You may be curious about why I carried two Beanie Babies on
my three-week trek and took photographs of them
Every
Day.
I am supposed to be twenty-two, right? I travelled the globe
alone for almost two years, I have moved to India to study for a semester. Yet
I still carry my two sixteen-year old stuffed toys with me. Over oceans, across
deserts and now through the snowy, dusty, wet, dry Himalayas.
In Delhi I ummed and ahhed about whether to bring the
monkeys with me; they weigh more, they will take up extra space, I don’t need
to bring them. I took them anyway, because I wanted to. I am glad I did because
Michael and Bonsai provided endless entertainment, made me new friends and
became the protagonists in a number of unforgettable stories. No one is too
grown up for stuffed toys.
The monkeys acted like instant icebreakers and along the way people of all ages fell in love with them. A good few became our friends merely because of the monkeys dangling from my pack. Two Tales of Michael and Bonsai stand out, so I shall recall them for you here.
The First Tale: Chuznit
and the monkey attachment
On numerous occasions I found it difficult to maintain my
resolve and not give Bonsai and Michael away. The most memorable instance of
this was in Kangsar, with Chuznit.
Tenzin Chuznit was about six. She was youngest of the seven
children who dwelt in the classic Ladakhi house beside our campsite. It was
probably my favourite campsite; a garden nestled in the valley leading up to
Phuktal Gonpa and maintained by Chuznit’s mother. There was a table and chairs,
a view up and down the winding valley and far below, through the gorge to a
swollen river. We stayed for a rest day because at that stage (and unknown to
me) my sinusitis was at its worst and I was finding it difficult to walk.
Chuznit was shy until I brought out the monkeys. She grabbed
them as soon as she saw them and began running in circles round the garden,
jumping them from rocks and chatting with them animatedly. Together we made
them rock beds and thrones and after I left she made them a house and then
recommenced running round the garden with them. She had them in her hands all
day and when it was time to help her mum do the afternoon chores she did not
put them down.
Late afternoon I was sick and needed to rest. Mum warned
that if I left the monkeys with Chuznit overnight it would be too cruel to take
them from her in the morning. I called Chuznit over to the tent, made a bed and
told her it was time to put the monkeys to sleep. At first she laughed and then
she looked at me as if I were telling a half-funny joke. When she realised I
was not joking she started shaking her head and backing away from me with
Michael and Bonsai squeezed under her arms. I told her it was their bedtime and
she could play with them tomorrow. Chuznit started to cry and stamp her feet.
I can’t remember why now but at one stage Chuznit put the
monkeys down – to adjust her top or to wipe her eyes? Making the most of the
moment I tucked the monkeys into their makeshift bed and zipped up the tent.
That may have been a bad move. Seeing what I had done Chuznit flew at me. Tears
and snot and dirt covered her face as she hit me and screamed at me in Ladhaki.
I guiltily tried to reassure her with promises of more monkey
time tomorrow but it took her two brothers Tenzin and Tenzin, who carried her
away writhing in the air, and a couple of hours before Chuznit began to calm
down. Mum felted her some juggling balls to play with and I crocheted her a
flower, and it took until the next day before Chuznit and I were truly friends
again.
Tale Number Two: My Ladakhi monkey
It was the big day, the final day; Mum and I had made it to Lamayeru. We trekked up a hot, frying-pan ravine, over the final pass, through the final rice paddies and into the very. final. village. We set up our tents in a shady campsite that gazed up at the majestic old gonpa and a face carved into the cliff below. We drank cold drinks using the last of our $$ and as Mum strolled off to find water I laid out the yoga mat and happily settled down to read my book.
The glory of a rest was short-lived as, three minutes later,
an eight-strong band of boys bulldozed into the campsite. They were all under
twelve years old. Most were wearing ripped old football shirts and ragged
beanies. One, a little one, was in his monastery robes. They glanced around the
camp and made their way straight to my mat.
Arrayed around me, making me feel small and outnumbered
despite their notable youth, the boys asked me questions and laughed and put
their muddy feet on my yoga mat. The boys swarmed Bonsai and Michael the moment
they saw them. Everything about their presence was slightly overwhelming but
the magnitude of their excitement at finding the monkeys took me aback. Within
seconds they had ripped them from their velcro straps on my backpack and
despite my reprimands, began throwing them up into the air. Resistance seemed
futile and (prematurely) deciding they were harmless, I got out my camera. That
added to their excitement and soon the bigger boys were climbing trees and
there was an outright battle to be in every one of my photos.
Where is Bonsai?
Michael disappeared amidst the excitement and when I asked
the boys where he was their arms crossed as they all pointed at each other.
They proceeded to put their arms in the air and say, It isn’t me, search my
pockets mam. Seems as though they are well versed in the good ol’ pat down. It
was a false alarm and I found Bonsai five metres away, lying in the grass. The
boys strapped them back to my bag and once again piled onto the yoga mat to
talk with me, ask for ‘bonbons,’ and pose while Mum took some photos of us. I
started writing my diary again and told the boys it was time to go.
Michael
is gone.
A couple of hours later Mum came up to the mat and asked me
where Michael was. I hadn’t looked at my bag again but now realised he was
missing. I knew then that as Mum took photographs one of them had skilfully and
silently removed the Velcro from around Michael’s waste, slipped him under his
shirt and carried him away. Little brats.
The
rescue mission begins.
I walked up to the road and happened upon one of the older
boys, now meek and concerned and caring for his baby brother and sister. He
knew what I wanted straightaway and pointing to the gonpa looming overhead
said: It was the monk, he is up there.
Mum and I, mission in mind, grabbed our valuables and asked
the mightily concerned Guddu to watch over the camp while we went out to bring
Michael home. I was surprised by a rush of sentiment; Michael’s life (he was my
first toy, given me by my grandmother) flashed before my eyes and I realised I
would be quite sad if I didn’t get him back. Mum was determined; the monkey
needed to be found, justice brought and the parents notified. I agreed that the
boys should not get away with stealing.
As we began our walk up to the gonpa, past the ladies at the
water pump and the shop of young Ladakhis who somehow already knew about the
missing monkey, we met two more suspects. They said it was the monk, But he is
not at the gonpa - he is at home. They pointed. We said, You are coming with
us. Four strong we began the march back in the other direction and down to the
monk’s home. When we arrive there were seven of us. Village girls with good
English had joined the cause and were not going to miss out on the fun. The
boy’s mother said it wasn’t him and at that moment another one of the boys came
along. Three smiling mothers interrogated him and soon he was crying and
telling the whole story.
It was an older boy. He took him. He has thrown him away. In
the rubbish heap. I don’t know. It wasn’t me. Okay I will take them there.
Back in the other direction, we left the crowd behind and
the three boys took us to Michael. He was on a rubbish pile, ripped down the
back, his beans rolling down the path a few metres away. The boys looked
sheepish.
Back to their mums, more had gathered and now the schoolteacher
was there too. They all found it relatively humorous but wanted to make sure we
were happy. When they heard he had been stuffed with beans the monk’s mother
disappeared into her immaculately clean house and returned with a sewing needle,
some red thread, cotton wool and some dried peas.
She and another sewed him up with the best invisible
stitching I have ever seen. They laughed all the while and finished off
stuffing a few inches of yak wool into his bum.
And that is the story of how Michael became a Ladakhi
monkey.
