Spiritual Wealth - Practical Health

I woke up early. It was too early to be light. There was a throbbing pain under my arm. Every day the pain had become a little stronger, to the extent that it was partially normalised. My eyes would not close. There was no point in trying. So I began to use then instead. Waiting for them to slowly adjust to the pre-dawn shadows. I eventually picked out a butterfly sitting high on the window ledge. Or perhaps it was a moth? Either way, it was beautiful. It began to turn. Showing me its delicate wings. Backwards and forwards it slowly rotated. The perfection of nature. The ability to fly. Suspended in the air. I felt privileged; as if by waking early I was an uninvited spectator of an unique solo performance.

My mind began to explore parallel thoughts. The thought about how I had wanted to do a Tibetan Massage course. There are enough advertised around here. Alongside Ayurvedic Massage, Crystal Healing and Reiki. And yet at that precise moment I did not want any alternative therapies. I wanted a doctor trained in Western medicine. I thought about the ironies of how amazing the choice of alternative therapies seems – until you actually need one. Four days ago I had began my exploration of local health care. I asked the baker where the doctor was. "Ayurvedic or Tibetan?" was her reply. She was Tibetan so I replied: "Tibetan". Within five minutes I was standing inside Mcleod Ganj's Tibetan Medical Clinic. I was impressed. It seemed clean and efficient. In the waiting 'corridor', there was one elderly lady pinching her prayer beads, mumbling Om Mani Pad he Hum again and again and again, but with different degrees of volume. She was sitting next to a nun. The nun looked very similar to her; but younger, and with no prayer beads, and no long plated hair. The elderly women pointed to a row of wooden numbers hanging from a peg, her working pinching pushing fingers did not pause. I nodded in thanks, took a number and waited my turn.

Quickly I was seated in from of a Tibetan woman doctor. I awkwardly took off my kurta and lifted my arm. She touched the lump and offered her prognosis. "You need to see a Western Doctor. Our Tibetan medicine is too slow for that infection. You need Western medicine." Dishearten I pulled my kurta back on. I was upset because I had magicalised my location. Hearing of other foreign tourists who had visited the clinic and returned 'healed'. And yet the doctor herself had admitted the failings of her professed traditional healing. I was also upset because I had been delaying seeking medical help, trusting in the advice of Vijay who insisted that eventually The Lump would heal itself. Clearly this was not the case. I walked to the local community health care, and spent my lunch break in a queue. The queue never became any shorter so I returned to yoga practice and waited another day...

Another day and the line outside of the Delek Community Health Care Centre was enormous. So enormous that I bypassed it and decided to return later in the day. Later in the day there was torrential rain. I was sodden. I queued. I watched an Israeli mother chastise a Tibetan mother for trying to comfort her screaming baby. I nudged Tibetan fathers out of the way, fighting for a space in front of the nurse. My request to see a doctor was answered with a confused look. "There is no doctor in Mcleod Ganj. We are doing immunisations. You need to go to Delek Hospital." My heart sunk as I had flash backs to Kolkata's horrendous disease filled hospitals. Besides, it was too late to go to Delek Hospital, which was somewhere down the hill towards Dharamasala. I consulted a Tibetan friend. She recommended a local Tibetan doctor and even went so far as to take me to his house. The local Tibetan doctor looked at my arm and recommended a 7 day course of acupuncture costing 250 rupees per day. I asked him if he thought it needed antibiotics and he replied that he had no knowledge of Western medicine. Sceptical and in pain I went home.

Another day and more rain. I had spent a horrendous night filled with fever and delirium, whereby my control over my reactions to pain disintegrated. I was ashamed and decided to Be Stronger. No one seemed to know where the hospital was. The rickshaw driver tried to take me to Dharamasala. The bus driver tried to take me to the bus stop. The taxi was going on "a different road". With the help of an ageing hippy (who also offered her own advice which was to stick half a boiled onion under my arm) I finally arrived. Outside of the hospital was a painted advertising its 'specialities' which didn't seem to include 'Lumps' but did include 'torture victims'. I paid my 10 rupees doctors fee and queued.

A young mentally disabled women waved at me. I waved back with my good arm. She smiled and I immediately wanted to go and sit next to her, but her carer apologetically smiled at me and then distracted her. I felt that my attention was unwelcome. One chai later and a doctors note and I was waiting for another doctor. The Lump needed to be removed. The cause was unknown, but it was an infection which would only continue to grow if not treated. So much for Vijay's enlightened advice. I stood outside of the small surgery as a monk had his foot inspected by a smart Tibetan woman. Finally it was my turn and I felt relief just at the thought of eventually having some escape to the growing pain under my arm. I lay down and watched as she injected a needle directly inside The burning Lump. I asked what she was doing – the pressure seemed immense. "Local anesthetic" came the reply. Slightly annoyed at not being consulted I lay and waited. Within seconds it became numb enough to dilute the pain but not destroy it. She took a blade and sliced my arm. She began to dig the infection out. Dig Dig Dig. I winced. Water filled my eyes, and I had images of the many wounds I had cleaned in Kolkata – bleeding scabies infested scalps, infected bones sitting open around dead flesh, worm ridden feet. I felt pathetic. The smart young woman Doctor began to thread a strip of gauze under my skin. Was this common practice? I was beyond caring, or rather knew that any recommendations from myself would be met with recompense.

The entire procedure, including antibiotic topical cream, cost 168 rupees, proving yet again that my inability to buy health insurance was more practical than I had realised. In Kolkata I had an army of professional medical volunteers, and in Mcleod Ganj finally I had found the fully subsidised local health care system, with any private treatment a days travel away and reserved primarily for the rich, famous and fortunate.

I now need to go back to the Community Health Care Centre every day, pay 10 rupees, and have the nurse pull out the green infected gauze and stuff the wound with a new white one. The yoga teacher training course is on hold...for one week or two, although Vijay is still offering daily advice about how the "Mind needs to be stronger to overcome pain" etc etc. Like the array of alternative therapies – they all seem very beautiful until you actually need one, and likewise, I can also offer advice on positive thinking until I have ball of fire under my arm. Apologies for the sarcasm but I guess I am partially enjoying wallowing in self pity for the duration of this blog. But if I am honest I am disappointed at having to prospone the yoga as it takes intensive practice to achieve the results, and with such a massive delay, my progress of the past two weeks (around 72 hours of yoga practise) will quickly be lost. Meanwhile I am finding it difficult to motivate myself to become involved in new activities partly because I am hoping my arm will miraculously heal, and partly because it hurts too much to think clearly about much at all. So meanwhile I have began to paint mandalas – a highly recommended form of artistic meditation. But despite hours of night time painting, I am still waking up incredibly early watching dead moths suspended from spiders webs; twisting and turning in the slight breeze entering from the closed window. Twisting and turning inside a shell of a body, which hangs waiting to be eaten. Dead moths which are being watched and admired by a woman who always sees the reality through a coloured visor of her imagination.

Indian Tibet - Tibetan India

Feeling incredibly happy. Really loving McLeod Ganj, which is once again warning me of the transience of my first impressions. Cool Rider and I arrived at midnight after sixteen hours of intense riding. We wound our way up a dark hill, through several police check points and into the centre of the town. The light of our old Enfield bike shined on sign after sign: Tourist Central. Billboards advertising hotels, cafes, yoga classes, meditation, Indian cooking classes, Tibetan cooking classes, caperioa, Hindi lessons, ayruvedic massage etc etc etc. This was not the place I wanted to be. I had arrived at the centre of the exiled Tibetan government and the main destination for Tibetan Refugees and I felt as if I was at a ski resort out of season, and not only that but a ski resort in Israel. Even the shop keepers spoke Hebrew as packs of Israelis straight out of their en/forced military service monopolised the restaurents and guest houses. We drove up to the small town above McLeod Ganj – Bhagsu. My 2000 edition of the Lonely Planet had described Bhagsu as a much quieter place, with a bubbling stream and a cold water spring. We came face to face with a river filled with rubbish and a car park filled with auto-rickshaws.

The next morning I woke early, apprehensive. I walked the 20 minutes back down the hill which only a few hours before we had stuttered our way up. The walk was quiet. No cars. Only a view of rolling green hills, muffled by the falling mist. Lord Elgin – one of the British viceroys to India requested to be buried in McLeod Ganj because it reminded him so much of Scotland – I guess that is a Scotland with hills half the size and without 200,000 thousand Tibetan refugees. As the road from Bhagsu fell down into McLeod Ganj I realised that the busy market streets were filled with 'local' people – and by local I mean Tibetan as the 'local' Indian population is scarcely visible. There were no other tourists in sight. In fact compared to Leh, this place is a virtual tourist desert. Even the number of volunteers is not comparable to the massive influx of religious, poverty and good will Volunteer Tourists of Kolkata. And this is not a party place either. Apparently there is only one restaurant which sells alcohol, and from the quantity of locally produced apples, I am guessing it is mainly fermented cider. The tourists here seem to stay for a while – they come to catch a glimpse of the Dalai Lama, to learn about Buddhism or just out of curiosity and once they are here they learn about something partly related or totally obscure – macraem for example is a popular 'ropes course' teaching tourists the ancient Arabian art of knotting after which they will be able to purchase crystals and precious stones from the rock piles outside of every shop and transform them into 'ethnic jewellery'. The place seems like a magnet for anything 'alternative' or as my Irish Priest friend would say 'Hippy'. And perhaps this is why I now don't mind the 'tourists' here – because they are quiet, and humble and ok probably totally stoned on locally produced, wildly growing Indian hashish but if it wasn't for the tourists, then the local Tibetan refugee community would certainly be struggling.

What confused me when I first arrived was the absence of an Indian population: Where were the inhabitants who lived here before 1959? Even the Indian waiters are here looking for seasonal employment – and like the Nepali's in Leh they are also visters: working in northern India in the monsoon and Goa in the summer. The other Indians are either pilgrims coming to visit Bhagsu's Shiva Temple built by the raja of Kangra in the 16^th century or tourists. They walk down the hill barefoot and 'bindied', or spin down on motorbikes, three to a seat, shouting nothing and red flags flying. All the begging children are Indian – working - as they follow the tourists with eyes open wide and hands extended, only to then turn around to an Indian gang leader and non nonchalantly hand over their palm of coins. In contrast the Tibetan community here appears to be very strong. They have welfare committees, government offices and official and unofficial social networks of old family friends who support new arrivals. Those who are less wealthy are probably already connected to a nunnery or a monastery – which provides food, shelter and education.

After a few persistent questions I have found out that indeed tension does exist between the old and the new – the Indian and the Tibetan – but that relations are better than before. In 1994 after continuous fighting between the two groups of young men, the Dalai Lama actually agreed to move the exiled community. While looking for a new area he spoke at a conference in the south. The meeting was attended by Tibetans from all over India, as well as tourists. McLeod Ganj emptied and for one week the local Indian population realised their symbiotic relationship with the Tibetans – without them there would be no tourists and with no tourists there would be no business. So apparently now relations are better.

As for me? As I have said: I am incredible happy. I am finally going to pursue one of my long time dreams, and I have began to practice Ashtanga Yoga with a teacher called Vijay. The classes are between six and seven hours a day, the teaching fantastic and ultimately I will be certified as a Ashtanga teacher after fifty days. This also leaves a few hours in the day for me to learn more about the local refugee community, and in the evenings I have began to volunteer for an organisations called Gu Chu Sum.

Life is about balance, and luckily I have the means to realise that balance. After over two months in the madness of Kolkata – in a dirty city full of poverty and inhumanity I am now in the foothills of the Himalayas – totally focused on my physical and mental energies. The persistent guilt which I feel for not being proactive is still simmering, but it is being dampened by the opportunities to continue to learn and for new forms of social work. Time has taught me that for continuity I need inner strength, which is fragile but accumulative. I still miss Gita, but that can only be a good thing – for otherwise our relationship would have been too superficial. Now I have the space and the peace to reflect on what Kolkata has taught me, and to decide how best to use my freedoms to continue to learn about our World.