Madonna and Child, with Climate Change
02/08/10 09:02
This is a story about what fear for the climate of the future looks like, on a personal level. I usually try to be optimistic in these entries. This one is less so.
We had been touring the eastern plateau in Qinghai province, western China, for over a week, slowly making our way up to the headwaters of the Mekong river. Each day was sunny and clear, but every evening clouds would gather rapidly. A wall of blustery rain would approach, pushing us to set up our little tents quickly under cover and have a wet meal under plastic.
We had been touring the eastern plateau in Qinghai province, western China, for over a week, slowly making our way up to the headwaters of the Mekong river. Each day was sunny and clear, but every evening clouds would gather rapidly. A wall of blustery rain would approach, pushing us to set up our little tents quickly under cover and have a wet meal under plastic.
One night we had driven particularly high, close to about 4500 meters (over 15,000 feet) — the little tributary of the Mekong we were following was two meters wide and about mid-calf in depth. The road was declining rapidly, and the evening storm seemed close to breaking, promising especially gusty violence. We were nowhere near where we were hoping to end the evening. We had no chance for getting set up and fed before a serious downpour.
Three groups of tents appeared over the kilometer leading along the road up to the nearby pass — three separate families. Our trip leader said a few words in Tibetan to one of our drivers, and we turned to the middle group. Two modern white cloth tents stood by a traditional black felt tent. Our Tibetan speakers got out to speak with the emerging family members and the herding mastiffs went crazy, straining their ropes. Everyone chatted while we sat in the cars, wondering. Our negotiators turned and waved us in. We were staying in the spare white tent.
That night was frigid and wonderful. Though it was July, we huddled around the great steel stove in the main living tent and shoveled yak dung chips — our fuel — as we sat in our winter coats, drinking yak-butter tea and then eating a stir-friend dinner. We traded some fruit for some fresh yak meat. We were warm as the storm pummeled the canvas. Most of us retired to our borrowed tent, but a few stayed up to sing with the family. A little moat of rainwater circled the edge of our big room. I buried my head deeply into the too-short sleeping bag to stay warm. The yaks grunted a few meters away at their tethers. The dogs, restless with so many strangers around, barked in bright fits all evening. Frost covered my glasses in the morning. Such is life at 4,000 meters (16,000 feet) in summer.
In the clear morning, I looked more closely at the traditional black yak-felt tent, which stood a little apart, its prayer flags flapping like a sailboat tacking into a hard wind. All of the family — several siblings, at least three generations and a number of adult couples — went inside the black tent for brief periods before tending to their chores. Yaks were milked. Sheep were moved from one pasture to another. Breakfast made and faces washed. The rest of us went about our own ablutions and work and watched the daily routines of our nomads. I played a little with the boys and women as they worked with the yaks, taking pictures and video, amusing all of us in the process. They are beautiful and warm people, close to each other and shyly open with westerners. A grandmother entered the black tent and came out with a smiling infant girl, swaddled tightly like a papoose. They clearly loved each other deeply. The grandmother wanted me to photograph the two of them as well. We all laughed that morning though we shared no common language, beyond the expressions on our faces.
The dark tent fascinated me, though. Many herders of the plateau have shifted from the traditional yak-felt tents to the white canvas tents we occupied in recent years. I had been in several canvas tents but not the old style, and I was curious but also cautious about exploring within.
Several of our Tibetan speakers interviewed the head of the family, a proudly warm man somewhere in his 50s. How was his life now? Was his family well and successful? Could he see the climate changing? Did he hope that his children and grandchildren would continue the traditional life of herding?
The slope near the tents was good green pasture, until you got about 100 meters from the road. A great red slash of rapidly eroding subsoil was exposed. The tributary of the Mekong on the other side of the tents was redly opaque — the same color as the cut on the hill. I thought, this stream is carrying the blood of this man’s future away from him, even as he sits here talking to us.
He said, My life is hard, but I want them to be herders in the future. I hope they can be. But I don’t know if their lives will be as good as mine has been. Things are different than they were.
The dissolving grasslands had been the major image I was to carry away from the plateau, reflecting very recent shifts in the precipitation regime.
The accumulation of frozen water during winter has slowed and, in many years now, stops completely. Springs are driest when the grasslands need water most. And the increased intensity of summer rains breaks up the unlocked soils. They rip apart and wash away from the same storms that drove us to shelter with the herders, though they themselves have few options for shelter from the larger shifts in their climate.
A few questions to my Tibetan speaking colleagues confirmed that we could enter the dark tent, and I waited until I thought it was empty. I lifted the woven flap and stooped within the cavelike chamber.
The traditional tents are about the same size as the canvas tents — around three meters wide and six meters long — but are not as high and, lacking a place for stovepipe, many have a section of cloth on the top that can be opened to allow smoke to vent more easily. From the small skylight, motes shined down onto two shadowed lines of cots against the long walls. The smell of people and the acrid odor of burnt yak dung was especially strong from so many winters of living within. They’re not bad smells. But they are very distinct.
Against one wall lay the papoose, still bundled. She smiled at me and laughed as my finger touched her nose. Another ray of sun hit the ground close to the other wall, where a larger child lay. I am not sure how old she is — anywhere between four and six. Her eyes seemed unstimulated as I crossed the tent. I found a low stool. Her head turned. I had been told she was deaf and mute, perhaps partially blind as well. She stayed in the tent most of the time, a much reduced scope of life. The grandmother came into the tent, as did the head of the family. They stood a few meters away by the stove, watching me curiously. I tried to touch her nose as well, but this agitated her and I stopped. I said something to her; I don’t remember what. There was no response. I said something to the grandmother; I don’t remember this either, and she couldn’t understand me anyway.
The dark tent held no secret or shame. The girl could not be taken care of with any more concern or security. Though I am sure that modern medicine could help her, that kind of care is far away in space and access. A friend on the trip looked at my face. Don’t pity her, John. She’s in a good place. I nodded — I know. She’s with her family. They take good care of her. They value her, here where she can hear the yaks that sustain their family.
The people we met who provided such care for us are quite exposed. Their lives are justly proud, grounded in an honorable subsistence that generates little cash. The transition from black tents to white marks a larger change to enter a world where income is increasingly important and old patterns are shifting, in both subtle and dramatic ways. Their environmental buffer in particular is far thinner and more marginal than just a few years ago — not much more than the lifespan of the mute girl. I fear that this buffer is dissolving with the grass itself in ways that will demand that the whole of this family — this lifeway — needs care.
Three groups of tents appeared over the kilometer leading along the road up to the nearby pass — three separate families. Our trip leader said a few words in Tibetan to one of our drivers, and we turned to the middle group. Two modern white cloth tents stood by a traditional black felt tent. Our Tibetan speakers got out to speak with the emerging family members and the herding mastiffs went crazy, straining their ropes. Everyone chatted while we sat in the cars, wondering. Our negotiators turned and waved us in. We were staying in the spare white tent.
In the clear morning, I looked more closely at the traditional black yak-felt tent, which stood a little apart, its prayer flags flapping like a sailboat tacking into a hard wind. All of the family — several siblings, at least three generations and a number of adult couples — went inside the black tent for brief periods before tending to their chores. Yaks were milked. Sheep were moved from one pasture to another. Breakfast made and faces washed. The rest of us went about our own ablutions and work and watched the daily routines of our nomads. I played a little with the boys and women as they worked with the yaks, taking pictures and video, amusing all of us in the process. They are beautiful and warm people, close to each other and shyly open with westerners. A grandmother entered the black tent and came out with a smiling infant girl, swaddled tightly like a papoose. They clearly loved each other deeply. The grandmother wanted me to photograph the two of them as well. We all laughed that morning though we shared no common language, beyond the expressions on our faces.
The dark tent fascinated me, though. Many herders of the plateau have shifted from the traditional yak-felt tents to the white canvas tents we occupied in recent years. I had been in several canvas tents but not the old style, and I was curious but also cautious about exploring within.
Several of our Tibetan speakers interviewed the head of the family, a proudly warm man somewhere in his 50s. How was his life now? Was his family well and successful? Could he see the climate changing? Did he hope that his children and grandchildren would continue the traditional life of herding?
The slope near the tents was good green pasture, until you got about 100 meters from the road. A great red slash of rapidly eroding subsoil was exposed. The tributary of the Mekong on the other side of the tents was redly opaque — the same color as the cut on the hill. I thought, this stream is carrying the blood of this man’s future away from him, even as he sits here talking to us.
He said, My life is hard, but I want them to be herders in the future. I hope they can be. But I don’t know if their lives will be as good as mine has been. Things are different than they were.
The dissolving grasslands had been the major image I was to carry away from the plateau, reflecting very recent shifts in the precipitation regime.
A few questions to my Tibetan speaking colleagues confirmed that we could enter the dark tent, and I waited until I thought it was empty. I lifted the woven flap and stooped within the cavelike chamber.
The traditional tents are about the same size as the canvas tents — around three meters wide and six meters long — but are not as high and, lacking a place for stovepipe, many have a section of cloth on the top that can be opened to allow smoke to vent more easily. From the small skylight, motes shined down onto two shadowed lines of cots against the long walls. The smell of people and the acrid odor of burnt yak dung was especially strong from so many winters of living within. They’re not bad smells. But they are very distinct.
Against one wall lay the papoose, still bundled. She smiled at me and laughed as my finger touched her nose. Another ray of sun hit the ground close to the other wall, where a larger child lay. I am not sure how old she is — anywhere between four and six. Her eyes seemed unstimulated as I crossed the tent. I found a low stool. Her head turned. I had been told she was deaf and mute, perhaps partially blind as well. She stayed in the tent most of the time, a much reduced scope of life. The grandmother came into the tent, as did the head of the family. They stood a few meters away by the stove, watching me curiously. I tried to touch her nose as well, but this agitated her and I stopped. I said something to her; I don’t remember what. There was no response. I said something to the grandmother; I don’t remember this either, and she couldn’t understand me anyway.
The dark tent held no secret or shame. The girl could not be taken care of with any more concern or security. Though I am sure that modern medicine could help her, that kind of care is far away in space and access. A friend on the trip looked at my face. Don’t pity her, John. She’s in a good place. I nodded — I know. She’s with her family. They take good care of her. They value her, here where she can hear the yaks that sustain their family.
The people we met who provided such care for us are quite exposed. Their lives are justly proud, grounded in an honorable subsistence that generates little cash. The transition from black tents to white marks a larger change to enter a world where income is increasingly important and old patterns are shifting, in both subtle and dramatic ways. Their environmental buffer in particular is far thinner and more marginal than just a few years ago — not much more than the lifespan of the mute girl. I fear that this buffer is dissolving with the grass itself in ways that will demand that the whole of this family — this lifeway — needs care.
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