by Kate Karko
Gorbo was on the other side of the rocky stream, herding the yaks home for the night. I could just make out his orange hat as he came towards the house between the mountains on his horse, accompanied by a ewe and her lamb that had strayed. The mass of yak hoofs tripped across the valley like showering pebbles and crunched across the ice of the frozen stream. I could hear the whir and crack of his sling, as he chucked a well-aimed stone at a wandering yak. He was singing. His voice rang out clearly and soulfully, alternating between high and low pitch with a gentle vibrato, in the style of a traditional Tibetan song. The words were swallowed at the end of each phrase in a blunt staccato and the rhythm wove a steady pattern, almost hypnotic in the twilight, rebounding and reverberating up the valley.
It might have been a song of love or a song about his land: the mountains, the air, the light, the flowers, the life of the animals and their intrinsic value. Gorbo had said he wanted to be a bird. When he herded in the valleys, he would look up and wish he could be there, soaring over the mountains. In song the theme of nature was always used as an image of man's profound emotions. A song would be riddled with metaphor and had a unique relevance to the people of this land; Machu was renowned all over Amdo for its talented singers and many of the best Tibetan songs came from here. The Amdo people were imbued with the spirit of the land and their lyricism was a direct reflection of the profound love they felt for their culture. They sang with a raw energy unmatched in western society. This was a place where young lovers still sang across the valleys to each other; the two would spontaneously construct a song using metaphor and innuendo. These love songs, called kabshat or lazjhee, literally 'mountain song', were the most beautiful. They were flexible in their subject matter and might contain messages of love or teasing and sarcasm. It depended on the singers' mood. Sometimes they would deliver a verse alternately, which resulted in witty retorts, as each tried to come up with a better reply than the other. It was a formidable challenge and required a creative mind – but, then, they thought in that way. In Amdo, everyone was a poet. It was no exaggeration.
The music was often sorrowful. Amdowas had a strong sense of identity, an unfaltering concept of home, and an acute sense of the visual. Their vocabulary directly reflected this and they had a stardingly subtle variety of adjectives at their disposal. They had specific words for each minute colour variation of their horses and that colour could not be used to describe anything other than a horse. I was often reminded of the inadequacies of my own language in this respect, as some things were impossible to translate without sounding clumsy.
Tsedup's cousin, Lugerjar, was a singer-songwriter famed throughout Amdo. He made his living producing audio cassettes, which were sold across Tibet, and running the local School for the Performing Arts. I was privileged to have heard him sing for us one night in a restaurant. It was a melancholy sound, a lingering, crystal vibrato. He delivered it with passionate force from the pit of his solar plexus. Everyone stopped eating when they heard it:
My guru has winged into the blue space,
Tears well up in my eyes as I long for him.
Lend me your wings, white condor,
And I will go to the guru in the azure sky.
My brotherhood has been scattered to the four corners of the world,
Sorrow floods my heart as I long for my little brother.
Lend me your speed, wild horse,
And I will go in search of him.
My beloved parents have departed to the darkness of death,
I am lost in timeless nights and days as I long for them.
Bestow me with your beams, o great sun,
And I will search for them in the world of the dead.
Another relative, Choegetar, had just produced his first cassette. He was the one who had sung the reunion song for us in the tent when we had first arrived home with Tsedup. His music was haunting, revealing the drama and strife of this land, and now that I knew more about him I understood why. A few years ago, his father had been killed over a land dispute. All of his sons displayed creative tendencies -Choegetar's younger brother, Sherab, had published a book of poetry, and the youngest, Jachwar, was a dancer and singer at the local School for the Performing Arts – and their work was imbued with a sensitivity and an acute sense of empathy that perhaps is only felt by those who have truly suffered.
But not all nomad lyrics were sorrowful. At our marriage blessing in England our Amdo friend Lamakyab had stood at the altar and read Tsedup and me the words to a lazjhee.
Let you be the yonder snow mountain,
Let me be the pure virgin snow.
Even though the blazing sun rises
I will never melt.
Let you be the sandalwood tree
And I will be the scented leaves.
As long as you are not harmed by the wind
Leaves will never fall.
Let you be the glistening lake
And I will be the golden fish.
For where would I exist
If not for your rippling waters?
Let you be the statue of Dolma, the female saviour,
And I will be your dazzling, brocade robe.
Who would don me
If you were not there in all your sculpted splendour?
The cedar in the forest
Neither perishes in the bleak winter,
Nor is changed by the sweltering summer,
Such are our thoughts.
The snow-white Waller flower
Is neither withered by the bitter wind,
Nor suffocated by the weight of snow,
Such is our love.
I had also heard Tsedo and Rhanjer chanting aloud a traditional rhyme that chronicled the transition of the various stages of winter, which were split into units of nine days:
The first ninth, the chilled ground cracks,
The second ninth, the cold stone splits,
The third ninth, the icy iron cleaves,
The fourth ninth, the shuddering bull groans in the barn,
The fifth ninth, a spark of fire warms the sea bed,
The sixth ninth, ice reveals its entombed treasures,
The seventh ninth, water brings seeds of life,
The eighth ninth, the horseman takes off his hat,
The ninth ninth, the wayfarer takes off his shoes,
The tenth ninth, the fertile land heralds the spring.
We were deep into the winter and still had a long way to go before spring. I regretted that Tsedup and I would not be here then: we would be leaving, and as the daylight hours shortened I knew that our time here was running out. We were somewhere in November and my awareness of the date was gradually becoming all too keen. We were dreading going back to England and the closer it came to the end of December, the more sad and reflective we both became. I missed my family and it would be good to see them and our friends, but we also had responsibilities I would rather have forgotten about. Our days of living in the wilderness were drawing to a close. London and a mortgage beckoned. I had also missed Tsedup's parents while they had been in Lhasa. They were due to return soon and it would be good to spend some time with them before we left.
A few days later the children came running breathlessly down from the mountains, their sacks bulging. They had been collecting grass worms. Previously I had denied the existence of a worm that could turn into a piece of grass, dismissing it as a Tibetan myth. I had heard many things, but this topped the bill. In England I remembered Tsedup telling me that in Tibet there was a tiny dog that was known to hatch from an egg. I had trouble swallowing this one too. But in the case of the grass worm, I was disproved. Indeed there did exist a worm that grew fungus on its head in autumn, which looked like grass, then died. It was called yarsa gunba. The Chinese used it as an expensive medicine, and at this time of year the nomad children were despatched by their parents to collect as many as they could from the mountains to sell in town. They were pleased with their haul today, but were even more ecstatic to be able
to inform us that they had seen the tolla bringing Annay and Amnye up the track to the tribe.
Sure enough, the rickety vehicle was chugging towards us in a dustcloud. We hadn't had snow for a month now. It was bad news for the road, which, through lack of moisture had achieved the consistency of powdered turmeric. It was like driving on a beach. That day the wind was up and the powder enveloped the tolla in whipping clouds as the hunched figures of Tsedup's parents clung on tightly and lurched through the landscape, their faces covered with scarves. They pulled up at a distance, as the Chinese driver was nervous of the dogs, and the children ran whooping and squealing from the house to greet their grandparents. Annay Urgin, Shermo Donker and I followed and helped to unload the sacks and boxes that Annay and Amnye had brought back from Lhasa. Everyone was talking at once, grinning and laughing, happy to be reunited. The dogs were barking and jumping around Annay excitedly. Sanjay was pulling at the skirt of her tsarer and Dickir Che clung, chattering, to her grandfather's arm.
Then, in the commotion of voices and fervour of chuckling faces, Annay asked, 'Where is Sirmo?'
There was silence. It was the moment we had all been dreading. Annay and Amnye would have to be told that their daughter had eloped. But who was to do it? Shermo Donker busied herself silently with the luggage. I stared at the ground.
'She's gone,' said Annay Urgin. 'We thought you might have heard on the way.' This sort of news travelled fast.
'No,' said Annay, her voice quavering. She began to fuss with the dogs while Amnye spat the dust from his mouth. An uncomfortable lull descended on the welcoming party.
Inside, Annay cried. Amnye sat quietly in the other room with the children. I could hear him asking them where his daughter had gone. He asked Sanjay, Dickir Che and Ziggy, but none had the courage to answer him. They shied away, sensing that something wasn't right but not fully understanding what.
That evening, Tsedup returned. As promised, it was only the presence of his parents that had brought him home. Despite the circumstances, I was excited to see him as his bike screeched to a throbbing halt in the yard and his dust-clogged hair flapped around his face. He was followed by his brothers, Tsedo, Gondo and Rhanjer, who pulled up behind. When the whole family had assembled in the small house, there began a heated discussion. Tsedup challenged his father over the schooling issue, but with less force than I had anticipated. He had cooled down now, and was capable of discussing it man to man. Indeed, his relationship with his father had changed from when he was there last. He had told me that he didn't really talk to him much, apart from the obvious 'Can I borrow your rifle?' requests, to which his father usually replied no. But Amnye was jubilant to see Tsedup again and must have realised how much his son had grown up since he left. Just as Tsedup had noticed how old his parents had become. But I also realised how nervous of Tsedup his family were sometimes. Apparently he had always held strong opinions, but now that he was a man he could be quite intimidating. The iron stove pumped out heat and the air was thick with smoke. Shermo Donker and I sat on the floor and I slipped her a sip of my beer every now and again. She giggled quietly as Amnye railed in the corner and Annay sat rocking on her haunches, cuddling the puppies for comfort.
'One day he will leave her,' repeated Amnye, over and over again, as he coughed on his cigarette. He was angry with Sirmo and Chuchong. The match was clearly not approved. He seemed suspicious of her suitor and I supposed he thought it a weakness in Chuchong's character that he had stolen his daughter. Didn't all fathers deserve respect? But he didn't just blame Sirmo's unexpected new husband. As he debated with his sons, I discovered that he had anticipated the possibility of his hot-headed girl's flight before he went to Lhasa. He had implored her not to run away while he and Annay were gone and she had agreed. Now he knew she had ignored him and he was furious. He knew that Sirmo had gone to a huge family and would be living communally with them all and he insisted that, over time, she would not get on with so many in-laws. Only if they were given their own home would Amnye agree to give Sirmo her share of the family wealth that was due to her. As a new bride, traditionally, Sirmo should be lavished with silver, coral, turquoise, new leopardskin tsarers and her own quota of yaks.
Amnye slept outside that night beside the clay house where we stored the meat. He had missed Amdo when he was in the city and had had enough of sleeping on beds, he said. As for the food, he told us he preferred plain Amdo fare. He had dreamt of a bowl of tanthuk. Lhasa had changed beyond recognition. Now it was another Chinese city: too many people, too many buildings. Tsedup and Tsedo tried to dissuade him from sleeping outside, as he clearly had flu, but he grunted obstinately and they tucked him up on the frost-bitten ground. The sand blustered around his head, but he didn't care. He needed to feel the earth again.
Two days later the mediator arrived, a goblin-like man. His name was Garsay and he had been selected by Sirmo's new family to act as go-between in this most sensitive of issues as it was not appropriate for the two families to meet. He arrived from Sirmo's tribe in the morning and Amnye entertained him, despite the severity of his illness. The diminutive man had brought cloth from the groom's family as an offering. The exchange was heated, Amnye speaking most. The mediator was there merely to listen and relate Amnye's words to the unfortunate new bride and her in-laws, but he was in for an earful.
We sat in the adjacent room, sewing quietly and listening to Amnye's passionate protestations. 'Zuncha ma, liar,' he said, over and over. Sirmo had lied to him by leaving. Annay interrupted his stream of invective with her own hysterical tirade, until Tsedo told her to shut up. She came out to sit with us by the clay stove, muttering to herself. Shermo Donker and Annay Urgin tutted along. From the huge mound of matted sheepskin piled between them came a faint odour of damp and cheese. They were making a tsokwa for Dado, who needed a wife. I asked them if Amnye had been as angry when Tsedup had run away all those years ago. They said no. No doubt, it was different for boys. Then Annay Urgin stopped sewing, as if recalling a moment from that time. She told me that Amnye had cried when, after five years of no communication because the mail hadn't got through from India, he had received Tsedup's first letter. I realised how devastating the waiting must have been for him. Although I was ignorant of the subtle complexities of matrimonial negotiation, I thought it strange that such a sensitive man wished to punish his daughter. For I had heard his ultimatum.
'She is not welcome back here,' he bellowed. 'Not until this problem is settled and they are given their own home.'
The goblin shuffled out of the door, somewhat abashed, followed by Amnye and Tsedo. I knew that when he returned to Sirmo and related her father's words, she would be unhappy. This dispute had signalled a real rift from her own family. She had been banished until the negotiations were complete, and how long that would take nobody knew. She would be missed. Tsedup and I would probably not see her until we returned to Amdo, and we had no idea how long that would be. As Garsay mounted his horse to ride back to the other tribe, Annay waved the cloth he had brought. 'Look, we have swapped our girl for this!' she cried, as he disappeared down the dusty track.
Fifteen. Where the Heart Is
The social pressures of life in Amdo were considerable. Since it was now common knowledge that we would be leaving soon, we received daily invitations to visit people. Even Tsedup was exhausted with the spirit of Tibetan hospitality. That morning we were woken early by Rinchen. The Artful Dodger danced around our hut excitedly and told us to get up. Our neighbour, Gabo, had arrived to escort us to his brother Sangta's home in the next westerly valley. We dressed quickly, then jumped on the back of the bike and followed him on his horse. In their valley we passed a small temple, painted white and orange in traditional Tibetan style. Two elderly nomad women were circumambulating in the morning sunshine.
We arrived at Sangta's home, to find that the family had slaughtered a yak and several people were huddled around it, busily dissecting it. Sangta's wife hurried us inside their small clay house, steerin
g me away from the sight of the dead animal. She didn't realise I was used to it. Inside, it was stifling. The heat from the iron stove-pipe and the sun on the plastic-sheeted windows, combined to offer little in the name of oxygen but we settled ourselves for the day. I watched Sangta talking. In contrast to his brother, who was the stout, cheerful wrestler, he had long, sleek hair, a generous moustache and the largest Roman nose I had seen on a Tibetan. He sat pondering his guests like a stalking polecat with his sly eyes. Sangta was a real nomad, a wanderer. Rarely at home, he preferred to spend his time travelling from place to place on horseback. Tsedup told me that there was not one area of Amdo that he hadn't seen. His children eyed me suspiciously from the corner of the room; the elder attempted a smile while the younger stared unblinking from beneath a shock of dreadlocks dangling from the crown of her head.
We ate momos as the crows squawked and flapped on the tin roof above our heads, and I listened as the men talked for hours. Then just before the sun tipped down below the mountain ridges, we left. Gabo asked me if I'd like to ride his horse home and, seized by the challenge, I said yes. I mounted the black steed, rather self-consciously, since everyone in the valley was watching. It was important to appear professional at such times, but as I gripped the sides of the enormous beast with my knees and it began to move off I felt nervous. This was it: my first ride alone. I deceived the crowd of onlookers with a huge smile and willed the horse to respond as I tugged cautiously on the reins. He was obedient and I began to feel confident. Ahead, Tsedup and Gabo revved the bike and roared away down the track. They would watch me from the road beneath the mountains, they said.