AMONG
WARRIORS
(excerpt)
Chapter One
A kata begins in a state of quiet
readiness: motionless, calm but mentally poised, a fuse
awaiting a flame. We will start with Heian Shodan, the most
basic kata, fundamental to karate. The name means Peaceful
Mind, symbolic perhaps of the silence that precedes new
knowledge taking shape.
I was pedaling my bike over a bleak, frozen, achingly
monotonous land. Everything, everywhere, in every direction, was
the same merciless color of brown. For limitless miles the
dun-colored earth had been dug, combed, piled and compacted with
that peasant ferocity that is ubiquitous in China, and now it was
all frozen solid. Mud-brick dwellings squatted sullenly on frozen
ground. In the lanes footprints had ossified in the mud. Wheat
fields, plowed up and dormant for the winter, were graveyards of
hard-edged dirt. Leafless willows brushed their skeletal fingers
across an icicle-blue sky. Apart from a dusting of snow on
distant ridges, there was nothing but dirt-brown and steely blue
as far as my eyes could see.
I had come here looking for Tibetans, not all these Chinese
farms; but along this highway there was no sign of Tibet
whatsoever. People walking along the road were faceless bundles
of winter clothes; their white skullcaps and black lace
headcovering were discouraging evidence that I hadn't reached
Tibet, but was still in a Muslim region. After three hours of
slow ascent, I came to a steep incline. Then the pavement gave
way to mud, rutted and icy, that at length ended in a plaza.
Suddenly I was standing before a row of eight Buddhist chörten--square
plinths of dazzling white, their gold-banded crowns flowing up
into graceful spires. Across the plaza, Tibetans walked to and
fro, their faces dark under the noonday glare. From somewhere
nearby a loudspeaker broadcast a deep, melodic male voice
crooning a gentle song, almost a chant.
Wintry air, merciless sun, dark Tibetan faces, blazing
chörten, and chanting--they all struck a sudden forceful chord.
Tears came to my eyes. At last I was in Tibet!
"Heian Shodan!" Out of
the quiet comes a voice strongly announcing the kata's name.
Now the fuse is lit. Outwardly nothing has changed, yet from
this moment there is no going back.
For some minutes I stood before the chörten wondering what to
do. Meanwhile, a crowd slowly collected. Young and old, monk and
lay, they gathered around my bike: squeezing the tires, fondling
the gearshift levers, and admiring the many-compartmented
luggage. Now, at last, was the chance to use the Tibetan I had
learned so laboriously back home in Los Angeles. Of course, this
was the Amdo region--not central Tibet--so the dialect would be
different from what I had studied. But surely in this important
monastery someone would understand Lhasa speech, the lingua
franca of Buddhist discourse in this part of the world.
Timidly, I began.
"Tashi Delek!" Hello! The phrase seemed to
register--at least they looked up at me, but no one answered. I
went on: "Drun-khang kaba yo-re?" Where is a
hotel?
I knew there was a hostel in Kumbum Monastery--the guidebook said
so--but I could see no sign of it. The gonpa was bound to
be a sprawling campus of many buildings, and I needed directions.
But I might as well have been speaking pig-Latin for all they
cared. Next I tried "Nga America-ne yin"--I come
from America. Still nothing. I said it all again, and even while
they stared at me and ogled my bike, they utterly ignored my
words. I was afraid that if I spoke Chinese they would be
offended, but at last there seemed no other way. "Please,
where is the hotel?"
At this, they perked right up. "I know! Come with
me!" replied a boy in piping Mandarin. I followed him past
the chörten to a two-story square building with a pair of
heavy double-doors opening into a central courtyard. Over the
entryway was a sign in Chinese, English, and Tibetan: The Golden
Pagoda Hotel.
The boy deposited me at the office, where a gray-haired
Tibetan man in baggy Chinese blues registered me, then led me out
into the courtyard and upstairs. From the second-floor balcony a
thin plywood door opened into my room. The chamber had the usual
Chinese fixtures: a thinly padded bed and heavy quilt, a rickety
stand bearing an enamel washbasin, a plain wooden chair and
table, and a thermos of boiled water for washing and drinking.
The electricity, the man told me, worked only at night; and the
nearest running water was in the boiler-room of an adjacent
building. Presently someone came to fill my stove with coal and
to light it.
Here I was, in a real Tibetan monastery--cold, austere, and
primitive, just the way it was supposed to be. I was thrilled.
Kumbum Monastery is located in what Tibetans call Amdo--that
is, the northeastern part of the Tibetan plateau. But Amdo was
not my real objective; it was just another phase of my ongoing
research into Tibet travel. My real goal was Kham, or eastern
Tibet, several hundred kilometers to the south. Few westerners
have visited Kham since China's occupation of the Tibetan
plateau, not only because the journey is long and hard, but also
because the Chinese government considers it an unfit place to
entertain foreign tourists. Those few who manage to sidestep the
restrictions almost invariably have their sights set on Lhasa,
Tibet's capital, and view Kham as an obstacle in their path, not
a place to be explored in its own right. Lhasa, legendary for its
isolation and crowded with centers of Buddhist learning--has a
mystery and romance that easily eclipses Tibet's outer provinces
of Amdo and Kham.
But Kham is exactly where I wanted to go. It is the homeland
of the people I was seeking: Khampas--Tibet's infamous race of
warriors.
Let's be perfectly clear: in the field of Tibet exploration I
was a complete amateur. At this point in my life--thirty-two
years old, holding advanced degrees in aerospace from Stanford
and Caltech, and on the threshold of an illustrious academic
career--riding a bicycle on the Tibetan plateau in search of
warriors was definitely a radical departure from my life's
intended path. How did it come about?
It all started with a few casual words by an Australian woman
I had met in Nepal four years earlier. The Nepal trip had been a
post-PhD present to myself, my last fling before surrendering to
a life of ivory-tower imprisonment--the trip that was supposed to
"get it out of my system." Judy was the leader of our
group of twelve in a three-week walk around the Annapurnas. She
was a Himalayan veteran, and had so many stories about the
mountains and their people that I never tired of hearing her. But
one night, as we were gathered around our tiny fold-up table for
the evening meal, she told a story that surpassed all the others.
"We were in a teahouse," she began in a low voice,
"and three Khampas came in. It was obvious who they were,
with their long dirty hair and huge daggers stuck in their belts,
wearing filthy old Tibetan coats and boots full of holes. They
were really big guys compared to the little Nepalese, really
tough and dangerous-looking. Everyone in the place was pretty
intimidated, but some of my group started to lift up their
cameras for a shot. But before the cameras were even six inches
in the air, the Khampas turned their heads and gave us a really cold
look--just one look, but it was enough: the cameras went right
back down! Everyone talked really quietly until they left."
"Who are these people?" someone asked.
"The Khampas are from a place called Kham--that is,
eastern Tibet," she replied. "They are famous all over
the Himalayas for being tough, fearless warriors. They've been
fighting the Chinese occupation of Tibet ever since the Chinese
invaded in 1950. For a long time the Khampas had a guerrilla base
in Mustang--that's a piece of Nepal that sticks up into Tibet.
They hid out there for years, riding horses into Tibet to harass
the Chinese and then riding back out again, until finally the
Chinese government leaned on the Nepalese government to do
something about them. So in 1974 the Nepalese government sent
troops over to Mustang to kick them out. They're all scattered
now--gone to India, gone into hiding, or dead. You hardly ever
see them any more."
Warriors on horseback! Her words conjured images I thought had
long vanished from the face of the earth. Can it be true that
such people still exist? I was captivated, although at that
moment the idea of meeting these fabulous Tibetan knights seemed
little more than fantasy. Nevertheless Judy's story together with
the images of courageous heroes wielding long knives from the
backs of their faithful steeds was filed away in the back of my
mind.
Judy and I and the others were in the valley of Manang, about
a week into our journey, two days before crossing the formidable
Thorong La (pass). Here, in late November and not far from the
Tibetan border, it was high, dry, windy, and bitterly cold.
Everything in the valley--from the stones in the fields, to the
mud walls of the houses, to the rags of the inhabitants--cowered
under the icy eyes of the Annapurnas.
In this wintry valley I had my first encounter with Tibetan
Buddhism. I knew nothing about the philosophy of that creed, I
saw only its outward manifestations: glowering, fortress- like
monasteries built of stone and clay planted on the high slopes,
piled slabs carved with the sacred mantra om mani padme hum,
crude stone chörten marking the high passes, and
prayer-imprinted flags waving from every house. I was moved by
the ferocity of the Manangis' faith--that in spite of the harsh
circumstances of their lives, they built these primitive but
compelling testaments. Prayer flags flapping in the bitter winter
wind made a stirring, defiant sound that, together with
dream-images of Khampa horsemen, stayed in my head long after I
had left the Himalayas.
So that's how I first heard of Khampas. My Nepal trekking
companions went home, I suppose, put their suits and ties back
on, and quickly forgot Judy's story. I went home, but I didn't
forget, for in me her words had struck a powerful chord. To
explain why, I must jump from stark, wind-blown Tibet to sunny
southern California, and turn the clock back another eight years.
Picture a gawky teenager arriving to begin her freshman year at
Caltech, eager to plunge into its insular atmosphere of
scientific ferment--inexperienced, idealistic, and heady with
naive excitement.
One does not go to a world-renowned institute of science and
technology expecting to find a world-renowned master of martial
arts; but once I was at Caltech I soon heard about Tsutomu
Ohshima. In his youth he had been a star pupil of Master Gichin
Funakoshi, founder of the Shotokan school of karate, a weaponless
Japanese art. I had always been hopeless in sports; nevertheless
I knew that Ohshima-Sensei's notoriously difficult class was
something I needed--not because I wanted to learn self defense,
but because the sheer challenge of it would satisfy some
inexpressible longing. I went, and from the first day I was
hooked.
Why karate? And what do martial arts have to do with Tibet?
In many ways a martial artist is like other athletes: he or
she seeks to build strength and endurance, to polish technical
skills, to conquer aching muscles, and to overcome fear of
failure and injury. What is special about the martial arts is the
reasoning that lies at its root: that our purpose for training is
not to prepare for a contest or show, but for a fight to the
death. In a fight to the death there can be no excuses and
there is no time-out; you live or you die--that's all. To hold
the idea of mortal combat unceasingly in your mind--to mentally
face death during every exercise, every technique--this is the
highest standard of karate practice. What could be more
challenging? More intense?
In the Khampas perhaps I would find people who lived
this death-facing ideal, a mentality that for so many years I was
trying to instill in my karate. True warriors! Men and women who
not only had faced death many times in the course of the
guerrilla war against the Chinese, but who had been raised from
childhood to destroy their enemies instantly, unwaveringly,
completely.
And there was another reason to go looking for Khampas: the
challenge of the journey itself. The search would take me to a
completely alien land, where I would need two foreign languages
and much practical know-how to get around. I would have to make
my way to the rugged Tibetan plateau, crossing high passes and
dodging unsympathetic authorities as I went. And the trip's
culmination would bring me face to face with men notorious not
only for fierceness, but for banditry and mayhem all over the
Himalayas. And, somehow, I would have to befriend them, learn
from them.
The challenge of this quest would go far beyond anything I had
ever dreamed; the obstacles ahead would surpass the toughest of
sparring opponents. And there was something else: in Shotokan
karate at regular intervals my seniors create for their students
something called "special training." It's a period of
intense practice, far from home and isolated from all that is
safe and familiar. At special training the student is called upon
to push past physical and mental barriers, to train harder than
he ever thought possible. My first special training, made when I
was still a white belt, taught me that my limits are much further
than I imagine, and that exploring those limits is gloriously
liberating. It was an unforgettable experience, and it brought a
quantum leap in my abilities as a martial artist.
By now, after twelve years of practice, I had finished more
than thirty special trainings. Those subsequent special
trainings, though true in form to the original, had waned in the
intensity of their effect until lately they had become--no,
certainly not easy, for I still had doors yet unopened,
subtleties yet unmastered. Perhaps karate special training had
become just a little too familiar. The fear of the unknown
was gone, and with it a big share of the challenge.
This was my second reason for coming to Asia. I had come to
create for myself a special training of another sort: a solitary
pilgrimage into the wilderness of Tibet, where I would come face
to face with my own weaknesses and fears. And as I had learned in
karate special training, to face oneself, strictly and
seriously, is the hardest--and most en- lightening--practice of
all.
But while I was in Nepal this crazy plan to look for Khampas
was not even dreamed of. After I returned home my memories of the
Himalayas slowly faded--like a mouthful of butterscotch candy--to
faint sweetness. I was too busy starting my career as a research
scientist to dwell on the past. Yet something about the Nepal
adventure had shifted, ever so slightly, the continental plates
of my mind, and I always knew that someday I would return to
Asia. A few years later and not long after I was promoted to sandan
(third-degree black belt), the chance came. In the Caltech alumni
newsletter I spotted a brief announcement saying that something
called the Durfee Foundation was funding trips to China for
Caltech alumni.
China? Hmmmm. What I knew of China was bleak and unappealing;
did I really want to go there?
Just a minute! Isn't Tibet considered, at least officially, a
part of China? Ah...! But the place I wanted to go--Kham--must be
the most rebellious, most intransigent region in the whole
People's Republic. How could I ever get permission? The whole
thing seemed quite impossible. I put down the announcement, for
surely it would be a waste of time even to write for information.
But I didn't throw the article away. Three weeks later, scarcely
knowing why, I wrote the letter.
Soon a glossy brochure came in the mail with the words
"ORIGINAL AND DARING IDEAS ARE WELCOME" emblazoned on
the cover. Inside it said, "We are interested in the way
your project specifically relates to your interests, history,
abilities, and/or aspirations." My notion of a karate
student traveling to the remote plateau to look for warriors
seemed to fit well enough. The brochure went on to describe past
projects, and the application procedure. Then came the words that
dispelled all doubt: "We expect to take risks."
I wrote a proposal and mailed it in.
"Yoe!" At this command,
mental readiness flows to physical readiness. Fists close.
Belly sucks a rock of air inside. Eyes become glittery,
intent. Without moving, feet awaken, as if the floor is
suddenly hot. Interior muscles gather the body's power. All
is ready now, waiting for explosive release--
After that fateful step, there was no turning back. My
proposal was approved, and funds awarded for seven months of
travel. However, the Durfee Foundation could offer no help
whatsoever in getting me permission to go to Kham. That was my
job. I tracked down several experts and learned that obtaining a
permit to go rambling around Kham on my own was completely
impossible, especially if I applied at the Chinese embassy at
home. There was a chance, however, that once I was already inside
China I might be able to sneak into Kham clandestinely. And if
that failed, I could go to Amdo instead, parts of which were
freely open to independent travelers. Amdo had no warriors, so it
was a feeble substitute. But I had no choice: I would have to go
to China and try my luck.
It took two more years to finish up my research work before I
could leave for Tibet. Meanwhile all my spare time was crammed
with preparation. I combed bookstores and libraries, and read
feverishly. I enrolled in Mandarin Chinese, and found a refugee
to tutor me in Tibetan. I decided that a bicycle would give me
the independence I would need to penetrate Kham, so I spent hours
honing my cycling equipment list.
At first friends reacted to the lunatic project with polite
silence, as if by ignoring this impossible obsession of mine they
could make it go away. But I didn't care, for spread over my
kitchen table was a rapturous secret universe: musty history
books, Tibetan grammar texts, equipment catalogs, and navigation
charts ordered from Washington. As time went by and the trip came
closer to reality, even the most skeptical had to admit that I
was serious.
My family supported me from the start; but although everyone
knew, in a vague sort of way, that I was going to eastern Tibet,
I kept the Khampas' fearsome reputation to myself. No point in
worrying them; and besides, I might not even get into Kham.
Through a chain of acquaintances I found someone who had lived
among Amdo nomads and had traveled to the edge of Kham. Ahrin was
in his early twenties, tall, bearded, and magnetic. His eyes
threw out a compelling magical radiance when he talked of Tibet;
and he was full of useful information.
"Watch out for Tibetan dogs," he told me sagely over
a plate of Chinese food in a booth of a West Los Angeles
restaurant. "They are vicious and attack without warning.
You should always carry one of these-- "He took out an iron
bar that had mysterious figures engraved into it and a leather
thong tied at one end. He gave it to me to examine. "You
hang onto the end of the thong and twirl it over your head,"
he explained. "The dogs hear the sound and they know what it
means, so they back off. You can buy one in Tibet."
I wordlessly handed it back to him. He put it in his knapsack.
"Even if you have one of those," Ahrin continued,
"you should never approach a nomad camp without being
escorted by a member of the family. The dogs will attack. And you
shouldn't go to a camp without being invited--"
How can I get invited? I wondered despairingly. I don't know anyone
in Tibet.
"--But you will really like the Khampas," he was
saying. "They are very direct and always speak their
minds--kind of like Americans. Khampas say that Lhasa Tibetans
are two-faced because Lhasa people are so polite, and because
Lhasa speech uses a lot of honorifics--
"--A Khampa never uses the honorific."
Months went by, and I continued to read, study, and prepare.
The tales I read about Khampa fighting skill and ruthlessness
were alarming indeed, and yet at the same time they were
indescribably thrilling. One author was Michel Peissel, a French
anthropologist who befriended Khampa guerrillas in Mustang, their
Nepalese stronghold. Describing his first sight of them he wrote,
"They walked like great robots, swinging their
powerful arms and leading three tall horses with big
silver-inlaid saddles partly covered with brightly colored
carpets. These Khampas stood a good six feet in height, head
and shoulders taller than the small, barefooted Nepalese, who
suddenly seemed minute and ragged in comparison. The Khampas
wore great heavy boots and flowing khaki robes that flapped
like whips as they walked, advancing with their feet slightly
apart as if to trample the grass to extinction. Like all
Tibetans, they had the characteristic heavy gait of those
used to pacing up mountains. Unlike Tibetans of Lhasa, their
features were not Mongoloid, but straight, with large, fierce
eyes set beside beak-like noses, and long hair braided and
wound around their heads, giving them a primitive allure.
They walked proudly, their posture erect...They were
desperadoes, men destined to almost certain death, the only
men to stand face to face with China."
This was great stuff, although it made my blood run cold.
Another unforgettable tale was the story of Heinrich Harrer, who
lived in Tibet during the 1940s. He and companion Peter
Aufschaiter were Austrian escapees from a British POW camp who
made a months-long trek to the Holy City of Lhasa. Penniless and
in rags, they suffered terrible privation while crossing frozen
steppe, eluding or hoodwinking Tibetan officials who were under
orders to turn all foreigners back. Among the nomads the pair
met, the Khampas were infamous. In his best-selling account Seven
Years In Tibet Harrer says of Khampas, "You never heard
the name mentioned without an undertone of fear and warning. At
last we realized that the word was synonymous with
'robber.'"
Of course, I pressed on. The more I learned more about the
Khampas, the more fascinated I grew. Yet some accounts were
contradictory, so I couldn't even be sure if the Khampa warrior
tradition really existed or if it was just part of the romantic
hyperbole that has grown up around "the Roof of the
World." But if the tradition did exist, and if I did succeed
in finding them, what I wanted to know was this: how would it feel
to meet a Khampa? Would I be intimidated? Would I feel his
warrior's mentality just standing face to face? And what would he
think of me?
Finding and meeting Khampas might give me insight into the
nature of warriorhood, something that I could use in my karate
and my life--but that was a lot to hope for. Nevertheless,
whatever the outcome of this journey might be, the quest itself
was worth it, for the challenges it would bring would be a grand
test of what I had learned.
"Hajime!" With the
crack of this whip-like word, enemies fall on us. Implacably
we begin.
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