The Waiting Land (16 page)

Naturally enough this concrete example was received with some rather half-hearted laughter, whereupon the young man frowned impatiently and went on: ‘You don’t like to believe me, but this is true. The theft would have been the fault of whoever left the money lying around. I’d feel I’d done wrong but I’d think I couldn’t be expected to resist such a temptation. And then the carelessness of the owner would counterbalance my own guilt and I’d be happy.’

By this stage my host and hostess were plainly feeling upset so I
hastily changed the subject, much as I longed to pursue it. The only perceptible vestige of decency in this exposition was the admission that some guilt would be felt, though it could be suppressed so expeditiously. Possibly the uneasiness revealed by so many Hindus in their relations with Europeans is partly based on envy of the values upheld by our more obstreperous consciences. Individual Hindus cannot be blamed for following their traditional code; yet when that code is so out of harmony not merely with Christian morality, but with a universally applicable natural law, they are bound to suffer from the repercussions of their too easily quieted consciences.

These clashes of standards are a normal hazard in the East and what most disheartened me today was the full realisation of how
ill-equipped
the Nepalese are to tackle organisational problems. Only when one has had a close up view, over a considerable period, of how their minds work can one appreciate the crucial difference between a race with a tradition of logical thinking and a race with no such tradition. And this is the chief obstacle to successful co-operation on any project. Ordinarily we completely take for granted our heritage of logic, since any moderately intelligent Westerner will think coherently, if not profoundly, about a given problem; but even the best educated and most intelligent of the Nepalese seem to lack this method of approach. Their various theories may be sound, and their various practical schemes constructive, but any co-ordination of either theories or schemes is non-existent and would require a major miracle rather than a Western adviser. Instead of looking at all of a problem first, and then dealing with its component parts in relation to its entirety, the average Nepalese deals with each aspect as a separate issue and makes various decisions which, if they were acted upon, would promptly cancel each other out – so perhaps it is fortunate that in Nepal decisions are rarely or never acted upon. But coping with this sort of thing day after day is enough to depress the most ebullient and I don’t wonder that so many Western workers simply give up trying.

These disillusioned experts often dismiss the Nepalese as being colossally and irredeemably stupid; yet this is a most unjust
over-simplification
. Here we are not up against inferior brain-power, but
brain-power that operates on a different fuel, travels on a different gauge line and is going in a different direction; and it may be that the illogical Nepalese will have the laugh on us at some not-too-distant date, when they are as happy as ever and our civilisation has tripped itself up and broken its neck in the progress race.

It is interesting that many of Pokhara’s leading citizens profess to be Communists; this morning one of them openly discussed with me his sympathy for China, and he is the fifth to do so. None of these men is poor and three of them are among the richest in the valley, and are continuing to do very well under the present regime, so their new allegiance cannot be attributed to discontent. But – significantly – all five have received that fatal half-education, clumsily modelled on a Western pattern, which cuts the mind adrift from its traditional moorings without beginning to equip it to steer safely through alien waters. And now their support of Chinese Communism is being rather self-consciously flaunted as proof of both an
avant-garde
outlook and of ability to withstand Western pressures. This last point seems to be of major importance, and one finds an obsessional defiance of the United States in their attitude. Invariably they argue – more or less coherently – ‘America hates China and we resent American efforts to dominate us, so let’s show these dollar-splashers that it’s not as easy as they might think to buy us.’ Clearly this childish yet forgivable reaction against America is the Nepalese Communist’s most powerful incentive, and it is surprising that the inevitability of such a development was not foreseen years ago. On the one hand are the Americans, full of pity and dollars and naïve enthusiasm, supplemented by a pathological hatred of the Chinese and a total incomprehension of the Nepalese; to these ‘do-gooders’ the spending of money on a country is the obvious way to ‘rescue’ it, but as yet the Nepalese seem quite unprepared to follow where the dollar leads. Then, on the other hand, one has the Chinese talking across, instead of down, to their Nepalese ‘brothers’, sharing with them a state of undevelopment which they can justly claim to be
improving through their own efforts, preaching opposition to a capitalism of which the Nepalese know nothing except that Americans are capitalists, and smoothly gearing their propaganda to Asian thought processes and emotional reactions. It would be strange if those Nepalese who sincerely believe that their country needs reform did
not
look north-east for support.

In Kathmandu there are several Nepalese-run Chinese Communist bookshops which sell propaganda literature in Nepali, Hindi and English. Many of these publications are incongruously luxurious, yet the prices remain artificially low. Books that would cost twenty or twenty-five rupees if imported from the West are to be had for five or six rupees, and I recently bought for one rupee (eightpence) a well produced, hardback volume of Rewi Alley poems entitled
Who is the Enemy
? This was published last year by the New World Press, Peking, and the blurb begins – ‘Rewi Alley is a citizen of New Zealand and of the world. He is now coming to the end of his first four decades in China.’ And immediately one wonders if the implication is that Chinese Communism bestows an exclusive longevity which will enable Rewi Alley to enjoy a second four decades in China. The final sentence of the blurb says that these poems ‘are quite frankly political’, and this is so true that at no stage do they come within light-years of being poetry. Some of them are defaced by a jeering, almost obscene blasphemy that makes the Western reader wince; but the majority – especially those on the Vietnamese war – do have that beauty which sparkles from sincerity whatever its setting. Only a fanatically obtuse reader could dismiss them as mere crafty propaganda. On every page the writer conveys his absolute commitment to the peasants of Asia and his unwavering faith in the benefits that Communism can bring them; and one feels the strength and warmth of a real compassion consistently coming through these semi-hysterical phrases. Too often we think of Communism as a cold, systematic, conform-or-die ideology that inhumanly sacrifices the individual to the theory; yet the writings of Rewi Alley and of many of his ‘comrades’ show that it is as essentially human as any other political phenomenon in the history of mankind. Throughout this little book one hears the thumping of its
indignant, puzzled, aggressive heart, and one knows that many of these people do care for the poor, however misguidedly, and whatever brutalities may result from their passion of loathing for all ‘Imperialists’.

Last night we citizens of Pardi were treated to some Western-style propaganda when a British Embassy official staged an open-air film show to enlighten the locals on Life in Modern Britain. The films were so ludicrously inappropriate that one marvelled at the responsible authorities ever having fallen into such an abyss of idiocy; but at least the performance afforded me a splendid evening’s entertainment, as I sat there viewing it through the eyes of a Nepalese peasant.

Life in London was represented by the Trooping of the Colour, so the audience must naturally have assumed that city to be a most civilised place, where the majority of the male population wear gorgeous uniforms and ride around on glossy horses – always in military formation for reasons best known to themselves. Next we saw rousing shots from a performance of
Macbeth
produced on Cornish cliffs in Elizabethan costume, with a bloody dagger much in evidence – which latter detail will no doubt have done a lot to strengthen the links of friendship between the Gurkhas and the Great British Public. This was followed by the Quatro-centenary birthday celebrations at Stratford-on-Avon, showing scores of robed Lord Mayors from all over Britain, and next came the Eisteddfod, showing dancers from many countries in their national costumes, with bevies (or should it be covies?) of druidically-garbed druids in the foreground. Then, as a Grand Finale, we were given the Highland Games, with kilts flying while bagpipes squealed. Such is the image of Britain Today as the Pokhara Valley is seeing it this week. Doubtless my neighbours now think that the clothes worn here by Westerners are designed for tropical use only, and they must certainly imagine that Britain has at least as many national holidays as Nepal.

This evening it was my turn to prepare supper and when Kay arrived at half-past seven, carrying her rarely-used transistor radio, she was breathless with excitement. For an instant after her announcement that a war had started I experienced a sick ‘This-is-it’ feeling, but as she went on I realised that the war is just more bickering than usual between India and Pakistan. Undoubtedly it will cause many sadly unnecessary deaths on the battlefield and some inconvenience here, but it is hardly a war in contemporary terminology.

Already the bazaar price of kerosene has gone up to two pounds per gallon and there is a possibility that all internal RNAC flights may be stopped because Nepal is dependent on India for her petrol supplies. We have just spent two hours listening with great difficulty to snatches of English Language news giving very dissimilar interpretations of the situation from Pakistani, Indian, Nepalese, Chinese, American and British viewpoints. Peking is being even more lurid than usual and describing America as ‘a vicious wolf’ and ‘the most rabid oppressor mankind has ever known’, America is being no less puerile on a slightly more sophisticated level and everyone else is also reacting according to form. The whole thing leaves one sunk in depression. I myself believe in Pakistan’s moral right to Kashmir and, as one of the ‘Fighting Irish’, I would say ‘Good luck to them’ if I thought the Pakistani Army had so much as an even chance of securing that right by force. But this futile skirmishing can only bring further misery to two already destitute countries.

Yet the country I pity most at the moment is poor little Nepal, who is now shaking in her shoes (or would be if she wore them!) between China plus Pakistan and India plus America. The English Language news from Kathmandu was struggling desperately to be neutral but betraying an unmistakable pro-Chinese bias – perhaps partly because there is a Nepalese Mission in Peking just now and the delegates’ families want to see them again. However, we are in no danger here. Even if a full-scale conflict were to develop between China and India it is most unlikely that Nepal would be directly involved in any fighting.

Tonight Kay is understandably worried. She had been planning to drive her jeep down to South India at the end of the month, but by then no petrol may be available for civilian use; so she will probably leave within the next few days.

Kay took off on the eleventh and must now be on her way down the Rajpath. Jill Buxton is the only other grandmother of my acquaintance who would blithely drive a twenty-one-year-old jeep single-handed from Kathmandu to Mysore, through a country at war. Whatever else may be said about Britain’s export trade there’s nothing wrong with its line in grandmothers.

Today the war is a week old but Peking’s jamming is so efficient nowadays that no news trickles through from the Big Wide World. This seems healthy; presumably anything too drastic would have made some slight impression, even on the Nepalese.

The bazaar black market is now thriving; obviously Nepalese merchants are born profiteers – once they get a whiff of war beyond the horizon everything becomes a racket overnight. In theory the Government has imposed price control, but in practice Kathmandu’s laws never do impinge on Pokhara’s daily life.

This morning I myself was out to corner Russian tinned milk for the eighteen Tiblets who are suffering from malnutrition and who, since Kay’s departure, have been coming to my room early every morning for their egg-flips. I did manage to get forty one-pound tins; but these won’t last very long so I also got thirty tins of the Indian product, though this is far inferior to the Russian and costs even more.

At the moment I am a bit shaken, having just seen the killing of a rabid dog on the village street. When leaving the camp after my evening tour I heard the most frightful shrieking sounds ahead – and then a herd of buffalo came galloping wildly towards me across the common-land. People were fleeing in all directions and a moment later I saw a very nice dog, belonging to a local trader, racing round and round in circles making this hideous noise. At once I looked
frantically for Tashi, who was well behind, frolicking with other Tibetan dogs, and having rushed back to pick her up I stood near the tents wondering what would happen next. There wasn’t long to wait: three young men climbed on to the roof of a house, with armfuls of sharp-edged bricks, and the grim execution was soon over. But the fact that this poor little creature was one of Tashi’s best friends is creating a certain amount of suspense.

By now Tashi has become quite an elegant young lady, her earlier furry cuddlesomeness having been replaced by a silky strokability. Her general architecture is reminiscent of a Dachshund whose parents’ genes have been a little wide of the mark; she has a ridiculous brown feathery tail which curls up and over her back and her regular white and tan markings are very handsome indeed.

On the delicate question of Tashi’s breed there are several schools of thought. When she was two months old a local ‘expert’
pronounced
her to be a smooth-haired Tibetan terrier; but I have always questioned this diagnosis. Then, a few weeks later, a visiting Indian, who obviously knew something of Eastern breeds, defined her as a Miniature Himalayan Sheepdog – which theory is reinforced by her breeder’s occupation of shepherd. Privately, however, I am of the opinion that she is a perfectly good Tibetan mongrel. Yet if one is besotted enough to go to the immense inconvenience and expense of transporting a dog from Nepal to Ireland one has to pretend, as a face-saving device, that the dog in question belongs to some exclusive Central Asian breed of enormous snob-value. So, on the form which I have filled in this evening to begin the tortuous process of obtaining Irish citizenship for Tashi, her breed is boldly given as Miniature Himalayan Sheepdog.