I read in the newspaper that Liu Yu has reached Shanhaiguan. Now that he has finished walking the Great Wall, where will he go next? Everyone’s lives are changing. Tian Bing wrote to say she is taking classes in qigong. Last year she thought it was superstitious nonsense and slapped me for giving a demonstration. Li Zhi, the underground poet I stayed with in Guiyang, is apparently a deputy to the People’s Congress now, and has moved into a large government flat. I wonder what has happened to his kiln. The Daoist poet Yao Lu wrote and said his wife wants to leave the country and has filed for divorce. He asked if Shenzhen Legal Journal is still looking for an editor. When I told him about the vacancy last year he laughed and said Shenzhen was no place for intellectuals. I am still treading my path. But if it comes to a dead end, I suppose I could always go back to Beijing.
The Woman and the Blue Sky
Our bus grinds to the summit of the five-thousand-metre Kamba Pass. Behind us, a few army trucks are still struggling up the foothills. As the last clouds tear from the rocks and prayer stones and scrape down the gullies, Yamdrok Lake comes into view. When the surface of the lake mirrors the blue sky and bright snow peaks plunge head-first into the water, I am filled with a sudden longing to hug someone.
This is the road to central Tibet. When the bus descends to the foot of the mountain and careers along the shores of the lake, a foul smell of dank sheepskin wafts from the seats behind. I am squashed so tight my legs are numb. The girl next to me by the door is swathed in a thick cloak. She delves into its woolly folds and takes out hawthorn jellies and a pocket radio. Then she rummages again and pulls out a small sticky baby. She holds him up to piss on the floor then stuffs him back into her pouch. My shoes are splashed with urine. I try to shift my bag away from the puddle.
Outside the window the lake looks calm and wide. There is not a speck of dust in the air. I shout to the driver and ask to be let down.
August is the plateau’s golden month. The sky is so clear you cannot feel the air. I walk to the shore, take the flannel from my bag and wash my face. A breeze ripples across the lake and sun rays shine on the pebbled bed. This is a beautiful place. In Tibet, since lakes are considered holy and the herders rarely bathe or fish, the waters are always pristine.
Nangartse town is still a few kilometres away. On a far mountain I see a cluster of adobe houses with prayer flags fluttering from each roof. Above them is a temple painted in bands of red, white and blue, and higher still, a freshly whitewashed stupa housing the ashes of dead lamas gleaming in the sun.
Below the village, by the edge of the lake, is a concrete building which I presume is the committee house. I get up and take out the introduction letter Liu Ren forged for me that says I am a guest reporter for Tibet Autonomous Region Radio. When I reach the house I discover it is an ordinary hut. A soldier opens the front door and speaks to me in a Sichuan accent. I hand him the letter and tell him I am conducting research into local customs. He invites me inside.
‘This is a repair station. My name is Zhang Liming.’ There is a rifle on his wall. The floor is littered with cable cutters, porcelain insulators and broken cardboard boxes. He is stationed here to service the army telephone line and maintain a smooth connection.
He looks delighted when I ask to stay. ‘I have been here four years. If the telephone line is working, I fish on the lake or have a drink with the Tibetans in the village.’ Or read books about ancient warriors, it seems — there is a stack of them on his desk, next to a dusty walkie-talkie, a cassette player, a few tapes and a tangle of red cables.
‘Is there a sky burial site near here?’ I ask, taking a wooden stool.
‘Yes.’ Liming is not tall. His cap has left a circle around his head.
‘Any chance of a seeing a burial in the next few days?’
He pauses. ‘There’s one tomorrow. A woman died three days ago.’
‘Really? What a coincidence. Do you think they will let me watch?’
He mumbles inaudibly, then says he needs to buy some drinks for tonight. I take out some money but he pushes it away.
So I accompany him to the village. On the way I tell him about the changes taking place in China. Two years ago I passed through his home town, Zigong, and visited the new dinosaur museum. The huge unearthed beasts lay on the ground where primeval forests once grew. The buses outside ran on natural gas which was stored on the roofs in large black rubber bags that wobbled from side to side. Liming says he had no idea there were dinosaurs in Zigong. I mention my failed attempts to view sky burials in Lhasa. Either the ceremony was over before daybreak, or the locals forbade me to approach the site. Once they even threw stones at me. My friends said it would be easier to see a burial in the countryside.
‘The people live differently here,’ he says. ‘There are a hundred families in the village, and in nineteen of them, the brothers all share the same wife.’
‘You would go to prison for that in China. Although in Yunnan, I visited a Naxi village which still practises the Azhu system. Women can take as many lovers as they like. The more they have the higher their prestige.’
‘Here a women’s role is to mediate between her husbands and keep a good house.’ He tugs at the brim of his cap.
‘Sharing is a virtue that modern society seems to have lost. Could you take me to one of these families?’
‘We are going to Sangye’s house now. She is head of the village women’s association and has three husbands. The oldest, Gelek, was the village’s first entrepreneur. He built a grain mill last year and grinds barley for a living. He never charges widows or orphans. The middle one, Tashi, operates the village generator. He bought a truck recently and has started a delivery service. The third one, Norbu, is a bricklayer at Tashilhumpo Monastery. They live in the new house up there.’
I step inside their door and see a large poster of Chairman Mao, and on the lacquered chest below, a gold buddha surrounded by small incense burners and plastic flowers that are sold on every market stall. A few butter lamps flicker beside a photograph of the Panchen Lama.
Liming and I sit down. While he chats with Gelek in Tibetan I watch Sangye drop salt and tea leaves into a black kettle and carry it to the stove in the yard. When the kettle boils she pours the brew into a wooden churn, adds a dollop of yak butter, and stirs with a wooden stick. The liquid gulps and gurgles. Sangye is wearing a white shirt under a sleeveless robe that is tied at the waist with a striped apron. She knows I am watching her, she keeps turning round and smiling into the room. She brings the kettle inside and pours the tea into three wooden bowls. I take a sip. It is oily and salty but richer in flavour than the brew Tibetans served me from thermos flasks in Lhasa.
I take advantage of having an interpreter and ask Gelek about his family background.
He says that before Liberation his father worked for a living buddha to repay a ten-thousand-year debt. His mother’s family owed the temple forty thousand jin of barley so she worked on their fields from the age of thirteen. When she was released from her duties in 1951 she met his father and got married.
‘What is a ten-thousand-year debt?’ I ask.
‘It means you can pay back the interest but not the loan, so you are always in their debt.’
Tashi walks through the door smelling of petrol. He removes his sunglasses and white cotton gloves, extends his tongue in greeting, and takes the stool next to Sangye. The corner of her mouth rises towards him in a half-smile. Gelek explains his brother is just back from a trip to Shigatse.