Our last morning at Rongbuk monastery was emotional with farewell to a unique and spectacular place and time. It was 1981 and we were among the first westerners to visit the Rongbuk Valley, under the massive north face of Everest, since China began its experiment with openness to the rest of the world.
At 16, 500 the monastery had been the highest on Earth, the home of some 300 Tibetan Buddhist monks. Rongbuk means “valley of caves” and long before Buddhism arrived from India followers of Tibet’s ancient Bon religion sought out these caves for spiritual quests. The landscape was as stark as it was beautiful, but it was steeped in the energy and tradition of high human spiritual aspiration as well as the highest of human mountaineering ambition.
We were 13 Americans, most of them old friends of mine from Nevada; two Canadians; and three Chinese escorts. I was leader of this commercial trek to see Tibet and its people and to visit the north side of Everest where our permit allowed us to reach an elevation of 18,000 feet, but no higher. Since our Chinese guardsmen went no higher than the monastery where the trucks that had driven us across Tibet from Lhasa deposited them, we were free to do as we pleased and were able above 16,500. That wasn’t much in terms of elevation gain, though a few of us managed to wander up to around 20,000, but it was huge in terms of experience, perspective and appreciation of one of the most stunning and moving places on earth. None of us wanted to leave that last morning. All of us were disgusted and angry with the Chinese because of what China had done and was doing (and in truth is still doing) to Tibet and its people. Everyone in our group was enchanted and filled with admiration and concern for the people and countryside of Tibet.
We had learned that Tibet bore a striking physical resemblance to Nevada and that its people were cheerful, open, curious and deeply religious. They won our hearts with their shy friendliness.
The land, its creatures, its people and traditions had been subjugated and brutalized by the army of the People’s Republic of China—the invader and unwelcome occupier of Tibet, a pugnacious gang of thugs in a temple.
The once exquisite Rongbuk monastery lay in ruins, shelled and reduced to rubble by the Chinese military which might more accurately be described as the army of the Pugnacious Republic of Thuggery. Of the more than 2500 Tibetan monasteries in existence when the Chinese invaded in 1951 less than 10 were intact 30 years later. In the jumbled remains of Rongbuk were thousands of shattered examples of Buddhist art, mani stones and frescoes, the work of centuries by patient and skilled and devoted monks, sad glimpses of another time, poignant reminders of impermanence.
Tibet’s mystery and the allure of Everest had been our enticement, but the dignity and grace of Tibetans in the face of Chinese brutality and desecration of their culture and landscape were our memories. Tibetans know how to smile, even though life has never been easy. The Chinese invasion only made it harder, as always happens when barbarity invades compassion, including, among other things, the deaths of more than 1.2 million Tibetans and the additional deaths by torture of some 26,000, many of them Buddhist monks and nuns. The snow-covered Himalaya loom over sparse, green valleys from which efficient people had long nurtured a living from infertile soil and climate with the tools of labor, intelligence and faith. Our group of tourists viewed both people and landscape with awe. Our Chinese hosts viewed and treated them with disdain.
We had seen a few hares, ducks, geese, a condor-like lammergeir and various other birds and domesticated animals during our journey, but there was a notable scarcity of wildlife. We deduced that this eerie paucity of life in a vast land was related to the conduct of our Chinese escorts. Every time a wild creature appeared, out came the pistols, shotguns and rifles. They were poor shots, though an occasional unlucky hare and pigeon were killed. The most enthusiastic killer (‘hunter’ is the wrong word as it implies deliberation and connection to the natural world) was Tong, our cook, who claimed to be hunting food for us. This was untrue, as none of Tong’s kills were ever cleaned, much less cooked and eaten. Tong killed for the thrill and, perhaps, for the small sense of control in a life over which he had little control; but Tong had his story and stuck to it.
Tong was a handsome, athletic fellow with an abundance of malevolent energy that he channeled into suspicious resentment toward our party. But he was no cook, as three weeks of his mostly inedible meals proved. We learned that he had come to Tibet with the Chinese army. He had married a Tibetan woman and had a family in Lhasa, but he treated the native people with angry condescension and an always visibly implied threat of violence. His profession was coaching soccer and he looked every bit the part of a tough, unflinching Asian warrior/athlete. I often thought that if I had known Tong in the context of coaching soccer we could have found some common ground and trust. But Tong had violated some stricture of Communist life and had been stripped of his job. Cooking for the enemy was his society’s method of instilling humility into his proud soldier/athlete soul and bending him to its will. Such upheaval is common in Communist China. At that time it was not unusual for doctors, engineers and scientists to spend some of the best, most productive years of their lives as field hands and miners to keep them from thinking too deeply or independently or setting any example that might cast doubt on accepted dogma or inspire a questioning of authority. The result in this case was a deeply resentful and hopelessly inept cook who fought back by sabotaging his own social/political system and our physical ones in every way possible. Each member of our group lost between five and 20 pounds during our time together.
There wasn’t much about Tong to like, but if he could not fight without dire and possibly fatal consequences the system that would make of him a cook for the hated westerners, he would and did fight us with every tool at his disposal. He took pride in letting us know he did not need or bow down to us. His government was despicable, his cooking disgusting, his demeanor deplorable, but there was something about his spirit that I admired and that made me laugh (not very often). He was a warrior and he would hold his ground even as that ground diminished, and while he might be defeated and beaten he would never surrender. In that he was more like the Tibetans and perhaps his Tibetan wife than he would ever know.
The last morning of our two-week base camp stay at Rongbuk we were all loaded into the “Chinese Liberation Truck” (the Chinese actually named the truck that in honor of the Orwellian deceit that China had ‘liberated’ Tibet) for the dusty, arduous 500 mile ride on dirt roads back to Lhasa. Emotions were high. My own reluctance to leave Rongbuk was less sentimental than visceral—as if I were leaving home for the first time. We looked with gratefulness, longing and a recognized sense of humility upon Rongbuk and Everest.
Suddenly, a herd of nawa, the graceful, endangered Tibetan blue sheep, magically appeared in the monastery ruins. Two of them jumped up on the remnants of a wall. We knew that the blue sheep were in the valley but we had not previously seen them. It was a thrilling farewell sign, an enchanted few moments, a portent, and a time warp in which man and beast were in harmony.
Like Eden, it didn’t last long.
Tong, rifle in hand, was out of the cab (Chinese rode in the covered cab; paying guests in the open back) with the speed of a trained soldier. As he raised his weapon to fire, an amazing thing happened. Everyone in the back of the truck spontaneously rose in unison and shouted as one voice a warning to the nawa, and, more significantly, a condemnation warning hinting at threat to Tong. We had finally had enough of mindless slaughter. A message in sound via the animal chemistry wireless was transmitted to Tong which said that shooting a nawa would start an international incident detrimental to everyone concerned.
Tong lowered his rifle. He looked up at the westerners he so disliked with a look of bewilderment followed by one of slow, cunning realization on his face.
The blue sheep took the hint and vanished as quickly as they had appeared.
We gave Tong a standing ovation, shouting approval and clapping like mad. The freedom to make life or death decisions could not come easily or often to a poor, over-regulated soldier like Tong; and for that reason when they did come he usually chose death. He was stunned by our exuberant show of approval. The enemy applauding. Then Tong shrugged and gave us a wide, handsome, heartfelt smile, the first we had seen from him. He got back in the truck, still smiling.
We drove out of the Rongbuk valley, gazing back at the north face of Everest as long as possible, feeling good.