A WINTER WONDERLAND
We had travelled from Kildorrery early in December, to do voluntary work, teaching English to the Tibetan people in Northern India and had already enjoyed three weeks in the tiny mountain village of Mcleod Ganj, whose picturesque setting is only out-shone by the fact that it is the home of His Holiness, the Dalai Lama.
Set on the side of one of the many foothills of the Himalayas, with colourful valleys and tiny hamlets all around, and against a back-drop of snowy-white peaks, it is comprised of one winding steep road, wide enough for just a single vehicle, with only two small lanes leading off. Each road is lined with various small businesses, craft shops run by people from Kashmir in the North, restaurants, small coffee shops and a plethora of colourful clothing, knitwear and accessory shops, which are carefully tended by Tibetan locals.
The indigenous, quiet Indian folk seem to be overshadowed by the very busy presence of the large Tibetan community, which has slowly settled here, as increasing numbers continue to escape Chinese oppression, by trekking hazardous routes over high mountain ranges, through deep snow and ice. Being a nomadic race, they are wellused to this hardship but many lives have been lost in the quest for the freedom of a new and very different life in India.
Parents have sometimes decided to allow their children to travel over the border with trusted groups, while they themselves had to remain in Tibet. Communication restrictions are such that many of our students could not send letters home or even make ‘phone calls. This sad situation was kept well-hidden by the happy disposition of the refugees we befriended, who always greeted us with beaming smiles and physical contact ... a hand on our arm or around our shoulder while we chatted, the young women being mostly reticent, compared to their more confident male counterparts.
Only occasionally, when writing in their notebooks, did one or two of them mention their continuing sadness for parents and siblings left behind in Tibet. They had formed new ‘families’ and enjoyed a great sense of community, either living in apartments or shared dwellings, finding employment locally, often in the catering trade or in shop work, enabling their dedicated studies to be followed part-time.
We befriended a young Tibetan cake-seller (cakes are a big and alarmingly-colourful part of life here, delivered fresh, early each morning). She stood in her small cabin on a busy street, amidst craft shops, clothes traders and market stalls. Her coconut sponge was to die for, alongside doughnuts covered in melted chocolate. A meal could be found in a cake … and often was.
She was keen to tell us about her part-time language studies, but on each occasion she asked us more about ourselves and our country, obviously becoming more intrigued by what she heard, until one day she said, “But you are so old!”. We thought she was trying to tell us that we were young for our age and that she was merely confusing her words. “No”, she insisted, “You are OLD!”.
Finally, we managed to grasp her thoughts. In India, people over the age of fifty sit at home and take it easy. They do not exercise or travel around. When she heard our story fully she was amazed, saying that, when a Tibetan person is widowed, or left living alone, they always remain alone. Taking a second partner is simply not an option … ever.
Each time we bought a cake, she would grin delightedly and mutter things about our being “So old!” and told us that, at nineteen years of age, she was “far too young to have a boyfriend!” Her welcoming smile lit up the colourful cabin and her innocent curiosity about the rest of the world was a joy to see.
Although December nights can be very cold in Northern India, warm sunshine was a great comfort most days so we often enjoyed a roof-top lunch when our morning classes were over. If you found yourself in the shade at three o’clock you would start to wrap-up, a process which continued indoors, layer upon layer (a colourful sight to behold) until your head hit the pillow.
There was, at that time, a strategy in place to conserve power. The planned schedule of power cuts meant you had to be prepared. Sometimes a blackout would come unexpectedly, as in the time when we were mid-film at the village ‘cinema’ (where a young Indian man used a DVD player to provide big screen entertainment at a very modest price). We had been advised to take sleeping bags to sit in but we found the sparsely-converted basement warm enough. We were the only two customers that night for a newly-released film and sat, contentedly cosy, until an unexpected loss of power found us gazing at a blank screen!
Having to admit, after ten minutes sitting with our fingers crossed, that “that was it”, we left with the consolation of free tickets for another evening. The day we did return, we found the door locked. Seemingly, if no patrons appeared at opening time our young entrepreneur closed the door and went home. We must have been just a minute too late. Happily, the same gripping film was on offer on the plane homeward … a well-deserved reward!
That was a Friday night, the start of our free weekend, and heavy monsoon-type rain had fallen incessantly throughout the day, but a dazzling layer of crisp dry snow surprised us at 10pm, when we climbed the steps out of the cinema. Three inches had fallen already, so we linked arms tightly and steeled ourselves for the very steep downward slope home, on the dubiously-laid pavements.
STATE OF BEWILDERMENT
The local dog population, well-fed and cared for, who relax haphazardly and stupefied, day in day out on the roadside, seemed to be in a state of bewilderment. With no place to lie and watch the world go by … they were creeping home early, hoping to find a dry, warm corner for the night.
Later on, an eerie quiet settled across the valleys; not a sound could be heard. There was none of the distant chorus-barking, which usually started around midnight and lasted for three hours and was, perhaps, a ritualistic statement from the dogs, that this was their village, which they were minding for the sleeping humans. We guessed that the blanket of deep snow was muffling the sounds which usually disturbed them. They were silent and sleeping well.
As we had done very little exercise of late, owing to a recurring tummy problem which had rendered Ed very sick indeed, and then left him very weak, we had decided to spend the Saturday walking by road to a nearby village, commonly known, perhaps alluringly, as ‘The Resorts’. It lay four miles away, uphill, looking down on us in our humble valley from its grandiose position, seducing us, by its inviting name and by its tall dark conifers proudly poking their snow-tipped heads towards the blue sky.
We were so looking forward to the luxury of a night in a cosy hotel in an up-market area, and to exploring the white landscape, the valleys and the wooded slopes. We needed a change of scene for a night and a chance to wallow in comfort, before treading the downward route home, on the Sunday.
Taking small back-packs we headed off in early morning sunshine. We’d packed our own prized kettle, tea, coffee, milk and sugar. Electricity cuts in mind, we had torches for the hand, and for the head (an invention that has to be tried to be truly valued), a very messy miniature but useful Scrabble game and our well