My crew arrives at the temple before 5 am. The monks are already praying, chanting, playing trumpets, crashing cymbals and banging drums. This is the first morning of the dance festival called Dosmoche, held each February in a 1,000 year-old monastery deep in the Himalayas, to protect the world from evil. We sit in the corner; many of the monks glance in our direction, looking us over. A young monk brings a huge silver pot and pours us salty butter tea.
We have been invited by the dance master to attend and film this sacred ritual, called a puja, during which the monks, who have meditated non-stop for a week, pray for the benefit of all sentient beings. Overwhelmed, we sit half an hour in amazement before touching a camera. Even then we take only a few shots, from the side of the room, before quickly returning to our seats. What occurs all around us is almost too profound to film.
At six the pros come in, dressed head to toe in Gor-tex outerwear, sporting an arsenal of top of the line camera gear. They pause in the doorway for less then a minute, scanning the lay out, before setting up shop. The monks ignore them. One of pros charges down the center aisle to set up a camera right in a praying monk’s face. Within minutes they have several tripods and cameras set up around the room, which the attendant monks, carrying incense and tea, must step around. At one point, to get his shot, one man leans his elbow and entire arm across the low table where the monk’s prayer tablets are kept. The monks continue to chant, eyes held dead ahead. The pros are attended by three guides; my crew is assisted by a single monk who has volunteered to help us out of respect for our project. Konchok belongs to a different order, and the previous night he was incredibly excited to attend this unusual puja. The pros are not in the room five minutes before Konchok gets up and walks out. |
The cameramen move close enough for me to get a good look at their gear; all the best stuff. All my crew’s gear put together wouldn’t buy one of their tripods. I look at their incredible lenses, and I feel like I’m back in junior high, watching the high school varsity team work out. The only consolation I take is that my crew has been given tea in big glasses; the pros are given tea in little disposable plastic cups. After twenty minutes of non- stop shooting they snap their last pics, then pack up and vanish. They never even sat down for a minute.
Oddly, I feel empty and insignificant. I wander out and take a shot of a horn player, who looks right at me as I work. When I return to my seat the abbot passes, a humble old man in whose warm little room I spent over an hour the previous day, talking about the dances and his life, and the changes he’s seen and what he has felt. I bow my head in respect. He nods back and gives me a wide, warm smile. |
Hours later I meet the horn player, who shakes my hand and, much to my surprise, apologizes. “Just as you took the photo,” he says. “I made a mistake with the notes.”
photos by Nathan Whitmont