Dhi to Luri

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Summary and Index


Luri Late again before we say our goodbyes and set off over the suspension bridge and up the side valley to Luri. We skirt around a sandy hillside then walk up a dry stony river bed between soft golden valley sides. A man with an odd forked spade is employed to make small diversions in the course of the stream. The valley sides change to become soft vertical cliffs pocked with meditation caves, smooth sediment runs down to the river bed. Above is the spectaculat flat grass plain divided by deep fissures that we saw yesterday walking over from Lo Montang. Leaving the riverbed we climb slowly to Yara and an odd landscape of grey dried up sink holes. The village school has five children and two teachers, a man and wife. Yara is a scruffy village but we find a tea shop with plastic tables, soup of Maggi noodles supercharged by Kancha’s addition of shredded cabbage. Served by a tall thin woman with an extraordinary pink hat. Tomorrow is a festival and by the side of the path a slaughtered cow is being skinned for the feast.


Ghara village is much tidier than Yara, it’s a longer than expected walk to Luri then suddenly we see stupas down below to our right, towards the cleft formed by the river. The setting is dramatic; there are two main buildings, the main prayer room perched on a flat above the steep sided river valley facing dramatic fluted vertical cliffs, the smalle, older red painted room, reached by ladders, nestled high on the cliffs above. It turns out that the previous grassy campsite is now a building plot. The monk, dressed in civvies, gives the OK to sleep in the prayer room. It’s a Nyingma gompa and the walls are crudely painted almost exclusively with fierce protector deities and figures from the lower realms of hell.


The lama and a young monk take us up a steep climb to the upper building which contains a beautifully painted stupa, sadly we can’t take photos. A side room which we can’t enter apparently contains a fierce but rarely viewed wooden mask. The lama consecrates an image of a stupa Bev bought for me at Bodnath which I wear around my neck. The skies are dramatic while we play frisbee with the lama and monks on the edge of the ravine and a man continues to lay bricks for a new hostel for the monks.


We lay carpets on benches in the prayer room and sleep very well, though Bev hears the sounds of small feet scampering on the wooden floor.


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