Little Lhasa, Big Soul: McLeod Ganj

Location:
India

Tibet, volunteering, Himalayas

By Brendan Keating

The first thing I saw upon arriving in McLeod Ganj was a group of monks standing around a silver and green bus waving goodbye, their bittersweet smiles a mixture of farewell and well-wishing. Their scarlet robes contrasted against the deepening gray gloom of fog. I stepped out of the car that had carried me from Delhi into the Himalayas and felt like I’d stepped into another world.

It hadn’t been an easy ride. The switchbacks through the mountains had been tortuous. The driver’s son had ridden with us from the Punjabi boom town of Ludhiana, hitching a ride in hopes of seeing the mountains. He came to regret the decision. Despite the protestations of his father, the poor boy had lost his dum aloo to the dashboard… three times. His face was wan with misery.

Still, it was nothing compared with what most Tibetans have to do to get to McLeod Ganj, also known as Upper Dharamsala. Like the Dalai Lama, most refugees flee Tibet on foot, over the highest mountain range on earth. When the Dalai Lama had arrived here in 1960, McLeod Ganj was a derelict British hill station with a great view and not much else. Today, newcomers find a thriving town crowded with travelers speaking dozens of languages from every continent.

Exploring McLeod Ganj for the first time that night I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t stumbled onto a movie set. The fog crept up the wooded hillsides like translucent ninjas and poured down the banks like steaming butter tea. On the market road, beggars, shopkeepers, monks, and tourists played disappearing acts. Groups of men warmed their hands on burning piles of scrap wood under haloed street lights.

The next morning the fog had cleared and I got to savor, with relish, my home for the next five weeks. To the west, the verdant fields rolled away into the Kangra Valley. To the east, majestic snow-capped mountains rose up, framed by heavily-wooded hills that were littered with prayer flags.

As I wound around town, making new friends and acquaintances, I was struck by the diversity of people. Within a few days I had met people from Tibet, India, Ireland, Turkey, Canada, Germany, England, Nepal, France, and the USA.

All of these folks were pulled here largely by the presence of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government-in-exile. That’s what pulled me there. I came to volunteer as a writer for a community magazine. Of course, I had expectations of what the situation of the Tibetans living in McLeod Ganj would be. These expectations were nothing like the truth.

The successes of the Dalai Lama have been extraordinary and the Tibetan government-in-exile has made great strides in constructing a functioning government abroad. However, I think that phrase ‘government-in-exile,’ painted a false picture for me of the real situation of Tibetans.

To me, the word ‘exile’ has a somewhat romantic connotation of journal keeping and afternoon toasts of Ouzo on a veranda. Combined with the Shangri-La images that “Tibet” conjures, I had imagined a spiritual paradise, where peace was the coin of the realm and monks studied ancient texts by candle light.

This picture was quickly dashed. I toured the Tibetan museum, which chronicled the invasion of Tibet by China and the subsequent human right’s abuses. I poked my head into the reception center for newly arrived refugees, where cots are lined in neat rows. I walked through the streets and saw lepers for the first time.

During my five weeks in this remote corner of India, I befriended a man angered by being tossed into prison because he wouldn’t pay a bribe. I met a girl, born in India and educated in America, who was willing to risk everything to return to the land of her parents’ birth. I briefly spoke with a monk in a café who had spent years as a political prisoner in China. Lobsang, a volunteer coordinator, told me that the number one problem in McLeod Ganj was substance abuse, especially for newly arrived refugees who are separated from their families and can’t find work.

In McLeod Ganj, there is great suffering, but there is great hope. Volunteers arrive daily to teach English, work on websites, or get the town wired for WiFi. Tibetans own guesthouses, restaurants, and shops. The market streets are littered with handicraft stores, book shops, Internet cafes, espresso bars, and food stalls. Tourists come to take meditation lessons, cooking classes, and go trekking in the Himalayas. Children laugh and light off fire crackers. Grandmothers in colorful aprons scold them for it. Monks elbow their way through crowds. The city is electric with colorful life.

That’s the real lesson of McLeod Ganj. That the problems faced by Tibetans are more than bumper stickers. Watching monks barter for vegetables puts a face to a problem that seems half a world away. In the Western world, Tibet still conjures up images of stupas and colorful robes. It feels so remote that it’s hard to imagine it exists in any other form than dreams or imagination. It’s even harder to imagine the life of a typical Tibetan, especially monks or nuns. Back home, a Buddhist monk is something exquisite and exotic like saffron, sandalwood, or sutras.

But when I think about McLeod Ganj, it’s that first impression that comes to mind. It’s the smiling faces of sneaker-clad monks in the fog. In McLeod Ganj, monks, nuns, and regular Tibetans are something much more precious than mere slogans or sutras: people.

Further Information

Other helpful information: If it's winter, realize that it's cold and most hotels don't have indoor heating.

Must see/do at this place: Eat the museli at Carpe Diem. Take in a bootleg movie. Hike in the mountains. Volunteer.

You should avoid here: Nothing - it's all good