A Long Walk

Similarly lifted from journal:

SITTING IN THE YELLOW DINING TENT IN NUBRA VALLEY AFTER A LONG WALK 6:30 PM MONDAY 22nd

I took a walk at 5:00 o’clock. The sun had already set on the valley and as I write this it is still not obvious as it is so light in the sky. There does not seem to be a “center of town” for Hundar or at least I haven’t found it. I went walking with Hun down the rocky paths where streams run alongside it, sometimes crossing the way and sometimes slipping under the stone walls that are covered with clippings of sea buckthorn, the bluish prickly shrub, to serve as a barbwire to keep animals out of the gardens that the small streams feed. Other times, the small channels would be dry where at one point it had healthily flowed but has been diverted to the other gardens. It was curious how silent the place was as if no one lived there at all except an occasional bird call, the freshly cut ends of willow (the branches are cultivated and cropped for fuel and construction), fresh sea buckthorn on the walls, or other various signs that indicate human presence.

Of course, everything speaks of the careful human endeavor—the streams, the houses and gardens, the mani walls (large extensive rock walls wherein each rock is carved with the mantra om mani padme hum), and so on. However, we saw no one but children as if a race of children owed the place. More than children—and more eerily—cows walked down the paths, obviously going some where. They were strikingly red, clean, and walked with a certain dignity that was only undercut by the flies that congregated upon their noses and eyes. Like once good subjects of the English Queen, most of this bovine race passed us on the right. Others, either obstinant or American, would pass upon my left. With this fanciful wandering, I suddenly felt what Jonathan Swift must have experienced when he first felt a horse’s face with his hands, understanding immediately its intelligence and dignity and, simultaneously, if indeed the horse was human, how inappropriate most of our actions directed to this beast become—and so birthed in his mind the Hwynym (sp?) of Gulliver’s Travels, horses with a fierce dignity and intellect in constant contradiction to their beast-like form. And so I was struck by these beautiful cows who wandered idly or purposefully by as if they owned the place. And indeed, when they mooed the sound was so thick with expression that it seemed one only needed to speed the noise up to hear them speaking perfect Queen's English.

In fact, I was vividly reminded of the country side of Greece. Both Tibet/Ladakh and Greece are sophisticated civilizations reaching apexes in understanding (one in art and philosophy and one in religion), yet they are mostly comprised of small, industrious but rugged farms. Ladakh does not have the fineness of cuisine that comes from associating with the Mediterranean climate, yet here they grow apricots, seemingly magically to me, in a four month growing season. Both cultures rely upon herding as much as agriculture, and the land is fairly barren, only coaxing forth only what the people work to produce. Hundar even looks like Greece. The twisted willows, cut back for their sturdy, fast growing branches, look something like the ubiquitous olive tree, and the tall white poplar trees here have something of the distinctive look of cyprus trees.