‘You know, the truck driver has asked me if I would like a lift with him to the next village. He can take one other. You?’
‘What about Wei and your two friends,’ I replied, sensing something more in her invitation than just a simple ride. ‘Won’t they be sad?’
‘They are boring! But I like the foreigner man.’
She smiled and showed off a row of perfect teeth, before pouring out a cup of green tea for each of us. There were things I noticed about her then that I hadn’t paid much attention to before. She was young, yes, but in the excitement of finding a ride I hadn’t really taken in just how attractive she was. Straight black hair framed a petite, heart-shaped face. Her eyes were bright and seemed to shine even more when she laughed. No wonder, I thought, that the truck driver had offered her a lift. She was gorgeous, and what’s more she knew it. And somehow Hua made it seem quite okay to use her looks in this way. It was as if they were a currency she was well used to dealing in, and no doubt they bought her entry to places she would not normally have reached. Men, I could see her thinking, were such easy prey.
I toyed with the idea of declining her offer and then thought better of it. A ride was a ride after all, and I was eager to get going. So I agreed, and left Hua to tell the others what was happening. Whether they would like or dislike the plan I had no idea, but within minutes Hua and I were climbing into the front seat of the lorry, bound once more for the high-altitude vastness of the Qinghai countryside.
The next part of the journey was especially beautiful. Deep valleys followed sparkling turquoise rivers rich in glacial sediment, here and there lined with trees that were hurriedly turning to gold before winter set in. Then we would rise up onto a flat plain, on a dead-straight road under a sky of cobalt blue.
At one stage our journey was interrupted when we pulled over to let the driver, Jamtso, relieve himself on the side of the road, during which he suddenly became very excited and started barking like a dog at something 50 or 60 metres away. With his free hand he frantically waved us over and we duly joined him, a discreet distance from where he was watering the earth, to see what he could see. At first I couldn’t spot a thing because what he was looking at was so cleverly camouflaged, but then the ground moved and the grey-brown outline of a Tibetan fox came clearly into view. It must have thought us a comical sight: the Westerner, the pretty Chinese girl and the peeing Tibetan driver, all three intently watching his every move. Then, as if bored, it turned and made off across the grassland, perhaps looking for a tasty marmot. Jamtso cleared his throat loudly, zipped himself up and spat out a glob of mucus. On his way back to the truck he smiled at Hua and started singing a Tibetan love song in a shrill voice. He was happy, no doubt proud of his ability to spot a rare beast in the wild, and content also that he was master of his ship, with its crew of two upon the highest ocean of the world.
Only the happiness was abruptly replaced with a scowl when the ship would not start again. While he fussed with the engine, I chatted with Hua.
‘You’re very brave,’ I said.
‘Why?’ she replied, with an almost hurt expression.
‘To leave your friends and travel with strangers, of course. Your mother would be worried if she knew, I bet.’
‘Are you a bad person?’
‘No.’
‘Are you going to steal my money?’
‘Of course not,’ I said, suddenly being the one to feel hurt.
‘Are you going to try and kiss me against my will?’
I said nothing and laughed, realising I was being played by a first-rate, serial tease. Hua enjoyed this and laughed too, coquettishly, but in a way that seemed very slightly tinged with annoyance. With arms folded, she looked out the window: ‘Then what is there for my mother to be worried about?’
Fortunately there was a loud thump on the bonnet just then and Jamtso appeared below, asking me to turn the ignition. I was only too happy to jump into the driver’s seat and thus extricate myself from an increasingly tetchy Hua. I pumped the accelerator, depressed the clutch and turned the key to a chorus of mechanical approval as the engine roared into life. If only people could be as simple, I thought, and slid back into the middle seat.
We drove on in silence for the rest of the morning. Jamtso appeared to be nursing an ailing motor, because he rolled in neutral down even the slightest slope. At times I could have got out and walked at a faster rate, but then he would gently select a gear and our speed would climb again. All the while, the view outside the window never changed from the vast grassland that makes up so much of the Qinghai plateau. Some areas were waterlogged and tall-legged birds stepped cautiously through reeds, ever alert for their next meal. About midday, I noticed a group of black tents off to one side, the distinctive dwellings of nomadic Kham tribesmen. There was no one around, the only movement coming from the coloured flags attached to the tents, which fluttered urgently in the wind. Then, a few kilometres further on, a lone figure appeared, trotting on horseback towards us. We slowed down as he approached, and Jamtso put the engine into neutral so that we coasted to a halt.
The rider appeared to be about 50. A gap-toothed smile welcomed us from beneath a felt hat like a cowboy’s, sides turned up and brim pulled down. However, there was something about him I didn’t trust, something that under normal circumstances would have made me not only want to leave the room he was in, but also the general district. Jamtso wound his window down and leant half out of it, speaking rapidly in Tibetan. By interpreting the facial expressions and gesticulations of both men, I understood the conversation to be this:
‘Hey friend, do you have a spare C-50 distributor cap for a 1975 Dong feng on you?’
‘A C-50? That could be tricky.’
‘I’ll trade you an hour with the Chinese girl, or you can shoot the Westerner I have in my truck and feed him to your pigs.’
‘Now that you mention it, I do seem to recall seeing a C-50 in the tent. Why don’t you follow me down this deserted dirt road and we’ll do a deal.’
‘Good. Lead the way.’
There are times when every bone in your body says ‘run’, but all you can do is sit there meekly. It’s not a frozen-to-the-spot kind of fear, but a ‘this is all happening too swiftly to make an adequate judgment’ sort of feeling, topped off with a ‘if I jump out now and I’m wrong, I’m going to look really stupid’ sense of unease. This was just such a time.
The truck backed up a few metres, then turned right off the tarmac and headed down a dusty track towards a low hill that, as we drew nearer, was revealed to be the site of a motley collection of black felt tents. We pulled up to the central one and, much to my dismay, Jamtso was quick to get down and continue his conversation with the lone rider, this time out of earshot, and not without several telling gestures in our direction. I decided offence was going to be the best line of defence, so I got out of the truck with my camera and started to take pictures of the horseman, who puffed out his chest and struck a noble pose. As I clicked away, I noted somewhat comfortingly the absence of any pigsty. Soon, a tent was made available to us. The flap was thrown back and Hua and I were given a low stool each to perch on. Minutes later a stinking broth of curd was brought in by Jamtso. Hua took one sip and almost choked.
‘Poison!’ she grimaced.
Quietly, I hoped not. I looked around me. The tent was a single room, with bedding stacked neatly against one wall. A rug covered the floor and a pair of hurricane lamps hung from each of the two wooden supporting poles. The tent billowed in and out constantly, as if it were breathing. It was dark and dreary.
‘Do you think this will take long?’ Hua asked, sounding uncomfortable, and putting her bowl on the floor.
‘I have no idea. I think — at least I hope — not long, maybe a few minutes.’
I stared at the sunlight coming through the opening in the tent, so that when the wind suddenly whipped the tent flap shut everything went very dark. Hua shrieked. I dropped the bowl and leapt to my feet, eyes adjust
ing too slowly to the blackness, fumbling forward to where I thought the door would be — and tripped over her, sending us both sprawling. We ended up in a heap on the rug, Hua on her back and me on top, trying not to squash her, while she tried to suppress a fit of the giggles. I was just starting to appreciate the humour of this Laurel and Hardy moment when the flap of the tent whipped back again, light poured onto our intimate embrace, and there was Jamtso, holding a bunch of electric wires and a screwdriver. He didn’t say a thing, just backed out and retreated to his truck.
We emerged a few seconds later, still laughing, to find him behind the wheel and gunning the engine. There was no sign of the other Tibetan, but clearly any thoughts of a more sinister outcome to our visit were well and truly vanquished. We ran for the truck and jumped in as Jamtso ground the gears, selected first and sped off down the track. Before long the hum of tarmac was under our wheels again. Jamtso sang quietly to himself, but his tune had changed to a mournful song of loss and betrayal.
About the time England was winning the soccer World Cup for the first and only time, against West Germany in 1966, the Cultural Revolution was in full swing, its chief and unwavering purpose being the destruction of the ‘four olds’ — old habits, old customs, old culture and old thinking — and the birth of Mao’s utopian future. No part of China was left untouched, but in Qinghai province perhaps the worst of all crimes were committed. Monasteries were torn down and monks were ‘persuaded’ to join the Red Army to help hunt down those Tibetans not aligned with the new way of thinking. Some of them cooperated, out of fear for their lives, but many refused to participate and suffered terribly as a result. Torture was commonplace. So-called thamzing, or ‘struggle sessions’, were a form of political re-education that involved public humiliation and, at worst, beheading, disembowelling or even being buried alive.
I asked Hua what she knew about this period and, not unsurprisingly, she regurgitated the official story that had been taught to her and millions of others, depicting a time of struggle that led to the formation of the great and glorious China of today. Tibetans were ‘set free from serfdom and slavery under their feudal masters’, and enjoyed numerous benefits under the Mao regime. I asked her what these were specifically, to which she replied:
‘Freedom from serfdom and slavery under their feudal masters.’
I sighed. But, there I was, sandwiched between two people whose parents had lived through these years, albeit in very different circumstances given that Hua’s family were most likely spared the kind of treatment meted out to the Tibetans. So I asked Jamtso the same question. His reply was fascinating, but provoked a curt response from Hua.
Jamtso: ‘The Red Guards came and shot many people in my village.’
Hua: ‘Clearly they were terrorists.’
Jamtso: ‘My father’s cousin was not a terrorist. He looked after the horses.’
Hua: ‘Then he must have been attacking the guards, and so they were forced to defend themselves.’
Jamtso: ‘He was not attacking anyone. He was asleep in his bed at the time, next to his wife and children. That’s where they shot him.’
Hua: ‘Why would the Red Guards do that? Kill a defenceless man? No, perhaps he had knives under his pillow, and lunged at the soldiers in order to slit their throats.’
Jamtso said nothing. The muscles in his jaw tightened as he clenched the wheel and looked straight ahead, his eyes tiny slits of rage. His self-control was remarkable, though Hua failed to take any of this in. She was lost in her own world of self-deception.
‘Yes,’ she said finally, ‘that must be it. Lunged with daggers drawn in the darkness. It would have been very frightening.’
The peaceful Buddhist in Jamtso was fighting with his Tibetan side, which probably wanted to stop the truck and chuck her out, but I think even he realised the extent of her ignorance was a product of the school system and nothing more. He was older than her by ten years or so, in his early thirties, and had learnt forgiveness. Still, I couldn’t help but look upon Hua as a silly little girl from then on, with brash ideas and a boldness that would one day get her into trouble. The Han Chinese apparently think of themselves as vastly superior to the other ethnic groups, and it was this bullshit manner that had wrecked so many lives, from here in Qinghai to the far western reaches of Xinjiang province. There, the local Uighur people had been forced to accept Han dominion over their government, businesses and schools. Their way of life was slowly eroding under the weight of Han migration, while the national government in Beijing promoted a tourist-friendly, multicultural face to the world, a sham of pretty ethnic costumes worn by ‘approved’ models. The Cultural Revolution was said to have lasted a decade, ending in 1976. But, truth be known, it was still alive and well in these remote western regions.
In the late afternoon we rumbled into Yushu, a small town of predominantly Tibetan people, which was situated at the juncture of two valleys, with a narrow river sweeping through the middle. At around 4,000 metres in elevation, it is one of the highest inhabited areas in the province. Jamtso dropped us off near a gargantuan monument to the famous Tibetan warrior, Gesar, built by the Chinese in an attempt to keep the locals happy. Red-robed monks walked beneath its mighty shadow on the way to their various monasteries.
Yushu was about as far west as you could go without running into an army patrol on the Tibetan border. Out there in that desolate landscape, if you survived the altitude, the treacherous roads and the cold, you still had to run the gauntlet of a security force hellbent on preventing anyone creeping into the Tibet Autonomous Region unannounced. Yushu was the back door to Tibet, the road few dared venture upon, especially now that there were more leisurely entry points into this once-closed kingdom, including a brand new, air-conditioned, atmospherically pressurised railway carriage that took people all the way from Chengdu to Lhasa, via Golmud in the north. That said, it wasn’t a route I intended taking. Not on this trip anyway.
Yushu was for me, an important stage in the journey, as it marked the point at which I turned south to follow the route of the Long March in reverse. Though Tibet was an attractive target, even greater challenges lay ahead on the mountainous road into Sichuan province.
For the moment, though, I put my plans to one side while I worked out what to do with Hua. For my benefit, she pointed out a sign above a clothes shop that advertised single rooms at a bargain rate. Her guide, Wei, had already booked her and the rest of her party a room each in the far more regal hotel further down the street, which was much more suited to her budget and her liking. So I carried her bags to the entrance and arranged to meet her later the next day. I still had not talked to her about Mao and whether she knew anything of the boy; something told me it wouldn’t be much.
My room belonged to the clothes-shop owner, who did a roaring trade selling crimson robes to the monks. He himself wore brown suit trousers and a white business shirt with no tie, while on his feet were a pair of open-toed sandals. He called himself Pai Mei, after a character in the Quentin Tarantino movie Kill Bill: Vol. 2, and spoke a halting English, picked up from the occasional tourist, he said. Tourists didn’t come through Yushu much at this time of year. I asked how many he would see in the height of the season and he threw his arms out wide as if calculating a vast number, then said, ‘Ten, maybe twelve.’
‘Per day?’ I asked.
‘No, per year.’
The wooden steps at the back of the shop went up two flights to a narrow corridor with a bathroom at the end. There were three rooms, each with a single bed and a table, although in one there was also an ornately carved wooden bowl for washing in. He tapped it and pointed out the window at the monastery.
‘The monks made it,’ he said. ‘Sometimes they have no money, so they pay in other ways. But I prefer money.’
I was the only guest, so I handed him several days’ rent. He took the money, flicked through the notes with a practised ease, then folded them in half and slipped the wad deep into his trouser pocket.
/> ‘If you like,’ he said. ‘I can give you good price on some nice robes. Very nice material, excellent quality.’
‘Where do they come from?’
‘China,’ he said, before adding slightly guiltily, ‘But I don’t tell that to the monks.’
Just then a bell rang in the shop below, summoning him downstairs in hot pursuit of another customer.
A Tibetan man on the road to Maduo
In Yushu, a look of sheer defiance
NINE
AT DAWN, THE SMELL OF COOKING FIRES PERMEATED THE AIR AND I went down to the street expecting to see someone roasting a yak. There was indeed a yak, but it was the living and breathing kind, feasting on some leftover vegetables in an alleyway. Lifting my gaze towards the 500-year-old Jiegu Monastery that overlooked Yushu, I soon spotted telltale smoke trails coming from its kitchens. The wind was blowing gently from that direction, bringing with it the delicious aroma of breakfast.
With nothing better to do, I started to walk towards the monastery via a series of narrow streets packed with houses on either side. Most had high walls and tall iron gates that accentuated the feeling of being hemmed in. A few lazy dogs watched me pass, but for the most part there was little sign of life. It was cool and the air was crisp, so I stuck my hands in the pockets of my jacket and trudged on. Soon the path up the mountain became clearly visible, breaking away from the houses and zigzagging its way up the steadily steepening slope.
After an hour or so, just as the sun appeared over the jagged horizon, I reached the rows of tall white stupas that lined the entrance to the monastery. Inside was an open area where a few dogs were hanging round a silver late-model Hyundai Tucson. One growled and took a few steps towards me, then it was joined by several more of its friends until they had fanned out across the courtyard, blocking my way. I don’t like dogs, and unfortunately it seems that wherever I go in my travels there are always plenty of them. The ferocious mastiffs of Afghanistan struck greater fear into my heart than Russian gunships, although at least I knew those dogs had been trained since puppyhood to fear a well-thrown rock — nail the biggest one, preferably in the head, and the rest of the pack might leave you alone. But these guys I wasn’t sure about, and the courtyard was swept clean of ammunition. I was considering turning back when a small boy in monk’s robes suddenly appeared from one side and flew at the dogs, yelling and screaming and waving a large stick in front of their noses. They immediately scattered for the safety of unseen pathways.
A Boy of China Page 7
