The monks dance in the monastery courtyard, and as they dip and spin, they scoop up snow to throw at each other. In a corner, the younger monks, waiting their turn to practice, have an all-out snowball war.
I duck and cover my camera as an errant missile explodes into the post beside me. I am high in the Himalayas, at Matho monastery, filming the weeklong practice for the upcoming annual dance festival called Nagrang, famous for its two oracles, and it has just snowed five inches. NawangTsering, the chamspon, or dance master, allows the snowballs to fly, but scolds the monks for missing steps. It is a deeply spiritual, profoundly meaningful, 1,300-year-old ritual the monks prepare for. But he doesn’t mind their antics. In fact he smiles as much as everyone else. The smiles are what I notice most each night when I review the footage I’ve shot; almost every photo shows a grin. These are the happiest monks I’ve ever met. |
At a different monastery, the monks were serious, and difficult to get to know. Here at Matho the monks want to talk. The teenagers approach us first, practicing their English. The youngest monks keep their distance, but grin as they dance past. After lunch I find a group of older monks, men my age, watching a hockey game on an iPhone. Their English is poor and my Ladakhi is atrocious, so we just stand together and watch the hockey. |
The Nagrang festival is famous for its oracles. Two monks, chosen by lot, are locked into their room for two months, where they meditate continuously, up until the day of the festival. Some filmmakers, behind the senior monk’s back, once offered several thousand dollars to try and bribe their way into the oracle’s quarters. Their money was refused.
Though it snows outside, and the senior monk’s window is shrouded in thick plastic, a strong, warm light shines in. In spite of these negative experiences, he says he will trust me, and will allow us to film, so long as we turn our cameras off before the oracles come. He says he respects our project and wishes us the best of luck. |
Back in the courtyard the snowball fight still rages. Little monks run and slide on the packed ice. Some teenagers, out of breath from their practice, hurry over to chat. The older monk who likes hockey comes and stands beside me. He smiles and I bow in the traditional Ladakhi greeting. We can’t speak each other’s language, so we just stand together in silence and watch the dance.
photos by Nathan Whitmont