Mustang: the last Himalayan kingdom
A dark room, dimly lit by a few candles and dim sunlight Tibet. A sun without force and almost no presence in this corner of the world. Ghostly figures moving through the shadows of the walls. Son Bodhisatvas, beings who after attaining Nirvana have given up the release of the wheel of births to save the rest of us and guide us to the path of the Buddha. Figures that look like demons on animals, Mirror of Tantric Buddhism syncretism Roof of the World.
The old man watching us while we sip our tea. A silhouette sad, with, Chartered over the years and, I temo, almost blind. Mustang is the king of, the mythical kingdom of Lo, access to the Tibetan plateau from India, land of merchants and robbers.
Mustang o Lo, now located in Nepal, has always had a special meaning for Westerners. Box-like in las gargantas del Valle del Kali Gandaki, at the foot of ice giants like Annapurna or Dhaulagiri, was a simple step but forbidden to Lhasa. On 80 the last century Nepalese government allowed small groups of hikers arrival to the capital, the "Forbidden City" of the last Himalayan kingdom, Lo Mahntang. A unique trekking in one of the few places where the old ways and rhythms of ancient Tibet will continue to maintain.
The sound of mantras accompanied us on our way to the home of the king, together with bells shooting yaks and greetings pilgrims and merchants traveling the route.
In a few days we start from the shores of Lake Phewa, paddies and rhododendron curds, entering in a dry country, burnt by the sun that burns hot but the sparse vegetation in this wasteland enduring high. The villages huddle over the hills of the valley, sometimes leaky walls of small caves where ascetics are enclosed for life or depart in astral travel.
Small monasteries, almost say strengths in a land where banditry was until recently the norm. The sound of mantras accompanied us on our way to the home of the king, together with bells shooting yaks and greetings pilgrims and merchants traveling the route. And, in the end, after the penultimate hill, the red walls The walls Mahntang. Not sure if it happened. According to descend to the city, a helicopter flies over us, with two Russian tourists (who prefer to reach by other means to Lo) and the newly appointed Interior Minister Nepalese, Maoist, with the letter of resignation of his powers to the king. Good contrast.
The streets of Lo, little nooks where the dogs growl at our passing, are closed on themselves. Some store, a booth permanently closed and always, background, harvest songs that Lopa, the inhabitants of the city, sing around the walls. And we came back with the king, that is no longer such. The stare, blind woman, follow us one to one. Whispers a few words to his niece, interpreter makes us. Thanks and blessings. And still an awkward silence that breaks the pace of the tour, it attenuates, while the eternal mantra lotus, Om Mani Padme Hum, be heard from the rooms of the small monastery near. Woke up staring at this man, bridge between two eras, and from the terrace of the palace we see off the helicopter back to Kathmandu, over cultivated fields barren landscape torn to.
As the old mantra, nothing stays and all at once. This is what I think to get away from, After one last look, veiled by dust, a journey that sometimes we doubt it happened, a look to the past in a present unreal.
Ann
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What a good article again, Juan Ramón. Congratulations
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ricardo
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Mustang is one of my dreams travelers since a few years ago a good friend told me about a kingdom in the Himalayan mountains where they did not know the wheel. Legend or reality, ignited my imagination. Until today. Great story. I've been wanting to read more Juanra.
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Ruth
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I loved this story. Sometimes you discover the remote places you have never heard anything and immediately want to go. Fuck, world as I have yet to see and I have little time. Greetings
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