More about Bhutan:
http://topics.nytimes.com/top/news/international/countriesandterritories/bhutan/index.html
News on the elections:
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/25/world/asia/25bhutan.html?ex=1364184000&en=66a4918cda1eb5e1&ei=5088&partner=rssnyt&emc=rss
They busted through a lot of rough country to lay these tracks, but
they pass through many valleys and along the shores of Qinghai lake,
too. The ride from Lhasa to Xining took over 24 hours. As the sun went
down, ice started forming inside the windows on the exit doors and by
morning it was nearly an eighth of an inch thick on the metal casings,
but the area where we sat and slept was plenty warm. We raced through
the mountains, through the valleys, along the lake shores, through the
snowfields, into the night towards the dawn, and as the light warmed
to golden yellow we were gliding through the grasslands. It's only
been a few days, but it seems like years since I was out there on the
plateau and my heart longed for those rolling hills even as I watched
them melt away like the snowfields before them and the mountains
before them. It was hard to leave two weeks ago and it was hard to see
them going by again without being able to step out and walk the land,
to feel the vastness of it and taste it in my lungs- like parting with
a loved one and then seeing them ride by on a bus and not being able
to talk, or embrace, or even to catch their eye. Soon the high
pastures were replaced by the standard dusty lanes and courtyard
farmhouses of China and we were in the lower lying lands where the hay
harvesting had only just finished and the giant yellow mounds were
being pitchforked into small gas-powered balers or stored on the tops
of shed roofs. Those, too, faded away and long before the non-distinct
land outside the city began, the smog and dust dissolved the blue sky
into a flat grey. The last hours are the worst- the train slowing to a
crawl through ugly land, through concrete block towns outlying the
city, and finally into the place itself. There is a brief interlude of
peace on the shaded platform and then we step into the roar of the
crowd outside the gates, squinting in the sun and are cast back into
the heart of the city.
I never did get a good feel for the city or the people, but Bill said
it wasn't nearly as bad as he expected from all of the stories we'd
heard. Although there were many pilgrims worshiping around the shrines
and central temple, it wasn't the mythical place that one imagines
Lhasa to be and wasn't the cultural window I'd hoped to gaze through.
The language in that area was much different than on the grasslands
and the people seemed more like the Tibetans in Nepal than around
Yushu. Same with the food- much more Nepal Tibetan style. The natural
scenery, however, was amazing- we flew over some of the most rugged
terrain in the world- deserts, glaciers, razor edged ridges covered in
ice and snow. Around the city were rocky peaks much more like my
previous visions of Tibet than the rolling grasslands where I've been
working.
Overall it was just a tantalizing peek at a place I've been longing to
explore for years. The city didn't deliver much, but there were
promises of real life in the valleys beyond. Luckily we've made a lot
of good working relationships with tour guides and trekking companies,
so next time I go back it'll be for an extended trip through some of
the nomad areas.
Dawn over the city. The guesthouse where we stayed- no heat, very
cold, but right at the heart of the old city.
Tomorrow we'll be flying out to that famous city and see what's become
of it over the past few years- I've heard many bad things but want to
see it for myself. Every time I tell one of the locals where I'm
headed their eyes light up and they speak the name over several times
with reverence and excitement and longing. It is an interesting place.
I'll try to post some during my travels over the next week.
As I was thinking about the burning of the little sacrifices to the
ancestors, it reminded me that I had also seen- but mostly heard- a
funeral procession yesterday. There was a great deal of noise-
firecrackers, hideous wailing brass instruments, and drums
accompanying a long line of mourners dressed in white with a body
shrouded in white at the middle of the line. I passed by in a matter
of seconds, but it was a better snapshot and feeling of the event than
I would have had spending all afternoon amid the event. The chaos of
the noises- for even the "music" was a wild assemblage of sounds with
no connections- and the stark blankness of the mourners garb was a
perfect picture of the lostness one is thrown into with the death of
someone close. All the world stops making sense and amid all the
sounds that once were music and daily life- one hears nothing and
feels nothing and just floats through life until enough time has
passed that the details start to coagulate again and one has to make
decisions and act and live- but thinking back there is always that
little part of oneself that is lost with the loss.
In my travels, it's one of three memorable funerals. I once had a
problem with the steering mechanism on the jeep in which I was
traveling- perhaps a broken tie rod, I'm not sure as I was neither
responsible for- nor capable of- repairs on that beast. My friends
Nick and Laurens and I were on the return leg of a trip onto the
grassland where we held a number of community meetings and filmed some
interviews with the locals. As the drivers laid on their backs under
the jeep on a gravel bed in the middle of a river we were using as our
highway, we sat in the sun against an eroded riverbank wondering if
we'd be heading on by dark. As we sat some specks came into view
high above us, wheeling in wide circles and tightening down slowly
over a peak to the north. As the birds locked onto their intended meal
they dropped lower and lower- growing from dark specks into the
unmistakable form of the Himalayan griffon. The griffon is an ugly
bird. It is huge- standing 4 feet tall and with a wingspan of over 6
feet. And it feeds only on dead flesh- fresh or rotten. I figured that
the birds must be after a dead animal or the birthing waste of some
yak- but as they glided towards the ground and landed they began
acting erratically. Some would jump about and take back to the air
again, others would spread their wings menacingly and the lot of them
never really convened onto a spot to feed. I grabbed a pair of
binoculars to see what was going on and witnessed my first sky burial.
It is the custom of the Tibetans to cut up the bodies of their dead
and feed them to the vultures who in turn will carry their spirits to
the skies.* On the mountainside, a monk was chanting as he cast the
pieces of the deceased over to the vultures. But for this unfortunate
soul there were hungrier and fiercer beasts about than the griffons
and I watched sadly as two tremendous Tibetan mastiffs viciously
fought off the birds for the right to gobble up a man's remains. This
funeral was one that conveyed to me the horror of death- the absolute
offensiveness of the end of life.
The other funeral was in Kathmandu. I first passed the procession in
the streets as the mourners- dressed in white and wailing- bore the
shrouded body to the cacophony of a brass and drum assemblage similar
to the one in China. True to the overpowering tide of life that is
Nepal and India- I scarcely had time to take in what was going on
before hordes of beggar children were pulling at my clothes and
wringing their hands and pleading for aid. "They've gotten worse, you
know" my companion said. "There was a foreigner who came through
handing dollar bills to every one of them". The funeral procession had
passed and we freed ourselves from the throng of children for whom we
felt miserable yet had to set some boundary or be dissolved into their
ocean of poverty without making a ripple. We were on our way to a park
on a terraced hill beside a river. By the time we got there the
funeral procession was arriving at the same place and I saw that all
along the river a stone walkway had been built with wide steps going
down to the water. On the steps were little piles of ashes and near
the entrance to the park was a stack of dry logs. As I climbed the
stone terraces to the wooded crest, temple monkeys ran about looking
for handouts and as I watched them scamper down the trail- filthy
vermin- my gaze fell back on the funeral procession below. They had
gathered round about the stack of logs and spread about on the steps beside
the water. On top of the wood was laid the deceased and as I watched
they put fire to him. More of the river was in view now and farther
down another group was pushing the ashes of another pyre into the
water. Outside of the gate masses of people filled the streets, some
selling accouterments for the ceremonies, others hawking food, others
simply taking up space. I looked for a few moments, then turned and
walked into the park. The mess of life- beggars and monkeys and crowds
and bodies being burned on dead trees and fed to the rivers- became a
hopeless cycling of nutrients.
But I remember a good funeral, one that wasn't a part of my travels.
At grandad's funeral we celebrated a great life. Some of us went
fishing. Some of us made music. Some of us played cards. Some of us
watched UNC basketball. All of us celebrated. We feasted on the best
that our community has to offer. We shared stories and memories with
family and friends and talked about how many lives our grandparents
had touched. And though we missed our friend and father and uncle and
grandad- the tenets of his faith stated that this was more than dust
to dust, more than meaningless nutrient cycling, more than the final
offense of life- it was a passage into something much better. In the
little bit that I've seen in a pitiful few years of life- I think that
the passage of my grandfather was far superior to the misery and
wailing and utter despair of the ones who have nothing to hope for and
indeed much to fear in death.
*Another explanation that I have heard for the sky burial is that gains merit as one is giving one's body as alms to the vultures. Cutting the body into pieces and throwing it into a river is also practiced.
As I walked home last night there were little fires on every corner
where people were bent over pouring out liquor and burning offerings
to their ancestors in the hopes that their spirits would provide them
with wealth. It was interesting- a tiny vestige of what must have once
been a rich and vibrant culture, but so sterile and lifeless compared
to the streets of southern India where the air reeks of incense and
food sacrifices; where flower laden idols mark nearly every corner. To
some, China may seem exotic and foreign- but in its worship of science
and economic growth against a drab backdrop of industrialization and
rampant urbanization- it is far more familiar than those streets of
India where hundreds of thousands of bulls wander without masters,
released every time the follower of a certain deity dies. It is far
more sanitary than Nepal where I've known not a soul to travel without
illness akin to amoebic dysentery; more equitable than Kathmandu where
I've seen feasts laid out for temple monkeys while children beg
wretchedly in the street. It is hard to say sometimes what is "good"
for "the people" and what parts of a culture need to be changed in
order to improve the lot of man. Throughout history millions have died
at the hands of those who thought- or at least claimed- they were
doing good. Here, many aspects of peoples lives have been improved,
yet many aspects of life were at the same time removed and the cost in
lives for the improvements was tremendous. For some parts of the
population, the process is still underway.
All this to say- I'm looking forward to seeing a bit more of the thick
and heavy parts of the region's culture. I'm looking forward to seeing
the places that people hold in their hearts with reverence and perhaps
be able to catch a glimpse of what once was and so maybe just maybe
get a tiny bit of understanding of "the people" before the peeling
away and washing off of life is complete. As Thoreau queried: "Could a
greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other's
eyes for an instant?" And just before that he asked: "Who shall say
what prospect life offers to another?" For nine and a half years I've
known that I wanted to help people. I've wanted to expand the
prospects for
those who are limited- especially unjustly. But it would be a far too
common mistake not to work at seeing life through their own eyes.
It was tough leaving Zhiduo. The night before, I stayed up well past
midnight looking at the snowy hills from my doorway and at the stars
and at the smoke rising silver from the rooftops in the moonlight. It
was tough again today as the team left. My heart longs for the
mountains and the adobe homes and the fires. It was tough, too,
because Alistair was begging me to stay. He cried and cried. He said
that I wouldn't be back for a long time and that maybe I wouldn't come
back and that if I did come back that I wouldn't see him much because
he would be in the country and I would be in the city. He's barely
five years old and I have no idea how he knows these things.
