Ride to the river

Several thousand feet below in the valley is the sacred Yamuna River, which eventually flows past the Taj Mahal. It takes an hour or so to ride down from Mussoorie.

Scripted lesson plan

I woke up early. Couldn't sleep, so I rehearsed for my first class of the day:

"Several of you cheated on Tuesday's quiz ..." (Don't say, "I think some of you cheated" or "I've been informed that some of you cheated" or anything that shows uncertainty. As it is, I'm not positive. But I have to be strong.)

"so I've decided that everyone in class gets a zero ..." (Not "the cheaters will get zeroes.")

"unless if the cheaters step forward right now ..." (Dramatic pause. Probably no one will come forward. Probably there will be a shocked silence.)

"I understand, no one wants to admit it. Fine. Take out a sheet of paper and put your name at the top ..." (Mysterious. What am I up to? A pop quiz? No, better!)

"and write whether or not you cheated and who gave you the questions or answers ..." (Look stern. Pace around. Look suspects in the eye!)

"if you didn't cheat, tell me what you know about the incident ..." (Someone will crack! I know it.)

"I'm waiting ..." (But don't wait too long. Start collecting papers after a minute or so.)

"now clear your desks ..." (Here it comes!)

"here's your new quiz ..." (Start passing out papers.)

"if you didn't cheat last time, if you really read and studied, you'll be fine ..." (Even though this quiz is much harder.)

"as for you cheaters, well, I hope you fail!"

From a bus window

One of the best (but scariest and possibly slowest) ways to see India is through a bus window. Check out this map.

From the "Bombay Picnic Spot," it's 85 km to Dharamshala and another 150 km to Chandigarh. That's 235 km, or less than 150 miles. Total travel time? It took us about eight hours. I'm told it takes four to five hours by car.

Why is it such slow going? Here are a couple of pictures from one intersection:




Yeah, it takes a while.


And why is it scary? Check out this road.


It's basically one-and-a-half lanes wide. There are all sizes and speeds of cars, trucks, buses, cycles, tractors, and animals to contend with. It's best not to look outside. But I can't help it ...


... even though I often really want to close my eyes. (And, oh yeah, keep your head, arms, and camera inside the bus at all times.)


When I open them again, there's much to see. Beautiful architecture.


Odd vehicles.


Appropriate road signs. (As if you could go fast.)


Places of worship.


Mass transit.


And why is everyone honking all the time? Because the trucks tell us to.


Need a break for a beverage? No problem.


When we do make a pit stop, the kids raid the concession stand. Favorite potato chip? Lays American Cream and Onion.


And away we go, into the light ...

Dharamshala

Fifteen minutes into a conversation with a Tibetan refugee, I noticed some of the girls shuffling around, looking restless. One tried to signal me, mouthed some words I couldn't understand, and reached into her purse. I just shook my head.

For the past three days, I had been chaperoning a group of 23 high school students, mostly twelfth graders, in the city of Dharamshala, home of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government-in-exile. Though educational, the trip was up to this point mostly exasperating, as it usually is on something like Activity Week, constantly waiting for latecomers, shushing them at night, watching in horror as they look bored or fall asleep during an audience with the prime minister.

This was our last morning in town, and we were visiting the Reception Centre (For New Arrivals From Tibet). After a short introduction to the centre from a staff member, we met a 38-year-old man who had recently arrived. His story was typical for one group of refugees, the ones who risk arrest or worse if they stay in their home country any longer: He and a group of about 40 people had participated in an anti-China demonstration in the capital city, Lhasa. Shots were fired, some of his friends fell, but he and his wife managed to run away with only the clothes on their backs and a scar on his arm from a bayonet wound. They left their 12-year-old daughter behind, hoping she would be taken in by relatives, and made a 23-day trek over the Himalayas to reach Nepal. From there they were taken to Delhi and finally to Dharamshala.

The other typical refugees are: children whose parents send them over the border to receive a Tibetan education (one of the main schools is in Mussoorie); monks and nuns who want to continue practicing Buddhism; and old people who want to meet His Holiness the Dalai Lama before they die. (We had also hoped for an audience with the Dalai Lama, but he was out of town.)

As some students asked questions which were translated by the employee ("When do you hope to return to Tibet?" "If I return, I will be killed."), others were looking like they were up to something. Please, I silently pleaded, just this once don't do anything stupid. Instead, as teenagers often to when you least expect it, they did something wonderful: They discreetly took up a collection for the man and his wife and whispered something to the centre's employee, who accepted the money and quietly rolled up the bills. I saw 500-rupee notes, as well as smaller denominations--plenty of money the kids could have blown on lunch and snacks and souvenirs.

The man looked touched when told of the donation. But when one of the students told the employee to "tell him that we are praying for him and his family," that's when tears welled up in his eyes and he said, "I thank you from the bottom of my heart."

For years, I had heard of the Tibetan struggle for independence; in fact, this year marks the 50th anniversary of the Dalai Lama's exile in India. Growing up, "Free Tibet" seemed like a trendy catchphrase uttered by Hollywood celebrities and pop stars. These days, the cause seems to be less fashionable, and even Barack Obama has refused to meet the Dalai Lama, afraid of Chinese response. Reading about and listening to stories of the struggle, it is evident that the Chinese are close to their goal of eliminating the cultural heritage of the country. Tibetan children are taught in Chinese and sing patriotic pro-China songs. There are now as many Chinese living in Tibet as there are Tibetans. All residents of Tibet, regardless of their background, must speak Chinese to get a white-collar job and won't be served at stores and restaurants if they speak Tibetan. Buddhist monks and nuns have been marginalized, and "reeducated" by their Chinese handlers.

But all is not lost in Dharamshala. The cry of "free Tibet" is slowly being replaced by "save Tibet." Religious and cultural practices are continuing here in India, with young and old practicing the ancient arts, speaking the language, sharing the cuisine with visitors. The government-in-exile is still trying to engage the Chinese, still asking to be allowed to return home. Instead of independence, however, they ask for autonomy, for the right to live in peace.

At the same time, there is a sense of hopelessness. When asked what young people can do to support the cause, Prime Minister Samdhong Rinpoche paused, then said, "Pray for us. But also, pray for the Chinese people."

This kind of answer does not satisfy everyone. We met one man, the owner of a bookstore, who disagree with the Dalai Lama and his government. His more radical approach would call for each Tibetan family to send one child to become a "mosquito," trained to disrupt China by performing small acts of sabotage on the mainland. So far, he has five volunteers.

On a visit to a nunnery, we watched the young women--heads shaved and clad in red robes--debate. One nun would loudly and energetically shout a question and clap her hands, while the second one, sitting on the ground, would respond. If her answer was incorrect, the one standing would perform an inverted slap. With dozens of voices and slaps going at once, the courtyard was a spectacle of noise and animation. This kind of religious training can probably no longer be seen in Tibet, according to the principal of the nunnery.

As we groped for answers to unspoken questions, as we searched for hope in this hopeless situation, we met nuns from Tibet, India, Bhutan, and Korea. One student mused: "At least because of all this, the Tibetan culture is being spread around the world." A small victory for those hoping to "save Tibet."

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Dharamshala, India, as seen from my guesthouse room

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Tibetan government-in-exile Prime Minister Samdhong Rinpoche

Street scene, from the One Two Cafe


Old and new at the Norbulingka Institute


Ancient traditions


Norbulingka's mission is to preserve Tibetan culture

The sun lights up a temple

A debate at the nunnery

A light-hearted moment

A nearby mountain, which in past years was always snow-covered

Learning to make momos

Making them took almost 90 minutes. Eating was quicker:

5:13 p.m.

5:16 p.m.

5:17 p.m.

Hearing an opposing viewpoint

Street vendors

Welcome to your new home

Introducing a refugee

The centre can accommodate dozens of refugees. We met four.

Signage

Some signs from the last week of travels:

Being a non-vegetrainer, this place was not for me.

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Personally, I'm trying to unlearn the habit.

Pierce Brosnan's choice gets a thumbs-up from me.

Another reason to learn how to tie shoelaces.

News

Three months, three issues of the school paper. Yes, I'm advising the paper, teaching the class. I have a good story about the first issue that I've been sitting on, but that's not for today. Today, I've got pictures of kids and teachers all over campus reading the The Tiger. Fun.

My journalism students are always amazed that people eat up the paper as they do. But I always tell them: "If you do a good job, people will read it." And they do.











My news is this: I'm heading to Dharamshala with a bunch of twelfth graders for activity week. Not sure if I'll post while I'm away, but who knows.

Swine flu greetings

I hear the pig is in your way.

Hope you leave the swine flu behind!

Get well soon, FresH20.

Mussoorie night lights

Winterline buzz

Man vs, wild

A couple of days ago, I knocked down a monkey with a rock, and the neighbor dog scooped it up and finished it off. Now that's teamwork. Not that I'm proud. But when you are woken up many mornings with these creatures jumping on your roof, when you have to clean up trash that they have scattered around your house, when they harass anyone with food, when they attack people and knock them down the hill (this happened last semester; a co-worker sustained a broken arm and many bumps and bruises after a monkey attack), you get sick of them. You pick up rocks and throw as hard as you can. You realize they only respond to brute force.

Yesterday I saw a dead monkey in the electrical lines outside my house. Yes, you could say that humans have encroached on the natural habitat, that we are killing off animals with our very presence, but the fact is that these monkeys wouldn't be here if we weren't. They are here for our trash, our food, our remnants.


This morning, I chucked rocks at another troop of monkeys. I think I got a big, fat one on the back. You should have seen him jump. Again, I'm not proud. But right now the monkeys have moved on, and it's quiet outside.