1 Dokwa “Eating the Sides” in Oral and Literary Traditions
Two men meet while digging caterpillar fungus (also known as Ophiocordyceps sinensis, the Tibetan yartsa gunbu, or the Chinese dongchong xiacao), the medicinal herb that has grown so valuable in Tibetan communities in the twenty-first century that its harvest has become a key part of the local economy. Families from the areas where the fungus grows best may earn enough to live the rest of the year without working. Others keep their families afloat with proceeds from their harvest (Winkler 2013, 390). Tibetans now refer to the act of harvesting the medicine simply as “digging the bug” with no other modifiers necessary.1
Like the first day of deer hunting season in my native Ohio, schools close during the caterpillar fungus digging season, because many students simply will not attend, as their labor is needed elsewhere. For about a month in the late spring, entire families move to the highest altitudes of the Tibetan Plateau to dig for their fortunes in the form of this prized medicine. In doing so, they earn the disposable income that will be required to sustain them until the following spring.
The two men who meet on this day are a study in opposites. Drijya Yangkho, a bearded man, wears a traditional robe that has seen better days. Clean-shaven Ruyong Riglo sports the sort of modern style apparel that Tibetans in Amdo call “Chinese clothing.” The former owns the land and now earns money by allowing prospectors to harvest its caterpillar fungus. The latter, who bears all the hallmarks of living in the town, has come to dig fungus to sustain his family during the coming year. The history of the two is evident even from their names: Drijya, means “one hundred female yaks” and suggests that Yangkho’s family owns (or owned) a moderate-size herd, and is thus prosperous in traditional terms. Ruyong, by contrast, may refer to a family that has joined the community recently, perhaps due to conflicts in their original one.2 Those who know the pair will also recall that there has previously been animosity between them dating back to the Cultural Revolution, when the once-wealthy Drijya Yangkho and his family were stripped of their property due to their class status, while the formerly penniless Ruyong Riglo was elevated.
Though they have each have their business to do, none of this should stop the two longtime rivals-turned-friends from having some fun while sitting on the grassland together. First, they reminisce about the old days, when they used to come to the grassland and play tug of war. They give it a go for old time’s sake. Then, as they rest, Drijya Yangkho starts to compose a short poem on the spot to poke fun at Ruyong Riglo:
The one who goes crazy while talking about wealth,
The one who would jump [off a cliff] when he sees a [yartsa] bug,
The one acts as if released from being tied up.
The one who doesn’t go unless it’s to crawl [in search of yartsa],
From the figurative speech, I couldn’t realize who it was.
When I meditated on it, [I realized] it was Ruyong Riglo.
རྒྱུ་ཞིག་བཟླས་དུས་སྨྱོས་འཇོག་ནོ།།
འབུ་ཞིག་རིག་དུས་ལྕེབས་འཇོག་ནོ།།
བཏགས་ནས་བཞག་སྟེ་ཤོར་འདྲ་བོ།།
གོག་ནས་མིན་ནས་མི་འགྲོ་ནོ།།
ཆགས་བཞག་ནས་ཅི་ཡིན་མ་ཤེས་ཐལ།།
མཉམ་བཞག་དུས་རུ་ཡོང་རིག་ལོ་རེད།།
The extemporaneously composed verse pokes fun at the man opposite him for his materialism, characterizing it as a mania. In doing so, the speaker is “doing zurza,” sarcastically pointing out the flaws of another in a humorous and meaningful way.
Following this, the pair decide to engage in a friendly competition of poetry and trade several such poems back and forth. In one response, the digger, Ruyong Riglo, invokes the pastoralist’s family name (“one hundred female yaks”) to critique the latter’s indolence—a common critique of Tibetans in China (Yeh 2013b, 163–89):
Ah, dear Drijya Yangkho,
whose hundred dri aren’t on the mountain.
Hey, where have you put them?
When others don’t buy the bugs
You’ll certainly go hungry.
ཨ་འབྲི་བརྒྱ་གཡང་ཁོ་ལོ་ལོ།
འབྲི་བརྒྱ་བོ་རི་ན་མེད་ནོ།།
ཨ་ཧ་བོ་གང་ལ་ཞོགས་ཐལ།།
འབུ་ཆ་བོ་ཉོ་ནི་མེད་དུས།།
ཁྱོད་ཆ་བོ་ལྟོགས་རྒྱུ་ལོས་ཡིན།།
Later, Ruyong Riglo picks up the same thread and also alludes to government subsidies that makes the pastoralist’s comfortable life possible, saying:
Don’t tell about how there is fungus
in the uninhabited grassland.
If those above [meaning the government] knew that there is wealth here,
Would they still give you what they have given?
མྱི་ཅང་མེད་རྩྭ་སའི་ནང་ན།།
འབུ་ཡོད་ནོ་ཅང་ལ་མ་བཤད།།
རྒྱུ་ཡོད་ནོ་གོང་ལ་གསལ་དུས།།
ཁྱོའ་གནང་ནོ་རང་དགར་ཆེ་སྟེར།།
The pair continue back and forth for several minutes in this vein, sometimes pausing between poetic performances to discuss the last poem, their history, or modern life. Each laughs at the other’s poems, apparently appreciative of the art, and neither takes offense at the gentle teasing.
Zooming out, we see that the old acquaintances are not on the grassland at all. In fact, they are on a stage in a television studio, and this is a staged performance, scripted by the comedian Menla Jyab in 2011. In this sketch, Menla Jyab and his partner Namlha Bum reprise two favorite roles from performances past. The live studio audience and the viewers watching the prerecorded sketch at home both know the characters’ backgrounds and are intimately familiar with the sort of exchange and context before them. They laugh and applaud as the two stars use poetry to banter back and forth.
On stage, the performers call their poems dokwa, though in other parts of Amdo, Tibetans call them by the related names daksa, dakree, and dokra. This rare form of extemporaneously composed, sarcastic verse pits folk poets against each other, mercilessly making fun of each other’s appearance and behavior. In writing, intellectuals may render the term as btags pa (བཏགས་པ།). Btags, the verb also used for naming an individual, suggests that name-calling, or poetically naming someone as the possessor of certain traits, is an important part of the genre.
Amdo boasts an incredible array of oral and festival traditions. Just focusing on the oral ones, Tibetans in Amdo are known to perform a variety of secular and religious verbal arts, including but not limited to tamhwé (proverbs),3 tamshel (speeches),4 khel (riddles),5 laye (love songs),6 and lushag (antiphonal song duels). These sit alongside a much broader array of oral and festival practices from across the Tibetan cultural world. Euro-American scholarship on these is only piecemeal at best, with much recent research centering on a few locations most easily accessed (Henrion-Dourcy 2017b, 9–10).
Among these, dokwa are an obscure and little-studied genre of Tibetan oral tradition. The only English-language description I have yet found defines the poems as follows:
verbal sparring matches characteristic of nomad herdsmen. These are intensely amusing encounters where the participants trade highly potent verses in order to belittle each other. These stinging caricatures are unforgiving and make frequent reference to the other’s physical traits. (Anton-Luca 2002, 183)
And yet, despite its relative absence from the Tibetological literature, the poems combine several values that Tibetans seemed to admire in speech: a quick wit and turn of phrase, the ability to put ideas into verse, and using both in the service of humorous critique. As such, dokwa and other sarcastic and satirical forms of traditional expression serve as an entry point to the Tibetan concept of zurza in traditional contexts as a way of making both person-specific and more general societal critiques. Note that although the examples here stem primarily from my fieldwork in the twenty-first century, the focus on a range of traditional oral and literary practices is intended to underscore the historical importance of zurza, which continues to shapes the attitudes and practices of modern Tibetan cultural producers in the present.
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Amdo Tibetans are not the only folk artists to compose humorous oral poems. In Lhasa, Tibetans traditionally sang humorous “street songs” written by performers (Goldstein 1982), and Tibetans around the plateau sing lushag (see Anton-Luca 2002). In exile, performers of Ache Lhamo opera may parody and satirize others in performance (Calkowski 1991, 653; Henrion-Dourcy 2017a). Elsewhere in the People’s Republic of China, the Nuosu branch of the Yi in Sichuan perform poetic kenre, used to “both welcome and cajole guests” (Bender 2019, xvi; see also Bamo Qubumo 2001, 2008), while the Dai in Yunnan also use verbal dueling in courtship rituals (Davis 1999). In another part of the world, Basque bertsolaris create their own poetic dueling performances (see, for example, Barandiaran 2009; Egaña 2007; White 2003; and Pagliai 2009), while verbal dueling is also part of “the dozens” in African American and white American (Bronner 1978) communities, and in Tuscan contrasto (Pagliai 2009). Not all traditions rely on spontaneous duels, though. For example, the haló of the Anlo-Ewe people in Ghana may be carefully prepared ahead of time (Avorgbedor 1994, 92–93; 1999; 2001). These traditions may be spoken, sung, or performed with musical accompaniment. There may also be rules regarding the gender and age of performers in verbal exchanges. Each, however, comes with genre- and culture-specific rules for performance and interpretation.
Recited as if extemporaneous—though in actuality part of a scripted performance—the sarcastic poems from the sketch about digging caterpillar fungus are only imitations of true dokwa poems. To really understand the genre- and culture-specific “keys” (Bauman 1977) of dokwa performance, original texts would almost undoubtedly be better. They were not easy to find. In the farming area of Rebgong, I spoke to people who had heard of the extemporaneously composed satirical poems but was told that nobody actually performed them there. Not anymore. They suggested that I seek out performers in the nomadic areas. The accepted logic in Amdo is that pastoral communities have long been famed for their command of oral traditions, and this ideology persists into the present. So I went to Malho Mongolian Autonomous County, colloquially known simply as Sokdzong (meaning “Mongolian County”). There I was again told that people used to perform these traditions but now did so only rarely. Instead, they suggested I go to Golok. Even further from the urban center of Ziling, Golok remained a repository of oral tradition in the Amdo Tibetan imaginary.
The road from Ziling to Golok is better than it used to be. What was once a tortuous bus ride taking at least twelve hours on narrow roads twisting up one side of mountains and back down another is now an eight-hour jaunt along smoothly paved roads. The capstone to this engineering feat is a ten-kilometer tunnel through Laji Shan (which Tibetans call Goméla)—part of a mountain range, running roughly from the northwest to the southeast, that many of the roads to southern and western Qinghai must cross—that cuts under what was once the most dangerous and time-consuming part of the journey. In addition to considerably shortening the drive time, the tunnel also shaped how Tibetan travelers experienced the landscape. Those who get carsick still retch as the bus navigates bends in the road, but they no longer throw windhorses—lungta, small, colorful pieces of paper with scriptures printed on them—at the highest point of the mountain pass. Buses still stop for meals at roadside noodle houses, but they no longer need to make an overnight trip. All things considered, I think most travelers willingly accept the tradeoff.
My last such trip was in 2017, when a friend introduced me to a local government official who had agreed to introduce me to some people with knowledge of dokwa, which locals call dokra. The next day, after a two-hour drive to a town even farther out in the country, I found myself sitting in the living room of the lavishly decorated but little-used apartment that the official kept in his local county seat. There was nothing to suggest that we were in an area of the Tibetan Plateau that had, until recently, been relatively underdeveloped. Outside, a bright sun bathed the town and the surrounding mountains in golden light, but inside the curtains were drawn. We could have been anywhere.
I spoke with the middle-aged official who had agreed help me on my way, as well as another man who worked for the local government in dispute mediation, a role that required knowledge of both national law and local proverb lore. We discussed verbal art in Golok Prefecture and the mediator’s work in a role that spans tradition and modernity. The mediator’s experiences were interesting, but I was not in Golok to talk about proverbs or the law. Instead, I had been introduced to this man because people said he could tell me about dokwa. After a fair amount of discussion, he gave a classic disclaimer that he was unable to perform them himself, but that he knew of some, and then he began to tell a rather scatological story:
Once, this thing happened in my place. My father’s name was called Adri Topa [to the cadre], you know that. When you ask what there was, an old woman with watery eyes, and a blue face, she was coming near a family in our place [in our community] called the Zhumar family. When she came to the edge of the that family[’s land] … she found a red padmaraga stone,7 so one from our place spoke a dokwa like this:
You have sent a green round [woman] over here.
You have found a red round thing,
Turning and tossing it a bit.
What is it, white-watery woman?
What kind of shit is it, shitty-blind woman?
He said like this. Then what the woman replied was this (Adri Topa was a person who knew a thing or two about gzi and agates):
A green and round woman came over,
Found a red and round thing,
Tossed and turned it, and
Showed it to Adri Topa.
[He] said it was worth hundreds of horses and mules.
If you add your black tent over your head,
As a bonus, it would make a difference.
She said like that. So, for example, those two going back and forth, is called a dokra.
ཆག་འཇོག་ཁ་བྱོས་ད་སྔན་ཆད་ཟིག་ག་ངེད་དྲོ་ས་ཆ་དི་མོ་ཟིག་ཡོད་ནི་རེད། ངའི་ཕ་རྒན་གི་མྱིང་ལ་ཨ་དྲིས་སྟོད་པ་ཟེར་ནི་རེད་་་་དེ་ཁྱོས་ཤེས་ནི་རེད། ཆི་ཟིག་ཡོད་ནི་རེད་ཟེར་དུས་ཨ་ཡེས་མྱིག་ཆུ་ཡོང་འདུག་ནི་་་་ངོ་སྔོན་པོ་ཅན་ཟིག་དི་མོ་ཟིག་བརྒྱུགས་ཡོང་ནི་་་ངེད་དྲོ་གི་བཞུ་མར་ཚང་བཟེ་ཅིག་ཡོད་ནིར་་་་་དེ་ཚང་གི་མཐའ་ཀ་ནས་ཡོང་གོ་དུས་གི་ནས་ད་དི་མོ་གི་པད་མ་ར་ག་ཅན་པོ་དི་མོ་དམར་དྲིས་ཟིག་ལོན་རེད། དི་གི་ངེད་དྲོ་གི་གཅིག་གིས་འདོགས་ར་ཅན་པོ་ཆི་བཟེ་ནི་རེད་ཟེར་དུས་ན།
ཁྱོད་སྨན་ལྗང་རིལ་རིལ་ཟིག་བརྒྱངས་ཡོང་ཐལ།
ཁྱོས་དམར་རིལ་རིལ་ཟིག་ལོན་ཡོང་ཐལ།
ཡར་རིལ་མར་རིལ་ཆ་ཙིག་ཡས།
དི་ཆི་ཞིག་རེད་གོ་ཆུ་དཀར་མ།
སྐྱག་རེ་རེད་གོ་སྐྱག་ཞར་མ་་་་དི་མོ་བཟེ་ནི་རེད།
དེ་ཨ་ཡེས་དེས་ཧར་ར་ཆི་བཟེ་བཟེ་བཟེ་དུས།
ངེད་དི་ཨ་དྲིས་སྟོད་པ་ཅན་པོ་དེ་ཅིག་གཟི་དང་མཆོང་ལྟ་ཤེས་ནི་ཟིག་ཡིན་ནི་རེད།
སྨན་ལྗང་རིལ་རིལ་ཟིག་བརྒྱངས་ཡོང་ཐལ།
དམར་རིལ་རིལ་ཟིག་ལོན་ཡོང་ཐལ།
ཡར་རིལ་མར་རིལ་ཆ་ཙིག་ཡས།
མོས་ཨ་དྲིས་སྟོད་པ་སྟོན་ན་ད།
རྟ་དྲེལ་བརྒྱ་རེ་གནས་གི་བཟེ།
ཁྱོའི་མགོ་མགོ་སྦྲ་དེ་ད།
ཁན་ཟིག་བཞག་ན་ཁ་ཁ་རེད།
དི་མོ་བཟེ་ནི་རེད་་་་་ད་དཔེར་ན་དེ་གཉིས་ཧར་ཚུར་ར་ཟབ་ནོ་་་་འདོགས་ར་ཅན་པོ་དི་ཟེར་གོ་ནི་རེད་་་
The poems themselves do not seem particularly funny in translation. The first makes a slur against the woman’s appearance, and the response wittily and poetically answers the first to brag—in verse form, no less—that she has just obtained something of great value. Nevertheless this narrative about the initial dokwa and the woman’s level-headed response—versions of which were shared as exemplary of the genre by speakers from multiple areas of Golok—provides valuable perspectives on the genre. Dokwa, referring to both the initial poem and the response, may denote any extemporaneously composed, spoken, and critical poems. Second, the poems themselves were composed of groups of lines that usually ranged from six to eight syllables each, a meter that is common in folksong traditions (Sujata 2005; Ramble 1995; Sangs rgyas bkra shis, Qi, and Stuart 2015) and secular oratory (Thurston 2012, 2019). The syllables are grouped into phrases and formulae of two or three as, for example, the three-syllable phrases “you have sent” (བརྒྱངས་ཡོང་ཐལ།, jyang yong ta), and “you have found” (ལོན་ཡོང་ཐལ།, lon yong ta) above, in which the first syllable is the main verb, the second indicates movement with the verb “to come,” and the third is a perfective marker. The initial poem uses parallel lines and may repeat syllables either within the same line or across lines. The first poem in the above exchange, for example, repeats ril ril zig (རིལ་རིལ་ཟིག, translated above as “something round”) in each of the first two lines and ends each with yong ta. The third line continues to repeat the syllable ril, but this time in the phrase yar ril mar ril (ཡར་རིལ་མར་རིལ།, translated as “turning and tossing”). These forms of wordplay sound pleasing and can be used to make the same Tibetan syllables humorously take on a range of meanings.
While dokwa do not always require a response, the most noteworthy exchanges all seem to feature a retort, and the example from this is no different. The response need not be metrically identical to the initial dokwa but should play off of and invert some of its grammar and language. The second poem in the narrative above, for example, repeats the first three lines verbatim, essentially accepting its premise, but then uses the remaining lines to invert the critique. The intertextual link to, and inversion of, the first poem helps to underscore the second speaker’s impressive command of verbal art and generates some of the humor in the performance through its wordplay.
A final point about the poetics of dokwa is that unlike Tibetan folk singing and oratory traditions, which deploy a variety of formulae to satisfy the metrical requirements of traditional verse, these dokwa do not. Instead, the performances are so specific to the moment of their creation that they maintain the verse but often dispense with the register of oral tradition. For example, the speakers rarely compare their targets to animals or to deities, nor do they use traditional formulae about the earth, sky, or mountains common in wedding speeches and praises of place. The vertical, tripartite division of upper, middle, and lower prevalent in vernacular representations of territory (Ramble 1995, 87) is also absent. Instead, the speakers use a lower register, a more colloquial idiom full of repetition and inversion, to make their case as cleverly and succinctly as possible. Additionally, unlike folk singing traditions, which are also metrically limited by the songs themselves, dokwa poets can switch between seven-, eight-, and nine-syllable lines within the same poem as fits their needs.
Notice, also, that rather than simply retelling the poems, speakers who told me about exemplary dokwa performances of the past embedded the poems in narrative. At first, I thought that the narratives were added for my benefit. After all, good storytellers around the world are known to take the audience into account during the emergent storytelling performance. But then I found a published collection of these poems that did the same thing, and these were almost certainly aimed at Tibetan audiences. Whereas collections of love songs or song-dueling regularly only include pages upon pages of lyrics with no further information, this collection also uses narratives to contextualize the poems, as with the following example, which is illustrative:
YOU WON’T GET FAR
One day, a young man who particularly enjoyed banter was riding a blue-black horse and holding a riding crop. As he was bringing the horse to a walk as he went around a camp, the horse’s hoof gave way at a family’s cattle pen, and he tumbled to the ground. A witty nomad woman spoke this dokwa:
Hey uncle!
[Your] black horse was galloping, and
When it arrived in the black-earth enclosure,
The black horse did a full prostration.
And though your crop sounds on its rump,
You won’t go very far!
When she said this, that young man looked closely at the woman and saw that she didn’t have a sash around her waist but had tied a rope. Knowing that it was a poor family, he immediately spoke this dokwa back:
Hey sister!
Tying a black string as a waist sash,
Doing a dokwa of someone you’ve just encountered.
When you have enough to eat and drink,
No one will be able to subdue you.
When he said this, the girl was left speechless.
ཐག་རིང་ལ་ཐོན་ས་མེད་ཀི
ཉིན་ཞིག་གསར་བུ་ཁྱད་ཆོས་རྒྱག་རྒྱུར་དགའ་བ་ཞིག་གིས་རྟ་སྔོ་ནག་ཅིག་ཞོན་ནས་རྟ་ལྕག་ཅིག་ཐོགས་ཏེ། རྟ་གོམ་པ་ཁྱེར་ནས་རུ་འདབས་ཤིག་བརྒྱུད་ནས་འགྲོ་དུས། ཁྱིམ་ཚང་ཞིག་གི་ཕྱུགས་ལྷས་ནས་རྟ་ལག་རྡིབ་བྱུང་ནས་ས་ལ་འགྱེལ་བ་ན། འབྲོག་མོ་ཁ་བདེ་ཞིག་གིས་འདི་ལྟར་བཏགས་པ་བྱས།
ཨ་རོགས་ཨ་ཁུ།
རྟ་གྱོ་ནག་ལ་གོམ་པ་འགྲོ་ཀི།
ས་ལྷས་ནག་གི་ནང་ལ་ཐོན་དུས།།
རྟ་གྱོ་ནག་གིས་བརྐྱངས་ཕྱག་འཚལ་ཀི།
ཁྱོའི་ལྕག་རིང་ལ་གཞུག་རྒྱ་གྲགས་རུང་།།
ཁྱོད་ཐག་རིང་ས་ཐོན་ས་མེད་ཀི།
ཞེས་བཤད་པ་ན། གསར་བུ་དེས་བུ་མོ་དེར་ཞིབ་ལྟ་ཞིག་བྱས་པ་ན། སྐ་རགས་མེད་པར་ཐུ་གུ་ཞིག་བཅིངས་ཡོད་པ་མཐོང་ནས། རྒྱུ་ནོར་གྱིས་དབུལ་པའི་ཁྱིམ་ཚང་ཞིག་ཡིན་པ་ཤེས་ནས། དེ་མ་ཐག་ཕྱིར་འདི་ལྟར་བཏགས་པ་བྱས།
ཨ་རོགས་ཨ་ཅེ།
ཐིག་ནག་གིས་སྐ་རགས་བཅིངས་ནས།།
ཐུག་ཐུག་པོར་བཏགས་པ་བྱེད་ཀི།
ཟ་འཐུང་གི་མགོ་རྔ་འཛོམས་དུས།།
མགོ་ཅིག་གིས་ནོན་ས་མེད་ཀི།
ཞེས་བཤད་པ་ན་བུ་མོ་དེར་ཁ་གྲགས་རྒྱུ་མེད་པར་གྱུར། (Lha sde nyi ma tshe ring 2013, 16–17)
In this second example, the woman teases the man whose horse has fallen, saying that his horse has prostrated itself. The second half of the poem, meanwhile, notes that no amount of whipping the horse will make a difference, suggesting a rebuke of the man’s response to his animal’s misfortune. In the response, meanwhile, the man points out the girl’s poverty—indexed by her clothing—and suggests that an adequate amount of food and drink might help her wits. People in glass houses, he would seem to say, should not throw stones.
The humor and appreciation, however, derives only partly from the content of the poems. The poetry itself and the quick wits to create it are also part of the appeal. The two dokwa in “You Won’t Get Far” maintain many of the characteristics as the one before it, including parallelism, repetition, and intertextual reference from the first poem to the second. The first poem also evidences a head rhyme popular in Tibetan oral traditions, with the first three syllables of each line paralleling one of the lines adjacent to it. For example, the first and third lines begin with shta gyo nag (རྟ་གྱོ་ནག, black-haired horse), where shta means “horse” and gyo is the writer’s approximation of the Amdo pronunciation of the word for horse hair. The second line begins with sa lhee nag (ས་ལྷས་ནག, black-earth enclosure). The three syllable phrases rhyme shta (horse) and sa (earth), and end with the color nag (black). The parallelism, head rhyme, and repetition further mark the performance as poetic.
In performance, speakers distinguished the poetry from the narrative in several ways: poetic lines were more measured and spoken at an even cadence, and the speaker’s voice started each line a little higher before gradually lowering his intonation toward the end. This cadence is almost identical to the vocal features used in the “caterpillar fungus” sketch and imitates how these dokwa would have been performed in the moment. In a written publication, they are introduced with a brief statement saying that the speaker “did a dokwa,” and then the lines are indented and marked (as with other poetry) with two vertical lines at the end of each. These create aural and visual distinctions between prose and poetry in line with the conventions of their respective media.
But beyond their incorporation of formal features of oral poetry, the narratives in which the dokwa are embedded also encode important information for understanding the genre, not least through pointing directly to questions of immediacy, wit, and (in some written narratives) zurza. First, notice that in both the written “You Won’t Get Far” and the orally performed “Adri Topa,” the narratives are extremely brief. Because the characters were less important than their words, they only provide enough information—about appearance, actions, etc.—to ensure that the poetic humor makes sense to audiences who were not physically present at the original. In doing so, they focus all attention on the poems, and include no extraneous information beyond what is needed for the audience to make sense of the poems. “You Won’t Get Far,” for example, tells audiences that the young man likes banter, and explains the circumstances surrounding his horse’s tumble, which provided the fodder for the first poem. The girl, meanwhile, is described primarily based on her appearance, and particularly the rope she used to tie her robe, on which the second poem hinges. After the poem or poems are retold, speakers provide very little extra information to conclude the narrative beyond a brief statement about how those present reacted to the poem.
Some information, however, is not directly relevant to understanding the poem, and these evaluative words also provide valuable information about some of the other skills deemed necessary for a successful dokwa performance. For example, in “You Won’t Get Far,” the woman who spoke the first poem is described as being a “a witty nomad woman.” Wit or eloquence, translated from the Tibetan khabde (ཁ་བདེ།, literally “good mouth”), is not limited to dokwa but can refer to wittiness or competence in a variety of poetic speech genres.
Tibetans find khabde to be such a valuable quality that it is even enshrined in a Tibetan proverb, which states:
The eloquent are leaders, and
the handy are servants.
ཁ་བདེ་པོ་མི་ཡི་དཔོན་པོ་དང་།།
ལག་བདེ་པོ་མི་ཡི་གཡོག་པོ་ཡིན།།
The proverbial wisdom quickly breaks down in real life. Few of those identified as eloquent in the dokwa narratives above have any real social power within their communities, except that the quick-witted speaker temporarily gains the upper hand in their encounters. While it rarely provides any material benefits, however, recognition as being khabde does provide some degree of social status. In the narratives, a character is often described explicitly as being khabde, but even when they are not, audiences recognize that the characters in these narratives are to be favorably evaluated for their wit.
Immediacy is often important as well. The young man who ultimately wins the encounter, for example, leaves the “witty nomad woman” speechless with his “immediate” response. Both terms appear time and again in the written edition. The oral narratives, meanwhile, may not emphasize these factors in the same way, but consultants also emphasized the same qualities in conversations as well. Not all dokwa require such an immediate response, though. Many narratives tell of a single poem to which no reply is given. Less commonly, a consultant told me that a response may come only hours or even days later. Nevertheless, the best dokwa, the most exemplary performances (and therefore memorable, durable, and repeatable), include quick responses that further cement a person’s reputation as being khabde.
But, as one consultant emphasized, “doing dokwa has verse and meaning. You might speak very articulately, but if it doesn’t have meaning, it’s not good, right? First, it must have meaning, and second, the poems have to be related” (personal communication, April 28, 2016). The poetics of dokwa are, then, fairly straightforward. Meaning, meanwhile, comes from the poem’s humorous and indirect critique of another’s appearance or behavior.
Indirection refers to “the capacity for presenting, mentioning, or alluding to matters in a roundabout way: either by touching on them obliquely, metaphorically, and unspecifically; by implication, allusion, or analogy; or by the formalization or ritualization of discourse. Indirect discourse is subtle, suggestive, or circuitous, rather than bold and direct” (Young 1978, 51) In “You Won’t Get Far,” instead of directly saying the woman is poor, the second speaker’s response hinges upon the mutual recognition that the rope the woman uses to tie her robe is a sign of her poverty. In “Adri Topa,” the woman responds with humor to an attack on her physical appearance and indicates her recognition that her fortunes might have just changed. In other performances, a woman turns a hunter’s own boasts against him when he returns home wounded and empty-handed. In the dokwa from the 2011 sketch about caterpillar fungus, the poems focus on the behaviors and attitudes of diggers and of the people who let others dig on their land without ever directly saying that the practice is good or bad. Indirect, sarcastic critique of another is at the center of these performances.
As the dokwa poems demonstrate, poets may rely on a number of speech functions, including punning, parody, synecdoche, metonymy, repetition, and inversion, as well as Tibetan tropes like khamtshar (witticisms) and labjyagpa (boasting) in order to make a critical point, and the term may appear in collocation with other expressive practices like “bad-mouthing” and “disparaging.” Such insults and critiques often, though not always, form an important part of verbal dueling traditions around the globe. Like Basque bertsos, for example, Tibetan dokwa might be considered improvisation within “a pre-established framework of entertainment wherein their relationship with themselves and their surroundings can be resolved dialectically” (Egaña 2007, 117). Unlike the more formulaic bertsos, however, or even Tibetan lushag traditions, these performances emerge from the conditions of everyday life, and their insults are highly specific to the performance context. Instead, zurza is perhaps best seen as a Tibetan practice similar to the African American art of “signifying.”
Writing on the African American verbal dueling practice known as “the dozens,” Abrahams (1962, 212) argued that it uses signifying as “a technique of indirect argument or persuasion.” Notice the parallels between Tibetan dictionary definitions of zurza and Abrahams’s discussion of signifying. Through this indirection, signifying “destabilizes the stable relationship between signifier and signified. Signifiers are interrupted, deferred, or relocated.” (Venturino 2008, 278). Zurza, too, makes traditional Tibetan poetic practice “meaningful” by destabilizing this relationship. For example, in “You Won’t Get Far,” the rope that the nomad woman ties around her waist to secure her robe ceases to be a useful tool in everyday pastoral life, and instead becomes a marker of poverty and shame.
Abrahams’s focus on indirection, however, refers only to a single and limited version of signifying (Gates 1983). Signifying also is a tool of parody and intertextual revision of key tropes in African American literature, a “master trope” for African American expressive art. Zurza, too, features in other forms of traditional Tibetan expression, including nahtam, the word Tibetans in Amdo use for folktales. Literally meaning “old speech,” nahtam provide one entertaining source for the transmission of fundamental ideas about human and more-than-human relations in the Tibetan physical and cosmological world, about compassion within the Buddhist framework, about appropriate and inappropriate behavior, and more. Through the feats and exploits of heroic kings, famous Buddhist teachers, beloved buffoons (like Arik Lenpa), and tricksters like Uncle Tonpa, these tales provide traditional “equipment for living” (Burke 1973) in the Tibetan world.
Around the world, traditional tales about tricksters and fools—like the Native American Coyote (see, for example, Toelken and Wasson 1999; Tedlock [1978] 1999; and Ballinger 2006), the Tibetan Uncle Tonpa (Dkon mchog dge legs, Dpal ldan bkra shis, and Stuart 1999; Rwa se dkon mchog rgya mtsho 1996; Rinjing Dorje 1997; Sichuan Sheng Minjian Wenyi Yanjiu Hui 1980; Aris 1987), and the Uyghur trickster Afanti (Yu 1991)—appear to upend social order. These same upheavals often define and reinforce the boundaries of acceptable normal human behavior. At the same time, their life on the “tolerated margin of mess” makes them broker characters, who carry with them possibilities for change (Babcock-Abrahams 1975, 183–86). Stories about tricksters and buffoons frequently accomplish this through doing zurza.
Uncle Tonpa—Tibet’s most renowned trickster (Dkon mchog dge legs, Dpal ldan bkra shis, and Stuart 1999)—is a man of uncommon wit. He steals from the wealthy (Tshe dbang rdo rje et al. n.d., 43), makes fools of lamas, slaughters animals whose lives have been compassionately spared (Sichuan Sheng Minjian Wenyi Yanjiu Hui 1980, 26–28), and makes kings bark like dogs (Benson n.d., 26). In his more bawdy exploits, he sleeps with nuns and with royalty (Rinjing Dorje 1997). To the average Tibetan, these behaviors are incongruous. No king would bark like a dog. It would be undignified and inappropriate to the office! No merchant would give up his belongings without a reasonable hope of return (and profit)! Tsétar—the compassionate Buddhist act of freeing a life so that a particular animal will never be slaughtered (Tan 2016)—would normally preclude all Tibetans from daring to slaughter an animal, even to feed others.
Uncle Tonpa is frequently believed to have been either a single historical figure from Central Tibet (Rwa se dkon mchog rgya mtsho 1996) or an amalgamation of the adventures of many quick-witted Tibetans from the region (Löhrer 2012–13). Whatever the trickster’s true origins, his stories are now known across the Tibetan Plateau, including Amdo (Dkon mchog dge legs, Dpal ldan bkra shis, and Stuart 1999, 6), as with, for example, this story excerpted from a textbook for Tibetan students of English:
Uncle Tonpa’s neighbor planted a juniper tree near Uncle Tonpa’s window. As time passed, the tree grew bigger and bigger, while Uncle Tonpa’s home became darker and darker.
Uncle Tonpa decided that he must do something, broke a branch off the tree, and then went to his neighbor’s home. When the neighbor saw Uncle Tonpa holding the branch, he asked, “Where are you going with that juniper branch?”
Uncle Tonpa replied, “A trader is coming to town today. He is buying juniper branches. I am going to sell it to him. One branch is worth ¥100.”
The neighbor said, “I have a tall juniper tree with many branches. I’ll sell it to him and earn a lot of money.”
Uncle Tonpa said, “True. You probably will get a lot of money. But you’d better hurry, because won’t be in town long.”
His neighbor quickly cut down the tree, cut off all the branches, tied them together in bundles, loaded the bundles on a horse, and led it to town. But when he got there, he couldn’t find any trader willing to give him a large amount of money for his juniper branches. Finally, he exchanged all the branches for a donkey.
When he got back, he went to Uncle Tonpa’s home and angrily said, “You tricked me! There was no juniper dealer in town!”
Uncle Tonpa said, “I didn’t trick you. I told you he wouldn’t be in town for long.”
Afterward, sunshine bathed Uncle Tonpa’s home.
ཨ་ཁུ་སྟོན་པའི་ཁྱིམ་མཚེས་ཀྱིས་ཨ་ཁུ་སྟོན་པའི་སྒེའུ་ཁུང་གི་ཉེ་ས་ནས་ཤུག་སྡོང་ཞིག་བཙུགས། དུས་ཀྱི་འགྲོས་དང་བསྟུན་ནས་སྡོང་བོ་ཇེ་ཆེ་ནས་ཇེ་ཆེར་སོང་བས་ཨ་ཁུ་སྟོན་པའི་ཁང་བའང་སྨུག་ཇེ་ནག་ནས་ཇེ་ནག་ཏུ་སོང་།
ཨ་ཁུ་སྟོན་པས་ཁོས་བྱེད་ཐབས་ཤིག་འཐེན་དགོས་པ་ཐག་གིས་བཅད་ཅིང་སྡོང་བོའི་ཡལ་ག་ཞིག་བཅགས་ནས་ཁོའི་ཁྱིམ་མཚེས་ཚང་དུ་སོང་། ཁྱིམ་མཚེས་ཀྱིས་ཨ་ཁུ་སྟོན་པའི་ལག་ལ་ཡལ་ག་ཞིག་བཟུང་ཡོད་པ་མཐོང་ནས་ཁྱེད་ཀྱིས་ཡལ་ག་དེ་བཟུང་ནས་གང་ལ་འགྲོ་ཞེས་དྲིས།
ཨ་ཁུ་སྟོན་པས་ཚོང་བ་ཞིག་དེ་རིང་གྲོང་བརྡལ་དུ་ཡོང་ཡོད། ཁོས་ཤུག་སྡོང་གི་ཡལ་ག་ཉོ་བཞིན་ཡོད། ངས་ཡལ་ག་ཁོར་འཚོང་རྩིས་བྱེད་བཞིན་ཡོད། ཡལ་ག་གཅིག་ལ་སྒོར་མོ་བརྒྱ་སྟེར་ཞེས་ལན་བཏབས།
ཁྱིམ་མཚེས་ཀྱིས་ང་ལ་ཡལ་ག་མང་པོ་ཡོད་པའི་ཤུག་སྡོང་མཐོན་པོ་ཞིག་ཡོད། ངས་སྡོང་བོ་ཁོར་བཙོངས་ནས་སྒོར་མོ་མང་པོ་རེག་རྒྱུ་ཡིན་ཞེས་ལབ།
ཨ་ཁུ་སྟོན་པས་བདེན་པ་རེད། ཁྱོད་ཀྱིས་ཁྲིགས་ཁྲིགས་མེད་ན་སྒོར་མོ་མང་པོ་རེག་ཐུབ། འོན་ཀྱང་ཁོ་གྲོང་བརྡལ་ནས་ཡུན་རིང་བོར་མི་འདུག་པས་རབ་ཡིན་ན་ཁྱོད་ཀྱིས་མགྱོགས་པོ་བྱེད་དགོས་ཅེས་ལབ།
ཁོའི་ཁྱིམ་མཚེས་ཀྱིས་མགྱོགས་པོར་སྡོང་བོ་བཅད་ཅིང་ཡལ་ག་ཚང་མ་གཞོགས་ནས་དོས་པོར་བསྒྲིལ། དོས་པོ་ཚང་མ་རྟ་ལ་བཀལ་ནས་གྲོང་བརྡལ་ལ་སོང་། འོན་ཀྱང་ཁོ་གྲོང་བརྡལ་ལ་ཐོན་པ་ན་ཁོའི་ཤུག་སྡོང་གི་ཡལ་ག་ལ་སྒོར་མོ་མང་པོ་སྟེར་འདོད་པའི་ཚོང་བ་གཅིག་ཀྱང་མ་རྙེད། མཐའ་མར་ཁོས་ཡལ་ག་ཚང་མ་བོང་བུ་ཞིག་ལ་བརྗེས།
ཁོ་ཕྱིར་ལ་ཐོན་པ་ན་འཚིག་པ་ཟ་བཞིན་དུ་ཨ་ཁུ་སྟོན་པའི་ཁྱིམ་དུ་སོང་ནས་ཁྱོད་ཀྱིས་ང་ལ་མགོ་སྐོར་བཏང་སོང་།གྲོང་བརྡལ་ན་ཤུག་སྡོང་ཉོ་མཁན་མེད་ཅེས་བཤད།
ཨ་ཁུ་སྟོན་པས་ངས་ཁྱོད་ལ་མགོ་སྐོར་མ་བཏང་། ངས་ཁྱོད་ལ་ཁོ་གྲོང་བརྡལ་ནས་ཡུན་རིང་བོ་མི་འདུག་ཅེས་ལབ་མྱོང་ཞེས་ལས་བཏབས།
རྗེས་སོར། ཨ་ཁུ་སྟོན་པའི་ཁང་བར་ཉི་འོད་རྟག (Tshe dbang bsod nams 2006, 64–65)8
Tibetans find favorite exploits like this one to be hilarious, but the enduring feature is their ability to use humor to instruct—to do zurza. In this case, Uncle Tonpa uses the neighbor’s avarice and credulity against him, thereby instructing Tibetans. I have found versions of this story reworked as cartoons and in children’s books. These stories remain essential equipment for living in Tibetan society.
Importantly, the critique in these stories is often far more indirect than in dokwa. Like the unidentified neighbor, the kings and nobles targeted are not historically identifiable individuals but generic character types who draw attention to and motivate Uncle Tonpa’s tricks. The neighbor conned into cutting down his own juniper tree could be your own neighbor who builds a new addition to his or her home that blocks the sunlight from reaching your kitchen. The king who is made to bark like a dog could be any king. Uncle Tonpa’s religious victims are similarly never named but are intended to represent generic monks and lamas. Instead, the witty trickster’s actions parody normative social relations through “ludic inversion” (Bauman 2004, 2) of the established order. In doing so, the stories create critiques in which the powerful people receive the comeuppance their inappropriate behaviors deserve, and provide instruction for audiences about appropriate behaviors. The generic satirical critique seen in Uncle Tonpa’s narratives points to a second—and no less important—form of zurza, which makes a broader and more generic social critique.
Not limited to the oral tradition, Tibetan poets and authors like the renowned early-twentieth-century polymath Gendun Chopel also traditionally used zurza in satirical poems to criticize the behavior of others, including powerful monks. One example is his “Katsom to Labrang” (Labrang la kurwee katsom). Using a traditional form of poetry called katsom, in which each line begins with the next letter of the Tibetan alphabet in order, the iconoclastic intellectual and author sarcastically targets the monastic community in Labrang Monastery, where he had studied until being expelled in 1926. Toward the end of the poem, for example, he writes:
Rather than expelling to distant mountain passes, valleys, and town
One who takes pride in studying the textbooks of Rwa and Bse,
Would it not be better to expel to another place
Those who take pride in selling meat, beer, and smoke? (Lopez 2006, 9–10)
རྭ་བསྡུས་བསེ་བསྡུས་ཤེས་པའི་ང་རྒྱལ་ཅན།།
ལ་ལུང་ཡུལ་གྲུ་གཞན་ལ་སྐྲོད་པ་ལས།།
ཤ་ཆང་དུད་ཚོང་བྱེད་པའི་ང་རྒྱལ་ཅན།།
ས་ཆ་གཞན་དུ་བསྐྲད་ན་ཅིས་མ་ལེགས།། (Dge ’dun chos ’phel [1926] 2017)
Labrang Monastery is one of the key monastic institutions in Amdo and follows the Gelukpa sect of Tibetan Buddhism, which has historically discouraged monks from engaging in income-generating activities. Gendun Chopel compares how he was expelled despite his own pursuit of more praiseworthy activities, while monks who misbehave remain. The sale of meat—which begins with the sinful act of slaughtering a sentient being—and beer would be particularly egregious examples of unbecoming behavior.
Notice that Gendun Chopel’s critique operates differently from the dokwa described above. While dokwa performances target specific individuals, the satiric poem targets a community. The satire, meanwhile, focuses less on individual appearances, and instead on actions perceived to be unbecoming of the religious: the mercantilist practices of the “impure” monks from their community at Labrang, and the blind eye that the monastery’s leaders seem to direct toward them. If even the monks of this prestigious institution engage in such acts, readers are left to conclude, along with the author, that these activities will “destroy the religious teachings,” an accusation made several times throughout the poem. Seventeenth-century Amdo Tibetan Buddhist adept Shar Kalden Jyamtso wrote many songs and poems in which he criticized the behavior of other monks (Sujata 2005, 11) and satirized the wealthy but impious Mongol communities living in Amdo (Sujata 2005, 5). Again, these often critiqued generalized behaviors rather than the appearance or attitudes of specific individuals.
Combined with verbal dueling discussed earlier, Uncle Tonpa’s exploits, Kalden Jyamtso’s songs of spiritual realization and Gendun Chopel’s poems reveal zurza as an important expressive practice for Tibetans in Amdo to create “meaningful” and humorous critiques of others across genre and media. These examples provide a valuable sense of zurza’s flexibility and its links to critique. This included both bitingly sarcastic and person-specific jokes, and more generalized satire targeting behaviors of a broader community or subset of a community. However, with the establishment of the People’s Republic of China, and its incorporation of Tibetan land and communities within its borders, Tibetan traditions and those who practiced them came into sustained contact with political structures, ideologies, and Han cultural practices that authorized new forms of artistic expression.9
Recall from the introduction that Chinese and Tibetan societies were in no way isolated from each other prior to the establishment of the People’s Republic (and especially not in the cultural borderlands of Amdo). The Qing dynasty (1644–1912) stationed “Ambans” and a garrison in Lhasa to represent the Manchu emperor’s government. For centuries, the Amdo region was dotted with local rulers, many of whom held power at least partly thanks to recognition by “China-based imperial states” like the Yuan, Ming, and Qing dynasties (Weiner 2020, 27). Tibetan religious leaders, both in Amdo and in Lhasa, had long maintained contacts with Chinese patrons—including emperors—and viewed China as a Buddhist country (Tuttle 2005, 2). But when the People’s Liberation Army entered Amdo and other Tibetan regions in the 1950s, the Chinese Communist Party began exerting direct control over them to an unprecedented degree, extending into all areas of Tibetan life, including pastoral practice, education, religion, and expression.
In the early years of the People’s Republic of China, as leaders sought ways to promote its Marxist-inspired ideology to Tibetan communities, leaders turned to satire as one potential avenue of expression. In this case, the notion of acceptable satire came filtered through the tentatively sanctioned Chinese concept of fengci, itself a relative neologism used to translate Western words for “satire” (Tian 2014, 3). Mao Zedong in particular embraced fengci-as-satire in his famous wartime “Talks at the Yan’an Forum on Literature and the Arts,” saying:
Should we abolish satire (fengci). No. Satire is always necessary.10 But there are several kinds of satire: There are the ones dealing with enemies, dealing with allies, and dealing with one’s own team, and the attitudes of each is different. We should not, in general, oppose satire, but we must abolish the satire’s indiscriminate use.
In explicitly embracing certain satirical expression, these talks, which shaped much of Mao-era cultural policy, created a space for humorous and artistic expression within the closely monitored Mao-era cultural sphere. This contact with Chinese concepts of satire became so important that many Tibetans and dictionaries now translate zurza into Chinese simply as fengci.
Seizing on this support for satirical cultural production, scholars and collectors of Tibetan culture promoted traditional tales that seemed to satirically target traditional society. The stories of Uncle Tonpa, for example, found advocates who saw them as signs of a nascent class consciousness already existing in Tibetan society. As the introduction to one volume of collected Uncle Tonpa narratives points out, the stories of the trickster’s more Robin Hood–like exploits could
express the irresolvable contradiction between the rulers and the ruled, the serfs and the lords; reflect the suffering Tibetan people’s desire to break their fetters, to liberate themselves, and the unstoppable desire for a better life. The loves and hates of their class are completely clear. (Sichuan Sheng Minjian Wenyi Yanjiu Hui 1980, 3; translation by author)
First published in the immediate aftermath of the Maoist period, during which almost all minority oral traditions were denigrated as “old culture,” this introduction conflates the zurza of Uncle Tonpa narratives with Chinese fengci, suggesting how government support elevated some traditions associated with zurza, while making more personal forms of it even more dangerous.
The emphasis on satire’s appropriate use, aimed at the correct targets, has been an important feature of officially sanctioned cultural production in China for decades. In Tibetan communities, though, where policies essentially layered fengci atop the preexisting concept of zurza, official attempts to cultivate particular forms of satire essentially flattened zurza through deemphasizing personal critique and traditional practices of “signifying” to fit the political expectations of fengci, which targets the enemies of a modern society. At the same time, fengci did not displace Tibetan notions of zurza. Instead, official government support created new opportunities for authors, comedians, and other eloquent young cultural producers to access state-sponsored media channels to use in novel ways. In this way, zurza became a source of Tibetan persistence and presence on media and in everyday life. Even in the most difficult moments of the Maoist and post-Mao reform eras—periods when the Tibetan language and portrayals of Tibetan traditions in media faced tight restrictions—zurza served as one valuable tool for authors, folktale collectors, and others to be seen and heard.
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These oral and written traditions demonstrate that rhetorical and discursive practices that Tibetans associate with zurza are traditionally—meaning historically—a natural part of how those in Amdo understand and inhabit their complex social worlds. Though the examples are decidedly contemporary, they are meant to reference traditional practices dating back to “the old society” before the establishment of the People’s Republic. As with the historical dokwa retold to me as narratives, after the performance, audiences still memorize these poems and repeat them to each other when out on the grasslands or just chatting with friends. They may use them just for general levity, or they might invoke the poems to critique the behaviors and attitudes of their peers.
The continued existence of these forms, alongside the Chinese government’s support for satire, helps to make zurza a potent expressive resource that carries with it the potential for both person-specific and more general behavior-oriented critiques. The poems in the performance described at the beginning of this chapter are illustrative of this. For example, the first poem directly critiques the person of Ruyong Riglo (by name, no less) for his obsession with making money.
The one who goes crazy while talking about wealth,
The one who would jump [off a cliff] when he sees a [yartsa] bug,
The one acts as if released from being tied up.
The one who doesn’t go unless it’s to crawl [in search of yartsa]
From the figurative speech, I couldn’t realize who it was.
When I meditated on it, [I realized] it was Ruyong Riglo.
རྒྱུ་ཞིག་བཟླས་དུས་སྨྱོས་འཇོག་ནོ།།
འབུ་ཞིག་རིག་དུས་ལྕེབས་འཇོག་ནོ།།
བཏགས་ནས་བཞག་སྟེ་ཤོར་འདྲ་བོ།།
གོག་ནས་མིན་ནས་མི་འགྲོ་ནོ།།
ཆགས་བཞག་ནས་ཅི་ཡིན་མ་ཤེས་ཐལ།།
མཉམ་བཞག་དུས་རུ་ཡོང་རིག་ལོ་རེད།།
Placed on stage, however, and satirizing the behavior of a fictional character, the personal critique also makes a broader one about changing Tibetan attitudes in the twenty-first century.
Nevertheless, dokwa and many other oral traditions do face strong headwinds. Again, the old frenemies Ruyong Riglo and Drijya Yangkho provide some clues about this as they wrap up their verbal duel and move on to other topics. At the end of their duel, the pastoralist Yangkho reaches a point at which he runs out of steam and lamely says:
Look! Today it doesn’t come like that into my mouth.
ལྟོས་དང་། དེ་རིང་ཁ་ནང་ལ་དེ་མོ་ཞིག་མ་ཡོང་ཐལ།
In response, the caterpillar fungus digger casually throws out an opinion:
These days, as we live and live, our mouths and tongues become inept.
དེང་སང་བསྡད་ཀྱིན་བསྡད་ཀྱིན་ངེད་ཚོའི་ཁ་ལྕེ་ལྐུག་གོད་གི
The conversation eventually heads off in other directions, but the idea that Tibetans have, in recent years, become inarticulate or verbally incompetent (in the sense of being less able to fluently perform traditional genres) contrasts starkly with the notion of khabde, discussed above, as a key element of Tibetan verbal art. As people’s livelihoods change, and as younger generations increasingly spend time away from their home communities to attend schools, traditional ideas of eloquence are likely changing. Scripted eloquence seems to largely replace impromptu performance, and the understandings and expectations surrounding zurza change. Chapter 2 begins the discussion with the emergence of satirical comedic dialogues in the 1980s, when zurza becomes a crucial tool for comedians and authors to envision new, Tibetan forms of modernity in the post-Mao period.