Hemis Tsechu festival at Hemis Gompa, near Leh, Ladakh
The road to Hemis Monastery is a single track that snakes its way up the mountainside; we're on our way to Hemis Tsechu, one of the most significant Buddhist festivals in Ladakh. Our driver parks in a field (now a temporary car-park, full of 4x4's and minibuses), and indicates that we have to walk the rest of the way up. The rain of the last few days has left the path muddy and slippery, and moisture lingers in the air.
This may be a sacred festival, but there's a surprising amount of commercial activity in evidence as we reach the outskirts of the monastery grounds. Monks sheltering under tarpaulins promote their religious trinkets. Locals offer bottles of coke, hot soup and snacks. Others sell garish plastic toys and helium balloons.
There are thousands of people here - a mixture of local pilgrims and tourists from all over the world. The ceremony takes place in the open-air courtyard, with the audience jostling for position on all four sides, and crammed into the balconies and terraces above. I have little idea of what to expect; all I know is that it's a ritual dance-drama to ward off evil spirits, enacted by costumed and masked monks. But two days? Really?
Our reserved canvas stools are set back slightly from the courtyard, behind the senior monks and the musicians.
Not a bad spot, but I'm already thinking about the challenge of doing this festival justice, photographically speaking. In just a few hours the midday sun will be bouncing off the paving stones. And there are tourists and cameras everywhere!
I ease my way through the crowd to capture some shots of the monks as they emerge from the temple after early morning prayers.
The musicians mark the opening of the performance with sombre drumming and chanting, punctuated by the bass drone of the dungchen (long brass horns) and the nasal melodies of the double-reeded gyaling, followed by the first performers processing across the courtyard in a riot of intensely coloured costumes and extravagant masks.
The costumes are stunning - made from heavily brocaded and woven fabrics, and worn in vivid combinations of colours, patterns and textures.
Each group of performers forms a large circle which progresses slowly round the courtyard, first in one direction and then the other. The dancers move in unison, taking slow, deliberate steps, shifting their weight from one foot to the other, pivoting round as they do so, leaning forward, then to left and right.
As the last dancers of the circle leave the courtyard and make their way back to the temple, another set of performers in different costumes solemnly takes their place. Each dance appears to be remarkably similar to the previous one.
I needn't have worried about blazing sunshine and harsh shadows; quite the opposite in fact. By midday, it's raining heavily and there's even a flurry of hailstones at one point. This is not what I had anticipated.
Umbrellas go up in the audience, and the novice monks wrap their burgundy robes over their heads and round their shoulders in an attempt to stay dry and warm.
Next morning the weather looks a little more promising. The monks are at prayer in the main temple when we arrive.
After early morning puja the temple turns into the dressing room for the dancers.
I elbow my way to the top of the steps just outside the temple entrance, from where I get a different perspective on the performers and the audience.
By the time I move back down to the courtyard, the sun is at its highest.
The ceremony finally draws to a close mid-afternoon, and the monks process slowly back into the temple, accompanied by a triumphant fanfare of drums and cymbals.
Yes, even monks wear sunglasses in Ladakh.
By this point I can't decide if the performance has had a hypnotic, meditative effect, or if it has just simply numbed my senses a little. I think these two monks have definitely had enough...
