I overheard an older gentleman telling a story about Haa. All the children throughout the region, he said, knew if they didn't eat a hearty dinner on the night before the festival, the elves would come and steal them away in the night. This is a very old wive's tale, he explains, "I grew up believing it was real too," though he never made any assurances that there was no threat of elves today.
So, a few weeks later when we boarded a bus heading west, I already had this image conjured in my mind of little people with felt hats poking their heads out from behind boulders and curtains of lichen.
We drove six slow, bouncy hours on the bus, chatting and making faces at the little girls. At our lunch stop we witnessed a humorously heated argument between a police officer and some passengers traveling in a bus overflowing with cabbages. Arriving in the main Haa village, we transferred to a local bus and stuffed ourselves like cabbages in the back. The road unravels north along the valley floor until it hits a solid blockade of mountains. A drunk man sings and tells lewd jokes that have the whole bus roaring in laughter. When he starts obnoxiously harassing a young schoolgirl that boards, people keep their giggles more muted. We get off in a village about 15km before the big military base at the end of the road.
The afternoon fog is creeping in, the color of the air matches the river we follow down to the Soednam Zingkha Heritage Lodge. The compound is an old farmhouse, converted into a super cozy guesthouse, that on special request, will make you the best hinte (buckwheat momo) in Haa.
A narrow, winding path outlined in moss covered stone walls meanders through the village between fields of purple flowers, gardens of florescent mustard greens and mud houses. Hay spills from the top windows of the houses; open air attics bursting with a long winter's supply of fodder. Everywhere you can hear the chime of bells each time one of the many water wheels completes a rotation.
The air is dewy and our skin drinks thirstily. We spend the days walking, following disappearing cow tracks through the alpine rain-forest, and waiting out the heavy showers under an umbrella of trees. The place is palpably alive. Dampness clings to everything, the ground exhales with each step sinking into her soft cushion, the flow of the river fights to breach its banks but big, smooth boulders and tangles of ferns keep the rapids contained. Neon mushrooms grow in humid logs and tiny flowers explode everywhere, splattering the fields with blobs of pinks and purples.
this is where I'd roam.
I scatter throngs of wild iris
that slides down
So, a few weeks later when we boarded a bus heading west, I already had this image conjured in my mind of little people with felt hats poking their heads out from behind boulders and curtains of lichen.
We drove six slow, bouncy hours on the bus, chatting and making faces at the little girls. At our lunch stop we witnessed a humorously heated argument between a police officer and some passengers traveling in a bus overflowing with cabbages. Arriving in the main Haa village, we transferred to a local bus and stuffed ourselves like cabbages in the back. The road unravels north along the valley floor until it hits a solid blockade of mountains. A drunk man sings and tells lewd jokes that have the whole bus roaring in laughter. When he starts obnoxiously harassing a young schoolgirl that boards, people keep their giggles more muted. We get off in a village about 15km before the big military base at the end of the road. 
The afternoon fog is creeping in, the color of the air matches the river we follow down to the Soednam Zingkha Heritage Lodge. The compound is an old farmhouse, converted into a super cozy guesthouse, that on special request, will make you the best hinte (buckwheat momo) in Haa.
A narrow, winding path outlined in moss covered stone walls meanders through the village between fields of purple flowers, gardens of florescent mustard greens and mud houses. Hay spills from the top windows of the houses; open air attics bursting with a long winter's supply of fodder. Everywhere you can hear the chime of bells each time one of the many water wheels completes a rotation.
The air is dewy and our skin drinks thirstily. We spend the days walking, following disappearing cow tracks through the alpine rain-forest, and waiting out the heavy showers under an umbrella of trees. The place is palpably alive. Dampness clings to everything, the ground exhales with each step sinking into her soft cushion, the flow of the river fights to breach its banks but big, smooth boulders and tangles of ferns keep the rapids contained. Neon mushrooms grow in humid logs and tiny flowers explode everywhere, splattering the fields with blobs of pinks and purples.
Sitting under the sprawling branches of a hefty pine tree, listening to the river roar, we drink a maté and wait for the rain to ease. My pen drifts to the page and my thoughts wander upstream where I knew they are sure to hide. The moments that follow are blurry as the gnomes took me on a journey...
If I were a gnome
If I were a gnome
this is where I'd roam.
Home
beneath the pine,
drinking a glass of sour berry wine.
I lay my head upon a boulder
cushioned with moss.
Cloaked in flies
I walk silently through the world
on carpets of pine needles
and baby ferns.
I forage wild mushrooms,
Oh, the finest delicacy of all
in every color of the fall!
kinds humans and animals cannot eat.
Red ones are my favorite,
orange, a real treat.
Painting flowers as I go
I scatter throngs of wild iris
and giant cones of blackberries
for the fairies.
Hidden secrets just for us.
Humans cannot see them
because they don't notice,
always looking up and away
at places they'll never reach.
Missing what's around them
right under their feet.
Me, they don't believe in
so this keeps me safe.
I stay in the hills
where leopards protect me.
Travel at night
under cover of the moon.
Bathe in the rain and
fish in the rapids.
Make love the the butterflies
who mingle with the bees
so every single flower
is a piece of me.
But now that I'm old
my stories must be told
to everything that will listen.
I tell the birds in the trees
who sing to the snow on the peaks
that slides down
to send a warning
of the things I've seen
on my mossy rock when I sleep
I dream
Of trees falling dead
and rivers turning red
when they smash against a wall.
I wake up with a fright
but everything here is alright,
the sun shining bright
above me.
In my pine cone pipe
I pack and I light
a bowl of that Himalayan purple
Elevated herbals.
My body relaxes
and the clouds get fluffy.
I lay back
smokin' lovely.
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| mrc |
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| Granny with her one hitter |
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| Sometimes you fall... Do it with style. |
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| ...and hope you don't fall on this |
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