Tibetan Traders (1957)

[Music] The life of our people is a journey. For we travel annually in the Himalayas between two worlds. From the lands of India, we move to the highlands of communist China. At the foot of the mountains in the great markets of India, we buy rice, sugar, and precious grains. Over long and perilous trails, goats carry our products each year to the high markets of Tibet, where we barter for salt and wool. Our trade reaches distant places far beyond our journeys. And as our trade moves, so grows our understanding of strange people in other canyons of the earth. The moods of the Himalayas rule our lives. As summer monsoon rains drench our lower village at the foot of the mountains, we climb to our villages in the highlands. But winter snows drive us down again. We're called Jotss. We live in three villages. The lower village is at 5,000 ft elevation. The upper village, 150 mi away, is at 12,000 ft. At the second village, we stop in late spring and early autumn. Here we come to wait for the high snows to melt and to repair the damage of 7 months snow. Though the communists took over Tibet some years ago, the pattern of our lives remains unchanged. Most of the time we move about in these remote hills as we please. Even our children act as if big governments do not exist. Spring is the season for jacks, so younger daughters play with dried yak knuckles or sometimes stones until the spring work begins. However, an elder daughter's work does not wait for seasons. A tree stump, strong legs, and a little soap make a good washing machine. Mustard oil keeps fleas out of daughter's long hair. Women are scarce in our canyon. Jot fathers make stiff bargains with prospective sons-in-law who provide the dowy. But this son-in-law proves a disappointment. Even goats outwalk him. And his mother-in-law gives him a yak butter rubdown. Grandfather Jit Singh's life cycle of 90 years is now turning as fast as the Buddhist prayer wheel. Jotss are strong believers in the nearest religion, but never over pester gods with their problems. Through monsoon and snow, the postman from India makes his 100mile walk once a week. The postmaster is also a traitor priest. He keeps well informed on world affairs by opening and reading all letters. Today a letter comes for our traitor chief and refers to the postmaster as a good swami. Thinking of himself, the postmaster corrects it to read the very good swami and then passes the letter on to the rightful owner. Now we must prepare products for barter in the upper village where we will soon go. On the hot sand we cook barley and wheat for food on the journey. [Music] We carefully clean the Indian rice, tea, sugar, and grain and pack them in goat saddle bags. Later, we barter these for salt and wool from the northern traders in the high mountain country. [Music] The snows begin to melt above and there is spring in every trader's legs. Our caravans begin to leave the middle village to meet the northern traders halfway at the upper village. We gather our most precious possessions. And with the Buddhist priest, most of the 500 villagers begin the yearly ancestral journey. The journey will be long and difficult over narrow trails and bridges which we ourselves have built. The pride of our men is in the strength and alertness of our goats. [Music] Each day we make camp before noon time. After a trek of 4 miles, our goats are unpacked and left to graze for the rest of the day. The average trader has 200 goats. Each goat carries an 18lb saddle. The homemade saddles must be well protected from the night weather, for they contain the entire year's valuable products. In the morning we start to climb again and the difficult path goes on. [Music] These mountains are claimed by both China and India. Sometimes soldiers fire guns at each other. But we try to stay friendly with all who want to trade and martyr. In a month's time, we reach the upper village which our forefathers built above the timberline. This is our native home in the bottom of a volcano which legends say contained much fire when the earth was born. Our forefathers first came here when a new land across the seas called America was just being settled. For eight months, our homes have been silent, snowbound, and empty. Now with summer, we come to wait for trade. We will plant and harvest one wheat crop during the 4 months wait for the completion of trade with the northerners. Only women and those without guile for trade cultivate the soil. While shrewd men sharpen their wits for bargaining. Even a small grandson is a strong puller of yaks. His future will be good. Not being shrewd enough for trade, the son-in-law levels the rocky soil with homemade implements. Work is a good tonic for our children and for our wives, too. When a man's wife is an expert irrigator of soil, his importance among traders is assured. Little grandson practices building bridges. They must be strong to carry the goats. But this one caves in and his goats are lost in the water. Still, he may someday become a great leader in trader history. Learning is important to the future of our sons. Carrying a slate on his back, the teacher comes each summer from India. A dedicated man with the secret places of his heart well washed. Some northern traders are already on route from Lassa, the capital of Tibet. Others come from as far as the Gobi Desert. [Music] We wait at our upper village. We wait impatiently and hopefully we send advanced scouts and erect Buddhist prayer flags. At last, our scouts report torrential streams where the northern traders are stranded at one of their clumsy bridges. [Music] From these Tibetans we get most of our language, race, religion and customs. Also much sentiment, yak butter and the names of women but not the ability to build bridges. Northern Tibetan wool is still on the sheep and we hope the saddle bags carry good salt, borax, and yaktakes. [Music] Northern traders finally arrive at the marketplace where the shrewd jot heads have gathered to start the trading. Our jot chief argues with the Tibetan chief about their rate of exchange. All arguments except family squables and taxes are settled by dice throwing. Money has no value here. We trade only by barter. Our chief decides which jot trader will exchange with which northerner. When arguing becomes heated, the dice are made comfortable on a leather pad and the juggling begins with zest. For trading is in our blood. Run. One northern trader considers himself a champion at warming up lopsided dice. But our jock chief is shrewd. He juggles fast with alternate Hindu prayers. and yells in Hindi. Bartering becomes favorable to us. The northerners give J traders two cups of salt for one cup of sugar. Thus, we exchange our goods while the officials keep a record of all transactions. [Music] In the early dawn, we begin to shear the northern sheep. Afterward, we cast dice for the largest wool pile. [Music] Some jotss do a ragged job of shearing and many of the northern sheep are humiliated and embarrassed. [Music] Our women cooperate in the preparation of the wool. Together we card the wool, spin, weave, sew, and make all our clothing. [Music] From childhood to old age, spinning is a part of our lives. Uncle is our most progressive trader. He owns the only spinning machine in our village. Our knowledge about wool and our tools come from India. My generation brought in the single sewing machine and the coal iron used by the village tailor. Changes are always taking place in our mountain land. We hear new ideas on ownership of goats and trails from the communists. Our chief catches a jot in a happy bartering mood and he juggles up the topic of taxes which no trader likes. Taxes by the Indian government are based on the number of animals possessed. This trader owns 300 goats, one horse, and three unhealthy yaks. 60 goats have been hidden in the next canyon. The trader pretends he's never heard of taxes before. He continues to carve a new mouthpiece for his hookah. He fails to get a tax reduction for the sick goats and finally pays a sum equal to one day's wages for the school teacher. The communists tell us someday we won't have to pay taxes. But shrewd trader men would rather keep their own goats and pay taxes. [Music] Before the northern traitors leave, we celebrate the successful bartering with the Indian harmonium. and violin. To end a season of trade, a knife is sharpened for the annual feast. This sacrifice is the only act of violence among our happy and peaceful trader people. We honor the goat on a mountain altar for its value to us. At no other time do we eat goat meat. [Music] We hope that for generations to come, our children's children will walk on the mountain trails, seeking trade and happiness. Now drums hasten our return south before the sudden himalian darkness engulfs the mountainland, preventing our products from reaching other canyons of the earth. [Music]