Yoga Holidays and Travel Reviews

Do Dragon’s Really Cry?

  Walking the Shamanic Path in the mountains of Ubud

By Rachael Freeland

As I walked up the narrow concrete path that wound its way around the lush gardens of Melati Cottages, the charmingly quaint hotel, we had booked into as part of our “retreat experience” or holiday with a difference, I contemplated not for the first time what a Shaman actually was. The word itself evoked images of Ancient American Indian’s wearing headdresses and paint, and chanting and dancing to their animal spirits. So curious and a little skeptical I climbed the stairs to the beautiful wooden pavilion to meet this “Lujan”, a man who called himself a Shaman and a warrior.

The cool blue eyes struck me first, like ice, seers of ancient wisdom but with a warmth, a mischievousness and innocence like a child’s. Next to register was the chuckle, somewhere between a giggle and a guffaw, and completely infectious. This was Lujan, and there was a timelessness to him that made it impossible to guess his age. Dressed entirely in black there was an overwhelming sense of power, strength and presence. And yet an intriguingly intangible quality that melted into the shadows.

I glanced around at the group that had gathered together here in this wooden pavilion, in the middle of acres of rice paddies on the outskirts of charming Ubud to learn the ancient and until recently, the very secret practice called Dragon’s Tears. Lujan gathered us into a circle, and without too much introduction he instructed us to begin swinging our arms around our waists like helicopters waiting to take off. He talked about energy and my skepticism evaporated as the heat began to build in my hands, like a furnace they radiated. The energy grew as we weaved and wound and swam our arms around us, bending and squatting albeit a little less fluidly than he was. The heat was now in my feet, like I was standing on hot coals, almost unbearable. Whatever we were doing; I was accessing a heat and an energy I’d never discovered before.

The next three days passed by in a flurry of fluid movements and gestures, many of which were imperceptible to the eye, apparent only in our intention. Between workshops we sought out all the luxuries and pleasures that Ubud had to offer. I treated my weary body to daily massages (at $10 an hour), I bargained and haggled over accessories and other handicrafts in the local markets and refueled with a taste tour of Ubud’s finest fare. Banana pancakes for breakfast, crispy spit-roasted pork with mangosteens for lunch (at Babi Guling, where they go through 400 servings each day),or for a more healthy alternative the ultimate every vitamin 6 course lunch at Wayan’s (on Jalan Jembawan) which I invariably followed up with some of the most decadent and creamy coconut ice cream from Three Monkeys (on Monkey Forest Road). In the mornings we returned to our wooden pavilion to continue learning the sequence. For the first two days every movement I completed would fall away, like water when you try to hold it in your hand. But each night my dreams were filled with the flowing sequences of Dragon’s Tears and I would wake up energized but there was something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Not until the third day did I work out what it was: Silence. Stillness. The more we practiced the quieter my mind became, almost as if the chatter in my head had suddenly gone on a holiday all of its own. It was like magic. The only unanswered question remaining was – “what exactly is a Shaman?”

The answer came on the last day when Lujan stood behind one of our group members who looked a little startled at the prospect. He began to move his arms in a way that looked almost as if he were stirring a big pot of water. It was elegant, beautiful, a cross between Tai Chi and Kung Fu and was mesmerizing to watch. But then he suddenly pulled his arms backwards as if pulling a gigantic rope and the student fell backwards – as if that gigantic rope was attached to the middle of his back. The look of surprise on the students face, reflected the surprise that was surely on mine. A Shaman it turns out is an energetic master, a healer, a warrior, someone who can feel the lines of energy that run through our world, our bodies and harness them to do all sorts of extraordinary things beyond comprehension.

After five days I may not be able to pull people over without touching them but I have accessed an energy I never knew existed and my mind has a tranquility to match the meandering serenity of the Balinese.

Lujan is based in Ubud and facilitates Yoga Holidays in conjunction with Yoga Wellness. For more information contact us.

Little Tibet

Top Three Things to do in MacLeod Ganj

MacLeod Ganj is like stepping into another country. Little Tibet. The people are friendly and welcoming with bright open faces and cheeky, mischievous smiles; monks and nuns wander the streets in their robes and sneakers, talking into their mobile phones. On park benches and street market stalls men and women work their prayer beads and waves of tranquility wash around them, you can almost forget the horrific conditions many of these people escaped in order to retain any connection with their cultural beliefs and practices.

Within minutes of arriving, a cool mist begins to make its way up from the Kangra Valley with the speed of an aeroplane taking off, and the series of wooded craggy rises that we spent the last few hours driving through to get to MacLeod Ganj have vanished under a cloak of white. It’s like being up in the clouds, a world unto itself. A cool breeze whistles through the five street town, dampening our skin, and for the first time since arriving in India it’s not due to perspiration. We have seconds to find some cover before what we later discover is the daily torrential downpour. It’s so regular you can almost set your clock to it. At around 2pm every day, no matter where you are, find some cover! Grabbing our bags, we make our way off the muddy street and step into the light and warmth of Pema Thang Guesthouse (Hotel Bhagsu Road) (www.pemathang.net). We are greeted with warm smiles and a graceful pride that speaks to the heart. Our room, “their best because we book so far ahead” is on the third level, and its floor to ceiling windows, overlook the Dalai Lama’s residence and the Kangra Valley, far below the now impenetrable mist. In the mornings we rise to watch the monks’ circumnambulating the temple and turning the prayer wheels, spinning thousands of prayers for compassion out into the world.

Despite the small size of MacLeod Ganj, there are a myriad of things to see and do. But the three must have experiences are:

Tibetan Cooking 101
On one of our explorations of MacLeod Ganj’s five streets we discovered Sangye’s Kitchen (on Jogiwara Road next to the Post Office) and an opportunity to discover the Tibetan art of Momo making. These delicious dumplings became the staple of our diet, and over the course of 2 hours, Singhi, demonstrated the ease at which they were created. We watched him mix the dough and then “pinch and fold” it into a myriad of delicate designs. We provided enthusiastic entertainment which elicited cheeky grins from Singhi as we attempted to emulate his technique. As our first few momo’s fell apart in our rather unskilled hands, he giggled and then showed us once again, how to “pinch and fold, pinch and fold, pinch and fold and pinch and fold.” (imagine if you will a strong accent, almost like you were speaking around a large cherry, drawing out the “inch” in pinch and the “old” in fold as if it were to stretch out for days!). Singhi’s quiet cheekiness was so entrancing we signed up for the full 3 day course. Discovering over the next three days his childlike competitiveness and wicked sense of humour, along with the secrets of baking Tibetan bread when there is no oven. Steamed Tingmo’s and delicious fried Special Brown Bread are Tibet’s unique answer to this dilemma. And as the rain danced on the tin roof overhead, I soon learned there is nothing more heart- warming than a steaming hot bowl of momo soup with a side of special brown bread, warm enough to melt the very generous serving of butter Singhi slathered on the top.

At the end of the three days we were presented with our certificates - and a copy of Singhi’s personal story of his horrifyingly courageous escape from Tibet through ice and snow. His story like so many Tibetan’s is gut-wrenching. Images of people being “ hung from the ceilings (of prisons) with cigarettes butted out on (their) bodies”… and being “beaten with metal wires.” And yet through this cultural devastation and ongoing annihilation there is a level of hope, as people even in the face of this hold fast to their faith and the fundamental philosophies of Tibetan buddhism and compassion.

A Public Audience with HH Karmapa
On Wednesday’s and Saturdays at 2.30pm HH Karmapa, the mid twenties superstar monk, second in charge to HH Dalai Lama gives a public audience that calls hundreds of Tibetans and travelling tourists from the surrounding areas. Unsure what to expect we brave the nail biting, spine shattering taxi ride down the mountain along roads I’m sure were not actually designed for anything outside wandering bullock, to the Karmapa’s residence. The compound is ensconced in a beautiful valley of deeply forested mountains, and the gold and maroon of the buildings creates a warmth like the sun.

Despite this wonder and warmth, the whole experience sent me into a neurotic tailspin as I looked around at the hundreds of people in line who all seemed to be holding a white scarf. I started to panic… I didn’t have a white scarf… was I meant to have one?... where do I get one?... what if I insult someone? Thankfully the line began to move at that point, interrupting my irrelevant musings. We were searched and our bags taken from us and put to the side with 100 other bags… Is it safe? I wondered? Will it be there when I get back? I didn’t get a tag… was there a system? Before I could get any answers we were ushered into the hall where we joined one of four large cues that had formed in a rather organized manner amidst the seeming chaos of, well my mind really. Around us were groups of tiny women, no taller than my waist who, looked as if they had climbed straight out of the mountains 200 years ago, all weathered and worn faces and heavy hessian clothing. Each person, upon being presented to the Karmapa, bowed, presented an offering to his table and received a knotted red string before bowing a second time and walking away. I attempted to memorise the steps but found that the closer I came to the Karmapa, the less I was able to hold these thoughts in my head. I was overwhelmed by a sense of peace, a contentment and warmth, and suddenly all my neurotic ruminations seemed irrelevant and unnecessary. I don’t know what I did, or whether I even did it right, but that feeling remained with me, stilling my mind. And now every time I look at the knotted piece of red string tied around my wrist, I experience that same glimpse of peace, a moment in time, before the enslaught of thoughts returns demanding my attention.

2km walk/adventure
The final adventure came to pass on one of our last days, when we decided to explore the surrounding Areas by foot…There is a 2km walk from MacLeod Ganj through Bhagsu up the mountainside to the temple above in Dharamkot.
On the road winding out of MacLeod Ganj to Bhagsu, is a small but well loved Lakshmi-Narayan temple. You will hear it before you see it because a bell is rung every time someone enters the temple to worship. We smiled with delight as an entire extended family huddled together to pose for the ubiquitous family portrait in front of the temple. It seems it doesn’t matter what country you are from, and whether you say cheese, formaggio or paneer, the awkward smiles are always the same. This family looked like an artist’s pallet, an abstract rainbow of colours brightening up the faded and slightly shabby temple stairs.
Around the corner from the temple is the local baths, where boys and men congregate, chatting animatedly as they soap themselves up pausing momentarily as the icy water stings their skin. And on the banks of the river a little further down the road was a group of monks who were carrying out their own bathing ritual. Maroon and saffron robes were strewn out on the hillside catching the morning sun, as the monks laughes and soaped and washed.
The path began to narrow after that whilst it was not actually dangerous the slate strewn hillside on the other bank was an altogether different story. I stopped dead when a herd of rather mangy looking goats rushed past me followed by a crumpled but wiry 180 year old shepherdess who dashed fearlessly up over the slate. Loose pieces flew out from under their feet as they bounded along but their steps never faltered.
After a small uphill climb, just enough to get the heart and breath racing a little, we finally reached the waterfall. I don’t know what I found more perfect, the way the water rushed over the rocky edge above us with the free abadon of kids jumping from rocks into deep water; or the tiny little shop that had been built into the crevice of the mountain beside the waterfall. Their crates of soft drink were sitting in the shallows of the waterfall… the ultimate in natural refrigeration. Ahh, Indian ingenuity!
The rest of the walk passed by in a series of uphill climbs and flat strolls, passed weeping cherry blossoms, women washing and impromptu cafes operating out of peoples housing servicing the weary walker who discovers half way up the hill that it was indeed much further than the map suggested.
All too quickly, as happens here, the clouds began to darken, growing heavier as they raced once again up the valley engulfing us. A loud growl of thunder rolled across the sky… We headed back through the darkening forest to MacLeod Ganj and at the first T intersection we veered right - along the wrong path. We stumbled into a dense copse of trees, that had a thick mist swirling around the trunks and an eery but strangely magical air, like time had stopped still. Threaded through the soupy white mist was a spiderweb of colour, hundreds of prayer flags weaved around and across every tree, whipped into a surreal frenzy by the wind. Like everywhere in India, it turns out there are never any wrong paths. But before we could get too lost in the philosophy of it all, the thunder rang out again followed by great volumes of water. Within minutes my jeans had soaked up so much water I had to hold them up to keep them falling down to my knees and with no rickshaws in sight (unusual I know) there was nothing to do but surrender, and laugh.

As I get into the taxi, bidding a sad farewell to MacLeod Ganj, I look back one last time, and behind us, the mountain range soars ever upwards, and the splendor of the Himalayan snow caps take my breath away.

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