Rebels of the Black Tent

Five days of searching have passed, ridge by ridge, town by town, as the grasslands retreat into their own silence. A lone vulture drifts overhead. Where are they?

The Tibetan nomads—the Drokpa, or “those who dwell in the grasslands”—form the third pillar of traditional Tibetan society, alongside the farmers and the monks. Their economy revolves around yaks and sheep, yet they remain socially and spiritually tethered to their grain-growing kin and the great monasteries.

Of all the nomadic tribes in Eastern Tibet, none are more formidable than the Golok.

“I rebel against those above, I rebel against Tibet, I rebel! / Against the authority of Tibet’s Dharma King, I rebel! / I rebel and the heavens are with me. / The blue sky itself is with the rebellion! / I rebel against those below / Against China I rebel! / Against the laws of the Chinese government I rebel! / We are our own masters.”

The Golok, who today inhabit the vast prefecture that bears their name, were once fearless warriors who struck terror into the hearts of Lhasa’s officials and Chinese officers alike. Swordsmen, raiders, highwaymen, and lovers of liberty, they maintained their independence until the middle of the 20th century.

We set out to find them in the autumn, just as the first snowflakes began to dust the surrounding hills.

The traditional Tibetan tent is a curious creature. Crouching like a black spider on the verdant slopes, it is technologically linked to the nomadic tents of Iran and the Middle Eastern Bedouin, appearing to have been imported to the Land of Snows from those distant regions.

Woven from black yak wool, the tents offer insulation that even the nomads admit is far from ideal against winter storms—a flaw perhaps explained by their desert origins. Consequently, many are being replaced by white canvas versions that hold the heat a little better. The traditional black tent is gradually vanishing from the landscape.

After several exhausting days, we were on the verge of giving up. We had just hopped into a rattling jeep bound for the next town when they suddenly appeared in the heart of a green meadow, framed by razor-sharp peaks: black tents.

A sharp shout to the driver, a pack hoisted onto a back, a dash down the slope.

A river.

The trouble with misjudging a current is that you only realize your mistake once you are waist-deep in it. But even with a shivering body, a damp pack, and soaked clothes—and with massive mastiffs baying all around—it is hard to suppress a smile.

Inside the tent, it is warm. The yak dung burns steadily, and the tsampa and hot tea do their work. Nomadic hospitality, exactly as it should be.

The Golok are no longer rebels. Under Beijing’s centralized rule, they have been swept up in the difficult transformations that defined the region’s 20th century. Their lives are no longer as free as they once were, and the challenges they face are immense.

Nomadic culture is still kicking, but its legs are tied. Such is the way of the world.

Yet in their melancholy songs, the Golok still sing of the grasslands, of raiding a passing merchant caravan, and of the long trek home to the black tent.