|
Date: June 22, 2003
As I squat behind a rock with my pants down, I admire the scenery.
The sun pierces the thin atmosphere bursting into brilliant white
clouds and shattering into sparkles on the rocks. Shadows sweep
across the ground and up the mountains like disco lights. It looks
as if I've entered a floor show, "And here we have the deluxe,
super-size Himalayan Model."
The prevailing winds push streams of rose, orange and yellow sand
up and over the mountains. I wish it were so easy for me. Myself
and eight other bicyclists are riding up the world's longest hill.
We joined forces in Kathmandu to buy the visas, permits, truck,
driver and guide the Chinese require for travel in the "liberated"
and "autonomous region" of Tibet.
After my potty break, I coast alongside the New Zealander, Edwin.
Though Edwin is the strongest rider in the group, he always waits
for the weakest member, in this case, me, as I am sick. My intestines
feel as if I swallowed a boa constrictor and my back end makes noises
like a squeeze bottle. In my absence, a Tibetan shepherd has found
Edwin. Nearby, the shepherd's large flock of sheep graze the small
plants hiding among the rocks of the desert.
"I'm trying to teach this guy that pens don't grow on trees,"
Edwin says.
On cue, The Tibetan turns to me, waiving his hand horizontally,
"Hello. Pen?"
Somewhere in Africa tourists began giving children pens because
the children were required to have a pen before they could attend
school. This tradition of giving away pens soon spread through Africa,
sailed across the Indian Ocean, sped over the plains of India, through
the jungles of Nepal, up the switchbacks of the Himalayas and swept
into Tibet like the People's Liberation Army of China.
Long before it reached Tibet, this tradition, initially a humanitarian
gesture, began perverting millions of people into panhandlers. For
example, I remember riding through the Great Thar Desert in Rajasthan,
India where a kid spied my foreign-white skin glinting in the sun.
He ran a kilometer barefoot through the thorny desert to the road
and then padded alongside me for another kilometer as I struggled
against a hill and the wind. "Hellomoneyschoolpen," he
chanted in increasing decibels. He was a muscular lad wearing colorful
clothes and large, dangling gold earrings. Clearly he wasn't in
desperate straits and pens were never required for school enrollment
in India. He ran with one hand on my panniers as if a threat to
overturn me or drag me to a halt. When I escaped his grasp as the
hill declined, he hurled insults and rocks after me. He was just
like the dirty, mangy, urban monkeys of India that people have cajoled
out of the jungles with sweets, when the monkeys don't get what
they want -- what they feel the world owes them -- they sneak into
your room and steal a kilogram of peanut brittle and then sit on
your bicycle and snarl at you and threaten to give you a thrashing.
Give a man a fish and feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and
feed him for life: This is my philosophy and Edwin's and soon to
be the Tibetan Shepherd's.
The Tibetan is approximately our age, in his early thirties, though
wizened by the sun and tooth decay. Still he is a handsome fellow
with a broad face, strong cheekbones and golden skin. He has long
hair, braided with colored string and wrapped around the back of
his head framing his face -- the traditional style for men and women.
"Hello. Pen?" he parrots.
"Hello. Sheep?" says Edwin. "Hello. Coca-Cola?"
I say, thinking he will know this word.
The shepherd points to Edwin's pen and then to himself. Edwin points
to a sheep and then himself. "You want a pen. I want a sheep.
We all want something but you have to work for it, mate," Edwin
has a lot of one-side conversations that nobody understands but
Edwin's voice is soothing and fills the gaps.
The shepherd looks confused so I point from the sheep to Edwin,
then from the pen to the shepherd. Grasping the idea he imitates
me and we all nod in agreement. The shepherd walks to his flock
and deftly scoops a lamb from her mother.
"What are you going to do with a lamb?" I ask.
"Don't worry. He'll never trade a lamb for a pen. I just want
to teach him a lesson."
"How much is a lamb worth?"
"I don't know but a lot more than one pen."
What the Tibetan knows is that all the shepherds are selling their
spring lambs. Lambs are a common source of food for the locals and,
I believe, the desert couldn't support all the newborns. And, of
course, the shepherd knows the value of both lambs and pens in Tibet.
When the shepherd returns, Edwin tries to swap but the shepherd
refuses and reopens the negotiations. Now he wants the pen and money.
Edwin looks dismayed and jockeys his bicycle around the shepherd
pretending to leave. The shepherd holds the lamb in front of Edwin
turning her from side to side. Then he shoves her in front of me
and turns her from side to side. Her blue eyes shine, she has a
thick white fleece adapted to the Himalayan winters and she smells
like dung. Edwin offers his pen for exchange again.
This time it's the shepherd's turn to act his part in the bartering
drama. He gets angry and pantomimes, "This is a tasty lamb.
You are stealing the food from my children's mouths." (If anything,
people should give away condoms. "Hello. Condom?") The
shepherd backpedals toward his flock.
Edwin holds up his pen and flicks the button several times, scribbles
on his hand then tucks it into his shirt pocket by the clip. The
Tibetan is entranced and, suddenly, he agrees to the exchange, sealing
the bargain. So far, the bartering has followed the usual custom
and Edwin has to follow through or risk insulting and angering the
shepherd. So Edwin follows the consummate travel maxim: When in
Tibet do as the Tibetans do.
First the shepherd reaches for the pen but Edwin, still intent
on teaching him a lesson, indicates he wants the lamb first. After
a couple bungled attempts, they agree to swap simultaneously and
I photograph the moment for posterity. The shepherd quickly stuffs
the pen behind the silver buckle on his belt and Edwin is left cuddling
the lamb.
"I never thought he'd go for it," Edwin bemoans.
"What are you going to do with her?"
"Don't worry," he brightens, "It's a bluff. He'll
never let me ride away with his lamb."
"What if he does?"
"Then, I guess, we'll have a mascot."
"We can eat it," I suggest.
We mount our bicycles and as we pedal away, I think, "Lamb
noodle soup. Lamb steamed dumplings. Fried lamb chops," while
Edwin is wondering what to name her, "The Dalai Lamb-a or Bo
peep, the bicycling sheep." Edwin is struggling to hold the
lamb in one arm and navigate his bicycle over the dirt road. The
lamb bleats pathetically and one-hundred meters down the road, near
the edge of the flock, she wins Edwin's heart and we stop.
The shepherd stares at us with a twinge of curiosity but shows
no concern for his lamb. Perhaps, the shepherd has called Edwin's
bluff.
"Dang," Edwin pouts, "That was my last customized
pen."
"We can still eat it. Jabu and Dongteng [our Tibetan guide
and driver] will know how to cook it."
"Maybe we could just keep her in the truck." Edwin is
a vegetarian and I don't think he can bear to be responsible for
anyone eating his lamb.
"Someone has to eat it," I tease.
Edwin puts the lamb down and begins herding her towards her mother.
She bolts underneath the legs of the nearest sheep. Edwin chases
the lamb. The lamb scrambles from sheep to sheep and Edwin scrambles
after the lamb, zig-zagging through the flock until, suddenly, he's
face to face with the shepherd. "Just give me my pen. You see,
there's your lamb."
While Edwin was causing a stampede, the shepherd has gotten his
sling out and loaded it with a rock. He swings it around several
times and sends the stone soaring over his flock. Edwin doesn't
seem to notice. He keeps talking to the shepherd in his soothing
voice. The shepherd reloads and releases the stone with a crack
like a whip and it buzzes through the air -- causing me to cringe
-- and it shatters against a boulder. Undeterred, Edwin advances,
"Just give me the pen." He points to the hidden pen and
then himself. "Hello. Pen?"
"They've both gone crazy," I think. I lay my bicycle
down and prepare to rescue Edwin. The Shepherd sees me approach
and grabs his dagger out of the ground and begins waggling it at
Edwin, then me, then Edwin while yelling. "Stay back or your
friend gets it," I imagine he says.
I freeze. But Edwin approaches waiving his hand horizontally, "Hello.
Pen? Give Pen!"
The shepherd is really acting like a madman now. He shouts, lunges
and feints a stab towards Edwin's belly. Finally, Edwin holds his
arms above his head. "All right. Keep the pen," he says.
"Keep the pen."
When Edwin retreats to me, I'm laughing so hard that the boa constrictor
in my gut is twisting. "Buddy! what were you thinking?"
"I just wanted my pen back," bemoans Edwin. "Just
wait until everyone finds out that I, a New Zealander, traded a
pen for a sheep."
"But you don't have either."
"That's the worse part."
"Aw. You two made a cute couple."
|
