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Trinidad, Cuba

Hostal Margaritas, Trinidad

Picture postcard cute, Trinidad is an almost fully intact colonial city of about 30,000. It feels a bit like San Cristobal de Las Casas in Mexico, with hills and cobblestone streets. Of course, that was close to 40 years ago. Plaza Mayor has been almost fully restored, and is the center of tourism in town, of which there are plenty. In seems almost everyone who comes to Cuba stops here, mostly Brits, French, Italians, Spaniards, and a smattering of Canadians. The are also plenty of Jinteros, touts, who seem more aggressive than elsewhere in Cuba. People are still friendly, but they are clearly a bit jaded with all the tourists around, and are quick to overcharge for agua and comida, especially around the plaza.

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Step away from the center of town however, and life proceeds in typical Cuban fashion, with buildings in need of major repair, horse carts and bicycles, tiny tiendas and mercados, etc.

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We have spent the last few days wandering around, sometimes with our friend Terry, and sometimes not. We have eaten a couple of tasty meals here at our Casa, and then last night, based on the advice of our casa's dueno, we found Restaurante San Jose. Excellent Cuban food at reasonable prices. We had to wait, but it was worth it.

One of the oldest churches in town, now just a shell
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On one of the days we took a short hike up one of the colima's (hills) on the edge of town. We walked up to the cell tower/radio station, and got into a lengthy chat with the caretaker. He took us to the roof of one of the buildings for a panoramic view of the city, sea on one side, mountains on the other. As a largely self-educated black man, he confirmed the presence of racismo here, and was not sure that even if the embargo is lifted entirely, that the common people would benefit. Of course, the hombres de negocios, businessmen, will profit, he said, but probably not guys like him. He had similar complaints about the government as most of the folks we have talked to, but again, it was even handed. He told us about the free medical care, education, food allotments, etc. that the government provides. We spoke with him for quite some time, and he let us know that most Cubans are very interested in reading, and line up for books at the library or when there are book fairs. Although a compesino, he was very well informed about what goes on in the world, more than you can say about his counterparts in the United States.

Yesterday we took the 2 CUC tourist bus out to the Ancon beach. Said to be the best beach on the Caribbean side of the island, it was nice, though not perfect for swimming because of the seagrass which started close to shore.But no matter, as it was too cold to swim, at least for us. There were several large and expensive hotels nearby, but we spent an enjoyable day lying on lounge chairs, in the shade of umbrellas made from palm leaves.

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After dinner, in my endless quest for rumba, we wandered up to Casa La Musica, which is an outdoor venue just off the plaza. not a casa at all, Although not strictly speaking rumba, which has been variously defined, it was a hopping place with a very good band, that had several congas and timbales, trumpet, singer, electric base and piano etc. We met a young Belgium couple there, intentionally, as we had run into them earlier in the day at the beach, and who we had previously met at Zunilda y Raya's place in Cienfuegos. It wasn't long before Nicholas and I were buying each other mojitos, with his girlfriend Caroline keeping up without any problem. Actually, they had a few rounds before we got there.

There were some incredible dancers in the crowd, almost all Cuban, who were moving in perfect sync to the music. It inspired me to consider taking lessons once again when we return to New York. It seems that Cubans know intuitively how to swivel their hips, and it is easy to believe, as the book I just finished reading about cuban music suggested, that Elvis had seen a Latin movie in the States, and copied his moves from the movie. There was one old guy there, probably in his 70's, who was dancing expertly with a few women less than half his age, and he had no trouble leading them around, twisting and turning them with his arms, sometimes more than one at a time. A placer para mis ojos. And then there were a couple of white folks, also our age, who knew how to dance to this afro-cuban stuff. Spaniards? Possibly.

After an hour or so, another group came on, all black this time, with even more drummers and singers, along with costumed dancers. They sang in a combination of Spanish and African, and although clearly done for tourists, they were damn good. I felt, really for the first time, that I was getting to hear some of the music that I was hoping for in Cuba, which until now has eluded me. It was a mixed crowd of locals and tourists with a very nice vibe. We stayed two hours before walking home. The music seems to start earlier here than in Habana, which is a good thing for us older folk, though I could have stayed even longer. Tomorrow it's back to Habana for a night before heading to Europe.

Posted by jonshapiro 09:55 Archived in Cuba Tagged churches buildings people postcards Comments (4)

Hot Springs Excursion with the Boys

Several of the older boys asked me if I wanted to visit some hot springs, a couple of kilometers up the road in another small Hindu village, Atholi.

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I jumped at the chance, and they came and got me at Tashi’s house on their only day off, Sunday. It was a bit further than they said, perhaps 4K, and then a long set of stairs to climb up to the village. When we arrived there was furious drumming going on, and as unbelievable as it seems, the sound of bagpipes. All of this was the beginning of a village wedding. Somehow the bagpipe has made its way here, another legacy of the British, or the Scots in this case. No kilts could be seen. We stayed for a while as the women danced. There were hot springs right on the main street that were big enough to climb in and bathe, after they had been enlarged from a stream flowing down the mountain. As per usual in India, they were dirty, and I was not tempted. Luckily, the boys knew of some other springs, less developed, further around the mountain, and so we made our way there. Though these were far from pristine, and not deep enough to actually soak, the warm waters made for a delightful shower. We all soaped up and took a wash, the best one I have had in two weeks. It was a picturesque spot, with a cold water stream rushing down the pine clad mountain 50 yards or so in front of us. We spent some time drying out in the warm sun, and then went back by a different route through terraced fields, sheep and goats, before hitting the road. The views reminded me of the Andes. We stopped at a small dhaba, and there was a man there who spoke English well, and of course, knew Tashi.

On the way back, perhaps emboldened by our bathing together, the boys asked questions of me.

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Did I know this or that Indian movie star or cricket player.

"No."

"Justin Bieber?"

"Yes."

"Bruce Lee?"

"Yes."

Returning to Gulabgarh, I took them all out for lunch at their favorite restaurant for momos and chow mein. Quite a combo. It was, as is every place here, a very modest eatery.

I returned home to find that grandma had locked the door. Tsering was playing next door with her 5 and 6 year old cousins, but grandma was nowhere to be found. Luckily, Sonam, who lived nearby, and who had earlier invited me to lunch came to the rescue and invited me into his house. He offered me more to eat, and despite having just had lunch, I did not heave the heart to refuse. After a few hours grandma returned, and so did Puti, who had met Tashi in Kisthwar for a much needed visit to the dentist. Kisthwar, you may remember is 10 hours of hard driving, and in the morning, Tashi told me that when he left a few days ago, the road was completely blocked to Jammu. After waiting a few hours, he had to walk around the landslide to the other side of the road, where he was able to get a ride with someone who was returning to Jammu. It was still partially blocked on his return, which is why, he said, that there are few vegetables or fruit left in Gulabgarh. No way to transport them. We have also been without any water for washing or flushing the toilet for about 24 hours, the reasons for which are not entirely clear. Supposedly, there will be water tonight, but I’ll believe that when I see it

Puti left the next day to walk to her village, having heard that a relative had died. Her brother in law had died a few months back by falling off a trail in winter, but she was in Jammu when it happened. Now she will go back to mourn his death, as well as the death of this other relative.

Posted by jonshapiro 08:03 Archived in India Tagged mountains people postcards Comments (0)

Rockfall and Conversations

One day at around 5 PM, there was a giant rockfall at one end of town, a few hundred yards from the house. It sounded a bit like thunder, but went on for several minutes, creating a large cloud of dust. At first I didn’t pay much attention to the noise, assuming that it was thunder, which we had earlier that day, but then I stuck my head out the window, and not seeing anything, I continued reading. When the sound continued, I went to the front of the house which faced the opposite direction. The dust cloud was still quite visible, though most of the rumbling had stopped by then. Above, the Gulabgarh-Manali road had been cut in half by tons of rock debris, and several cars were stranded on both sides, unable to move. Tashi and I, along with half the town it seemed, walked over to see the damage. A couple of shops and houses had been completely destroyed, and there were several truck sized boulders on the road leading out of town. Although not visible, I was told that one woman had been killed when she went back into her shop. We all milled about for a time, until a group of soldiers and policemen, some with machine guns, came running up and insisted we clear the area.

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Road being repaired after rockfall
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I returned to Tashi’s house to find him sitting around with several other relatives discussing what had happened. The drinking had already begun. Soon after, the rain began to fall in earnest, a real problem given the almost constant rainfall of the last two months. It was the first actual rain since my arrival, but although each day was clear in the morning, clouds usually appeared in mid-afternoon. No doubt all the rain was a factor in the rockfall. These young and intimidating mountains are still unstable. As they are pushed up by the collision of tectonic plates, they are simultaneously worn down by the forces of erosion and gravity. Despite man's obvious presence, we are still visitors here. We are not in charge in these mountains. Nature is, and life is tenuous. It always is of course, but here the feeling is palpable.

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Later in the evening more people showed up at Tashi's including a pony man from previous treks, as well as some villagers who had worked as porters. Ram was also there, a man of about Tashi’s age, mid to late 40’s, who is headmaster of a government school, some 15K up the road. Or rather, 15K, and then a 3-4 hour walk beyond the road. It is a Hindu village, though Ram is Buddhist. He is well educated, with a master’s degree from a college in Manali. Now that he is headmaster, after 12 years of teaching, he only has to be at the school about 15 days a month. The rest of the time, he lives in Gulabgarh, where he has a house and also owns a small restaurant which serves Chinese food. His English was quite good, although with a thick accent that got harder to understand as he continued drinking. Apparently he too has been on a couple of treks with Tashi during the summer months, first as a cook and then as a guide. He has two daughters and a wife who in live in Jammu. This way his children can attend school there.

As headmaster, he earns about 40,000 rupees per month, and then his little restaurant brings in another 10 to 15,000. At one point, he and Tashi got into a drunken discussion about the benefits and disadvantages of a government job vs. the private sector. According to Ram, in a good year Tashi can earn twice as much as he does in just a couple of summer months, but as Tashi pointed out, nothing is certain in the trekking business.

Once again they attempted to ply me with wheat hooch. Although they made it hard to refuse, I managed to avoid drinking more than a glass or two, as the stuff gave me a headache the night before.

Ram, more or less talked my ears off, even telling me about his French girlfriend who he met on a trek in the late 90’s, when he was young.

“She really wanted to get married,” he said, but he encouraged her to go back to France and think about it. After that, he never heard from her again.

He made a point of telling me that I would be welcome to stay at his house, or any house for that matter in Gulabgarh

He said that the Buddhist community really goes out of their way for a guest and a foreigner.

I have no reason to doubt it. I can certainly say that Tashi and Puti have gone out of their way to make me feel comfortable, like an honored guest.

Ram also questioned me about life in America, and whether kids there are the same as kids here. Not an easy question to answer. Tsering, Tashi’s 8 year old daughter seems incredibly responsible. She understands a fair bit of English, but like so many kids here, is reluctant to speak it. Even so, she goes out of her way to take care of me, just like her parents, without being asked by them to do so. She does things like getting me an extra pillow to sit on the floor, getting my water bottle so I don’t have to get up, etc. I doubt whether too many 8 year olds in the states would just take it upon themselves to behave this way. On the other hand, perhaps Tsering is just a great kid. Unusual. She certainly is a great kid, but I suspect she is not unique in this way.

After a few hours of rambling conversation, Ram came right out and asked me what I thought about him, obviously wanting my approval, the approval of an American, and someone he considers his better.

As he put it, “USA people on top of the world.”

How else could I respond other than saying that he seemed like a good guy.

  • ************************************************************

On a different night, Tashi and I sat around with his older brother, 55, here for a few days from Kabban. They were drinking local stuff, and I was drinking beer that Tashi had picked up for me from Jammu. Somehow we got started talking about Karma. Tashi believes in Karma, but only in his life time. He thinks that If you do good things you will reap the benefits of your hard work and diligence in this life. He does not believe that he was born in a poor family with nine other siblings because of bad Karma.

“What would you brother say about this,” I asked.

And then he translated.

The brother, not surprisingly, said he did think he had done something to cause his birth in such a poor family during a previous life, and added that I must have been a better person in a previous life to have been born in the US, and to have all the opportunities that I have had. He then looked at me, put his hand together, and bowed his head.

Tashi had previously told me that his brother’s children were also studying in Jammu. One was in engineering school and the other had passed the initial exam to go to medical school. And so I said, “If he believes in Karma in the way he described, then why is he sending his children to school?

Tashi translated this.

His brother said that sending his children to school is not the same and that their Karma is not the same as his.

This seemed somewhat contradictory to me. How could their Karma not be influenced by his, since they too were born under similar circumstances? I did not ask him to explain, as I suspect there was no rational explanation. I am sure that he would think my Karma was still better than that of his children.

Tashi and I continued to talk about the fact that there is no reason for his birth in poverty with few opportunities, and mine in America to a middle-class family. Just an accident and luck. He said that with hard work and a wider vision of what is possible, no matter where he was born he could make something of his life.

Amen to that.

He is clearly an example of this, especially in relation to his siblings.

He explained that one day, he and his younger brother went to a fortune teller.The fortune teller said that Tashi would be a kind of king, and that his older brothers and sisters would be beneath him, and more or less his servants. He didn’t believe this, but his brother who has more formal education than Tashi did believe it. Tashi’s beliefs have clearly evolved over the years, probably because of his western contacts.

He told me another story. There is a section of road somewhere between here and Jammu that has been the site of many accidents. The Hindu’s have built many temples there, thinking that if they did so God would protect them. More recently, a well trained engineer came to that location, and pointed out all the technical problems with the road in terms of the grade, width, sharpness of the curve etc. If these things were fixed, he said, there would be fewer deaths.

"So," Tashi continued, "it wasn’t the fault of God."

This was an obvious conclusion to me, but perhaps not to most people who live here. I didn’t ask whether the engineer’s recommendations were ever enacted by the J&K government, but I think I know the answer. Perhaps that's why people believe that God will somehow protect them. They know that can’t count on the government to fix things, so what else do they have?

The discussion continued about local politics. Apparently there are two contiguous districts in Kisthwar, each with its own district magistrate and administrator. One of them cares very much about the people, and in that district, the medical care you receive in the local hospital is free, and each person receives 20,000 rupees if they have a serious illness in order to help pay for their lost wages. In the other district there is no free care and no stipend.

I asked, “ Doesn’t this make people angry?”

“Yes, it would, but 90% don’t know. Of the other 10%, probably 8% are in the pocket of that district administrator, and that leaves 2%. What can you do with 2%? Nothing.”

It is not hard to believe that 90% are unaware. There are no newspapers here. No reliable internet. The only news is word of mouth. And yes, there is more access in Kisthwar, a fairly large city compared to Gulabgarh, but how many can afford it?

While these discussions were taking place we were all sitting on hard cushions, on a cold, concrete floor. Not that easy for me with my creaky, older bones, but they are used to it. For the first few hours there was no electricity, true for most nights, and the room was lit with a single candle. There has been no water for two days now, and the toilet and bathroom reek. I have been going to the school to shit for the past two mornings because somehow there is still running water there. As we talked, the smell of urine wafts through the room. At around 10, Tashi fired up the kerosene stove to heat up the remains of lunch, dried beans from last summer and potatoes mixed into a curry. There was also rice and chapatis left over from lunch.

Normally Puti cooks dinner, but she was not here. There was not that much food, but as usual Tashi gave me the biggest plate, his brother next, and took the smallest one for himself. They have consumed two bottles of local hooch, whereas I have managed one can of beer.

Posted by jonshapiro 07:18 Archived in India Tagged people postcards living_abroad Comments (0)

Description of Town and Life in Gulabgarh

The town is surrounded by towering snow covered mountains, pine forests, steep rock walls, etc.

View of bridge leading to Gulabgarh
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Unfortunately, like so many small towns in India, it is full of garbage on the streets, and in the narrow alleys near the houses. Tashi has said that he has organized a clean up a couple of times, but within a few weeks the place looks the same. People just don’t seem to get the concept and importance of cleanliness, and are content to live amongst the garbage and the shit, both cow and human alike, because that is what they are used to. Many houses seem to have some kind of rudimentary septic tank, but obviously not all. There is no town wide sewage system.

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Alley leading to Tashi's house
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Along side the main street is a three foot deep ditch with plenty of garbage, and so I have to watch where I step at all times. Cows and many stray dogs roam about chewing on the garbage.

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There are 40 or 50 small shops selling everything from food and clothing to cell phone sim cards. There is even a “Peace Hotel,” with “semi-deluxe" rooms, though I wouldn't want to stay there. Despite all the rain, the main street is dusty, especially when trucks arrive from Kisthwar. Making it here along the extremely narrow and boulder strewn road is a feat unto itself.

The town has about three thousand residents, some of whom return to their mountain villages for extended visits to family members, or to help out on the family farm.

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The Himalayan Culture School occupies a prime spot on a small hill in the center of town with prayer flags fluttering all around.

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Unlike other schools, this one operates from March to November because it is simply too cold during the winter, and there is no source of heat in the classrooms. Even now, in late April, it is still quite chilly here, especially at night in the uninsulated, concrete houses with minimal sources of heat. I can imagine what it would be like here in mid-winter, at 6000 feet. Many of the the children who reside with relatives here in the summer, return to their parents in their villages for the winter. These villages are higher, 9000, or 10,000 feet, far more remote than Gulabgarh, and there is usually snow all winter long. Animals and people keep very close company, ie, in the same room, in an attempt to keep warm.

Mountain view from school yard
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Relative to these villages, Gulabgarh is a metropolis with creature comforts, and yet life is still primitive here. Bathing is a luxury I have not had for a number of days, and everyone else bathes very infrequently because it is such a chore to heat up the water on an open fire, Doing laundry is also a major production, and I have more or less worn the same dusty clothes since I arrived. I am hoping to wash out some clothes today, or have someone in the village do it. If I can wash them soon, perhaps they will have time to dry in the sun.

After a week, there is no longer any more bottled water to be found in the shops. There was only one place that had it, and they have now run out. I have some trepidation about using the crude filtering system that Tashi has in his house. Thus far I have managed to avoid any major stomach problems.

We are also running out of toilet paper, and Tashi went to see if he could buy more. It seems like there is none left in the whole town, and at least one person said to him, in Ladakhi, “What’s that?”

Perhaps on his return from Jammu, he can bring some. He intends to go soon to check on construction materials for his house.

Drinking, eating, and sitting around the smoky wood stove are really the only forms of entertainment. Most nights seem like a party, as everyone knows everyone, or is related, and they often drop by to talk and drink, at least the men, and I feel some pressure to keep up with them. Tashi was complaining about it to me, although he drinks as much as everyone else. He also mentioned the lack of privacy in the town. These are my words, not his, but he feels that there is pressure to see everyone and check in, especially if he has not seen them in a while. He said he thought that there was extra partying going on as a form of congratulations, because he has started building his new house in Jammu.

I frequently take short walks in the town, and I am very noticeable. Kids openly stare and others just obviously wonder who I am and what am I doing here.

Two gentlemen in local shops
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I may be only one of a handful of foreigners to come here. Two others than I know of, Alex and Mari, have also taught at the school because they know Tashi, but clearly there has not been an influx of tourists. Now that I have been here a little while, I feel incredible respect for Mari, who spent about a month here, longer than I will spend, and while she was here Tashi was absent for almost the entire time. And then she came back again for another month. This is not an easy place to be for anyone not used to doing without western conveniences, but for a woman alone without having anyone to talk to for a month, now that is impressive. Okay, she is 20 years younger than I am, but still....

Posted by jonshapiro 06:24 Archived in India Tagged landscapes mountains postcards living_abroad Comments (3)

Arrival in Gulabgarh, Paddar

Next day we left for Kisthwar at 6 AM in a share taxi, for the 10-12 hour ride. I had forgotten just how crazy the roads can be in the mountains, and it was in terrible shape in many places due to the almost constant rain over the last two months. There were landslides and boulders in many spots, and par for the course, our driver went far too fast and often passed on blind curves. We finally got to Kisthwar around 4, and decided to push on to Gulabgarh after stopping to eat. It was still another 2&1/2 hours in a different share taxi The road was in even worse shape, and after riding in the front for a while, I asked Tashi to switch places with me because I felt safer in the back. I kept thinking about his older brother dying on this same road ten years earlier.

Tashi told me that his relatives were descendants of Ghengis Khan, although I was never able to confirm this. I wondered how his people could have ended up in such a remote place, through such intimidating terrain, well over a hundred years ago. His village, Kabban is still more than 10K from the nearest road. The road to Gulabgarh was only built in the 90's, and Tashi said it took his father more than 20 days of hard up and down climbing to make it to Kisthwar to purchase salt and rice. I thought it might be interesting to try and tell his family's story, but this proved more difficult then I expected.

Eventually, and thankfully, just as it was getting dark, we made it to town in one piece.

Main street not far from Tashi's house
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Gulabgarh is where he now spends most of the summer months, having moved down from his original village 15 or 20 years ago. His boys, age 15 and 17, are in boarding school in Jammu, and his 8 year old daughter attends the Himalayan Culture School, where I will be teaching. Puti, his wife, had just reached Gulabgarh earlier that day from Jammu, where Tashi has started to build a winter home because it is much lower and warmer. In previous winters they have run a simple dry goods shop outside of Agra, along with Tashi’s sister. I never realized what a jack of all trades he has had to be in order to make ends meet.

His house in Gulabgarh is a modest affair, with four cement rooms, furnished with cushions on the floor and a few wooden cabinets and beds.

My messy room
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There is no hot water because the minimal amount of electricity will not support it, nor will it work the washing machine. When I arrived to the smoky rooms, Puti was brewing up coffee (well instant actually) on a kerosene stove in the middle of the floor. She doesn’t speak English, but having heard Ladakhi again for the first time in many years, I managed to say Julay, which means hello, how are you, similar to namaste in Hindi.

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His daughter Tsering, a tall girl at 8 years old, who I’m told does speak a bit of English, greeted me a big smile, cute as can be. She did not answer when I asked her name, however.

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The one 20 watt bulb was flickering constantly and barely threw any light. After a time we went over to Puti's sisters house. She had prepared a meal of momos and other things, and Tashi and I chatted away, as we imbibed the local hooch, a kind of wheat wine. There were several other relatives there, though it was very hard to see them in the dim, smoky light. They plied me with more food than I could eat, and kept refilling my glass with the wheat hooch. We discussed the school, along with the foundation that Tashi has helped to set up, Education Access. He wants to encourage more donations so that they can build a dorm and a kitchen. The school now has more than 200 kids, age 4-16, many of whom come from the surrounding mountain villages. He has dedicated himself to trying to keep his community together, while also trying to improve their lives.

In a somewhat drunken haze, I asked him if he felt caught between two worlds? Not an easy question to answer. In spite of the fact that some of his other nine siblings have more formal education, he has clearly been exposed to much more of the world than they. After a time he answered by saying, we are all really of one world, and that everyone should get their fair share from the politicians (ie, the government). A nice sentiment, but I didn’t feel he exactly answered my question.

Finally, exhausted from the days travel, we went back to his house, where I piled on about four heavy blankets to stay warm in the chilly night. The stray dogs barking half the night didn’t help with sleep.

The next day we went over to the school, where I met the teachers, the principal, and spent a few minutes in each class with the kids.

The main administration building is done in the Tibetan style, and in fact I was told the Dalai Lama was here a few years ago in order to bless the school.

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Although the school is run by a private foundation, Buddhist Heritage, of which Tashi is now the president, it receives most of its funding from the government. There is also another public school for non-buddhist kids up the road a piece, mostly Hindu and a few Muslims. Although Gulabgarh now has a significant number of Buddhists, overall they are a small minority in this part of Jammu, unlike in Ladakh, which is on the other side of the Himalaya Range. One of the classes that is required for all of the students here is Pali, taught by a monk. They are also taught Hindi and Urdu, as well as English. All classes are supposedly taught in English, but as I later found out, most of the kids can understand very little and can speak even less.

That evening, after an unsuccessful attempt to get a sim card which fit in my phone, we sat around Tashi’s mother’s room near a small wood stove on the floor, also used for cooking fried chicken, which we munched on. She is a small, but very energetic woman in her 80’s, who is caring for two of her young grandchildren while they attend the school.

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As usual, they served me first, and gave me the best pieces of meat as the honored guest.

It turned out to be quite a family reunion. Tashi’s younger brother was there from his village, in order to visit his two young son’s age 5 and 6, who were being looked after by grandma.

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There was also an aunt from Himachal Pradesh, near Manali, as well as the wife of Tashi’s older brother, the one who had died.

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Puti was there of course, and several other kids. Once again, much arak was consumed, which is what the wheat spirits are called. Everyone was busy talking away, until the aunt started singing in a high sing-song voice. I was told the song was about how nice it is for a family to get together, no matter how fleeting the time, because all of us are only here for a short while. A poignant carpe-diem message, if ever I heard one. Despite not understanding the language, and missing many of the jokes, of which there were many, I felt very welcomed and included.

I left around 10, although the party was in full swing. I managed to drown out the dogs that night with my white noise machine. Just enough electricity to do so. It was another chilly night, but once again the day dawned fair and clear.

Posted by jonshapiro 09:09 Archived in India Tagged people postcards living_abroad Comments (0)

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