McLeod Ganj/Dharamkot 2

Three little old ladies are painfully climbing the temple stairs, wrinkled and bent double with age, conquering their own Himalayan mountain to get to the Buddhist altar. Still at the top they chatter and cackle in their brightly patterned Tibetan dress. One fiddles with her hearing aid, damn technology. Given their age, it's likely these ladies crossed the high mountain passes to escape Chinese occupation of their homeland, along with over 100,000 other Tibetans. If I can manage stairs at their age, I will be a lucky man.
 
Inside the temple, the low chanting of the monks is mingled with the rustle-thump-rustle of prayer ablutions as the supplicants crouch, flop and slide to be belly down and prostrate before their gods. And their are many gods. 722. And many shrines to the many gods. Not forgetting the shrine to the Dalai Lama, laden with chocolate biscuits and fruit juice. Apparently, the Dalai Lama likes nothing more than a bourbon cream and some Tropicana after a heavy day's praying.
 
We spin the prayer wheels before descending to the courtyard where the disputation takes place. Animated debate as one stands, one sits. The standing one monologuing, while pointing, gesticulating and rocking - and always the clap! as he feels he lands a strong point. "And that's how the Buddha taught it!" Clap! The sitter nods or shakes their head, or asks a question or makes a small point. And the disputation continues under the weighty supervision of senior monks. 

Before we'll leave Mcleoad Ganj, we'll also visit the Tibetan museum which details how it is monks and nuns similar to these who have hung themselves, ritually stabbed themselves, or self-immolated in despair at Chinese rule.

 

The next day the cloud hangs low over the misty mountains. We head up to our local little chai stop for a quick breakfast. Then the ascent. Rocks slivered with metal crystal line the path up, the fatal drop to our right softened by its verdant hues and the multi-coloured prayer flags strung across the tops of trees: so high in the branches it seems only some  flying Buddha could have put them there. Approaching 3000m high, the waterfalls, the butterflies, the stunning view down the mountain cannot distract from our burning thighs and breathless chests. And at the top? Nothing. The mist encases us, and we can see only as far as a chai stand, where a sweet milky brew and some vegetable curry mixes with some traveller chat to pass the time. South African Ben sails the Caribbean in winter, the Med in summer, ferrying tourists on catamarans around the islands. But here he's building on his yoga. So we chat and descend together.
 
We strike up conversation with some locals half way down the descent (at another chai stand: they are everywhere. To be clear, there were four at the top of the mountain we climbed). To rub in how weak and flabby our Western bodies are, as we plan to leave together they wave us on. No, No, they say - you go on - we have to carry these! And what we thought were mounds of grass, are...  well, they're mounds of grass but each of the three will carry about 20kilos of grass on their backs down to the lower pastures. They take a last toke on their joint before loading up as we leave them behind.

As I write now, we have one full day left in Dharamkot/Mcleod Ganj. It's tough walking in epic countryside, with always the threat of mist rolling in and heavy downpours. A casual glance to the side and you may see an eagle swooping on some prey, or a monkey swinging from a tree. The Tibetan influence of peace does seem to have filtered through the land though: all the locals greet us as we walk past. And some people clearly lose themselves under the spell of a slow pace of life up here.

To finish though, I will leave you with some of the yoga teachings we have experienced. Lots of our time has been filled with yoga (three hours every morning). Pedro, our disciplinarian teacher, has been a harsh task master. He has also however demanded continuous and unrelenting attention to the ass. Yes, the meeting of our butts, awareness of our butts touching on the inside and squeezing of the cheeks is something I can now reliably tell you is very yogic.

I will also always remember his wise words: Look, look - use your eyes! That is why you have eyes and not potatoes!

And finally... a monk on a mobile: