The Dalai Lama Wasn't at Home... but we went anyway.

First off, happy Mom's Day to all you mothers (especially mine).

Secondly, applogies for the sporadic sparceness of late in entries (we had a bit of writer's block after the whole Osama ordeal).

Amy and I just got back from a few days away in Dharamshala, India (specifically the town of Mcleodganj- home of the Dalai Lama). Mcleodganji is a beautiful town buttressed right up against the foothills of the Himalayas. It is a town of Buddhists. Temples. Colorful flags. Monks. And above all: mountains. There is something inherently breathtaking about the place. There is a kind of pull you feel- a calling from the mountains themselves, it would seem.

From our hotel, the valley below us spread out in patchwork brilliance. Behind us, the majestic awe of rock against blue skies, a stark gray painted along the horizon.

Here's a snapshot from my (Katies) journal, sitting on our balcony after a long bus ride to this spiritual hidaway:

"It's raining again. The soft pitter-patter of water on Earth the soundtrack I didn't realize I'd been craving.

The monks on the the street below are draped elegantly in maroon, looking royal and humble simultaneously. They sweep along the tiny alleys- umbrellas in hand.

The mountains are not visible to me here. But, I know they sit squarely behind me. I can feel them, their significance not lost by their absence from my view. I turn and peer around the building, attempt to catch a glimpse of them. They allude me, lure me. I feel a solid grounding, knowing they are there."

I wish we had had more time to let the mountains into our souls. I miss them already. Long to return to them. They have taken a small piece of me. I can only get it back by returning. Can only feel whole in their shadow.

One other tid-bit.

THE bus ride.

I feel like this needs some mention. I find, in perusing my journal, that I have made no note of THE bus ride. Perhaps a subconscious attempt to forget the experience.

Let me set the scene...
Volvo
Diesel engine
No A/C
Personal fans drilled into the walls with a propensity to do nothing more than look pretty
Sweltering heat
Winding, narrow, mountain roads
12hrs
Mosquitoes
Sweat


The jarring bump and jostle of the road beneath our seats tore us in one direction and then another. The squeal of breaks sounding suddenly when least expected forced a slide down the chair until I was more off than on. Wrestling to upright was a laborious and pointless endeavor. And it lasted for hours. And hours. And hours.

We watched the sun fall, a pinky sinking of color, only to wait with cricked necks and numb toes for it to send a gray and murky light into our morning. And all the while the road beneath wore away, the bus swaying sporadically, jerking to stop and start, bouncing with a zeal none of us cared for.

We had a near death experience with what I think was a radical last minute swerve away from a cow (apparently a hit could mean a mob of angry people). The slam left then right then left again left us breathless and with a blood pressure that could have you on metoprolol in no time.

There was also a late night break down (or something like it)- it's hard when you don't know the language and the bus keeps lurching to a stop and dying- crowded around by all sorts of people instructing, what I assume is something along the lines of, "ok, now try going forward." Another lurch and die. "Now try going back." A growl of angry gears, lurch and die. For something like a half hour. Going forward a few feet, only to retreat backwards a few more. Huddled in darkness save the bright headlights.

It was, as Mishty has said, "character building."


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