Riding the Iron Rooster

They were very dirty, but the cold pinched the smell, and it was so windy the stinks were academic. And Tibetans wore such gorgeous jewelry and furs and coiffures that they did not look dirty. In the end, the only thing I objected to were the fierce and rabid dogs, and in particular those mastiffs they called dhoki, guard dogs. I kept imagining myself riding a bike down these lovely roads on a long peregrination of Tibet, and the vision was interrupted by a mastiff lunging from behind a rock and messily dismembering me.

While I was in Tibet I read in a two-week-old China Daily that the politburo had met in Peking and decided that Lei Feng was still relevant as an example to Chinese youth. The politburo issued a statement saying that Lei Feng ought to be emulated. This made strange reading in Tibet.

Lei Feng was "the rustless screw." He was a model soldier and fervent Maoist who died after being crushed by a truck in 1962. No one had really known him; but after his death his diary was found and it showed him to be exemplary. He wrote how he reread and adored Mao's writings. He worked night and day, so he said. One night he went without sleep in order to wash a ton of cabbages. He did not stop there, but spent the early morning mopping floors.

In the diary (which some sceptical Chinese have called a forgery), Lei Feng wrote, "A man's usefulness to the revolutionary cause is like a screw in a machine. Though a screw is small, its use is beyond measure. I am willing to be a screw."

Twenty-five years later, Yu Qiuli, an important politburo member, said that what was needed in China today was more of "the Screw Spirit."

It was very hard to imagine a laughing Tibetan in his homemade fleece-lined coat with four-foot sleeves, his fantastic hat and boots, and red silk plaited into his hair, and his silver charm box and dagger, with jeweled earrings and ivory buttons, hollering at his dogs and gnawing bones and tying ribbons to his yaks—this freebooting man of the mountains—saying piously, "I am willing to be a screw."

It was even less likely that a Tibetan woman would be so submissive. No women in Asia were tougher or freer. Polyandry was still practiced in Tibet—some women had three or four husbands (the men were nearly always brothers). I could not imagine such a woman in blue coveralls, washing cabbages and losing sleep for the revolutionary cause.

It was not in the Tibetan's nature to be a robot. As nomads and the descendants of nomads; as hut dwellers in the emptiest region of the world, they were independent, and they were a great deal more self-reliant than the Lei Fengs. They were nearly always smiling, probably because they were either heading somewhere to pray or had just returned—prayers seemed to put Tibetans in a good mood. They seldom looked tired. They were brisk but they never hurried. They never ran. Unlike the Chinese they never nagged. They had made Lhasa a town of jolly pedestrians. They walked in the clean air through spindly winter-bare willows. They often stopped to admire the mountains. The mountains around Lhasa in new snow looked to me as though they had been made out of starched and crushed bedsheets, a mountain range of frozen laundry. Farther off the mountains were higher, bluer, and softened by the deeper snow. The snow represents holiness and purity to the Tibetans, whose glissading spirits need this symbol of innocence to prove they are still free: such snowy mountains are proof of God's existence.

You have to see Tibet to understand China. And anyone apologetic or sentimental about Chinese reform has to reckon with Tibet as a reminder of how harsh, how tenacious and materialistic, how insensitive the Chinese can be. They actually believe this is progress.

And yet, even with the policy of going too far, and the turbulence and damage in Tibet's recent history—the bombings, massacres, executions "for economic sabotage," oppressive nagging, crucifixions, tortures, desecrations, idiotic slogans, political songs, humiliations, edicts, insults, racism, baggy pants, army uniforms, brass bands, bad food, forced labor, compulsory blood donation, struggle sessions and pink socks—the scars hardly showed. Tibet had a way of looking inviolate. The mountains helped, but the people's attitude mattered most. They had found a way of distancing themselves from the Chinese, and they had done so in the most effective way, by laughing at them.