Wednesday, August 14, 2013

What Better Place than the Lakeshore for Reflections?



         

Liebe Familie, Freunden, und alle Anderen,

This may be the last time I write to you in exactly this setting, this blog, as it is just one week before I return to the more familiar and begin my final year as an undergrad at Wheaton. For me, it feels simultaneously bizarre and appropriate that I will be coming back to the well-known comforts of home and school after these many months of new experiences and bewilderment, but I am looking forward to it very much, especially because this may allow me to tell you stories in person, and hear more of yours! I imagine though, that once resettled in Massachusetts, I will feel again that itch of travel fever. I've heard the only way to treat this virus is with regular applications of foreign dirt under the fingernails, unusual foods in the belly, baths in unknown waters, and most importantly with daily flushings of the eyes with before unseen views. Nonetheless, I've heard it's chronic. They did not warn me about this at the travel doctor's. 


I have been thinking a lot about my future during my journey around Germany this summer. Bhutan's lessons in present-minded ness have been a blessing and a curse in this respect, as I have been inclined to live quite hedonistically and bask in enjoying each day and its moments, yet I have wanted to use this time to try to figure out what will become of me at the close of this adventure and the completion of my undergrad degree. Here in this post is not the place to divulge these musings (they aren't so profound---just the usual rabble about love, employment, etc,) but I admit it is at least as terrifying and exhilarating to summon up these thoughts and dreams as it was to begin and experience the adventures of my time abroad this year. It fires me up! I find myself going on walks with no particular destination but the prospect of thinking in motion and dispelling this energy and excitement somehow. I love feeling so trepidatious. I think that is a word. It will have to do.




Since leaving my Dad in Munich, after our fantastic week together in Switzerland and Austria and Bavaria, I have been roaming Germany on my own, sometimes with plans long-set-in-advance and sometimes with plans made on a whim the night before or day-of, and it has been an extremely rewarding way to travel a country I have wanted to visit for a very long time. For the most part I have been wwoofing, which means I am a volunteer for the organization WWOOF (world wide organization for organic farming) and connect with farmers to stay with them for an agreed-upon length of time. In exchange for room and board, I work a few hours every day (my experience has been five hours a day, six days a week) at whatever tasks need an extra pair of hands. It's been an unmatched way to travel cheaply, but as my first host, Uschi Moog, explained, it's about far more than that: it is about learning from each other and experiencing local culture very intimately, and making friends in ways that are simply unachievable through conventional tourism.  I am very indebted to my friends who have wwoofed in the past in other countries, and who recommended the organization to me, and I heartily recommend it to you, my dear reader, in turn. Do it! Or if you don't wwoof, do travel! Dig in. 







My first farm was in the small town of Traben-Trarbach, in the Mosel valley in the Rhineland. I had quite the time getting there, getting very lost in Frankfurt and going to the completely wrong airport from where my host had agreed to pick me up. I took a completely unnecessary, yet entirely comprehensive tour of the Frankfurt train circuit on the S-bahn and ended up at the huge hub that is Frankfurt International Airport. And then my phone had stopped working. Luckily, I did find a bank of pay phones (a technology which I had believed to no longer exist), and managed to recoordinate with my hosts how to properly get to the Frankfurt-Hahn airport, about an hour's bus ride away, which I finally did, and arrived around midnight. Luck stayed with me, happily, and this was also the time that the other wwoofer, an Italian named Alex, was due to arrive so it was no great inconvenience to my hosts. I was extremely relieved when I finally met Uschi and Jürgen Moog, who greeted me with hugs, and made me feel very welcome after this trying first day of solo travel. Perhaps it was a test of resolve, or perhaps just a lesson in means of public transport and communication, but the real take-away is: it's all gonna work out fine. 

Due to the lateness of my arrival to the farm, Weingut Moog, (Moog vineyard, auf Englisch) I was spared its beauty and that of the surrounding valley until morning. Good thing, as I was much better prepared to be astonished by it when it appeared in all the freshness of that new day. I had been afraid that my heart had been filled to capacity by mountains, having twice been enthralled by them in the Himalaya and the Alps, but I have been very blessed to have a very spacious heart, and there was plenty of room for the rounded hills of the Mosel valley. I cannot exaggerate its beauty. It is truly a romantic's dream, with the winding and deep river carving out the slopes of the hillsides with turns so elegant and wide it is as if the river knows its loveliness and is content to linger as long as possible among the forested slate hills that complement it so well. The valley is known primarily for the river and its steep banks where the people grow Riesling grapes for white wine. My hosts are teachers by trade, farmers by tradition and hobby, and winemakers by passion. They own three vineyard plots where they grow their grapes; they also keep a large garden of vegetables and fruit. Their entire property was essentially a garden, as they both had interminably green thumbs, and a reputation for growing things well and with care. 



I was with them for only a week, but I wrote in my journal on my second day that if I could have, I would have stayed with them all summer. I learned a great deal about gardening and winemaking from my hosts, not to mention the impression they made on me in terms of making a stranger feel welcome and like a friend, which I believe us now to be. Needless to say, I am pretty inspired by them. Gush gush gush. Praise. Love. All good things. Bah. 

Uschi was very interested in Bhutan, which made me miss that country very much, as I still do now. She fed into my wanderlust too, with stories of her travels in Italy and New Zealand. She taught me about growing her plants from seed from old stock and breeds, preferring these because they would regenerate, unlike the store-bought seeds which only survive for one generation. She thought it was a terrible scam that people were generally only given this commercial option, and couldn't use the seeds from such crops. I hope to follow in her example when I have my own garden someday. She also showed me how to harvest greens so that they would grow back many times over, and we literally ate the fruits of our harvest daily with salads picked only minutes before they were eaten. I will honestly swear that these were some of the best salads I've ever had. 



In the afternoons I was at my leisure to explore the valley. I discovered that nearly every village in the area had some kind of castle or ruins, and that the farmers of these vineyards would grow their vines on as steep a cliff side as a human being could conceivably climb without the help of ropes. Jürgen explained that each vineyard produced slightly different tasting wines because of the microclimate of any given area in the valley. For instance, he knew from years of trial and experimenting that his vineyard right above the water was best for making sweet wines, while the vineyard further up the hill was better suited to dry wines. The difference is in the sugar content, and the weather and production can alter the flavor as well. It is most certainly an art. 



When we said our goodbyes at the end of the week, I gave the Moogs a small prayer wheel I had brought from Bhutan, and Jürgen gave me a small slab of slate with a hole in the center made by the tip of a pick ax. Earlier in the week when we had been working in the vineyard by the river, he had pointed out such a stone to me that he found while we were planting some young vines. The vineyard is too steep for the use of any heavy machinery, so all the work is done traditionally, using hand tools. He told me that whenever he finds a stone with a hole through it, he takes it home and places it on the wall of the walkway to the front door. He said he likes the reminder of hard work and what it produces. I think both parties were equally moved by the significance of the gifts. 



From the Mosel, I took the train (by this time, I was accustomed to how transportation in Germany works) without any trouble across the south of Germany to the city of Regensburg, where one of my best friends in the world, Steve, had spent his semester abroad. This visit with Steve was one of the main reasons I had been determined to spend my summer in Germany, and I, again with luck, was not disappointed. We had a great few days together. It started with a moment of panic though.



I hadn't been able to tell Steve exactly where or when I was due to arrive at the train station 'in the burg' so I had been wandering around the station and adjoining mall just hoping to bump into him. My phone was still kaputt, so I was really relying on circumstance, or the appearance of an Internet cafe, in order for us to find each other. I was meandering around, looking conspicuous with my big blue backpack, and suddenly I was jumped! 

Ok, to be fair, by jumped, I don't mean mugged, but it did cross my mind that that was happening for a second. What I mean is: someone literally jumped onto me and leaped in front of me. Before I really had time to react, I stumbled, and before I really knew that I was recognizing the jumper, realized that this was not Steve, but another close friend who had also studied in Regensburg that Spring, Steven! (yes, Steven, not Steve. I swear it makes sense.) Following shock and the instinctual yet awkward-because-of-backpack hug, I turned around to see Steve: calm, smiling, typical Steve. We three then went back to their apartment complex, dumped off my pack, and immediately went out for karaoke, and the meeting of their friends. I did my best butchering some Red Hot Chili Peppers and even conned Steve into singing some CCR. The next few days that followed were rich with exploring the city, eating Kase spatzl, drinking Augustina Helles, and indulging in all their favorite bars and restaurants, and catching each other up on the last few months. Ah! How great is it to be among old friends! I can't wait to see you again in a few weeks!



I set out again on my lonesome for the next three days as I headed north toward my second farm. As luck would have it (I have begun to think of myself a little like Bilbo Baggins, with all my reliance on luck this summer), my hostel in Weimar was only available two nights, and so I was left with needing another place to go for the first of the three nights. A friend in Bhutan had recommended I visit Bayreuth, so I figured I'd go with that. It was an excellent choice. I ended up enjoying Bayreuth far more than I expected to, and was glad I got this happenstance to go. My neighbor in the hostel was a recent grad of Cambridge and had come to Bayreuth for the week on the chance of a lifetime with free tickets to the Wagner Opera Festival opening that night! These tickets, he said, are notoriously difficult to get, with waiting lists that last for years, but his dream was being fulfilled early since a family friend had tickets and was unable to go. Alas for me, this did not include a plus-one, but I walked with him to the famous Festspiel Haus, which Wagner had built for his operas and his operas alone. A recent art exhibit in the park surrounding the opera house included hundreds of munchkin-sized red, blue, or purple Wagners, conducting to each other or to the trees. Some people had dressed them up in hats and scarves, like snowmen, and they were apparently for sale, as I saw a few people even carrying them around, on their ways home. 



Although I was unable to attend the opera, which was a new production of the Ring Cycle, I did have the singular pleasure of exploring Bayreuth in the midst of a warm summer rainstorm, and was able to watch all the people in their fancy opera attire skedaddle under doorways to get out of the rain. I am happy to report that on this occasion, I fulfilled the meaning of a Bob Marley quote someone dear to me recently and aptly reminded me: "some people feel the rain; others just get wet."

I moved on to Weimar the next day to the Labyrinth Hostel, right in the heart of the Altstadt (old city), which was a really fun place with artwork all over the walls. I had not realized how much I had been missing that kind of whimsical artsy atmosphere. On my way to Weimar, I decided that I would spend the bulk of my visit at the memorial at Buchenwald. Buchenwald was one of the largest Nazi concentration camps inside Germany during the thirties and forties and was a "special camp" for political dissidents of the USSR during the late forties and fifties. It is only a few kilometers outside of the main part of the city of Weimar. Tens of thousands of people were murdered here.

Visiting Buchenwald was hard. I wish I had anything profound to say about it, but everything I can write  falls short of its impression on me. What seems most important to me is to urge you to witness it for yourself. Please go. Please visit the Holocaust Museum in D.C. or wherever there are exhibits near you. If at all possible, go in person to one of the memorials in Germany or Poland or the Czech Republic or Ukraine or elsewhere. It is so vital for us to remember these places and the people who lived and died there, and felt its atrocities firsthand.



 Buchenwald is strangely beautiful as a setting, surrounded by the beech trees that give it its name. The day I went was warm and sunny, with only a scattered wisp of clouds above me. In the distance from the area of the muster ground, where the prisoners were forced to stand for daily roll calls, marching, singing, waiting for hours in all weather under threat of machine gun fire and beatings from the SS guards, I could see windmills and farmlands, stretching peacefully unto the horizon. The positions of the barracks (no longer standing) are all marked with stone, but a few other buildings remain: the gatehouse, where prisoners were met with the iron bars spelling "Jedem Das Seine" which literally means To Each His Own, but truly implies the horrifying notion, You Get What You Deserve. The disinfection building, where prisoners were stripped of all belongings and forced to submerse themselves in stinging baths of disinfectant, as a protocol to reduce disease in the camp, which nonetheless was rampant in the horrible 'housing' conditions of the barracks. This building now houses artwork created by prisoners both during their inprisonment and afterwards. This place was an especial source of terror for prisoners, because in other camps, such as Auschwitz, 'disinfection station' meant gas chambers; Buchenwald was not a death camp like Auschwitz; all the death camps lay outside the borders of present day Germany, but tens of thousands of Jews, political opponents, homosexuals, Roma, and other people deemed undesirable by the Nazis were killed in the camp. The crematorium also still stands. The chimney. The ovens. The attached room where hundreds of Soviet prisoners of war were secretly executed. 



I admit to you, I almost could not bring myself to enter the crematorium. But I summoned a small sliver of courage, a minuscule tribute to the courage of the victims and survivors of the camp. I went inside. I spent many minutes inside. A sign posted on the door requests that visitors maintain silence there, and I cannot think what anyone would be tempted to say. What can you say in the face of such  hatred? How can you face and honor the persistence of the prisoners who lived in spite of it? To assert: I Exist! There is a heavy weight over Buchenwald, even now. There must be. When you are there, you can sense the fear, the pain, the death, the hatred, even after a half-century. It is insurmountable. 

When I left the crematorium, I wept. I sat on the stones for a long time, and I wept. 










The people who run the memorial now have done a truly commendable job of making the place meaningful and approachable to present day visitors. I took an audio tour with me, and it really helped broaden my understanding of the meaning of the different memorials within the camp. I spent my whole day there and was glad, if one can use that word, that I did. In a way, even though I had a more comprehensive education in and sensitivity to the Holocaust, thanks to teachers in my school back home who were passionate about the subject, than I think did many of my peers, I had a hard time taking in the full scope of my visit to Buchenwald. I left feeling numb. Yet, as emotional and intense of an experience I had there, I was still able to continue the remainder of my day relatively normally. I still ate dinner. I still checked my email. I still wrote in my journal, talked to other guests in the hostel. Life wasn't so changed. I don't know what I was expecting. I'm still troubled by this. 

I have promised myself that I will not let my visit become something fleeting. I intend to be mindful of it, and hopefully take some deepened wisdom and compassion with me. A great teacher and mentor I had in my home town, Mr. Bob Smith, taught me and my classmates that we must never be bystanders, as the people of Weimar were, claiming ignorance of all the atrocities at Buchenwald. In this way, I can understand the belief in Buddhism, that ignorance (and perhaps indifference?) is one of the greatest sins. At the very least, Buchenwald will stand for me as a testament to the abilities of human beings, at either end of the spectrum: the utmost evil, reducing one's fellow beings to nothing through shame, violence, and hate; and the pinnacle of determination, clinging against all hardship to a sense of worth. 






When I left Weimar, I traveled to the small town of Neustrelitz, in the northern state of Mecklenburg-Vorpommern. This town, I was told by my host, Uwe Fischer, had a history at least 800 years old, but during the Soviet presence after WWII and the years under the GDR (when Germany was divided into the democratic/capitalist West and communist/socialist East) most of the history had been destroyed, including the ancient fortress, which the Soviet soldiers burned. He smirked and said that thus, there was not much to see in Neustrelitz, but we had a lot of work to do back at home, so we bought some ice cream and drove to Hof Hexenwaeldchen in the tiny village of Blankenforde, about 20 km away. The village is home to about 100 people, and lies inside the Muritz Nationalpark. It would be my home for the next three weeks, and I was very excited to get to know this farm and explore the park. The area is very rural, as you might expect inside a national park, and very flat. It is well known for its many lakes of all sizes, and these are the main attraction. Many of the lakes are connected by narrow channels or canals, making this a paradise for kayakers and canoe-ers. 

The farm, it turns out, is not so much a farm as a campground owned by a family very interested in farming and living organically. Unlike my first farm, they have livestock here, but like my first farm, I have no specific duties, and am mainly just a helping hand wherever I can be. I am the only wwoofer here, and their first international wwoofer! First things first, Uwe introduced me to his wife, Darja, the kids, and several other staff members of the Campingplatz.  We then drove a little ways through the campground along the sandy road to a small caravan, where i have been living, and am writing to you now! No running water, but it is quite comfy with a table, bed, cupboards, stove, and small fridge. Maybe 8x12 feet? It is very much enough, and I don't spend all that much time in it besides for sleeping. The campground can hold about 300 people, and is predominately families with small children. Most people stay in tents, some have wagons like mine. There are very few large RVs like we have in the States. Many are repeat customers, and aside from the sounds of kids, it's relatively quiet. There is a nightly campfire near the entrance, and occasionally live music, though the most recent concert was quite bad, I'm afraid. What can you expect? 



Most of the time, my work has been tending the animals, which mostly means shoveling poop. If this job doesn't make a vegan of me, little will. Though I'm certainly returning to vegetarian life upon return home. Cleaning up after the pigs is the worst, as they are big and scary and try to eat my boots, and mostly just make me sad. One has blue eyes and the other brown, and they smell terrible and will be slaughtered come fall. Oog. I guess I am glad I will be gone by then. Such work is very humbling however, as I was at least once outsmarted by a sheep. Usually my first task is to bring the sheep to their pasture, which includes tethering them so that they can feed all day without needing supervision. I had been instructed to take two of the three sheep first, and then return for the other, so that I would not have to manage all three at once. Doesn't sound so hard, right? Well it isn't. But I still managed to muddle it all up:

There is one male, named Ludwig, after the 'mad' king of Bavaria, who spent his fortune building four fantasy castles, including Neuschwanstein, which Dad and I visited. The two female sheep, I was told, did not have names, and so following suit, I have privately named them Helen of Troy and Cleopatra. One day, before I learned it is in fact far easier to bring all the sheep at once, I brought Ludwig and Cleo, and hammered their tethers into the grass, as per instruction. Although I could hear Helen bleating from a hundred yards away, I did not realize as I approached the sheep pen, surrounded by little children who wanted to see and pet the animals, how deeply distressed was this sheep, by being so permanently separated from her partners in crime. I grabbed her tether, and attempted to enter the pen so I could clip the fastener onto the loop on her collar. Rather than hop the fence, I opened the door, as a normal person typically smarter than your average farm animal might do, and before I could enter and close the door behind me, Helen bolts past me on her rapid spindly legs. Bleating as loudly as she possibly could, she ran, with me following not-close-enough behind. 

Luckily, for I have maintained at least some luck, she ran straight to Ludwig and Cleo. Thus, it was only a matter of approaching her and clipping on the tether, and moving on with my day, dignity intact. This is when I learned that sheep are not so stupid as they may appear or sometimes act. Typically these sheep are terrified of me, I assume because I am bigger than them, and not a sheep, and probably smell strange. Although we had been through this routine several times now of me bringing them to pasture, as they had done every day of their lives with some human, they seemed equally perplexed and unsure of what we were doing each time. Not so! (Helen did know where her companions were, after all, and went directly to them.) So Helen had figured out her new freedom! Despite my best efforts of cornering, sneaking up, and trying to tackle this uncooperative sheep for nigh on half an hour, I realized I had better call my hosts and get some help. At least I could prevent Helen from wandering off by continuing to play keep away until I had reinforcements. 

It is very embarrassing to call up your boss and explain how you have messed up a simple task. I sheepishly (hah) explained the dilemma and they sent along Raschi, one of the staff members accustomed with the animals to my aid. We continued the game with Helen, but after many more failed attempts, we conceded. Helen would have a free day. Baaa.




I do other odd jobs around the shop and grounds, but outside of working, I have had lots of time to myself. These hosts are not so family-oriented to their wwoofers as were the Moogs, and that's ok. But it means lots of Carrie time. I like this. Mostly. Sometimes, I admit it's been a bit lonely, here at the end of my journey abroad, when I am most eager to get home and be among familiarity again. I admit I considered leaving early, but I'm happy that I've stuck to the original plan in this case. It's good for me to have this largely solitary time. It has lent itself to lots of productive thinking, long walks and kayak trips around the nearby lakes and trails. Loads of reading. I've read many books I'd been meaning to, and that is very satisfying. 








I'd like to retract what I began this entry with: that it may be the last. I think we never know when things will end, and perhaps I will have more to say before this trip takes me back home. Maybe I'll even ask for your attention here again sometime when I am home. Wanderlust certainly extends to journeys near home as well.

 If I have learned one culminating sentiment from these six months abroad, it is this-- and it is something that I think I have been realizing gradually for several years, and will continue to understand, as I roll over it into the future (is that why it is a 'pearl of wisdom,' because it is a grain we come back to again and again, adding to it, smoothing it over, polishing it?)--

: Happiness is limitless. Or perhaps it is better to say it is boundless. If we are intrepid enough to pursue it, we can learn to create it, and then we can carry it with us, and be boundless ourselves. 

















Thank you for keeping with me all this time. For reading, listening, writing, asking, inspiring. I am up to my eyeballs in gratitude, and I cannot wait to be with you again.





With love, (really, So Much love),
Carrie





Sunday, July 28, 2013

Bis Bald, Bhutan


                                                               Leaving Paro


My friends! I have long neglected my duties to you here on this site, but I'm afraid I'm a bit unreliable that way. Lots of good times here in Germany have gotten in the way, and as my wise friend Emilia says, it's better to live it first and then get to the writing. So I am getting to it at last!

I left Bhutan on July 4th more heavy hearted than I ever expected. I do not know if I will ever be able to return to this magical place, and I assure you, it is indeed magical. Although the kingdom is far away from me, I expect I will indefinitely keep it close to my heart. I am woven into it now, though I never knew a fraying thread like me could be so tethered. I imagine by the end of this journey, I will be even more unraveled and knotted to other places around the world. 

(If you are reading this, Kunzang and Tiger and other Bhutanese friends, I miss you!)

I spent the next couple days in Bangkok, Thailand, on the seedy-neighborhood-turned-backpacker-haven of Kao Sarn road. I was a little sad that my first of gulps of oxygen-rich air would be the humid and sweaty atmosphere of this polluted tropical city, but so be it. Coming from the cool, quiet, prayer-flag covered, nearly-empty-of-people vibe of Bhutan, it was super overwhelming to be dumped off on the street stock full of bars, billboards, tattoo parlors, street food carts, clothing shops, and more than anything else, lots and lots of scantily clad white people. 

Let me be honest, I didn't really believe in culture shock before going abroad myself. I'd agree with those who warned me now, that the shock is greater on the way home, but I never thought there would be so many things I would plum forget about, or at least not view as normal anymore. Luckily, my culture shock had been treated prophylacticly when we were invited to an early fourth of July party at the American Warden's house in Bhutan (no embassy=warden instead). Not only was that weird because he and his family had American furniture and food, but I literally recoiled in shock when the bathroom had a doorknob, not a sliding latch, I had not seen a turning doorknob in months, and I had completely put them out of mind. After the meal, we said the pledge of allegiance and listened to the national anthem (twice), and I was so confused by these activities that I was genuinely worried how bad my culture shock could get when we left Bhutan for real. 
                          Inside the temple of the Lucky Buddha in Bangkok


So when we arrived in Bangkok, I was very glad to have my fellow Wheaties to share in all the shocks. Holy shit, guys, skyscrapers! Oh my god, I can see that girl's butt with how short her shorts are. BURGER KING. I might have died of whatthefuckiforgotthatexists had I not had these friends with me. Agh I miss you guys too! We soon acclimated to the tourist culture just enough to survive, and spent our time shopping, drinking, and indulging. We had one really confusing afternoon touring the sights and Thai buddhist temples (very different from Bhutanese temples-Hinayana v. Mahayana mainly) and riding around in little open-air three wheeled taxis called tuk-tuks. We didn't understand at first, but the deal we had gotten ourselves into for the cheap ride was because in between the sights, they took us to these high end tailor shops where we were supposed to pretend to want to buy clothes so that the tuk-tuk drivers could get coupons for petrol (I guess as a promotional deal?). Ask me about the story sometime in person-it's a pretty good one, better told with facial expressions and big gesticulations.

I separated from my wheaties at the close of our journey together, when they went back to the States, and I flew off on my own to Europe. Alas, because of differences in the timing of security and flights, I didn't get to give them real farewells, putting a small damper of the beginning of my European adventures. This experience of snags in transportation seems to be a perpetuating theme, but I am getting better at navigating these things correctly and quickly, so that's a plus. I got to spend an unpredicted night in Helsinki, Finland on my way to Zurich, but at last I met up with my dad is Lucerne, Switzerland. 

Before I tell you about my times thus far in Switzerland, Austria, and Germany, I would like to write down some of the lessons I learned in Bhutan. I'm not sure if anyone but me will find them useful or interesting, because many of them are fairly obvious, but here they are nonetheless:

1.  When original plans fall through, don't worry. Better ones often come along, and can reliably make for good stories.

2.  Dont be afraid to talk to people. They are almost always kind and interesting.

3.  (sorry Mom but,) Hitchhiking isn't that scary. Yes it is a risk, but in my experience it was fun and very great when you are low on ngultrum.

4.  I tend to prefer listening over talking, but it's still a skill I need to work on.

5.  Rain is no good reason not to be outside, or to go camping. 

6.  One can acclimate to altitude and spicy food, and this can impress the locals.

7.  Not having your own computer is not so bad after all. People will share if you ask, and I found myself spending my time more creatively without so much technology access.

8.  One can feel beautiful and not be concerned with beauty.

9.  Living on a mountain lends itself to nice muscles.

10.  What they say about facing your fears in order to overcome them is true. It was scary to walk by those dogs so many times after I was bit once, but I feel much braver now.

11.  Exploring a city alone can be really fun, especially if you like people watching, as I do.

12.  Really really try to make local friends and speak the local language. I do not feel I did this enough.

13.  Hand washing clothes may not get them 'clean,' but it can be a very relaxing task.

14.  Not being able to drink tap water is very very frustrating.

15.  I don't know why, but I really like being around cows....mrooooooo.

16.  Attend as many events as you can, but don't feel bad for spending time on your own or on non-eventful things. Those are important too.

17.  Walk slowly. Speak slowly. Even think slowly.

18.  Act like an animal. You are one.

19.  There aren't very dramatic sunsets or sunrises in the Himalaya. 

20.  Curiosity is one of the best qualities to share with a person. Foster it. Watch it grow like strawberries in the forest.





That's all for now! More soon! (teaser: wwoofing=wunderbar)

Love,
Carrie

                   Road from Dochu La.    May our roads and wishes come together again.



Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Lha Gyelol!


Danger! Achtung! Big ol' blog post ahead. But, as an exciting new installment: I got some sweet panoramic shots to share with you!


looking at Haa, one day's journey from Tibet

For our last group excursion as Bhutan IV, we traveled by bus, truck bed, and foot to our camping site in Haa, one of the south-western dzongkhags (districts) of Bhutan.Our tour guide, Tsewang is from Haa originally, from the tiny village of Dorikha. A few other men from his tour company joined us for the trip, including Tsewang’s nephew Zencho, whom Tsewang is training to become a guide himself. Zencho explained to me that at one point many decades ago, there were only two households left in Dorikha, because so many people were moving to the cities or leaving because the laws about land ownership were changing. Though by no means the remotest of villages in the country (there is a road that leads right to it, after all), this weekend was definitely the most time I got to spend just out in the Bhutanese wilderness.

We stopped for tea at Tsewang’s nieces’ house, and went up the hill to the local monastery to pay a visit. The monks were not home, however, so we simply enjoyed the view of the neighboring village, Shari, across the valley in the distance, and took in the last stretch of warm sunshine we would see and feel for the remainder of the trip. When we made it back down from the monastery, two Mahindra Jeeps were waiting to drive us the rest of the way along the road to our stop for our camp site. The road was impassable for the bus past the monastery because of its steep switchbacks and pudding consistency after the weeks of spring rains.

Mahindra and Mud
Psyched for the ride in these trucks, I called dibs on at seat in the bed of the first truck, much to the confusion of the drivers, who were puzzled as to why we all wanted to sit in the backs, rather than the warm, dry cabs of the vehicles. But, our smiles and refusals to budge eventually gave way to the standard Bhutanese half-shrug of acceptance. “Alright, well here’s a tarp for you all and the bags.” We settled in on top of our backpacks-made-seat cushions, and started our two hour ascent. It was a bumpy ride, and when it began to rain, I was glad for my raincoat and the tarp, and happily faced into driving mist as the jeep roared through deep puddles and fishtailed through the deep rutted mud of the road.

When we passed the high point on the road, in the thick of the cloud forest, where all the world except the 10 feet before you on the road, and the two feet on either side, and the vague semblance of the other truck behind you is gone, there is nothing to be done but to fill that narrow and simultaneously vast world with the great shouts of “LHA GHELOL!”

“Glory!” “Victory!” “Wooooooo!”

Let me tell you, my heart went out of me in those moments, and I thought of and missed all you other adventurers in my life. Especially my fellow subjects in the Empire Yacht Club of Das Haus. Ah, so much love to you all!

making camp
We got to the campsite soon enough, and were extremely privileged that our tents had already been set up by some of Tsewang’s crew. The campsite was in a small clearing, populated mostly by rhododendrons and low-lying white-topped blue-undersided five-petaled flowers. At first light that morning, we had a rare glimpse of the surroundings and view before the omni-present clouds of that elevation (about 3500 meters) returned.  

But, before I get ahead of myself, I want to describe one very special moment After we had settled in at camp, many of us wanted to go for a walk and explore the area. We set off down the road, walking along the more compact sections, but inevitably through many puddles made by the frequent waterfalls that did their best to wear away the road that had cut the mountainside. Bhutan is in general a very quiet country (where there isn’t construction happening), but when one is outside hearing range of a waterfall, and the only sounds are muffled bird calls through the enveloping clouds, and the dripping of water off of the juniper branches, one cannot help but notice that one’s voice becomes lower and softer, and the conversation one has with her walking partner turns to the serious and beautiful things of the world.

This became especially clear when Ben K. and I were walking by no particular point in the forest, when we both stopped, noticing that the light of the muted sun coming through the trees in that place was something special, and otherworldly. I said, “Do you want to go up there?” Ben replied, simply, and perfectly, “yes.” So we scrambled up the dirt bank, left our raincoats at the base of a large mossy tree, and walked up further into the forest. The sun blurred everything before into grey silhouettes, and it felt more the light was bearing us up into the woods, rather than the soft, saturated ground where we tread. I really felt like I was going to heaven.

a clearing in the cloud forest
There is a passage in The Wind in the Willows, one of my favorite children’s books, in which the main characters, Rat and Mole, are in search of a lost baby otter. They find him on a small island of their river home, curled up at the feet of the wild god Pan. Upon seeing the god, Kenneth Graham writes, “and still as they looked, they lived. And still as they lived, they wondered.” That is how I felt.

The magic of that moment did move on to other places though, but generously left its mark, because as we came to a level place in the forest, the trees gave way to a rolling meadow, where there stood the frame of a cow shed. We ran around in this muddy clearing, and when it became clear that the sun was setting and dinner was soon to be had at camp, we regathered our coats, and returned, humbled, and hungry. We had goat for dinner, and it was surprisingly good. Like, delicious. I swear to you, we eat infinitely better on these excursions, even when camping, than we do back at the mess. Whoda thunk it.

It happened to work out that I had a tiny tent to myself, which at first I was excited about. But as the night came on and stayed long, I wished I had had some body heat to share through the long cold night. The view in the morning was well worth it though, as was the promise of the hike to two peaks about 4200 meters that day. We started early, with Tsewang’s commands that we “take baby steps” and that stopping for breaks is “out of the question” because it is better to go perpetually and slowly than to ever stop, at all.

"baby steps"
The hike was incredible, though at times very strenuous, but what worthwhile hike isn’t? We passed through at least three eco-zones, moving through juniper and pine dominant, to almost exclusively rhododendron forest, to the sparse herbaceous scree near the peaks. We were in the cloud forest the entire time, which really allows one to see the wind as it blows these misty clouds through the trees and clearings and rock outcroppings. We had to resort to using echoing shouts of calls (coooooo-wee!) to keep track of each other in the white-outs that happened fairly often. Most of the time, we were not following any trail, just the occasional cow or yak path, and Tsewang’s expertise of the area and the safe way up the steep mountains, since he had herded cows through these parts when he was a boy.

cow's jaw
When we did reach the summits, we again shouted Lha Gyelol! and spent time exploring the crags and ridges of these bizarre, vertical mountains. As seems to always be the case however, we couldn’t spend nearly enough time, and soon made our way down the other side. In a clearing near the top, Ben G. found a set of cow jaws. He handed one to me, and I carried it like a prized possession for the rest of our hike. It was a seriously awesome gift.




near the summit of our second peak, Chebdokha. Rhododendron flowers as far as the eye can see.

mystery mushroom, do not eat
We had decided that morning to spend our second night at Tsewang’s ancestral home instead of camping again, since we had been promised the opportunity of learning how to milk cows. As we took one of Tsewang’s legendary short cuts back to the road, he told us that rhododendron flowers are actually edible, though “they can make you intoxicated.” So of course, trusting our never-failing guide, several of us start nomming down rhododendron flowers. A few minutes later, Tsewang adds, “though, some people think they’re poisonous.” What. Shit. He continued, laughing, and pointing at a slimy mushroom, “I wonder if you could eat that too!” What. The. Eff. I see the blood drain out of many of my friends faces. We all try to tally up how many flowers we’ve just eaten. I can see that we’re all thinking the same thing: we are going to die.

I figure that I am probably (hopefully) going to be ok. (Spoiler alert: I was. After all, I’m alive to tell you about it.) I’d only actually eaten a handful of flowers. They did taste really bad, so I had spat out most of what I’d tried. Some others were clearly in distress though, as the number was getting to be very high, as they counted out their snack on their fingers. Let’s just say we had to wait a few minutes at the road while these unlucky ones hacked up their florivorous meal.

coming down from Chebdokha
That night, after we had ended our big hike and supped on emadatse, we walked back up the hill a little ways to where some of Tsewang’s other relatives were about to do the evening milking of the cows. In Haa, the common practice of raising cows is to tether the calves to a cow shed while the adults are allowed to roam free for the day to graze (within the limits of where the herder leads them). The mama cows return at night to their young, and the people milk these sturdy, hefty animals by hand into round wooden buckets. During the day, the herders collect fodder from the forest to feed the calves, but when the milk for the humans is collected, the calf gets its share, often sucking quite forcefully on the annoyed-looking mamas.

an expert at work
We were each given one try at milking, and it was much harder to do than I expected. You have to pull from high up on the bag of the udders, not just the teat, and it is a difficult combination of requiring a good amount of pressure, while being relatively gentle. I only got a few successful squirts before I had to give up and let the experts do the job. I hope I get another try in Germany while I wwoof his summer.

That night, like in Bumthang, the girls were allowed to stay in the family shrine room, a spacious room with a large altar at one end, and an open floor space where we set up our sleeping bags. It was a welcome change from the cold wet tent the night before.

As we drove back toward Thimphu, via Paro, we passed the three iconic “hills” of Haa. Each is representative of the god of power, god of wisdom, and god of compassion, and the people of Haa are said to be divided according to these attributes too. Haa is also well known for the twin Lhakhangs of the district, the Black and the White Temples, named and painted as such because according to legend, the Dharma King of Tibet released two pigeons, one black and one white into Bhutan. He built the temples where the two birds each landed. The Dharma King is one of the prominent figures like Guru Rinpoche who were instrumental in bringing Buddhism to Bhutan many many centuries ago. You may remember me mentioning the Kyichu Lhakhang in Paro, built in the 7th century as one of 108 temples built to subjugate a great ogress whose body was stretched all across Bhutan and Tibet. It was the Dharma King who caused those 108 temples to be built overnight and trap the ogress.
the three famous hills of Haa

Legend also has it that Haa used to be called Het, which is a two character word in Choekey and Dzongkha (Choekey is the language used for the monastic texts, the only written language of the land for a long time). Het means “suddenly” and the region was called this because of the Dharma King’s power to summon thousands of people in no time at all so that the temples could be built quickly. But, somehow over the years, this second character of the name was lost, or people forgot it, and the name changed to Haa.

As we reached Chelela, the pass between Haa and Paro, we stopped for lunch and to look at the spectacular view from this 3900 meter point in the road, the highest road point in the country. We could see the peaks we had summited the day before in the distance, and Tsewang pointed to the furthest point the eye could see of Haa. He said that from there, it was one day’s walk to Tibet. This, I could hardly believe, but I did. He explained that even though there is an army presence guarding the border, people used to sneak in and out regularly to smuggle goods, but that it was no longer economical to do so.


Haa side of Chelela

Paro side of Chelela
  

this bird know's what's what
From the top of Chelela (la means pass, whereas lha means god), we could also see Taktsang, or Tiger’s Nest, that we had hiked to all that time ago back in February. I wished that I had a flying tiger to carry me from Chelela over to Taktsang again. We saw yaks grazing, and Ben and Ana and I rolled the broken tops of the prayer flag posts down the hillside. As the afternoon wore on, we descended from the pass and took the long road back to Thimphu, through the city of Paro and through the great sheer near-empty valley that connects the two main districts, and back up the hill to RTC. We said goodbye to Zencho and Leki and Tsewang for the second to last time, which was bittersweet. I have two weeks left in Bhutan. I am sure I will miss it. Yet, I intend to shout Lha Ghelol! many times more, whenever the moment is right.




rolling wooden blocks down the mountain

Yaks at Chelela


Last extra tidbit: While out to celebrate Guru Rinpoche’s birthday yesterday with a friend in Paro, we stopped at a rock that jut out from the cliff side at the edge of the road. The rock was painted bright blue and decorated with depictions of Guru Rinpoche and his consorts. In gold letters, many excerpts from some of Guru’s known writings were written in the swooping sharp letters of Dzongkha with English translations below. I copied a few down in my notebook, including this poem:

“Do not take lightly the small misdeed,
Believing they can do no harm.
Even a tiny spark of fire
Can set alight a mountain of hay.

Do not take lightly small good deeds,
Believing they can hardly help.
For drops of water one by one
In time can fill a giant pot.

When the eagle soars up, high above the earth;
Its shadow for the moment is nowhere to be seen;
Yet bird and shadow still are linked.
So too our actions:
When conditions come together,
Their effects are clearly seen.”

-Guru Rinpoche




Ok. I lied; this will be the last bit. It’s too good not to share:

“Impermanence is everywhere, yet I still think things will last. I have reached the gates of old age, yet I still pretend I am young. Bless me and misguided people like me, that we may truly understand impermanence.”

-Guru Rinpoche