AM is such a spot,
theoretically at least. God help me.
I am happy that the great day has come, I want to see the blue high
up over the Himalayas. I wait for Peter-la’s call about where and when
we’ll meet – I still have some things to do (bookshops to find Csoma’s
dictionary, malaria medication before I go to Darjeeling, what I brought
with me is not good as it is clear by now; I also have to exchange some
money – Peter-la says it is better here than in Leh and if I have some time
left I want to drop in the Himachal Pradesh Tourist Office to find out where
exactly Kanam is and if I still have time I would like to visit an authentic
Hindu temple.)
Turba
I am told that deep among the mountains such as Zanskar one walks
back in time. Mostly trekkers go there, some regions are accessible only
on foot; they are just coming and going not leaving behind a German
Bakery or a High Life Nirvana Hotel (such things abound in Leh) just some
empty Coke-cans. As a reminder of the world they are from. So local
teenagers will have something, another world to yearn for. Exactly as back
home in Transylvania where the life and soul of the villages are
disappearing by the hour.
I saw a poster in Delhi, a mobile phone company’s ad: You spend 500
Rupees on vegetables a month - a mobile phone only costs 50. Here in Leh
everyone has one too. As a friend said: we rather forgo the milk but we’ll
keep the Internet. On a bus everyone speaks to someone who is not there.
Not one is present, not one is there. Only bodies. Like some ghosts in flesh
and blood: seulement le muscle.
It is interesting and typical that there was always more money and
chance to publish books on Csoma than to make his works more available.
He is considered the founder of the science of Tibetologie, one of its
pioneers. So many forms can be given even to a dictionary. The big
question is and in this case also just what for? (I turn the dictionary’s
pages, it is openly transparent, a true cognitive masterpiece. It is fortunate
that I don’t have an academic background hence I can easily comprehend
the true meanings of these words. Here and there, what seems to be
8 Csoma was called the “the Western student” by his lama teacher and probably by the locals too
9 Hamvas talks about the ten thousand faces of the soul
important of Buddhism such as the Bodhisattva practices or attributes or
whatever it is called.)
(-)
(-)
Today: early morning, at the Thikse Gompa, not too far from Leh,
ceremony hall, puja. Old and young monks repeat the holy text then about
every 10 minutes as a wake-up call: the drum and wind instruments start
up then everything begins again. (There is another blackout, I write beside
candlelight.) Seven year old novices come and go barefoot, they fill the
monk’s teacups, they sweep, etc. One of them expressly objected about
any kind of photography, I laughed at him. I peeked into the kitchen; I
thought about what was it like being the chef at Dechen Chöling10 I would
love to try it again in one of these local monasteries.
The problem with the new-age people is that they prefer not to
perceive what they really see for the benefit of what they actually don’t
see but want to see – this is ignorance .The fog, a purple spiritual fog.
Well, even a Zen monastery is not a place where people stay. Eh, I am
just a lost stray vagabond. My only attachment to the world is that I don’t
gamble away the faith extended towards me. There is nothing more.
(According to some not even Csoma had more than that. More than that.)
I found a new travel mate for 195 Rupees. Journey without Goal13.
The Muezzin started again. He roars about the suffering that will never
end and that we’ll never be happy. Trungpa used to say that is the basic
mantra for the Buddhist practitioner. No self-sustaining words, no
protector deities or wish fulfilling mantras, only the rock hard depression.
There are no promises, not in this world and not afterwards. I am
13 by Chogyam Trungpa
distrustful of all “metanoia” what has not been born out of depression or
despair. I have to call out to the kitchen for these girls are listening to the
Ladakhi techno music and the subwoofer is pulling my brain to pieces.
(-)
(-)
The question is repeated at least 10 times daily: where are you from,
Sir? Romania. Aah, nice country. Yeah, right.
(-)
(-)
There is an enormous joke behind the whole thing, a big joke. (The
humor of the Carnival16.) And the Buddhist approach is not to use any
reference points at all – none whatsoever. And: Some people are Tantric
by nature. Ear whispered, secret. Powerful, magical, and outrageous – but
also extremely simple. No fireworks, no applause.
Chamba, the other young girl at the guesthouse comes into my room
without knocking. She never says anything even if I ask or say something
or thank her. Sometimes she titters back. From this (and non-existence) it
comes to my mind when they implemented the Buddhist Studies as a
facultative package (or something) at a well-known American university it
became so pop that the students made a stamp with the inscription on it
“This does not inherently exists”. Then they stamped everything with it.
(-)
15 www.ladakheart.com
16 Hamvas Bela’s novel
Maybe it is true after all the sight of high mountains ease the burden
of sins. For supper I had some apricot pits with a cup of chai. I got fed-up
with rice and steamed vegetables.
I clearly see and find that the computer + Internet changed not only
my relation to (things and) my (hand) writing but also my way of thinking
(related to writing). I don’t write anymore but blog. What an emoticon is
doing in my hand-written diary?! These dimensions are all and already
mixed up.
Trust your nonexistence. E.g.: thy will be done. I hear the humming of
a generator in the background since I woke up. It destroys about 5 % of
the peacefulness as a constant background noise. I envy Csoma for he had
real silence back then, I would even give up for it my 200 years worth of
civilization differences, without hesitation. It is very possible that those
monasteries I am heading for are already equipped with these noise-
generators.
Everywhere everyone always asks: Where are you from, Sir? Romania
I say. Yesterday, at the Shey bend’s bodega the waiter said: Aah, Nadia
Comaneci! Yeaah!!
Technically Homeless
17 Mission accomplished.
“Today this man cannot be an example to us for he left his homeland
and never came back. He wandered the world as a homeless person. He
lived alone, with no family and didn’t procreate. He accepted money from
the English and he served them for it. He didn’t reach his original
destination. He didn’t find the cradle of the Magyars. His life was full of
failure. There is no need to be proud of such a man.” (This message was
delivered in Covasna, Romania at a commemorative meeting in 1994. You
know, grumpy people standing in a circle in our folk attire, yawning and
nodding… What a farce...)
It is not by chance that very few people value Csoma’s work: it is not
enough to be a philologist. Take in your hand a Tibetan manuscript or a
scroll and imagine how difficult it must have been to discover, to strip, to
taste and to break it up into its constituent parts of that totally new
language… You only know a language when you think in that language.
We see through our language. There is no such word as yun in Hungarian,
thus it does not exist for us.
(-)
(-)
I think the head lama is keeping together the community and the
monastery. Thundup became emotional when I asked who is in that
framed picture. It is interesting that back home in Transylvania only the
villages had such a thing, like the picture of the Pope on the wall or some
18 Written in Tibetan by officials of the Gate of Teachings Buddhist University of Budapest, Hungary
other saints or so. The road is quite short from the picture of a lama to the
posters of mega stars. But the former has a very much different mood. It
gives a very different energy to the room – I say that without any new-age
overtone. I have to go up on the roof to pee. Since the john is there I have
to climb up the ladder and while doing it I can look at the stars.
I had my last cigarette on the roof, the Hemis Gompa below, the Milky
Way above. I prayed to all the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas including ours:
Csoma; that during the night only good spirits should visit my room and
my conscience that I mustn’t have any more nightmares. Yesterday
evening I wondered again through the eyes of the local people that the
Western world has only one Bodhisattva more or less sort of officially
recognized by the Dalai Lama and that is Sir Csoma, the Hungarian. A
“technically homeless” who preferred to escape the army.
It seems that the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas decided that I’d have a
hard row instead of an easy one: all night long strange and powerful
dreams tormented my sleep. It’s raining. I see fit to go forward, then, if
somewhere the feeling gets better then I will stop.
Imagine what kind of geographic and intellectual white spot was Tibet
200 years ago. The excitement what Csoma must have felt when he
eventually threw himself into it. As a philologist (studying the Tibetan
language), a theologian (Buddhism) and a traveler (the discovery) at the
age of thirty something.
19 www.csomafilm.hu
how is it like there. I mean here. The music, the good music always gets
me back to the present tense.
Now, that I am on the road I see more clearly how the discursive mind
works. I see myself as falling from one bucket into another. If I give in to
the alertness then I smile on both – they don’t disappear, there is too
much happenings inside and out. Their temporary nature becomes clearer
here then back home in the familiar environment and rhythm. Hamvas
must have been talking about this when he wrote that on a trip one comes
face to face with self. Back home he gets to know the world.
(-)
Today, I saw 3 pigeons sitting on a wire – that was the day’s most
Tantric experience.
(-)
I often see soldiers as they lightly brandish their weapons like a purse
– it is quite scary, for me the arms are one of the biggest non-sense. The
main difference between the Siculians and Ladakhis (beyond the analogy)
is that they are Buddhists therefore they don’t have a super ego while
within the Christian Siculians everything is decided by the bearded God up
there. (By the way, my dear friend, the Asians have as much to do with the
Buddha as Westerners with Jesus. No hope. (LOL)
We talked a few days ago about the culture shock (in the company of
a multicultural bunch). I told them that it happened to me only once when
I went to Hungary the first time.
Though it might be possible that the awakened ones are well and I’m
the one asleep.
(-)
There is an old Ladakhi man, the owner of the house, he lives with his
family next door – every morning at 7 (perhaps already from 6) is
practicing until 8 AM, he chants the mantras, etc. He has a special room
on the upper floor as there is one in every Ladakhi house, a prayer room; a
small chapel with related objects, pictures, thangkas, mandalas, statues
and books. A few days ago I knocked (Dorje told me I should if I want to)
and although he didn’t invite me in just looked at me as I bent down to the
ground as customary and entered. I sat beside him, kept quiet and just
looked. I think he was making some mandala offerings with rice. He was
reciting from a holy book, in Tibetan. He didn’t say a word to me. I am not
exactly sure if he was happy about my presence but he didn’t kick me out.
This was a very typical situation.
(-)
Thundup paid us a visit yesterday. He’s also a travel agent and is from
Teta – Sangye Phuntsog’s village, he was Csoma’s lama. He said that the
Csoma’s room in the Phougtal monastery is in a bad shape; he’ll put up a
metal roof for me for $250 to head off the leaking. I told him that I don’t
have such goals at this point yet but I’ll look around, take pictures and
bring them home. Perhaps there will be some sequel to this project: to set
up a commemorative Csoma-room in these monasteries. (Finally I didn’t
have any nightmares tonight.) I got to know that the word chomo means
nun in Tibetan, it is the female version of the lama. When I mention
Csoma’s name every Ladakhi thinks that I am talking about a chomo, a
nun – consequently there is always laughing.
Some mention Csoma’s vow made with two of his friends regarding
the search for the original birthplace of the Hungarians. I don’t know what
could be the foundation or the coverage of reality of this since everyone
else is just guessing although I do remember my adolescent vows and
perhaps my adult faithfulness to them. Padma brought me a cup of tea
without my asking for it. I laugh at myself, at the situation that as one
thinks about one, two or three and so on… then in the next moment one
sits in the Himalayas in front of a zippered plastic sheets with 10 rolls of
film, tidy away bit by bit, looking for the one that can still be used in the
camera.
Subwoofer world
I sit in the garden and people are coming through the gate. Gonbo’s
daughter points at me and exclaims: Look, the Buddha. We all laugh out
loud, I show them my lit cigarette: Yes, the smoking Buddha!
(-)
Today, for the first time I got into a loo where there was no way to use
toilet paper. An interesting experience to clean myself, as they say, knead
the shit in your bum with the slowly dripping water. Fortunately I found a
piece of soap afterwards. It is not a tragedy and not a complaint: all over
India this is a normal thing to do and I marvel at that I haven’t
encountered this before.
(-)
20 Heraclit
(Dorje explains my journey, the whys at the table to his cousin:
Alexander Csoma was a great Hungarian Buddhist. I say to him: no, no,
nothing indicates that he became Buddhist at all. He looks into my eyes
with his profoundly smiling, madly glowing eyes: You’ll see. You’ll see in
Zanskar. We all laughed.
(-)
(-)
21 www.fotografus.com
world in stereotypes or through archetypes.)
(-)
What travelers chat about? First: where are you from? Secondly: first
time here? Then come the local conditions and the people, who saw what
already and where are they going. Last: the global warming can’t be
skipped, everyone everywhere feels and experiences it. I thought of
Csoma what would this unusual person converse about? The Bodhisattva’s
way comes to me: although he is not exactly an initiator but he can talk to
or converse with anyone.
Floating
What we really bring with ourselves on such a trip is becoming
evident during nighttime when some long time not seen, long time
forgotten faces from great distances reappear in one’s dream.
“The invisible but vivid Csoma cult creates virtual and real life
communities, it facilitates friendly relations in a way that is incomparable.
It produces a spiritual harmony and compassion among those that perhaps
never met personally before but they have the same passion: Alexander
Csoma de Kőrös” (a quote from one of Kubassek’s book)
(-)
(-)
Lingshet is true magic at night. The moon is not yet full but there is a
sparkling bright light outside. A true Claire de lune. Gigantic cliffs
overhead, beneath a wide valley. The supper did its magic, our darling
cook made some momos (the boys helped her) we all licked our fingers
afterwards. I am getting better. My eyes are still tired, bloodshot and
watery. Today, on the way here the last leg of the road passed through a
creek, it was familiar from the Csoma documentaries. I drank from the
stream, until now I didn’t have a problem with the local water and I am
hoping it will stay that way.
Tomorrow we’ll cross the boundary between Ladakh and Zanskar. The
“Kingdom of Zangla” is made up of a few villages around Zangla – this is
my first destination. (To enliven these huge mental swings from 4500
meter altitude down to below 300 meter).
My hands begin to look like true Ladakhi hands: there’s dirt under my
nails. There are a few more people in this camp. Above are some neo-
hippies playing Massive Attack on the flute. At times I tell my Buddhist
name “Lodro Tharpa” to the Ladakhis. Generally it is a great success.
Although I always add I am a very, very bad Buddhist – they always laugh,
they like that very much.
Fluvial People
I watch the Zanskar River, is it the same as Csoma saw it? The water
changed so many times since then. Then what could be the same?
Perhaps the river bed, most likely the bed. What we call “I” is the riverbed,
the slowly forming channel. And what gets into it, what fills it up is
constantly changing, never the same and is almost impossible to follow.
The meadow where our tents are is full of edelweiss.
On the occasion of my birthday I see directly over the Zangla fort from
my tent’s entrance. I never had such a gift in my life. Over the handsome
village there it is, the famous fort. The Zanskari lads are pushing each
other at my tent, peeping in as I write. I don’t have much patience with
them by now, I’d like to sleep and get drunk, I already fed two and gave
them drinks, etc. They’re just begging, begging and begging.
This time I watched the dance of the Lamas to the end. They release
the bad or scary spirits that are raging furiously and scare the spectators
while they dance devilishly. Nevertheless at the end they turn into
protectors of the good. This turn always makes my mind to stop for a
while. Ladakhi male dances interrupted periodically the dance of the
Lamas. They move very slowly then the beat gets faster. (Meanwhile two
players tease the audience. This is the only opportunity for the masked
men to do something otherwise unimaginable: to physically get close to
the foreign women who obviously enjoy this exotic attention.)
The great wash. Doing laundry, two hours with my hands in one of the
streams. Everything is dusty. And everyone knows everyone else.
Yesterday evening following the festivities at the farewell supper of
momos (Tibetan dumplings) Spaltzing persuaded me to sing my song as
an opening then everyone followed. At the end we all twirled around. The
Swiss’ traditional dance was a rock and roll (I played the Hound Dog for
them – you can imagine how it sounded) then I improvised a short
Hungarian-like ankle flaps (!). At the end there was Ladakhi singing and
we danced in circle. At times during the day I felt I am among the Gypsies
while in the merriment I felt I am with the Csángós. It was interesting to
see how the three cultures met: I brought my happy-sad traditional
Hungarian song (after all Hungarians enjoy themselves crying) - the jaunty
male dance and I. The Swiss had their Heidi-song for two voices and the
rock and roll as their dance while the Ladakhis did something totally
different. Theirs was truly communal. Everyone sang, everyone danced
and everyone stood in the circle – those who didn’t want to were bugged,
pulled and squeezed or made fun of until they gave up and got in.
In the village the hordes of children beg right away instead of saying
hello. One photo! One pen! One khaka22! After a while it became so
annoying that I felt like slapping them. Of course, I don’t do it I couldn’t do
it. For I would have done the same thing if I were them. The way I did it
with the Turkish truck drivers who drove through our town when I was a
kid, asking for sweets. Today, walking on the way home a young boy kept
me company. After a while we sat down, I gave him a biscuit, some candy
and good words. The son of the house came in while I am writing this. I
showed him on the map where I am heading, where is Leh, etc. He’s in
third grade; seems to be very intelligent and gentle, said the numbers in
22 sweets
English and I counted to ten in Ladakhi for him. He got a pen and a piece
of caramel (today in Sani I bought pens, biscuits, candy precisely for this
kind of encounters) and a picture of the Dalai Lama. He was happy with
these small things and thus I was also pleased.
I see now that in a journey after the flow feeling of drifting the second
most important thing is human contact. When and with whom you meet
and what will remain of that encounter. What a thrill would be if I could
meet my personal Moorcroft.
These people here have quite a hard life. One of their sons, the young
Tensing slept in my room, the one who thought me how to count
yesterday. On waking I saw that he was spying on me through his half
closed eyes. What an excitement for him such a visitor, you can imagine.
He is a real bright mind. I see in his parents that they would love if their
younger son would be sponsored like a certain Martin did it with the older
brother who since then is studying in one of Leh’s better schools.
Unfortunately I can’t take on such a long responsibility (I don’t even know
where I’ll be next January) but perhaps I have some ideas how could I help
him, them.
We know that Csoma worked and lived with a lama, Sangye Phuntsog
for an extended period. This must have been a defining relationship.
Perhaps this is such an aspect that his biographers don’t pay enough
attention, the possible human aspects of it. Some of the books about
Tibetan Buddhist lamas describe how they lived, behaved with their
students (or with others in general), perhaps he participated in such a
human game, it is easy to imagine such a relationship between Csoma and
his “teacher” in spite of all the apparent meager life of the local lamas and
nuns who (most of them) seem to live in spiritual materialism.
One’s work is very important. If one passionately loves his work then
it becomes even more important. That Csoma sunk into the Tibetan world
is understandable for he was a linguist and a theologian – the Tibetan
culture is one high theology after all. Csoma ‘s letter to captain Kennedy in
1825 should be handled with reservations: he was held up hence he said
what they wanted to hear. It is odd how he withdraws his own self not only
from this report but it seems always – this is the greatest Buddhist areté.
Obviously Csoma saw clearly the importance of his penetration into the
Tibetan way of thinking, language and world – then it was an exotic Terra
Incognita. It isn’t anymore but its exotism endures. In fact it grew. Think
about the vast number of tourists going to Tibet or the proliferating
Tibetan Buddhist centers all over the world. Imagine the magic of this
world 200 years ago… (I keep forgetting and always forget that I am at
over 3 500 meters altitude.)
(-)
After lunch the whole family trooped into my room, I took a picture of
everyone separately and all of them together. Like in the good old days
when a photographer arrived to the house. They loved it very much and I
did love it too. (I have to send back ever more prints.)
Csoma learns the language in 16 months. And during this time? The
villagers? Monastic friends, girlfriends? Mountain strolls? Weddings and
other folk merriments? A few days ago I quoted a poem where “I have
chosen the path for it chose me”. This is a good line, frank words. It would
be good to find some (new) traveling companion(s). (If someone already
speaks English is great, I could talk to a bit and that can mean a lot).
The Zanskari lamas thought that Csoma worked for all humanity and
not for self-gratification. Most people think that I am a trekker or just a
tourist, albeit… Is it possible that he also had some sort of religious
motivations? That Buddhism began to inspire him in a given moment? The
ship entering the sea of Dharma – as Sangye Phuntsog wrote about him in
a manuscript. Nice heading.
Here, Csoma called himself Iskander Beg. They call me Zolto or Lodrö
or Lotus Tharpa while the Swiss call me simply Zsolt. I found two packs of
Orbit in the bottom of my backpack. What a delight of the senses!
“… Bodhisattva, namely a saint (-) …furthermore (characterizes
them) the strength or capacity of the soul that make them suitable to
influence the universal joy of the world in a positive way.” How simply he
writes (Csoma’s report, Sabathu, 1825). What a simple task from the
outset. I find it funny how the Bodhisattva is defined as “a person who
attained perfection”. No. There is no need to be perfect to tip the world
into a better direction. Even just for a moment and just a very small
corner. Csoma writes very well in this case, also.
What an unusual situation, turn of event just think about it: wherever
you are I am here, somewhere in Ladakh, on the floor of the highest room
of a country house and write all these to you and to my later self. And, I
don’t write this for the effect of some self-purpose, my dear, but simply
not to forget what came to your mind here. At the very same moment! All
my respects are for Csoma. For a long time I didn’t have anything as bad
as the famous butter and buttered tea of Zanskar – it is definitely an
acquired taste.
System Restart
They got the drinking water from the glaciers as a gift. Following a
long pause I offer myself an hour-long Internet use. It is a rough trip.
Numerous e-mails from home. After all I don’t have any other contact with
them. It was dizzying and eventually gave me a headache. (Imagine how
much more exciting it was 200 years ago when one received a letter from
the East, in it that he is still alive and that “X and Y met him here or
there!” Then suddenly some complimentary copies arrived home. I melt
away as expected, cast my guarding eyes on my blogger-friends
(entertainment) – this is the sign of loneliness. It felt good to see some
familiar faces (blogs) but it is not so good to stay long online and offline
from the offline life. It is not good to have such buffer days (years) I see
that now: only the absolutely needed ones.
(-)
(-)
Indeed, one truly gets to know oneself on a trip like this. I always
confront myself e.g. what are my needs, or what I think I definitely need.
For example I want to eat-drink-smoke constantly. Hence is the distance
between Csoma’s simple lifestyle and my needs although from time to
time I try hard and even do it. In my own way I truly gave up a lot with my
presence, staying here although I am light years from Csoma’s legendary
simplicity.
23 www.szemzo.hu
while being a Russian spy… Thus he would be the first (Russian)
Bodhisattva-spy. My hosts turn the volume high on the noisy folk-techno
music in the next room every morning at 6 AM. It is raining again and that
means further delays. I can’t do anything else but to eat, drink, read and
write well. I dangle my legs at the end of the world. “… for God ordered
that when one reaches the end of the world at the same time reaches the
end of his life” (from a folk tale about Csoma).
The only bright spot of the day was that three people inquired me
about Csoma’s story. One marveled, another said that he’ll participate in
the memorial hall project while the third wrote down Csoma’s name in his
notebook and laughed that this is really something, a true trekker, from
Romania on foot to here, no small feat!
Csoma’s Room
Zangla. A few hours in Csoma’s room. The very first time in my life I
am happy for a Hungarian cockade and can appreciate its beauty and also
for the acquaintances from back home. I confess I am over came by
emotions (a short cry, etc.) – even I was surprised about it. After the many
(spiritually empty) monasteries the run-down Csoma’s room in Zangla
somehow charged me. How? Did I arrive home? Being here is a great joy.
There are Erwin Baktay’s words on the wall among many Ladakhi and
Hungarian “Simple Johns” memorial. There are also a few memorial
plaques. The translator of this diary, Judith Galántha Hermann, put one up
there.
There is a majestic, lofty vista of the world. This is really the top of the
world. Indeed if Csoma lived and worked here in this room (the window is
too small but the next room has a spacious balcony) then he really looked
down on this world. He wasn’t interested about the people but about their
culture and their language. Viewing from up here with a cool look what is
going on down there. It would be easy to furnish a smart memorial room
without any political overtones.
Being in Csoma’s room is like finally arriving home and meeting with
an old acquaintance although I am on the road only for 40 days and not 40
years. It was good, especially for my heart whatever and wherever that is.
A local burst through the door like a tractor and if I wont salute him, he
wouldn’t do it either. A lonesome traveler’s place hence is up here, in
Csoma’s room.
There’s A Spring
The first surprise in Dzongkul was that Kunga Choleg, the great lama
is so very much venerated. He authored one of the so-called Alexander
Books for Csoma’s request answering his questions. He might have been a
crazy wisdom type teacher as I see it and was far from being a
conventional Buddhist figure similar to Sangye Phuntsog who wasn’t one
either. It is interesting that Csoma found him among these specific lamas
and not others thus my theory seems even more possible… Thundup
interpreted – he is cunning enough to say what I want to hear. The lama
who received us would also very much like to get a “project” for his
Gompa similarly to other monasteries in Ladakh. He knew about the
Hungarian who was Kunga Choleg’ student. They say that in one of the
gompa’s cave lived and meditated Naropa himself for an extended period
of time. He showed it to me. Some of the walls of the building that runs
into the cave are real while further the rocks form the wall. There is a
spring barely dripping; they look upon it as a cleansing holy water.
Apparently there is such a spring in the Phougtal Gompa where I am
heading now.
Auspicious Coincidences
The walk from Purne to Phougtal Gompa takes about two hours. The
Tsarap River is a spectacular sight in its narrow valley. Phougtal is
bewitching at first sight. A huge open space.
The lamas I met with so far seem welcoming. I truly feel in the cave or
sitting on the balcony with my legs hanging above the nothingness that
this is a real monastery. A Buddhist monastery close to 4000 meters
altitude with a good positive vibration. I have three names I can turn to
here for lodging and help – at the end I turned to Tsultrim who is about my
age, a teacher at the monastery school, I watched him while he taught the
very young future monks. He speaks good English, he is an educated man,
his Padumi teacher friend recommended him; they were classmates in
Leh. He seems to be intelligent and kind, that’s what I need. He went back
to teach about an hour ago (we had lunch together on the terrace, here
everyone: monks, visitors, tourists eat together). When he left he said “full
relax, you’re home”!
The tourists coming from Purne stay only for a few hours, this is only
side trek for most of them. There is Elsa (we picked her up in Ichar, she is
twenty something with a backpack who wonders the Himalayas looking for
the meaning of her life, she lost it not so long ago) and a Spanish guy, a
painter; they both are super loose, no guide or Sherpa not even a target
destination or something like that. They have only basic stuff in their
backpacks and off they go. They are simply sleeping on the terrace. There
is also an older, German guy who comes here every summer for an
extended period of time to practice meditation. Tsultrim said that on one
of his longer retreat he healed himself of a seemingly terminal illness
(cancer). He is right, this monastery is ideal for a retreat; indeed it seems
like. If I didn’t see the approaching horde of tourists (the Nepali workers
are building an all-inclusive guesthouse nearby) I would seriously consider
it. One of the walls of my room is the rock; the room is neat and spacious. I
fished out my letters of recommendation tomorrow or perhaps even this
evening I have to present myself to the head lama. Full relax!
Just think about it, Csoma lived here for years, there could have been,
there must have been connections, friendships. Or, perhaps there are
some Csoma offspring running around somewhere in the next village? (as
there could be a few back home in Transylvania and Gottingen…). It is
even possible that I already met some of them. (Not necessarily true that
Csoma lived here, even his researchers are searching in a fog).
In the introduction of Olivier Föllmi’s book the last words of the King of
Padum before his death is quoted: “Don’t be sad. In Zanskar we have
always followed the teachings of Buddha. Those teachings are based on
the transience of all things. It’s part of the natural order that Zanskar
should change”.
(-)
Then the sun is setting, the sky is red and I sit at a table on the huge
terrace with the high lamas and other dignitaries around. Suddenly a lad
from the nearby village Testa appears who is not other than Sangye
Phuntsog’s descendant and he came today to investigate his ancestor.
Who was no other than Csoma’s lama himself. We all laughed this is truly
an auspicious coincidence: On one hand I arrive on Csoma’s path while he
came on the heel of Csoma’s lama, Sangye Phuntsog. Soon the terrace
filled up quite fast, everyone showed up. Suppertime under the red sky on
the top of the world. The monastery’s head geshé-la (geshe is a rank,
meaning doctor of Buddhist philosophy) praised again my Buddhist name
and I try to give justice to it with my words and presence. Thanks a lot,
Csoma, good night!
(-)
Tsultrim knows Spaltzing they are relatives also while this morning I
discovered that one of the young kids is the brother of Thundup sister’s
husband. We stayed in his house in Ichar for a few days. You see here
everybody knows everyone and at least everyone is everybody’s relative.
Among the 4-5 head lamas here at least three are siblings.
One of the old monks didn’t let me take his picture; we smiled at each
other, no problem. In Tsultrim’s room there are at least 4-5 mice, this
evening before I retired I saw them running up and down on the craggy
wall then listened to them before falling asleep. He calls them Pets and
smiles.
Don’t take this diary too seriously. It was much more important to
work on it than what’s in it. It is personal and discursive. I use it partly to
twit in Hungarian to myself, just like that or later if I become tired to
identify my pictures and my recordings easier based on the dates if I can’t
do it otherwise. I don’t want to publish it really, my pictures as a medium
are more than enough, perhaps even too much. So again, I think you
shouldn’t take it too seriously either for this diary reflects only a fraction of
the actual experiences and what I went through. (Interesting how the
world nowadays is such that a handwritten diary is downright suspicious
while a blog is not.)
I wonder about Csoma, who lived here among the monks who are also
human beings as we all are, how much did he participate in the life of the
community? For they say he didn’t like merriments although a monastery
gang can be somewhat different from a pub’s crowd. The winter is very
hard here they say. But for example today’s summery day was truly warm
and beautiful. To my amazement people (myself included) seem to be
opening up here in unexpected ways, perhaps Csoma did that too? I am
sitting on the terrace, below is the deepness while above the great blue
(split up by a rope full of prayer flags) around me older and younger
monks are sitting, lying on the floor or playing. They spend their whole life
up and out here or at least the greater part of it.
I was dreaming a lot all night long, it was intensive, old friends and
faces emerged amidst never seen or long forgotten landscapes and towns,
I got very tired of them. Yesterday there was movie night on the patio:
they set up a huge TV and a DVD player, the generator was on (I hastily
recharged my camera batteries) – the monks were sitting in order beside
each other and watching the movie in silence and open-mouthed. It was a
Chinese movie dubbed in Tibetan (!) it was some kind of silly story about
Padmasambhava but it was evident that it had nothing to do with him; it
was like a children’s movie on the Hallmark Channel. Before the movie we
had a tasty but very fat and substantial yak-meat soup. Yesterday we also
cooked some momos it was a big job and went to bed well after midnight.
My knees are very painful especially in the morning.
When I meet the younger kids they are always touching me looking
for some physical contact, I think, foremost with the exotic stranger. It is
the same with the older ones but they seem to have a need for a strong
intellectual contact too.
Tsultrim opened up and talked a lot, about Buddhism, his monastic life
and himself. Basically East and West meets and clashes in him. Partly the
monastic way of life, what he was born into, the Buddhist way of thinking
and lifestyle (east) and partly what he saw, heard and studied in the
government schools and what he picked up from the high number of
Western tourists (west). His wavering (clashing) is somewhat gentle (due
to the influence of Buddhism) and not so stressful - an Eastern feature I
should pick up. And he laughs at himself; he has a good sense of humor,
self-irony. He’ll wait with his decision until age 30. (Sort of same as I say
should I be a slut or a monk?) If he grew up and settled in the western
hemisphere he could become a popular Buddhist teacher, people would
love him (such the ones in Budapest). He has all he needs for that but a
decision (as I said he is hesitating). He didn’t accept a penny saying that
he has everything he needs but if I want to give him a gift I should give it
to the monastery. And to send him on a CD what ever comes out of my
project. With my greatest pleasure.
(-)
According to my host Kunga Choleg was not a monk but only someone
who moved into the Dzongkul-cave for the winter (there was no Gompa at
the time) where he did Tantric practices and meditated then went back to
the village and his family for the summer. He thinks that Csoma went to
see him or Sangye Phuntsog called him to Zangla or perhaps they just
passed the questions on. At the time there was no monastery in Zangla,
today’s nunnery is also new, about 100 years old; Csoma lived with the
royal family - maybe in the Csoma’s room.
(-)
I often ponder on Csoma, his story but the questions are multiplying
instead of subsiding. I still have as many as before I started. In spite of
having answers for many of my questions the mental fog is still great. It
seems that it will stay as such, I am now pretty much sure of it.
Practical solutions for my Himalayan everyday I put up the walking
stick between my boots to dry my freshly washed socks. My hands got
frozen while I was washing in this awfully cold stream. (Since Padum I
didn’t meet any one bonbon - one khaka kid, you wouldn’t believe me how
good this feels).
I browse the maps and have a dilemma which way to go from Darcha.
(I see the Himalayas through my window, now). It doesn’t matter much, I
will probably set off toward the south, Manali or Shimla in one shot or two
perhaps the monsoon will not hamper much my journey. Since I left
Phougtal I sank into some sticky slimy mental state as I felt in Padum, as if
I wanted to go forward but something just wouldn’t let me do it. Drift away
all this is just a joke like a carnival, it will be over in a wink and nothing
else. At least four people came to me saying Horse? If I say yes they just
look at me or say me, horseman! – but they don’t know anything else in
English.
Zanskar is like one big village (where we are now is not much more
than 1 to 3 houses, in some places there are bigger villages with let’s say
20 houses side by side) there is no need for the internet: yesterday
evening at Tsedan’s house sitting beside the fire his oldest son told me
that he already knows where am I coming from and where I am heading,
who carried my pack from Reru to Phougtal, etc. My hair is long and my
beard took on a never before proportions. The wind is blowing from the
Shingo-La. Its message is be careful, be careful for I don’t give anything
easily like my northern brother… (I wonder about Csoma how much he
was alone around here?) Today my left knee is acting up a lot I hope it will
calm down before the mountain pass.
We inch forward like old people, thank god for the guy is just 50ish
and not some young vitamin-bomb. What others do in 4 days (in hurry
some even in 3) we make it in 5 days as we decided with Tsedan since he
is small and old but nimble and sinewy. He never stops for a break only
after a water crossing to dry himself. I only felt the altitude yesterday the
first time, the air is thin periodically I get dizzy and grasp for some air.
Perhaps it is only due to smoking… The heat is a beastly 37.1 degrees. My
back is hurting; my left knee is wobbly while I walk. Excuse me for going
into such details but whom would I tell if not to you?
One of the most important things about Csoma is that he created the
Tibetan-English dictionary and not the Tibetan-Hungarian version.
If, let’s suppose this Csoma project will continue indeed than the best
thing would be the Dalai Lama’s patronage. In this region it opens all
doors. I squat in my tent getting ready to slide into my sleeping bag (with
its bad zipper) when my dear old horseman brought me a tea. Today we
forded a stream several times; at one moment I dropped my boots into the
water. I was lucky that Tsedan was close enough and snatched it up. I was
positively bored with the Shingo-la (4980 m) to say the least compared to
its northern sister the Singge-la (5010 m).
(-)
Here, everyone asks for a cigarette and that in a most impudent way.
So today I closed the free-cigarettes shop and from now on only those can
get some if they offer me something (tea?) back. Basically I am fed up
with everything and just tired. Yes, I will give my tent to the old man (the
one everyone even the Germans admire – I wonder how come?) perhaps
he will put it to good use; true I’ll have to teach him how to put it up for it
is pretty tricky.
It drizzles (huge dark clouds are approaching from the south, it must
be the monsoon) a bit further the fast flowing Darcha rumbles; here’s a big
German tourist group arranging their tents, there’s a pack of French teen-
agers chirping. Average well to do Westerners and as such they pay well
and that greatly influenced the locals’ way of thinking. Here for example in
this place most of them have dollar signs flickering in their eyes. And
everything else is secondary. The dollars and your stuff (tent, boots,
jackets, pen knifes, watches and so on). Such thing as remote Zanskar at
last was about 10 or 20 years ago that way. And in the time of Csoma.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is terrorism. Tourist terrorism. This is it, no
hope: the newborn poverty mentality of local people has been born thanks
to us, Westerners.
I bought some eggs and we had scrambled eggs for supper. Tsedan
opened his eyes wide and loudly burst into laughter when he finally
understood that I am giving the tent to him. It felt good to do good even
this way even if I encourage the so-called terrorism… I hope he’ll have
good use of it, it was beneficial to me and I got attached to it. After a bit
more than a month of walking and wandering all over Zanskar I don’t want
anything else but a shower and a bed. Tomorrow I’ll leave for Manali.
(-)
I didn’t sleep that much for a long time; then I stretched. Yoga poses
that Dorje taught me in Leh and some that I knew before. No wonders that
the best Yoga masters come from India. As it is not by accident that so
many young junkies come here. They swarm in Manali. They bring the
juice. I have to leave from here pronto. Usually this is how it begins.
The motorbikes are rumbling all over the place and there’s also a go-
carting ring (soon the quads) - exactly as it is back home. Today I got
through a checkpoint without showing my passport. I hope I’ll have no
troubles later because of it.
I think Csoma was also alone. That is why he left and didn’t come
home. It doesn’t really matter where are you alone but where you are you
should feel good. Maybe a decent job, nice climate and colors. This region,
country, continent is far, very far away from Transylvania. The plane ticket
is expensive but the happiness you might find here is 108 times …...
This is a cheap room. Basic as LP writes. Not too pleasant but if you
have something or someone to occupy yourself with (for example a
traveling companion) or if you want just to sleep, to relax after crossing
the Himalayas it’s perfect. When the concierge came to my room for my
passport details promptly offered me some hashish to taste. Everything
seems to be cheap.
Indian girls show off their henna painted ankles in their Chinese nylon
flip-flops. Yesterday, we stopped on our way to eat somewhere ahead of
the Rhotang-pass. There was a trekking groupie in her sleeveless T-shirt,
for a long time I didn’t see such impressive boobs, I just stared – she
loudly and flirtatiously laughed back at me. (Here in Manali, the ganja is an
invitation to drop in and is like an appetizer. Yesterday evening just behind
the Tibetan kitchen I overheard an English couple talking that for three
thousand Rupees is not even expensive for that kind of hard stuff.) In my
backpack I found an Orbit and what a great pleasure that is.
Most of the tourists here are from Israel (they own the place and they
are mostly teen-agers) or from France. They think I am from Germany
especially that I have my trekking clothes on since I am totally out of my
jeans. This is the perfect camouflage they think I am a simple tourist. They
just stare when I take out the tobacco and roll myself a cigarette for true
trekkers are not doing such a thing instead they are munching on fruits,
chocolate and muesli. Here everyone is smoking grass (and even the
policeman is a human) there’s a problem only if someone reports it. That
is if someone wants to get even with somebody. The locals seldom smoke
it except the holy men. They are doing it continuously all day long. One
can go in to the temple and for some donation they let you smoke theirs.
The locals don’t really like marijuana or its derivatives but it has become a
big business (ganja tourism) it is prospering and brings so much money in
that they tolerate it.
(-)
This journey is a huge experience for me. I feel it all over my body.
Just think how could have been 200 years ago, before the glass
windowpanes and all what tourism means. In Csoma’s persona I don’t only
have an erudite scholar but also a great traveler. Yes, there were such
men once upon a time. The word (traveler, traveling) meant something
different then. He jumped into the great void, into the unknown. It was a
Terra Incognita back then. I think it is useless to waste money on
stereotype Csoma statues instead spend it on a good book that is not
difficult to understand and everyone could marvel at. As I read on
Galántha’s memorial plaque “May his life and works inspire future
generations” is the only worthy way.
Csomahaiku
The booze pulls you back, to the ground (if you are spaced out or too
high) – the grass loosens the ground (if you are too materialistic). Both
ways are intoxication, daze and illusion. They both have as much
disadvantages as advantages; the difference is not quantitative but
qualitative. Awakening (I preach this following a few days of being
completely stoned) is above, below or in them but certainly outside of
them. A bird screams in the jungle and the whole world resonates.
What horror life can be for these people due to (legal) tourism: there
is a three-story house with an outside corridor. You and your family live on
the ground floor and rent out the rest. Then come the visitors, full house in
high season. You live (would live) your days downstairs – more tourists,
better business, more money and more happiness, your wife is happier
and the whole family (at least it seems). Every tourist has a camera,
bigger, smaller mostly digital by now. Most of them are small automatic
ones. They are taking your picture from upstairs and since most of them
are automatic the flash is on. You live your life in the flashlight as a
megastar in the limelight. Of course not all tourists are butt-heads some of
them even come down and flash the light into your eyes from just half a
meter away.
To travel alone is good for you can more easily loose your ego. You
leave a part of it everywhere you go and when you think back it never is
the place (where) what you really remember but what you were at that
place (who). You can really burn yourself out in this – perhaps this is why
these trips (can) have a strange therapeutic effect – this is why the
ancients recommended it as a method of self-discovery or life changing.
Now imagine Csoma how many places he visited, how many worlds he
entered and how many burnouts that traveling produced in him.
Learners
The bus is exactly as the LP describes, noisy, loud music, stinking,
stuffy, the driver is the boss (same as back home), periodically he
nonchalantly gets off to chatter then you can wait for him, etc. We
descended to under one thousand meter then climbed up to Shimla;
there’s jungle-like vegetation, hordes of monkeys on the road and cows all
over. We stopped for lunch, my appetite was gone but had a tea and a
cigarette amongst many Hindus, a few tourists here and there, in 20
minutes ordering, chowing down the food, cacophony, loudly blaring
speakers, everyone babbles… I just watch.
The bus was drafty, I feel sick and gulp down some medication. It
works. My CNN squeaks but this TV feeling is good, I didn’t experience a
TV for quite a long time. While we got here and until I took the room I
thought all the way that this is only a scam and on the bus I worried about
my luggage (the baggage rack wasn’t locked) now it feels good behind a
close door (with peeking monkeys at the window) as I stretch on the bed.
It is odd how these villages, houses, people, mountains and pictures pass
by alongside. The monsoon just got to me with its cloudy, humid weather
and periodical rain and fog. Perhaps it will be over before I return home.
Then I was talking to a Sikh travel agent, I will talk with him again
tomorrow. He seems to be normal not overly pushy, perhaps it will be
good to have some local contacts in the future. Until now he was the only
one who knew where is Kanam. Every now and then the sun was shining
but it is foggy now, again.
On the way home I had a tea with Dev, the Sikh. I related the Csoma
story; he listened very attentively and took notes. I showed him Szemző’s
pictures I am taking to Kanam, I told him about the project and some of
my future ideas. He seems to be intelligent and if there will be a sequel he
could also be a good contact on the Shimla-Kanam line. In principle there
shouldn’t be any laundry done in the house; hey all those wonderful days
in Zanskar where I could easily wash all my stuff in the ice-cold creek.
These monkeys are so immoderate. One of them opened my door and
came into the room.
You have to get used to and become immune to the mixture of that
stinking smell of urine and excrement. You go on the road and periodically
it assails the nostril so much that you falter.
The full moon is over the mountains and the walls of the monastery
are shining. Dogs howl. The sky is clear and full of stars there are only one
or two sparkling clouds here and there. Over there is the silhouette of
Little Mount Kailash. Down in the village and up on the other side windows
are blazing. Silence.
This is not a rich monastery: its prayer flags are all faded. It could use
some (fresh) blood infusion.
I slept with open windows and watched the sky. Lobsang invited me
for breakfast of chapatti, dhal and chai. Then he improvised a beginner’s
introduction to the Tibetan language and gave me a booklet, a spelling
book for young children. It was relatively difficult for he doesn’t speak
English. I had a taste for an hour of what Csoma did here 200 years ago.
They say the winter is not so harsh around here; perhaps thanks to
global warming. Although the conditions must have been different, he
could have slept on the floor, without meat, wine and women, Kanam still
seems to be a sort of a small paradise. And yesterday I experienced the
locals’ friendliness; I risk saying more so than the Ladakhis and Zanskaris
who are only seeing the moneyed tourist in everyone. Such a site is in
front of my eyes, such cleanliness and radiating calmness. It was easy to
get lost in photography. Perhaps I have some fleas for I am itching and
scratching since I arrived. There are also lots of houseflies. It is very
possible that Csoma was happy here and not the stereotype Hungarian
martyr. Kubassek and most of similar Csoma-researchers perpetually use
the word self-sacrifice in connection with him. With all due respects this is
misrepresentation. He did not sacrifice himself for the so-called noble goal.
He was like that, that was his thing. This was the norm in his world. It was
not self-sacrifice but self-surrender, self-giving.
(-)
The VHS version of the Csoma movie strained my backpack for two
months. Tibor sent it to a young guy in Kanam who helped them during
the filming. Another mission accomplished. True that Lobsang was hurt for
he didn’t get one I had to make excuses instead of someone else. In
Phougtal I didn’t get their trust (to take pictures in the sanctuary) because
of other tourists before me while in Kanam due to the Hungarian visitors
and a VHS tape put my venture to the test for half an hour.
(-)
I washed myself and did my laundry. I got used to it by now after two
months of hand washing. It is a forceful spiritual experience I say I should
practice it back home too. These flies are eating me alive.
Baskir lost his wife some years ago, she died in childbirth. He is
talking openly moreover he speaks English much better compared to
others. I reckon he is an eccentric for he fell on his head years ago, since
then he picks berries and also boozes. I think he smokes grass too,
perhaps he is the first one in India who loosely uses such taboo words as
sex and fuck; since his wife died he is hung up on sex. At the end of each
conversation we both get very tired of the foreign language.
(-)
The monks are holding prayer services (pujas) at the village houses
wherever they are welcomed - they sit in a separate room on the floor in a
circle and do their practices while the family are serving them food, tea
and so on. Today I sat with them and for a while I have become the
perkiest and newest Lama among them. Later Lobsang said that I should
become a lama. It wouldn’t be bad I certainly could get the Csoma cell, I
could revamp it, I would learn Tibetan and the local dialect(s), let’ say in
exchange I could teach them English, perhaps I could even get some
money through the net (connecting from the nearby Peo) for the
monastery’s projects and after a while I would fit in, etc. – I was very much
tempted for a few minutes. I would be pretty much well here. Lobsang
sends his regards and well wishes to Tibor and his Csoma movie team, to
Bethlenfalvy to the Hungarian Embassy in Delhi and its cultural center: he
is waiting for them fondly – and his message is: be happy. There were a
number of nuns and other females in the house and they all asked us to
play photographers.
They are reciting, chanting, praying (you can listen to them on the
sound recordings) then suddenly Lobsang thinks about something and
screams over the room, everyone shuts up and pays attention, I answer
him and we talk. Then when all the questions are answered they continue
to intone. Obviously they all enjoyed that there is a special guest in the
house, there was abundant laughing and merriment. I pushed down half a
cup of butter tea but it continuously comes back since then.
I walked to one of the stores, men play the dice or shells for money; a
bit further there is an auction where the native and regional merchants are
fighting for the local apple crop.
It was still dark when I got up at five. Lobsang arrived soon after to
wake me up then brought tea to my (Csoma’s) room. He sat down and
while I was packing he cleaned some almonds for me to take it on the road
and at the end he put a kata around my neck.
(-)
The almond cleaned at dawn by the abbot of the Kanam Gompa for
me so I could eat something on the road I will take home and will share
the 9 pieces with my close friends. I left Kanam with a heavy heart where I
found happiness and true meetings. Perhaps I didn’t stay longer for fear
that something will spoil it. It is interesting that I write with much smaller
letters on closer lines now compared to my diary’s first pages.
He saw who I am right from the beginning. (Chill out I am not the
157th Dalai Lama). With sharp eyes (wisdom) and a heart (compassion).
This happens to me let’s say only once or twice a year if at all. And if it
does that’s truly exceptional.
When saying farewell Baskir asked me to bring him next year some
Romanian perfume and a Hungarian girlfriend.
Autopilot, Contemplatio
Here, the same stinking cheap and useless self-starting car alarm
fucks my nerves. Full relax.
I bought a padlock in case the luggage rack on the bus doesn’t have
one, again. The noise level here is high. It’s like a cold shower after the
calm of my Kanam cell and the view. Wake up my boy, you’ll be home
soon in the country of quads. Basic room without charm but cheap. At
least I save some money. The boss of the place with his mobile phone
shouts non-stop, since I woke up, inside, outside and around. It feels good
to retreat into a nondescript room. For this is truly Asia. There is a
construction site under my window.
I was watching these brats but mostly the TV screen while I was
waiting for the Internet connection to see what they are playing. In India
(at least in Ladakh surely) the government employees can ask for and get
10 days of plus vacation yearly for Vipasana meditation practices. It would
be interesting to try it out for everybody, to retreat for a whole month just
to see what kind of shit, virtual game-boy world we are living in. You either
get out of it by yourself for a while and when getting back become
dumbfounded or you fall out of it due to some family tragedy, etc. There is
no other way. Only this if you snap out of it for a while. There is nothing to
talk about it with those who didn’t fall off of the big picture at least once.
Travelers are coming and going you get into contact with some
superficially, with some deeper, for a few seconds or for hours, days even
weeks but at the end the paths are parting. All these meetings pull you to
pieces. The traveler scatters itself, loses its ego otherwise it is impossible
to endure it with breath and emotions for among all these stimuli the “I”
shrivels. Like a burnout, like a fast paced emotional survival-course.
Kubassek mentions in his book that some Hungarian travelers on Csoma’s
path broke down mentally, physically under the weight of the trip. Well, I
should take care for I am beginning to think and write about total
stupidities. The I get back to where it is coming from. Like you are I and I
am you. All in One. Please refer to the first page 3rd paragraph of my diary.
(Instead of paragraph I wrote post by hand on a piece of paper)
I switched on the TV and the world has changed. If you are into this
quite often you get used to it and don’t even notice this change anymore.
Finally the Kinnawar Kailash showed its true face. I am terribly tired
and very happy at the same time. This is truly a holy mountain.
It was best on foot. Csoma was a better traveler then we are today. I
don’t like the chaos tourism. When I travel I look for quietness and not
chaos, there is enough of that back home. In short I am exhausted,
wringed out.
It is a rainy foggy day. A mirror is facing me where I see my tired face,
the contracted pupils. I think that besides the tiredness and my bad
temper it could be the result of the Mefloque I am taking for its main
secondary effect is depression. Not to mention the fact that I have to pee
every 15 minutes and as much as a horse. There is no mosquito screen on
the windows or anywhere else but I don’t see any mosquitoes either, thus I
don’t know what’s the real deal with malaria. You can read books but there
is nothing that prepares you for India. You are alone and tired. You are not
the type who fancies the chaos more like the one looking inward, etc. Well,
my pictures will compensate. And to top the day I forgot my penknife my
favorite personal fetish and symbol of my old/new life in one of the
pockets of my small backpack that I had to leave with the security to their
delight. It was my favorite gadget and thought in Zanskar that I’ll need it
since the major part of my trip is still to come but at the end I didn’t really
needed it. Too bad, my old life is gone. (Thoughts whirl in my head in a
way of a true Indian chaos and I can’t even properly write.)
(-)
If this is truly a pilgrimage tomorrow I will reach its last outer station:
Csoma’s grave in Darjeeling. It was a long journey in every which way.
A few days ago I had a look to a few familiar blogs, a friend wrote
about the most recent Hungarian calumny (some kind of guards) and the
general bad public moods. Oh it is so good to travel without Internet for all
the domestic nonsense will not reach you.
Though from far away but this morning I had the chance to look at the
Kanchenjunga (8598 m). Very early members of the household knocked on
each room saying if anyone would like to see it. Before and after there was
only fog. The pain that Csoma could have felt here under such magnificent
mountain peak (in good weather it is visible from all around, this is a
unique local spectacle at tea time. Lots of people come here for the site
and the nearby Tiger Hill) on their way to Sikkim and Lhasa (from here
everything is very close: Nepal, Bhutan and Tibet, you leave in the
morning and arrive to Katmandu in the afternoon) this close to the (next)
destination. As Csoma lies in tormenting fever knowing that it is deadly.
The Himalayas are indeed holy mountains, now I can see although the
Carpathian Mountains are also but they are on a much smaller scale. By
far, far smaller. The dimensions are bewildering everything is manifold of
itself. A huge storm at night woke me up several times.
It is now clear, that “our collective desire to race ever faster and in
greater numbers from place to place will lead to the end of this planet as a
gracious and agreeable habitat for its dominant species”. – James
Hamilton-Paternon: The End of Travel.
India is the best test to one’s patience. A pretty good but tough
lesson.
The footprints that Csoma left behind are too scarce. Before his death
according to dr. Campbell Csoma was preoccupied with two topics. One
was related to the origin of the Magyars, the other his own particular
notions about Buddhism. What are they precisely he doesn’t say.
I say, from here where and who I am to there where and who you’ll be
by the time you’ll get home that to travel (too) is simply worthwhile as the
ancient Sufis did, as the stars move on the sky. Otherwise there will be
what is, where we are today, just look around. I correct myself and vary:
as Csoma did. Namely to learn (at least the basics) of a language they live
with there. Not in one or two weeks but at least 3 to 6 months. Yes, I think
from this point of view Csoma was the greatest Hungarian traveler. Not a
botanist, not an explorer, not a geographer and not a language scholar but
simply a traveler in the best sense of the word. Not a tourist but a traveler.
There is some kind of perverse thrill in that you leave some small
things behind in a hotel room. If I work here I would also keep an eye on
these stuff. Not to mention that some people are able to say who you are
just from the garbage you left behind.
One of the most annoying things is when you ask for direction they
show you one but at the next corner there is a three-prong junction and
then what? That’s how I found the Bhutia Busty Monastery not far from the
Tibetan refugee colony or perhaps in it. I found no locals or monks only a
huge tourist group there. Probably it was a kind of spiritual tour. A chap
was speaking about Buddhism, the fundamentals. Everyone took notes
and he was constantly referring to a near future like you’ll see during
meditation, etc. He spoke clearly, in a simple way without much American
fluff. One of his thoughts seized me and it became my mantra for a day, I
could say. You are the result of your thoughts. Thoughts in a wider sense,
in the “meditation” way. The participants were mostly older women and
obviously beginners. It couldn’t be a bad grind to work as a guide here and
on top of this beautiful location. Buddhist therapy - they were talking
about this too. It is such an interesting concept or practice that it would be
worthy to be acquainted with back home.
India is not better than any other country especially from a dog’s
point of view. The numbers of stray dogs are enormous. They mostly sleep
or bark at the monkeys, most of them limping and nobody cares for them.
I read it in a paper that for example in Himachal Pradesh there are more
animal protection groups than human protection NGO’s. I agree.
Agra: the Acropolis of global tourism. How lucky we are that pictures
lie well. Like LP says: the locals would strain even the Buddha’s patience.
Everyone wants your money and impossible to get rid of them, at best just
ignore them. No relax. The Taj Mahal in any way is not enjoyable for me;
not even strolling or taking pictures for three kids are nonstop repeating
one photo, Taj Mahal, twenty Rupees. Add to this the horde of rickshaws,
the vendors with their hello sir, how are you, where are you from, come
into my shop and the unreal heat. I have a splitting headache just at the
bottom of the Taj Mahal.
(-)
This morning my headache was gone although due to the heat I didn’t
sleep much. I begin to know Agra’s city center and my patience is greater
today. I stopped in the middle of the Wallah-sea and listened to their
never-ending jabber (since their livelihood depends on it) come with me,
come with me at least from 5 directions then I repeated in the same
manner my own no thank you, no thank you laughingly. They thought I am
mad and stopped. They fell silent and then I could say relax, please relax.
Some laughingly apologized. I don’t wonder anymore why they do this to
the tourists for most of them can be easily duped especially the (middle
class) Americans who are unable to say a direct and assertive no. If you
could see how the local photographs are posing the tourists… What
luxurious colors are here if you could see. It is an ideal place for
photography.
Today the rickshaw men almost fought over me. At the end an old guy
took me to the railway station for 20 Rupees, I never ever saw such an
unfortunate old rickshaw driver. I bargained it down to 15 Rupees but at
the end I gave him 20 and I saw his eyes watering. What kind of personal
story might be behind his tears?
The best picture of the day and perhaps even of my whole three-
months journey could have been taken today while I was walking to the
station. I didn’t have the heart to spoil the perfect moment. This photo
should remain my secret. I totally fell apart.
silence in noise
milk in butter
noise in silence
butter in milk
carnival
I set out to the airport. I have to be there before midnight. I feel the
approaching wormhole as it absorbs me and at the other end it spits me
out somewhere in Bucharest. That is the beginning of the next journey.