Tibetan Foothold

by Dervla Murphy

  Today’s sensation arrived at 5.30 p.m. in the very shapely shape of a twenty-five-year-old Indian nurse appointed by the Punjab Government to work here for three years. Juliet, Oliver and I just stood with our mouths open when she announced herself; it’s typical of Tibland that no one in the camp had known of her appointment until that moment. Naturally enough she wanted somewhere to sleep so we cheerfully offered the usual floor in our bungalow, on which all casual Western visitors to the camp are of necessity accommodated. But Sister Sawnay raised her eyebrows slightly at this and said that she had meant a bed. We said, ‘Sorry, no-can-do,’ so she promptly returned to Lower Dharamsala to say the Hindi equivalent of ‘What the Hell!’ to the Local Government Authorities. But I should think she’ll be back, as she must need the job, having left a husband and a two-year-old daughter in Delhi. Her husband is also a nurse and Juliet tells me that there are more male than female nurses in India. Sister Sawnay earns £10 a month and her husband earns between £12 and £13 – which seems very little indeed considering the high cost of living in present-day India.

  A few days ago a rather tiresome American woman visited the camp, and in the course of her – fortunately brief – stay accused me of ‘romancing’ about the exceptional qualities of Tiblets. I rapidly lost my temper, picked up Spencer Chapman’s Lhasa: The Holy City and in a triumphant tone read out his comments on Tibetan children:

  We were much struck to see how charmingly they behaved to each other; when one boy spilt his curry into his lap [at a children’s party] the others laughed with him – not at him – and helped to clear it up. The small children never seem to cry and without ever being fussed by their parents they behave perfectly. A Tibetan mother never says ‘Don’t’, yet the child doesn’t.

  My critic was more subdued after that; it’s very useful to be able to quote an expert in support of one’s own observations.

  21 SEPTEMBER

  Today the whole camp was thoroughly disorganised because His Holiness had ordered three sessions of special prayers to be said for the Buddhists in South Vietnam. At the most disconcerting moments all the staff drop everything to pray, and as we sat hopefully waiting for our lunch to appear we heard them beginning half an hour’s chanting of hymns!

  By now Dubkay has become almost resident in our bungalow. He sits for hours in a corner talking to his ‘pooh’ – and I’m convinced that Sonam Nobo knows him already. Personally I find month-old human infants singularly unattractive, but Dubkay obviously couldn’t agree less. He brings the ‘pooh’ a little gift almost every day and seems to have abandoned his job – I fail to see what time can be left for teaching between visits to the son and heir.

  This morning I chanced to observe Tibetan school-discipline in action. Because four little boys had treated a Holy Scarf disrespectfully they were made to stand in front of the class, bent double, holding their left ear forward with their right hands and vice versa – a posture which had to be maintained without a break for about fifteen minutes. Of course corporal punishment as we know it is unheard of here – but this punishment looks exceedingly uncomfortable, if not painful.

  It is noticeable that Tiblets have no scruples about ‘sneaking’. Today the teacher merely asked the class which of them had thrown the scarf over the rafters and at once the four culprits were pointed out by everyone else. Yet after the punishment period the quartet smilingly rejoined their ‘betrayers’ and the whole process was completely taken for granted by all. The class hadn’t ‘told on them’ out of any spite or enmity, but simply because this is the tradition, and the culprits bore no grudge. I must admit that we find this tradition most convenient in our daily efforts to cope with so many children. We have strictly forbidden the use, as toys, of little glass bottles or nails, yet often the tiniest acquire these and won’t willingly part with them so, if an older child spots this breach of the regulations, he’ll report it to one of us. I often wonder why the ‘seniors’ don’t themselves take these dangerous objects from the ‘juniors’ but seemingly this doesn’t occur to them. Possibly the explanation is that a certain amount of force would be required to remove a beloved bottle from the clenched fist of a two-year-old and Tiblets are conditioned not to use force. Certainly our ban on such playthings is fully justified. The other morning in the Dispensary my blood froze when a three-year-old opened her mouth and casually removed from it a piece of broken glass in order to make way for her quota of pills.

  However, though we appreciate the Tibetan lack of ‘esprit de corps’ when dealing with children, we do find that when dealing with adults it can on occasions make life intolerably complicated. In fact such a basic ethical difference probably creates the widest and deepest gulf between our two civilisations; only when living in a society where no such principles of loyalty exist does one begin to appreciate the extent to which our reactions, attitudes and instinctive behaviour are based on the schoolboy commandment: ‘Thou shalt not sneak.’ It’s not for me to pronounce on the relative merits of the two codes – probably the Western, if abused, can have as disintegrating an effect as the Tibetan does – but to be suddenly in a world where something so fundamental to us doesn’t operate can often take one completely out of one’s depth in both personal relations and business matters.

  It’s now 11 p.m. but Kesang has not yet come in, which means that a story-telling session is in progress. This telling of epic tales is one of the favourite adult recreations and three of the ayahs are experts. Often it takes three or four nights to complete a story, beginning each session after prayers and finishing about midnight. I went out one evening to watch and saw every man and woman in the camp sitting around the ayah who was recounting the epic, listening so intently that they did not even notice my presence. The ‘Seanchaí’, as we would call her in Ireland, was using a wooden box as ‘platform’, so that all could see her gestures, and was telling her tale with great verve and expression. She must have felt quite exhausted after continuing thus for almost four hours.

  Sister Sawnay has now got a room in Macleod Ganj and every morning she comes by bus to Forsythe Bazaar and then walks up the very steep quarter-mile path to the Nursery – a ‘marathon’ which, being a typical city girl, she regards with horror. I innocently asked her why she didn’t walk by the mile-long Top Road, instead of taking the bus along the two-mile-Low Road, but she shrank from the mere thought of walking a mile every morning and said that if she attempted such a feat she’d be too tired to do anything else all day.

  The weather during this past week has been perfection – pleasantly hot sun, a slight, fresh breeze and the whole world vigorously green after the monsoon. Here, at this season, one feels simultaneously the freshness of spring and the melancholy of autumn: but of course there will be no riot of changing leaves as these forests are not deciduous.

  We’re trying to get the children to sunbathe as therapy for their skin diseases – but Tibetans are allergic to hot sun so it’s not being a very successful campaign. On Sunday last I decided after lunch to sunbathe for half an hour, and I hadn’t been stretched out on a little patch of grass for more than two minutes when Cama Yishy came along, hurrying as best he could under the enormous weight of an open umbrella. This he carefully placed over me so that only my legs were exposed to the lethal rays. Then he beamed as if to say, ‘That’s better, isn’t it?’ and sat himself down in the shade beside my head.

  I’ve just noticed something interesting. A few moments ago an ant was crawling up my left arm and quite automatically I blew it off and it continued its crawl across the floor. Only then did I register the fact that three months ago I’d have just as automatically squashed it to death. I’ve not consciously acquired any new principles about preserving life so it must simply be the effect of living in such a highly concentrated Buddhist atmosphere. It was the spontaneity of the action that struck me as so significant.

  THE 11TH DAY OF THE 8TH MONTH OF THE WATER-HARE YEAR

  Admittedly this date doesn’t sound probable, but it is litera
lly the Tibetan equivalent of 28 September 1963. And 1962 was the Water-Tiger Year, and 1964 will be the Wood-Dragon Year – enchanting! But the Water-Hare particularly takes my fancy: it could be out of Alice!

  Last night was quite cold with a slight gale blowing and this morning the rugged peaks above us were smooth and radiant with new snow after the first blizzard of the winter. This afternoon I had a job to do in the Upper Nursery, and when walking back via Dall Lake – now rapidly shrinking – I saw hundreds of monkeys coming down to their winter quarters in the warmth of the Kangra valley. These dainty, delightful creatures are very curious and unafraid – unless you point a camera at them, when they flee, mistaking it for a gun. The babies are specially lovable, as they sit staring wide-eyed at this strange cousin who returns their fascinated wonder with interest! After seeing them playing tip-and-tig in the freedom of towering green trees I could never again visit a zoo and look at their captured brothers listlessly climbing dead branches and wearing sad, patchy coats.

  The Tibetans are celebrating some special feast today, and ‘tormas’ were very much in evidence. These conical-shaped sacrificial cakes are believed to be the Lamaist substitute for the human and animal sacrifices of the Bön-pos, and apart from their use as temple offerings they are also eaten on special occasions. The basic ingredients are barley-flour, butter and water and they are coloured dark brown, so that at first sight they look like some attractive chocolate confection – but appearances can indeed be deceptive. This morning Chumba honoured us by bringing a ‘torma’ to Juliet and me for our exclusive enjoyment. It was presented on a large platter, and around the base were strewn nuts and slices of raw onion and gaudy boiled sweets and slivers of cheese and dirty sultanas. Proudly laying this gift on the breakfast table Chumba stood waiting for us to sample it and go into a gastronomic ecstasy, so there was no alternative but to carve it up and feign delight – what an effort! No one can accuse me of being faddy about food but I really thought my stomach would instantly reject this hideous concoction and ever since it’s been haunting me. It felt like sticky, gritty clay in the mouth and it tasted like poison. Yet Tibetans revel in the stuff, and all day the children have been going around clutching and sucking wedges of it – as I know to my cost, since by evening I was covered in the mixture. Naturally possession of it does not diminish their affection and they hug and caress you none the less enthusiastically for having this sordid mess in their fists.

  Sometimes, observing how Tiblets treat food, I marvel that the camp’s diseases aren’t even more numerous and deadly. One sees bits of moo-moo or potato that have been saved from a meal being carried around for hours inside the clothes next to the skin, then falling into one of the channels that run through the compound, serving as latrines at night, and then being retrieved and eaten with relish. And if the Tiblet in question is too small to fish it out of the channel for himself an ayah will come rushing along and return the tidbit to its owner with a fond smile. Another of the ayahs’ startling habits is to feed very small Tiblets, who may be ill and disinclined to drink, by filling their own mouths with liquid and transferring this to the patient’s mouth. Recently I observed an ayah with mumps thus treating a year-old baby.

  It’s pathetic to see how the children, despite being forced to wear Western clothes, insist on carrying their few possessions in Tibetan style. Even when a Western garment has pockets they ignore these and improvise Tibetan pouches above the waist by tying something very tightly around their middles – how they survive this constriction is beyond my comprehension.

  29 SEPTEMBER

  Today, being Sunday, I’ll take the opportunity to introduce you to Pooh-Bah. (Perhaps his name should be spelt ‘Puba’ – but the temptation is irresistible!) This three-year-old effortlessly dominates the camp, though in physical stature he is the smallest object outside the Babies’ Room; everyone adores him, and any child-psychologist would go grey overnight at the irresponsible adulation and pandering to which he is exposed. For no apparent reason, except that he is Pooh-Bah, a special ayah personally attends him. He should be in Room Six with the three-and four-year-olds, but as this accommodation is rather gloomy, with more than its share of bed-bugs, he has chosen Room Two which leaks badly yet has a delightful outlook. And here he lords it over one hundred eight-and nine-year-olds.

  Pooh-Bah is the most beautiful child in the camp. His features are meltingly cherubic and the knowledge that in this case appearances deceive adds piquancy to the large, liquid brown eyes with their long, upsweeping lashes, and to the round, golden-tanned face, complete with dimples and slightly pursed lips. When one analyses Pooh-Bah’s character a number of unpleasant and very un-Tibetan traits are soon discovered – but somehow one doesn’t often stop to analyse it because the little wretch possesses more charm to the cubic inch than any other child in the place.

  He is aggressive yet this is readily forgiven, since those he attacks are always considerably larger than himself. Tibetans are not bred to fight back so it is a common occurrence to hear howls of agony from some corner of the compound and then to find Pooh-Bah sitting on a prone eight-year-old’s back, sadistically pounding his victim’s head with an empty pill bottle. He accepts adult intervention with a good grace and even permits a certain amount of consolation to the afflicted, but if he judges that the situation is getting out of control, and that he himself is in danger of being forgotten, he will take your hand and with an imperious gesture convey that enough is enough.

  He is also a hypochondriac, and diseases taken for granted by the other children are a source of absorbing interest to him. His scabies, his rotten teeth, his worms, his dysentery, his trachoma, his bronchitis, his otitis media – all are cunningly used to excite the sympathy and generosity of the camp, as though he alone were suffering. But his greatest pride and joy was a cut forehead, adorned by three stitches. This, being exclusive to Pooh-Bah, was shown individually to every member of the camp, and one frequently saw people being solemnly led by the hand on a sort of pilgrimage to the Scene of the Accident, where the martyr would explain just how he fell off the table and acquired this grievous wound. Yet his is not a morbid personality, though – again unlike the average Tiblet – he rarely smiles. But when he does the smile is of such a ravishing sweetness that everyone privileged to come within its radius feels that their day has been made.

  Normally, however, Pooh-Bah expresses his good humour by singing an interminable solo – and in this at least he is a true Tibetan. Not being gregarious he saunters alone around the compound, occasionally pausing by a group of children to consider their activities. Then, if a musical mood comes upon him, he wanders off to the edge of the compound to sing his song while gazing down on the Kangra valley 4,000 feet below – with his little pot-belly almost protruding over the precipice.

  Undisguised greed is another of Pooh-Bah’s failings, and this is indeed unique among Tiblets, who so often share with their roommates whatever few delicacies happen to come their way. Pooh-Bah’s delicacies, however, are neither few nor shared. At every hour of the day he may be seen clutching some biscuit or sweet or piece of cheese, and instead of discreetly consuming these ill-gotten gains in a quiet corner he struts up and down loudly sucking, or sits at some prominent vantage point conspicuously munching. By all the laws of human nature he should be universally detested on this count alone.

  Inevitably, Pooh-Bah has first pick from the clothing gift-parcels and he is at the moment attired in a slightly improbable plaid jacket of Scotch tweed and in tight-fitting, royal blue breeches. Unfortunately this sartorial elegance is marred by his incredible facility for attracting vast quantities of filth to his person within minutes of the daily bath. Incidentally, he resents this unnatural intimacy with soap and water even more bitterly than does the average Tiblet and will only allow it on being heavily bribed in edible currency.

  Life here would be hell if all Tiblets were Pooh-Bahs – but one little devil among hundreds of angels can have quite a pleasant leavening effect
.

  This afternoon Oliver and I went for a long hike through the forest, around the back of this mountain. We brought our bathing-togs as Doris had told us that a suitable swimming pool could be found if one kept walking long enough – and after about two hours we did reach the spot. Never have I bathed in such glorious surroundings. We were now at the head of a long, deep, narrowing valley, between high green mountains, where the splendour of this region’s scenery reaches a superb climax. Here ends the precarious shepherd’s path we had followed and the pool is suddenly visible, lying like an emerald between giant boulders. Above and below it the mountain torrent is fierce and foaming – a contrast which makes the tranquillity of the pool itself seem almost magical. Through the sparkling crystal of the water one sees its bed of silver sand, and in my haste to scramble down to this swimmer’s paradise I very nearly broke an ankle on the wilderness of boulders. Oliver, I noticed, was a little less enthusiastic about immersion in Himalayan waters. However, he jumped in briskly and swam twenty yards to the other end of the pool – but there he jumped out even more briskly, roaring like a wounded lion. When he had thawed sufficiently to be able to articulate again he yelled frantically – ‘Dervla! Dervla! Come out of that wretched hell of water or you will begin to be not alive!’ (In moments of stress he rather loses his linguistic grip.) I yelled back reassuringly that I hadn’t felt so alive for months – which was perfectly true, though I don’t think I ever before swam in such icy water. Yet on emerging after about twenty minutes I felt not the slightest chill, despite the fact that the pool was now in shadow. Obviously this proves something, though I’m not sure what: possibly that the body stores heat and that after enduring horribly high temperatures for some months one is rewarded by developing an anti-chill device?