It’s the most wonderful time of the year

My arrival in Paga has coincided with two equally dramatic calendar events: the rainy season and Ramadan.

Both regularly provide loud and atmospheric reminders that this is their time.

The rains strike quickly but with some warning. An unbearably hot day of around 36 degrees with sunny blue skies will suddenly become so dark, within only a minute or two that you will need to turn on the lights just to read a page in your book. Angry black and grey clouds roar overhead bustling against and over each other, racing impatiently to their final destination. With them comes the wind. The first taste is a touch of a light breeze that makes the curtains flutter and brings with it a cool fresh relief into the stuffy house. A few minutes more and stationary fans will begin to move, powered by the uninvited wind tunneling through the house. There are no windows here, not as we know them at least. Instead there are a series of open glass panels whose angles you can change by forcing a leaver. You can never really close them but you can change the angles of their tilt should you feel the need for more or less air from outside. Soon the wind is racing through the house and then comes the thunder and lightening. Enormous pounding blasts of thunder that make the ground shake and warn everyone to take shelter ASAP. And then the sky empties. In only a few minutes the ground outside is a river and the rain so solid that you can barely see a tree just a few metres in front of you. To be in it for more than two seconds is to be soaked thoroughly to the skin. But nobody risks this. For once there isn’t a soul to be seen outside. No cyclists, no cars – not even a goat. I have seen more rain fall in ten minutes here then I expect Ireland gets in a good rainy six months. It’s biblical and fascinating to watch. The ground cannot keep up with the speed of the deluge and everywhere becomes one muddy lake within seconds. Soon into the storm the electricity goes out adding to the drama and afterwards the mobile phone networks go down. It’s like the opening scene of an apocalypse movie, every few days.

And then after a few minutes, or an hour, the sky has exhausted itself and just as suddenly it all ceases. The wind is instantly gone but the air remains cool and clean as if a brand new supply has just been delivered as a reward for the days of oppressive heat just gone.  It will take a few hours for the sun to reach its full potential again, all the while the Ghanaians talk about how cold it is. I watch them shivering as I laugh to myself – the temperature will be around 20 degrees or so – a heatwave for Ireland!

Ramadan announced its commencement in as just an obvious manner. It was all the more startling as its triumphant arrival happened at 5am. We live opposite the tiniest mosque I think I have ever seen. It is a beautiful, unimposing building that has more charm than space and for the first week here I hadn’t recorded a single soul entering or leaving the building. I would estimate that it could hold 10 believers, at a squeeze.

Because of its inactivity I assumed that it had been abandoned for a more modern, larger version somewhere nearer the centre of town. And then, on the first day of Ramadan I was awoken by an abrupt deafening wailing that seemed to come from the corner of my bedroom. I shot up in fright and confusion and quickly recognised the Arabic lilt of the call to prayer. There was no imam hiding in my wardrobe – the source was clearly from the miniscule mosque that I had mistakenly believed to be dormant. I was utterly flabbergasted that a tiny mosque could make such an all consuming sound. I have travelled to many countries where I have been woken by such prayers but the volume here was clearly made to compete with any thunder that nature could throw in its way. Or perhaps their aim is to be heard across the border in Burkina Faso. If that was the case then they certainly succeed.

Not only is the call to prayer broadcast for all in the region to hear but so is their entire nightly service, and every prayer during the day and evening too: all at impressively godly volumes. It has got to the stage that I have witnessed the repetitive chants so often and with such volume that I have found myself singing them to myself while waiting in line in the local shop or while cycling to work, as if it were some catchy new pop song.

Who knows, perhaps a miraculous conversion is in the making. More likely however is that I am now so sleep deprived that my brain has resorted to repeating simple phrases over and over again, unable to deal with anything more complex.

Like the cool relief that the rains bring I am counting down the days for the end of the holy month – and the uninterrupted sleep which will follow. I expect it to be utterly divine.

This grips me more than would a muddy old river or reclining Buddha

After saying goodbye to my temporary travel buddies I hardly had time to get used to being on my own again when I joined the fifty other people who were all going to Tibet with me. The only way to Tibet these days is on a organized tour, thus the enormous gang of us. We made our way by bus along the crazy Nepali roads to the border. After lugging our bags uphill in the intense heat we walked for further ten minutes before coming to the border posts to deal with the intricacies of getting into Tibet. Reminiscent of North Korea the guards searched everyone’s bags for any copies of the China or Tibet Lonely Planet or any anything that gave the impression we were best friends with the Dali Lama.

After we had all successfully managed to be declared safe and not a threat to mother China we gathered on the bus that was waiting for us and we very slowly made our way on the road leading into the Tibetan mountains. Every few minutes we had to stop for half an hour or so to allow another vehicle pass on the shockingly narrow road. On one side of us was hard and towering Tibetan rock while on the other was an even harder shear drop down into the valley below. Needless to say we felt more comfortable waiting outside the bus as the vehicles played leap frog with each other. At a late and dark hour we eventually reached our simple dormitories in a simpler guesthouse in a tiny village called Nyalam. Possibly doubling the local population, our arrival coaxed intense curiosity from the natives as many came to stare at the circus of foreigners that had rolled into town taking photographs of everything from yaks to the doors of their homes.

The next day we again made slow progress further into Tibet stopping off for various police checkpoints, toilet breaks and photo opportunities. Having never seen Seven Years in Tibet and based on this first hand experience I can only assume it recounts an arduously slow road trip to Lhasa.

But oh what scenery. I can honestly say that I was spellbound by how beautiful the landscape is. I have seen mountain peaks and passes before but never with such stunning beauty. With a backdrop of the bluest sky imaginable the mountains rose up around us stretching their way to nirvana. Prayer flags fluttered in the breeze and every now and then a shepherd or farmer would come by to have a good look at the busload of people who were disturbing the sacred peace of the area. Despite the ridiculously high altitudes I managed not to feel ill and only once when I raced off to the bus and ran outside ridiculously eager to start snapping did I feel dizzy and out of breath. Seeing as that was at 5,200 metres it’s no wonder that my body was crying out for more oxygen. One poor member of our herd was less fortunate and was so ill that there was talk of a helicopter lift and oxygen tanks. Fortunately we had about four doctors in our midst so he was well cared for and was pumped with helpful drugs and soothing advice and reassurance and just about managed to survive the experience.

We stayed two nights in Shigatse where we visited the charming monastery filled with Buddhas of every description and size. There were shrines to the Panchen Lamas (second only to the Dali Lama in importance to Tibetan Buddhists) and we were told how the current 11^th one had ‘gone missing’ after being taken by the Chinese along with his entire family after which a state-produced one was installed in his place. His picture was (forcibly) visible in the monastery too but it was clear that there was love lost for this imposter. This is one of the many reminders that Tibet is not Tibet but a part of China being constantly rough handled by the mighty empire.

But walking about the town you could see that people were practicing their faith regardless. They would wander about town swinging their prayer wheels and flashing toothless grins whenever they caught sight of us. After hiking up the highest hill in the area we decided to have a refreshing drink on a terrace in front of a bar in the centre soaking up the strong sun’s rays. As we sat, there was a constant stream of locals who came right up and stood mere centimeters from us and stared for minutes on end. We began to feel like we were in a zoo and we were the animals. The bizarre scene was so innocent though that we couldn’t help ourselves and just grinned back at them unable to hold our return gaze for quite as long as these patient people.

After visiting the next city, Gyantse, it was hard to believe that it was Tibet at all. Practically the entire town could be mistaken for any other in China and the people were almost all Chinese too. At the monastery I also began to loose some respect for the Buddhist faith as they seemed more intent on collecting money than showing any signs of peace or compassion. Monks whizzed by listening to their ipods and chatting on mobile phones while charging you anywhere between 2 and 70(!) euro to take a photo in a chapel. And they charged separately for each room you wished to photograph. At least they weren’t hiding their greed but I stubbornly refused to taken even one photo in any of the monasteries in Tibet. I found the manner in which devotees ostentatiously left money at the statues and altars also quite distasteful.

I felt a much greater spiritual force at work in the landscape of Tibet and it was hard not to feel a presence of God as we made our way along Yamdrok lake, one of the most stunning bodies of water I have ever seen. The deep Tibetan blue of the sky matched completely the bright blue of the water. After taking countless photos I looked around to see almost all my fellow travellers just staring out at the scene ahead speechless and deep in their own private thoughts.

By the time we finally got to Lhasa on day six I had fallen in love with Tibet, at least the landscape and people. Lhasa will never be what one expects however. The city is crawling with armed soldiers, snipers on roofs, police and SWAT teams. Mixed in with that startling assembly were pilgrims making their way around the city by falling flat on the ground and moving their bodies forward half a metre or so by their arms only to stand up, say a prayer, and repeat the process over and over again until they completed a painfully slow circuit of the city. They also do this right in the middle of the busiest shopping street and more than once I almost accidentally threaded on a devotee who had unexpectedly plummeted to the ground.

Visits to the stunning Potala Palace and Jokhang Temple were quite disheartening as monks were noticeably in short supply. Instead of believers, tourists overran the place and eerie looking individuals were following groups clearly listening to the guides’ speeches to ensure that nothing but the party line was being conveyed.

As for me I was adopted by a wonderful bunch of Germans who very kindly spoke in English the entire week to ensure I felt included. Experiencing new places in good company is such a treat and I felt very lucky to have met these friends. We shared all our meals and countless laughs together and on the last night we walked to the palace to take pictures of it lit up against the backdrop of a water show on the big communist square built by the Chinese, possibly to draw your attention away from the dominating symbol of Tibetan Buddhism.

I left Tibet full of wonder at the nature I had witnessed in this special land. I also left believing Buddhism to be just another religion that misses the point of what is important in life. In my less than educated knowledge of the religion, which I know should mean that I would be better not to make rash judgments, they seem more bogged down in money and reincarnating lamas than being kind and loving to each and every human which is what I believe life should be all about.

Much more importantly however it’s hard not to leave Tibet without deep sympathy for the people whose entire faith and culture is being systematically destroyed by one of the world’s mightiest superpowers. What on earth the Chinese are scared of is beyond me. The worst I can imagine these kind and simple people inflicting on anyone is a big dent in your pocket or at the worst an accidental whack of their prayer wheel.