Yesterday I attended a press conference with Nancy Pelosi, third in line for the American presidency, who was visiting the Dalai Lama here in sunny McLeodganj.
As is always the way here, I only found out about it over dinner the previous night, far too late to try to procure a press pass. The following morning I got up too late and more in hope than expectancy, grabbed the defunked one day press pass I obtained for the Dalai Lama's teachings, which was clearly marked February 23. Pausing only to grab a quick Snickers for breakfast, I arrived at the Dalai Lama’s temple and eventually found the press area. Don’t ask me how, but after much pleading I blagged my way in with the ancient pass and got a good view of Mrs Pelosi and her congressional crew, accompanied by a jovial Dalai Lama who at one point just burst out giggling. That’s the thing I really like about the Dalai Lama. I might not agree with every word he says (although most of it is lovely) but he is always smiling. Following her public address I got into the official press conference and after standing in the hot sun for well over an hour in an excellent spot on a wall which I refused to relinquish no matter how many bulshy film crews yelled at me, got an even better view of the party, and some good quotes.
I must say that after writing about poxy village fetes and charity events for almost four years, taking quotes from two of the world’s most influential figures as they stood side by side just a few feet away from me felt seriously cool.
Whilst a co-incidence (the main purpose of the trip being negotiations with the Indian government over climate change) Nancy’s visit, and the press coverage it received could not have been timelier for the exiled Tibetans. As many of you can probably imagine, these last few days have been eventful to say the least.
On Monday, March 10, I joined several thousand people who, after a poignant ceremony at the Dalai Lama’s temple, walked the first six miles of the March to Tibet, down to lower Dharamsala. The huge party was led by 100 Tibetan‘Core Marchers,’mostly monks and nuns, distinguishable by their bright orange baseball caps, followed by Tibetan families, westerners and vocal campaigners carrying huge banners, and chanting a variety of slogans – some peaceful, some less so. At Dharamsala we said goodbye to the majority of the marchers, before around 300 of us continued as far as a local Tibetan university where we were to spend the first night on the floor of a temple. We spent a pleasant afternoon, and then the problems began. At around 7 or 8pm, a group of Himachal Pradesh police arrived to close down the march which, organisers had omitted to tell us, was illegal. Perhaps I was particularly naive about this, but it seems I wasn’t the only one who had not given this aspect much thought, and as everyone, Tibetan and western, was encouraged to join the march, the possibility of it being illegal simply never crossed my mind. Even at this stage, things didn’t look good and some of us were beginning to think this was going to be it, but after a couple of hours, it was agreed that the march could continue, only within the boundaries of the Kangra district – one of several making up the northern hill state of Himachal Pradesh.
In the meantime our main luggage, which was being transported by truck, failed to arrive until the early hours, so I was able to get very little sleep in the well lit temple surrounded by snoring monks and nuns, until my stuff finally arrived. Honestly it was like a snorer’s symphony - there were even some rather clever harmonies going on…
The next day was so much fun. Loads of walking of course, but there was a great group of people on board and we spent much of the day singing, swimming in rivers, telling jokes and basically talking crap. This is also such a wonderful way to see India, or at least Himachal Pradesh, with its gorges, mountains, green fields and curious Indian families who watched us pass as they gossiped in their gardens. In the late afternoon a large group of Tibetan marchers, students at the university we stayed at the previous night, lined up around a bend in the road and bid us goodbye, each one of us shaking hands with each one of them as they expressed their heartfelt gratitude for our part in the demonstration. Many were in tears, and this was really quite a humbling experience. Their departure cut our number by more than half so that we were reduced to the 100 core marchers, 20 or so westerners and a small number of camera crew. We spent the night at a steep campsite by a main road, close to chai shops.
The following day involved lots of walking and I started to feel quite knackered. The police remained a constant shadow and we received a couple of warnings that this could be the day they try to stop the march. But we plunged on regardless and by late afternoon had reached our campsite where we hung out having fun before getting an early night, as we were told we had to be up at 4.30am the following morning, our aim to foil the police by crossing the Kangra border early.
The next morning was more fun than anticipated and by 5.40am we were on our way, being as silly as ever. Shortly after dawn we entered a town called Dehra and were about to cross Dehra Bridge, when all hell broke lose. We were instructed to sit down in a long line in the middle of the road before the Tibetans reminded us once again that this was a peaceful demonstration and that we were not to cause any trouble. The Himachal Police had arrived. 125 of them. I must admit that at this stage I was not terribly concerned. We had been stopped so often over the last few days that it now seemed almost a matter of course. Then as we saw monks and nuns at the front of the line being dragged away and arrested, it dawned on us that this time was going to be a little different.
As the police made their way down the long line, pulling people off the ground as they prayed and on occasion, ripping backpacks off marcher’s backs and snapping Tibetan flags in two, before herding them onto waiting buses, we at the back could only hold hands and wait. I had already made up my mind not to resist if they tried to arrest me. India has been very good to the Tibetans overall, providing a safe haven for over 80,000 exiled Tibetans for almost 50 years, and the Tibetans are always very eager to express their gratitude to the Indian government whenever they get the chance - so I didn’t see what good antagonising the Indians would do anyone. The American guy next to me however became quite emotional and scared, so I held onto him, keeping hold of his hand as three policeman dragged him towards the buses. They ordered me to come too so I followed them to the bus,trembling slightly, and waited to be loaded on. However another American friend, a former wrestler, was proving very hard to subdue. He didn’t fight, but by way of holding on to things and refusing to budge, made it so difficult for the police that it took 10 big officers to arrest him. My friend and I saw our chance, slowly backed away, and escaped.
Taking a step back, I was shocked to see how many of my friends were on the buses – at least half our number, which was really rather worrying as we knew the authorities had the power to detain and deport them if they wished. But it was the looks on the faces of the Tibetan monks and nuns as they were driven away that will always stay with me. For the westerners this was an adventure. A chance to stand up for something we believe in, and also in my case, to do some ‘on the ground’ reporting, which got a little bit scary. But for these people, most of whom made a perilous month long journey on foot through the high Himalayas to escape the fear and oppression in Tibet, this march was everything. A last chance perhaps to achieve justice for friends and family still languishing in Tibet. Many wailed and screamed, most were crying, tears rolling down the faces of those who, minutes earlier, had been praying for the happiness of all beings in the cosmos. An orange March to Tibet hat lay dirty and crumpled, redundant, beneath the wheel of a bus. These scenes I will never forget.
All core marchers had undergone a three day training programme in non-violent resistance, and it took an hour to arrest them. After they were driven away, I was one of just nine out of the 130 plus Tibetans, westerners and camera crew who marched into Dehra that morning who remained. We jumped into the back of a truck and returned to the campsite, and shortly after received the happy news that our western friends had been released. I think they were only really taken because the police didn’t know what else to do with us. There was no real sense of animosity towards the Himachal police. They were after all just doing their job and I really got them impression that the Indians had no real interest in stopping the march – more that they felt they had to tow the line with China. After his release, a Tibetan marcher told me he even witnessed four policemen crying because they had to forcibly remove and arrest people as they prayed. We traveled to Jwalaji Police Station, where we were united with our friends who were sitting outside on the ground. We held an all day vigil outside the police station with music and protests,urging them to release the Tibetans, whilst the majority joined the detained marchers in a hunger strike. I have to admit that I didn’t go along with this. I’d make a rotten hunger striker, and I wanted to try and freelance something on the day’s events to newspapers. Whilst I fully appreciate the peaceful stand that was made, I don’t see how weakening yourself helps anyone, especially in a country like India where travelers can become so ill so quickly. However I still felt like one hell of a bailer sneaking away from the line to indulge in chai and paranthas at a nearby restaurant.
In the meantime I was phoning the British nationals trying to freelance the story and eventually persuaded someone on The Guardian to take it on spec (they never used it – damn them!) I then caught a taxi to Kangra, an hour away, to use the nearest internet café, returning to Jwalaji at around 8.30pm to find my friends gone. I then asked the poor taxi driver to run me round to all the places I thought they could be. At each destination (including another Police HQ with marijuana growing all around the front gate) I was told they were at the next and after five attempts, was starting to worry as I could not glean from anyone whether they were still in the area or had returned to Dharamsala – now two hours away. But after desperately seeking them on foot, by taxi, jeep and motorbike, I was delighted to be reunited with my extremely hungry friends at the campsite at around 10pm, and even more delighted to learn that they had ended their hunger strike.
The next day, with no march to follow, we hung around the site for a few hours before returning to Dharamsala by bus, which with 12 of us, was really rather fun. Having marched around 35 miles over the last few days, with only around 5 hours sleep at best each night on the hard ground, I was extremely fatigued and greatly in need of a shower and hair wash, so if I’m honest had mixed feelings about returning to relative civilization. Although I had intended to do seven days of the march, I always said that if for any reason that didn’t happen, I would go to Rishikesh, so after just a few hours back in McLeod in which to eat, wash and sleep, my friend Trip and I boarded the night bus to Rishi.
After a cramped 16 hour journey we arrived at our destination, and after finding no room at the inn, struck fourth time lucky at the Lucky Hotel, on the banks of the turquoise Ganges. According to my calculations, I had managed to grab 18 hours sleep over the past six nights so my main priority was relaxation.
Rishikesh is certainly an intriguing place. Standing at the point where the Ganges gushes from the Himalayas into the plains, and priding itself as the yoga capital of the world, this ancient Hindu pilgrimage site found international fame and notoriety when The Beatles rocked up in search of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi in 1968. A stopping point for yogis and holy men for centuries, the town retains an air of mysticism.
On our first full day, Trip went white water rafting whilst I explored two enormous 13 storey temples overlooking the Ganges. Built only in 1987, the temples have yet to develop any real soul, but are still very interesting, containing numerous colourful shrines to various Hindu deities and commanding fantastic views of the mighty river. Whilst there is much I love about McLeodganj, standing on the 13th storey of the Shri Trayanbakshwar Temple, sporting a bindi and necklace, and clutching flowers bestowed on me on a lower floor (for a donation of course) in the hot sun with the sacred Ganges rolling beneath my feet, I felt that I had finally found the essence of India. Later my day was made when on the bridge below I stroked and was photographed with a beautiful silver monkey called Dave (pic to come!) In the afternoon the Tripster and I went on a wonderful tour of the overgrown remains of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi Ashram, frequented by the fab four between 1968 – 71, and where much of The White Album was conceived. The ashram itself was closed in 1997 due to the expiry of a 99 year lease from the Indian government, but the crumbling shells of many of its bizarre buildings remain. Leading us around the gates our fabulous guide Kaustubh Joshi, told us ‘they would have passed through these gates into another world.’ And what a world it was. With a capacity of 4000 people, the ashram used a specific form of meditation based around sound. In its heyday, a complex water system gurgled through the complex which contained 84 mediation cells designed to represent Ying and Yang. I don’t pretend to be up on either the science or spirituality of the place, about which our gentle guide was extremely passionate, but it certainly retained an atmosphere, enhanced by tales of its extraordinary residents. One Yogi Tat Wala Baba, is alleged to have mastered the art of agelessness, looking in his 30s when he was actually 87, and sporting 22ft dreadlocks which two faithful disciples carried behind him like a train! Whilst we stood beneath one of the finest sunsets I have ever seen, which cast an ethereal glow over the forest, a man in white robes with long dreadlocks (not quite 22ft) walked past carrying a pale of water. We were told that he is the disciple of a holy man who has mastered the art of levitation and that this disciple has faithfully made the six mile journey to collect water from the site of a 5000 year old shrine, every day for I think four years.
We were also taken to the guesthouse in which The Beatles stayed and the roof on which much of The White Album was penned, which was extremely cool. The White Album has always been one of my favourites, and now whenever I listen to it I think I’ll always be reminded of this remarkable place.
On our second full day I bid a sad farewell to Trippy, and took my first ever yoga class which confirmed my long held belief that I’m absolutely shit at it! After the class however I stepped out of the ashram onto the banks of the Ganges at sunset. Rishi has a gorgeously warm climate and at this time of day was absolutely perfect. I sat down just to absorb everything for a few minutes before turning around to find a gang of about 10 Indian guys photographing me. I returned, slightly indignantly, to the busy streets above. That evening I met up with a couple of friends from McLeodganj in a gorgeous riverside café and, after learning the full extent of recent events in McLeodganj, and of the worldwide attention the crisis in Tibet was receiving, reluctantly decided to make the grueling journey back a day early.
It’s probably a good job I did as it’s all been kicking off here. When I first arrived back three days ago there were constant marches and demonstrations in the town, some very graphic, with the Tibetans clutching images of the bodies of those killed in their country, alongside Tibetan flags and hard hitting slogans. In my absence the Dalai Lama held a press conference stating he might resign as the Tibetan people’s leader if the violence does not end, and the situation changes daily. What a time to take over as editor of McLeodganj’s monthly magazine! I will be writing and compiling copy over the next few days, which is a rather daunting prospect – especially as no-one can be certain of the current situation in Tibet, and it’s not as though I can balance stories by getting statements from the Chinese government! Add to that the likelihood that we will get kicked out of our office and lose our computer any day now – and you have an interesting situation – and for the first time in my journalistic career, I have no-one to turn to for guidance. I am, in effect, THE BOSS!!
Oh well, a very Happy Easter to everyone. It’s Saturday night and I’m off to party with the small but stoic group of friends I have remaining XXX
