Act I: Masked Dance at Hemis Festival
The Hemis Festival in Ladakh, India, is a vibrant two-day celebration in the beginning of June, marking the birth anniversary of Guru Padmasambhava, revered as the incarnation of Lord Buddha. ‘Happy birthday, dear Guru,’ I think to myself as I pedal for 2,5 hours from Leh on the banks of the muddy Indus, finally arriving at a barren, rocky slope.
(Before you continue reading, I suggest you to put on Tibetan Buddhist Chants as the background music. Enjoy.)
The uphill road is lined with cars and motorcycles. Hemis Monastery slowly emerges from the yellow cliffs, almost blending into the landscape. Only at the final bend does the full view of it unfold before me. I push my bike up the steep path through a crowd of people dressed in festive clothing, past stalls selling snacks and along curious glances. A policeman refuses to let me lock my bike to a post in the car parking area, so I wheel it through the restaurant’s doors instead.
I join the table and order tea. Soon, I strike up a conversation with two Italian travelers, Maggie and Lisa. We hit it off and end up spending hours together, sitting on the monastery roof with a perfect view of the stage and the ancient masked dances.
As we chat, I casually discover that Jonas, the Norwegian cyclist who joined our group back on Hormoz Island for New Year’s, is also somewhere in the crowd!
Men dressed in ceremonial hats play music and sing on a decorated balcony. The rhythm of longhorns, drums, cymbals and the monotonous chanting of prayers fills the air. The sun beats down relentlessly; the audience seeks refuge under umbrellas, hats and layers of sunscreen. Horrific masks swirl around the flag in the center of the courtyard.
They represent gods, demons, gatekeepers, protectors. I cannot grasp the story they tell for hours and hours over two days, it feels too abstract. The images of dance, set to the trance-inducing music, seem to depict transitions between different states of life, death and afterlife.
For me the performance becomes a meditation on death. Everywhere skulls are present. Among the attributes masked monks carry are weapons, musical instruments and white powder – which skeletal figures interactively sprinkle onto the audience.
Even the weather becomes part of the theatre: a light rain surprises us, followed by a wild wind that causes the flags to flap furiously. Yet the dance continues at the same pace.
Something ancient and primal unfolds before my eyes, sending a shiver down my spine. From a distance, I try to make sense of the scene: a red figure resembling a voodoo doll is surrounded by skeletons bending over it. Later, in conversation, a local teenager casually refers to the doll as a ‘teddy bear.’ When I examine it up close the next day, I realize it’s a red figure with a prominent phallus, its head and limbs already severed. Several masked figures wound and cut the doll, while monks in red robes offer pieces of its body.
While studying this sacrificial ritual in more detail, I learn about a sculpture made of dough representing evil forces. It is destroyed by the leader of the Black Hat dancers, symbolizing the banishment of evil spirits. The broken pieces of the sculpture are then scattered in four different directions, signifying the purification of the soul after death.
On the afternoon of the first day, accompanied by magnificent music, the thangka, a large depiction of His Holiness Guru Padmasambhava, is ceremonially taken down. A procession of musicians, carrying the sacred portrait, departs the balcony in a ritualistic manner. Every 12 years, during the Tibetan Year of the Monkey, the largest thangka is displayed. Spanning two stories and adorned with semi-precious gems, stones and pearls, it attracts thousands of people who journey from remote corners of the high-altitude desert, driven by faith and spirituality.
When the crowd disperses I enter a museum housing ancient Buddhist artifacts. Just above the stairs leading to the museum basement, I get shocked: a touring bicycle hangs on the wall!
His Holiness, the 12th Gyalwang Drukpa, undertook a cycling journey from Kathmandu to Hemis accompanied by 200 nuns, spreading a message of peace, gender equality and environmental care. He earned the nicknames ‘Rockstar Monk‘ and ‘Guardian of the Himalayas.’ I wish I could meet him – a smiling monk with round glasses.
In the main temple of the Hemis Monastery I join the prayer and drumming. The vibrations resonate through my body. On the walls I notice three large, colorful depictions of monstrous deities engaged in a sexual act, their numerous arms spread around their exposed bodies. What kind of meditation do such images inspire? Mastery of passion, control of desiring bodies? I don’t understand; it feels paradoxical yet beautiful.
In the evening I search for a spot to pitch my tent and visit the golden Buddha statue above the monastery. I arrange to stay on a terrace beneath the monastery walls, where cooks are preparing meals for the monks in massive pots. I meet an Estonian traveler and her Indian friend, who are also looking for a camping spot. In the kitchen we talk over noodles with vegetables and mushrooms. Girls from a nearby village join us. In a wonderful exchange, I try to understand what the masked ritual means to modern people. I realize it remains deeply significant and alive. The muffled sound of longhorns echoes in the night.
I have breakfast by the tent in a small wooden hut before heading to the festival ground. Finally, I spot Jonas – bearded, long-haired, and dressed in a tattered shirt! We hug and sit together in the shade, waiting for the masked dance to begin. We chat, reminiscing about our adventures. He’s returning from Nepal, heading back toward Pakistan. Elderly women spin prayer wheels in their hands. As the ceremony drags on without starting, we decide to grab lunch. I gift him my gas canister for cooking, as he’s run out of fuel. Later that day, he pedals off toward Manali. Such are the ways of touring cyclists, our paths cross and part as if the world was a mysteriously small place.
I catch the end of the performance, the dramatic beheading of a ‘puppet.’ Sitting in the front row, I’m showered with white powder by a skeletal figure. The last act belongs to the child monks, who flit about like little ghosts. A kind of king, seated on a throne, beats a drum solemnly. Then the thangka is ceremonially lowered and an all-encompassing silence falls.
I walk for an hour along the path climbing above the monastery, weaving between scattered pilgrims and monks. A simple temple stands around a cave where meditation once took place. Visitors press banknotes onto a boulder, beneath which golden deities sit enveloped in incense smoke. A woman, hands clasped in prayer, prostrates herself on the ground. A monk pours holy water into my palm; I rub it into my hair and forehead. I sit silently for a while, meditating.
In another room of the old temple complex, lined with shelves of ancient scripture volumes, people bow before a monk offering life advice and blessings with a white scarf. When the room empties, leaving just the two of us, we chat. He shares his love for cycling and swimming. ‘Swimming?’ I ask, surprised. ‘Where do you swim?’ ‘The sea is dangerous,’ he replies, ‘but the pools in 5-star hotels are perfect.’ Many monks wear golden watches and travel extensively.
I drink salty butter tea in the courtyard before returning to my bicycle. Battling a fierce headwind I manage to reach Leh, 45 kilometers away, just as dusk falls. On the street, while sipping a warm bowl of thenthuk (Tibetan noodle soup), I lock eyes with two familiar faces from the festival. We exchange a few words – Maggie and Lisa promise to return soon before rushing off. After finishing my meal, I head to my guesthouse to check in. My phone dies and my charger fails to cooperate. Hoping to meet the two friends again, I wander into the city center. But after a brief encounter, we lose each other. On an empty dark lane I savor sweet lassi.
Interlude
The days that follow are peaceful and restful. I laugh and bond with travelers from Europe and India, tasting the famous Malana cream as it makes its way around a table laden with empty plates after a delicious Indian dinner.
I visit several agencies, gathering information about climbing a 6,000-meter peak. Mentok Kangri II, a mountain above Tso Moriri Lake, catches my attention – no one has attempted it yet this season. Nadia, who works at Mero Expedition, is the only one to provide me with a realistic breakdown of costs: guide, transport, gear rental and permits. I calculate that the trip would only make sense with a partner, done in a light and fast style. Will I manage to find a climbing companion?
Wandering through town, I carry a handful of white carrots in my backpack, bought from local vendors. I hope to feed the donkeys that occasionally roam the streets. It turns out they like only green parts, so I offer the carrots to the cows instead. Near my guesthouse, among the white stupas at the peaceful Gomang shrine, I juggle to awaken old feelings, preparing for street performing – something I haven’t done for months.
Act II: Pocket Juggling – Busking in Leh
The first evening of performing my Pocket Juggling show is magical! In an instant, a crowd of over hundred people gathers around me. I organize them into a suitable distance, phones aimed at me and at the trails my juggling balls leave in the air before vanishing back into my pockets. I play and improvise as music streams from a speaker mounted on my bike.
In the following, I intentionally write in fragments, reflect and touch on some anecdotes that have stayed with me. I don’t wish to reveal the content of the show. Each time, together with the audience, we build a space-time in which trust is possible – a trust that allows a stranger to peek into your pocket. I explore the boundary between the private and the public, bringing a fragment of unpredictability into the everyday life of the street.
It’s the small details that matter most to me. Offering a bitten banana. Shaking hands. Giving away the banana peel. I interact with a curious toddler who wanders onto my stage, guiding him gently back to his parents. Suddenly I reach into pocket after pocket, the crowd shifting a step back like a wave to stay away from me. I play with this beautiful motion.
From their pockets I pull out tobacco, a phone, two wallets, a crumpled wrapper, a Ladakh souvenir, tablets with an instruction leaflet. (I have a list of all items written in my diary.) I entertain myself by mimicking someone recording me with their phone, coming within a few centimeters of their lens with a phone from someone else’s pocket. This is a small world with my own poetic rules, exsisting just here and now on this crowded street. People trust me. I realize how crucial it is to return each item respectfully and with gratitude in the end, drawing applause from the audience.
When suddenly the call to prayer rings out from the mosque, I pause the performance and stop the music. Staying in character, dressed in my blue costume beside my bicycle, I sit quietly. The crowd waits with me for few minutes until the call fades into silence. I truly have their attention. After the performance they come to talk to me, invite me for a meal or tea, and I pose for photos with my hands in strangers’ pockets.
I feel happy and encouraged to shift focus from cycling for a while. I’m exploring and developing my show while earning more than enough money to support my stay in Leh. The next day I park my bicycle in the same spot. Youngsters on the street greet me with playful gestures, mimicking juggling. I return their smiles. A bearded shopkeeper from a nearby souvenir shop approaches, urging me to relocate, claiming I’m hurting his business. I refuse. The show begins, lively and whimsical. This time I pull a slip of paper, tobacco and a wallet out of people’s pockets. I finish with a successful five-balls act, express my gratitude to the audience, they start dropping rupees into my hat when …
… through the crowd four police officers in brown uniforms approach, asking me to accompany them to the station. Staying in character, I slowly pack up, offer them bananas and insist on cycling to the station instead of taking their vehicle. The crowd watches this absurd scene unfold. Was it the shopkeeper who called the police on me? A female officer walks me to the station. I play with the idea of escaping but decide to embrace the bizarre turn of events.
At the station they check my documents. Their main grievance? My bicycle in a pedestrian zone! When I assure them it’s only for carrying props, not part of the act (leaving out the part about picking wallets), they seem convinced. They point to two musicians from Rajasthan sitting on a bench in the dark corner of courtyard. They were caught performing without permit as well. The officer suggests we improvise a quick show together for the gathered police staff, a dozen of them. Strings vibrate into melody; I pull juggling balls from my pockets, still in costume, and juggle. Soon I slip out of the crazy situation, free and grinning ear to ear. Luckily, musicians are released too.
It’s been exactly 11 months since I set off on my bicycle from home. This morning I head to the town hall to request a performance permit. After filling out a form, I’m directed to the main police station, 8 km away. Luckily, another costumer – a kind, corpulent man also headed there – offers me a ride in his jeep.
At the station, an officer tells me the permit won’t be ready until Monday. ‘My boss has a meeting and cannot sign.’ It’s Friday. I explain that I’ll be leaving Leh on Monday. Relaxed but persistent, I wait. Minutes later, I’m unexpectedly led through a maze of narrow hallways to a large office. I sit across from an expansive desk behind which, in the distance, sits ‘the boss,’ a young, meticulously groomed woman in uniform.
I explain my act and that the contributions are voluntary. She raises an eyebrow. ‘How many balls do you juggle?’ she asks. ‘Come and see,’ I reply. Amused, she agrees to grant the permit and promises to come. I need to notify her of future performances via WhatsApp. We exchange contacts.
Back in town I visit the central police station, familiar to me from the previous evening, to finalize the paperwork. The staff is on lunch break and I realize I’m hungry too. I treat myself to chowmein and momos at the Corner Restaurant, a bustling local spot, then savor Kashmiri kawa, a green tea with apricot kernels, at my favorite Lala’s Café, housed in a renovated traditional home. It’s a brief reprieve from this bureaucratic experiment.
By afternoon the papers are ready. Five offices in five hours. I exchange contacts with another officer. As I chew sunflower seeds with an official at the district magistrate, I ask how often they issue such permits. ‘First time,’ he replies, smiling.
Ecstatic, I clutch my stamped papers. In the evening I’m back on the promenade. Familiar faces greet me warmly. Young men walking alongside my bike admit they’ve seen my show five times. They settle in for another performance. I’m thrilled. My interactive street theatre feels alive, unpredictable and magnetic with each act. It’s as though the masked dance at the Hemis Festival has breathed inspiration and courage into me, awakening a new reincarnations of my performance. I send a boy running for more bananas for the next rounds. At one point, after an intense juggling sequence, I realize I’m breathing much faster – of course, I’m performing 3500 m above sea level!
After the show sometimes beggar children stretch their palms toward me and I scatter banknotes from the hat into their hands. With a cautious Sikh in an orange turban we tug his wallet back and forth as if in a dance. At the tailor I request a new pocket for my costume. Over and over, from the pockets of curious passersby I pull out an array of treasures. Each object transforms into a story: a banknote flutters up like a butterfly. Let the list of these artifacts conclude my writing this time: a black handkerchief, a torn newspaper, a gray rag, a tiny letter in a neat envelope, keys on a wooden keychain, tobacco, a few crumpled banknotes, a transparent plastic case, a fat wallet, a pack of cigarettes, sunscreen, a pen, sunglasses, a smile.
Right after my last show in Leh, I met my partner to climb Mentok Kangri II (6250 m), the highest mountain I’ve ever tried to summit. But that’s another story – I’ll write about it soon.
If you’re curious about my travels and street-performing experiences, check out the radio interview on this topic here.
Text & photos by Uroš Marolt and from personal archive