A Bit About Tibetans

 Where to begin? It has been almost two weeks since I left the giant metropolis of Beijing for the Tibetan Plateau. There are a number of independent story lines that I could easily blog on for days: adjusting to living and working at >14,000 ft; any one of a number of individuals with whom I have had the pleasure of getting to know; the Buddhist monasteries I have been staying at; the Buddhist monks themselves; the pika and their history of persecution; or any of the amazing wildlife species I have seen, such as marmots, blue sheep, wolves, Pallas’s cat, Tibetan fox, bearded vultures, or even the gorgeous Tibetan Wild Ass (yes, I hear you snickering). I could write about the Tibetan landscape, the combination of rolling grasslands that meet round hilltops leading to jagged rocky mountains, home to the snow leopard. Heck, I could probably write a good couple of pages on milk tea (just what it sounds like, part unpasteurized yak’s milk and part black tea), how ubiquitous it is at any and all social gatherings and how sick it makes me. The truth is, I have been overwhelmed with trying to sort out what to write about in this first blog from the Tibetan Plateau.

The best photo I could get of the Tibetan Wild Ass.

One of the millions of Pika around the Suojia monastery. They're quite photogenic...from a safe distance.

I need to get an English language ID  book to sort out it's real name, but some of you may recognize this as the "blue poppy" from the movie Batman Begins...I haven't check it yet for its hallucinogenic properties.

Two young marmots prepare to dive into their burrow to escape the menacing photographer. Marmots provide an important food source for bears, among other carnivores, during their relatively brief period of activity. They spend nearly half the year in hibernation.

Likely snow leopard kill of a blue sheep. In some regions blue sheep are the largest ungulate available for predators, and thus are a crucial component for healthy snow leopard populations.

As I sit here writing, stalling, and waiting for a decision to present itself, a young monk-in-training silently enters the small classroom that my companions and I are currently resting within, he wordlessly sprinkles a pinch of tea leaves into my mug and fills it with steaming water from a giant cast iron kettle. He might be 13 years old, but already carries himself with a confidence that belies the age that his chubby cheeks and childish smile expose. He is clearly excited, in that way of adolescents, to be serving tea to a Meiguo (American), and he reminds me a bit of my nephew Chance.

Me trying to coax some young monks into a little photo shoot (photo credit: Yin Hang).

The three (and a half) brave souls who obliged.

We are currently staying at the Gongya monastery, one of over 140 monasteries in Nangqian county in southeastern Qinghai Province. We are guests of the Khenpo. I have not been able to get a name, everyone simply refers to him as Khenpo. Khenpo is a title obtained within the Buddhist hierarchy following completion of a particular set of studies. This Khenpo is quite young, perhaps in his mid 30s, and has risen quickly through the ranks. For his age he is remarkably advanced within the Monasteries. His platform of teachings is predicated upon environmental stewardship and taking responsibility for ones actions and how they affect your surroundings. He says that this stewardship is necessary not to protect the earth or nature or some abstract concept of the natural world; nor is it to appease the wishes of others – neighbors, NGOs, governments. Rather, it is for oneself, to keep intact the living system within which we all live and rely upon to survive. If you take care of your surroundings, you take care of yourself. This may be a difficult concept to buy into if your existence consists of a 500 square foot apartment in a city where you are surrounded by tens of thousands or even millions of other people whose actions dilute your own so much as to seem inconsequential. But on the Tibetan Plateau, where your nearest neighbor can be several miles or more away, this philosophy holds particular power, especially on a teetering landscape, overtly influenced by climate change. The Khenpo brings his teachings outside of the monastery walls and to the nomads and herders on the land in the form of workshops and lectures. These people are almost all Buddhist. Buddhism, he explains is environmentalism. The tenants of the religion lead to the same conclusions. To be a Buddhist is to be an environmentalist. This is the Khenpo’s mantra, and he has dedicated his life to spreading this philosophy among his fellow monks, to students through his teachings at the monastery schools, and especially to the people.

The Khenpo (far left) and other monks start with milk tea before a community meeting to discuss snow leopard conservation in Nangqian.

Some of my colleagues and I discussing community conservation plans with the Khenpo at the Gongya monastery (photo credit: Zhala).

The People. Of course, how can I not comment on the people? I came to the Tibetan Plateau, excited for the vast and rugged terrain, for the new wildlife and plant species I would see, for all of the natural grandeur I had envisioned. It was expected, and I have found that, but what was not as expected is the magnificence of the people. Tibetans are a beautiful people, both aesthetically and in the spirit in which they go about their existence. In comparison to the everyday activities in western societies, they appear to lead simple lives. However, this superficial simplicity should not be mistaken as also equating to simple minds or to easy lives. You can find surprising items in their tents, contradicting the apparent minimalism of their lifestyle, but the real complexity is in their character. The challenge of life on the Plateau, raising livestock on a vast and little developed landscape means self-sufficiency at a level most of us are unable to fathom. The ingenuity, fortitude and acumen they display are inspiring. To add to the challenges, this nomadic culture faces the same issues as pastoral societies across the world, including government meddling with their land use practices, the disenchantment of their youth with the lifestyle, and the friction resulting from clumsy integration of modern technologies.

Monastery in Suojia county where we stay while working in our western field sites.

Before I go on, I should make a disclaimer that the recounting of my experiences on the Tibetan Plateau is not meant as academically vetted social commentary, but simply my opinions and thoughts based upon what I have seen and some of the conversations I’ve had (via translated English) with a variety of individuals. Certainly these opinions are my own and do not reflect the opinions of my employer. There is every chance that some of my statements are factually inconsistent with reality or that my interpretations would not be entirely shared by those whom I impose them upon. We all interpret our interactions with the world differently, and your experience here might be much different. Having said all of that, this blog is simply the recounting of an American in China and valid as far as to the point that you agree with my philosophy on the world.

Whether bouncing along the rough roads of the open grasslands, or hiking though the steep-walled valleys of the Plateau, the Tibetan herders’ tents can appear seemingly anywhere (herders and nomads are synonymous and I use the terms interchangeably). During the winter months the herders tend to congregate in a region with more permanent infrastructure. Historically they lived in tents throughout the year, but now more spend winter months in houses -- especially with the recent government program to provide houses -- and have corrals for their livestock. However, from late spring until fall, they take their families and herds to the open range, living in tents, sometimes as single families, kilometers away from the next nearest nomad family, and other times in loose aggregates of multiple families, each with their own tent. The tents themselves vary as well. Traditionally they are woven from yak hair, but the synthetically produced white tents seem to be gaining in popularity and the art of weaving the traditional tents is in decline. Additionally, since the 2010 Yushu earthquake a large number of the blue “relief” tents distributed then have popped up across the landscape.

A Tibetan woman stands outside her traditional yak hair tent in Nangqian county. In this valley several families live in relatively close proximity, sharing the valley with their collective herds of yak, some sheep and several horses.

Myself and some of my colleagues after having lunch at a nomad's tent site. Here they're using the synthetic white tents and blue government relief tent. From left to right; Zhala, our Tibetan guide; Wenzha, Zhala's brother and an extra driver for a couple of days; our Tibetan hostess; me; Lingyun, a new PhD student on the snow leopard project; Charu Mishra of the Snow Leopard Trust and a close collaborator (photo credit: Liu Yanlin).

Inside the tents there are a number of staple items present. They all have beds that double as couches for visiting. They all have the ubiquitous stove found in all dwellings across the Plateau, house, tent or otherwise. These stoves provide a source of heat (fueled almost exclusively by yak dung) as well as a surface for cooking and boiling water and milk tea. There are cooking implement, food items (staples include: meat, yoghurt, butter, milk), some clothing and the random trinkets that all humans tend to collect. Most of the tents I have seen also have a solar energy setup, including solar panel and storage/dispensing system. After these essentials, items may include other bits of furniture, TVs, DVD players, laptops, electric lighting and a plethora of other modern technological gadgets. I’ll never forget the first time a middle-aged, traditionally garbed nomad man whipped out his i-phone.

Inside one of the white tents. Sod, mud and  yak dung are used to add vertical surfaces within the tent. Notice the pile of dried yak dung behind the woman, the primary fuel source for the ubiquitous stove (center). The man is hand-spinning yak hair (fuzzy undercoat hair I presume) into yarn. There are always multiple kettles being heated on the stove, one with water and one with milk tea.

I don’t know if Tibetan hospitality is legendary, but it should be. It is nearly impossible to pass one without being invited in for milk tea. Once you sit down, you get super-star treatment. Whoever in the family is present completely pause their lives and make you the focal point of their world. Whatever time of day, they offer food (usually yogurt and often some sort of flatbread or roll), if it is even remotely close to lunch or dinner time they begin preparing a meal. There is no way out of this predicament. So far it has not been possible to simply say hello and continue on. If you hike past a tent, schedule about an hour or so for the visit, even if they don’t speak Chinese and so there is no option for verbal communication (none of them speak English, it seems most know at least some Chinese and so can communicate with my colleagues, and half of the time I am with a Tibetan guide).

Yak yoghurt. It is unpasteurized and a bit lumpy. Heaps of sugar are added to compliment the sourness. Some people really dig it.

I cannot express how persistent this beverage is in every situation, at all times of the day in every location. Quite simply, milk tea is as much a part of the Tibetan Plateau as the grasslands, yak and snow leopards.

About four years ago the Chinese government began a program where they built permanent homes for the nomads and provided some rudimentary training to try and urbanize them around the scattered towns across the Plateau. One of the primary motivations for this was the idea that the nomads, with their herds of yak and/or sheep were having adverse effects on the Plateau’s grassland systems. There wasn’t any data indicating this, but that was the reasoning. The program at best is received with lukewarm reception and at worst is fracturing Tibetan life on the Plateau. In order for the program to work a Tibetan family moves to the government provided home, gives up their livestock for slaughter (therefore removing them as a burden on the grasslands) and finds employment in a town/city. This is rarely the outcome. Instead, a given family may make the new house their winter home and continue the nomadic lifestyle through the other season (as per above). Another outcome is that a family may make the permanent move, but keep their livestock, for which there is no place for them to be adequately maintained around the town site; or, the family makes the permanent move and simply gives/sells their livestock to a family member or friend and so there are still the same number of livestock out on the grasslands. This program to urbanize herding families is still new, and I am not aware of any formal evaluations on the results thus far, but it seems destined for failure on multiple levels. Even if, hypothetically, families moved into town and gave up their livestock, the training provided is hardly adequate for full integration into urban employment and there are not enough jobs available to employ everyone. The impending tragedy of social unrest and despair seems nearly certain.

Rows of government built houses provided to nomads. Who would want to live in such a place?

Another challenge to the lifestyle is the unyielding pressure of a developing world and the technology and shifting social values that accompany it. Most Tibetan herders do not value education. Schools are located far from families, and transportation is difficult meaning if a child goes to school, they move away. Given such little encouragement and value on the education, nomads that go through the educational system often become lost. Because they have been in a city going to school they have not learned the herding practices, and are reluctant to revert back to such a difficult lifestyle. However, because of lack of motivation, or expectations to do well, they do not finish school with many prospects. They are stuck in limbo, no direction, no ambitions, just simply existing.

The traditions of herding itself are under pressure. Horses were historically the primary mode of transportation and vehicle for moving and monitoring livestock herds. The horses are revered in these herding societies, and although motorcycles and trucks have largely replaced them, they are still celebrated with annual festivals that involve horse racing and horse related skills competitions. With the replacement of gasoline powered vehicles over grass-fed equines, there has been a shift in the distribution and range of herders. Whereas the horses can be fueled anywhere on the landscape, gasoline can only be found in specific areas and it is difficult to travel with quantities that would allow independence from these sources. I am not sure as to ramifications of these changes, and what the long term impacts will be, but it is possible that the reliance of being in certain proximity to fuel sources means certain areas of the grassland will be over-grazed, leading to degradation of that ecosystem. These changes and challenges to the herding lifestyle present an interesting conundrum that has implications on the conservation of both natural and cultural resources.

Not a great photo, but a rare site of horses saddled and in use for herding practices.

A variety of decorative horse garb on the wall of a tent.

The nomads are almost all devout Buddhists. The religious symbols and relics are another staple within most tents. This commitment to the Buddhist philosophy makes selling conservation goals and instilling community conservation projects  a much easier task than in most other societies. At the same time it is difficult to ask those who have so little, and live at the fringes of being self-sustaining to limit their use of the land, to endure depredation of their livestock or to expend the effort and expense of participating in the local conservation programs that we propose. But that same spirit of generosity persists even here. A couple days ago we went to the county hospital in Nangqian to meet a man who had been attacked by a snow leopard. He had been pushing through thick brush to try and flush out some lingering yak and somehow surprised the snow leopard. These attacks are extremely rare (I've only heard of one other), but that is of little solace to the victim. Yet, his attitude was that despite the attack or the fact that he has lost many livestock to snow leopards, he does not fault the animal, but rather accepts those acts as part of the ebb and flow of his life as a herder.

Buddhist temple in Nangqian county.

A family piles onto a couple of motorcycles to visit their local sacred mountain.

In many ways it is sad to see firsthand the dissolution of a historic way of life. I find myself wistfully thinking how cool it would be if these nomads still relied solely on horses and didn’t have smart phones. But who am I to deny anyone the opportunity to advance their lot in life, or have the comforts of modern conveniences? The change is inevitable and the future will be molded by a variety of factors, not the least of which is the political climate in China and the terse relations with Tibetans. This worries me even more. What I’m not worried about is the spirit of the people. I’ve remarked mostly on the nomadic Tibetan herders, but those individuals that I’ve encountered in other walks of life, including our field guide, Zhala, possess the same strength of character and generosity that I experienced in those herders’ tents. I really am in awe of how genuine and open these people present themselves. As I continue traveling across the Plateau, meeting new Tibetans, whether monks, herders, school teachers or housewives, I hope that whatever their future, the foundation of their legacy and the beauty of these people will remain.