Help A Tibetan Family

Silent temple

2007-03-25T23:30:00.000-07:00

It is a small but busy temple. My driver, SN knows the lama so he takes me here.

Outside, people lines up to buy whatever they feel they want to give to the temple, liquor, dried flower, fruits, and of course, yak butter to be added to the oil lamp.

J doesn't like temples, he has a fear of dark places. So I go in myself.

The air is thick and the chanting is loud.

SN tries to talk the lama into talking to my camera. The lama looks around, then he declines. Too much fear. Nobody knows if anybody here in the temple is spying on him, or us. He knows all too well, the threat is definitely greater than the benefit of talking to someone like me. In the end, what can I possibly give him other than my attention?

Dedicated prayers leave small notes of money by the Budda statues. In some other temples I've been to, praying for Budda's blessing equals praying for wealth and good luck in business. I hope it is not totally true here in Tibet. Perhaps I'm just too naive.

Outside, J is waiting. And my parents are waiting at home thousands of miles away. I'm tired. I want to go home.

It's hard to say good bye to Tibet. One day, I will come back, hopefully sooner than later.

Rice pile, ice pile

2007-03-21T23:26:00.000-07:00

Another mountain pass, icy river, icy road.

J has never seen a glacier before. And my Tibetan driver, SN, says there are a few families living by the glacier, far from anywhere. By now, he understands fully what I want to do here: to record the current lifes of Tibetans.

Set against snow-spattered mountain backdrop, a handful of log houses make up the tiny village by the name of Midui, meaning Rice Pile. Instead of rice, piles of yak-dung are stacked neatly in front of each house. There are no firewoods here. Dried yak-dung is their only source of fuel.

As soon as our Jeep pulls in the village, a group of young men in their twenties rush out to get a business as moto-cab drivers. J and I want to take a walk, but in the end, we give in.

A couple more houses, a few more yaks roam the open field.

When the motorcycle cannot go any further, we continue on foot. Our driver volunteers to guide us. Following a not-so steep foot path through the woods, we come to the view of what claims to be the most beautiful glacier in Tibet, a definite over-statement.

We stopped in front of a small glacier lake. The front of the glacier is still a long walk away. It is good enough for a view.

On our way back, we let the motorcycle taxi drop us off earlier so we can take a nice walk by the glacier stream. The previous summer, in Alaska, I camped on Mears glacier's rugged moraine, marveled each time when a hug piece of glacier sheared off, toppled, crashed into the ocean, and formed a tidal wave big enough to swallow my kayak. I am lucky, having the opportunities to experience so much. I don't know if I seeked nature or nature seeked me, but I've found my true love.

Back at the village, SN is having milk tea inside one of the nicer houses. Here, because of the harsh weather, people keep a place for their yaks in the house. The herder agrees to talk, but he is way too nervous, giggles all the time.

For these villagers, the source of income is scarce. A little from tourists, most from digging herb in the summer, the herb that resembles a silk worm, a kind of parasitic fungus called Cordyceps sinensis, or caterpillar fungus. One piece can sell for 20 yuan (around $3), a significant amount for the herders. During the month of June, one won't find any labor in the village. Any able person is digging on the slope. In this fragile ecosystem, the long-term effect could be devastating. I can't totally blame the Tibetan herders for doing this. They have to make a living somehow. What's lacking here is a policy to bring them other sources of income. And if people in big cities are still paying high price for the precious herb, the digging will not stop.

The poorest family in the village is a widow with three young children. They survive on 500 yuan (around $60) a year given by the government and some help from the neighbours. The three dirty-faced boys lack sparks in their eyes. What do they want? How do they see the world? Perhaps, the sense of hunger dulls everything else.

I walk out and get on the Jeep. Looking back, a group of villagers are heading toward the glacier. From the top of a few houses, cooking smoke rises from the chimney and dances its way up into the deep blue sky.

To them, are we just another group of tourist come and go?

Sudden moonlight

2007-03-20T20:23:00.000-07:00

Night falls on the small town. The mountain turns black, the river sings out loud.

A small shop sells sweet rice wine with glutinous rice balls. One of my favorite dessert. J and I each have one under the dim light.

I thought about defining life as experience. The more experience one has, the fuller the life is. I had that thought when I was in high school, and followed that quite well. Studied abroard, worked in different places, cities, traveled to every continent. And when the adventure bug hit, I did everything imaginable out there.

Somewhere down the road, another thought came to my mind. Other than personal experience, what I can possiblily give. Some sparks of enlightment from seeing the world, some sorts of understanding, some help in some form. Something creative, expressive. Something that says I created that when I leave this world. In addition to doing something, the feeling, the love and passion towards something, someone, people. I was left to discover how to archive all that. That's when the idea of filming came to mind, filming the real world, creating something otherwise would've left unnoticed. It is a hard road, a challenge unlike any others I've experienced. And I have to admit, I have fear, fear of not being able to do it well. Fear is stopping me from pushing all the way through, fear is something I have to overcome.

We leave the town for a short stroll by the river. Full moon traverses the clouds. When it hits the tip of the mountain, it suddenly breaks out. So white, so bright, our path looks like it is covered with frost.

I wish I have the art to tell the wonder of my heart. The great Robert Service, he knows exactly how I feel.

Chef new recruit

2007-03-19T23:23:00.000-07:00

The family restaurant has a few guestrooms in the backyard. The husband is from XiChuan, and the wife is a Tibetan. They have two children, a son and a daughter. It is school holiday. The boy, about 10 years old, helps around the shop and the younger girl plays on her bike all the times.

After high school, the wife worked in a forest service station. The job demanded a lot physically and didn't pay that well. When she fell sick for a while, she quitted and came here to start this restaurant. Business is okay, just enough to support her two kids to go to school in a nearby city.

Her husband is quiet, helps her in the kitchen when it's busy and works on fixing stuff in the yard when the guests are gone.

We are somewhat different from other guests. J wants to cook.

The stove is made from mud and fueled by firewood, has two round holes on the top as burners.

It's always a joy to do this type of travel. To live the life of the locals.

Like others in the area, they are asked by the local government to rebuilt their restaurant, for a nicer look. The look again, makeup for the local officials, at the price of people's financial hardship.

I like to see the flame pouring into the wok, the energy, the excitment. J makes a nice dish. He tries to prove he is a good chef.

Not so pretty new houses

2007-03-18T23:22:00.000-07:00

The house sits on the bottom of a slope, it is colorful though apparantly needs some new paint. As a part of the house, a rock pile acts as a shrine with prayer's flags balanced in the middle.

The young woman is the only one in the house, her husband has gone up the mountain to collect firewood. By the front door is a rooted wild orchid. The husband found it on the mountain. It should sell for a good price in the city.

The woman talks to us while playing with the fire stick. She is quite young, speaks very good Mandarin Chinese, and even colors her hair in dark maroon.

They bought this house on borrowed money. Her husband was born and raised in this town, his family's house not far up the mountain. They have only a tiny piece of land. With her husband out doing labor work and her poor health, the land is left unattended. There is no running water, a pipe directs mountain stream down to one central location. One of her chores is to fetch water with a wheelbarrow.

One thing is on the mind for every family in the village. They are asked to build new houses by the road. The reason, to have a nice impression on the higher officials and tourists, to give Tibetan villages a new good, a prosper look. And for this look, families like this one have to borrow a lot more money and buy materials from the governement for a higher price. Furthermore, they have no where to get a loan. Their situation does not qualify them at the banks.

"Where can we possibily find that much money?!", says the woman.

I remember seeing new houses by the road, each village has a uniformed roof color. They too, are the result of the new policy. A policy that will drag some families to the abyss of endless debt.

What tells this young girl apart from others in the village is that she is brave enough to talk. But where can I bring her message to? Where? And after showing it to others, what help I can bring to them? A friend of mine told me not to make others' problem yours. But if there is anything I can do, I want to.

Chicken soup for the crew

2007-03-17T23:18:00.000-07:00

V-shaped canyon. S-shaped river. The dirt path that cuts into the canyon wall is narrow and rocky.

When the canyon opens up, we enter a lush valley.

This is an area unlike anywhere else in Tibet. By the roadside, there are rows of deciduous and patches of green vegetables. We lost quite a lot of altitute, from 5000m at the highest mountain pass to around 3000 here at this river valley.

On the way here there were many checkpoints. SN has to fill up the form at each one. They are there mostly to check for speeding, but I've no doubt they are capable of inspecting anything they want. Nobody asks for my passport though.

We drive across the river. J wakes up from his nap. Upstream, a snowy mountain guards the deeper part of the forest.

It is a small town, one that normal tourists will sleep through on their tour bus, or at most, a pee stop.

The paved road cuts the town in half. One side is the river bank, the other side are rows of brick houses, boxy and unattractive.

A few locals lounge in front of the brick houses. A mother is washing the hair of her daughter. Children run around a chain-less bicycle. Once we enter the scene, people gather around us.

Words by words, we start to get the story here. These houses are old trucking station for the military post nearby. All the occupants here are renters, some of them Tibetan, some of them from the mainland. Most of the Tibetans are here because they lost their home to a big flood several years back.

This is one couple's story:

One day before giving birth to her daughter, the young mother and her family were forced to run higher up the mountain because the river backed up the lake by which their village is located. When their newborn was just two weeks old, the husband came down here to look for a job. Weeks later he went back up to bring his family down. Without land, they could only rely on occasional labor jobs, working on highway construction, for a living. They built a temporate house; she tried to start a teahouse business. One winter night, that temp house caught on fire, probably caused by their neighbor's faulty wire. They were left with nothing. Here, the trucking station is the only place they can stay while trying to make enough money to go back to their village, to rebuilt a house, to get their land back in shape. It is winter time, no construction, no work.

I don't want to feel mean by letting her tell the story more than once, but her voice is so low I have to. When she brings out more details in her third take, her eyes are filled with tears.

Am I looking for despair? How do I make it sensible? I used to be a weekend worrier, work hard, play hard, and enjoy my life to the fullest by challenging myself physically. Now, is the emotional challenge too much to take? What draws me here? What exactly is my quest? Am I in my own inner cave, looking for ordeals, and where is my sword? The world is a mess, the world has always been a mess. Can we, can I still strive to live with joy in this endless chaos?

Roosters run around in the courtyard. The couple have them for sale. Everybody, even the young daughter help out. These native roosters are feisty. Instinct tells them to fight for their life. I hope they have had a good life.

In the end, the young father catches one. We give him a good price. What else can I do?

The young mother guides us to the restaurant. Our chicken soup is delicious.

Barley wine and outhouse

2007-03-16T20:35:00.000-07:00

The mighty Yarlung Tsangpo River flows quietly in the golden sunset. This highest major river in the world looks peaceful before entering the Yarlung Tsangpo canyon, the deepest, and possibly longest canyon in the world. There, it turns into a roaring giant.

All the status mean nothing to the river when we stop to catpure a moment of its journey. Smooth sand banks in triangular and oval shapes decorate the turquoise-colored water. Even the lifeless grass at the river shores glint.

Watching nature at play in its unspoiled way. I can do that forever.

The going is slow coming down the narrow mountain path. SN is a good driver, a slow one at least. He doesn't talk much, but once in a while, he opens up. He told us Dalai Lama still has a strong influence among Tibetans, even after so many years of physical absence. Soon after Dalai asked his nation to help protecting tigers, they stopped wearing tiger-skin skirts. SN says he wants to eat less meat as Dalai taught him to, but he admits he has a hard time fighting the craving.

When the night falls, we comes to a tiny village of a few families. The biggest house is also a small store. The store owner agrees to set us up for a night in her spare rooms. There is no heat.

The main living area is kept warm by the stove. A deaf woman makes us milk-tea and bread. All the furnitures are hand-painted in bright colors, mostly orange. On a shelf by some fake flowers, a tiny battery powered radio gave out humming prayers' chant. The store owner seems to make a decent living through her own and her son's transportation business. Obviously, the family take advantage of government policies. Because of their ethnicity, they can cut down timber much freely. If they have the means to sell it outside, it is good business.

Three young men walk inside. They are given some barley wine in a thermo pot. We realize we are in an informal bar. The barley wine is home-made, fresh everyday.

They drink quietly but happily. We order a small cup as well. It is not as strong as I thought it would be.

A clear night. Stars congregate the sky above the canyon slot. I take a walk with J down the road. The village at night reveals a sense of remoteness one can't experience during the day. At this particular moment, I am not anywhere else, but here. What is the chance of that? Richard Feynman was amazed at the license plate he saw in the parking lot that one night. I am amazed at me being in a tiny Tibetan village at the moment. Right here, no other places; right now.

The store owner indicates me there is no restroom in the village, not even an outhouse. With stars above and black velvet like mountain in the front, I find myself a perfect outhouse. But only for a moment, until a village kid comes up with the same idea.

The village morning comes early, as soon as the roasters start to croon and dogs starts barking. I was warm enough in my sleeping bag, and J was under two pieces blankets.

In contrast to the store owner, other families in the village don't do nearly as well, one widow with two children especially. Other than colorful furnitures, her house contains nothing more than a firepit, a bed, and a few pots and baskets. What if I was born into this family? Who is going to be the me standing here today? What goes through her mind when she looks at me? The woman has few words to say. I have to respect that.

Old man and the tea

2007-03-15T19:19:00.000-07:00

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.

Straight to the sky

2007-03-14T16:55:00.000-07:00

Namcha Barwa, at 7600m, acts as the eastern anchor of the Himalayas. In Tibetan, it means a spear piercing straight into the sky. And it is just like that, only more than half of that massive spear is hidden behind the cloud.

We stand on the wooden platform. I feel the altitude, but that doesn't really give me too much discomfort. Small patches of land show a few houses in the valley. Those who live there have a view worth millions. Do they appreciate that? Or that is so normal to them they don't really see? Or, they consider themselves part of that scenery?

The bumpy dirt road passes through traditional villages. At the foothill village, I'm surprised once again to see all the restaurants are owned by those from SiChuan province. New construction is underway for new buildings. We try to negociate a deal for the night but that doesn't go well. Plus, I really want to let Tibetans get some business. So we move on.

Smaller villages seem empty. We knock on a few doors, nobody.

One village down, we can hear some chanting sound. That is a group of pilgrims making their stop at a local temple, or a house with a bigger space for that matters. My driver, SN, asks the lama if we can film them, he agrees, but refuses to talk on the camera. It is too dangerous, I can understand.

Inside the poorly lid house, wide-eyed children looked at us with great curiosity. I let J do the camera-work, and I try to have a conversation with the lama through SN's translation. He must have heard and known so many stories of their fellow lamas got sent to jail because of speaking with westerns, he says a few words. I get the point.

Chantings ebb and flow. Flames from yak-oil lantern wave. The lama turns a page over, another round of chanting and praying begins.

J takes care of all the details. He has good eyes for imagery.

A donkey stands outside the door. It seems captivated by the sound inside.

A rush of feeling pours in my heart. Why I am here? What is my purpose of coming here? Do they really need to talk to me? What can I bring them? Is listening all I can give them? I want to show their lifes, but is that going to help them?

"All I wanted to say is in the chant." The lama tells SN, SN to me.

The after-burn of the yak-oil makes me queasy. Light-headed, I walk outside.

Namcha Barwa, now finally shakes off the clouds around it, shoots straight into the bright blue sky.

From Lhasa, heading east

2007-03-13T07:47:00.000-07:00

I'm not a journalist. I'm just a traveler with a video camera, and a thirst for adventure, for helping those I can. I'm not here searching for stories, I'm looking for stories to stick to me.

We load the Jeep with some supplies. My Tibetan driver is about 45yrs old, broad-faced and dark-skinned. J sits in the front passenger seat.

These busy streets of Lhasa. The city is such a melting pot now, the Chinese, the Hui Muslin, the new Tibetans dressed in counterfeit North Face jacket, and the old Tibetans from remote villages, some make their pilgrimage here in more than three years, on foot.

And also, western travelers. At the restaurant the night before, more westerners than natives came to celebrate the New Year. Ballons, horns, and John Lennon's Imagine. J sat across the table, his eyes looked pensive. When he turned to the light, there was an orange glow around his handsome profile. I cried. It must be the music, that song had made me cried more than once.

Brownish hills dominate the landscape. Mallards and loons amuse themselves in shallow rivers.

We drive across a snow-covered mountain pass. Prayer's flags in the thousands flap loudly at the top. Even as cold as it is, a couple of die-hard flag sellers still wait by the roadside.

The grandeur of the Tibetan Plateau is unspeakable. One can only admire. Any words, once spoken out, fell short of describing. In fact, over here, you can only communicate with your heart and your mind.

We stop at a mountain lake. It is supposed to be a tourist destination, but that doesn't stop hydro development companies from coming. Bulldozers and trucks work tirelessly nearby. The billboard tells me, it is going to be a reservior for a dam downstream.

The wind-swept lake is beautiful with snow-capped mountains in the background. A lama temple sits on a small island in the middle. Perhaps, I've gotten used to nature in its original form. Putting me in a "designed" view-spot, I feel manipulated in a way.

I have a tender feeling for J. He is as simple as a child, sensitive as a girl, and yet brave enough to come with me here. If anyone at work knows he comes with a foreigner to interview Tibetans, he'd be in big trouble.

Small towns come and go. It is obvious the native Han Chinese, especially those from the nearby Sichuan province took control over the restaurant scene everywhere. Tibetan tea houses normally don't do very well. Tourists seldom stop by, and there are few items on the menu other than salty yak-milk tea and barley dough.

Low clouds and heavy wind close our day in a mid-sized town of little character. It is just the beginning.

My hope to help Tibetan families

2007-03-12T14:35:00.000-07:00

Remember New Year's Eve, 2007, Lhasa.

I looked through my hotel room window, the Potala Palace was pressed into the darkness, dotted with just a few tiny lighted windows. The base of the mountain, painted in white, looked like snow under the half moon.

For the next couple of weeks, I made my way through southeast Tibet, without a proper permit, and interviewed villagers, farmers, migrant workers, restaurant owners, herders, and even lamas. Everywhere I went, I was mostly welcomed. Some agreed to talk on my camera, some didn't. Most of those I spoke to have difficulties with their life one way or the other.

One young couple were forced to leave their homeland because of a string of mishaps, from flooding to fire to battling with new government policies; I thought about raising money to help them building a place back home.

Another family was forced by the government to build a new house by the highway. They were already knee deep in debt with nowhere left to borrow more. I wished I could land them a hand.

Another farming family lost the majority of their land due to flooding. One of their sons had to drop out of school to work around the house, at grade 5. I wish I could do something to send him back to school.

I don't know any charities that could help them, I feel powerless. I can't forget the eyes of that young mother, her daughter born one day after they fled the flood that washed their home away.

They are not victims of war, or any high profile atrocity. But I feel the desire to help them, some way, somehow.