XIV

Entering Tibet is memorable. The road climbs round to big lake Lungmo. I take a short cut over the hill above the lake. But I have to get off and push over the top. The dirt slides underfoot. Struggling hard against gravity, I make it. Another truck stops, and the drivers give me one more watermelon.

A marker indicates the border of Tibet and Xinjiang. Right away I sight some Nomad tents. They've come north to graze their herd on sparse grass. The whole area is glows lightly green. I find a tiny village. It's nothing more than a few tents and a decrepit school. Some sweet Tibetan kids look up into my face, fascinated. I give them my Tibetan phrase book: one of the girls is immediately engrossed, reading. We use the book to introduce ourselves. The kids show me to a lunch stop. The young proprietor feeds me, but he doesn't give me much meat. I guess he just doesn't have much. Some Uigur truckers join us. I pay for a second bowl while the little girl reads my book.

A wild south wind stops me. One, two more Nomad tents sit near the road. The people stand there, watching me brave the wind. The road descends into a narrow valley now. The same tough clumpy grass grows everywhere. I decide to camp with a Nomad family.

I introduce myself and they are amused by my appearance among them. As I unfold and set up my tent, the Nomad fellow, a tiny man, very darkly tanned, lame in his right foot, comes over to study my gear. He's accompanied by a boy of ten. The child, I later learn, belongs to his sister-in-law; it appears as if he's keeping house with the boy's auntie, presumably the younger sister of the boy's mother. When he sees my blue nylon tent, designed for only one man, his apparent disinterest changes to mild disdain. He's asking himself, "I live in that?" I can see. Everything about my tent is small, too light and flaps noisily in the wind. My dwelling can't excite admiration in him. His judgement is a sly smirk that follows a collapsing gesture of his arms - meaning my tent is bound to fall apart in the first storm. I grin, "That's all I've got." He and the boy wander back to do goat chores.

After eating, I approach the Nomad's yurt, a big black fabric tent. But I see they're not in yet - though it's dusk. I spot the Nomad over there, busy marking his goats with russet dye on the long scraggle of white hair on their backs and chests. He doesn't want this livestock to get too mixed up with the extended family's animals. Maybe he expects me to walk away with some of his flock in the middle of the night. He looks good-humored though, and after a few more minutes of pelt-painting, we all go inside his big black tent.

A Nomad tent is bigger than a typical camper's tent, but much smaller than a cottage. It's mostly woven of yak, a thick coarse wool fabric. The yarn is thick, so the warp and woof of the fabric remains loose and open. It admits air yet is tight enough to hold back rain. The entrance is a flap that opens and shuts on a pole to which it can be firmly thonged. The center of the tent is reserved for a miniature metal stove, or at least a few hearth stones. The fire is always fueled by yak dung, thoroughly dried. The smoke rises from the dung from a hole in the roof. The fabric vent is drawn open or shut depending on whether or not the weather is fair or inclement. The heavy fabric on the yurt is supported by sturdy wooden poles. Several strong ropes are attached and pegged into the earth. This yurt can endure almost any kind of severe wind. Whenever it rains, the thick fabric wicks water to the ground.

Inside, we sit together round the fire. The people don't know what to think of me. I use my phrase book to be friendly, ask a few questions and drink their yak butter tea. The Nomad's lady friend is shy and seems embarrassed by some undisclosed fact of consciousness. Her sister's two kids keep popping in and out of the tent. The boy wears a cameo on a chain round his neck. It shows a holy child, adorned with the yellow golden silks of the Gelukpa sect. It's a photo of the Panchen Lama. But looking again, the photo shows a child older than the current Panchen Lama - probably one of several other saints-incarnate always being reborn round Tibet. The kids do not want to taste my walnut and raisin square, but I give some to the Nomad's wife. They pour tea as fast as I can drink it.

Our discussions are elementary. The fellow tells me that he has no children with the silent woman who is his companion. The man shows me his deformed right foot. He puts his hand to his mouth and shakes his head no, then points at his foot again. He indicates that he had neither medicine nor enough food while growing up. So, his small size and lame foot. Do I have any magic medicine with me? I do not. I gesture as if I'm milking a mommy and suggest that he drink some goat milk.

I am not really an intruder, but I'm from the outside. The world beyond is something the Nomads know nothing about, except that it's real. Most days, these folks see only their neighbors. Nowadays, during the summer, the odd land cruiser slips past: sometimes, passengers step out to take a few pictures. We come from far away, with money enough to do it. When you're alone, far from everything, you don't have to tell anybody what to do, and nobody will tell you how to behave, either.

The Nomad man is dressed in an army overcoat to keep warm. His spouse wears traditional Tibetan dress. Her dress is dark and long. Atop the dress is a colorful, striped apron stretching to her knees. She has a few heavy stones and some gold bangles, necklaces and hair ornaments. Most women adorn themselves like this. Jewelry is a practical form of status for Tibetan women: it's a good way to keep her wealth on view and safe. Nomadic tribal society appears to have few hard and fast rules, not so much as it practices some regular customs, some practical, others arbitrary. For example, it was a custom for young men to have more than one attachment, and women are permitted to share their affections, too. Marriage is more of a practical afterthought than a necessary ingredient for wholesome society in Tibet.

After a few draughts of tea and talk, the Nomad fellow makes it clear that it's time for devotions. He indicates the modest altar by the wall opposite the door: the symbols and emblems of Tibetan Buddhism decorate the tiny space above the family treasure chest. He's a bit impatient of me, as the images of holy men and familiar deities are charming him now.

Alone in my tent, I hear the man intone several chants. He goes on over half an hour, naming his faith, repeating the invocations for blessings, peace - and I suppose, mercy, health and happiness... I fall asleep even as he prays and sings to god.

The charms and chants of his mantra are recognizable for their rhythm and communal passion. Everyone can feel the meaning of the chants, lifted as they are, from Tibetan tracts. For illiterate people, oral communication keeps the faith. Tibetan Buddhism has endured the tribulations of history solely because its adherents tenaciously cultivate strong devotion. The faith is genuine, and the people find it easy and natural to transmit their passion one generation to the next. The striking feature of Buddhist religion in Tibet is its universal acceptance. No other nation on Earth has enjoyed such a protracted kind of ecclesiastical society, either. While the feudalism which went along with Tibet's theocracy is no more, it's clear the religion is alive despite the occupation of Tibet by the Chinese. The way of life on the land for most Nomads of Tibet has hardly changed.

How is it possible for tribal people to go on living as they have for innumerable generations? In the case of Tibet, people have been fortunate to remain very isolated from the rest of the world. Their character was given to steady social rhythms, and to faith. The stark beauty and peace of Tibetan nature, along with life's rigors, inspire that faith. Very little modern influence appears to complicate the Tibetans' perceptions. Except when a john like me happens along. So, that statement is no longer as true as it was 50 and 100 years ago... Yet, traveller notice one thing first: in Tibet, land and climate cannot be taken for granted. To live in Tibet is to endure. For those who endure, faith and joy come easily: but pain and strife are never far away. The beauty of nature is everywhere and engulfs everyone, and inevitably impels the mind to sensations of infinity and divine presence. If god is alive, and hiding somewhere, Tibet's a likely place. So, the irony never rusts: life seems easy enough for god and his infinite wisdom, but it's always and forever going to be tough for we people.

Here's something from my journal written while camped with the nomads:

"...thought about writing a letter to President Jiang, suggesting that the military presence in Tibet and all of their administration and whatever - seems a lot like China under the Manchus, and that, of course, an empire never sees itself from the perspective of historical example... The people are poor here. The well-fed like me can't begin to rationalize against the well-fed Chinese army. But you really wonder when you see them build themselves a new base and drive expensive Steyr (German?) trucks. But the military seems to keep tightly to themselves. You know it's an empire colony when there isn't much give and take. Yet, suggest to Jiang that "modern" China really represents a throwback to earlier empires, like Napoleonic Europe, Alexander, Genghis Khan... What's the difference? ...Today, life among these nomads appears changeless. But it isn't. Obviously the people have some awareness and opinions about people from the outside world. My tent, for example, isn't good enough. I keep imagining Claude Levi Strauss: in his book, he didn't say too much about what the natives thought about the outside world. At the same time though, Claude wasn't too shy to write about what he thought about his own civilization: i.e..: the two types of university students - professional/social and academic/creative... Tibetan ladies here, two of them, very cute and smiley, one wears at least ten bracelets on her right arm; perhaps it's a reservoir of wealth, like a bank account, in case all the livestock die. ...Anyway, see if I can remember my anti-colonial argument: something to do with its anti-social purposelessness and also the idea of two impossibly irreconcilable viewpoints. Of course, some good must be brought by every imperialist - yet so often, as history shows again and again - the colonial power only gives enough to satisfy its rationalization of what its benevolent purpose is imagined and intended to be... The rest remains a shrug of the shoulders - as each group realizes its own unique and impenetrable identity."

The next day is a long way down - a new valley with little life but spikey grass. Then a fast big river. I fill my bottles beside the glacial ice. A few groups of Nomads were camped a few kilometres back, but I don't understand why they won't camp closer to the river. Maybe it's too windy, or have nothing to do except walk over with an animal and pack back some fresh water.

The road finally descends into a basin of sand between amazing red sandstone mountains. The road is a miasma of soft sand, pure agony. I can barely keep on my pedals. My wheels sink into the soft earth and it's impossible. No shelter from the heat. I walk and curse, then find my way off the "road" over a dry creak-bed. I stop a few kilometres short of Domar outpost. I'm almost dry but manage a cup of noodles.

I relax, writing in my journal, glancing now and then at a warm sunset vista in front of my tent. A truck drives along the path over there. One fellow jumps off the back end, then two others, their silhouettes beneath a setting sun. The second two men throw the first one onto the ground. He gets up, passing the other two and climbs back onto the back of the truck. The other two make him get off again. More pushing and shoving. Finally, the truck leaves the man behind. His figure moves like a boy, he's probably only a teenager. I couldn't begin to guess what the fight was about. I see the young man stop walking and sit on the ground, head in his hands. He lies on the Earth, flat on his back for several minutes, stands and walks slowly back towards Domar town.

Morning and Domar appears along the river vale. It's an army base and a few houses between the peaks. I eat brunch in a cafe run by a man and woman from Sichuan. I make them happy this morning. The man tells me how bad the road is and adds, "Mayo ren." "No people..." Even so, the road climbs beside a lush marsh full of white water birds. The water wells up and glints beneath the tall rushes. It's truly a miracle of spring water and green life amid the vast desert! It's that hidden paradise scientists dream of. The road turns away from the tiny groove of green and joins a vast desert plateau reaching east: two deer, twin yearlings, stand very close by the road and watch as I ride by. I almost don't see them. Yet, as I pause to look, they leap away together.

The road climbs and drops to a huge pea green lake stretching far beyond a ridge. Another planet: everything has color and form so strangely unlike anything I've ever seen before! No grass here - only sand and rocks. The road turns west and the neon water is gone. A rock wall reveals a big cave shaped like a gaping vagina. The huge orifice is all brown with goat turds.

Then I find the most idyllic camping spot imaginable. Some grass grows on some lumpy, alkali-white soil. Underground water makes a creek. Just there, a patch of soft green lawn lies beside the spring. It's a perfect cushion for my little tent. The water is clear and I drink it. Nearby, a couple of ducks are nesting. God knows how they found this tiny, living spot. Beyond the water the desert is made of bright gold sand: there is nothing much green for kilometres in any direction. A man rides by on a pony, so silently, I barely notice his passing. My good luck seems too good. Now I have plenty of water and will not die. The water feels warm, obviously a spring. I wash my body and hair. It's good to crawl naked and clean to sleep!

Morning promises a burningly cruel sun. I decide to take it easy and wash my clothes. After 12 o'clock, I ride up and up till I pass two small lakes, one saline and one fresh. The saline lake has a white encrustation of base material circling the entire shore. The water is saltier than any sea. Deeply green, it's transparent. A tent is pitched beside the second lake. Inside lives a man, his wife and their two year-old child. I eat instant noodles and drink beer. Each time my glass goes down, the young man fills it up fresh again. They're humble and friendly. I'm a fool... So I leave, wobbly with altitude and alcohol.

The huge Dyap lake, also called Panggong, appears only one minute after leaving the restaurant. The immense expanse of luminescent water is like a seascape. All around the lake shore, rising sharply from the water, starkly jagged mountains shoot high over the water. A small encampment of Nomads abides near this beautiful fresh water lake. Another convoy of army supply trucks passes by in the opposite direction.

The wind is very bad. Fighting's no use. I put the bike in first gear and patiently bump by the south shore. Here, spectacular cliffs and pretty sand beaches line the water. Dyap/Pang-gong Lake is nearly twenty kilometres across at its broadest, eastern end. The water points a thin finger westwards, a hundred kilometres into India. Magnificent ice mountains linger at the border.

After three more hours of chugging, at 5:30 P.M., I reach a unique "hotel" situated right on the south shore. The hotel is made of thirteen black and white tents. I introduce myself to four Tibetans who manage the place. They're easy-going and invite me to sit...

Road-weary, I'm hungry as a mongrel. The two young women prepare a dinner of momo: boiled mutton dumplings served in salty soup. The phrase book communicates again.

This is the first talkative bunch of Tibetans I've found so far. The language they speak is a mixture of Mandarin Chinese and Tibetan. They come from Ali town. I listen to their short-wave radio and hear about a world I've been missing. Very big street protests against dickhead Slobodan Milosevic are going on in what little is left of Yugoslavia; the same kind of march is going against another big dude in Iran. Some jokers never ever understand when they've gone crazy.

Evening comes on with nothing to do. The "hotel" manager confers with his pals and invites me to stay for free since I'm riding a bike. Everyone plays "21" for small change. Then Bema and Deudo, the two women, put a cassette tape into their machine and start disco dancing. They beckon me to the earthen dance floor. I dance, but not too aggressively. I don't want to scare the girls away. They stop dancing to watch me. After I sit, the girls get up to dance again. Everyone drinks beer! Tibet seems gifted with music. Girls sing their songs with the sweetest voices.