Tibetan Sepia

I wrote a song this week…well perhaps it is more of a poem right now, considering the musical additive has not been applied. Regardless, many people are under the impression that China is covered by a veil of spiritual and majestic life. Although the landscapes of this country and its surrounding borders most definitely satisfy that stereotype, the reality of life here is far different than the picture so many people have painted, and I wanted the poem to portray the image and thoughts that have passed through my eyes and mind on this journey.

However, this journey is its own story and deserves to be told as well...

A bird in East Asia is much more mobile than a human bound by the transportation limitations of a car. A voyage from one river valley to the next is less than 60 miles as a bird flies…if only I had wings. The obstacle separating these valleys is a minor figure known as the Himalayan Mountain Range. So as a bird could snatch a stick for building a nest from the Yangtze River in the morning and place it in a tree in the Mekong River Valley in the afternoon; we mere mortals are not so lucky. We are required to follow the rutted, potholed, dusty mountain roads as they wind like a boneless snake around the breast of the mountains until, alas, their grasp extends out into the open plains - hours and miles away. Gazing through the windows of the Gnome Bus (aptly named because the size of the seats are fitted for dwarfs at best) the frames flash through impoverished villages skirting and supporting the industrial towns ahead. Faces old and young appear covered in the dirt of their own environmental ignorance, as well as the dirt of their agricultural bliss. The country is separated by class like oil and water. A village with dirt roads, stick shelters, a goodwill of sorts outfitting the inhabitants. Behind an open bamboo gate you may see a Porsche SUV parked next to the charcoal pit, the only car in town. Probably belonging to one of the villager's sons, home for a visit from his auspicious job as a high official in the Chinese Red Revolution. A “sell out” is the impression he carries on his back as his past comrades carry their fruits of labor on their backs.

The vibrations rattling through the bus have my brain in a syncopated rhythm as if I’m stepping off a chartered fishing trip onto the vertigo of the dock. The numbness has turned what may once have seemed extraordinary, into my ordinary daily life in China. Hours pass by, the same scenes flashing by the windows, only the landscapes are changing now. High desolate tundra, fit for only the harshest beasts of survival, drab immense mountains stained brown as a result of their colorful ancient trees being stripped from their faces, flat planes of rice fields extending into the thick valley haze, bitter snowy meadows draining their life into the lush tropical river valleys below; then, the countryside is flourishing again, palm trees and bamboo shooting from the cliff sides, mountain streams sprouting through the narrow canyon vegetation, the turquoise river below funneling in and out of limestone gorges like hourglasses of water, all the while, the faces we pass are still smiling.

It has been 2 days of traveling , the sight of the river below has released the fluids of my adrenal glands into my system as my mind wanders through the visions on the turbulent rapids below. With the put-in area in sight, a canal of sourceless water is streaming out of the cliff hundreds of feet above. The mist of the waterfall stretches and waves like a silk scarf down the mountain side until its tassels mist the peaks and the waves of the rapid below. It’s a sight that will not repeat itself as the source of that waterfall disappeared the next day, leaving nothing but a dry cliffside etched with a watermark …..another sign of China's mystical industrialization.

Reaching the put-in we were greeted by a baker's dozen of Tibetan people currently embarked on a 25 day pilgrimage from their village to worship the sacred Tibetan mountain of Kawekabo above. A generation ago, Tibetans would often complete this pilgrimage on foot, kneeling and laying flat after every step as a sign of their commitment to Buddha. It took years to complete. As we geared up, the people were mesmerized by our method of travel on the water, having never seen such crafts. In fact, the sight of a Westerner alone was virgin to many of their eyes.

The rapids to follow were as strong as the local dialect. The first main cataract claimed the egos of many of our young adventurers to be. It was actually relieving to see some of them humbled by the powers of the Mekong waters, it has humbled its inhabitants for lifetimes. I choose clean lines and good times for my adventure as we navigated through numerous trains of overhead waves and holes. Rounding the last river bend we were greeted by rainbows of prayer flags stretching hundreds of feet above the river like footbridges. The hike out of the gorge was filled with more color as scrolls, prayer flags and temples lined the pathway brushing us with colors reminiscent of a box of primary colored Crayolas.
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Two more days of paddling and we began to pack for our trek over the mountain to the roadless Tibetan village of Youbeng seated at the base of Tibet's most sacred mountain. Distance, in such a land of epic proportions, is as difficult to judge as the dialect is to understand. We began to hike, upwards, and upwards, and upwards and…. the grade of the incline remained steady and steep, as if you were forced to earn the respect of the mountain before it would yield its wonders on the other side. Hours later, and 3500 vertical feet above, I wound through the endless tunnel of prayer flags and was rewarded with the most inconceivable view my eyes have ever focused upon. Standing at nearly 13,000 feet, the 23,000 foot snow-capped peaks directly in front of me towered into the clouds as if there was no force on this planet holding them down. The scale is impossible to express through words alone. I had been sick with the aches and pains of a strong cold until this moment - where nature’s beauty injected me with its equivalent of Super-Sudafed. Stunned by the scene around me, the 2500 foot descent into the bowel of the mountain was complete before it began.

The pictures in this post can give you a glimpse of what I saw, but it's similar to looking into a Victorian dollhouse. It all very beautiful, but you can never appreciate the scale and detail until you are in the dollhouse yourself. The people in the villiages on our stay were the happiest, humblest and most proud indiviuals I have ever met. The Tibeten culture has been torn apart, but the Tibetan poeple have hung on to the threads of their ancestral lives. We sang with them, we danced with them, we shared in their rituals, they shared in ours, we devoured their food, spun their prayer wheels, absorbed and re-absorbed their smiles and respected their lives. These people are beautiful, and if you never let your eyes look down, you would never see the impact of their country's desparate revolution.


I read 5 books on this leg of the trip, 3 about the Tibetan people, culture, and hardships, and one about China's communist government and revolutionary ideals. My cultural bias is leaning much further down the hill towards Tibet, but that is another discussion in itself. There are many pieces I left out, as time online is never an utmost priority or luxury here. I can share many more experiences over a nice cold Mountain State Brewery Seneca Pale Ale another day (considering my choice to go dry for this entire venture.) Enjoy the poem below:

A Nation?
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People hauling their lives on the hunch in their backs,
taking footsteps because of the lack of train tracks.
This nation is healing from a culural revolution,
but the wounds remain open and filled with pollution.
Passing by the dusty villagers with smiles on their faces,
strong hearts beating to keep smiles in these desparate places.
A Tibetan man branded with the hardships of his time,
a life a man should not have to photograph in his mind.
Old women with bamboo sticks piled on their shoulders,
every step to the market, she's getting older than the boulders.
Terraces filled with fruits as clean as the day is clear,
but the wrappers of industry below are near.
Shirtless children waving stick switches,
at politicians hiding lies beneath the stitches.
Holding together this nation torn apart,
is nothing but fear and the maroon robed hearts.
Prayer flags strung across high mountin roads,
waving from the draft of another truck load below
Passing by the ones who truly need it,
because their eyes are too RED to see it.
That color is burned into the eyes of these folks,
no longer as white as their harvested egg yolks.
She spends days pushing that cart full of sugar cane,
only to hope the profits will ease some of the pain.
People forced behind the bars of production,
just to give it up to someone else's consumption.
Bankrupt in a life deprived of paycheck,
the real wealth he wears in the beads around his neck.
We dance songs and steps that could move a grindstone,
if they would just listen to the message vibrating the tone.

Xie Jien,
Jesse

The picture below is of me and my Tibetan friend Zachary.

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