QINGHAI

       Baptized in the West

I was in in Tongren that morning, the last real Chinese frontier where few Hans populated. Many of them spoke Mandarin. Street signs were convered in Tibetan. Sandwiched between two comparable hills, the village offered a narrow path. Most of the gravel had been diluted by dust and sand. The motorcycles, operated by children and grandfathers alike, brought in the dust through two natural ruts. The sun, damaging at such a high altitude, pierced through the overgrown shrubs. Old Tibetan women stood by the path, wrinkles near their eyes and hands accentuated by the light. I stood near the women, waiting for the festival to begin. My monotone jacket stood out among their Tibetan robes, many of which purple, with elongated sleeves, and akin with other robes in design. I distinguished the women by the beads woven into their dark, tangled hair.

       Upon the banging of gongs, the women squeezed and elbowed towards the village square. They, now paired with their Tibetan daughters, filed into a row of benches under a long pavilion. The group across from us entered a symmetrical design. The third side of the square was a stauts wall, showing one of the mountains. The last side, now overwhelmed by curious Tibetans, held a small stage and a marble staircase. We waited as the gongs went on, vibrating.

       At noon, the festival began. A shaman, or in Tibetan a lawa, descended from the platform. He was a Han. He had a broad nose, a square jaw, and a mole right under his textured chin. The rough stubble mingled with his leathery skin. As he danced, the sun flickered upon his eyes and nose, but his face was neither tan nor rugged. Other Tibetan men followed him out. Apparently, they had assembled elsewhere to prepare the junwu, or military dance. It was said that the dances could summon the mountain god into the lawa.

       Unlike other dancers, he tied his robe across the waist. Above that was a shoulder cape, embroidered with cloud and scroll patterns. The needlework consisted strings of blue, yellow, red, and orange shades. Dangling, a chain of tassel and bells fluttered as he hopped alternately with his legs. Either by curiosity or recklessness, I crouched pass the women, pass the girls, and stopped a few yards behind him. Squatting, I grabbed my camera.

       Eventually, he turned around, right about when the gongs slowed down. I caught a glimpse of his eyes, hollow yet determined. Perhaps the god had possessed him. The man, or the god through the man, signaled a nearby dancer with a nod. Instantly, the dancer darted towards the pavilions, and grabbed a box of barley wine. The lawa examined them. Pulling up the sleeves of his undershirt, the lawa raised the bottle in a coherent motion, and swung the neck towards me. Pungent, the liquid drenched my jacket with a smell of fermentation. He peeked down, the dark pupils seemingly judgemental to the splash.

       At that moment, I wondered: was that an eviction? Or a splash of blessing and good fortune? I felt fluttery, twisted almost, debating between his condescending eyes and the gentle motion of his pouring hand. I thought I felt the judging eyes of the Tibetan crowd, murmurs jeering at my blatant blasphemy. Maybe they did this to all their visitors? I had no way to know. For the first time, I felt isolated, ignorant of my own country. Perhaps it wasn’t country that mattered; athiests are strangers to the land that raised us, blindly navigating the paths and squares that survived through centuries of sacred tradition. The lawa had moved on splashing more wine onto the empty square. I, still crouching, backed out pass the crowd.

The gongs went on. The women, still under the pavilions, gazed and hummed at the lawa as I squeezed pass them. A few toddlers raced across the square, squeling as two assistant officials escorted them off. The lawa turned again, splashing some more wine on the marble tiles where I had been. Beside him was the wine box, now empty with bottles scattered around. The sun had drifted since the festival began, and now, half hidden behind clouds, illuminated only half the square in a jagged crescent.

When he ran out of wine, the man began dancing again. He shuttled between the dark and bright sides; his legs never stopped. From afar, his eyes were hidden, either by the shade or the overwhelming glare. I stared at his legs, the loose gray sweatpants under his heavy, knotted robe, and his shoes.

They were running shoes: black laces, mesh upper design, and a thick, cushioned, sole. For the brief moments when he was in the light, I examined him again. I saw him beyond his possessed, hollow eyes. I saw him beyond his decorated robe. What I saw was a man with a broad nose, someone who I could mistake for as my friend’s older brother. When he turned around for the third time, I took the photo. Eventually, the gongs intensified; I was rammed to the back of the crowd. I couldn’t see the lawa anymore. Instead, I looked down towards the gravel-sand path. There were only running shoes.