The Search for the Pink-Headed Duck, page 5
On my tenth night in town I finish dinner and walk the hundred paces to my usual seat at the bar. I’m meeting some of my new friends, but I’m early, so I nurse my beer. The music is blaring; I think it’s AC/DC trying to imagine life without heavy metal. A white vinyl floor reflects banks of high-watt fluorescent bulbs; wood-grain contact paper covers the tables, accenting the vibrant green Naugahyde chairs. Posters of American pop stars and brightly painted Indian saints compete for attention along the far wall. A statue of Buddha sits atop a cash register, his lacquered hands clutching small bundles of toothpicks.
After my second beer, a man about my age approaches. He wears the robes of a poor farmer, but his sandals and his supple hands speak of another way of life. Introducing himself, he remarks that he saw me several days ago at the opening ceremonies of the Buddhist meditation center, Sa-Ngor Chostog. The Sakya Trizin, leader of the Sakya sect and one of the holiest men in Buddhism, gave the keynote speech to a crowd of several hundred Buddhists, a handful of Hindus, and one foreigner.
“You are a lucky man to have been blessed by His Holiness.”
“Honored more than lucky,” I say, motioning for him to join me.
His name is Sonam, which, he quickly tells me, means “virtue.” His head is shaved as smooth as a crystal ball, his eyebrows have been plucked, and there’s no hair on the back of his hands.
“May I ask you two questions?” he inquires, glancing quickly about the room.
“Feel free.”
“Can I trust you?… That is good. My second question is whether you think the Chinese should leave Tibet and the Dalai Lama be returned to power?”
“Well, I believe the Chinese are there by force. Can I buy you a drink?”
Such direct questioning of a foreigner is not unusual in Sikkim. Usually people just want to practice their English, but sometimes they want to know what an outsider thinks. However, I decide not to mention my negative feelings about the Dalai Lama’s theocratic government.
“My question is do you think the Chinese should leave?”
“Yes, they should go tomorrow and let elections decide what happens. What about that drink?”
“No, thank you. I am studying to be a priest… I am happy. I knew you were on our side.”
“Our side?”
“Yes, our side. Justice. I have prayed at the feet of my master, and with his blessing I now put the course of my life in your hands.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You don’t even know me.”
“But I do know you, and I must trust you.”
For the next fifteen minutes I listen politely to Sonam, the rebel priest. He tells me the Chinese are a godless people, bent on enslaving Asia. He lists crime after crime, blaming them all on Beijing. I’m relieved when he finally leaves and I get to join my friends at another table.
“Who was that?” they ask.
“An angry refugee who went on and on about the Chinese. Not very pleasant.”
With that, the discussion turns to a trip we’ve planned for the next day to visit Ganju Lama, Sikkim’s favorite son and a famous war hero. We have to leave early in the morning, so I excuse myself after the third round of beer and head back to my hotel.
I open my door, flick on the light switch, and find Sonam sitting at the desk. A Buddhist prayer scarf with a marigold blossom on each corner is folded atop my pillow.
“Gifts from my teacher,” he says.
“Thank you,” I reply, “but how did you get in. Wasn’t the room locked?”
“I think you will be surprised by the powers of Lamaism… Can we continue our talk?”
“I must get up at dawn. Maybe tomorrow night.”
“You have good cameras. Very expensive ones, yes?”
“What?” I notice that my camera bag is open. Nothing is missing, but I’m upset that he would go through my things. I assess my options: I can order him to leave or I can listen to him some more. “OK, Sonam, you’ve got ten minutes and then I’m going to bed.”
He tells me he was born in Lhasa in 1954. The oldest son of a prosperous merchant, he fulfilled tradition and parental dreams when he entered a monastery at the age of four. Within a year his meditative life was turned upside down. Violence broke out in Lhasa; Chinese troops patrolled the streets with bayonets drawn. When the Dalai Lama fled to sanctuary in India, it was the beginning of a mass exodus of monks, Sonam among them.
“All I had,” he tells me, “was my faith and my promise.”
Sonam made his first trip back to Tibet in 1984, celebrating his thirtieth birthday less than a mile from his birthplace. Since then, wearing the disguise of a farmer, he has illegally crossed the border numerous times, smuggling letters and money to brethren in Tibet, and returning to India with sacred texts, statues, and other holy objects which, he says, “Maoists scorn and destroy.”
“Look at the time,” I moan.
“There is more.”
“Tomorrow night,” I suggest, walking toward the door. He doesn’t move. His black eyes remain fixed on the spot where I was sitting. I open the door and point outside, saying, “I think you should go.”
“But you are a journalist. You must want to know more.”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” I say curtly. “I was a journalist, but not anymore, not for years. Right now I’m a tired tourist searching for a duck.”
“Yes, the pink-headed duck, gūlāb-sīr. My teacher and I know all about your search.”
This doesn’t surprise me; I’ve been asking everyone I meet whether they’ve seen the bird. Feeling that I’ve been polite long enough, I begin to order him out. He raises his hand and interrupts me.
“The other night my master and I shared a dream about you. Both of us saw you in the water … holding on to a boat. There was no land … endless sea. A storm and then calm as you neared death.”
I close the door and return to face him. “How do you know this?” I ask, startled that he could know of my rescue at sea years ago in the Atlantic, halfway around the globe.
“I know very little,” he tells me.
“I don’t understand.”
“Few people do,” he says. “My teacher will help you. He has answers where I have none.”
Now I want him to stay and tell me more about his dream. He adds few details but goes on at length to explain that Lamaists regard every dream as a message with particular significance. Dreams aren’t considered links between the conscious and subconscious, but rather spiritual images that connect the individual with the whole of the universe. They are navigational lights, so to speak, used to guide the individual beyond himself.
Sonam pauses, his eyes searching my face. He changes tempo, speaking now in a slow but determined cadence. “I have come to ask for your help. We must free Tibet from the Chinese oppressors.”
“We?”
“Would you be willing to go to northern Sikkim and then Tibet? I will take you there.”
“I’d love to go,” I exclaim, “but how?” The entire country of Tibet is off limits to foreigners because of the recent rioting in Lhasa.
“Leave that to me.”
“OK, but what’s the deal? I mean, can I just travel around, go where I want, and look for the duck?”
“There will be little time for that. Do you have any maps?”
I pull one out, and he points to Gyangze, a Tibetan town about 150 miles from where we sit. “What’s there?” I ask as he circles the name.
“Poison. That is where the Chinese poison is. Truckload after truckload of death… Radioactive waste.”
According to Sonam, the Chinese have been dumping massive amounts of nuclear waste in the Gyangze area for ten years, maybe more. Initially none of the residents took notice of the waste depot; it was just another secretive military project until a group of Lamas came to investigate. Even today, Sonam asserts, the hillsmen near the dump have little knowledge of the effects of radiation.
“They have no idea what TV is,” he says.
“Have you seen this place?” I ask. His allegation, if substantiated, would be important news.
“Monks never lie… I have not been there, but other monks have.”
He assures me that it won’t be difficult to approach, saying, “The Chinese believe their secret is safe.”
The dump sits at the bottom of a ravine, and we should be able to look down on it undetected from high above. There are guards, but Sonam insists our guides will know where to hide us. His plan calls for a foray into Tibet lasting no more than four days. We will travel at night and shoot the pictures early one morning. If I get a chance to inspect the flora and look for the duck, it will be while concealed behind a rock. The only things I must bring are my cameras and some camping gear.
“Do you want to go?” he asks, rising from his chair.
This proposal is far too intriguing to pass up. We conclude the arrangement with a handshake. As he is about to leave, he tells me not to change hotels; he will contact me soon. When? He slips into the dark hallway without answering.
The next morning I’m awakened by a loud thud. Another knock shakes the door, and the waiter barges in with a tray of tea, announcing, “Your friends are waiting for you in the lobby.”
Suddenly remembering the trip to Ganju Lama’s house, I jump up, gulp the tea, and ask the waiter to take my hot-water bottle to the kitchen and fill it with triple-strength tea. It’s a trusty device I’ve learned to rely on; a water bottle is more compact than a thermos, and it keeps me warm at night in the coldest weather.
My three friends and I join the owner of a jeep and head westward toward Rumtek, the site of a famous monastery I’ve already visited. As we near the sacred place, the driver turns to me, asking if I want to stop. I shake my head no. I wasn’t impressed by this modern structure built twenty years ago to replace the original, which was destroyed by fire. While pictures of the ancient monastery depict a beautiful example of classical Himalayan religious architecture, the new one lacks grace and detail.
When we leave the Rumtek district, I remind my fellow passengers that we’re breaking the law; my travel permit prohibits me from going any farther.
They assure me that there are few policemen outside the city and that the army doesn’t meddle in state affairs but concentrates on the frontier. “So who is going to stop you?” M.M. says. “New Delhi makes these rules and nobody here likes them. Go where you want.” He adds, “The police know about this trip. They don’t care.”
M.M. became my friend after I stopped him on the street to ask for directions to the river, and he led me to a bar instead, explaining, “It is best to have two or three Hits before taking a long walk.” Like many people I meet in Sikkim, he goes by the initials of his first two names. He tells me that most Nepalese given names are too long and descriptive to use. “In English my names mean Taller Than a Tree and Gentler Than a Deer. Initials are easier, but I must say that the letter carrier has it bad.”
Occasionally I ask the driver to stop so I can crawl into a thicket to look for orchids. I want to bring a present back to R. P. Lama, who has spent hours instructing me about the plants of Sikkim. The brilliant, waxy green vegetation grows thicker and lusher as we descend to lower altitudes. My machete is back at the hotel, so I’m able to penetrate the wild tangle for only a few yards, not far enough to capture a prize orchid. At one stop I take a breath and air my pink-headed duck call, a sound M.M. likens “to a yak in pain.” Butterflies swarm about me in the dappled light, but alas, no duck, not even a jungle parrot, returns my call.
Four hours after leaving Gangtok, we arrive at the cardamom estate given to Ganju Lama by the Chogyal for his exploits during World War II. Having been awarded the Victoria Cross, England’s highest military award, Ganju Lama still receives invitations from the queen to attend court ceremonies and military parades.
In 1944, as a teenage member of the Seventh Gurkha Rifles, he saw action in the Burma campaign. When the Japanese invaded India and threatened to push on to Calcutta, Ganju Lama destroyed five tanks, two of them singlehandedly, near Imphal, the state capital of Manipur. An enemy bullet was lodged in his thigh for twenty years before it surfaced from the bottom of a boil. “Ganju’s bullet” now hangs on a plaque inside regiment headquarters.
Major-General J. A. Robertson reported that Ganju’s deeds had turned the tide of battle, “saving thousands of lives.” Lord Mountbatten pinned the Victoria Cross on him during a ceremony at New Delhi’s Red Fort.
“I was a simple soldier,” Ganju Lama tells me as I admire the ribbons and medals filling his display case. Now he’s trying to live the ideal Buddhist life. “I dedicate every day to performing good works,” he tells me. “You see, I am trying to atone for a bloody past.” He reaches for his prayer beads and fingers them while leaning toward me and saying, “Would you like to know whether I would do it again, whether I would repeat the bloody past? The answer is yes. As long as I am fighting for freedom, I will fight.”
The teachings of Buddha condemn war and violence, and I ask him how he reconciles this with his life as a soldier. “I cannot… I am merely human. I made mistakes. Lord Buddha would have found a way to avoid war; he would have brought peace.”
We go into an open room, plainly decorated, with straight-backed chairs lining two walls, to eat a lunch of nettle soup, yak stew, tubers, and tapioca pudding. My request for a third dessert embarrasses my friends but endears me to our hostess. She takes me on a tour of the kitchen, pointing with pride to the wood-burning stove, a massive iron cube with two ovens. Motioning for me to keep quiet, she stuffs my pockets with small pastries.
Before I get a chance to see the rest of the cardamom estate, M.M. announces that it’s time to head back. We hop into the jeep and rush to cover as much ground as possible before darkness. When the sun drops behind the mountains, driving becomes increasingly dangerous and the temperature plunges. My admiring remarks about the “simple soldier” lead to a general discussion of Gurkha troops.
“Who are the best fighting soldiers in the world?” M.M. asks, and answers his own question: “Gurkhas! We are the best.”
I can’t disagree. Their prowess in hand-to-hand combat is legendary. They were the first British troops to land in the Falklands, as well as in Borneo, Congo, and the Suez. Several years ago an English journalist told me that during the Falklands campaign, the Gurkhas sneaked up on the Argentinian army trenches in the middle of the night and slit the throat of every third man along the line. Screams of horror echoed at first light.
“Do you know how many Gurkhas have won V.C.s [Victoria Crosses]?” M.M. asks, and answers himself again, “Twenty-six. That is right. Twenty-six. There is no better fighter in the world. Just look at Darjeeling.”
“Darjeeling?” I ask, thinking of tea and resort hotels.
“Right now there is a war going on. Didn’t you know that?”
He tells me of the battle raging just across the Sikkimese border, pitting the Gurkha hillsmen against troops from the plains. As in Sikkim, Gurkhas form the majority in the Darjeeling-Kalimpong area of West Bengal. Many of the fighters, M.M. tells me, are retired English army officers, well trained and willing to utilize their skills in the struggle to establish Gurkhaland as a homeland for the millions of Indian Gurkhas.
“We have nothing in common with Calcutta, so why should they control us? We want our own state in India, a place where we are safe, where we can live and grow in peace.”
“Sounds good,” I remark.
“This is serious. People are dying … fighting for freedom. You should see what I mean, then you would understand. Freedom, it is all about freedom.”
He reveals that he’s a member of the Gurkha National Liberation Front (GNLF), which is ostensibly a political party. M.M. intimates that it also controls the guerrillas.
“The GNLF is fighting for Gurkhaland. You must see it. Yes, come to Darjeeling.”
“Well,” I say, pausing to think about Sonam and the trip to Tibet. Sonam had mentioned spending four days across the border; surely it will take us a full day to get to the frontier and another to return. Allowing for problems and weather delays, I calculate it to be a ten-day trip. Afterward I must return to New Delhi to check on my travel permit for the Brahmaputra.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t… It might be a month before I could go, maybe longer.”
“The struggle has been going on for years,” he says, slapping me on the back and promising to make the necessary arrangements. “Come when you can. I will take care of it.”
The next morning, back at Hotel Tibet, I awake to find Sonam once again sitting at my desk. His eyes are closed, his prayer beads draped over his folded hands. I move quietly to the bathroom, but the glass I carry slips through my hands and splinters around my bare feet.
Sonam rises and hands me my shoes, saying, “Why were you trying to walk like a cat?”
“I thought you were asleep.”
“Thank you, but I was aware of every breath you took.”
“I thought meditation was an exercise in isolating yourself from your surroundings.”
“There are many approaches.”
We go into the dining room for breakfast. The waiters, normally efficient and polite, are excessively attentive, hovering around us. A special tea is brewed, followed by a special bread and an assortment of special jams. Everything this morning is special. Why? The waiters point at Sonam, who speaks to them in a clipped voice, saying something in Tibetan that makes them scatter.
He has shown me his Green Book, the so-called passport Tibetans in exile are issued by the Dalai Lama. Each week the bearer presents it to the local council and, for a rupee, the passport is stamped. In the future, when Tibet is free, these books will be proof of allegiance to the Dalai Lama. Usually these books are unadorned and cheaply made, but Sonam’s is leather-bound and embossed in gold, bearing many wax seals. He won’t tell me what the gold leaf and filigree denote, saying only that his book was made by a friend in Dharmsala.
