Excerpt from Chapter 14: Beyond Lhasa

Our two days in this yak-herders village were really a capsule of our whole Tibetan experience. I suppose in retrospect it is easy to romanticize, and yet, our brief time with the villagers was precious beyond words. The whole scene is still so vivid for me: the frolicking kids, the green pastures, the surreal mountains, the yaks and goats, the acrid smell of yak dung fires, the taste of tsampa and butter tea, and the smiling faces and tears of our generous hosts. On June 25, 1996, I wrote in my journal:

As we packed to leave, Saathi’s mother sobbed and clutched Ann’s arm, reluctant to let her go. She rose and unearthed a small, ragged cardboard box, which she had cleverly hidden in the mud wall. Exiled in the box was her collection of Dalai Lama photos. She touched each photo to her forehead carefully, with reverence, before passing it to us. Tears streamed down the furrows in her weathered cheeks as she formed her trembling thumb and index finger into a gun. She pantomimed how the Chinese would shoot her in the head if they discovered a Dalai Lama picture displayed on her wall. As her whole body shook then tensed, I sensed she had witnessed such an execution. When she pulled the trigger, I recoiled. With my limited Tibetan vocabulary, all I could think to say was "China very bad," and cry for these peaceful, compassionate people. 

In several monasteries in Lhasa, and now in this home, I had seen empty picture frames on display. Suddenly, in the aftermath of this woman’s painful drama, the magnitude of the empty frame symbolism became clear. The Dalai Lama is missing from Tibet, but not forgotten. 

Ann cut out the English-Tibetan language pages and the only photo of the Dalai Lama from our guidebook, and she gave them to her new friend Ani, a nun who was Saathi’s older sister. Ani silently accepted the gift with an initial reaction of shock, followed by a meek, touchingly beautiful smile. She put the pages and photo in a small notebook, where she also had a collection of five loose photos of the young Panchen Lama and the Dalai Lama. Ann later wondered and worried if she had in any way placed Ani at risk, given the close watch the Chinese keep on all monks and nuns in Tibet. 

Ani shouldered Ann’s pack and insisted on walking with us the five miles to the main road. After parting with Ann’s host family, Ann, David, and I returned to Ama and Papa’s home, where they resolutely refused our offers of money, food, or clothing. I wanted so badly to give Chookoe and Tseten Dhondup something in return for all they had given us, and I was as persistent as I thought I could be without offending them. Ann, David, and I each gave them one of our extra passport photos, and we all signed a single postcard of Olympic National Park with a thank you message that I wrote, as best I could, in both English and Tibetan. To our mutual amazement, Ama placed the photos and postcard on the same shelf as the yak butter candles, next to their Dalai Lama photo. Why was this family willing to openly display such photos, but Ani and Saathi’s family hid theirs in fear, leaving only the empty frame on their altar?

I stashed my pen and secured the last cinch strap on my backpack. The tears started flowing even before I fumbled for the right words to express my profound gratitude. Papa flashed me a reassuring smile and then cradled a dried yak flank in my arms. I opened my mouth to protest, but didn’t, couldn’t. And I wonder to this day if Papa knows how much our two days together changed my outlook on Tibetan and Chinese relations, magnified my adoration of Tibetan people and their culture, and gave me a sense of hope for world peace. 

I strapped the yak flank to the outside of my backpack and hugged Ama and Papa both at once, one last time. Tukuche, I whispered, overwhelmed by their generosity and this selfless gift of one of their most prized possessions. After several minutes, I turned for one last glimpse over my shoulder. Our new friends had parted, except for Papa. He stood next to his meticulously constructed pile of dried yak-dung, smiling, and still waving.

Within a half hour of leaving the village, Ani waved down an enormous truck with wheels half my height, and we pushed and pulled each other into the back. Ani persuaded the driver not to charge us. We thanked her and said our final farewells. For the next 40 minutes, we were tossed around along with eight Tibetans as the truck traversed the deeply rutted road. I gave up trying to stand and sprawled on top of my pack, next to an old man who was balancing tenuously on a tire and leaning against the truck cab. I untied the yak flank from my backpack and offered the sinewy man my pocketknife to cut himself a piece. He burst out laughing, as he bumped his gums together and pointed into his toothless mouth. We all laughed, and I carved a handful of the dried yak meat and offered it to his friend, who was braced in the corner atop a pile of burlap bags filled with grain. He declined, too, knuckling the one remaining tooth suspended like a hangnail from his upper jaw. The two men stared at each other for an instant, then clutched in writhing hilarity. Spontaneous laughter is the national anthem of Tibet.