Making of A Heretic Tibet

Making of A Heretic Tibet

2001

jp melville

Friend,

once upon a time, in a land far, far away

you asked about my work

China - Canada

government to government

some sort of partnership between politics and bureaucracies

and me.

Find Lhasa on the map,

place a pin three hours out of town on a place called Tsetang,

give the pin a label:

private sector bilateral project manager

international development aid consultant

expert rural planner

professional whooo…

aaaaooofff….

I run out of breath defining myself.

You wished for an update from my end

what was there to tell?

I was on my own, days rolled by

at first, as always, a great thrill, arriving in a new place

arriving where everything is new

all the shops interesting to look into,

even underwear

or toothpaste

or soap

seems unique.

There was the bustle of people,

new colours of skin

new pupils in children’s eyes

new shrill voices ricocheting in my ears

beggars chanting, some barking "Hello! Hello!"

smells of sweet sour sweat flesh tingling in my nostrils

And the cold, crisp air of altitude.

There was architecture

a Potala to gape at

but my eyes reached around corners

of cut stone and dirty whitewashed walls three stories high,

my eyes reached upward

into twisted windows with little jutting wooden parapets

some with shanks of yak meat hanging, drying in the harsh sun

some with struggling potted red geraniums and dwarf scarlet roses

some with a rag of cloth and prayers printed into the weave

scattering faith to the blustering wind,

my eyes squeezed under the low lintels of doorways

through passageways into the secrets of domestic spaces

to a tap running water in a courtyard

and young women washing their hair together

the suds spilling over the cobbled compound floor

for an instant

their eyes caught mine

breach of privacy and intimacy,

so I turned and I was gone,

my footsteps carried me past the photograph now in my memory.

There was dirt

paving stones greasy with years of spit

slippery with wash water thrown out of doorways,

bits of oily vegetable scum

carrot scrapings, potato peelings

and yellow plastic and crumpled paper melting,

floating in eddies of grey waste water spilled from public taps.

And human shit lying on patches of bare ground

turds in half coils, the mark of an old woman squatting,

urine wet on walls flipped from men’s loose zippers

acrid stench electrifying the short hairs in my nostrils

yes, the stench, snapping, sizzling, scintillating shock

only replaced doors down

by another

chemistry of the air

everywhere a restaurant

everywhere a hawker of fruit, apples, oranges, dates, raisins

everywhere vegetables in carts

markets in side streets

markets beneath huge canopies

shades and shapes of rich greens yellows whites

flowing over table tops

red spices

brown spices

roots ground into powder

seeds some ochre

seeds some black

seeds some round

seeds some split...

scents...

food..

soul food...

for one dollar a bowl of boiled vegetable wrapped in cloaks of dough

for one dollar a bowl of noodles and meat

for one dollar steamed buns and bright red chilli sauce

for three dollars more than you can eat

for ten dollars an excellent meal

for fifty dollars, extravagance...

Those were some of my first days' imprints

now soaked into my mind

still seeping somewhere into my loneliness

and I wonder,

why,

why was I there?

Because of people?

Taxi drivers with wrinkled faces, uncombed hair

a cigarette dangling from their mouth

white gloves on their hands,

a business the same as everywhere

a man who will take you to where you are going

a word, maybe two, suffices

directions

the gears grate in rumbling, rattled shells of cars

destination reached

door opens

money changes hands

relationship over

you and the driver both having accomplished something

something which leaves you right back at the beginning

the search for someplace else to go.

Women, young women on the streets

foreigners to this high altitude

though not to this nation state

pairs walking arm in arm

shopping for clothes

lipstick painted on their mouths

chattering

high heels, tight pants, stiff  blouses

one jet black hair cut sharply, the other stained henna

today's fashion, yesterday's, no difference,

could be Schipol

Fifth Avenue

Potsdamer Platz

shopping.

Suits

ubiquitous

anonymous

so many men imported from the lowlands

some marching on the streets

ties

all times of the day

grey suits

black suits

and that was it

no other colours

no other choice

some suits even digging in ditches

useful bodies

useless persons

labourers, one gone, another fills the void

mindless sweat

serfs of a material world

all anonymous bodies

ubiquitous

in an anonymous world.

Some faces interspersed Caucasian

male

German, American, Swiss

tourists, maybe pilgrims too

pants loose jackets wild

hair dishevelled, long

cheeks unshaven, eyes flirting

these men from strange lands

came to find something

something missing somewhere else.

But then these other women, who were they,

cheeks ruddy,

genetic generations in low oxygen altitude purple skin

hair braided to their waists

hands’ skin black from the cold, the sun,

and for sure the  grain threshing in some village far, far away

gaudy, heavy turquoise beads strung from necks

robes from shoulders reaching to ankles

ragged sneakers on their feet

red, blue, white coloured strands of wool

were these women younger

were they older

some with child strapped to their back

some a sack full of mystery

or necessary stuff only to be forgotten in time

these women from someplace strange

far, far away

at that snapshot moment

there in that city

there these women were

there as pilgrims

there visiting family

or there wondering what was happening to their world

their eyes looked at me,

right through me,

stranger from a strange land.

And their men

pilgrims too

also dressed in robes, these reached to their knees

white fur lined robes

angora goats slaughtered for warmth

beneath which they wore woolen pants

and multiple strands of bright red wool

wound into their long, black hair

knotted over their heads,

odd, some of these men wore suits

and

somehow

their hair styles and ruddy brown faces

did not seem out of place.

So my eyes remarked on those tapestry aprons, women

So my eyes remarked on red wool in hair, men

absolute confidence

with the strength of a past world no longer alive

and with a solicitous triad

of ignorance, pride, and vanity

for which women will breed

and men will kill.

I used to think sorrowfully about people losing their traditional ways

self righteous anger burgeoning in my veins

but now I am not so sure

not even sure if traditional ways are being lost

some people worry themselves about the flooding of Tibet

with those millions of people from other places in China

poor men who can make shoes on the side of the street

with only three pieces of equipment

poor women who can make money

by renting their bodies in a bustling economy far from home

poor farmers who grow vegetables in greenhouses

for nothing other than cash

or the petty bourgeois who come

to open a restaurant

to open a tailor shop

to open a bicycle parts store

to open a sheet metal fabrication enterprise

yes, all these masses of people

some going there and setting roots

some failing, returning home.

Yes, once I worried

about ways of life

traditions

about families who had lived in one place for generations

and generations before that

and even before that...

But are not all subject to change?

You?  Me?  Everyone?

So, in that place called Tibet

I saw change

I saw myself inside that change

as I walked the streets and people looked at me

expectations and assumptions and wonder of the white man.

In the end

I have no idea what I took there

or what I perhaps brought out.

I was trained to be conscious of values

Of matters of importance.

In the end,

it all seemed so small,

my conscious thought,

my own small world,

to which the exit door was locked.

I wonder, now,

about these languages in my mouth, how they colour my mind

about these economies which both exploit me and drive me on

about the political tyranny of the masses

about some invisible cabal

which bar or open the gates to which my clenched fists grasp.

All that which I saw

all that which I see

these are the tides of my civilization

about which I can think, feel, or espouse

yet never, ever, ever understand.

Somewhere, maybe everywhere,

I now have come to believe

flows an unconscious river

so very exciting washing around through all of us.

All those people I saw there,

In that land they call Tibet

claims of justice, progress, order

claims of genocide, oppression, exploitation

Or just a mad revel of humanity.

I was a development worker!

I was a development worker?

No,

A heretic,

my friend.