In Ladakh the days are just packed. I sit down to lunch with the director of the Himalayan Studies program at Aberdeen University in Scotland to talk about Vajrayana Buddhism and tantric practices and I barely get an hour of incredible non-stop information when the phone rings. A high level reincarnate (called a Rinpoche) wants me to visit his monastery for the evening; but he’s leaving in ten minutes. Just then my assistant rushes in to tell me the same thing. He has been combing the town searching me out (my phone had been turned off). So I sprint.
The Rinpoche travels in a convoy of four vehicles. All the cars have long silken katas tied to their side mirrors; colorful flags on short poles rise from the front bumpers. The Rinpoche’s vehicle has thick, colorful streamers strung across the hood. People in the streets bow as we pass. |
En route the Rinpoche and I talk about motorcycles and classic American cars – he loves old Mustangs – and about the recent floods which took over 2,000 thousand Ladakhi lives. We cross the Indus on an old bridge strewn with prayer flags and wind up a rough dirt road.
The monastery is deep in the mountains, in a small grove of trees, beside a frozen stream, surrounded by rocky peaks. A small procession of people, many dressed in traditional wool clothing, waits with flowers and katas. The Rinpoche steps out and disappears into the crowd, which ushers him through the monastery gate. |
My editor, Alex Hoelscher, and I wander into the monastery, across the open courtyard and up the steps to the temple.
Inside, three monks chant, illuminated by a lantern and the last of the daylight falling in the doorway. We sit on cushions in the corner and an attendant brings tea. The chanting of the monks is hypnotizing. One of the monks stands and motions for us to follow. He leads us through an ancient door into a dark room to show us sacred paintings on the wall, though it is so dark now we can barely see. The paintings are intricate, colorful, and incredible, depicting deities wearing crowns bedecked in jewels and human skulls, holding swords, or lotus flowers, wearing silken robes or tiger skins, riding on horseback, or, in one case, in union with his consort. | In the corner, almost as though it were put up as an after thought, hangs an incredible, unpainted mask of Mahakala, which the monk tells us is 400 years old. That’s twice the age of our country, Alex tells the monk. We join the Rinpoche in his room, lit only by a lantern and the flickering light of the wood stove. We ask him questions about reincarnation and about his previous lives. He tells us he spent 12 years in a Chinese prison before being tossed into a desert and left to starve to death. |
In this life, even as a boy, he has always had a voracious appetite. When we first met, I noticed that at meals he cleans his plate completely, then pours water on it and drinks it – an old Ladakhi custom of wasting absolutely nothing, but he is the only person I’ve seen practice it.
An hour has passed and darkness has fallen. Outside the small window the valley walls tower above us. The world is utterly silent, save the crackling stove, the hiss of the lantern, and the Rinpoche’s voice. I almost float. I am time travelling. Leaving, I walk out along top of the wide monastery wall, surrounded by the valley walls, beneath the stars, utterly awed. Alex and I drive home in the dark, in the back seat of a little hatchback, accompanied by a monk and his cousin, a high school senior named Sonam. We re-cross the Indus, and hit the pavement and Sonam rolls the window down (despite the cold) and the turns the club music up, and with no other traffic on the road we speed unimpeded through the Himalayan night, hoping to make it back in time for dinner. In Ladakh the days are just packed. |
photos by Nathan Whitmont