Old man and the tea

He wears a leather hat. It is not very cold. Smoke fills up the house, like every traditional Tibetan houses I've been to. In the middle of the room is a firepit. The fire is kept low but steady. Once he enters the room, the old man adds a few logs, then a big pot on the three-legged cast-iron ring. The metal pot is caked with black silt.

In one of those villages, we met this old man who agrees to talk to us on the camera. My driver, SN, is also the translator.

The old man is articulate despite his lack of formal education.

"We respect our lamas."

"The policy is good I think from the top, but when the local officals carrying it out, it changes."

"I grew up under the communists. Our life was difficult during the cultural revolution. Once we have our own land, things improve a lot."

It is mostly a monologue from the old man. I only have to ask a few questions.

"A lot of land was lost due to flooding in 1979. We now have half of the land as we had before."

"New highway took our land, we were supposed to be compensated, but we never saw that money."

His wife works on the yarn by the bed. When she looks at us, she smiles nervously.

When the water is boiled, the old man takes out the long wooden press for making milk-tea. Some milk power, some yak fat, pinch of salt, black tea, and the full range of pushing and pulling motion create the mocha-colored Tibetan milk tea. It is extremely filling. I can't say that's my favorite drink, I get use to it.

One of his two sons work in Lhasa as hard labor, the younger one stays home, after dropping out of school at grade five. The school is far, and it is too much to pay for the food and lodging, even though policy-wise, the government pays for school until junior high. In here and other remote villages I visited, going to school is a big problem for these kids. Some, even at first or second grade, have to walk a couple of hours to get to the nearest school, even so, those schools with a handful of teachers can only support them for a few grades. After that, students start to drop out, their family simply cannot afford to send them any further.

The younger son is too shy to talk on camera. Once in a while, when tourists come in greater number, he might get a job here and there carrying backpacks for hikers. Other times, he works in the field, around the house, like his parents.

The old woman never let our tea cup empty. When the fire is in full blast, she slices some dried pork and roasts them on the fire. Tibetan pigs are small and skinny. They have long snout like that of wild pigs. SN says highly of their taste. When the old woman hands me a piece, I cannot refuse. In fact, they are indeed quite good.

I don't have anything to give back to them, some candy don't do the justice. Will they get some comfort knowing someone from the outside world listened to them?

We walk through hanging pork slices out to the front yard. Newborn chickren are noisy. The old man sees us out. A few children came in earlier to check us out, they run away as soon as we shut the squeaky door close.