Travels in Himachal Pradesh IV: White elephants in Kaza

In contrast to his softly-spoken wife Sheila, Laji is like a modern-day itinerant rabbi or sadhu. And we his travelling disciples. There was nothing he loved more than discussing his thoughts and musings as we wandered among the fields of those Himalayan villages, or sat in the evening round the warming tandoor. Laji had a deep love for the people of these valleys, for their way of life, and for the surrounding beauty and awesome majesty of nature. He could draw deep philosophical and theological truths from observing a pair of oxen breaking up the clods of earth, or a shepherd bringing his flock of sheep down from the mountain heights.

As a follower of Jesus, Laji had his questions – deep, challenging dilemmas heightened by the powerful, demanding landscape. He loved to serve others – whether through an impromptu medical consultation, or by entertaining a group of village children; and he was clearly loved by the people he has served. Over the years he and his wife Sheila have established clinics, small hospitals and school rooms, and led teams of doctors and nurses in providing health services to these remote areas. And yet, he longed to bring more to these people. He saw the impact of drink and gambling on the men of these valleys – men who struggled to cope with the harshness of their lives and the long, cold winter days with nothing to do. He saw the fear etched into people’s hard-lined faces; the resignation brought by an ultimate belief in dharma and an individual’s lack of capacity to change the way things are. He saw the corruption and greed that limited progress and ignored the most vulnerable in these societies.

And yet, he knew that our typical Western, or even Indian, Christianity had little of meaning to offer to these people, and so often came tainted with all the trappings of Western consumerism. To seek to impose his beliefs on others would be both meaningless and arrogant, showing little respect for their own deep beliefs and way of life. So he longed for an authentic faith which he could share; one which would respect the spirituality and traditions of these people; one which would affirm their unity with nature and their commitment to peace; one which could offer genuine hope in the face of their fear and resignation, tangible grace in the midst of the harsh realities of their lives, and practical love for each individual, no matter what their lot in life.

As we spent time in the Spiti Valley, I, too, could share something of Laji’s hopes and dilemmas. The sheer magnitude of the mountains around induced a sense of humility and respect. Any concept of a creator had to be so much greater than my own, limited understanding of who or what that creator might be.

On our second morning in Mane, I took an early walk up through the village and the poplar groves above, then on up the slopes behind. My path took me up to a shoulder of the ridge from where I was treated to another stunning view up a small hidden valley beyond – once more with golden groves of trees and terraced fields nestling among the tumbling boulders and scree of the higher mountains. Later in the day, I would look back from across the valley and realise just how miniscule my walk had been – the shoulder I had climbed completely dwarfed by the gargantuan mountains above.

We were heading back to Kaza where we needed to pick up fresh passes for the road south. But Laji took us via the monastery of Dhankar – a classic Tibetan monastery clinging desperately to a rocky outcrop. While Sheila, Laji and the driver remained at the monastery, relaxing in the café, Lois, Amanda, Juan and I enjoyed a strenuous climb to Dhankar lake. This beautiful lake, at over 4,000m and surrounded by Himalayan peaks was a highlight of the trip. A haven of peace and stillness with just a gentle breeze rippling over the turquoise waters, and fluttering the prayer flags on the adjacent stupa. We were surprised to see two cormorants sitting on the bank on the far side of the lake, then even more surprised to find several large shoals of carp shimmering in the warm, muddy shallows.

As we set out from Dhankar, we spotted a number of women pursuing a pilgrimage of penance up the road to the higher monastery. Each one would stand, kneel and then lie down on the road, stretching out her hands before her and placing a stone at their extremity. She would then stand again, move forward to where the stone was placed, pick it up and start over again. Thus, slowly, each woman would inch up towards the monastery and the goal of her pilgrimage. Perhaps, I thought, I have something to learn about commitment and devotion to my own faith.

From Dhankar, another winding mountain road brought us back to the life and bustle of Kaza. Here, Laji and Sheila had built a small hospital and school room some years ago. The clinic still operated intermittently, and the pre-school more regularly, but there weren’t the people to keep it going the way Laji had originally hoped. It was a pattern we were to see elsewhere on this trip. Even more troubling here in Kaza though was the Community Centre in which we stayed. This had been built in 2015 as part of the inspiring Spiti Valley Project. Championed by a charismatic English woman, Joan Pollock, the project has brought healthcare, education and community developments to many throughout the Spiti Valley. The Kaza community centre was one such project, inspiring in its ecological design and vision for the community. However, four years on from its grand opening, the centre came across as unused – a pristine white elephant that has failed to fulfil its objectives. A craft room, dining room, meeting room and library lie empty and unused by the community. The John Lewis towels and bedding in our rooms seemed bizarrely out of place, and we wondered how they fitted with an emphasis on empowering and encouraging the local people. Was this just another example of something good and well-intentioned that had failed to engage effectively with the very people it was provided for?

One striking feature of Indian life is their capacity for leaving everything seemingly half finished. All over Kaza, as elsewhere on this trip, there were buildings going up, a rush responding to the continued influx of tourists and their love for ‘homestays’. But it was often difficult to tell which buildings were newly constructed, which were still being built and which had been built some time ago, but left with protruding iron rods or concrete pillars. Perhaps, though, looking at it through another lens, it is us Westerners, with our fixation on having making everything neat and tidy – on having to have everything resolved and tied up – who are the foolish ones. Why spend thousands of pounds finishing off your house, then spend thousands more to take off the roof, insert reinforcement beams and add a dormer when you decide you want to expand? Surely it is far better just to leave it ready to add to once you can afford to do so? And perhaps the same is true of our philosophies, science and religion: we do so love to have everything explained, neatly packaged and complete. Perhaps we in the West could learn something from our Indian brothers and sisters about leaving things unresolved, mysterious and open-ended.

And then there was the row of western toilets Lois and I came across as we wandered across the fields from Kaza. Someone had obviously decided to build a tourist camp on the plateau above the river. They had got as far as putting in the plumbing and the toilet bowls, but clearly run out of money or drive, so they sat, each on a concrete plinth, beneath the wide, blue sky, ready for another season, another day…

As with Laji’s musings on what his Christianity could possibly bring to these people, so, too, with a more secular community development project. While both may bring some benefit to individuals (and, perhaps, even great benefit to a great many people), real, lasting change cannot rely on individual charismatic personalities; it has to start with the people, with listening; with walking the long, hard road with them; with breaking out of our own preconceptions of what is good or right for others.