out a tashi delai and he beamed with delight, sticking his tongue out in reply.
The nurse shouted at him, removed the machine from his matted hair and put it straight on my forehead. At the same time a doctor stirred in the corner of the room. He had being enjoying his morning snooze on the examination couch and had been woken by the disturbance. He stood up, rubbed his eyes and stretched into a lengthy yawn. The nomad watched with keen interest as the doctor took a filthy probe out of his pocket and stuck it into my ears. The doctor said something to Tashi in Tibetan.
âSorry, Mr Alec, I donât know the words in English.â
Tashi continued to apologise to me, shrugging his shoulders as he excused himself for not being able to translate. He then started an elaborate mime that the nomad enjoyed tremendously. From Tashiâs actions, I was concerned that the doctor had found a large lump of something very, very bad in one of my ears, but it turned out after further miming that he was saying I had to give a stool test. Our nomad friend loved every minute of it.
The nurse rushed back into the room brandishing her empty dustpan, hot on the heels of the mangy dog that had crept back into the hospital in search of further treasures. It ran past the nomad and caught the side of a brimming spittoon pan, knocking it clean over. The slippery contents trickled across the tiled floor and over the doorstep into the corridor. Strangely, this did not seem to bother anyone except for myself.
I asked Tashi to tell the doctor that I had already had a stool test, and for once, the doctor seemed satisfied with this answer. I suppose that he was looking forward to making the examination even less than I was to producing the sample in those conditions.
I gave the eyesight contraption back to our nomad friend and, treading around the pool on the floor, Tashi and I were able to leave the hospital with no further questions or prods. I made a note never to return if I became ill. Nothing could be less likely to lead to recovery than spending any time in there.
Back at the hotel I had a surprise when I entered my room. There was a joke in the hotel to the effect of: âWhat is small, grey and wrinkled?â I thought this would be a run of the mill joke about elderly elephants, but the answer is; âYour returned laundry.â
On my bed lay a plastic bag of small shirts, flattened beyond recognition and tinged with a colour that was not there before they were sent for cleaning. Buttons also suffered under the Lhasa laundry technique and every week one or two would be reduced to a fine powder. Sometimes they would look deceptively good until you touched them, whereupon they would disintegrate in your fingers. My suit jacket had also undergone considerable changes. The wool was pressed razor thin and now shone like the high gloss finish of a used-car salesmanâs favourite jacket. I complained to Charlie that he had told me we had the finest laundry equipment west of Beijing.
âYes, but I did not tell you we have local washing powder and local labour,â was his rather inadequate reply.
I was not impressed by the Peoplesâ powder that washed greyer than grey, but why should I have been? We were in Tibet. I thought of the nomadâs sheep skin chuba . It had not had a clean since it had been taken off the sheep. Everything has to be taken in perspective, and doubtless, his life on the plateau involved more significant concerns than the whiteness of his wash.
Gunter, the Food and Beverage Manager, was also having more important issues to come to terms with than his washing. Despite his immaculate preparation, the banquet for the Protocol and Friendship City Division of the Friendship with Foreign Countries Association, had not been a success. The tables were set with the hotelâs finest glass and silverware, the waitresses and waiters were all at their stations on time and Chef had prepared a fine display
The nurse shouted at him, removed the machine from his matted hair and put it straight on my forehead. At the same time a doctor stirred in the corner of the room. He had being enjoying his morning snooze on the examination couch and had been woken by the disturbance. He stood up, rubbed his eyes and stretched into a lengthy yawn. The nomad watched with keen interest as the doctor took a filthy probe out of his pocket and stuck it into my ears. The doctor said something to Tashi in Tibetan.
âSorry, Mr Alec, I donât know the words in English.â
Tashi continued to apologise to me, shrugging his shoulders as he excused himself for not being able to translate. He then started an elaborate mime that the nomad enjoyed tremendously. From Tashiâs actions, I was concerned that the doctor had found a large lump of something very, very bad in one of my ears, but it turned out after further miming that he was saying I had to give a stool test. Our nomad friend loved every minute of it.
The nurse rushed back into the room brandishing her empty dustpan, hot on the heels of the mangy dog that had crept back into the hospital in search of further treasures. It ran past the nomad and caught the side of a brimming spittoon pan, knocking it clean over. The slippery contents trickled across the tiled floor and over the doorstep into the corridor. Strangely, this did not seem to bother anyone except for myself.
I asked Tashi to tell the doctor that I had already had a stool test, and for once, the doctor seemed satisfied with this answer. I suppose that he was looking forward to making the examination even less than I was to producing the sample in those conditions.
I gave the eyesight contraption back to our nomad friend and, treading around the pool on the floor, Tashi and I were able to leave the hospital with no further questions or prods. I made a note never to return if I became ill. Nothing could be less likely to lead to recovery than spending any time in there.
Back at the hotel I had a surprise when I entered my room. There was a joke in the hotel to the effect of: âWhat is small, grey and wrinkled?â I thought this would be a run of the mill joke about elderly elephants, but the answer is; âYour returned laundry.â
On my bed lay a plastic bag of small shirts, flattened beyond recognition and tinged with a colour that was not there before they were sent for cleaning. Buttons also suffered under the Lhasa laundry technique and every week one or two would be reduced to a fine powder. Sometimes they would look deceptively good until you touched them, whereupon they would disintegrate in your fingers. My suit jacket had also undergone considerable changes. The wool was pressed razor thin and now shone like the high gloss finish of a used-car salesmanâs favourite jacket. I complained to Charlie that he had told me we had the finest laundry equipment west of Beijing.
âYes, but I did not tell you we have local washing powder and local labour,â was his rather inadequate reply.
I was not impressed by the Peoplesâ powder that washed greyer than grey, but why should I have been? We were in Tibet. I thought of the nomadâs sheep skin chuba . It had not had a clean since it had been taken off the sheep. Everything has to be taken in perspective, and doubtless, his life on the plateau involved more significant concerns than the whiteness of his wash.
Gunter, the Food and Beverage Manager, was also having more important issues to come to terms with than his washing. Despite his immaculate preparation, the banquet for the Protocol and Friendship City Division of the Friendship with Foreign Countries Association, had not been a success. The tables were set with the hotelâs finest glass and silverware, the waitresses and waiters were all at their stations on time and Chef had prepared a fine display
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