Shorty Wanna Be A Lama

My destination was Dharamshala, the hilltop town that is now home to the Tibetan Government In Exile, including the Dalai Lama, and a great number of Tibetan refugees. The name "Dharamshala" roughly translates to "rest house", which is apt because it turns out that there isn't really that much to do that doesn't involve sitting down. I got to Dharamshala and found it peopled quite differently from your typical Indian town. The population consisted chiefly of, in this order: Tibetans, rejects from auditions for Beatles cover bands, spiritually-inclined iMac aficionados, middle-aged authors, and Indians. Speaking as an authority on this subject, I judge that Dharamshala has the highest proportion of white people in its municipal limits of all the places in India. Tourists come here from far and wide for their fix of good liberal concern over vanished Shangri-Las with tantalizing proximity to the world's wisest celebrity, in a convenient snack-sized morsel of a nation ("Free Tibet in every box! Now with 99% less sovereignty!").

The Tibetan population, it must be said, are really chill, and quite easily distinguished from their Indian neighbors. Aside from the obvious facial differences, they can be told apart from Indians even from behind and at a considerable distance. If the dude is wearing jeans and a t-shirt, he's a Tibetan. If the dude is trying to be the COOLEST PERSON EVER, and is wearing jeans with a tucked-in pinstripe shirt, popped collar, "designer" shades, and the words "Authentic Power Wear. New York 29 Urban Life. Ultamate Connexion POLO" anywhere on the ensemble, the dude is an Indian. Tibetans apparently shop in the youth section of the Sears mail-order catalog. Indian men shop by mail-order from a combination of bilingual MadLibs and Braille editions of GQ interviews with Kanye West. When you get closer, the differences become even more sharp. A Tibetan in Dharamshala will greet you with "Hello!", whereas the Indians open with "Excuse me sir, would you like some...saffron?"

I booked into a cheap hotel room that happened to be a completely isolated room next door to a massage parlor and opening directly onto the dining area of the largest, touristiest terrace cafe in town. My attempts at napping were constantly perturbed by the musings of John Lennon and Salman Rushdie wannabes, and in particular by a group of obese ecumenical Religion students (who, I admit, deserve credit for going to India to study other faiths while most of their classmates squat in Arkansas). There really are too many students and writers around. "I'm just going to journal for a few hours" I heard. Oh really? Anyone who uses the word 'journal' as a verb should go back to sixth grade where that shit is encouraged. Reread some Newberry Medal shit if you need inspiration. Julie Of The fucking Wolves. Recapture that sense of wonder, and learn the parts of speech. Write an essay about why we should free Tibet while you're at it, two pages, no double space, name and class section at top right. I would love to hear your thoughts.

I made the more or less mandatory visit to the main Tibetan temple complex, which is a giant, hospital-yellow pile of concrete pillars with a temple chamber somewhere in the middle. Inside the sanctuary, which does have nice paintings, devotees leave offerings to large, fine metal statues of various boddhisvattas, the compassionate semi-divine gurus of Mahayana Buddhism. The Boddhisvattas apparently like their edible offerings to be delivered in sealed boxes, and have a special place in their all-embracing hearts for Chips Ahoy!. Just outside the temple is the Dalai Lama's actual house. He was out on some Buddhist sermon in the mountains, but the house was interesting enough to look at from outside the gates for a minute or two. Nothing glam, but a comfy little pad with a nice zen garden. Between the house and the temple is a courtyard, where I witnessed a gathering of a few monks and their monastic students. The students were apparently being trained in debate. Tibetan debate, it would seem, largely consists of taking turns shouting, making ritual hand gestures, loudly clapping hands, and performing dramatic, torso-twisting foot-stomps. It all looked like a rather unusual form of communication amongst monks. Indeed, if only they had been members of the Red Hat order they could have filmed a perfectly synthesized Buddhist dialectic Limp Bizkit video.

Just around the corner is a little building called the Tibet Museum, which is where you go to get really depressed about how gratuitously awful the Chinese government is to Tibetan people and culture. I mean, everyone knows China does Bad Things over there, but seriously, some of it is just malicious. We actually should, like, free Tibet.

All in all, I found Dharamshala to be a very potentially interesting place. I say 'potentially' interesting because I got bored. Dharamshala is without a doubt the best place to delve into Tibetan culture. There are Tibetans everywhere eager to share their heritage, there are frequent cultural programmes and a plethora of oppurtunities for serious study. However, unless you are really willing to commit to an extended time with Tibetan stuff (which I wasn't. Tibet is fascinating but my purpose and mental energies have become intensely channeled on Indian culture while I'm here), there isn't really a whole lot to....do. Not that this stops anyone, since Dharamshala is also a good place with decent weather to sit around and do nothing and eat, on average, the best budget-oriented Western (i.e. Italian) food in India. If anything I should help free Tibet because for four days Tibet freed me from Gujarati food (I've come to regard the ubiquitous Punjabi-Gujarati-Bengali diners in India as inane petit-bourgeois establishments for plump, unadventurous domestic tourists where the only culinary flair is the risk of acute diarrhea.)

Dharamshala is an unusually pleasant, welcoming place, and most of all reasonable place, but here's the thing: "reasonable" is not on Ghostface Buddha's agenda. My heart just isn't really into it until I've spent twelve hours riding public transport on a single-lane mountain road until the bus engine catches fire - not that that has happened to me since leaving Dharamshala. OH WAIT. Remind me again why the hell I love India?