Flying from Yangon to Chengdu involved a layover in Kunming,
where I had to go through immigration and customs for the first time; I would
do so again in Chengdu. The female
immigration officials came straight out of David Bowie’s “China Girl,” with
their severe haircuts and snug outfits. "China Girl" was one of my two earworms in the country, the other being
Gang of Four’s “I Love a Man in Uniform.”
Flights in and out of China were invariably delayed. The layovers involved everyone getting off the
plane, cramming into an airport bus, driving around the tarmac, and then
getting back onto the same plane. It was
literally an exercise in wasting time.
My first stop in China was Chengdu. My guide was a pleasant
young woman named Shannon. Her round
glasses and short black hair reminded me of Marcie from the Peanuts cartoon. I
kept expecting her to call me “Sir.” At
14 million people, Chengdu is the fourth largest city in China. If you have any doubt that China is the great
imperial power of the 21st century, this city will promptly school
you. The buildings are massive, built in
a Communist institutional style which emphasizes function over form. Manhattan’s avenues seem positively provincial
in comparison. The highways were
congested, filled with cars, bicycles, and motorcycles. Bikers wore
anti-pollution face masks but not helmets.
And to stay warm, many riders donned backwards jackets that looked like
a combination of quilted apron with oven mitts.
The shopping malls downtown were packed with young people,
socializing, shopping, and eating. At Shannon’s
recommendation, I stepped into a doorway next to a Zara store. I found myself in a hidden alley, full of
lanterns and jade shops and carvings.
There was a food court with skewers and bowls and spices. I was armed with my dietary preference card
which had Mandarin translations for vegetarian food. No fish. No meat. Tofu,
beans, dairy, eggs okay. I was enticed
by the sizzling spice of Sichuan cuisine with all those red-hot chili peppers. I finished dinner with lips burning and
tongue tingling. But I was not here for
the food. I was here for the pandas.
Shannon and the driver picked me up early from the hotel,
and we drove 90 minutes to the Dujiangyan Research Center of Giant Panda
Breeding. Shannon informed me I was
going to be a volunteer “Panda Keeper.”
As with most of my volunteer activities, I was paying for the
privilege. When we arrived at the
center, I changed into a utilitarian blue jumpsuit and got to work. My role was to pick up the panda poop within
the walled enclosures. Two other
volunteers washed the pens and gathered bamboo.
The guides warned that the Head Keeper was a strict woman, one who could
be harsh with the volunteers. She warmed up to us, however, and allowed us
extra time to hand feed the pandas and touch their paws. We fed them apples, bamboo, and panda
cakes. Bamboo is not very nutritious so
their diet is supplemented with the cakes which consist of grains such as
wheat, rice, and rye.
We saw a movie about pandas, their lives and their loves. Pandas are not very energetic and don’t have
much of a sex drive. The females are in
heat only two days a year. Hence the need for a breeding center, one which monitors
their cycles and encourages socializing at the appropriate times. Between loss
of habitat, poor dietary choices, and lack of social skills, it’s amazing there
are any pandas left at all. They survive
because they are cute, with their contrasting colors, large heads, and disproportionately
small eyes. Humans spend a lot of
energy, time, and resources in panda preservation. After I spent the day cleaning panda poop,
breaking bamboo, making panda bread, and feeding pandas by hand, I got to
cuddle a baby panda. She
couldn’t be bothered with me, focused as she was on eating, but it was a thrill
nonetheless.
"A person can change. Everything can change."
Marilynne Robinson Home
My next stop was Lhasa, a short flight from Chengdu. I stayed in the Shangri-La Hotel where most of the guests were Chinese. The hotel had an in-house doctor and an “Oxygen Lounge” to assist with the altitude problems that can arise at 11,000 feet above sea-level. People not accustomed to altitude can suffer from nausea and vomiting, headaches, shortness of breath, insomnia, and extreme fatigue. The hotel was filled with elderly people walking gingerly, looking miserable, sipping on tea. The heart can race, trying to compensate for the decreased oxygen content by pumping more furiously. Paradoxically my heart rate slowed, holding at a steady 60 beats a minute. Despite the outdoor temperatures being quite cool (around 30-40 degrees Fahrenheit), I felt flushed much of the time. I wasn’t sure if I was going through menopause or malaria, but then I realized the thermostat in my room was broken.
To visit Tibet as a solo traveler, one must have a formal
itinerary and state-approved guide. Nyima (“pronounced like Nemo the fish”) was my
Tibetan guide, and he spoke excellent English.
He and Dawa, our non-English speaking driver, were my good natured and
steadfast companions for the 9-day visit.
Nyima shared his story with me.
He was born into a poor illiterate family in a village outside of
Lhasa. He was expected to be a shepherd like
his older brothers, but apparently lacked the aptitude. At age 17 he joined a
monastery in Lhasa. There he learned to
read, studied Buddhism, and led a monastic life. Four years later he was
imprisoned for participating in some sort of political activity. I didn’t ask for details and he didn’t tell. During
his four years of imprisonment, he studied Chinese and English. Upon his release, he became a tour guide in
Lhasa, encouraged by foreign mentors along the way.
He invited me to visit his house, located off a side street
near the hotel. It was a modest
structure with basic facilities. As
there was no heating, Nyima sleeps under thick blankets and drink lots of hot
water. He proudly displayed a large flat
screen television, his most prized possession.
He watches news and sports programs to improve his Chinese and English
language skills. He particularly enjoys American basketball and is a fan of LeBron James and Stephen Curry. Being a tour guide has exposed him to different people and
nationalities, and he imagines visiting other places. With his criminal record, he can't get a
passport or a visa. I felt his sadness
and frustration living in a system he will never escape.
The reality of Tibetan politics lies in stark contrast to
its ethereal mythos. I had read up on the history of Tibet prior to my arrival. Briefly, China invaded Tibet
in 1950 as the rest of the world, namely America, India, and Great Britain,
chose not to get involved. The US
government was more concerned at the time with containment of the Russian communists. The Chinese communist regime proceeded to re-educate
or imprison the monastic orders. The
Dalai Lama, the spiritual and political leader of the Tibetan Buddhists, fled
to India in 1959. The Cultural Revolution
(1966-1977) brought further destruction of Tibetan monasteries and relics,
under the guise of getting rid of the “Four Olds—customs, culture, habits,
ideas.” Simultaneously the Han Chinese
proceeded to populate the country and build their infra-structure. Lhasa is now composed of 70% Han Chinese and
30% Tibetans.
For those interested, Tibet: An Unfinished Story by
Lezlee Brown Halper and Stefan Halper covers this history in greater detail. It is a riveting story of unchecked
aggression, failed diplomacy, and covert military operations.
Tibet presented the usual precarious situations inherent in being
a stranger in a strange land. Vegetarian food could be a challenge. I had given up fish prior to my visit to Asia,
partly for ethical and health reasons, primarily for personal preference. From my previous experiences in Asia, I knew
that fish came from polluted rivers or sketchy fish farms. And the fish was super fishy in smell and
taste. Most people assumed I chose to be a vegetarian because I am a Buddhist, and I didn’t disagree.
My hosts would apologize for being “bad” Buddhists. I would remind them that the Buddha was not a
vegetarian, and he encouraged monks to eat whatever was offered them. In Tibet noodle soup with yak meat was
plentiful and affordable, and that is what the guides ate. Fortunately I had many options beyond fried
rice and vegetables. There were momos
(Tibetan dumplings), Nepali thalis, mapo tofu.
And every meal had some variation of tea: masala chai, butter tea (with yak butter),
sweet tea (with milk), and my personal favorite, lemon ginger honey tea.
Few people spoke English.
I couldn’t negotiate prices, order food, or ask for directions (forget
about having a meaningful conversation about religion.) If I
wanted to take a taxi, I would have the hotel bellman write my destination in
Chinese and Tibetan. It would be written
on the hotel’s card, which I would show when I needed a ride back. Taking taxis was a hazardous escapade, with
multiple stops and many passengers crammed into the cab. The
drivers would smoke as they yelled in Chinese, careening through the busy
streets.
Travel in Tibet involved many checkpoints, at various monuments, and
along the road. There was a large police
presence, with constant demand for identity cards and passports. Timecards were stamped at each town to
monitor the driver’s speed. The
penalties for driving too fast were high, and Dawa would intentionally dawdle
along the roads to make sure we didn’t arrive too quickly. There were many random cigarette breaks (both
Dawa and Nyima were smokers) while I stood around contemplating the vastness of
the frigid plateau. Occasionally I
scrambled behind rocks to relieve myself. On one occasion, we drove one hour beyond the Samye Monastery to register at the
police in Tsedang, then circle back with the paperwork to visit Samye. If it were written today, Dante's Inferno
would include a Chinese bureaucracy circle.
It’s the one where people who display hubris are punished by standing in
a never-ending queue, a constant reminder of their impotence, insignificance,
and inferiority.
Despite the changes brought about by the Cultural Revolution,
the power of piety remains palpable in the Tibetan culture. When visiting the Jokhang Temple in Lhasa, I was mesmerized by the pilgrims, spinning prayer wheels, holding prayer
beads, circumambulating the temple and adjacent market. Walking the kora can be
done around a religious structure, a natural site (such as lake or mountain),
or even a person. The act itself becomes
a meditative practice. If you really
want merit (and possess a limber spine), you can prostrate all the way. I’m a fallen Hindu and a closeted Buddhist. I meditate and pray in solitude. Nonetheless,
I was moved by such public expressions of devotion. Surely all that communal energy must
reverberate somewhere?
I never tired of visiting the monasteries. With each one, I became more acquainted with
the iconography, the lamas, and bodhisattvas.
There were the protectors, who looked like demons, and the various
manifestations of the Buddha. I learned of Songsten Gampo, the 7th
century Tibetan ruler who was introduced to Buddhism by his Chinese and Nepali
wives, and subsequently introduced it to his kingdom. He went on to build Jokhang Temple, the first
Buddhist temple in Lhasa. I learned of
Guru Rinpoche, also known as Padmasambhava, who built the first Tibetan
Buddhist monastery at Samye. And my
personal favorite, Milarepa, who led a tumultuous young life. He was encouraged to become a sorcerer so
that he could exact revenge on his family’s enemies through black magic. Ultimately he repented, and after years of
hard work and suffering, he attained enlightenment within his lifetime. Most people pass through many lifetimes to
achieve enlightenment, so I was duly impressed by Milarepa’s expediency.
I watched monks debating, chanting, and leading their
communal lives. The 30th of
each month is especially auspicious, as it signifies the day of Buddha’s
death. On October 30th I was
at Mindroling Monastery where I was greeted with a symphony of chanting, drums,
and musical instruments. I was transfixed and reluctant to leave. In Samye, villagers helped renovate the
monastery, singing and stamping in unison as they pounded down the new floor. I stepped inside the Drak Yerpa cave
Padmasambhava had meditated in, thrilled to share the same space and breathe
the same air. I celebrated the endless
Buddhist holidays, growing accustomed to the smell of yak butter, incense, and
burning juniper. And I joined in the
communal circumnavigation around the monasteries, the markets, the prayer
wheels, the stupas.
One day Nyima and I walked around an eerily deserted
village. It was a road side diversion intended
to while away the time until the next checkpoint. As we wandered around yak dung houses, we were approached by an elderly woman.
She had a prayer wheel in one hand and prayer beads in the other. She spoke to Dawa as she looked at me. She extended her hand, and when I took it,
she began to cry. I looked at Dawa for
an explanation. “I told her you live in
America, but you are originally from India.
And she associates India with the Buddha and the Dalai Lama. I think when she sees you, it reminds her of
her unrealized prayers—that she will never see the Dalai Lama in her lifetime.” I got misty myself, moved by the emotion of
the moment.
I had heard something similar when I was staying at the
Shangri-La. A warm and lovely young Tibetan
waitress described her fascination with India.
She had always wanted to visit.
She dreamed of seeing the Dalai Lama in Dharamsala, his residence in
exile. She prayed for his safety and
long life. She wanted to visit the sites
of Buddha’s life such as Bodh Gaya where he attained enlightenment. And behind all her aspirations was the
wistful sadness of knowing she will never be able to get a passport to go
anywhere.
When I was an intern, one of the senior residents nicknamed
me “Smiley.” Somewhere along the line,
after all those years of residency and fellowship, being a woman in a male
dominated field, struggling to meet all the demands placed upon me, I lost my
cheerful demeanor. I developed what is referred to in modern parlance as a “resting
bitch face.” When I was in Tibet, I felt
my jaw loosen, my palate relax, my eyes soften.
It’s the face I have when I meditate. It's Smiley's face.
Sometimes when I walked by Tibetans, they would look at me
and say something to Nyima. The
translation was always the same, “They say you are nice.” “How do they know I’m nice?” I thought to
myself. One time a donkey started following
us, and another time a three legged ram.
“Even the animals think you are nice.” I don’t think “nice” is what they
were thinking, demonstrating the inadequacy of language and the insipid nature of
that word. I think they were conveying something
like she is “pleasant” or “pleasing.”
Even now I am struggling to articulate how Tibet changed
me. Something shifted internally. People often wonder why I choose to travel
alone. I enjoy navigating foreign cultures and languages, keeping my intellect nimble. “Aren’t you afraid?” “Don’t you get lonely?” Whatever doubts I have during my travel pale
in comparison to the self I discover. In
traveling I become the person I want to be—smarter, funnier, better looking,
all without the benefit of alcohol. This
is the self I present to strangers. Tibet took that feeling of boldness to
another level, where I could glimpse the self I could be—a manifestation of truth
and kindness and compassion. Maybe it
was the high altitude, maybe the mindful walking, maybe the rhythm of the monks
chanting, but I felt simultaneously energized and serene. I felt connected to all the beautiful and chaotic humanity around me.
Before I flew back to Seattle, I spent three days in Beijing. I kept my expectations low, especially after my transcendent experience in Tibet. Upon my arrival at the airport, my guide John handed me an industrial mask to protect against the air pollution. I wore the mask most of the time, removing it in the car which had built-in air filtration. There was a constant haze over the city and suburbs, including at my stop at the Jinshanling portion of the Great Wall, slightly outside the main city. The tap water was not potable, and I carried a bottle filled with boiled water. I looked forward to returning to rainy Seattle, where I could drink the pristine water and breathe the fresh air. I felt sad for the residents who would spend all their days in Beijing.
My hotel was a converted mansion from
the Qing dynasty. Away from the business
district, the hotel was set amongst landscaped gardens and a beautiful
courtyard. It was located in a hutong (a
narrow alley) near the Drum Tower and Houhai Lake. My first few days in Beijing were spent
visiting the usual sites—Tiananmen Square, the Forbidden City, the Temple of
Confucius, and the Temple of Heaven. At the Great Wall, I watched a young
Brazilian man sing “Something” while being filmed for You-tube. I spent my last night in Beijing exploring
the dimly lit hutong. I took a wrong turn and
stumbled upon a bustling street next to the lake. There were ducks and paddleboats in the
water, music and food vendors, children and families enjoying the evening. I was filled with melancholy for this crazy
city that I had just come to know, with its art and history, beauty and chaos. And for a brief moment, I was a part of it all.
For more pictures, please go to China and Tibet.
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