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TAKEN FROM MY TRAVELLER'S NOTES
LOST IN LHASA
Hailing a rickshaw to take me from outside the Potala back to the hotel became a bit of a nightmare. Apparently, so I found out later, rickshaws are not permitted to pass in front of the Potala – goodness knows why. Being Chinese, my ‘driver’ was only familiar with the areas inhabited by Chinese so the Tibetan quarter was a mystery to him. By the time we had wound our way around the back of this massive palace I had lost all sense of direction and could not even gesture as to which way we should head. The Chinese area of Lhasa, what seems to be 90% of the city, is set out like a grid; new with bright, gaudy red and gold shop fronts and advertising hoardings. People wear Western dress, as opposed to Tibetans who are mostly in national dress; there are traffic police and much chaotic bustle. Eventually I had to ask a traffic policeman, on duty in the middle of a roundabout, in sign language to direct us to the old city.
The Tibetan quarter is indeed very old and filled with pedestrians; there is little traffic. Tiny shops sell just the basics, stray dogs sleep in doorways, children play in the street and friendly, smiling faces are everywhere. People here wear their traditional costume; delicious Kampa boys in black suits wearing black hats with red plumes look like rows of Johnny Depp doubles; pilgrims in country clothes circumambulate and prostrate at the Jokhang Temple; women in full dress complete with enormous pieces of turquoise and coral incorporated into their long plaited hair stare at our plain and quite frankly boring hiking clothes.
In the Barkhour, the area surrounding this most important temple in Tibet, the Jokhang, are the market stalls. Bartering is encouraged although one feels guilty buying and taking away beautiful jewellery and antiques, items brought from villages to be sacrificed for the price of the next meal. So much to see, to take in; visual delights all around. Magnificent elderly inhabitants with few teeth have such wonderful skins, like polished walnut. Prostrating pilgrims - one had a small sheep tethered to his ankle who had to continually stop and start to keep pace with his owner! The gentle tinkling of prayer bells; the clicking of prayer wheels carried by so many. Did I want to buy a third monk’s skull? I think not. I visited the teaching hospital to view their ancient books. I drank delicious lassies taking in the wonderful aroma of burning juniper and watched the world go by.
But then a truck full of uniformed Chinese trundled past. On a street corner a guard, sitting with a rifle across his lap – for what was he watching? A persistent ominous presence in the heart of this gentle, spiritual land.
PRZEWALSKI’S HORSES
As a volunteer one was expected to collect data that helped the project managers understand how new Przewalski’s horses, bred in captivity, functioned in the wild.
The Takhi, as they are known here, would usually be on lower ground at this time of day, near to the streams and enjoying the lush grass. As soon as we spotted a harem, the person who had been allocated this group would be deposited by the side of the road to begin the day’s work. Alone in the eerie silence I found that first morning quite challenging. What if I walked so far into the hills that I got lost? Would I ever find my way back to the field centre in time for the lift back to camp?
From this low area the horses would gradually make their way to higher ground, into the rocky heights so as to be cooler in the very hot afternoons. Each harem would have one stallion, with several mares, foals and juveniles. There was one bachelor harem consisting of around 15 young louts who would tear around (as if kicking lager cans about and being thorough nuisances) until each was mature enough to set up his own harem, whereupon he would steal a young mare or two from an established harem. None of us followed this group!
Sitting on a rock in the damp early morning, watching the sun rise with ‘my’ harem lazily grazing and the foals playing was bliss. I could not have imagined how wonderful this experience of spending 6 hours following these unique horses in such glorious scenery would be. However, there was work to do and it was required that I record the air temperature, guess the velocity of the wind, note if it was cloudy, sunny or (rarely) if it rained. To the complex charts I would add comments about the Takhis' behaviour: when they grazed, stood still, lay down, walked or trotted; when the foals suckled and played; if the adults mutually groomed each other, copulated or fought. All these details were later fed into a computer to be analysed.
Despite following the same harem each day, the pickup point and routes they would take to reach higher ground were different each time. It was great to be able to explore new parts of the park, walking along the side of a stream, through narrow valleys with flowers and shrubs, up and over huge hills of grass, climbing over rocks to reach high the craggy heights.
Often of course one lost one’s harem. They would just take off, for whatever reason, and one would be left running and stumbling after them, puffing and panting up steep slopes and climbing over boulders. Space is very deceptive and when I imagined that the horses had simply disappeared down a grassy incline into a small valley with beyond, in fact there would be a series of valleys covering absolutely miles which I couldn’t see until I reached higher ground. Sometimes I would plough on endeavouring to catch up when suddenly I would come upon the harem far closer than was comfortable. I was once challenged by a stallion because I got too near – that was a little unnerving! On occasions one harem might encroach into the private space of another harem. They seemed to be pretty good natured about this – there would be a bit of posturing by the stallions, squealing and biting and half hearted kicks would be extended but that would be about it.
ARTIST IN RESIDENCE, ULAAN BAATAR
I was given a huge studio within the sculpture school at the Institute of Fine Art in Ulaan Baatar where I would work for 3 weeks. Actually it was hard to get on with any work as I was constantly whisked off to meet people, to give interviews and to attend Private Views. When I WAS in my studio it was hard to know what to actually do, how I would respond, artistically, to being in Ulaan Baatar. As is my wont I began gathering things that I found locally on the ground such as scraps of advertising material, odd shaped pieces of metal, a child’s sock, tiny plastic toys, a cigarette packet, a card label, string etc. and I began to glue them into my sketchbook. There was some amusement and bewilderment from the students – but the on the whole students and tutors found all this interesting and i guess it gave them a purpose to visit the studio – WHAT on earth is she doing?
Students would come up to me, individually or in groups to show me their work or to look at what I was doing. When the weather got warmer the school decided to switch on the heating in my studio! So I then decided to work outside where students would come to sit on the low wall in the shade with me. One young man insisted that we went back to my studio, despite my protestations that it was boiling in there. The book he wanted to show me was in fact a photograph album containing photos of his family, including one of four generations – he was a baby in that particular one. Trips abroad, family gatherings, all his growing up was documented. He then gave me a photo, which he signed, of himself as a 10 year old, sitting on his horse. I was touched.
One day the Principal, Bumandorj, asked me to give these two talks, twice: for students and tutors, and also for professional artists and journalists. Oh and it would be tomorrow! Of course I would do this – why not? Panic! Enkhe’s English was not up to the standard I needed for the translation and they did not have an overhead projector for my slides. I made an appointment to see the sweet Mongolian girl Sara at the British Embassy with whom I had been corresponding for about a year; she put me in touch with a lovely girl, Sanaa who would interpret for me (for a fee of course). Sara then gave me the phone number of the United Nations office where she was sure they had a projector I could borrow. They did and Canadian Ken phoned me to say that he would send his driver along to deliver it the next day! Sorted!
Another day as I was about to begin some work in my studio Bumandorj whisked me off to the recording studios of the main radio station in Mongolia. I was to be interviewed for the daily half hour arts programme. The studios were housed in a large Russian built building, and having been led down many corridors and through lots of large wooden doors we reached what was I guess the ‘mixing room’. Bumandorj, Sanaa and I waited there for about half an hour; it was very smoky and the huge reel to reel recording system on the wall looked none to reassuring. About five minutes before we went on air I was asked if there was anything particular I wanted to say – I just had time to scribble down some ‘thanks’ and pertinent comments before we were ushered into the next room. There was one wooden desk, one large ashtray, one microphone, a window into the recording room and the interviewer welcomed us, with a cigarette in her hand. Too few chairs meant that the interviewer stood, leaning towards the mike when she asked the questions. And I had no idea what questions I would be asked which was a bit nerve wracking, especially as I had been told that the programme is broadcast live to Japan and China as well as all over Mongolia!
ARTCAMP IN MONGOLIA
‘Artcamp’ took place at Undur Ulan (Red Rock) in a stunning landscape about one hour’s drive from Ulaan Baatar, the capital of Mongolia. Thirty artists: thirteen Mongolians, eleven Swedes, two Japanese, three Brits and a lone French man camped here for 10 days, with the huge rocky height of Undur Ulan behind us, an immense green valley before us and rolling hills beyond.
Setting off each morning to climb for almost an hour to my chosen spot, I took with me the materials I had bought in the ‘black market’ in Ulaan Baatar. I made thirteen small muslin bags, dyed them in the blood from one of the goats killed for supper, filled these bags with earth and suspended from a plaited horse hair rope tied between two large rocks. Each bag also contained the autograph from a member of the Mongolian art group and as the bags swung in the wind the earth would eventually disperse back to the land. Creating this was hairy as there was a steep slope between the two large rocks and I often lost my footing on the shingle as I reached up to tie first the rope and then to hang each bag. This piece represented my Mongolian friends who would probably remain in Mongolia until they died and then would return to their beloved land as dust.
On the lower slopes of the mountain I used a length of rope that had been covered in red fabric to symbolize an umbilical cord, as if the mountain had given birth. I placed the rope, emerging from rocks and arranged it coiling down over the rocks where I added three small circles of the rope to form pools at the bottom. The mountain had given birth and the child had been wrenched away. I felt that I was the child and could only be reunited with this beautiful country I loved once a year when I returned on holiday.
The two Swedes were interior designers (yes!) who rose to the occasion and made some welcome stairs out of the rocks on one route up the mountain! Yusaku from Japan glued many, many strips of paper onto the rocks at the edge of the mountain – they fluttered in the breeze. His wife, Chiaki suspended 100 small cling film bags of water inside her ger. They looked stunning, shimmering in the light that filtered through the top opening.
There was limited water at the camp; bathing, washing (bodies, clothes, hair) all took place in the icy, fast-moving waters of a river, about half an hour’s walk away. After a long day creating art in the hot sun nothing it was a pleasure to make the trek to wash off the dust. Our ablutions were usually conducted in front of assorted Mongolian families, out for the day! And one’s colleagues. And the young Mongolian students who were in the catering team. And on the last day members from two rock bands! Hollie and I were in our underwear, some had the forethought to bring costumes. It’s amazing what one get used to and boy was it nice to plunge in after climbing a mountain and working all day in temperatures of 33/35 degrees.
On the final day there was a grand tour of all the artworks, complete with T.V. cameras (I was amongst those interviewed), and in evening we had a party with two heavy metal bands performing on rocks at the foot of the mountain that formed a stage. The lighting was provided by headlamps from two four wheel drive vehicles and the sound (which was VERY loud) came from a whole bunch of speakers run on generators. The heavy metal mob were very gothic – quite the fashion here. Dressed all in black, with a plethora of tattoos, the band members adopted fierce poses and looked alarming. Underneath they were absolute pussy cats. The lead singer was tall and skinny with long black hair, dark glasses and a black hat. I discovered later at a gallery private view, when he appeared with short hair, dressed in white shorts, white shirt and long white socks, that he is actually a policeman!
CLIMBING IN LADAKH
On our first day’s walk we headed out on sandy, gravely ground – with bare hills to one side and a fast flowing stream far below us on the other. We had hoped to cross this stream further long but because of the unseasonable torrential rain experienced for several days before our arrival, the banks had been broken and some bridges swept away. On our travels we did cross two or three wooden bridges, some sloping alarmingly with very fast flowing, clear waters beneath, tumbling over white, grey and slate-blue stones. Mostly the scenery was wild and barren. Only occasionally did we come across a few scrappy shrubs and cacti-type plants with tiny white, purple and pink flowers. Once I saw some small white and blue butterflies.
The walking pace would be quite fast, except when climbing when each found his natural pace. Our guide and the younger members charged ahead; I and a few other hardies plodded with dignified purpose in the centre of the group whilst our ‘leader’ was at the back encouraging the stragglers.
Some days we walked through small enclosed valleys with ice cold streams and a few small, spindly birch trees. One area we had to traverse was full of grass tussocks surrounded by water – jumping from one to the next was fun. From the heights we could see small villages below with neat areas for crops. Occasionally we would meet locals; once a group from France who were using ponies – sissies!
But mostly we climbed and climbed. Once we had to ascend a huge, muddy hill along a winding and very narrow path of just 30 cm width that serpentined all the way to the top. Anchoring myself with my walking pole (on the high side - I’m not completely stupid) and slowly placing one foot gingerly in front of the other; slithering, slipping and shaking in sheer terror, I froze. Fortunately one of our nimble young guides spotted me in distress and gambolled down, taking a vertical route, extending his hand to rescue me.
My other memorable moment of panic was when climbing on shingle – with no chance of using the walking pole on the solid rock beneath and skidding with each step. There was nowhere to go but up – to continue higher and higher not looking at the drop below me that became becoming greater and greater! I consider that I did well for one who suffers from vertigo.
As we travelled and climbed, the landscape was continually and subtly changing. Looking up I could see patterns in brown lines, like writing, across distant fawn coloured rocks. At one place where we stopped for lunch, if I turned 360 degrees I could see such a variety of different scenery it was just stunning. This valley had a floor of white and grey rocks; another valley beyond was filled with cream and yellow ochre stones. Staggeringly beautiful snow capped purple mountains high in the far distance; craggy hills in browns and rusts in front of these; lower hills of green and red rocks; close by were rounded rocks in creamy white.
The final walk took us into a vast valley, stony underfoot with tall hills on one side and very steep mountains to the other. The different stratum of rock, with stunning colours and textures, along with the complete peace and silence was wonderful to experience. Because this wide route meandered between very steep hills, despite there being about fifteen in our group one could at times be utterly alone with not a soul, creature or bird in sight. Bliss.
MALI MISERY
Timbuktu – city of 333 saints and much sand.
We arrived in the small hours of the morning and docking this huge boat in the dark was a masterpiece of skill as the last half an hour’s approach to this tiny port was spent chugging very slowly along an extremely narrow man made canal. It was eerily quiet and we appeared to have only about 3 inches to spare on each side of the boat. Finally the boat had to make an elaborate three point turn to enable the gang plank to be lowered to the bank where the canal opened out to a small area just large enough to accommodate this huge ferry. In the darkness we could just make out families awaiting arrival of friends.
After several frantic phone calls, we learnt that Amelia’s car had been written off on the way from Gao to Timbuktu; we were not told the fate of her driver. Eventually five Touaregs arrived in one of the ‘Festival in the Desert’ vehicles to transport us to the place where we were to stay. Amelia assured me that our host Agmar, a Touareg nobleman, despite spending much time miles away in the desert with his ‘tribe’ also had a fine establishment here in Timbuktu. One anticipated a splendid dwelling. One was sorely disappointed. To begin with, when we arrived all the family were asleep and we had to climb over several bodies to a room with just the one bed.
Next morning we were shown to the room that was to be ours. It fronted onto the small courtyard (of sand) as did all the other rooms. Our view through the door was of the family loo; a room with a hole in the concrete floor. The empty kettle, on the ground beside the loo, was to be filled from a tap at the other end of the courtyard in order to ‘flush’. This tap was the only place to obtain water. But our room was O.K. and we had two beds, a table, sofa and resident wild birds. Amelia set up her computer and began to download all the photos she had taken on the boat. Difficult - in the dusty conditions around us with sand right up to our door and working on a wonky table with computer and camera wires dangling everywhere. She was positioned in front of a locked door that led off to another room; we were assured that no-one would need to enter that room. Oh yeah?
We had just settled and were making this our temporary home when suddenly in burst the man of the house accompanied by three young children, a ten year old carrying an automatic rifle and assorted baggage including one bag which obviously contained more rifles. With much noise and joviality they requested access to the locked room and so Amelia hastily shut down her computer praying that vital information would not be lost in the process. A short while later an army officer arrived – introductions all round. More joviality and noise. We now learnt that Agmar’s brother sleeps in this second room, so remaining where we had just established our territory was not really an option. So – an alternative was found – a small room situated around the corner outside the compound but backing onto this establishment. This was a garage really, with a corrugated iron door, no window, fronting onto the street next to the communal rubbish heap. Mattresses, blankets, bags and the computer were carried there for us and we were brought lunch (rice with a lump of something black-grey in colour). Thus began two days of a miserable existence. Oh, and two days of shared space with a resident mouse.
HIMACHAL PRADESH Taken from emails sent home over a period of two months
Having now seen all the venues and met the children, I have volunteered to work with my roommate Sara with the ‘Differently Able Children’. This was only set up about a year ago and there are around 8 children all of whom experience difficulties. Some have had abuse at home and all have extreme learning problems and none has had any formal education (age range from 5 to 17 - this is the only form of education the 17 yr old, Labu, has ever had since he arrived last summer). Anish has behavioural problems (he’s a bit violent) and Rahul doesn’t speak. Raj has Down’s Syndrome and sings like an angel. Seema has Spina Bifida and cannot walk at all nor sit for any length of time. Anchal suffers from cerebral palsy, cannot speak and has difficulty walking but at 4 years old is SO determined to try. She smiles all the time. Here in India the difficulties these children face are often considered a stigma for the family and the child can be hidden away. Certainly no effort seems to have been made by the Government to integrate or get special help for these kids. Labu has several siblings and a dad in the Indian army - one wonders why the army could not have helped in some official way. So, deep breath. I eat my breakfast ...wearing my coat. Our dining hall (grand description of a small roof-top extension to the kitchen) invites in the great outdoors – big spiders are O.K. but at 8am the invading fresh air is bitterly cold. The roof is held up by bricks arranged at intervals. During these intervals there are icy draughts. But all heads down as we tuck into hot coffee, 'guess what this is' runny grain mix and toast (limp and pale white – rather like I am most of the time!)
Each day Sara and I (attempt to) teach Sachin and Malik, who are brothers. They come from a very poor family. Poor should not necessarily also mean dirty; many people have little money and yet can remain reasonably dressed AND CLEAN. For the past five weeks these two children have appeared every day in the same clothes which are very dirty, un-mended and too small for them. Sachin has had trouble with his trousers for the duration of our stay here as they are too tight around his waist and he therefore leaves them undone. For the past week the zip was not functioning at all. He does not wear underpants. I leave the rest to your imagination!
AND DID YOU KNOW? - well how could you? Hilary Swank actually came to volunteer here 2 years ago and we have the room she used! I believe we must have the best view of all the rooms here – albeit through BARRED windows covered with wire mesh. If one then looks out, ignoring the huge piles of rubble and empty water bottles, plastic bags and debris; if one glosses over swinging trousers and underwear on our washisng lines; the badminton net, the hanging cables and then lifts one's gaze beyond the top of the half built block with two storeys and no roof, THEN one sees the most spectacular hills and mountains. Crisp and clear in the dawn, half hidden on misty mornings, full of colour most days.
Attempting yoga each evening in this same draughty ‘dining’ room is taxing. A large tarpaulin sheet is placed upon the concrete floor and upon this are our mats, each of which resembles fifteen skinned Yorkshire Terriers sewn together (smells like this too). Our instructor, Arun slowly sings to us 'TOE TLEEE REE LAX'. I find this particularly difficult. What with the poses that he likes us to hold for ages and ages and the fact that my back does NOT seem to improve with these sessions, I only lasted about 5 classes. Free time is precious and I just relish using this hour to rest, write, gather thoughts, go on the internet, wash my clothes, read or to prepare for the next classes.
The mountains had completely vanished when we arose at 7am this morning – it was all low cloud and a bit windy too. But soon the sun appeared and by 10am it was very hot as usual. Tonight there is a beautiful light. Tonight the snowy peaks are faint pinks and oranges in the setting sun. They float, separated by cloudy mists from the earth below; the rocky and wooded hills on the lower slopes showing varying shades of blue, blue-grey and grey in neat layers. In the foreground a spindly tree with tiny white blossoms stands proudly alone. Stunning! | |||||