Twelve Dawns in Trinyi

By Jeff Fuchs - There was a soft tinkling and a slight shuffling. Everything was a blue black, the color of cold dawn, and I denied that it was time to move out of my warmth. The huge wooden doors to the prayer room opened and let in more dark air and cold mountain wind that plunged into the room. Ma muttered softly in Tibetan as she did every morning when all was dark. It was her way of summoning me for breakfast. It was 4:30, and wind flew through the mountain corridors; invisible and powerful. My bedroom smelled of wood and incense, and was adorned with pictures of the Dalai Lama and Buddhist deities. Yak butter candles stood unlit next to my bed. It was first day of harvest and the promise of labor waited. I climbed out from underneath an army of warmth and bumbled along into the main room of the house as torrents of wind ripped at my clothes.

"Everything was a blue black, the color of cold dawn..." (Jeff Fuchs)

Once inside, Alo, the elder of the family and his grandson’s wife were huddled around the massive stove as a gas lamp gave off lemony light. The elder’s features were hidden by his tea bowl as he busily slurped his morning tea. The young girl shoved a bowl of Tibetan tea into my hands along with some barley powder to make Zhamba (a sticky mix of Barley and tea-rolled into balls). Alo smiled and nodded his head as if to say “now the day may begin.” The thick butter tea mixed with black leaves was presented to me hot and filling, and after the first couple of days my intestines had apparently dealt with the deluge of butter successfully. No words were said but it was comfortable silence. Their Chinese was limited and my Tibetan was limited—English wasn’t a choice. The massive wood stove roared in the dawning of a new day. Without warning, Alo started laughing, showing missing teeth and high red cheeks. His tanned hand motioned towards my hair—it was a running riot without a wash for a few days. Harvesting would begin in one hour. Barley fields waved and shimmied in the wind. By dusk it would be a flat naked field. This was to be my payment for accommodations and a taste of the gentle grit of an isolated Tibetan town for the preceding days of generosity.

This whole experience began with the words “Stay with my family in the village for a couple of nights.” That sealed what was to become one of the most moving experiences of my life. Dapka, a local trek leader and friend looked at me with his lean handsome features and said simply, “Afterwards you can go to your mountains.” He knew what magic was to be cast. The days to depart came and went in succession; the little knowledge gained daily, the unpretentious villagers gradually becoming accustomed to my presence contributing to a very ‘real’ feeling of being a part of something.

"[T]his lean, compelling woman with massive hands and a tanned iron face looked straight into me..." (Jeff Fuchs)

My destination was the Meili Xueshan Range (Kawa Karpo in Tibetan, Meili Snow Mountain). I had come to the conclusion two days into my stay here in the village that everything could wait. This was an opportunity to fully measure a human element and peek into lives that had been shaped by work, spirit and the land for centuries. It was, as I recalled later, the ultimate gift.

Driving to Trinyi from Zhongdian was a brief ride under a mountain sky changing colors as only mountain skies can. Gradually we hit a friendly dirt road, which headed into a valley, and I casually asked whether or not my hosts knew that I was coming. Dapka peered back at me and pursed his lips to utter, “They will be happy that you have come.” I rolled my eyes and said nothing. He smiled that gorgeous smile of his. These relatives of his didn’t have a clue that anyone was coming. I naïvely suggested giving them a call. He told me that when the phone did work it was usually stared at with disdain.

On arrival I was led into a huge walled house with two massive dogs with dreadlocks chained up. “Don’t get too close,” was all that was said which brought to mind what a Tibetan friend said, “Brief words bring deep meaning.” A dark hole that was the well sat outside the front door and it was then walking through the door that I met Ma. Words were exchanged and this lean, compelling woman with massive hands and a tanned iron face looked straight into me and for a moment I thought she might tell us to get lost. She nodded to Dapka, grabbed my 60 liter backpack and led me up some stairs into the prayer room at the end of the porch. This was to be my sleeping abode for the duration of my stay. Dapka started off with a smile and told me to just enjoy. I knew better than to ask questions. Whenever Tibetans purse their lips I had learned that answers wouldn’t necessarily be forthcoming.

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