Tibetan Foothold (15 page)

The ‘apartness’ of the Tibetans is heavily underlined by this tragedy. To them ‘America’ and ‘Kennedy’ are meaningless words, and the recent death of the camp dog affected them much more deeply than the assassination of an unknown statesman. This fact, when they have now been living in India for four years, proves how effective a language barrier is – and also how little the average adult refugee is interested in his new environment. It’s unlikely that there are any other people – apart from primitive tribes in inaccessible areas – to whom today’s news meant nothing.

Last night the camp suffered a slight crisis when Pema, a five-
year-old
girl who had been left here by her mother yesterday afternoon, was found to have disappeared. At about 9 p.m. an unprecedented commotion started up outside the bungalow and on investigating we learned that a search party was being formed. I felt certain that in these forests, at this season, the poor little scrap couldn’t possibly survive – but here I underestimated the toughness of Tiblets. Half an hour after the search party had set out a messenger who had gone to Macleod Ganj to notify the mother came rushing back with the news that Pema had made her own way to the hamlet, walking over two miles in pitch darkness, and that she was now asleep, safely snuggled down beside her ‘amela’ in sheepskins by the roadside. She was not brought back here
today, as I feared she might be, so perhaps her gallant escape-march has had the desired effect.

This is my last day on duty in the camp and now I wish I was gone; within the past week my happiness, on going out each morning and being inundated by a wave of Tiblets, has turned to bitterness at the thought of leaving. It is difficult to understand, much less explain, what these children have done for me. All I know is that during the past four months they have caused a subtle but powerful transformation, so that I’m aware of taking something away from here that will be of permanent value. To those who have never lived through such an experience my words may sound like so much sentimental
tommyrot
– yet they express a reality which others have already observed. Yesterday, Oliver slightly startled me by remarking on how much I had changed since we first met. When I asked him how this change looked to him he replied without hesitation – ‘In some ways you’re softer and in other ways you’re much stronger and calmer.’ I knew exactly what he meant and in fact I was able to return this compliment sincerely, for he too has been noticeably influenced by life among the Tiblets.

Two days ago the Simla Land-Rover appeared again, this time bringing Stuart and Miss Doris Betts and Deirdre Allen, the
nineteenyear
-old VSO worker who is replacing me. Deirdre has been helping at the Manor since last July and is a tremendous character, remarkably mature for her years and tough enough to take even Dharamsala camp in her stride. Yet she is also very gentle and full of fun and has the perfect temperament for looking after Tiblets; within a day of her arrival she had become ‘one of the lads’ and it was obvious that every child in the place – including Cama Yishy – already adored her. This is an indescribable relief to me, for Tiblets are philosophical little creatures, not likely to be upset by a change of staff when the new ‘Amela’ is capable of giving them at least as much understanding affection as the old.

Miss Betts is matron of the Manor Nursery for Tibetan Refugee Children, and she came with Stuart on this trip to help him select
another batch of weakly Tiblets for transfer to Simla. Originally we had planned to leave here today, but as poor Stuart has again got bogged down in the morass of Mrs Tsiring Dolma’s obstructiveness our departure has been postponed still tomorrow.

My plans for the immediate future are as follows: to leave Roz here and go to Simla by Land-Rover; to hitch-hike from there to Delhi, do some Christmas shopping for Juliet and get Nepalese visas for Doris and Oliver, who are both taking well-earned holidays next month; to return to Dharamsala by rail and bus, say final goodbyes and then cycle up the Kulu valley to see for myself what life is like in the
road-camps
.

Today I found that the last remnants of my patience with Mrs Tsiring Dolma had frayed away to nothing – perhaps because the need for diplomacy on my part is now over. I happened to be in the Dispensary this morning when a ten-year-old girl from the Upper Nursery was brought to Oliver suffering from such advanced gingivitis that every one of her teeth was loose and her gums were like crimson jelly. The weather is now bitterly cold yet this child was clad in a thin, torn, sleeveless cotton frock – though when VIPs visit the Upper Nursery every child there is dressed warmly in tweeds, woollens, heavy socks and strong boots.

Half an hour afterwards, while I was still seething with wrath, a message came from Mrs Tsiring Dolma saying that she expected Deirdre and me at a luncheon party to be given in our honour at the Upper Nursery. These invitations to ritual luncheons always come in the form of Royal Commands and the only acceptable excuse for declining them is serious illness. However I declined, as I have done twice before with thanks but without offering any excuse; had I been pressed to explain my reasons for not attending today it would have given me great pleasure to point out that twelve-course luncheons for the favoured few do not impress guests who are aware of the presence in this camp of hundreds of hungry children. This morning Stuart also declined his invitation, being equally opposed to these lavish parties. By now he had given up attempting to make Mrs Tsiring Dolma see reason on the various points under discussion and at 12.30 p.m. we set
off together to climb to Triund Rest House, which is perched on a mountain ridge at a height of 10,300 feet. I’ve got so completely out of training that I found this trek very tiring – especially as Stuart is an exceptionally athletic type who sets a terrific pace. But it was well worth the effort, to see so much wild beauty on every side, and I returned feeling much the better for the expedition.

Yesterday, while instructing Deirdre in her new duties, I suddenly realised that the number of infected ears in the Lower Nursery is now down to 36, as compared with 315 a few months ago, and these simple statistics gave me a more glowing sense of achievement than I have ever felt before. They also prove that in this sort of situation every helper, however inexperienced, can significantly contribute to the relief of suffering.

The impersonality of refugee work struck me very forcibly this morning when we were preparing our nine chosen Tiblets for the long journey to Simla. At 5 a.m. three ayahs arrived at the bungalow carrying or leading their sleepy-eyed charges, who were put on Juliet’s bed and told to be good. Then the ayahs quietly disappeared and that was the abrupt ending of one chapter in these young lives. Their unquestioning acceptance of this upheaval seemed pathetic: it would have been easier to cope with fits of alarmed weeping than to witness such calm indifference. I couldn’t help wondering what this change would mean for each of them. One at least was being parted from a brother; another has a father living in Macleod Ganj, who will probably lose track of her as she moves from camp to camp, and as for the rest – months may pass before their parents learn of this transfer. Yet to everyone in authority these are no more than nine numbers to be crossed off the Dharamsala register and entered on the Simla register.

Within an hour Miss Betts had achieved a miracle of organisation. All nine Tiblets were securely tucked up in comfortable ‘beds’ in the back of the Land-Rover, countless flasks had been filled with hot milk, provision had been made for dealing quickly and efficiently with bouts of
carsickness
and diarrhoea and a picnic lunch had been packed for us.

The 206-mile journey along precipitous, winding roads took us exactly twelve hours, yet one couldn’t wish for the trip to end. Our route lay through the Himalayan foothills – which anywhere else would be referred to as majestic mountains – and these vast, lonely sweeps of earth and sky seemed intoxicating in the crystal air.

Even after living among Tiblets for four months I was astonished by
our passengers’ behaviour; not once did one of them so much as whimper. At each of the three stops we lifted them out, asked them to ‘chimbathombhi’ – which they obligingly did, squatting in a row by the wayside – fed them with milk and rusks, repacked them and then set off again.

It was dark when we arrived here and though Simla is such an uninspiring place by day the approach by night is quite breathtakingly beautiful. The sheer slopes glow from their very summits down to the valleys’ depths with tens of thousands of sparkling lights; when you come round the mountain and see this sight ahead it looks as though some hoard of diamonds has been spilled out of the sky.

After sharing quarters for so long it’s an extraordinary sensation to sit here tonight in the solitude of the Menteths’ guest-room. But even the priceless blessing of privacy doesn’t outweigh the loneliness.
However
, it’s nice to look forward to going to bed now under an open window, with the icy wind blowing on my face. And here, at 7000 feet above sea level, it
is
icy!

Having finished the above at 11.30 p.m. I retired under my open window – but at 1 a.m. I was still tossing and turning. Eventually the penny dropped; after four months of ‘sleeping hard’ my body simply couldn’t relax on a soft bed. I then migrated with blankets to the floor and a moment later had fallen fast asleep.

The weather was so appalling here today that the prospect of going down to the plains has become quite attractive. All morning a ferocious north wind tore around this summit, flaying it with sleet, and after lunch Simla had its first snowfall of the season. At teatime I went over to the Manor to see The Nine, who all looked very happy – but how I should hate to work at either of these SCF nurseries! For all its faults, snags, hardships and hazards Dharamsala does provide Tiblets with some passable substitute for their natural habitat and to see them here, being briskly Europeanised within twenty-four hours of arrival, has a most depressing effect on me. Yet material conditions in these nurseries are so much better than in Dharamsala that the eight Dispensary cases
who were transferred three weeks ago have already improved beyond recognition; I would never have been able to pick them out if they hadn’t rushed to welcome ‘Amela’.

Clearly a compromise is required between the comfort of Simla and the squalor of Dharamsala. The expenditure of comparatively large sums on maintaining these palatial, English-type homes for a mere 300 children, when so many other hundreds are neglected elsewhere, shows just how rotten things are in the State of Tibland. SCF’s approach gives the impression that those who direct the operation from London are intent on upholding the highest British standards of comfort, cleanliness and kindly regimentation, regardless of their suitability in a particular context. And one of the most frustrating aspects of this situation is that the available field-workers have a very firm grasp of the realities of the problem and could efficiently implement a more constructive project if given the opportunity. Surely such intelligent and enterprising helpers should be free to work out, from their own observations on the spot, the best way of organising relief.

Having left Simla at 9 a.m. on the 29th, I arrived here in Delhi at 4 a.m. next day, after an uneventful journey in a series of trucks driven by polite Sikhs. In India the picking up of hitchhikers is one of a
truckdriver’s
‘perks’ and, for a fraction of what the bus-fare would cost, villagers travel long distances adhering to the tops of the most improbable loads. Being a white woman I got preferential treatment and was accommodated in the cab, though in fact it is illegal for drivers to give lifts to foreigners.

During the past few days Jill and I have spent most of our time together, discussing Tibbery and visiting innumerable offices
concerned
with the relief of the refugees. Tomorrow morning I’m going by bus to Mussoorie, bringing some medical supplies to the Schools and Homes there.

On Tuesday morning Jill drove me to the bus-station at 5 a.m. and by
four o’clock that afternoon I was back on the heights among Tiblets.

It’s odd how quickly one adjusts to the tremendous distances
involved
in travelling around India; despite the thirteen-hour journey I found myself quite naturally thinking of Mussoorie as being ‘near Delhi’!

For many miles the road runs north across an apparently endless grey-brown plain where sugar-cane is the main crop; only on approaching Dehra Dun does the landscape change to heavily wooded hills. Here one transfers to a local bus and for the next twenty-two miles up to Mussoorie the madly corkscrewing road seems like an entertainment in a giant’s funfair.

Throughout Tibland the word ‘Mussoorie’ is now synonymous with ‘Taring’ – a name which was familiar too in old Tibet, where this family ranked high among the nobility. Jigme Sumchen Wang-po Namgyal Taring was an army officer for about twelve years before becoming Treasurer to the Tibetan Government. He is first cousin to the Maharaja of Sikkim and this week is away in Gangtok at the funeral of his uncle, the late Maharaja. His wife, Rinchen Dolma Taring, wrote to me recently and I quote now from her letter.

After my wearing and disillusioning encounters with Tibetan officials in Dharamsala it was heartening to meet Mrs Taring, see the work which she and her husband are doing and realise that there
is
a brighter side to the Tibetan aristocracy. Mussoorie is a place where everyone works together in harmony, no money is ‘mislaid’ and no goods ‘go astray’. (Perhaps this is why it is not a popular project among some of the relief agencies in Delhi; when dealing with the Tarings it is impossible to come to ‘an arrangement for mutual benefit’.)

The Tibetan Homes Foundation consists of some twenty houses and bungalows, which have been bought or rented with foreign aid. Each of these accommodates twenty-five boys and girls, under the care of Tibetan House-Parents, and here at last I have found that compromise between luxury and squalor which I mentioned the other day. In all the homes one sees happy, healthy children – but standards have been kept at a reasonable level. The manner in which Mrs Taring has organised this whole project proves that when the right type of Tibetan takes responsibility the refugees themselves are best fitted to cope with their own problems.

At the Mussoorie Tibetan Refugee School, run by Mr Taring, 600 boarders live in two huge hostels and are joined for lessons by most of the 500 children from the Homes. The education available here is no better than elsewhere, but that is not the Tarings’ fault; until this whole question is approached from a different angle no individual can do anything to improve the situation. Meanwhile these 600 boys and girls are being adequately clothed and fed and kept in contact with the best ingredients of their own culture.

Mussoorie is by far the most impressive of the relief schemes, yet it provides no satisfactory long-term solution; in fact its existence could ultimately have a bad effect if parents are encouraged, by Western workers, to regard it as a permanent feature of refugee life.

I’m staying here with the SCF nurse, Miss Joan Ariel, who runs a small, well-equipped Dispensary which, as in Dharamsala, is also used as a hospital. To me it seemed incredible to find only thirteen patients there, not one of whom would have been considered ill enough for admission to our Dispensary.

On Saturday I left Miss Ariel’s bungalow at 6 a.m., carrying thirty pounds of drugs not needed at Mussoorie but badly needed at
Dharamsala
. My personal luggage is never very bulky (it all fits in Roz’s saddle-bag, detached and converted to a suitcase) and as I have by now perfected the coolie technique of carrying loads I arrived at the
busstation
, four miles away, with no more than an aching shoulder. That really was a magnificent trek, begun in moonlight, continued while a glorious dawn briefly tinted the snow peaks to the north and ended as the first sunlight came pouring triumphantly over the mountains on to the limitless plain below. And, as I passed the various Homes, the early silence was being broken continually by groups of Tiblets singing their morning prayers, followed by the poignant Tibetan National Anthem.

The journey back here was not as boring as you might imagine from my previous description of the landscape; whatever other criticisms India may merit she is never dull. I have noticed too that since returning to the real India from Dharamsala I’m finding it much easier to come to terms with the country and the people. Perhaps my first impressions were prejudiced by heatstroke in July – or possibly the Buddhist influence has made my reactions a little less intolerant. At any rate India no longer rubs me up the wrong way
all
the time and I’m very much enjoying these few days in Delhi.

Yesterday was Sunday so Jill and I forswore Tibbery, and at 4 p.m. I set out to walk to the Gemini Circus grounds opposite the Red Fort in Old Delhi.

Circuses are among the more innocuous of my secret vices and this one was well worth the long wait, in a turbulent queue, for a cheap ticket. Not that queuing in these surroundings could ever be tedious. On my left lay the long, noble lines of the Red Fort and on my right the dull red stone of the massively delicate Jama Mosjid Mosque stood out against a tremendous glow of bronzed sunset clouds. Also, now that the necessary adjustment to India has been achieved, I revelled in this amalgamation with thousands of fellow queue-ers and in the whole noisy, glittering, pushing scene.

The show, which started punctually at 7 p.m., had everything that a European circus has – but bigger and better. It was over at 11 p.m. and then, before walking back to New Delhi through the pleasantly keen night air, I had a supper of ‘Kababs’ and new-baked bread in one of the many little Muslim eating-houses that huddle in the shadow of the Jama Mosjid. In this Islamic quarter of Delhi many of the women still go veiled and the cooking is reminiscent of Pakistan. It became noticeable here that despite the inward truce between myself and Hinduism I still find it very much easier to relax and feel at home among Muslims.

My way back to the main thoroughfare led through a tangle of ancient, narrow streets, which were strewn with sleeping figures hidden in cocoons of threadbare blankets. At the end of one of these alleyways the sound of a brass-band attracted my attention and, suspecting a Hindu wedding, I paused to see the fun. Soon the band appeared, about ten yards ahead of a magnificently caparisoned horse on which rode the bridegroom and best man. This animal was entirely covered in what seemed to be a sort of gold-plated ‘armour’ and the bridegroom was clad in elaborate robes and wore a high head-dress from which hung a curtain of coloured beads, completely hiding his face. Immediately preceding the horse were two drummers and two spectacularly attired dancers – adolescent boys disguised as girls. At intervals the procession stopped and the drummers drummed and the dancers danced and never have I seen anything to equal this display of primitive frenzy. The drummers looked quite crazed with the speed of their own playing, and as the dancers approached the climax of their performance, with eyes staring, mouths foaming and bodies writhing, one could almost believe that they were deriving their passionate energy from some non-human source.