Tibet 1984

Access to a “back door”—the term used to describe indirect and effective networking in China—at the Chengdu branch of China Travel Service prompted me, weeks before, to make an inquiry about a trip to Tibet. But the subsequent silence led me to believe that the request had gone the way of so many others in China. Then, the “black banger,” my antiquated telex machine, barked back: “permit available come immediate [sic].” Suddenly, my job mattered little and I was queuing up at the airport and bound for Sichuan, a province renowned for its hot peppers and the only viable transit point into Lhasa, the Tibetan capital, from China. Speaking of peppers, Deng Xiaoping hailed from Sichuan as well.

The man in front of me on the check-in line was burdened with watermelons. Although July was the height of their season in Beijing, they were hardly worthy of transport to the tropical southwest. But, Beijing is famous for watermelons in July so they would simply be expected at the other end. He could not resist commenting, “You really don’t need a down coat in Chengdu at this time of the year.” Although myself burdened with a kelly green jacket and sweat pouring from me, I feigned a casual tone saying that I was Lhasa-bound. His quizzical expression disappeared immediately, signaling that my anticipation of the cold Tibetan weather made as much sense as his watermelons.

Beijing is green in the summer only because every tree is watered by hand. I had forgotten what rain could do. The lushness of Chengdu enhanced the vacation spirit that had already settled over me upon leaving the capital. Mr. Hu, my “back door,” was at the airport, his presence and attention heightening the welcome already provided by nature. Even the inevitable and hollow compliments about my Chinese—one need only grunt to be showered with praise—were pleasurable, but when we arrived at the hotel and it was time to pay, the hospitality of foliage and kind words quickly evaporated.  When it came to foreign exchange, I was simply a cash cow. Yet as I peeled bills off into the hands of the surly clerk (Mr. Hu had receded into a corner of the comically monumental lobby as the transaction was occurring), I rationalized the indignity of the situation by chanting to myself, mantra-like, that, after all, I was actually on my way to Tibet. Considering how often I had been abused by taxi drivers who had grandly consented merely to take me from one foreign ghetto to another in Beijing, the prospect of making it to Tibet bridled my fury.