As he wandered around the peaceful Himalayan coffee shop in
Dharamsala, India, muttering to himself and to what must have been his
invisible companions, laughing at seemingly random intervals, speaking barely
decipherable French, and offering cigarettes to toddlers, I couldn't help but
believe that this lone, filthy, mentally unstable drifter would be the craziest and
most terrifying person I would encounter that day. It seemed obvious to
even the least observant among us that this man suffered from some form of
schizophrenia, the type that made you believe he should not be anywhere other
than in a locked and padded room. He proceeded to occupy two separate tables, ordering nothing, occasionally feigning to momentarily read a newspaper that was neither local nor recent at one table and continuing his solitary conversation at the other. Seasoned travelers that we are, no more than
a wary look and agreeable nods were needed as my cousin Nate and I armed
ourselves with the mismatched cutlery, ceramic plates, and writing utensils
that were at our immediate disposal while we waited for the point
during our simple breakfast when one of us would accidentally look, eat, talk,
or do something disagreeable to our unstable French associate that would set
off his inevitable murder spree for the day. At that point we would have no choice other
than to fend him off with butter knives and a space pen (the latter, sadly,
being our most effective tool at the moment). To our great fortune, everyone at
the coffee shop escaped unharmed that morning. Eventually, he wandered off,
after neither eating nor drinking anything (but he did chain smoke the better
part of a pack of cigarettes), and we counted ourselves fortunate that we had
escaped his momentary reign of terror. Little did we know that our freedom
would be short-lived, and soon enough, the omen of molestation that we glimpsed
that morning would return that same evening, and in force.
During our many meanderings up and down the streets and hills of
Dharamsala, Nate and I became familiar with many locals in this peaceful, compact village
of not quite 20,000. We had tea regularly with a shop-owner from Amritsar. We never passed on an opportunity to
shoot the breeze with the many Kashmiri pashmina salesmen just starting on
their Ramadan fasts, offering them a friendly "salaam alaikum" or
"Ramadan kareem." Even the man who begged because he was cursed with
malformed feet and the man with a similar affliction of the hands came to know
us and stopped harassing us for food or money, which is a particularly
satisfying feeling as we were then able to observe them pleading their cases
with the new tourists in town while we, more often than not, escaped unscathed.
There was also one local Tibetan man who wandered around each of the two
winding streets in Dharamsala, but also could be regularly found at one of the busier
intersections advertising a traditional Tibetan cultural demonstration at the primary
school just down the hill. Always wearing his Tibetan flag t-shirt and a warm,
welcoming demeanor, he politely invited every passerby to come and enjoy the
show starring a local Tibetan celebrity (which, I do realize, is a rather niche
category).
After missing the first show, we counted ourselves fortunate
that there was to be an encore performance that very evening of the day that we
narrowly escaped the aforementioned "murder in self-defense" episode.
We reasoned that If we again neglected our chance to enjoy a traditional cultural
performance we would regret it. At the time, we did not realize how innocently juxtaposed that intention was.
As it would turn out, there was very little culture to be missed, and we
certainly regretted something, but a simple explanation does not do justice,
please, allow me to elaborate.
We showed up five minutes early to the primary school and were
led into what appeared to be the assembly/meeting area. There were four planks
to sit on that were maybe three inches off of the floor and draped in empty
rice sacks. Not wishing to appear over-eager for anything, we took seats in the
second row. As more tourists filed in, we grew anxious to see this
"Tibetan celebrity." Other than the tourists, the person in the
room was the gentleman we had seen advertising the show on the corner earlier
that day. It soon became apparent that he was
the celebrity we had all been waiting for. The sandwich board man was
the celebrity.
The performance began with a heart-warming story about how at
the age of 15, the Lion Man (as he had been nicknamed by a spectator of his
"show" long ago) fled Lhasa to escape the oppressive situation in the
Tibetan Autonomous Region (as it is now known, most importantly, to China). He
showed us the one and only photo he owned of him in Lhasa. It showed him as a
young boy seated on a small horse, and seated on another was his brother. They
were posed in front of the Potala (for those of you unfamiliar with it, this
was the building that served as the residence of the Dalai Lama, the seat of
the Tibetan government, and the spiritual hub). Using broken English and
speaking ever so hesitantly, innocently, and endearingly, the Lion Man detailed
his harrowing journey from oppression in Tibet to eventual freedom in India.
Even though it was a story I have heard many different times and from many different
people, it was still a touching and humbling experience. He then went on to
explain that while maybe he wasn't the best, most polished dancer, he had a
dream to learn more and to share his knowledge of Tibetan cultural dances with
young Tibetans in exile, a truly admirable aspiration.
We quickly realized that "not the best" and
"unpolished" were descriptions that were applied generously in this
case. He wasn't great, or even
good, but he danced with energy and heart, and those of us that stayed appreciated
at least that much. Although, after about twenty minutes of watching him spin
in circles, breaking the monotony only to change directions...once, we all
began to question the sanity of our decisions to stay.
Once his first two dances were completed, the schoolchildren
fled into the night and he introduced the second act in his theater of horrors.
He mentioned something about helping people question their established ideas of
space and helping them to stretch their thoughts and feelings. Nothing comfortable
ever happens after an introduction like
that. What happened once the music started wasn't so much of a "dance
performance" as it was "one man doing his best to molest every member
of his audience without anyone running out screaming and/or in tears." One
by one, he went up and down the rows and invaded--no not invaded, that sounds
too polite. One by one, he trounced upon, violated, and destroyed everyone's
personal space. He began by slowly walking over to the first audience member
and moving his face closer and closer until they basically touched noses. He
then simply maintained that unsettling position for about 30 seconds. As he
moved on to subsequent hesitant participants, he had to keep upping his game,
so to speak. He moved closer and closer each time. If someone backed away, he
only leaned forward more, this occasionally lead to a terrified tourist laying
on his back on the ground while the Lion Man draped his limp body upon him or
her (there was no gender bias in this social experiment) like a rag doll. Not
willing to suffer the same fate as those unfortunate souls, I resolved to hold
my ground. I put on my best intimidating game face and waited for my turn to
feel dirty and used. For what seemed like 10 minutes, but was probably only 15
seconds, I stared into the eyes of the Lion Man as he continued to drip sweat
and struggled to catch his breath from his 20 minute spinning session. He had
the intensity and single-mindedness of a man capable of either expressing great
emotions, thought, and art, or murdering someone and wearing their entrails.
Each audience member was granted more time than they were
remotely comfortable with to do their best to gaze into the terrifying soul of
the Lion Man. Once he finished, we all glanced around the room and breathed a
momentary sigh of relief. We walked into that school as strangers, but through
our shared experience we would leave friends, but we wouldn't leave quite yet.
The Lion Man still had two performances for us...
The next number was designed to showcase the great strength of
the Lion Man (at least, that's what I gathered since nothing else really happened).
At first one-by-one, but progressing to pairs and to eventually groups of three, four, and
five, we were all brought to the front of the room to be arranged into awkward
poses and hoisted into the air by the Lion Man. Now to give him some credit, the Lion
Man is not a big man, so this was sometimes impressive even while it was always
uncomfortable. It was quite the feat when he lifted both Nate and I (who,
combined, are sadly pushing close to 400 lbs), and spun us around like we were
performing the most horrific version of Swan Lake you can imagine. All I
managed to utter was, "We're two fat men! You shouldn't be doing
this!". Through carefully planned arrangements of people that included too
many heads in too many crotches, he managed to pick everyone up, except for the
group of five, but I think that was more of a balance issue.
For his final performance, the Lion Man returned to a solo routine.
That's not to say it was any less disconcerting, just less violating. Starting
from the fetal position on a dirty concrete floor, the Lion Man's conclusion had
energy, passion, anger, sadness, and elation among other many emotions, but
what it didn't have was a semblance of sanity. He included something
reminiscent of a strip tease, but with none of the sexiness. This led to him
haphazardly tying his trademark Tibetan flag t-shirt around his head with a
length of fabric. He also violently tried to put on a pair of sunglasses (don't
worry if you can't picture that one, it is an...uncommon sight to say the
least). This all culminated in the Lion Man dashing himself upon each of the four
walls of the room. Once it was over, he quickly composed himself and returned
to the soft-spoken, warm man that had originally enticed everyone to see his
show in the first place. We then went outside for some groups photos (which
would presumably receive the caption, "Never Forget!" from the survivors), and then we
all scattered into the night in the vain pursuit of making any sense of what we had
just experienced.
I am more than tempted to take this opportunity to wander into
some sort of social commentary about the degradation and evolution of culture
and the effects on a small, rather homogenous population, but that would be a disservice
to the Lion Man and the community he resides in. It would either over-simplify the
Lion Man's "performance," or drastically over-complicate it. They say
there is a thin line between madness and genius. I'm pretty sure we saw that
line crossed back and forth dozens of times that evening. He was certainly
aiming to use some corrupted form of modernist techniques to get some sort of
idea across or to elicit a reaction (I think and hope). I can't say that I understood it, but I do
know that much modern art aims to leave each viewer with a unique and lingering
impression. I'd like to say the Lion Man is anything but an artist, that he was
nothing more than a raving lunatic, however here I am, months later, writing about lingering
feelings of...well...I'm not to sure. Regret, amazement, confusion,
fascination, and fear barely begin to scratch the surface. To that, I can say
nothing other than, "Good show Lion Man. Good show."
