Traditions Alive in Modern E. Tibet

Preparations are in full swing for lhosar, the Tibetan New Year. The teens will gather at 9 a.m. today to practice the dances and songs for the festival.

When I rouse myself to look at my watch, I see it is already quarter past eight. My host, Urgyen, is at puja with the monks, so I will be alone for breakfast. I ease myself out of the warm bed into the frigid air. My mountaineer watch records a room temp of 43°. I use the chamber pot one last time. I fish under the blankets for my socks, then jump into the rest of my clothes layered over the ever-present long johns. Once again under the blankets for the hot water bottle. I dump the still-warm water into a wash basin for the morning face wash.

When I move to the large living room I see Lhamo Tashi has already been here. She has built up the coal fire in the table brazier, and set a pot of hot buttered tea on it. I quickly mix up some tsamba and eat, before heading out.

To reach the home where the teens are practicing, I walk across the monastery grounds, behind the large temple, passing in front of the hall where the young monks are already engaged in debating class. I pass a few yaks nibbling on scraps, before reaching a line of ten stupas, which I pass on the left. They are about five feet at the base, reaching ten feet high. A few feet beyond I reach the monastery wall. There is a gap in the mud wall large enough for passing through to the small cluster of houses beyond. I clamber over the stiles.

Walking about 200 yards, after twists and turns through the wall-lined dirt pathways I arrive at the right gate in a mud-covered whitewashed stone wall. There is a wooden knob about the size and shape of a Campbell's soup can, made of wood. I twist it, and the wooden latch behind the door swings up; the door opens. I walk passed the sturdy horse stalls that are built against the wall, into the sunlit 20-foot wide dirt yard. I see four huddled groups spread out across the yard. I look up and notice an older woman pausing in her chores to glance down from the second story courtyard of the large house.

These teenagers meet like this every day of my week-long stay at this monastery. There are a couple of middle-aged village men taking time with each huddled group. One man moves back and demonstrates a dance step. Another man sings a brief passage. The young people are learning the traditional songs, and the dances that go with them.

On the first day of my visit, they were learning a call and response song. Girls in one huddle, boys in the other, they were each trying to read and sing out their verses. A girl remained seated on a bench, using a stool as a desk, copying out the two pages of Tibetan lyrics. As each set was completed, someone came from the circle to snatch it up. They decide it's time to try it out. They get in a circle, girls together, boys in their own half. The dancers begin, tapping out the rhythm with their dance steps. The tall girl, with a high voice clear and rippling as a mountain stream, lead the girls in the first verse. The rhythmic feet tap out a bar before the boys are to echo their response. Then a second bar, and still no response. So the girls carry on, singing the second verse and the third. They rest and study some more, and try again. This time the boys pick up the echo, but the pitch is too high for the boys. Only one has the range to respond in key, the other boys sing out a cacophony. The girls don't take the hint, however, until a high lama comes by to see how they are doing, and taking the lead girl aside, has a word with her.

A young woman, barely older than these practicing, comes through the gate with a baby strapped on her back. She walks across the forty-foot long yard, giving a smile and a word of encouragement as she skirts the edge of the circle. She stops at the wall of dung patties, five deep and four feet high, stacked against the house. She collects two or three on her way inside the dark house, past the empty cattle stalls, up the narrow wooden stairs into the second story home.

They work throughout the day, resting at noon to take a communal meal of tsamba upstairs. By the afternoon they have three dances roughed out. The words come harder than the dance steps, so that often the only singing comes from the feet slapping down on the dirt yard, sending up tiny dust whirls. I am tempted to join them, these dances are new to me and I want my feet to learn these charming and intricate steps. But I am reluctant, not wanting to interrupt their focus.

Yesterday morning I felt the need for a head wash. I couldn't imagine wetting my hair in that frigid air and waiting for it to dry. In my younger traveling days I did it as matter of course, but I am older now, forced to deal with lesser energy to cope. I got in my car and tried to start it, but the battery groaned as it tried to turn over a frozen engine. Giving that up, I bundled up and went to the main gate. There a helmeted young monk was standing ready with a motorcycle, a child monk was eyeing the saddle to take a ride to the nearby town of Bamei. I helped him get up. Then I asked the monk if I could also ride. He readily assented, and we moved the child to the front, on the gas tank. I climbed up behind.

He was a thoughtful young man. He crawled along the road, not wanting the cold wind of speed to chill his young charge (and perhaps his elder charge, as well). It took us forever to arrive. By then the foot away from the sun was numb with cold.

I found the one beauty salon in the town. I waited my turn for a wash. A woman worked the styling seat with a blow drier. A man did the washing. In the corner with the wash basin, against the wall a bucket brazier supported a big pot of water. These bucket braziers look like concrete poured into a 5 gallon bucket with a hollowed out center, for the pressed coal pellets. The man lifted the heavy pot and poured the hot water into a red plastic bucket hanging high on the wall. A hose snaked from the bucket. Below there was a blue plastic sink with hollow drain. When it was my turn, I sat on a wooden stool and stretched my neck over the blue sink. He lathered and rinsed me three times. He extended me a towel. I squeezed out the excess water as he lifted the bucket from the floor below the hollowed sink drain and carried it outside to the gutter.

When I got back to the dancers, they were finishing up a generous meal prepared by the hostess. The high lama was there, giving encouragement to the efforts of these young people.

The afternoon passed quickly. I was feeling drowsy, so I went back to Urgyen's house, had some tsamba and took a short nap. When I awoke, Sonam Lhamo was there with two young helpers. She was vigorously attacking the wooden floor with a rag mop. I heard clunk clunk as she slapped down the mop. I puzzled it out. There were ice chunks still in the mop after the last use.

Before she left, speaking with me in Chinese, she asked if I wouldn't mind teaching the children an English class. Sure, I said. When, where, and how many. The next day I went to the small school house on the monastery grounds and met with the village children. Forty-five students crowded into the classroom, ranging in age from six to thirteen. For a blackboard, I found that three boards had been fastened together, painted black and put on a easel. I erased the Tibetan that was written there, and wrote out numbers for some drill.

After the 90 minute class Sonam Lhamo invited me back to her office. She offered me a glass of hot water, which absolutely hit the spot. She and another teacher handled all the classes. She teaches 23 hours a week. She teaches Chinese, and the other teaches Tibetan.

Today they are practicing a different kind of dance. I see a worn drum hanging from a wooden frame, with two thick sticks ending in wrapped white cloth. They are acting out a legendary tale from Tibetan history. The drummer beats out a rhythm, ba doop, ba doop, bada bada bada boop, while the dancers act out traveling by foot and on horseback through the mountains and valleys. Then the cymbals come in, clang clang clangclangclang swoosh, like the sound of a coin dancing on its face and coming to rest. The dancers halt, and one of them narrates a part of the tale, sometimes in dialogue with another responding, all in song. During the rest I see a student reading a small paperback of this legend.

By now the young people are more comfortable with me. My friend has told them I would like to learn the dances, so while the circle is paused a girl invites me to join them. I tell her in Chinese that I am not familiar with this kind of dance. She looks at her friend, who says something in Tibetan, which includes one of the Chinese words that I said. Except in Chinese it means 'kind of', and in Tibetan it means 'study'. They are puzzled. And I am intrigued, that they do not know the Chinese language!

Tired of sitting, face glowing warmly in the winter sun brilliant in a deep blue sky, I stand back against the wall. Across the yard I see horse's ears and mane beyond the wall, in the neighbor's yard. A gust suddenly lifts a coat from the wall behind me and plops it on my head. This brings a ripple of chuckles. The girls arrived with these polyester quilted jackets over their usual daily attire of traditional Tibetan dress, and sneakers. Woolen scarves were wound across the nose and chin, and they wore gloves. But as the sun warmed the courtyard, these were discarded and tossed on the wall.

The sad moment comes when I must leave. I am deeply regretting having made other plans to travel abroad during this holiday break. I feel I could contentedly remain through the lhosar festival, picking up a lot of the Tibetan language in this immersion environment. It is late afternoon, the sun has warmed up the engine. I say goodbye to my friend, promising to be back for a weekend after the winter break is over, and the snow is off the perilous passes.