Tibet: Wild Indians looking for Chinese Scalps
The streets of Tibet were lined with beggars of every age. Children
in alley-ways ran to me grinning and toothless, "Kappa a tictull!
Pape a pictshull! Kaitsha chicka!" (Take a picture.) Kids held
out their hands and stared into my eyes with rehearsed looks of
hunger and grinning with their blackened, decaying teeth, asking
for gum or candy. First, I refused requests for money, and always
for gum and candy. Later, early at sunrise, I visited Durbar Square
and saw the same children prostrating to the shining golden Buddha.
As they kneeled, they chanted, something. Then they gave money and
candy to the idol. I met a successful Tibetan businessman who, in
the secrecy of his home, showed me pictures of himself, dirty, dressed
in rags, hair matted to his head, and shaking the hand of Dalai
Lama in India. I then realized that the offerings of the money,
and the begging itself was circular, and hopefully my blessing was
offered along with the gift to the golden idol.
Every evening in Durbar Square there were crowds of tall dark Tibetan
pilgrims, hair heavy from braids of turquoise and silver, teeth
lined with gold, and Peruvian looking cowboy hats lightly tilted
atop their heads. They surrounded raggedy entertainers singing and
dancing for homemade beer, cigarettes and money. A short, wrinkled
and wind burnt old woman of thirty-five leaped, spun and kicked
up her heels for us, her eyes still young and twinkling. Her voice
rose to a high pitched wail. An old man with a cigarette dangling
between his teeth, clomped his feet like an old Blue Grass Stomp
Dancer from the hills of Tennessee, and he strummed heartily at
a three string guitar and stopped for sips of the local brew. The
two bounced around and a younger guitarist jumped into the hubbub.
Beers were offered all around, and cigarettes were tossed at the
musicians' feet. Someone spotted us standing outside the circle,
grinning ear to ear and clapping and we were then pulled into the
crowd. Snot nosed youngsters, with greasy, mucus crusted fingers
mobbed us, pulling at our faces and hair. Adults asked for money.
The children climbed onto our backs. Some hid behind mother, and
some fell asleep in our laps as we sat. This was true Asian hospitality
beneath the glow of mountain twilight, on the roof of the world.
D.B and I were invited into a Tibetan family's house for a meal.
After spending most of the day drinking cups of salted yak butter
tea, we decided to take them out for solid food. Momo's, or yak
meat dumplings, are delicious and are generally the only solid food
that Tibetans eat. And Tibetans love meat. Our translator
was stone drunk when we arrived at 10 a.m., so when we went out
at 4 p.m. he was stumbling and slurring and hugging us like old
friends. The Tibetan men tend to drink. Walking the streets at night,
I recognized a remarkable similarity to the Native American Indian
reservations back in the USA. The tall Kampa tribesmen, turquoise
bedecked with long hair wrapped in red fabric, stagger about with
their hands stuffed into their red sashes, which hold long, very
pointy stabbing knives. Fortunately the Kama did not want to stab
or scalp me; an American white man. They were looking for Chinamen.
But as I was saying, we went for yak momos, or maybe some spicy
yak jerky, and some imported rice with goat and imported Indian
curry. The restaurant was across from our hotel, so D.B went across
to retrieve money. He came back with another guest; a small, withered
man with a shrunken and wrinkled head, piss-yellow eyes and a pock-scars
covering his cheeks.
Clearly he was a cop. His smile was too bold to be anything but
a cop, and he spit insults into the faces and meals of our Tibetan
friends. He turned to me and his breath reeked. "Your Tibetan
friend is drunk! Tibetans are animals!" He pointed to the translator.
When the man pointed his finger at the drunken young translator,
the translator would wince and shrink into his seat as if the cop
had struck him, while the older couple remained still, staring stonily
forward with plastic smiles frozen across their face, reminding
me of old American Indian portraits.
I must have been quite red in the face and I was visibly trembling.
The cop turned to me and the adrenaline in my system made his appearance
surreal. His head seemed to bounce loosely back and forth as if
his neck were a thin spring. His eyes dangled loosely in their sockets.
He asked for passports, asked if we liked the Dalai Lama or had
been to Darhamsala. Again I felt a desire to become the Great American
Hero surface. I was tempted to punish the little man. I quickly
created a plan of attack to save my poor Tibetan comrades from certain
torture. Under my breath, I began explaining the plans to D.B; a
Canadian. D.B would hold the rascal. I would shove his nose-bone
up into his brain, then we would beat a hasty retreat. Once again,
my plans were stopped short, this time through D.B's pleas; we had
yet to make it to Nepal.
The night ended with the drunk translator remaining to with the
cop. Misery loves company, I suppose. I considered waiting, and
following the officer into an alley. Personally I prefer long blunt
instruments to knives and I could find no baseball bats or variations
of that sort. Soon, both cop and Yibetan came out of the restaurant
and before I could follow, they disappeared into the shadows.
D.B and I found some other travelers and took a Land Cruiser caravan
across Tibet to Nepal. Shigatse (pronounced Shu gah zuuh, while
attempting to swallow your tongue) was my favorite city. This city
was infested with dogs of all colors shapes and sizes. In America,
the AKC Tibetan Mastiff is a tall, curly tailed, black and tan version
of a Newfoundland dog. Shigatse's half wild dogs ranged from toy
size Lhasa Apsas to wire-haired pointers to golden colored and lanky
lion dogs with the curly tails. There were black Mastiffs, cinnamon
Mastiffs, gold or multi colored Mastiffs. Some dogs were fuzzy and
some were wire-haired. There was possibly every mixture of dog breed
in between as well.
As a dog fanatic, I have promised myself to someday return to this
city and pray to the dog-god in the dog temples, for my fortune
and future. I could not help but wonder if I had found "doggy
heaven." In the streets the population of dogs was made it
hard to find solid ground. The locals had no problem with this particularity,
as they managed well enough by kicking each dog as they passed.
I wonder now if karmic blessings in that city are counted by the
quantity of kicks landed in a lifetime. I am a dog lover as I mentioned
and here was a very difficult question for me once again. Should
I follow local customs as my Canadian partner advised? I did not
want to disturb the karmic order. After three days in Shigatse I
am fairly certain that my karma remains solidly intact.
The next morning I traveled early up to the dog temple. Everywhere
dogs played and dogs fought. Puppies perched nimbly atop various
rock formations, carved with Tibetan dog prayers to dog gods.
It is important to walk in the correct direction around these Buddhist
holy mountains to ensure no karmic reversal and I picked my direction
carefully but just then three young Tibetan girls passed, going
the other way. I followed so as to ensure my blessings. The girls
wailed a song into the cold morning air. I had heard this wail before.
It was similar to the sad wail of American Indian songs I had heard.
The three girls must have been about fifteen to eighteen, but high
altitude and dry cold winds had made their faces as callous as a
corn husk, with little red veins surfacing upon their high cheek
bones.
An old man Chinese Hippie was with them, dressed in large dark
shades, an olive drab, golden-tasseled, Michael Jackson-style military
jacket, brown Dickies-style work pants and olive drab Converse All
Stars. I followed them to a homeless holy man sharing his meal of
dried goat's leg with a pack of snarling mastiffs. Surely the rabid
beasts would tear me apart before allowing me to pass between them
and their breakfast. The young ladies walked through and deftly
kicked the poor beasts, which scattered and yelped in mock pain.
The hilltop was covered with goats, both living and dead. The prevalence
of dead goats was probably due to their main source of nutrition,
or lack thereof; a combination of pebbles and Chinese media. I am
uncertain as to which of these was most difficult to digest.
Rongbuk Monastery is below Everest Base Camp. The government workers
below the monastery tell tourists that it is too dangerous to attempt
for less than 175 yuan, whereas we were told it must be no more
than 25 Yuan, if I recall correctly. We were all in the mood, so
we fought it. After an hour of our badgering, pushing and a potential
knife fight, we got the price back down to the original price.
To reach base camp we drove six hours along a road no wider than
the Land Cruiser. Deep cliffs fell on our right and signs of last
week's landslides appeared before us. Vultures glided past our car
window and in the valleys, long haired horseman decorated with bright
red sashes and long knives raced through clouds of dust upon wiry
mountain ponies clanking with cow bells.
Rongbuk Monastery is a tiny monastery run by female monks. It lies
upon a grassy slope in the valley below Everest. Above, there are
mountains more massive and menacing than any mountains in North
America, and sitting atop a plateau higher than most North American
Mountains. The hills sloped into gorges that appeared to have no
bottom.
I awoke for the walk to base camp at 5:30 a.m. Outside, the chill
soaked through my flesh and bones. I listened to the hollow sounds
created by high altitudes and thin air. Braying pack mules and quacking
yaks. The yaks wore bells which echo along the valley walls every
morning at sunrise. The sunrise struck the slopes painting a golden-brown
picture both glorious and terrible. Breakfast was Ramyun noodles
for all, and we started our short trek to base camp, following a
milky blue stream of soapy looking glacial mud.
The base camp looked like a caravan. It started with small tarp
tents on the wetter river bottom. Here local herders warmed their
black, bare and callused feet next to fires of yak dung. Inside
each tent they sat in a cloud of black soot and smoke. Yet they
were smiling, through their toothless and snot crusted mouths. Maybe
they knew something I did not concerning yak dung inebriation. They
asked politely, Cha? Tea?
On dryer, softer ground sat North Face and Sierra tents, with huge
containers of propane outside.
I took some pictures and went to a building containing emergency
equipment, radios and Sherpas. A Sherpa informed us that a party
had came down the day before. They had started with a Russian girl,
a Japanese girl and some Sherpas. An avalanche struck the party,
leaving only one Sherpa, the Russian and Japanese girl alive. The
Sherpa attempted to carry both of them but could not. Then he received
an offer, which promptly ended his dilemma. The Japanese girl said,
"if you take me, you will be wealthy forever." The Russian
girls said, "goodbye."
The finale' of the trip was the ride down, into Nepal. We turned
off the road and down into what appeared to be a massive funnel,
abruptly ending the Tibetan Plateau. Undoubtedly, there is no ride
in the world as spectacular as this. As we descended, the cliffs
turned from gray and brown stone to sparsely covered brown and red
bushes to lush wet green vines and finally into gardens and tangled
jungle. We changed from winter clothing to shorts and T-shirts.
Pungent smells of melting water and soaked living soil replaced
the reek of dusty winds and stinking dung fires. No more nauseating
yak butter tea, yak butter candles, yak butter grease, canvas tents
waterproofed with yak butter and the moisturizing yak butter facial
applied to withstand the windy steppes and harsh sunlight.
We drove through waterfalls and caves, over ravines less than a
meter wide but fifty meters deep, on a road that was steadily collapsing.
At one point we drove through a glacier or avalanche, I do not know
which. This had a passage no wider than our truck somehow cut through
it. The avalanche, if it was an avalanche, must have been thirty
feet high, and its walls scraped the tilted truck as we bounced
through.
Finally we reached the Khasa/Kodari border. Between China and Nepal
was a no-man's land of shanties sagging over muddy cliff-sides.
We hitched a ride in the back of a huge truck, painted with psychedelic
designs and loaded with other Nepali and Tibetans. The streets of
Kodari had tin shanties selling beans, bread and "Tupac
Shakur; Thug Life" T-shirts. A young woman picked one of
these shirts off the streets. As she did so, a man rushed up and
socked her solidly in the back of the head. He struck her repeatedly
and kicked her in the groin. Another Chinese cop? We all ran up
to stop it and I was finally given a heroic opportunity. I bravely
grabbed the little man's shoulder - and sensed that he had no qualms
with killing me. Of course, fear is not something the ordinary American
possesses. But then again, I consider myself extraordinary. He turned
on me, I cringed, and the girl crawled safely beneath a truck with
me following right behind her.
A young man in a Bob Marley shirt approached and asked us if we
knew of any of his brothers on exodus. No! Goodbye China, hello
Katmandu!
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