Miss Tibet - Women with Wisdom from the Roof of the World

Lamas and Dramas

In an extract from her new book, Vanessa Walker describes the machinations of the Miss Tibet beauty contest.

The Australian

Published in: http://www.theaustralian.news.com.au/story/0,20867,18346955-5002031,00.html

4 March 2006 — I WAKE up to chill air and an Indian town divided. Like clockwork at this time of the year, McLeod Ganj, home of the Dalai Lama and thousands of Tibetan exiles, breaks into warring factions. In internet chat rooms, monasteries and cafes throughout the Tibetan diaspora, friendships are strained as accusations fly and arguments rage. It is the third annual Miss Tibet beauty pageant. It has become a most bitterly divisive — and painful — subject for Tibetans in exile.

The finale is on Sunday, after two days of heats. As the big day has got closer, posters demanding Tibetans boycott the show have appeared on billboards. The posters, put up during the night by clandestine activists, claim contests where women show off their assets are offensive to Tibetan culture, with its profoundly Buddhist persuasion.

They also accuse the organiser of mimicking the worst of Western ideals and humiliating Tibetan women.

Professor Samdhong Rinpoche, Prime Minister of the Tibetan government-in-exile, knows the contest is harmful to the global good press on which Tibetans rely.

He is aware that Tibetans hold a special place in people's hearts. "Imitating Western culture will never help the Tibetan cause, it will always damage the Tibetan cause," he tells me when I interview him.

The creator of the Miss Tibet pageant is a man who passes as the town's only spin doctor: organiser of dance parties, head of his own production company and serial man about town Lobsang Wangyal. All week he has been dashing around McLeod Ganj with five wannabe beauty queens in tow. The elderly people who sit in doorways spinning their prayer wheels day after day cluck in disapproval when they pass. The street boys' jaws drop. Western tourists surveying tantric implements in roadside stalls barely register the commotion.

I call him earlier in the week to ask to meet him and talk about the pageant. His headquarters is the roof of Ladies Venture Hotel. On the roof under a blue awning is a long table surrounded by five polished Tibetan women. Listening attentively to a distinguished-looking gentleman, they are all making tidy notes. Lobsang is sitting at the end of the table. I introduce myself.

One of the women holds up a note for me and points at the gentleman lecturing. It says Professor Thondup Narkyid. He is the official biographer of the Dalai Lama. I try not to let my jaw drop. He is quietly explaining to the girls the current human rights situation in Tibet. Lobsang leans forward and whispers he has arranged a week of tuition for his "brave and unique" girls. Their curriculum would be the envy of many ordinary Tibetans. The speakers include the director of the Tibetan Centre for Human Rights and Democracy, the principal of the Institute of Buddhist Dialectics, a retired opera master and, lastly, a "personality development trainer".

As part of the contest, the girls will be asked questions about human rights in Tibet and their Buddhist faith. Lobsang has gone to a lot of trouble to ensure they are prepared for the rigours of the contest and they aren't made fools of.

On Sunday night I head off to the Tibetan Institute of Performing Arts, the largest venue in town. I wonder if all the calls to boycott — and the 150 rupee ($4.50) entrance cost — will affect the turnout. By the time I turn on to TIPA Road, the answer is obvious. Cars, taxis, tuk-tuks and motorbikes are banked up, hooting and cramming past each other. Streams of people are walking up to TIPA. At the entrance there is an unruly queue, flanked by momo vendors and curry sellers. Inside the courtyard is a large stage and a catwalk that reaches far into the audience.

A red-carpeted stairway, leading down from the top of a two-storey building at the rear, opens into the middle of the stage. Huge signs proclaim Lobsang Wangyal Productions and Sangetta Jain's personality development clinic.

As the sound system pumps out pop songs, lighting pierces the dark night. The crowd — full of young Tibetan men and families — looks as though it is about to burst with anticipation. Suddenly, fireworks explode. The MC, a woman with a flat, nasal British accent, welcomes us to "Misssssss Teeeeebet". She drops her voice an octave and asks for a minute's silence to respect an outstanding Tibetan and one of the biggest supporters of the Miss Tibet pageant.

As the audience lowers its collective heads she says they will soon reveal the name of the Tibetan they are referring to. I try to work out who it could be, mentally flicking past the names of all the political prisoners I've heard of. One is Tenzin Delek. I don't think this renowned lama, who has been sentenced to death by the Chinese, would have heard of the pageant, let alone support it.

Music roars out of the speakers. A puff of dry ice spurts across the stage. On the top of the stairs a spotlight falls upon a suited silhouette. In the haze a figure floats down the stairs, delicately stepping sideways to avoid tripping. It's Lobsang Wangyal and he is wearing a bright orange two-piece suit, the shoulders heavy with padding. He strolls to the front of the stage, slowly raises his hands to his lips then flings them out, screaming out the greeting, "Taaaaaaaaassssssssshiiiiiii Deeeeeeeelllllleeeekkk." I immediately think of Spinal Tap and the folly of hubris. I look around at the crowd but they are gazing in rapture at the man in the orange suit. They break into deafening applause.

He walks down the catwalk with the microphone, his pinkie finger erect as though about to sip from a champagne flute. Gone is the concerned professional; in his place is a Tibetan Donny Osmond. "Weeeeeellllcommmme to Miiiisssss Tiiiiiiiiiiibbbbetttt." Rapidly changing between Hindi, English and Tibetan, he doesn't take a breath, instead launching into a passionate defence of the pageant against "that certain section of the Tibetan community so tunnel-visioned they are against the pageant and the swimsuit competition in particular". Lobsang Wangyal owns the stage.

"I'd like to thank you for the minute's silence. It really was for a great Tibetan and the supporter of the Miss Tibet pageant ... my father ... who passed away in March this year." He launches into an emotional eulogy for his "greatest supporter", chides the drinkers and smokers in the audience and delivers a Buddhist homily.

"But," he whispers theatrically before breaking out into a shout, "theeeee sssshooooowwww mmmuussst gooooooo onnnnnnnnn." He then introduces the all-Indian judging panel and the "oooohhhhhh soooooo" — he drops his voice to an intimate whisper — "sssssssexy MC". The crowd gains confidence, hooting and howling. Lobsang bows out as another puff of dry ice floods the stage and She's the One belts out of the speakers.

From high on the staircase comes the first contestant, Sonam Dickey. In a stream, each contestant — including Tsering Kyi, the sole entrant and winner of the 2003 Miss Tibet contest — comes on to the stage, resplendent in evening dresses. They each take the microphone, tell the audience how the Miss Tibet pageant promotes Tibetan culture and answer judges' questions.

In the midst of the crowd, the people around me cheering and clapping, I have a sinking feeling. A well of disappointment is rising in me as I see Tibetans embrace what so many Westerners now find meaningless.

The evening-dress round is followed by the traditional Tibetan costume round. Each entrant looks stunning in brocade chubas, festooned with coral and turquoise jewels, huge chunks of amber on their heads and their hair woven in 108 plaits.

The excitement goes to one judge's head. He rushes to the microphone and tells the girls he wants to ask them all one final question. It booms out across the sea of people. "If you knew the price of winning Miss Tibet was spending one night with Lobsang Wangyal, would you enter the contest?" he chortles.

It hits the audience like a lead brick. In a courtyard of 2500 people, not a sound can be heard. Monks cover their heads. Mothers gather their children. Men stare at the ground. The contestants suddenly seem like young girls out of their depth. One starts praying. Unaware of Tibetan sensibilities, the Indian judge has just stumbled across the crux of Tibetans' fear about the contest: that it compromises the moral reputation of the contestants.

Just as I think he might be lynched, an orange suit steps out from behind a column. "Annnnndd nnnooooooow, the mmmmoooommmennnntt yooooou'veee alll beeeen waiiiiiitiiinnnnnng fooooooorr." The girls straighten up. The crowd finds its feet again, cheering.

At the last minute, Palden Gyatso, a monk who spent 33 years as a political prisoner, steps forward. He tells the audience that he is a supporter of Miss Tibet. That he has seen the old culture and the new and the contest is good for Tibetan women. He bravely brings up a sore point. "These women are not prostitutes, as some people have been saying," he glowers. "They all come from good families, they have all studied. One is from a family whose uncle is a high lama!" he exclaims.

Lobsang takes the microphone again. "Aaaaandddd the wiiiiinnnnnerr iiiiiissss ... Tasssssssshi Yanchgen!" he bellows. She steps forward to accept the crown.

Lobsang dashes off to get an oversized cardboard cheque for 100,000 rupees to present to her.

Miss Tibet 2004 makes it back to the stage and is inundated with media. She pledges to bring international attention to the issue of Tibet, but admits it will be difficult. Miss Tibet cannot yet enter Miss World or Miss Universe; instead she is relegated to second-tier beauty pageants like Miss International Tourism. Still, she says, any talk of Tibet helps.

I turn around to look at the audience. Lobsang Wangyal has collapsed forward, his head bowed, alone on the stage. The music flares up. Inch by inch he raises his arms skyward until he is unfurled. He stands, his legs astride, his arms reaching up to the sky, his orange jacket flapping behind him. The crowd raise their faces to him. I guffaw. For a second he stands enraptured, his face raised to the heavens. The beat gets faster and louder. Suddenly he swings his hips to the left, then the right. He throws his head back and proceeds to sashay down the catwalk, his hands on his hips.

The crowd loves the spectacle. At the end of the runway, Lobsang stops and dances like a man gone wild, throwing arms up in the air, whipping his head around and gyrating, intermittently pointing out at the crowd, fixing them with his disco gaze.

Like a flash of lightning it dawns on me. Lobsang has created his own niche. In this low-tech town, where cow dung splatters the street and rubbish mounts up in festering piles, he provides the fantasy. And people are glad of it, no matter what the implications. Forty-five years in exile and they want some moments of distraction. As Lobsang continues to disco, I pack up my bag and head back to the twinkling lights of this complicated little town.

This is an edited extract from Mantras and Misdemeanours by Vanessa Walker (Allen & Unwin, $24.95).