Now I know how ginger grows.

When we lived on our little farm in Brazil, we had something called gangibre falsa, "false ginger", which was apparently a relative of the real thing. The root, when I dug it up, had neither the appearance or the smell I was looking for, and somehow during our seven-plus years there, I never did run into a ginger plant. Here in the rolling fields of Bylakuppe, some miles off the Mysore road and Kushalnagar, acres of hand-fanning leaves, slightly lower than knee height and fading green to yellow, are the ginger fields. We pass by in our autorickshaw (the three-wheeled, covered motorcycle, with a bench and a smoky 2-stroke engine — the kind where you mix in the oil, and it runs forever, like a lawnmower motor) and there is a load of the harvested root by the roadside, being spray-washed and readied for market. The scent is strong and welcome, a little spice and memory of good meals.

We had come to the house of Tashi Wangdu, the representative of this region of Tibetan Settlements. Tashi and his wife Dolma worked for the past five years in Pretoria, South Africa, where there were no refugees, but a goodwill and educational office. Tashi was promoted to this post, where he handles everything from relations between Indian officials and the Settlements, to any of the myriad needs of the community itself; he looked tired but well-placed, and well-needed, admittedly responding to everything from "Somebody's cow is loose in my garden" to "I need a letter of recommendation for my child" to "Our harvest is small due to lack of rain." We saw him briefly between stops — he was in Mysore at the same time we were, but delayed by a last-minute meeting; he left the next day for Bangalore, and a conference on organic farming there, where he hoped to glean ideas for specialized products or small commerce, which might improve the income of the settlement, and perhaps provide some extra work.

While Tashi was ambassador to the world at large, Dolma and her 2-year-old daughter Tselah were ambassadors to us, receiving us with the kindness and generosity we had heard were customary among the Tibetans… coming from a traveler's point of view, we felt absolutely bathed in care and protection. 

Dolma told us a bit about the settlements themselves (with my apologies for any inaccuracies):

• With the Chinese invasion in 1959, the first waves of refugees began pouring out of the country, some settling in Nepal, while the majority were granted asylum by the Indian government, with additional sponsorship by the international community — a support that has never been forgotten, and for which we personally received thanks again and again.
• The original settlers received 1 acre of land each, to use as common ground for planting and sustenance. The Old Camp, with some few hundred homes, was created first, and the homes there run together into small townships. The New Camp was developed later, and sectioned out into blocks of 8 houses each, with some small yards surrounding them.
• These first settlers lived in bamboo huts; some of them were rural or nomadic people of Tibet, others were from the more educated communities in Lhasa. Donations from the United States, Europe and Asia have helped raise brick-and-mortar structures for homes, schools, and local hospitals. Similar donations have raised up the amazing Monastery temples and dormitories.
• There are six or seven major monasteries in the area, each a recreation (or continuation) of an original ancient monastery in Tibet. Sera Jhe and Sera Mey are situated on the same grounds, and house some 3000 monks; Namdroling Monastery has finely manicured grounds and truly awe-inspiring artwork and statuary in its temples. Other smaller monasteries are scattered along the Bylakuppe road.

Traditionally, one or two children from moderately-sized families would choose (or be chosen?) to attend monastic or nun's training. I had imagined that all the students I saw in the halls were therefore priests-to-be. However, I discovered that many of those living there were taken in by the monastery as teens or younger, when they arrived penniless and parentless in Dharamsala, refugees from Tibet. While their elders may not be able to escape, perhaps for personal reasons unwilling to make the change, the youth are given the chance to make their way across snowfields and down through the valleys to India — some arriving with severe frostbite due to exposure.

The monasteries provide education, food and a monks robes; the students then range from those who have been taken in for shelter, to dedicated monks destined — after studying for 25-30 years — to receive the title of Geshe. I did not realize that our friend Geshe Gendun, who now lives in the Newburyport area, had gone through such extensive training, and was in fact the very first graduate of the Sera Jhe Monastery in India.

We could not stay at Tashi and Dolma's house, as we had not received our visitor's permit in time, and skirting the local rules while residing at one of the higher official's houses would be asking for trouble — if not for ourselves, then for Tashi. Often, the Indian police will troll through the tourist hotels and shops, stopping those who are clearly non-natives to ask for their permits. Those without a permit could be fined a few hundred dollars — but are usually let go with a warning and with a pocket-full of money changing pockets. The policy is therefore less one of Tibetan protection than one of alternative form of income.

We had considered staying in a hotel in Kushalnagar and making day visits, but Tashi's aunt Sonam very graciously offered her home for a couple of nights. At the far end of the settlements, where the Tibetan lands gave way to Indian villages, there was little likelihood of police stopping us — and Sonam took it upon herself to lead us through much of the area in the following days. Skipping work, she toured us around the monasteries the first day, and took us on a walk around the farms and fields of her area the next. A beautiful land, made even more peaceful by the philosophies inherent in the Tibetan culture — the well-being of all beings being the highest goal of government and population — and remembered here and there by the strings of prayer-flags and the banners hung in groves of trees, or the whiff of incense from a small incense chimney, or the drone and clash of instruments heard from the practice rooms of Namdroling.

This stay, then, was one of the warmest of the trip, living in family and in community, greeting the kindnesses of parents and children: Chonam and Sonam, and two of six of their children, still at home — 15-yr-old Chonjor and his younger sister, 13-year-old Dolma — as well as a brother and a grandmother who also live with them; and Tashi and Dolma and little Tselah (who is easily befriended and who gives great hugs) and her soon-to-be-born sibling.

There is so much wealth in this visit — including the possibility of some partnership between this largest Tibetan settlement and US groups or markets (with some gentle perseverance, perhaps) — and so little has been processed yet… colors and smells of the open fields, some of the Indian countryside I so wanted to experience, faces of the local Indians, whose Karantakan Tulu was yet another mystery of language… the lowing and bleating herds which rolled over the hillside where Manny and I sat until the day's decline… the constant care and feeding, interest and sharing, in Dolma and Sonam's excellent English…

Well. Some of the pictures will be on line when we get a chance to upload them. The rest ?remains in the memories and in the heart. 

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