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1.
2. CONTENTS
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Pg 1
From Grey Buildings to the Grey
Wall
By Sidney Choi
As a travel writer who’s roots are
planted in China, every time I’m
assigned to travel to someplace...
Pg 6
Nation of the Yellow Devil
By Danny Cho
17
Sweat dripping down my neck,
going down following the path...
6
Pg 9
The Roof of the World
By Henny Horensky
Clambering up stone step after
stone step to the roof of the world
9
was no easy feat...
Pg 17
Village of Dirt
By Mike Baik
I gasped as the hot air filled my
lungs...
3. Villagers
posing
in festive
clothing
From Grey Buildings
to the Green
Outdoors.
As a travel writer who’s roots are planted in
China, every time I’m assigned to travel to
someplace a few hours away from Beijing
my hands start to shake and my brain
turns my body into a time bomb ready to
explode when the time comes to find out
more about one of my home’s minorities.
Although I can say that I have honestly
never have had a night as restless as last
night.
After just a few weeks of planning, I was
done with all my packing and I was up
and ready to go visit the Western side of
Yunnan where most of the Jingpo people
lived –a destination I had been looking
forward to see by eye for quite a while. The
most I’ve learned about their culture and
customs was some proper etiquette. For
example; when you’re a visitor in a Jingpo
family’s house, you should not stand and
look all around but should instead sit with
your legs crossed. Although I had all that
online and hopefully completely correct
1
information read and memorized, unfortunately for me, I hadn’t looked into the
transportation as thoroughly as I should’ve
and in the very early hours of the day, my
jaw dropped at the sight of an aged rusty old
bus, which look like it had been dented with
crowbars or had suffered one too many minor
car crashes. This was the transportation I paid
for? At this point it didn’t matter for I was still
going.
By the time the bus pulled onto the dirt of
our destination, my legs have never ached this
bad before. But my friends had been right; the
west side of Yunnan is one absolutely lavishly
leafy place. I happily hoped off the bus along
with the rest of the passengers who let out
similar sighs of relief and happiness, as they
were also just as glad as I to let their own legs
move about but boy, was it warm. I struggled
with my backpack as I desperately tried to
remove my jacket in a hurry, hoping to take
off the extra clothing before I could sweat even
more. While the other visitors stretched out
their backs and got their remaining bags from
under the bus, I let my eyes gaze around at my
surroundings. There were tall lean trees with
noticeable roots growing around the brown
trunks that looked like they had been gently rested on top of the now slightly wet soil.
When I turned around, I could see about half
of the mountains that stood there, the tips of
the large triangles poking the low clouds just
4. by a bit. My heart was eagerly pumping faster
than normal and I had reached a whole new level
of excitement.
The first thing I heard was a clinking sound of
thin metal gently knocking into each other. Turning around, my eyes focused on the forest clearing
as two families (I presumed they were families
since there was two women and two men and a
younger man who stood besides them) popped
out wearing red and black, which I believed were
traditional colors. The women had large silver
chains with something like tiny silver plates
hanging on to the delicate silver in the shape of a
half folded bandana while the men smiled warmly
at us, dressed in half torso black colored jackets.
It took me a while to realize that all of them had
swords looped onto their belts for I had spent the
full minute admiring the women’s silver earrings
and bangles which were just as intricate as the designs on their hand woven skirts. One of the men
had a Muntjac slung –which I assumed would be
dinner that night- over his shoulder with the same
amount of pride of a young lion who just killed
it’s first prey. Even though I was quite confused
on how it was warm down near the trees while
the Himalayas in the background were covered in
snow I shrugged it off and tugged open my bottle,
taking another swig from my water now lukewarm from the humid air.
With our bus now chugging away back, we all put
our attention on our hosts once again and everyone who had nothing to carry helped those with
hand baggage as we trudged through the trees
together, following the brightly colored dressed
women and men who had offered to help carry
some of the extra baggage.
The first thing I saw in the village was the four
large painted wood slabs that stood in the middle
of the oblong shaped modern houses that circled this particular centerpiece. I could also tell
that agriculture was the way of life for the Jingpo
people for they scrambled around the village in a
disordered line coming from the crop fields with
baskets full of mainly dry rice. There was also a
lot of corn lined in long rows outside most of the
houses. Also there were a few traditional houses I glanced at along the way to the host’s living
2
5. 3
quarters. Immediately I could tell that it was made
of bamboo and although it was quite a sturdy
structure, it looked like it would need rebuilding
perhaps after maybe 5-7 years. Inside there were
two floors with resting cattle on the first. The
male host pointed at the top floor and motioned
at his family and then put his hands and head in
a sleeping position to tell me that that floor was
made for the family to sleep on but now it seemed
like only the animals took up this space and that
the people now slumber separately.
When we entered the host’s home, I quickly
glanced around at the interior. Inside there was a
few small sawed off trunks of wood and the smell
of medicinal herbs was wavering through a basket
in the corner. As the rest of the group quickly
settled themselves down into chairs, the other
hosts came out of a room offering us wine and
cigarettes which the men gladly took while the
women hesitated before politely taking just the
wine bottle. In the corner of the supposed living
space was a small pile of cotton woven products
in the colors blue, red, and black. The host picked
up a bucket of what I recognized was Madder
Roots and pointed at the mountains from her
house window as she tried to explain that the dye
used for the wool (used for weaving clothes, etc.)
was natural and that the roots used to make the
red dye had come from the Himalayan Mountains
themselves. From the opposite window I could
see the cash crops being picked by a group of
brightly dressed villagers. It must be quite useful
having plenty of fresh food just next door all the
time.
Our hosts brought us outside to a wooden dining table and eagerly set out different dishes at
an incredibly fast pace. While I enjoyed my bowl
of fresh picked rice and muntjac meat - which
probably was caught earlier on during the dayeveryone else had started on dessert. Little did
the tourists know, that the rice cake they were all
happily enjoying had been mushed up with ants
from the forest.
There were two English speakers at the village that
had taken on the language after their ancestor’s
who were one of the first in the minority to have
started to practice Christianity. One had showed
up at the dinner and told us about how the Jingpo
people originated from the Qinghai-Xizang Plateau but had to migrate due to the fact that there
was snow all year round in their then current area
and that most of the food that fed village were
grown vegetables couldn’t grow there.
So they moved to West Yunnan’s Dehong, for
its warm climate so that it was easier to harvest
their food but some of them split up along the
way, which is why small groups of their people
are scattered around the world with even some
residing in India.
When dinner was over and everyone had helped
clean up the trash and the plates, we all walked
around the village area, hoping to explore and
learn just a bit more before getting a good nights
rest. I could already tell that the Jingpo people –
also known as the Dashan people (which means
big mountain- people), move where the food is.
It was a bonus that there was forest nearby their
village, which supplies them with more animal
meat apart from their usual cattle herds and
some subtropical fruits along with their crops
from their large crop fields which grow rapidly
and easily thanks to the rainy weather. Other
than that, the wood from the forests was well
used to make the houses and to make the enormous colorful centerpiece that stood straight,
which towered way over my head. Soon after my
eyes grew heavy and I headed back to the host’s
house and fell asleep a lot faster than expected.
Instead of the expected sunlight that I assumed
would’ve woke me up in the morning, my hearing was greeted with the sounds of loud chatter
and laughing. Once I had gotten out of bed and
changed it had changed from simple talking to
loud footsteps and chorused singing. I lightly
splashed the slightly warm water gently on my
tired face that my hosts most likely had gotten
A modern form of the traditional Munao Poles
6. from the nearby Nanxiu river, to wake my tired
eyes before I stepped outside to find the biggest
crowd I’ve seen in my life.
Red, black, with a touch of blue and white,
was swirling everywhere as the women danced
while swishing their skirts all while following
the dance leader who was like the conductor
conducting the orchestra of dancers. Turbans
were on the elderly as they sang along with the
dancers. They all danced around the 4 Munao
Poles singing in what I guessed were the Jingpo
Language. I moved closer to the wooden poles,
to find out that the colored paint was pictures
of the Himalayas, crop, and livestock along with
some patterns such as repeating squares that
showed the migration and environment of their
people. The female English speaker from last
night’s dinner waved at me from the opposite
side of the Munao Pillar and told me all about
the festival, the reason why the Jingpo villagers hold this large dance/sing-a-long called the
Munao Festival was to celebrate their last good
harvest and to pray for success for their future
crops. I laughed along with her as she told me
this happened annually and lasted 2-3 days usually. What fun it would be to do this non-stop
for a few days straight.
All of a sudden out of the blue, the host appeared out from the crowd and grabbed me into
a dance line that I happily joined into. For about
2 full hours I was dancing non-stop as the villagers danced happily around me to get rid of the
evil and bad spirits that may affect their season’s
crops. When it reached 6 pm, my watch buzzed
and I slumped my shoulders. Staying here longer
would’ve made me ecstatic but it was time to go.
Grabbing my belongings, I rushed out from the
forest after waving a quick goodbye once again
just in time to dash through the forest and reach
the same vehicle that had brought me here in the
first place.
I waved goodbye to the few passengers I slightly
chit chatted with on the way back and promised
to call them some time soon and stepped off the
bus. Coming back to civilization just seemed unbelievably weird even as someone who has lived
in the suburban areas for practically a whole
lifetime. After spending nearly two full days out
and about in settings that sadly don’t exist in
the midst of Beijing’s company buildings, light
up signs above dark, strobe lighted dance clubs,
and open spaced shopping malls, it was slightly
4
saddening when I suddenly realized how
different this city was compared to the Jingpo
village. While the villagers there adapt and
depend on their climate and surroundings
for a good hunting/farming season without
damaging their environment, here everything
was modified to fit everyone’s needs even if it
meant tearing away pieces of precious Earth to
build factories or outdoor outlets. Change isn’t
all the good after all even if it is beneficial to
one half of the cause.
- Sidney Choi
Economic Map
(shows minority
names)
Two maps comparing how climate in the Dehong
region affects the Jingpo People’s choice of crops
and ways of living.
Climate Map
(shows minority
names)
8. The Nation of Yellow Devil
Sweat dripping down my neck, going down following the
path. I thought just waiting for my guide was the best idea
since there was no way I could communicate with people
here walking pass by me. I felt like I was standing at the
center of the Ulan Bator airport, but no one caring about
me. I was coming from America, so the plane went across
the Russian territory and landed in Ulan Bator. On the
way coming here, I saw lots of mountain from the plane.
Mongolia is mountainous and it is high elevated. The airport was noisy but I couldn’t hear anything. The paper in
my hand with all the information in it was getting wet, but
I couldn’t stop the perspiration. “Hello?” Finally… a word
I was waiting for. I felt the aura of my savior, who will save
me from this disaster. When she spoke English I was flying
in the air, couldn’t control my feeling. I hope this moment
was the end of my affliction in Mongolia.
I slowly turned around, hoping this woman to be my
tour guide (savior). I scanned her upside down and easily
found out she was my tour guide. It was noticeable that
she was Mongolian, and she had a funny looking coiffure.
“Are you Danny? I’m Beki. I’ll first take you to the hotel,
are you alright with that?”
“I’m fine with anything, I guess”.
In the car way to the hotel, my hair was jumping up
down. Mongolia had lots of unpaved road and it was really
wobbly in the car.
“We didn’t have chance to talk a lot. So what’s your job?”
“I’m a travel writer. This is my first time coming to Mongolia so I was struggling but you came and helped me like
a savior. It’s not an adulation, I’m telling the truth.”
“Thank you; well that’s what I’m supposed to do, guiding
people.”
6
About 15 minutes passed and we arrived to
our destination. The hotel was in a village
called Baga Gazriin Chuluu, and there were
traditional housings there, and its called the
Yurt. Yurt is portable dwelling usually used
by nomad like Mongolian. Yurt only takes 3
hours to make it or put down. It is usually 2
meters high and the roof looks like a dome.
The felt that covers the yurt is usually sheep,
and goat. The wool of an animal makes the
house warm inside and since there are lots of
sheep in Mongolia people still make yurt out
of it. Inside the yurt was so well decorated; it
had their traditional symbols and decoration
in it. It had different symbol and different
meaning for different rooms. In my symbol,
five elements (ground, water, air, fire, grass)
were included and it made beautiful wallpaper. My guide Beki told me that I can rest
until 1:30, and it was almost 12:30 now.
9. It was 1:30 and Beki was calling me for lunch. Meal
was one of the reasons why I decided to visit Mongolia, I’m a travel writer and food is something
really important to us and to the writing. 5 minutes
passed and the food was delivered. When I opened
the cover, the white steam flew to the sky as if it was
a dragon. Then good fragrance came into my nose,
and stimulated me. When I took a bite of the ‘food’,
the juice in it came out and burnt my tongue. It was
Buuz. Mongolian usually eats a lot of Buuz in the
New Year celebration. Buuz are filled with beef or
mutton. It is flavored with garlic, onion, and salt. In
other places in China people called it bao zi or jiao
zi, but here in Mongolia you call it the Buuz.
While I was enjoying my Buuz another food was
delivered. This was the main. I could smell the
aroma from million miles away. It was the grilled
lamb. This was the thing I was waiting for, since I
arrived in Mongolia. I couldn’t wait until it was on
the table; I was already in a dream of eating and
enjoying my food. The lamb barbeque was as good
as I expected it. The meat was really soft and it
wasn’t chewy. The taste of the sauce was still in my
mouth after eating it. Mongolia is famous for sheep
barbeque. There is lots of grassland, so there are lots
of sheep. This is why Mongolian enjoys sheep food.
It was my best meal ever; I ate lots of good foods
while knowing a new culture. I had some time to
rest after lunch then we were planning to go out
and do some fun things.
About 2 hours past and it was 4’o clock. We were
going to visit Bayanzag, it is in the Gobi desert
and it was a cliff that was red and where sun rises.
When I walked outside my yurt, I noticed that Beki
changed her cloth to traditional Mongolian dress.
Its name was deel and it was really colorful. A deel
is traditional clothing, and it is still worn by men
and women these days. Deel typically reach below
the wearer’s knees and fan out at the bottom and are
commonly blue, olive, or burgundy, though there
are deel in a variety of other colors. The one Beki
was wearing was red, orange and blue color. The deel
looked really good on her, but I was too afraid to try
one of them.
As we were moving to other place, yellow devil
had greeted us in harsh way. Everything was hard to
see because we had no foresight. It was a sandstorm.
Sandstorm happens often in Mongolia. So every
Mongolian brings mask with them. This happens
frequently because lots of part of Mongolia is covered with desert (sand), such as Gobi desert, the
Gobi measures over 1,600 km from southwest to
northeast and 800 km from north to south
Almost 10 minutes later we arrived to the Bayanzag, the red cliff. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. A huge mountain that is red, and it is enormous. The red plate was going down the hill and it
made the whole world red. We stayed silence for 10
minutes and we were just looking at the cliff and the
sun. The Bayanzag was in the Gobi desert and this
are is famous for discovery of dinosaur egg. This
place was really famous but at the same time it was
grand and it was astonishing.
7
10. We came back really late from the desert, and ate dinner outside. When we came back it was almost
10:00 clock. I was so tired I couldn’t do anything. I just decided to sleep early but there was one problem.
There were too many bugs in my yurt. There were moth, and small insects. This distracted to sleep because I really hate bugs and it was just killing me. However, Beki came in and helped me catch the bugs,
she really was my savior.
Time for me to leave Mongolia had come. I wanted to stay longer but I couldn’t. When Beki and I were
saying good-bye she almost cried. It was noticeable that she wanted me to visit after going back to America. Her bowl was over filled with water and it dripped down.
Now I’m back to the airport but I’m in struggle again. One thing that was really important in this trip
was Beki. I was always in trouble and struggling but she saved me. I’m sure I’ll miss her.
I’m sitting in my desk at my working place still thinking about the trip in Mongolia. How fun it was, how
kind people were, how good the food was, how beautiful the clothing was and lastly how beautiful it was
to be in Mongolia. *
Danny Cho
8
13. THE ROOF OF THE
WORLD
Clambering up stone step after stone step
to the roof of the world was no easy feat.
the stinging in my legs was not unexpeCted,
but was a shocking pain nevertheless.
I paused shortly to breathe in the air,
the frosty, invigorating air of southwestern China. In Tibet, mountains
rose up on all sides. It takes a place
like this for me to realize, quite regretfully, how miniscule and unimportant I
am in the scheme of things. There’s a
world full of greater and magnificent
phenomenon.
Upon nearing the end of the
rather torturous steps up the side
of an even more tortuous slope of a
mountain, I note the swirling, colorful
lines of paintings consuming surfaces of multiple boulders. The colors
spiraled the rocky surface like smoke
from a cigarette, endless coils spreading to the sky. The sun shone down
on everything, casting shadows that
cooled my skin, which was already
chilled enough from the breeze.
Finally, I had reached the top
of the rough steps, to the Tibetan
village I had traveled almost 4,000 km
from Beijing to be. A wave of dancing
colors sprang before my eyes like
fireworks exploding against the night
sky. Lines of prayer flags waved in the
wind, along with silk striped curtains
shading simple windows from the
shining sun above, and the swirling
skirts of women passing by, all who
10
Alan Kearney—Photographer’s Choice/Getty Images
TIBETAN PRAYER FLAGS FLUTTER BEFORE MOUNT EVEREST AT THE BORDER
BETWEEN NEPAL AND TIBET
I was so intrigued by the color and
movement that I overlooked the kind,
wrinkled face that had been smiling up
at me.
The cheery woman informed me
she was Pema, my host. Abruptly, she
spun on her heel and began to walk
away, stopping a few feet away to make
sure I was following.
We wove between crowds
among the cobblestone streets, Pema
rushing eagerly ahead as I tried to
capture the picture before me of mountains looming up behind the tall white
buildings, and the scent of cooking and
life, and the feeling of cool wind and
silk cloth brushing my arm. At one point
we passed a group of women all styled
in gold and jade headwear and long
necklaces of varying colored beads and
gems. I also took notice of the many
14. TRADITIONAL TIBETAN HOME AND WINDOW DECORATION. HOMES ARE USUALLY THREE
STORIES HIGH AND CONSTRUCTED OF LOCAL STONE AND WOOD
layers of patterned skirts in which they
tie around their waists.
“Gold and silver are not too impressive, it is the pearl and coral that
we cherish here,” Pema announced,
obviously having noticed my slowing
pace and interested gaze as I watched
the women walk away, their skirts oscillating around their hidden ankles. “Up
in these mountains, we greatly value
anything coming from the sea. Because
it’s so far away, treasures from the
coast are difficult to find here.”
It only took a few more minutes
on the streets before we arrived at
Pema’s home. The street was lined on
either side with white stone buildings
towering two or three stories high.
Although the buildings seemed plain
and clean-cut, all one color, some walls
were painted with the same curling,
colorful designs as the rocks along the
path to the village. There were also
the curtains, striped and silky, waving
hello to me as I admired the street’s
geometric-organic shape contrast and
random splashes of color.
The buildings all consisted of
flat roofs, this was meant to conserve
heat, as the temperatures in Tibet
were cooler than comfortable. Also, the
walls tilted inwards at 10 degrees, this
was quite easy to spot as the homes
seemed to form a shape like a pilgrim’s
hat: not pointed like a witch’s, but narrowing slightly. This feature was added
as a precaution against numerous
earthquakes that rattled the mountainous terrain.
Inside Pema’s home there
was a similar concept; bare stone
floors and wooden furniture with the
occasional colored woven pillow or
cloth. It was all rather open, and a
short, wide archway lead into the kitchen, in which Pema had already rushed
in to.
Pema beckoned me for dinner,
her voice followed by the sounds of
pots and plates. I slowly seated myself
11
15. Inside Pema’s home there was a similar
concept; bare stone floors and wooden
furniture with the occasional colored
woven pillow or cloth. It was all rather
open, and a short, wide archway lead
into the kitchen, in which Pema had
already rushed in to.
Pema beckoned me for dinner,
her voice followed by the sounds of
pots and plates. I slowly seated myself
at the wooden table in the center of
the room.
For the next ten minutes Pema
busied herself preparing a Tibetan
meal that I was eminently looking
forward to, as my grumbling stomach
continued to remind me. I decided to
spend the time exploring the first floor
of the home, afraid that going to the
second or third would be intrusive.
As I walked through rooms, each step
brought with it a dull, quiet echo. The
breeze from outside drifted through
any small cracks it could find to fill the
home with a chill that seemed to keep
a contented balance in temperature.
The tabletops scattered around the
living area were carved with intricate
designs of lines snaking through the
wood, making tiny indentations that
a fingertip could barely detect, as if
carved by a peculiarly sharp toothpick.
Benches, also wooden, were draped
over the back with detailed hand woven
cloths the colors of forests, rivers,
flowers, and sunshine. Everything
displayed here was hand made and insanely detailed, from the wall paintings
to woven fabrics to carved wood.
A gentle, jovial call told me that
the meal was ready. I strode through
the archways back to the large table I
was seated at before, watching Pema
12
bring out bowls and plates and mugs
two at a time. I recognized a plate
of beef, bread, an unfamiliar type of
meat, and a hot cup of some sort of
tea. I kept patient, hoping my hunger
would as well while I waited for Pema to
explain the dishes.
She indicated the plates set on
the table, “This, as you might know, is
simple beef. We don’t season food too
much here. This bread here is what
we call tsampa, it is a sort of roasted
bread, made with barley and butter-tea.” I found the thought of roasted
bread fascinating, as I didn’t believe I
had ever tried any before. Pema, as if
noticing my interest, smiled.
She continued to the other
dishes, “This is one of my favorites,
yak. There seem to be too many yaks
here, as they tend to inhabit mountain-
PASTEL COLORED ROCK PAINTING
ALONG THE PATH TO THE TIBETAN
VILLAGE
16. ous and hilly areas. Yaks first domesticated in Tibet at least 3,000 years
ago, and other than for meat we use
them for many things, like their hair for
yarn and their hides for boots. Nomads
keep very large herds in the Tibetan
mountains. They survive well in cold
temperatures, better than most herd
animals. Even with the amount of yak
we eat, there seems to be more and
more out there in the fields.” Pema
laughed slightly. I found it quite heartwarming, Pema’s constant joyfulness;
I could definitely learn something from
her, other than Tibetan culture.
“This is milk tea,” she went
on, “milk from yaks is used more often
than from cows.” Pema slid the mug
toward me. Before starting my journey
to Tibet, I had agreed with myself to
come off my vegan diet, and eat any
meat or dairy I might be offered. I did
just that.
Turns out milk tea is just, well,
milk and tea. It wasn’t too flavorful, but
it wasn’t too bitter, and it made your
insides warm, in the best way possible.
Pema took a seat across from me, her
eyes on the food in front of her, her
face wrinkled with age and too much
smiling. I glanced down at my beef and
yak, bracing myself for the meaty sensation I had been slowly getting used
to as traveling brought me to places
where trying their meat was practically
essential. The scents of our meal wafted through the dense air of the room:
the tangy, rich scent of dead animal,
the toasty smell of roasted bread, and
the sweet aroma of tea.
Pema seemed utterly satisfied
as she bit into her beef, as I unhurriedly lifted the meat speared through with
a fork to my mouth.
Slowly, I chewed. The yak itself
was very similar to beef or lamb, and
its lack of seasoning only put the focus
on the meat alone, letting the pungent
taste take over your mouth, without being overwhelming. I looked up from my
pleasing meal to see a smiling Pema.
”Come, I will show you your
room. You must be tired.”
*
*
*
The next morning I woke early to find
Pema was already wide wake, drinking
tea at the table and grinning up at me.
After informing her I needed to take
pictures of the village, we strolled from
her house to the streets of Tibet, in
search of scenery deserving to be
captured on film. The once crowded
streets were much less crowded, and
the cool wind just a tad bit cooler.
While searching for the right angles
to capture a shot of a prayer flag line
crossing over a view of the mountains,
I caught sight of a woman dressed in
bustling skirts rushing along holding a
rather large basket of assorted foods.
“The Linka Festival is coming
up,” explained Pema, her eyes following the woman, “It is the ‘happy
day of the world’ where those of all
ages gather below old willow trees for
entertainment. Years ago, in the late
1300’s, Jamqoi Gyaincain called upon
the planting of 200,000 willow trees
a year, and so now there are many
in which we gather by for the Linka
Festival. There are activities and food,
and highland barley wine made from
fermented barley grown in the highlands. It is great fun, if you could stay
13
17. so long, you would enjoy it.”
“I wish I could, it sounds
leisurely,” My mind raced with the
images of Tibetans in their colorful
clothing all dancing and running and
eating and drinking below tall trees
with twisting branches shading faces
of those below it. My wandering mind
barely slowed down to fascinate over
the striking work of art before me.
It was a painting made on silk with
looping embroidery, I knew this as a
thangka. It was hanging on the white
wall of an edifice. These thangkas
have been around for a very long time,
dating back to the 11th century, and
are a part of Tibetan art and culture.
Colors and patterns danced across the
fabric, telling a story I couldn’t possibly
understand.
Pema explained that at the
center was a Buddhist deity, and
the surrounding images displayed a
scene or story. Pointed mountains and
meandering representations of rivers
expressed the Tibetan landscape as
figures and shapes took up the rest of
the silk fabric. I took more pictures of
this than I needed, as I contemplated
over the amount of detail Tibetans
placed into their art.
Over the course of the next
few hours Pema and me strolled about
the village, capturing photos that
couldn’t be taken anywhere else in the
world, up in these highlands crowded
with yaks and goats and cows, and the
Tibetan people with their meticulous
art and cold-proof dresses.
I thought that the pilgrim-hat
building were clever, and wondered
why I hadn’t seen other cold, moun-
THIS HANDDRAWN MAP SHOWS TIBET AND THE SURROUNDING PROVINCES AND THE FEATURES THEY SHARE, SUCH AS MOUNTAINS, GRASSLANDS, COLD WEATHER, DESERTS, AND
FORESTS.
14
18. tainous areas doing the same, and the
flat heat-conserving roofs, and how the
Tibetans knew how to use and live in
the environment around them.
It felt too soon when I glanced
at my watch and realized I would have
to be leaving. After gathering my things
from Pema’s home, I thanked her for
letting me stay, and complimented her
knowledge of Tibetan history, and let
her know how much she helped me on
this journey.
She then brought something
out from behind her back, something
long and white. “This is a hada, it is a
white silk scarf, given as a gift in the
Tibetan culture. To accept it you must
bow your head and reach your arms
out in front of you.”
I did just as she said, and as
she laid the silk in my hands, the soft
feel of it made me shiver, although that
could have just been the wind. I smiled
at her kind face one last time, seeing her eyes glimmer and wondering
whether she might be crying.
As I turned and walked down
the cobblestone streets to the steep
yet exciting steps that would eventually
lead me back home, I looked back only
once, the village seeming like a memory already getting lost in the past. And
so I decided that climbing each step to
the roof of the world truly was no easy
feat, but standing on the first stone of
that path weaving to the valley below, I
knew it was definitely worth it.*
TIBETAN PRAYER WHEELS LINED ALONG
A WALKING PATH OUTSIDE OF THE
VILLAGE
Henny Horensky
15
20. The Village of the Dirt
I gasped as the hot air filled my lungs. I
dragged my luggage out of the train. The
smell of the hot steaming corn filled my
nose. Resisting the temptation to look, I
dragged the luggage. I saw the Host at the
Escalator leading upstairs. When the he
grabbed me by the shoulder I freaked out.
He was a middle aged about 35~40.
I was in the car looking out the window;
I could see the mountains stretched as far
as the horizon. Mountains mostly cover Hunan. Only 20% of its land is plain.
The Tujia people live at the top part of the
Hunan. As I was approaching the village
I saw more and more rice fields. Hunan’s
economy is agriculture. It mostly produces
rice.
The host, Mr.Chen took me to leave my
baggage in to my room that had nice comfy cotton couch. The blankets were neatly piled in the corner of the room. After
getting out of the room Mr.Chen took me
to a festival that was held today. It was a
weeping marriage. I was confused what
he was talking about. I thought marriage
was supposed to be happy. But I saw what
Mr.Chen meant. The bride was crying her
heart out. I watched with wild wonder. The
bride was crying because she is supposed to
live in her husband’s house, she can’t return
to her home. Also if she doesn’t cry, others would look down on her. The weeping
marriage started from the unconscionable
marriage system in the old times. Watching
the people cry resembled me of a funeral.
17
The housing of the Tujia people was very unusual. They had second floor at their house. The
walls were made out of wood. Hunan is a very
humid place. So the Tujia people figured out a
way to avoid this climate, they built a one more
story. Building an extra story helped Tujia
people. The second floor was much less humid.
The Tujia people also had another place. They
used the place for grinding the corn and abstracting oil. To use the corn-grinding tool you
have to put the corn in the holes in the ground
and roll the stone around to grind the corn.
The Tujia people used this to grind dried corn.
At the roofs there were a line, where corn was
hanging like it was struggling to attach to the
line. The people hang corn to dry them.
This is the map of Hunan in China.
boundary that is yellow is the part of Hunan
where Tujia people live. Corns are some
most eaten food in Tujia minority. The tujia
minority is grouped with the name called
21. Mr.Chen took me to his house to serve me
lunch. We had glutinous rice cake and Sautéed
Preserved fish. The dishes were served at the
front of the table so that everyone sitting at the
table could share them. Sautéed Preserved fish
was little spicy. Also I enjoyed having glutinous
rice cake. I drank wine that Tujia people enjoyed.
It was quite different from the wine that is red
and from grapes.
After lunch, Mr.Chen and I went to see the
cornfield that he own. I saw tall and thin cobs of
corn. Mr.Chen picked ones that were able to use.
I dropped them in to the basket. After a while I
switched with Mr.Chen picking the corns that
was ok to pick.
I had to get an approval by Mr.Chen because
I didn’t know what to pick. I got the hang of it
after one hour or two.
After having 2 full sacks of corn we returned
to the house. Mr.Chen went to steam the corn.
After few minutes Mr.Chen came out with
handful of corn. It was much more tasty than
the ones I use to eat. After one corn I thought
my belly was about to explode. My eyes slowly came down.Mr.Chen woke me up. I slept
about an hour it felt very hot. Mr.Chen took
me to his friend’s house. In traditional Tujia
language I couldn’t understand anything. The
friend asked me “ Are you enjoying your stay
here?” I answered as he gave me a tea “drink”
he said. I took the tea and drank it in one gulp.
The friend told me that I was supposed to smell
the tea and than drink slowly. Hunan is also
famous for producing tea.
This is the tool for grinding corn.
After going to Mr.Chen’s friend’s house, Mr.Chen
was preparing dinner. As he was laying the dishes on the table I helped him prepare. It was the
Hot pot. It had smoked pork in the hot pot. Tujia
food had sour and spicy taste that made it more
delicious.
After dinner, I was starting to prepare to sleep.
I could see hundreds of stars in the sky. I spread
the thick mat on the ground and made myself
comfortable. Soon Mr.Chen blew out the candles. The village doesn’t have electricity, the Tujia
people sleep when the sun goes down. I could
see the lights getting turned off out side the window. And then it was complete darkness. I fell
asleep soon after that.
At morning, Mr.Chen came up to wake me up.
Opening my eyes I saw shining lights of the
sunlight. As I took the water from the well and
washed, Mr.Chen prepared small breakfast. It
was steamed corn. I ate two. Still, it tasted very
nice. After packing and pushing things in to my
bag I shoved them in to the car and headed to
the train station.
At the train station, I heard the loud screeching
as the train stopped. I went in to the train. The
train started to move and as I saw Mr. Chen
slowly getting out of my sight I saw him holding
and waving my hand. So I waved too. The train
was going back not looking back to the village of
dirt.
The place where the tool were stored.
18
