Photo: Piper Crowell
March 2004 | Journeys
Orphans on top of the World
Rescuing the Children of Dolpo
by Barbara J. Euser
A sense of spirituality pervades Dolpo. In the high Himalaya, thousand-foot cliffs tower over narrow trails winding down to rushing rivers far below. In these immense mountains, a person is insignificant. The presence of a greater power is clear. At every river crossing, on every ridge crest and mountain pass, travelers have constructed shrines — called chortens — in acknowledgement. Each one who passes by adds a rock to the base of the chorten, giving thanks for safe passage.
In July 2003 I, and my two daughters, Helane, 22, and Piper, 18, trekked with a Tibetan Buddhist monk, Lama Tenzin, from Jomsom to Tsharka in Upper Dolpo. We were researching a book about the orphanage that Lama Tenzin directs in Dehra Dun, India. The eleven children there had been identified by Dolpo village leaders as those facing the harshest circumstances. Several of the children’s parents had died. Some girls had been sold as workers. Others had suffered from severe malnutrition. Lama Tenzin and his family established a home for these children on a piece of family property in India. There, the children are raised in a Tibetan household and attend an excellent Indian private school.
The four of us flew from Delhi to Kathmandu, took a bus to Pokhara, and flew to 9,000-foot-high Jomsom. From Jomsom, we walked in the shadow of cliffs up the deepest gorge in the world, Kali Gandaki. The footpath followed the banks of the roiling river. In places, it had swallowed the path, so we scrambled up the steep bank to a ledge, traversed the crumbling hillside, and dropped back down to the river. Others had been forced to make the same tenuous detour. As we passed, we added our own rocks to an elaborate chorten under an overhang in the cliff wall.
At four the next morning, the female proprietor of the inn at Eklibatti tied katas (ceremonial scarves) around our necks and smeared butter in our hair, wishing us a safe journey. For three days, we hiked from early morning until dark, then dropped, exhausted, into our tent.
July is monsoon season in the Himalaya. It rains every day. The only difference is what time it starts. On the fourth day, we climbed the lower summit of Sangda La pass. At 16,000 feet, we moved very slowly, hesitating with each step as we took another breath. Torrential rain kept us from crossing the second, higher summit.
The next morning, we climbed to 16,500 feet and descended the gentler western slope of the pass. We ate lunch at the yak herders’ encampment at Molum Sumna. They spend four months there each summer, grazing their herds at high elevation.
The sixth day of our trek, we reached the village of Tsharka, a medieval town built entirely of stone. The flat roofs of the houses are trimmed in twisted shrubs, pulled up for firewood. In this region, high above timberline, there are no trees. Dried yak dung and tiny shrubs provide fuel. The first child we encountered was a small girl, staggering under the weight of a large metal water jug.
We pitched our tent at the Bon Po Monastery. During the days we spent in Tsharka, Lama Tenzin learned that the little girl we had first seen, six-year-old Choenyi, worked all day carrying burdens in return for food. Her unwed mother, Karma, worked as a maid. She and Choenyi had no home of their own. After hours of conferences with village leaders, Lama Tenzin offered Choenyi the twelfth bed in the orphanage and Karma a job as a babysitter.
During these meetings, the village leaders made it clear that Tsharka wanted its own school. I agreed to help Tsharka meet this goal. In September I met Leona Mason, a teacher who has been working toward this goal for several years, and we began working with the nonprofit organization called Room to Read, toward our goal of building an elementary school in Tsharka this summer.
When we left Tsharka, Choenyi, and Karma came with us. For the return trek, we each had a horse to ride. Where the trail was too steep, everyone walked. The morning we left Tsharka, as all of us were scrambling up a steep slope, one of the horses dislodged a large rock far above Piper and me. Time slowed as the boulder bounced closer and closer — then directly at me. I dove out of the way. I landed on my elbow, shattered it, hit my head, and knocked myself out. When Piper got to me, she thought I was dead. I came to and opened my eyes. I thought I was blind. All I could see was bright white. As my pupils adjusted, Helane and Piper and Lama Tenzin came into focus.
The girls tied their scarves as slings around my right arm and immobilized it next to my body. Our horse packer, Tsultrim, with great kindness and skill, maneuvered me up to the top of the slope. He and Lama Tenzin pulled and pushed me into the saddle.
It started raining in early afternoon. By the time we reached Molum Sumna, we were drenched and shaking with cold. The yak herders welcomed us into their tent and served us sweet milk tea and grilled chapattis. We spent the night next to their tiny stove.
Three days later, we reached the Kali Gandaki gorge. We looked across the gorge to the snow-covered summit of Nilgiri. Before we descended to the river, we paused at a large chorten. With my good hand, I added a rock to its base, giving thanks for our return.
Barbara J. Euser, a former foreign service officer, is a Marin-based writer and author of Children of Dolpo.
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