Dogs

Image: The dogs at the Gyangtse monastery.

If it is a relatively peaceful world of both in daytime, it is the dog world completely at night. You can hear the bitter, sometimes horrifying sounds of dog fights throughout the night. In the mornings, you can see them resting, some wounded, some half-dead. You can't assume that the dogs don't attack humans. They are mean dogs. It is said that in Shigatse (Ri4 Ke1 Ze2), 15 dogs attacked one female tourist. An indirect friend of mine from Israel was bitten on the leg, and had to fly to Khatmandu in Nepal to have injections. You never know if the dogs have rabies (kuang2 quan3 bing4) or not.

Well, I wasn't bitten by the dogs. But the AMS, or high altitude reaction, was scary when I was suffering from it and didn't know what it would turn into. The situation was particularly serious because I was alone and was about to go to a lake at 5,700 meters of altitude, from Lhasa at 3,700 meters altitude. At that time, I had just arrived in Tibet, and should really have taken a rest to get over the AMS before taking any more risks, but I didn't have the time. Just to scare you further, there is no preventive medicine for AMS, and no treatment either. Except for oxygen, the only cure is to get out of Tibet without delay. The situation could quickly become fatal otherwise. And if you don't have AMS this time, you still can have it next time when you go there. Every year, tourists die of AMS.

I am glad that I have survived. [0]

Songs

This time, when my friends in Beijing were sending their children to that same kindergarten, I went to Tibet. And there, again I recalled the songs.

Image: Shigatse.

In Shigatse, Banchan Lama's home city, I went to the Carpet Factory. The room was dim, tools scattered around, the walls dark. However, the room was filled with energy and happiness. The Tibetan girls were singing while their hands were busy working. They hello'ed to us, giggled, and relaxed. Birds were walking around on the floor, apparently coming in from the open windows. And out went the familiar high toned songs that I hadn't heard for years. The girls were enjoying themselves. No boss appeared to be around. They seemed to work at their own pace. My immediate reaction: "How different this is from the carpet factories elsewhere."

I visited a carpet factory in Beijing in the late '70s, and another one at Yili, in Xinjiang, in '87, where the Xinjiang girls are also known for their singing and dancing. But there was only silence in each factory. People worked quietly, and we even had to whisper when talking to each other. Over here, party time.

Image: The "singers" at the Shigatse's carpet factory.

I noticed along the way that Tibetan women were hard at work. I saw from my bus that it was mostly women, rather than men, who worked in the fields. In Gyantse, we saw that people were digging in the ground. No machines, just spades, baskets, ropes, shoulders, and ... songs. Even when hard at work, the girls were singing. This time, though, they sang together to synchronize the work. I, the tourist, was walking and gasping for air under the blazing radiation of the sun. In the meantime, the high-spirited, hard-working Tibetans were having fun.

Late that afternoon, when we were on top of the monastery and enjoying the sight of the town and the Tibetan nature surrounding it, a dozen girls passed by and went to the roof. They lined up in a row, sat down on the ridge, and started to repair the roof. From there, a chorus of beautiful, beautiful songs arose. Looking up from the courtyard, there was the temple, the roof, the girls on the top, aligned and in multicolor dress, the low, white and blindingly shining clouds, and the bluuuuuuue sky. The girls were high, the tones high, and the songs high...

Image: Renovation in the Gyangtse monastery, where the Tibetan girls repaired the roof and sang. They threw pieces of wood at me (not so seriously) when I approached to take pictures of them.

Of course, the most beautiful song was the one that was sung to myself. It was at the farewell dinner for our Taiwanese friend, Mr. Don't Know, at the Tibetan restaurant just by our hotel in Lhasa. Mr. Don't Know was a magical doctor who had earned an extreme popularity along the entire street. He had been so nice and helpful to the waitress that she nearly cried, seeing him leaving. As his friend, I was treated specially as well. The girl filled up my barley liquor cup, held it up, and said to me: "I will sing this song especially to you." There she sang, holding the cup, so pretty a face, her eyes looking afar, and the magical music circled in the room. She sang in Tibetan, so I didn't understand a word, but I couldn't be happier. It was perhaps better for me not to understand the lyrics, since I could use my best imagination. With our applause, she presented me the cup in both hands. Standing up, I received the cup, also in both hands, and emptied it bottom-up, without a single breath. So happy she was, I was rewarded with a big smile ...