Prayers and Printers

I scramble onto the  local bus heading from the mountain town of Leh to the small monastery of Phyang 20km away.  The bus is already packed with locals.  Today is one of the few summer festivals in the region.  While the oracle of Phyang sits in deep meditation and won't make his appearance till the snow covered winter celebration, today's festivities will include 8hr of brightly colored masked dances performed by the monks.

The bus bumps along and tall snow capped mountains pass outside my window...The high altitude and crisp air makes everything in Ladakh appear to be in HD....It's as if the crystal blue sky with its bleach white clouds has more pixels than the ordinary sky back home.

I slowly become aware of  a low hum, which I first attribute to the creaky bus engine...then I listen closer and realize it's chanting....The old Tibetan women, prayer wheels in hand, have already began to pray.

The small monastery tops a rocky outcrop surrounded by green fields...The courtyard is packed with tourists (cameras at the ready) and Ladakhi families (prayer wheels in hand). The drums and chanting begin.  Small "baby" monks run around in their maroon and saffron robes, obviously giddy with excitement.  Demons and Gods in elaborate embroidered robes and brightly colored masks begin to slowly twirl and leap around the dusty courtyard....I'm mezmorized

Slowly after a few hours the dancing fades into the background and I notice the audience.  I can't stop looking at the older generation of women.  In their brown wool dresses with turquoise jewelry and long dark braids, some topped with bright green and red wool caps,  they sit and chat while their fingers nimbly work over prayer beads.  One old Tibetan women with a weathered face and toothless smile nimbly works her prayer beads and mumbles chants under her breath as she watches the monks transform into gods.

I want to  snap a million photos of those wrinkled smiling faces, yet I notice how they demure as some tourists blatantly snap pictures, many uncomfortably close.  Then I pull out my new toy: The Travel Photo Printer!   After 5 minutes I am surrounded by prayer wheel weilding, braid adjusting women who are pairing up with  friends and patiently waiting as I print out their portrait.  I snap a pic of a Ladakhi women in a traditional satin top hat and her best friend.  A picture of a mother and her child.  The woman with her prayer wheel who poses, smiles, but never stops spinning her prayers.

My printing studio

The women respectfully watch as my small machine prints out their image perched on the dusty ground.  They gently accept the gift and examine it closely as friends point out details and smile at me.  With a kind "Joolay"  they nod and gingerly wrap the picture into their cloth bags.  Hours later i look over to see some groups still examining the photos.

Six hours into the festival and while the monks seem to have all the endurance of the gods and demons they portray I'm exhausted and begin to slump.  I feel a tap on my shoulder and a kindly grandmother I previously photographed ushers me over to her group of friends.  She opens her bag and tears me off a hunk of home baked Ladakhi bread.  Another women then magically pulls a juice box from the folds of her dress.  They hand them to me wordlessly...I munch and we all watch as the gods and demons continue their eternal dance...I send up my own wordless prayer of thanks...All in the small town of Phyang.