Tibetan Uprising* Day in Dharamsala

*This has been called Tibetan 'Resistance', 'Uprising' and 'Awareness' Day by various groups. Take your pick*

I’m pretty sure this isn’t on any of your bucket lists but you might as well list it and run it right up to the top ten. Before you die, all of you should experience Tibetan Uprising Day in Dharamsala. It's one of the most exciting, inspirational and visually stunning events I’ve ever attended.

Before you leave the planet you need to put yourself in this picture.

On the eve of the 51st annual Uprising Day, I got a call from Phil Void, the founder of the The Dharma Bums (not the Portland outfit), a rotating group of musicians who since 1985 have appeared at numerous Tibet support rallies. Phil’s claim to fame is writing the song ‘Rangzen’ which is a big hit throughout Tibetan exile community. He was asked by the Students for a Free Tibet to sing to the thousands of Tibetans marching from the Main Temple in McLeod Ganj, to a street rally in Lower Dharamsala, more than four miles away.

Phil is a good friend of my brother Dan so he called to tell me of a gathering of SFT supporters at the Hotel Tibet, my home for three months in 2000. Even though I stayed at the Hotel Tibet, I was so obsessed with writing a book about my life in high diving and traveling in a wheelchair, that I never stepped foot in the hotel bar. I didn’t even know the place existed until Dan told me nearly seven years later. I went by the door every day, but I thought it was a banquet room.

Phil greeted me and handed me four Dharma Bums CD’s to put on the 90.4 Tashi Delek FM play list. With the exception of some of my tunes I mistakenly put on the air, The Dharma Bums are the only non-Tibetan act that gets air time on the station. We’d love to play non-Tibetan music, but we don’t have the money to buy the music licenses. We’ve got over 1000 tunes, all of them by Tibetan artists.

The normally reserved Tibetans were in full party mode at the Hotel Tibet slugging drinks and telling stories about their travels in the states. It’s surprising how many Tibetans have made it to America for school or visiting relatives. It’s difficult for them to travel because they can’t get Indian or Chinese passports. They have to get special permission to leave India then endure a complicated visa process for each country.

It was a much later night than I anticipated and the roll back to Bhagsu along the pitch black ridge was more harrowing than I’d predicted when I left the hotel. It’s been too cold to go out at night, so it was the first time I’d rolled the Bhagsu Road in the dark. I really miss my head lamp!

I woke up early and light headed from the effort at the Hotel Tibet. I tossed on my ’90.4 Tashi Delek FM’ polo shirt and busted up the Bhagsu road hill, sweating a bit more than usual. The Uprising Day festivities started at 8:30 and I was running late so I blew off my original plan of stopping at one of the chai stands for a quick omelet. The streets of McLeod were empty until I reached the Temple Road. As I wheelied down the steep incline, the crowd grew until fifty yards from the temple there was no room to move. The face-painted, flag-waiving Tibetans were chanting slogans and screaming with their fists in the air. The flag-selling business along the side of the road was hotter than the T-shirt business at the World Cup. That's probably because at $4 a shirt, they were a bit more affordable than the $30 variety at the World Cup.

When Tibetans face-paint they aren't just getting worked up over a college football game. .

The main entrance to the Main Temple takes one up 20 stairs, so I rolled to the vehicle entrance on the far side of the complex. I started pushing up an impossibly steep incline and was immediately joined by a security guard who pushed me to the entrance on the main level. Before I was allowed in they asked me if I had a cell phone or a camera. Of course I had both, but I wasn’t aware they weren’t allowed. I had to check them in at the gate which really sucked because it was the most colorful crowd I’d seen since the Dead shows of the mid-80’s. I asked the guard why these items weren’t allowed and all he said was, “Security.” That made absolutely no sense because they allowed me to keep a step-down power converter and a portable sound mixer that I brought along to get fixed in Lower Dharamsala. The power convert and sound board didn't look that much different from a bomb. So the bomb was OK, but cell phones and cameras were off-limits.

The security guard parked me in the back near the Dalai Lama’s private residence. Not two minutes later, His Holiness strolled out of his compound accompanied by the Kalon Tripa, the Speaker of the Tibetan Parliament in Exile and four armed Indian police guards. As they walked up the center aisle to the stage, Tibetan security followed them with ropes to keep the crowd back. Luckily I got right up next to the rope and followed them until I was about 20 yards from the action. After His Holiness’s group, a marching band from the Tibetan Institute of Performing Arts paraded down the aisle stopping at the base of the stage. The band consisted of a drum corps, a dozen bag-pipers and ten flautists. When I closed my eyes it sounded just like a college football halftime. They played the Tibetan national anthem then went quiet as the Tibetans sang a seven-minute long prayer.

About 5000 people filled the Temple plaza. Half were TCV students and the rest were a mixture of Tibetan exiles and a scattering of Injies. Oddly enough, I didn't see one Indian. Seated next to His Holiness were members of the Tibetan Parliament and visiting dignitaries from Japan and Taiwan. The Kalon Tripa gave the first address followed by the Speaker of the Parliament. All the speeches were in Tibetan leaving us Injies in the dark. But with a long hike on the docket, the crowd wasn’t in a sitting mood so they murmured loudly through both talks.

This crowd knows no age. Everyone from students to this woman screamed all day long.

When it was time for the Dalai Lama to speak, the crowd quieted. His Uprising Day statement was also in Tibetan, but workers from the Temple ran up to each Injie and and handed them a copy of the remarks in English. I’ve seen the Dalai Lama speak a dozen times, but I’ve never heard him read a prepared statement before. In the past it’s always been him talking from his heart. But this was a carefully crafted speech reiterating the ‘Middle Way’ proposal he’s presented to the Chinese government over the past few years. After his prepared talk, he closed his notes then spoke to the crowd for just as long. I have no idea what he said, but I was told he asked the crowd to not make a nuisance of themselves as they marched down the Library Road.  He is always careful to remind the Tibetans they are visitors – even if it's been 51 years.

These students wanted to start marching!

His Holiness finished then walked down the main aisle (passed by me two-feet away!) followed by dignitaries and the TIPA band. Once he left, local leaders took over the microphone and began the chants I would hear loudly for the next three hours:

What do we want!:

FREE TIBET!

Long Live!:

THE DALAI LAMA!

Release!:

THE PANCHEN LAMA!

China! China! China!:

OUT! OUT! OUT!

United Nations!:

WE ARE HERE!

As the crowd raised their banners and got ready for their four-mile march to Lower Dharamsala, I went to the security office and recovered my camera. I have no idea why I couldn’t bring in a camera when there were 50 press photographers and the event was covered on live television. Next time I go to an event at the temple I’m going to ask the radio station to get me a press pass. Not only will I get pics, I’ll get a front row seat.

The crowd had been restless during the speeches and began to build to a full rowdy pitch. The students rallied under their banners while Tibetans of all ages walked out of the temple waiving flags and screaming as loud as kids half their age. I rolled out with the crowd and had to constantly stop people from grabbing the handles on my chair. This happens every time I’m in a crowd in Asia. People want to help, but they don’t watch where they’re going and they can push me into a pot hole – which means I end up on the ground or in a ditch. I have to be polite, but after ten or twenty times it gets old.

The crowd at the beginning of the march was thick, but it thinned out over the course of several miles.

For those of you who have followed this blog you’ve heard me speak in fearful and reverent words about the great Library Road connecting McLeod Ganj to Lower Dharamsala. It is the steepest, curviest road in all of civilization. Fortunately over the past decade it’s been paved and is now very well maintained. But that actually makes it faster. The road drops 5000 feet in only three kilometers. At several points along the route it drops at greater than 20%. Although much shorter than the climb up l’Alpe D’Huez, the angle of decent makes that look like a rolling hill in Iowa.

These guys were too young for the long walk but they wanted to help out anyway.

As the crowd made its assault on the Library Road, I leaned back in a wheelie and slowly dropped the first insane section. I put myself in the middle of a group of school kids and chanted along with them while I kept my eyes glued to the 500-foot cliff on my right. The Library Road is not only steep and winding, it’s is also very narrow. At many points the two-way road is less than 10-feet wide. If this march were in any other country, the cops would shut the road down and divert traffic. But this is India where chaos makes more sense than order. Along with the mile-long line of 5000 screaming Tibetans was a full compliment of two-way traffic. At places where the road bottlenecks for one-way traffic (usually because the outside lane has been washed down the cliff) cars and motorcycles were lined up for hundreds of yards.

The first long switchback on the Library Road

While I was flying by the traffic in the midst of the chanting, Technicolor protesters, I noticed one of my Indian neighbors from Bhagsu sitting in a taxi. I pulled up next to her and asked her what she was thinking. She said she forgot it was Uprising Day and just wanted to go to Kotwali Bazaar to do some shopping. She’d been in traffic for more than an hour at that point. I told her I felt sorry for her, but I also left her far back in my rear-view mirror.

The Uprising March as it passes by the home of the Government in Exile.

After an hour on the Library Road my hands (read: BRAKES) began to cramp up something fierce. I could no longer hold a wheelie so I had to go on four wheels and zig-zag back and forth hoping to make my turn before heading over the edge. Towards the bottom of the road the switch backs become even more severe. To put an image in your head as to how steep these turns are, imagine this: Delek Hospital is a four-story building. The road passes the front door then 60 yards later around the switch back it comes up to the wheelchair entrance – on the fourth floor.

At this point my decision to forego breakfast was wearing heavily on me as my arms and hands were ready to shut down. For the first time since leaving the Temple I could see Kotwali Bazaar and it didn’t feel like I was looking out of an airplane window. Mercifully after one final and incredibly severe turn, I came upon the final decent to Kotwali Bazaar and the beginning of a normal road. Of course right at the bottom of the Library Road lies my main nemesis of Indian roads: the vertical slated drainage grid. I was moving pretty well when I came up to it and had to rely on my hands for one last emergency stop, otherwise my wheels would end up stuck in the grate and possibly bent beyond repair. If my hands had brake fluid in them you would have smelled that stuff for miles cause I was down to empty. I stopped just before the grid, made a sharp left and crossed the grid horizontally.

Finally I was on a normal stretch of road. Actually it was better than normal. It dropped at about a 3% grade which meant I didn’t have to push, only steer. I found an electrical shop and dropped off the broken mixer and step-down converter lightening my load even more. The ride went from a horrifying survival exercise to a glorious effortless breeze. The march had now spread out over more than a mile but the voices, many now completely hoarse, were still blasting out the chants: “LONG LIVE THE DALAI LAMA!”

As the march wound through Lower Dharamsala the grade of the road became a little easier – but if you looked up you easily remembered where you started from.

The march ended at the far end of Lower Dharamsala across the street from the main police station. Before going in, I rolled over to a nearby fruit stand and downed three bananas and a liter of water in less than two minutes. Next to the fruit stand was an India fast-food hut. If this was a crowd in a developed nation those places would be doing Black-Friday business. But even though there were 5000 people coming, there weren’t any lines. These folks just don’t have that kind of money. They pack a lunch.

The organizers created a stage under a covered roof above a mechanic shop. The street in front of the shop was closed off, but the main road right next to it was open to heavy traffic. As the thousands began to fill up the street, angry Indian drivers revved up their obnoxiously loud car horns to eleven. It was impossible to contain the crowd in the side street and I really don’t know how several people didn’t die.

As the school groups arrived each one of their leaders climbed up to the microphone and used whatever was left of their voices for one last scream. Standing next to them with video camera in hand was none other than Phil Void who was taking it all in while his axe was holstered in its case.

Two hours after the Dalai Lama spoke at the temple the festivities in Lower Dharamsala began. A few student leaders gave talks and this time one of them was actually done in English. Then it was time for Phil to pop open his case and pull out his axe. He got a polite reception then urged the throng to sing along with him. He handed out lyric sheets earlier, but most of the older Tibetans knew the song by heart.

Phil Void

He opened up his big voice, sang the fist verse then let into the anthemic chorus:

Rangzen! (freedom) Free just like the river flows

Rangzen! Free just like the wind blows

Rangzen! Freedom for the Land of the Snows!

The flags went up every time the crowd yelled, “Rangzen!”

Each time the chorus came around the crowd screamed and waved Tibetan flags creating a home-made wind. A few dignitaries had the bad luck of speaking after Phil’s tune, but by this time the crowd was cooked and thinking of the long walk back.

As the throng broke, I went around to the back of the police station to try to find some isolation so I cold pee. I found the back entrance to the police station and heard an Indian man screaming to a gathering of ten people. When I got closer I saw they were carrying Chinese flags. These ten people were the Chinese anti-protest to Tibetan Uprising Day. Their tiny numbers compared to the thousands across the street only served to hammer home the Tibetan cause.

The Chinese anti-protest was slightly less effective.

Once I’d done my duty, I began rolling back up the long incline towards Kotwali Bazaar. What was a leisurely roll on the downhill was a nasty climb on the upside. This time when a pair of monks grabbed my handles, I let them have at it. My arms and hands were cooked at this point so I ate my pride and just made sure I wasn’t getting pushed into road ruts. I thought I would have to wait for hours to get a cab back up, but again, there’s not a lot of cash in this crowd so I easily found one a kilometer away from the venue. Most of the marchers were going to walk all the way back up to McLeod. As I was heading back up the Library Road I was passing marchers who either got a late start, or stopped for lunch. They missed the main event, but they were going to keep marching and chanting until they made it down.

Six hours after I left Bhagsu, I was back in my room hungry and exhausted. I plopped down in my bed and took a nap with Rangzen and thousands of yellow, red and blue flags helping me to sleep.

US v. UK: Battle for the Indian English Speaking Population

When I first came to India in 1991 the only thing that reminded me of America was the economy running on US Dollars. The Indian Rupee was a garbage currency with no value outside of the subcontinent. It barely had value inside the country either. The official exchange rate was 25 Rs to the Dollar, but there was a thriving currency black market where you could get more than 40 Rs/Dollar.

The problem with using the black market was that foreigners needed official government money changing receipts for many big purchases. Plane tickets, train tickets, hotel rooms and lots of hard goods required not only the Rupees, but also the precious money changing receipt – usually from the American Express Office.

Aside from the ubiquitous Dollar, the only other American presence was the brand new McDonalds in Connaught Place, and oddly enough a TGI Fridays (Thank Goodness it's Friday). Everything not Indian was British. The cars were British, the sports were British and the pop music was British. Every Indian speaking English was using British terms and every TV and radio announcer had Indo-British accents.

Move on twenty years and American pop culture is dominating India. It seems the only reminders of England are the cricket matches. American terminology has replaced British terminology. The cab drivers say, “Open the trunk” not “Open the boot”. People go out for dinner, not tea. Instead of leather shoes, most young people are wearing Nikes (or more likely the bootleg version).

But the biggest place where you see the domination of American culture is on TV. The BBC and CNN pretty much split the foreign news market (actually most English speakers watch a little of both every day), but aside from that there is almost no British presence on Indian TV.

On the other hand check out the list of US Television shows that appear within 24 hours of their US airdate: American Idol, Letterman, Leno (was Conan), TMZ, Larry King Live, Anderson Cooper 360, ENews, America’s Got Talent, The Amazing Race, Celebrity Apprentice – and probably many more. The Oscars were telecast live yesterday morning after weeks of big-hype promos. And of course the power went out just as they got to Best Actor.

As far as reruns go, An episode of ‘Friends’ is on almost any hour of the day. Also in daily rotation are Boston Legal, Ugly Betty, CSI (all of them), Pushing Daisies, Gossip Girl, Gary Unmaried, Desperate Housewives, Prison Break, Brothers & Sisters, Seinfeld, Two and a Half Men, Chris Angel: Mind Freak anything David Space has ever appeared in and - I’m not kidding either – I Dream of Jeanie. There are plenty more US shows, but I have come across only one British show, a slap stick comedy show that was axed after two weeks.

My guest house has a basic cable package with three English movie channels including Indian HBO – which has commercials. I have not seen any British films unless you count Bond films.

ESPN is now in Asia with a daily Sports Center broadcast from Hong Kong. While Cricket and Premiere League still dominate, every night there’s a recap of whatever sport that is in season in the US. The NBA is king among American sports and, oddly enough, the NHL is No. 2. The reason is that both sports are Olympic staples and any international sports will get there due in India. And now with so many Indians getting their education in the U.S. ESPN is starting to get decent ratings on college football and basketball (btw -the annual NCAA pool is ON! Shoot me an email if you want it tomhaig@hotmail.com).

But maybe the most telling sign on television is that voiceovers for promos are now done mostly in an American accent.

The music scene is heavily dominated by Indian pop so only the biggest bands (Coldplay, Metalica etc.) make a dent in the Indian psyche. And there's no preference of American vs. British bands. The best way for a band to get a headroad into the Indian market is by having a song in a popular movie or a TV commercial. But it's not likely to get much airplay. I'm pretty sure the Stones, the Beatles and Led Zeppelin are still better known than anything classic American acts, with the exception of Hotel California which, for some reason, is adored here. Unfortunately the American Idol contestants are more well known that any of those groups.

Up here in Dharamsala the Tibetans who speak English are all using American terms and those who are fluent are definitely speaking American. The students graduating from TCV have no interest in studying in England. They want to go to American Universities.

But this wave of American influence is definitely flavor-of-the-week as far as Hindus go. Hindus have been absorbing invading cultures for thousands of years and they haven’t let any of them become greater than the native Indian vibe. They take what works, put the local spin on it and it becomes part of their culture. I’m sure if I understood Hindu and watched Indian TV, there are plenty of Indian shows that have absorbed US formulas but keep them grounded in Indian culture.

But for all the America-bashing that dominated international opinion through the 00’s, this culture has been eating up ours.

Halfway Home

I’ve just crossed the halfway point on this cracked Himalayan adventure, so it’s time to take stock and see where I’m at. The first thing I can say is that I am way out of ‘living abroad’ shape. In the late 80’s and early 90’s I made so many of these trips that I actually settled in abroad and thought I was going to live the rest of my life in a small French village on the foothills of the Alps. I felt at home in good old Les Avenieres, and a stranger to my native Milwaukee.

But that was after a difficult stay on the Island of Taiwan and a harrowing experience on a four-month tour of the Middle East. On those trips I never felt at home and rarely did I feel comfortable. Taiwan grew on me after a few months, but I was counting the days until I could get out of the Arabian Peninsula.

Unfortunately this trip has proven to be more counting days than feeling totally comfortable. And most of that is my fault. The evil burn on my leg had me at times feeling like I was going to die or at least have to get my leg cut off. It’s the nastiest skin injury I’ve ever had and you’re talking to a guy who walked away from a bike injury with half a windshield lodged in his back.

For two weeks I went to the hospital every day and looked in horror as the Tibetan doctor shook his head and repeated, "still infected." Te burn left me much more paralyzed than I already am. It was a constant buzz kill as I really needed to keep the leg up at all times. I was able to go to work, but I couldn’t go bombing the Himalayas in my chair which is one of the things I most looked forward to.

You really have no room to bitch when you live in a town where restaurants are supported by trees and Monks hang out at the bus stop.

Eventually the infections went away and the skin has only now started to really heal. I still have a gaping 5” by 2” open wound, but I don’t have to worry about staying in bed with my leg up. I’m back bombing the hills again and getting in shape.

But that, of course, was just in time for my wheelchair to break down. I’d just gotten to the point where I was crushing my half-mile climb to McLeod Ganj, when the caster wheel cracked off. Then we had the ice storm followed by Losar so it was two weeks before I could get it fixed.

Once I got it fixed I had a glorious day roaming the streets of McLeod jamming with other musicians and I thought to myself, “I’m finally over the hump here.” The Dalai Lama’s special one-day teachings were on the weekend and the Hindu festival of Holi (the one where everybody throws colored flour at each other) was just around the bend.

I missed the main festival, but I was around to see the gods enter town!

And, of course last Sunday I woke up with a fever, sore throat, runny nose and spent the whole event in bed – along with most of the following week.

Life at 90.4 Tashi Delek FM has been better, although much slower than I’d anticipated. I knew that coming to India to kick start a radio station in six months would be a challenge, but I thought we’d be further along. We’ve got all the equipment we need, but the Tibetans are very thorough which means things take much longer than need be. I’ve got three students who now know how to interview and edit audio, but they’re all a bit reluctant to take the next step to being reporters. They need to get on the phone and work their beat. We had a meeting last week and I told them I was going to start getting on them to make some phone calls, but being sick all week, I haven’t monitored them.

Aside from missing the teachings and Holi, it was actually a good week to be sick as a couple of community radio tech specialists have been in our studio installing a brand new scheduling program, (check it out - really cool NGO: http://gramvaani.org/) complete with phone-in capability. That means I may be calling you in the middle of the night, USA time, and asking for your opinion on the conflict in Kashmir. If this happens simply say, “It’s a dangerous nuclear hotbed and needs to be closely monitored.” That’s what all the Indian pundits say.

But to turn this semi-depressing update positive, I can that I’ve been playing a pile of music and have written and recorded five tunes (http://www.thcommunications.com/fun/fork). I’ve gotten to know what is, hands down, the oddest small town in the world. Everyone from the Indian woman who cleans my room to the doctors who have treated my wound have been unbelievably helpful and gracious. I’ve made friends with dozens of local businessmen and feel comfortable they’re not giving me the white-guy 50% markup. The days when the clouds are gone reveal some of the most stunning residential landscape on Earth.

So I’m going to quit my whining and remind myself that at the half-way point of my Taiwan trip I just wanted to come home. But by the end I was ready to stay another six months until I ripped my knee up in a van accident (yeah, it’s true – I was in full clown makeup when it went down, but that’s another story).

The 'before' and 'after' pics of the infamous 'Frowning Clowns' episode.

The temperature no longer drops below zero at night so I’m not freezing in bed anymore. Next weekend we’re going to start doing our first ‘Dharamsala Live’ shows at one of the local bars so that should kick start things as well. And only six more weeks before the Indian sports media descend on Dharamsala for IPL 20-20 cricket matches.

One month from now the Dharamsala Cricket stadium will be rockin'!

In the end I’m giving myself an 'incomplete' for sabotaging the first half of the trip and the town of Dharamsala an 'A+' just for being as totally whacked as a town can be.

Stay tuned for more hijinks!

And in the meantime hit this one:

So no, it hasn't been all that bad - I'm still waking up to this most mornings. And that wasn't happening much at all during the Monsoon of 2000.

Time to Fix the Olympics

Now that the Olympics are over it’s time for that age old barroom conversation on what should and should not be in the Olympics. My criteria for this argument are as follows:

Is the Olympic Gold Medal the ultimate prize in the sport?
Are the best participants in the sport competing at the Olympics?
Is the sport attracting the same high quality athletes as the other sports?

The winter games are pretty clean, but there are two ‘sports’ that need to go.

First of all is Ice Dancing. This ‘sport’ is 100 percent subjective and by rule, all the participants have to basically do all the same tricks. It does not attract the highest quality of athlete it can. All the good skaters are in speed skating, hockey and figure skating. If you suck at all three of those, but really like skating, you go into ice dancing. It’s pure JV and belongs in shopping mall rinks, not the Olympic Games.

Next is Curling. As entertaining as Curling is, it requires no athletic talent, strength or stamina. I don’t doubt the skippers are quite skilled at what they do, and I don’t question their dedication. But it’s just not an athletic contest. It’s a fun game that gets good TV ratings. Can anyone explain why we need separate men’s and women’s events?

One thing I’d like to see happen is putting Basketball in the winter games where it belongs. The NBA could take a two-week break like Hockey and we’d get players in mid-season form without having to make them train all summer every four years. The only reason some of the stars sit out is because as they get older they can’t put up with the 12-month schedule. If they’re already in shape and they’re assured of taking the summer off, everyone will play.

Now to the summer games where there’s a bit more fluff.

There are two violating sports that will never come out because they come from a military tradition: Pistol/Rifle shooting and the Equestrian events. Again, I don’t question the skill or dedication of the gun participants. I just can’t call it a sport. The gun does all the work. The oldest medalist in the history of the games is a 72-year-old skeet shooter. If you can compete at 72, it’s not a sport.

The equestrian riders aren’t even doing the jumping – they’re relying completely on the athletic prowess of the horse. If they want to give credit to the horses like they do in thoroughbred racing, I’d be all for it.

Two semi-athletic endeavors that need to go because they don’t attract high-quality athletes are Synchronized Swimming and Rhythmic Gymnastics. I can tell you from first-hand experience that Synchro is easy and the women competing are no where near the quality of athletes as swimmers, divers or polo players. In 1988, I was on a tour of the Arabian Peninsula with a team of Syncho swimmers. These girls had a great attitude and made the trip much easier than it ever would have been. That being said, I learned their routine in the space of one afternoon. I even had the toe point to pull it off too. It would have taken the best of them several years to acquire the skill to do the diving portion of the show. So Synchro, like Ice Dancing is J.V. Rhythmic gymnastics? Please.

Two legitimate sports that need to go are Soccer and Baseball (gone for the London games, but probably back for Rio). Countries don’t send close to their best athletes for these games and the Olympic Gold Medal means very little compared to a World Cup, or World Series title. If Bud Selig wants to break up the season for two weeks and let the best players play, then it would be legit. Otherwise it’s got to go.

One sport that I could be convinced should stay, but is on my ‘out’ list is sailing. I know these guys are in shape and do a damn good job getting those rigs around the courses, but I still think the wind is doing more of the work than the athletes.

Next we have the sports that aren’t in and should be. These include Power Tumbling, Ultimate Frisbee, Water Skiing, Golf (including Long Drive), Bowling, High Diving, Endurance Racing, Cricket, Summer Biatholon, BMX and Skateboarding.

And finally we’ve got the list of ‘sports’ that have applied and are actually being considered. These include Poker, Bridge, Auto Racing, Chess, Dominoes, and yes, even Spelling.

I can hear Jim Thorpe turning over in his grave.

Could I Please Have a Normal Day?

Yesterday was a microcosm of this entire trip: awful and awesome intertwined in each other.

We had a day off because there was a ceremony at the Main Temple to celebrate the 100th Anniversary of the 13th Dalai Lama’s exile to India, which most Tibetans consider their Independence Day. It’s tough to fathom a country celebrating Independence Day when they aren’t independent, but imagine if the U.S was taken over by Mexico. We’d still celebrate the Fourth of July and that’s exactly what the Tibetans were doing.

 Perfect day to hang out with a bunch of monks at the Main Temple.

One thing making my life difficult at the radio station is getting accurate information about anything connected with Tibet. Up until around the year 2000, the only way information was passed in the Tibetan community was by gossip. Any official proclamations coming out of the Government in Exile or the office of the Dalai Lama were useless, because the information was already widely known in the Tibetan community. Somebody who knew somebody who knew somebody at the office had already leaked the news to the community at large. Things like newspapers, the internet and radio have been greeted with a giant, ‘Duh’ by most Tibetans. They already know it.

Unfortunately if you are not in the loop, like all us Injies, information is difficult, vague or just plain wrong. Such was the case with this ceremony. Tibet TV announced the Dalai Lama would be back in time for the ceremony. He was not. Dalailama.com didn’t mention it at all, and Phayul.com, the most reliable news source, said there was a ceremony on Thursday morning – no time listed. But, duh, everybody knows those ceremonies start at 8:30 don’t they?

Being somewhat in the loop now because I work with Tibetans, I did actually know the ceremony started around 8:30 so I got my butt out of bed at 7:30, dressed and started the two-mile roll to the Main Temple. I always have to do the quarter-mile climb out of Bhagsu to start off, but this time it was significantly more difficult. There was a bit of moisture on the road, but otherwise it was sunny, so I didn’t know why I was so slow. After my right wheel hit my pad for the fourth time I realized the packed bearings that give my chair the quarter inch I need to keep them from hitting my chair had fallen out.

One of the biggest pains about having a driver is that they have to take my chair apart and put it together every time I get in or out of the car. The little ring bearing had gotten loose and, despite several attempts to secure it, kept popping out. Apparently on Wednesday night, my driver put the chair together not noticing the bearing popped out. HOPEFULLY that meant the bearing was still in the floor of the car, not over some 500 ft. ledge in the greater Dharamsala metroplex. Without that bearing, I can’t workout and I can’t drop hills in a wheelie. Basically I’m stuck in my room.

Eventually I made it to the Main Temple and embarrassingly took a push to get up the hill to the main level. I’d been there many times in 2000, but this was the first time I’d seen it in ten years. It’s a very plain-looking yellow structure with a big open courtyard for outdoor ceremonies. Since 2000 they’ve erected a steel infrastructure that can be covered in vinyl to keep rain out during the monsoon. For this ceremony only about a quarter of the courtyard was covered for those who need the shade. Otherwise it was a gorgeous day.

Monsoon be damned! We've got a big-ass tent!

Monks, nuns, school kids and the cream of Tibetan society filled the courtyard before a marching band in traditional costume lined a runway and led the procession of government officials onto the speakers’ platform. There were drums, flutes, bagpipes and singers, but no Dalai Lama. There may have been a dozen westerners in the crowd and I can guarantee all of them assumed His Holiness was on the docket. So much for being out of the loop.

 

Tibetans know how to throw a parade!

Nonetheless it was an impressive ceremony and they even fed rice and served butter tea to every single person in the crowd. Whenever the Dalai Lama speaks at the temple you can get small radios that broadcast English translations (or Chinese when the Taiwanese are in town). But since he was not speaking, this service wasn’t provided. The speeches were all in Tibetan so us whities looked around the courtyard and smiled. Just because we didn’t know what was going on didn’t mean we weren’t blown away by our surroundings.

The Stars and Stripes are nice and all, but that's a FLAG! And I'm pretty sure the State of Arizona copied it!

When the ceremony was over I had to swallow my pride and take a push up the steep hill back to the main market in McLeod. I’ve been up and down that road dozens of times and I never once have taken a push. I figure if the pilgrims can prostrate themselves around the Potola, I can bust my ass up that hill. But the extra friction my wheel put on the chair was too much. Every time I push up any hill here, strangers grab my handles and start pushing. I politely tell them I’m ‘training’ and they begrudgingly let go. Sometimes I have to stop the chair, turn around and insist they let go, but eventually they get the idea. This time I just let them push. I had no idea who was pushing until I got up to the top of the half-mile climb. Then I discovered it was an elderly monk. Yeeesh.

Back on flat ground, I went about town doing running some errands and talking with the random collection of friends I’ve made over the past three months. I was slowly making my way back to Bhagsu when I stumbled by Nick’s Italian Kitchen. Nick serves a killer breakfast and seeing as it was only 10 o’clock, I slid in for some cheesy eggs and hash browns.

I hoped my bearings were sitting in the back of the TCV SUV, but I had to make plans in case they weren’t there. After I ordered, I jumped out of my chair and pulled the wheels off so I could take pictures of both the good and the bad wheel. My friend, Ron in Corvallis, used to build chairs and he’s a witch when it comes to mechanical stuff. I figured that if I sent him a picture of the good bearing, he could run over to the handicap store in Portland, pick up a good set of bearings and mail them to a friend of brother Dan’s who is coming over in a few weeks. Unbelievably, when I pulled off the bad wheel, I discovered the bearing was there, only the driver had installed it on the outside of the wheel instead of the inside. It actually fits better on the outside of the wheel, it just doesn't function. I reassembled the wheel, hopped back in the chair and uttered a huge grunt of relief. Now I was only down to one bad wheel as my right front caster wheel was still broken off.

I’m quite mobile on three wheels, so after breakfast I rolled over to the Internet café and checked my email. I noticed that I hadn’t had any hits on the blog and that's when I discovered I’d been attacked by Chinese hackers. Anybody clicking on the latest post, which talked about the triumphant return of the Dalai Lama to Dharamsala, was greeted by a thousand duplicate windows opening up. Nice security Google! You let those arseholes hack into blogspot! When I went to my own website, www.thcommunications.com, I discovered that it too had been hacked and each page sent out waves of gibberish. (both fixed now) So much for my temporary good mood.

I logged off and headed back to Bhagsu but just before taking on the long climb I decided two weeks on three wheels was enough. I was waiting for a free car from the TCV, but my normal driver was on vacation and it wasn’t their problem anyway. It was mine. I turned around and headed to the cab stand to see how much it was going to run me to get to the gas-welding shop in Mataur, 33 kilometers away.

After a big of haggling and looking pathetic, I got the cab company down to a 700 Rs round trip. That was about 300 Rs less than I thought it would take so again, I was feeling pretty good. It was just after noon and by three o’clock I’d be back on four wheels busting up all the hills Dharamsala could throw at me. The other benefit is that as cool as McLeod Ganj is, it’s a tourist town and I really like going down to Kotwali Bazaar in Lower Dharamsala to see how normal Indians live. And this trip would take me 25 kilometers past that to the blue collar town of Mataur where the REAL Indians live.

Kotwali Bazaar is always buzzing. 

The driver was a great guy who spoke really good English. The night before the great Indian cricketer Sachin Tandulkar had the first one-day two-hundred run performance in the history of cricket. The entire country was giddy over it and the two of us talked about it all the way to Mataur. I couldn’t believe I remembered where the welding shop was, but my instincts pulled me through and before long we were parked in front of the shop and they were looking at my busted wheel post.

The welder asked to see the wheel and I told him it was in my bag. He dug around my bag, looked up and shrugged his shoulders. I shot him a puzzled stare then he passed me the bag. I dug through the bag and an awful realization hit me. Sometimes you have to go through a metal detector in order to gain entrance to the temple. Before leaving the Akash Deep six hours earlier, I took the wheel out of my bag for the first time since it broke.

FOK!!! FOK!!! FOK!!!

No matter where you are in the world, a machinist shop is still a machinist shop. 

I had no choice. We had to return all the way back to Bhagsu, get my wheel which was innocently sitting on my bed and drive back. An hour and a half later (and 700 additional rupees lighter), I found myself back at the Mataur welding shop.

Of course, this was no simple welding job. There was a small disc that cracked that held the entire wheel in place. The welder had to take the entire assembly off; reweld the disc; then reassemble everything. He also had to wait for all parts to cool before continuing on the next part. I thought I would be in and out in a half hour, but more than three hours later I was still looking at my chair in five parts.

Although in India, the girlie calendars are replaced by altars. 

Finally it was reassembled and, according to the welder, ‘stronger than when it was built!’ While the American health system thrives on ripping off the disadvantaged, in India that's some really bad Karma. The total price for three hours in the shop and a weld that nobody else in town could do: 50 Rs. ($1.05). I gave the guy a hundred note and refused to take his change. The driver not only waited for me, he helped hold the parts and put the chair back together. He told me on the way out (the first time!) that he had a baby at home and was glad he was going to make a quick day of it. It made me feel like crap when I opened up the empty bag.

In the end we got back to McLeod around 6:30. I had to make yet another stop at the ATM to pull out the 1500 I owed him for the ride. I hopped in my rig, back on four wheels, and felt solid for the first time in two weeks. I apologized for the delay and thanked him, but he was actually psyched to catch a nice payday – even if his wife called every half hour. He drove off to the cab station and I reached back in my bag to get my leather gloves which I'd also just had repaired.

They, of course, were left under the seat of the cab!