“The fan works,” Dorje says. “But I have not installed the heater.”
The little car is freezing. Outside it’s snowing. The road is icy, there are no guardrails, or even a shoulder; the drop is 500 feet to the river.
The little car is freezing. Outside it’s snowing. The road is icy, there are no guardrails, or even a shoulder; the drop is 500 feet to the river.
The car’s engine is only 800 ccs (“India has made the world’s cheapest car!” Dorje says), and army trucks pass us, blinding us in choking clouds of diesel smoke. Lucky the drive is only an hour. Each way. Welcome to Ladakh. We’re trying to reach Likir Monastery, built in 1065, where a festival of ancient mystical dances, called Dosmoche, will soon be held. We want to meet the dance-master, called the chamspon, to interview him, and get permission to film the dancing. |
We carry a letter of introduction from the leader of one of Ladakh’s major Buddhist sects, the Drikung Kagyu. We have attained this letter thanks to the strings generously pulled for us by Core of Culture Dance Preservation, a cultural preservation organization which has worked for over a decade in the region. |
We find the monastery nearly abandoned. Many Ladakhi monks now go south during the freezing winters. In dark room, where three monks huddle around a wood stove, we learn the chamspon is in a weeklong meditation. One monk is the monastery manager; we present our letter. He is not impressed. But he serves us salty butter tea from a giant thermos, tells us dance practice begins in less than a week, and says we can film if we want, but we won’t get any special help. He barely looks at me, or my two assistants, as he talks to Dorje in Ladakhi.
The following day we head the opposite direction, to a monastery called Matho. Monasteries in Ladakh are built on cliff tops or rock outcrops. Climbing the winding ridge we follow a car even smaller than ours (which honestly did not seem possible). At the top it stops and two monks get out. Dorje shows them our letter, and asks to meet the chamspon. |
The taller monk smiles – he is the chamspon. He looks at Dorje suspiciously, but offers us a tour, during which he realizes that his sister is married to Dorje’s uncle (hence the suspicion). He invites us to the upcoming practice, and agrees to an interview. I’m delighted. |
By the time we leave it’s freezing, but it’s only a half an hour back to town. Dorje, however, knows a short cut, which will avoid the potholed, though paved, road we came in on. Soon the road turns to muddy two-track. We drive on, with no end in sight, headed north, further and further from town. It’s getting late. The road gets so bad we offer to get out and walk to prevent the car bottoming out (and help us warm up). Dorje stays silent and inches the car onward. |
We reach town just before dark and get a hot meal. My editor orders a dosa almost bigger than his head. The hot food warms me up, almost as much as knowing the locations for the next two weeks of shooting are now set up. | Eventually we reach a road, which finally leads to a bridge across the Indus, covered by prayer flags – colored squares of cloth on which prayers are stamped; when the wind blows each flutter of the flag sends the prayers heavenward. |
photos by Nathan Whitmont