Quiet Days in Dharamkot
the vibe, the history, the politics, and the day to day
You probably haven’t heard of Dharamkot. I hadn’t until shortly before visiting, so let me get you acquainted.
Dharamkot is a little mountain village around the foothills of the Dhauladhar mountain range, one of the most accessible ranges in the Himalayas. It’s the last major village of sorts on the way to the local peak, known as Triund. A short walk down the hill from Dharamkot is the village of McCleod Ganj - where the Dalai Lama lives and unofficial headquarters of the exiled-Tibetan diaspora. Both these areas are themselves suburban parts of the larger Dharamshala - the city with one of the highest-altitude cricket grounds in the world… shortly before I arrived the England cricket team were smashed here on their tour of India. These three areas are somewhat used interchangeably by travellers but all have very different paces of life. The higher up the mountain you go, the more calm it is… but quiet it is not… and as you’ll find out in these posts, it’s a place that fosters a dualism of a lot going on at the same time as absolutely nothing going on.
The hostel was nestled amongst the pines, it’s practically built on the hillside of a forest. As I got out the taxi and started to hop down some make shift steps I felt a welcomed chill in the air and could taste a slight lingering of humidity. It smelt like it needed to rain.
All over the mountain range, any place you want to go is connected by these slender, footpaths… sometimes concrete strips but mostly flattened earth and gravel. They snake through the trees, up and down, eventually criss-crossing larger roads that lay empty most of the day. Every day, every place, anywhere you wanted to go caused an ignition of the lungs. It is said everyone loses some puppy fat after being here for a couple weeks. The paths for me created an intimacy in the village as they’d sneak themselves through peoples gardens, houses, businesses and so on. Everyone welcome, anywhere. Between the weather, the altitude, and the abundant leaf, there was some heavy breathing going on.
On the walk down from the upper village down to McCleod Ganj, a bend in the road gave a vantage point all the way down the valley to the main city. The multicoloured houses looked toy-like, sprouting from the forest with little to no planning, like a miniature city on the garden floor. They say it’s like Tibet, they say its like area of Nepal. But I’ve never been to these places so that sentence goes unverified. Looking back on yourself over the looming mountain range the sun would cast an orange glow over the trees and snow capped peaks, making a mismatch Indian flag out of nature.
Cable cars quietly rattled over the edge, bringing people directly from the Dharamshala to the village.
A land of shanti shanti. I stayed so long I got a routine. That word… the main thing I needed to escape from back, I have returned to. Morning meditation then a day of cafe hopping, reading, writing… shanti shanti. Every day shanti shanti. It became apparent that Dharamkot isn’t somewhere to rush through. There was a less transient traveller community. Softly spoken, hippy dippy, everyone saying Hi with such dedication that they had to be calling on memories from an imagined deep past, happy and calm… Scarily happy and calm. Bordering on cult like vibes of positivity and we all know they never end well… it’s just a matter of who breaks first?
Part of my weekly activities was Kirtana’s… a sort of musical, chanting circle. The word literally means "narrating, reciting, telling, describing" of an idea or story. There were about 20 people at any one time and we’d fill the room rendering the circle more of a blob. Various instruments at hand for whoever could play them - I opted for the less technical tambourine and brought my best Madchester vibes to the Himalayas. STEP ON. One person would volunteer a bit of a mantra or story and the rest would follow suit, repeating back whatever the leader said. They lasted for a few hours. Much incense was burnt. An assortment of interesting teas were passed around but we always finished on ginger… for its unique cleansing properties, init.
The mantras themselves came from around the world… different people offering up tunes from their home countries. I remember thinking I should find a good old Irish folk song to bring to next circle. Dunno why though, I’m not even Irish. Just sounds more romantic doesn’t it than a Ye Old Tune for En Ger Land? Let’s blame it on the tea.
Before my first session, whilst being excited I’d have to say this was at first overshadowed with skepticism… Sitting in a room for 4 hours with strangers, chanting random mantras… completely sober? Dunno if that cuts my mustard. But I like to be proven wrong and I rightly was. It was far more energetic than imagined. There was something about the repetition, the calmness, the tea, the repetition, the complete ignorance for the most part of what I was chanting, the repetition… it was so enjoyable I did it again. What more is there to say? I always slept well afterwards.
Each night back at the hostel the owners and chefs would get a pit fire going, the odd beer might find their way on to the table, the odd smoke being passed around, but what I remember mostly is just so much conversation, so many stories being shared. It felt like everyone talked everyone.
My general awareness of the Dalai Lama and Tibet prior to this trip was limited to the rumination’s of Special Agent Dale Cooper and the fact that one of my mates favourite catchphrase is “… when Tibet is free” as in “I’ll get a round in when Tibet is free!”… “I’ll shower when Tibet is free”… you get the drift. All this is all to say, I’d probably act like I know something one feels they should know about but actually have no fucking idea. Enter: The Tibetan History Museum
10th March 1959. The start of what became to be known as the Tibetan uprising starts in revolt against Chinese rule in Tibet and increasing agitated by the belief that Chinese officials wanted to arrest the Dalai Lama. It all escalated a bit… the protestors got weapons… the Chinese army deployed tanks and shelled protesters. It is said tens if not hundreds of thousands of Tibetans surrounded the presidential palace, forming a human wall to enable the Dalai Lama to escape.
It was to India he escaped, eventually settling the following year in McCleod Ganj. Even in the first instance, tens of thousands of Tibets followed him. The Dalai Lama negotiated with Prime Minister Nehru to allow the refugees to work. The response was to establish 95 road building camps across India's northern borders. In the 1960s between 18,000 - 20,000 men, women and children lived and worked as road builders. Former nuns, farmers, monks, officials, all thrown together in road building gangs. Many of the roads in use today across the Indian Himalayas were built by Tibetans during these first years in exile.
In these years, thousands of children arrived in exile, creating an urgent need for shelter and somewhere to educate them. In response, the Dalai Lama opened the first residential school, followed by the Tibetan Refugee Nursery in McLeod Ganj, Dharamshala. Again he approached Prime Minister Nehru. He felt it was vital that Tibetan children should have a modern Indian education coupled with the opportunity to learn the Tibetan language and culture. As a result, the Government of India established and funded the Central Committee on the Education of Tibetan Refugees and its governing body, The Tibetan School Society (Later the Central Tibetan Schools Administration, CTSA) formally took over the running of exile schools.
"Some tens of thousands of Tibetan children have received education whose expenditure was borne by the Indian Government ... we should remember persons like Nehru and others, such as, Dr K. L. Shrimali [then Education Minister]" - the Dalai Lama.It got me thinking that many of the older monks in the village could have been in these first groups of refugees to arrive. They could have witnessed the villages build around them.
As I’ve said, the days mainly consisted of cafe hopping, reading, writing… spending the days in hazy day dreams.
There was this one particular time where it all just came together. I got a quick glimpse of a feeling I’ve wondered is still out there having not felt it for many years.
I was up the valley, up the hill a bit at a place called the Khanabadosh - a discrete little hangout and impromptu cinema bar. To my left I can see the pointy mountain peak of Triund… Down in front of me the valley spans, the landscape punctured by green roofs and white walls. I was sitting alone. I’d been in Dharamkot long enough to feel settled and knew I still had time here to not need to think about the next bit. This particular moment I’m reciting was the afternoon after the Dalai Lama visit. My mind had wondered from the pen and the page to everything lay out in front of me. I was watching this hunting eagle circle around in the sky. Over and over. If I stayed still and didn’t make a sound I could hear the whoosh of the wings pierce down to the ground. It would droop lower in the sky - come to eye level, still circling, making figures of infinity, then rising up again.
I stayed in this trance long enough that the bird took on a different meaning. So calm, enough to think about nothing. At the moment I realised the bird wasn’t there anymore I became distracted by all this debris floating up the hill. White bits of plant or dust. Like dandelion heads rising up the valley in the hot air. Thousands of them. But there was something in their direction and flutter that gave away their true nature. They weren’t seeds or dirt on their journey to start life but living themselves, fresh from the cocoon. A roost of butterflies headed closer towards me as far as completely surrounding me. Creamy white and clear butterflies. Travelling together, unaware. Like ourselves on this rock in space. A moment of meaningless and pointless beauty. And then they were gone, leaving but the memory of vortex of calm disguised in a swirling turbulence.
As I stayed sitting in my spot the stars moved around me… the blue skies and golden sunshine turn to cloud, releasing and spattering down on the corrugated roof. The echoing combining with the slow murmurs of tea shop jazz. Eventually being joined by my 2 week misfit family from the hostel as they themselves hopped from one fix to the next. Like a common room we spread out in the cafe, doing whatever it is we came to do. One of the simple pleasures I would bring back to the UK with me is the norm of sitting on the floor, on cushions, in little vibe pits and just lounging around in cafes, restaurants and shops. Being able to take your shoes off and collapse off your feet for a couple of hours.
In this 2 week mistfit family there was Green, a mid 50s guy from Canada. He got stuck in India in COVID, racked up debt and went bankrupt, fell in love with a local and now just seems to bounce from one cheap country to another hiding from the rat race. There was a guy called Rishi pretending to write his own poems but was really just reworking existing ones - more on him later on in this series. And there was Sanika, Sanya and Shray. Three friends from school who now live in different cities but meet up on short breaks like this. Three ready made movie stars with the essence of Thelma and Louise with added punk and poetry. Any time I was with them they were either joking, laughing, smoking, drinking, gossiping, scheming or just simply taking the piss. Pick any or all of them.
It’s not all calm butterflies and echoing rain drops in Dharamkot though. On a couple occasions I did revert-to-type and lend my dancing shoes to a couple of House and Techno nights. And… it has to be said… they were actually pretty good. Whilst the venue aesthetics on the surface were more white-leather-booths-and-champage-coolers, it had a little ravey room to the side which felt the right kind of mix between a basement party and a school disco. The music was banging, the crowd was good and the owners removed creeps from the dance floor. It started early and finished early but those attending made the absolute most of it. In a village where the main dancing is sober-ecstatic I think some people wanted a pick me up of the ethanolic variety.
What I really came for though was not to wear my dancing shoes but my hiking ones. Up next is a two-parter from my two day hike to the snow line of Triund.