Gillian Tan

The University of Melbourne, Australia
Exchange to Sichuan University, China

Under an Endeavour Cheung Kong Award, granted in late 2005, I went to China in March 2006 to begin the fieldwork component of my PhD in Anthropology. I was attached to the College of Archaeology and Anthropology at Sichuan University, the largest academic institution in China’s western provinces.

My research seeks to understand the processes and effects of development practices among Tibetan nomads in China. During my fieldwork, I used a multi-sited approach to the ethnography by participating in the activities of the 3 main subjects of study: a participatory project of an international development organization, the academic discourse of the Chinese state and, most importantly, the daily lives of Tibetan nomads to which the notion of “development” is aimed. Therefore, while I spent some of my time participating in conferences and workshops with academics at Sichuan University, as well as in the meeting rooms of the international development organization, the majority of my fieldwork was spent with Tibetan nomads in the far western edges of Sichuan Province, in what is, historically, the Tibetan region of Kham.

I lived with a nomadic family for 6 months, briefly in the winter houses that were built for them just 20 years ago, and then in the summer black tents that enable them to move from pasture to pasture with their animals. I had no access to electricity, running water, and communications. To give a more vivid portrayal of my time, I am enclosing the update that I wrote for family and friends in one of my ventures out to the grasslands:

My first shower after almost 2 months in the grasslands was sadly disappointing. I had managed to wash my feet every once in a while in the river and every few days or so I would wash my face as well, but all in, I was in a particularly bad state when I arrived in Kangding a few days ago. The shower had all the right elements to be the best one I’d ever had, except that the hot water ran out after 30 seconds. Unfortunately, by that time I was already wet and committed. I hurriedly washed as best I could, spurred on by the colour of the bath water. I still smelled like yak even after a few more showers.

We moved to the black tent about 3 weeks ago. Apparently the stars were good for the move but the weather was not. We have hit the rainy season in the grasslands; visions and vistas of startlingly clear blue skies have given way to impressive rain clouds and an occasional lightning display accompanied by heart-echoing thunder. But I am being generous now in my comfortable (and dry) apartment in Chengdu. After 3 weeks of practically non-stop rain, huddled in a black tent – which contrary to popular belief – is not waterproof, I was starting to lose my composure and mind. I am now in the market for a waterproof expeditionlevel high-tech tent that I am going to use when I head back next week. Authenticity is overrated. I have discovered that my relationship with the elements, come rain or shine, could never match a Tibetan-type relationship with nature: they are impervious to the elements, it seems, while I burn and shiver, sometimes on the same day.

Living in a black tent, bar the weather factor, has been extremely interesting. It measures about 22 by 24 of my boot-length. While I do have rather large feet, in all fairness, that is not a large space, certainly not when you add 16 yak calves, a snoring Tibetan mastiff, 3 people and an occasional dzo (female yak hybrid) that comes searching for salt. One particular dzo named Ga-luh is not currently milking but has acquired an addiction to salt; she has turned out to be the bane of my existence.

One sunny day, after a particularly heavy rain the night before, I decided to air everything I had, including my backpack. I had forgotten that, when I first arrived, I’d brought some French sea salt with me because I didn’t know then if these nomads had salt (salt is highly-prized in some nomadic areas). It turns out they had an abundance of it so I never used my fancy coarse crystals. As I was pulling things out of my bag, some salt fell to the ground right by where I sleep. I thought nothing of it. That night was blissfully dry, though cold, and I was nicely tucked into my sleeping bag with nothing but the barest outline of my face exposed. I slept soundly until I heard a voice calling my Tibetan name. I roused to feel a wet, slightly rough, tongue slurp diagonally across my face from right to left. The incredible thing is I was so tired that I didn’t really register I’d been licked on the face by a huge animal and went back to sleep almost immediately. The next morning, though, my face felt slightly sticky and it all became clear. For the next couple of nights, I couldn’t sleep well both because of the rain dripping through the tent on to my left shoulder and my paranoia that Ga-luh would come around again. Every little sound made me sit up with my headlight, expecting to see a huge dzo approach me in search of salt.

Being in the tent resembles what I imagine as being in a yak dung stove. The nomads cut out a patch of grass on the ground and arrange five big rocks on the earth to rest pots on. Then with dried yak dung and kindling, they make the fire, about 3 or 4 times a day to correspond with meal times: 5am, 10am, 4pm and 9pm. I have learned how to start the fire although my sense of achievement is somewhat dampened by their comments on how many matches I need to use to complete the job. There is a flap on the top of the black tent, less than a foot wide, that runs the length of the tent. When completely open, it serves as a surprisingly effective chimney. When half open, which is most of the time, it is much less so and the smoke wafts and circles around in the tent. When hardly open, which is the case when it is raining, the tent becomes full with thick, white, yak dung smoke that stings your eyes and causes your throat to constrict. I prefer the rain and cold at this point and usually wait outside until I get too wet, then return to the tent where I usually promptly go out again until the smoke wafts out and the air becomes bearable. I am amazed that the smoke doesn’t affect them at all: they just look amused as I perform my going-outs and coming-ins between smoke and rain.

© Copyright 2018 CK Group. All rights reserved.