Wednesday, Oct 21st Shing tsa chukor Shang

Woke up this morning with a pretty hefty case of allergies due the constant inhalation of dust, tibetan incense, and black exhaust from the tractor trailers used to pull everything from potatoes to skinned pigs. I dragged myself out of bed and met my guide and driver in front of the hotel. They took me to a village approximately 40 kilometers out of Lhasa, called Shing tsa chukor Shang. The villagers had been rebuilding a home of one of the families for over 70 years. Fifteen to twenty people milled about carrying rock and mud

in baskets on their backs, building walls. I was immediately invited in for some yummy Yak butter tea. I played with a little boy around Charlie’s age while my thoughtful host refilled my cup after every fake sip. As my cup over floweth, spilling onto my only clean pair of pants, her husband had the brilliant idea of bringing out the chang, aka home brewed Tibetan barley beer.

I stared at the milky yellow liquid in my glass wondering what exactly it was that I was about to poison myself with and how I was going to avoid it, when my host helpfully picked the glass up and put it to my lips. “Umm, delicious, wow.” I said as I took a micro sip of this hardy intoxicant. Sure enough after every sip came a swift refill. Surprisingly the Yak butter tea was beginning to call my name so I used it as an excuse to set aside the rest of the beer. In my haste to switch to my preferred venom I didn’t see the huge fly swimming in the cup until after it was in my stomach.

Maybe it was the alcohol but my reaction was a tad bit slow. The visit lasted about an hour then I went outside and offered to help build the house. I figured after 70 years they could use an extra hand and since I didn’t die from the

contaminants I had just ingested, I was feeling particularly robust. Before I could say “ Shing tsa chukor Shang” I found myself standing in a large mud pit with a basket strapped to my back. An old lady began shoveling huge shovelfuls of mud into my basket. I began to sink into the mud with every thud and was starting to lose my brawny self image. Slowly I barely climbed out of the pit and walked into the compound where everyone had a good chuckle. After dumping my load an eager gentleman came running out of the kitchen with a newly overflowing glass of Barley beer. Yea. We toasted to my accomplishment while the whole gang watched and cheered me on. I really thought they were just excited about my amazing mud slinging abilities but it turns out they were cheering me on with the expectation that I would guzzle my beer. Every last drop. And so I continued taking sips thinking eventually they will get bored and get on with their house building and leave me alone. I was wrong. As expected, the glass continued to refill itself and the crowd grew bigger and louder until at last, with one fail swoop I guzzled that darned glass of unknown toxic origins. The women came running over with the traditional white scarf, kha tak, wrapping it around me. This is a way of showing respect to a visitor and I felt honored and a bit tipsy.

Next we stopped at Sang po monastery in a small town called Dechan. Throughout the past

week I had noticed an abundance of pool tables throughout Tibet. In a land where the women do all the work, and the men sit around playing card games and dominoes, pool had become a national sport. Dechan was no different. I casually approached a small group of pool hustlers and asked if I could give it a shot. Though my offer came as a tremendous surprise, I was handed a cue and we let the games begin. Five or six bewildered men stood watching and laughing, commenting (as I found out later from my translator) about how they have never seen or heard of a lady playing pool and what a horrible act of treason and a blow to all of Tibet it would be to lose against a woman. They said “If you lose to a girl, we will all be shamed.” Of course I had no idea all this dialogue was going on, I was just happily playing pool having no clue that all of Tibet’s masculinity was on the line. Don’t ask how, but somehow I won the first game! By now a crowd of 50 or 60 people had gathered around so I thought it prudent to keep my utter and complete joy over my triumphant win to myself as the men stood in shock and sent for their best player. Out of a nearby tea house, swaggering and exuding Tibet’s finest testosterone fueled machismo, came my new competitor. The crowd was silent as a few scragglers from the town came

running over pushing toward the front. Even the women came, experiencing their first example of women’s liberation. “A woman playing pool? Gasp! Shouldn’t she be tending the fields, sweeping dirt, cooking and raising the children? Gasp again!” Wild cheering broke out as Clint Eastwood got first one, then two solids in the hole. When it was my turn you could hear a pin drop, and whenever I got one of those little striped balls in the hole the whole town groaned with dread and awe. Soon he was down to one ball to my five. Yes! Tibet shall triumph! So he tried and he tried to get that last ball in while my little striped guys were disappearing one by one. And then, OOPS! I won again. Growing up in Kansas was really starting to pay off. By now they had sent for the original Clint Eastwood, Kublai Khan, ruler of the billiard Dynasty. Now the comments shifted to “Whoever wins will be the new champion and we shall honor him all of our days” I felt like I was in a movie; spaghetti western music swirling through my head, guns loaded, cowboy hats lowered, eyes squinting...

We were tied til the very end, when suddenly and victoriously he sunk that last ball, the eight ball, the one that pulled all of Tibet out of it’s slump and back into it’s rightful place in history, a conquest that would keep the women from ever doubting their men for centuries to come. They began to cheer “This is TIBET!”