I was exhausted but thrilled as my friend Gopal Sharma and I walked up the steep, narrow path to Dunagiri village, at 3,651 meters. I’ve wanted to find Hanuman’s mountain for some 30 years. Partly it was the quest for something that is inherently “unfindable”, but I was also intrigued by an unintended side benefit. It is difficult to fly over a sub-continent carrying a mountain like a pizza delivery guy without bits of earth falling to the ground. Where these clumps of medicinal-plant dirt fell, sacred forests sprouted. These holy groves, places rich in healing herbs and generally protected by the local communities, can be found throughout Asia, and during my work in nature conservation I took a particular interest in their existence and the practical, cultural and spiritual benefits such natural gardens provide to local people. How interesting it would be, I thought, to find the mother lode of these sacred forests.
Some people search for Mount Ararat, where Noah landed. Others seek Atlantis, or Solomon’s temple, or the rumored companion city to Machu Picchu. I was searching for a mythical mountain from a story that provides entertainment and moral guidance for hundreds of millions of people.
But where was this elusive rock? I read dozens of books, spoke to a gaggle of scholars. Some Ramayana versions give poetically-vague directions – “Go over the sea and north into the far high Himalaya. At night from the air you will easily see the glowing Medicine Hill of Life, crowned with herbs long ago transplanted from the Moon.” Another version of the Ramayana places the medicinal-plant mountain between the (mythical) Rishabha mountain, full of fierce animals, and the (very real) Kailasa mountain, in Tibet. Yet another instructs Hanuman to fly 9,000 yojanas to the red mountain, then another 9,000 yojanas to the blue mountain, and on and on (Indian scholars who calculate such things estimate that one ancient yojana is equal to approximately 13 kilometers to 16 kilometers). N.C. Shah, of the Central Council for Research in Indian Medicine in Lucknow, pointed me towards Dunagiri by noting that Hanuman’s mountain was located “where kshir, or ocean, was churned for amrita, ambrosia, and where existed two hills, namely Chandra and Drona.” An Indian conservation official said no, the mountain is in his home state of Tamil Nadu, in the south of the country. More prosaically, a friend in Mumbai asked “Why are you interested in this crazy goose chase in the first place? No Starbucks in the mountains.”
Eventually, Ajay Rastogi, a friend in Delhi with whom I had worked during my tenure at the WWF-World Wide Fund for Nature, said that he had heard about a village where some folks refused to share in Hanuman’s communion. Ajay couldn’t make the trip but he introduced me to Gopal Sharma, a tough Indian mountaineer and adventurer. Gopal Sharma had twice summited 7,817 meter Nanda Devi (in one climb he survived a night bivouac without sleeping bag at 7,600 meters, and on another attempt survived a 400 meter fall).
After a comfortable overnight train from Delhi to Haridwar, a holy city where the Ganges leaves the mountains and enters the plains, Gopal and I drove for 12 hours to Joshimath, an Indian hill station in the state of Uttaranchal that suffers from the ugly unregulated construction and traffic of most such resorts. The next morning, driving towards the border with China, we drove another two hours to the trailhead, altitude 2,578 meters, in the general vicinity of the Nanda Devi Sanctuary.
I hike in the Alps on weekends, and am no stranger to the mountains, but I soon tired and huffed and puffed my way to our campsite at Dunagiri village at 3,651 meters.
This was Ground Zero for my search. The hundred or so villagers in Dunagiri (the village, and the mountain of the same name, are sometimes referred to as Dronagiri) were curious, polite, and after a while quite willing to answer the strange questions of an out-of-breath foreigner. You can’t see the 7,066 meter Dunagiri mountain from the village, and Gopal and I hiked up a few hundred meters to get a good view. We were lucky with the weather (on our departure a few days later it began to snow) and the snow-covered mountain shone like a beacon. We clearly saw the gash where part of the mountain was sliced off. Near our lunch-time picnic spot, in the meadows, we found one of the medicinal plants on Hanuman’s shopping list, visalyakarani, which in Sanskrit means “removing spikes and arrows.” G.S. Rawat of the Wildlife Institute of India subsequently identified the plant as Morina longifolia (Dipsacaceae), used locally to heal wounds.
The search for healing plants in the Himalaya has a basis in fact. Scientists and local people alike know well that the Himalayan region is a treasure chest of important medicinal plants which form the heart of the Ayurvedic system of medicine used to treat Lakshmana, and which remains the medical system of choice for tens of millions of Indians, Nepalese and Sri Lankans.
We returned to the village to say goodbye. I just wanted to be clear that I had the story right, and asked Padhan Patti to confirm that she really was upset with Hanuman because he didn’t return the mountain. She nodded, but added a new fillip, another reason for being perturbed. She told the story with a familiarity and acceptance that was as if she was recounting a family that tale which happened, say, a generation ago, like my father’s war stories. Hanuman flew in during a white-out, she said, and couldn’t find the mountain. Unlike most modern men he stopped to ask directions. The only person in the village was an old woman, an ancestor of Padhan Patti’s. The old woman pointed in the direction Hanuman was to fly. “I can’t see it and I’m in a hurry,” Hanuman replied. So he put her on his shoulder and she navigated while he soared. They arrived, Hanuman said “thanks, have a good life,” grabbed the mountain and flew away, leaving the little old lady alone in the middle of a blizzard.
Chapter 3
JUMPING THROUGH BUDDHIST HOOPS IN BURMA
Tina Turner does it, Tom Cruise does it, so does Arnold. Is the Middle Path suitable for trained felines?
INLE LAKE, Burma
“Come on Brochette, jump through this hoop. Arnold Schwarzenegger can do it – it can’t be that hard.”
My friend’s ginger cat in Geneva was doing what cats everywhere do – exactly what she felt like. Which at this moment was not jumping through a hoop.
I was trying to accomplish a similar miracle of perseverance to that which some monks in Burma have achieved. Teaching cats parlor tricks. But Brochette wasn’t buying it. What did the monks have that I didn’t?
Lots of patience and an abundant supply of Friskies, as it turned out.
I was introduced to the famous Burmese jumping cats at the Nga Phe Kyaung monastery, on Inle Lake.
The “jumping cat monastery” is a key stop for the trickle of tourists who visit Burma. There I met Venerable U Nanda, 25, one of a dozen resident monks.
“It’s easy to train cats,” he said, somewhat reluctantly putting down his Burmese comic book. With a large dose of ennui he explained that you simply start when they’re kittens, scratch them under the chin, say kon, and reward them with kitty treats.
Obviously, it works. Every 30 minutes or so, when a group of visitors would accumulate, San Win, an assistant in the monastery, would put the cats through their paces.
“What’s that one called?” I asked, pointing to a black and white tabby.
World-weary U Nanda explained “That’s Leonardo di Caprio.”
“And this one?”
“Demi Moore.”
“Can I try?”
I held the wire hoop in front of Arnold Schwarzenegger, paradoxically one of the skinnier cats in the temple. I gave him a little nudge, ordered him to kon, and after he jumped I rewarded him with a biscuit.
Meanwhile Tina Turner was curled up on my backpack, asleep. “Don’t leave your things on the floor,” U Nanda instructed. “She pisses everywhere.”
After a while U Nanda started to open up. Perhaps he saw that since I wasn’t going to go away he might as well have a discussion. I was interested in Buddhist history, he was interested in conjugating English verbs.
Throughout our conversation, the abbot, Sayadaw Kite Ti, 68, kept his distance and read a book. I don’t read Burmese, but from the pictures of cowboys and horses
I could be pretty sure that it wasn’t a religious text. He didn’t glance up as visitors stuffed relatively generous contributions into the offerings boxes.
A few days later, I trekked an hour up a butterfly-enhanced forest path on Mount Popa, arguably the most mystical hill in this most mystical of countries, to visit a hermit monk named Venerable U Sumana.
Hesitantly, I approached the cave and saw a young monk preparing a fire. I asked if I was disturbing him. Popping in unannounced suddenly seemed like a stupid idea – the last thing I wanted to do was get in the way of his accumulation of karma points. Nevertheless, for a recluse, U Sumana was remarkably outgoing. He had finished his morning prayers, he explained, and invited me to sit on the ledge and chat.
Several years earlier, Venerable U Sumana had taken over the cave that had been the home of U Germany, a legendary monk who meditated in this damp, isolated ledge for 50 years. U Sumana had few possessions, few clothes, and his diet consisted of a handful of rice and some vegetables. To me such isolation, deprivation and rigor would be purgatory. I like my diversions too much – Beethoven, a fine wine, golf, pizza, and the company of friends. U Sumana though had a different view of his adopted home. “It’s shady and cool. It’s easy to get water. I’m in the middle of nature and there’s no one around to distract me from my prayers.” He had bright eyes and an easy smile. He explained he had seen this cave in a dream, and journeyed here from distant Mon state.
My rational, Cartesian mind was racing. “But what do you do all day?” I asked.
Venerable U Sumana, 30, explained simply: “I meditate.” Sometimes sitting. Sometimes moving. He showed me his walking meditation. Very, very slowly, I tried to replicate his movement – I roll from my heel to the toe and hold the opposite foot in the air before placing it down. I concentrate on the action. He explains that this type of practice, called zingyan shouk chin, will clear my mind. Help me to develop patience. Just like training a cat, perhaps.
Back at Inle Lake I sought out U Nanda. I felt I had unfinished business with the young monk, a feeling that there was more to him than a saffron-robed feline-inclined impresario.
“You again,” he said when I walked in. He wasn’t hostile, but he wasn’t overly welcoming.
I deliberately avoided the handful of curious visitors watching Brad Pitt and Michael Jackson leaping about on the linoleum. “Tell me about the temple,” I asked. And he did. He showed me around the 160-year-old monastery, the oldest on Inle Lake. Proudly, he turned on lights so that I could better see the six two-meter tall Buddha images made out of lacquerware, and the gilt-encrusted wooden statues and carved pillars. He took me into the abbot’s room to show me old, sacred Buddha images. In half an hour of looking through different eyes, the monastery for me had evolved from a tourist site into a combination art museum and place of worship
“What do you do?” he eventually asked me.
“I’m a journalist.”
“Then tell people the monastery is more than cats. It’s Buddha.”
Chapter 4
LAST GREAT ELEPHANT HUNTER ACHIEVES INDOCHINE GLORY
He’s notched up 298 pachyderms, and a lucrative product endorsement contract
BUON MA THUOT, Vietnam.
Stardom can be defined in many ways. For Ama Kong it is a number – 298 – the sum of wild elephants he has captured.
Now 90, with failing eyesight but still with a healthy head of hair, Ama Kong is the Michael Jordan of elephant hunters. He is, by his accounts, the second most successful elephant hunter in the country (his late uncle, Ama Krong, holds the title, with 487 animals). Ama Kong has hobnobbed with royalty and government dignitaries. He proudly shows a nasty groin scar from a tusking – a badge of honor. And Ama Kong has his own signature brand of medicinal wine, the Vietnamese equivalent of having a sneaker named after you.
The gold lettering on the wine’s striking red box reads “Good for strengthening a man’s back and kidneys,” an Asian euphemism indicating that this is a powerful sex tonic.
And Ama Kong is walking proof, having sired 21 children from four wives. The tonic might also explain his fine memory, since he is able to remember the names and birthdays of his spouses and offspring, including the youngest, a curious girl of seven named H’Bup Eban, who can’t resist clambering on to dad’s lap. But there are some things that even herbal tonics can’t fix – his upper teeth are bright, intact, and obviously false compared to the red rotting stumps of his lower teeth, destroyed by years of chewing betel.
Ama Kong is likely to be the last elephant hunter superstar, since the animals are protected by Vietnamese law, fewer young people learn the skills today, and, most importantly, because there are far fewer elephants around to catch.
Vietnam’s elephant population has declined dramatically in recent years, falling from a maximum estimated population of 2,000 animals in 1980 to just 114 in 2000.
The domesticated elephant population has similarly declined. In Dak Lak province, where Ama Kong lives, located in the Vietnamese Central Highlands near the Cambodian border, there were some 300 domesticated elephants in 1990; that number decreased to just 138 in 2000.
But how exactly do you capture a wild elephant?
Moving slowly (when you’re 90 arthritis seeps in, even with the help of medicinal wine) Ama Kong demonstrates the procedure.
First he blows on a trumpet made of buffalo horn to seek the support of the forest spirits. He then explains how he would go into the forest with several domesticated elephants (always an odd number of animals – odd numbers indicate male power; even numbers female) and look for a herd of wild pachyderms. The domestic elephants are Judas elephants, he explains, since they are able to mingle with the wild herd, even when mahouts sit atop their necks. The group tries to isolate a baby or juvenile (“easier to train than an adult” and a whole lot easier to catch). Using a kind of cowboy lasso technique, Ama Kong shows how he would catch the prey’s foot with a rattan loop attached to a long stick. The lasso was attached to a hundred meters of handmade leather rope made from water buffalo skin, and as the baby elephant ran it would get hopelessly entangled in the trees. The domesticated elephants would then take over and escort the kidnapped baby as far as possible from the wild herd. When the elephant hunters camped at night they lit fires and beat gongs to frighten away the wild animals which had come to rescue the crying infant.
Ama Kong has also captured eight rare white elephants, which he describes as being “like the French because they have yellow eyes and fair skin”. Because of the scarcity of white elephants and their importance in Buddhist cosmology, which in turn consolidates the power of kings, these animals brought him into contact with royalty from Thailand, Laos and Cambodia.
In 1996, at the age of 81, Ama Kong captured his last elephant. This was five years after his hunting ground was made into a national park and elephants were declared a protected species.
“It’s a shame the government won’t let us hunt anymore,” he says. “I’m still strong enough to lead a group of hunters into the forest.”
Chapter 5
BURMA’S GENERALS HOPE WHITE ELEPHANTS PROVIDE JUMBO SUPPORT
Trying to restore some of the good vibes that come with rare pale pachyderms
RANGOON, Burma
Most new national capitals feature monumental architecture, statues to independence heroes, broad boulevards, cultural centers and shopping malls.
Burma’s new, deliberately-isolated and rarely visited capital, Naypyidaw (which means “royal capital” in Burmese), some 320 kilometers north of Rangoon, apparently has few of these standard features.
But Naypyidaw may soon have something even rarer and more portentous – a new white elephant. Word around Rangoon has it that one of these rare creatures, a male, has been captured and is kept in the Phokyar Elephant Camp in Bogo Division, some 350 kilometers distant. Once an auspicious date can be determined, the animal will be unveiled in the new capital.
It’s unclear why Burma’s rul
ing generals chose to move the capital from Rangoon (the junta changed the city’s name to Yangon and the country’s name to Myanmar) to Naypyidaw. Some wags say the new, inland capital was selected to protect the petroleum-rich country from an Iraq-like invasion by the United States. Another argument is that the centrally-located Naypyidaw allows the army a better chance to patrol the restive border regions of the ethnic Shan, Chin and Karen states. Regardless, an underlying incentive is the belief that a Burmese king (or in this case General Than Shwe, the country’s senior leader) could consolidate his power by listening to court astrologers and creating a new capital.
Burmese rulers have always been in the sway of fortune tellers. General Ne Win, who came to power in 1962, was totally dependent on their advice. Fortune tellers told him to change the direction of traffic overnight, which he did, causing huge confusion and numerous accidents. He had a penchant for the number ‘nine’, and in 1987 the government removed the 25, 35 and 75 kyat notes and replaced them with 45 and 90 kyat bills; denominations which could be divided by his favorite number.
(Even today seers determine propitious times for major events. The present military junta began moving government ministries from Rangoon to Naypyidaw at exactly 6:37 am on 6 November 2005. Five days later, at 11 am, a second convoy of 1,100 military trucks carrying 11 military battalions and 11 government ministries left Rangoon.)
The Sultan and the Mermaid Queen Page 6
