94 - Horsey-Pretend Time & Toddlers In The Dust (Lo Manthang, Nepal)
DAY TWO OF OPERATION: LO MANTHANG involved a short gallop north for a peek inside a cave complex dating to who the hell knows when. We enlisted horses and their accompanying horseman for who the hell knows why. Okay, I guess the idea was to give our weary legs a rest. It surely wasn’t much faster. Lack of expertise and awkwardness ensured this. I’d never ridden an actual horse, though I did ride an imaginary one in northern Thailand. And by “imaginary,” I mean donkey. Or mule. Who the hell knows? And by “ride,” I mean “get pulled around by a petite Asian man with a rope.” He walked, I rode. By the time I realized what was in store, I was in too deep. The man spoke zero English and was so elated for the business I didn’t have the heart, nor the energy, to call off the train wreck.
He didn’t just pull me through the countryside, he guided me through a village. The villagers were out and about for some festival, and I can only imagine what they were thinking—the biggest asshole to canter on by. I should’ve hired someone to trail in my wake while beating a drum and chanting, “Shame… Shame… Shame.” My wrangler was all smiles, and I couldn’t stop laughing at the absurdity. Recap: I paid a man to tow my donkey-bound ass in a short loop I could’ve walked in half the time… for two hours. Shame.
This was different, but not by much. In Lo Manthang, I had the right species (I think), though not quite a stallion. Thoroughbred or not, there was an adjustment period. Ever smash your testicles/ovaries into an oak chair… up and down, up and down, up and down? Not sure a 6’4” freak of nature (by their standards) was a good fit for my little pony. Still, after a while, I got the hang of it. Borderline maniacal laughter and a perma-grin attested to my acculturation. On the way to Indiana Jones Cave Complex (Garphu Cave/Monastery), I passed Team France—a hearty band of fifty-something husband-wife pairs. They didn’t appear to be enjoying their equine experience nearly as much. Quel dommage, no?
Without context, the caves were as interesting as caves can be, which is to say pretty interesting. They made for excellent photos, but a story would’ve been nice. Coincidence, anyone? Shortly after returning to Kathmandu, a friend back home shared an article detailing excavations of mysterious caves dotting the mountains throughout Upper Mustang. I was desperate for information and then I had some… after I returned. Fiddlesticks.
Nothing like horsey-pretend time and a spelunking diversion to build an appetite for body and soul. As luck would have it, lunch in a nearby village would nourish both. I dined in what I believe was a private residence and served a repast in the host’s prayer room, a mini-monastery. Not long after we arrived, an elderly gentleman entered and sat cross-legged on a padded bench. A young male I presumed to be his grandson informed us it was prayer day. He apologized for the interruption and offered to relocate us to another room. I did what you might expect, I told them to get the fuck out posthaste. Well, no. Apologize for engaging in sacred acts in one’s own home? Seriously?
I certainly didn’t mind and requested permission to stay. Not a problem, I was told. So, for the next half hour, I was treated to supper and a show. I watched as this devotee performed the ancient rites indicative of Tibetan Buddhism, though I had no clue what was happening. Inquiring was out of the question for two reasons: 1) rudeness; and 2) steep language barrier. I sat hypnotized as he rang bells, clashed mini-cymbals, banged the traditional drum, sprinkled water from a psychedelic teapot, and spread an unknown grain (likely buckwheat) on the dirt floor. Although given the green light to take pictures, I couldn’t justify the intrusion.
After lunch, we went on an extended trot through the surrounding valley. My horse was exchanged for another which seemed to invalidate all horsemanship skill accrued in the morning. It was back to the bone-jostling, ball-smashing extravaganza. Yessir.
Same but different. That’s my bumper sticker summary of Lo Manthang’s “suburbs.” The post-apocalyptic nuclear holocaust vibe intensified tenfold. Brutal wind, scarcity of inhabitants, and the soft echo of equine footfalls solidified the image. The end of the Earth seemed just around the corner, two blocks down from oblivion. If the howling wind was unfriendly, the mastiffs guarding a woebegone monastery and school were downright belligerent, choking on their fury in a hot-blooded rage. One was particularly threatening, his incessant snarl disquieting. Cujo wasn’t tethered, making the only thing standing between me and a vicious mauling was a raised concrete platform (five or six feet from ground level) on which the monastery stood. Apparently, my threat wasn’t grave enough for a death lung or to surmount steps a mere twenty feet away. Ram was unfazed by Cujo, so I fed off his demeanor… reluctantly.
After a few tense minutes, a man appeared to quiet the hellhounds and let us have a peek inside. This monastery was much less impressive than the others I’d visited and felt neglected. Then again, perhaps I was jaded, this being my fifth or sixth iteration. The visit was short, the silence broken right before we left with, “So, this is the oldest monastery in the area.” End description.
I tried to imagine life day-to-day, birth-to-death in far-flung corners like Mustang. Persevering without knowledge of the modern world would be one thing. To do so knowing, or at least sensing, the technological and cultural frontiers in Pokhara, Kathmandu, and beyond would be something else entirely. Without question, the desolation, the forlorn grandeur of that Himalayan corner is spell-binding. I could’ve spent weeks, if not months, comfortably sequestered within its boundaries. Wandering. Exploring. Mediating. Just, well, being. But that’s the romantic allure of exotic locales, intoxicating as any drug.
And then you sober up. In the village below the monastery, I found sobriety in a child’s eyes. Toddlers in the dust, I thought. At first, I hadn’t noticed them squatting motionless at the base of a mud-brick wall. From afar, they resembled mannequins—inert and unresponsive. I edged closer. All the poetry of landscape evaporated. Neither child reacted in any significant way—the girl not at all. I felt invisible, her eyes looking through me. I simply didn’t register. The boy fussed with a makeshift toy fashioned from a stick and a nail. It had his attention but only just, a pursuit slightly more stimulating than staring at the wall. My arrival was on par with a passing chicken.
No curiosity. No smiles. No frowns. Nary an altered micro expression. Childlike wonder and blissful ignorance? Extinguished. They had the eyes of village elders long ago resigned to the futility and desperation of cosmic fate. Their precocious fatalism was a stark contrast to the hordes of children I’d encountered on my journey. In a word, heartbreaking.
There’s a perpetual uneasiness I have when photographing locals in impoverished conditions even with permission. It feels like exploitation, a subtle (or not so subtle) indignity. These kids were, and forever will be, the epitome of such ambivalence. And yet, the compulsion was too great to overcome. I wanted, no make that needed, to record the moment, to remember those children in that wind-blown valley and the indelible pathos permeating it and them. I pointed at my camera in a gesture meant to acquire permission. No response. Tacit approval? Maybe. Maybe not.
The mountains above Lo Manthang shelter one of the planet's most elusive creatures—the quasi-mythical snow leopard. And where did I learn this? In Mustang, of course. I knew the creature’s range spans the Himalayas, but I didn’t realize Upper Mustang was included in its perambulations. I shudder even now at my ignorance. Had I known going in, I could’ve insisted on a half-assed attempt to locate one. If nothing else, it would’ve been a worthwhile diversion in the neighboring hills. As I deemed Ram in no mood to chase windmills, I contented myself with wistful glances toward the heavens secure in the knowledge a feline goddess skulked about the rooftop of the world in search of fulfillment. In that respect, I suppose we were alike. Perhaps someday our paths will cross. Heeeeeere kitty, kitty, kitty....