HERDING ON TWO WHEELS
SOME HERDERS HAVE EVEN FITTED THEIR BIKES WITH PRAYER FLAGS, MAKING THEM INTO SMALL MOBILE SHRINES THAT PROTECT THEM ON THEIR WAY
Far from the expensive motorbikes of the capital, at altitudes ranging from 3,000 to 3,500 meters, Tibetan herders dart out over the highland steppes on red Lisans, Hondas, and Suzukis. It is time for the yearly administering of worm cures for the oxen, and I have arrived just in time to participate. We assemble by the side of a dirt road next to three motorbikes.
“I prefer this one,” a young herder named Gdong Dkar says, pointing at a bright red Honda model called Dayang, or Great Sun, “but I also drive cars and tractors.” Not bad for a 14-year-old.
Here in Hongyuan county, in the Aba region of northern Sichuan province, herders put their driving skills to good use out on the highland terrain. The motorbike has virtually replaced the horse as the favored mode of transportation, because it works well in off-road conditions and requires less maintenance than a live animal. Some herders have even fitted their bikes with the Kalachakra symbol, prayer flags, swastikas, and even golden plastic prayer mills, making small mobile shrines that protect them on their way.
In the distance, I can see the yaks, looking no bigger than black dots on the horizon. “You drive to the right, I will take the left,” Kelsang, the lead herder, orders like a field commander directing divisions to partake in a grand pincer maneuver. He turns to me and a female herder and instructs, “When [the yaks] come this way, you need to wave your arms, yell, and make yourselves as big as you can— do not let them get past you.”
To our left is a scantily built pen made from bricks, stones, and green tarp. The idea is to lure the reluctant yak herd into the pen, where they can be given the worm cure. The young Tibetan herders mount the motorbikes and race out over the steppes. From my position I see them getting in formation, speeding toward the herd before splitting up—two going around each side of the herd, and the last motorbiker ready to pick up any strays.
“Uuuuuoooo!” I can hear the loud cries of the herders, before the ground starts shaking under my feet as about 50 yaks come thundering straight toward us. The female herder throws her arms in the air and starts walking steadily toward the incoming oxen, each of them weighing 250 to 500 kilograms. I am terrified, but I follow her example, and we both yell and wave our arms frantically toward the pen.
Just when the herd is about to reach us, the yak in the front veers into the pen and the rest follow. After the bulk of the yaks have entered the enclosure, I run over to seal the opening with a tarp. Together with the female herder, I tie the ends of the tarp to a metal rod and reinforce it at the bottom with bricks and boulders. The work is backbreaking, but the herders are used to it; I am not. The first part of the job is done, except for two yaks that have sensed the trap and strayed off course. One of the bikers immediately sets off to chase them back.
Afterward, we assemble by the pen. “This is my good friend,” Kelsang says, patting his motorbike on the gasoline tank. These motorbikes cost around 3,000 RMB, and the registration for the plates is another few hundred yuan. On the steppe, there is a vibrant secondhand biketrade economy, though many of the dilapidated vehicles are not