That's entertainment

The town of Deqin has one winding main street lined with mostly two-story buildings. Ground-floor shops sell Tibetan prayer flags, farming supplies, and colorful clothing. Music blares from VCD shops playing karaoke versions of traditional folk songs. Three and four-table restaurants prepare dumplings, noodles, and flatbreads from sidewalk kitchens.

Deqin was our base for trips into the countryside. You can walk the town from end to end before breakfast. We spent parts of several days there and were always looking for new diversions. Downtown may be only a few blocks long but there are many more streets on the outskirts where people live.

Wandering in a neighborhood of grey brick apartments, our eyes were drawn to a pair of bright red columns flanking an open front door. Being a foreigner, you can get away with being a lot more nosy than local people. This looked like a public building, so we walked in and started poking around.

Inside, the walls and ceilings were painted with elaborate murals and floral designs. There was a prince leading a tiger on a leash. A range of mountains stretched across a wall the full length of one room. We passed through a doorway crowned with the skull of a bull; a white scarf was tangled in its horns. The space felt like a courtyard, with light streaming through from a sklight covered by draped tent fabric. Low Tibetan tables and benches encircled a dance floor.

At first we had been worried about getting caught, but after several minutes without seeing anyone, we now cared more about finding someone who could explain where we were. We climbed a steep set of stairs and followed the sound of voices.

In a small office, a staff member told us this was a Tibetan cultural center. When tourists were in town, they could arrange for a performance. But putting on a show is a big deal, so they can't afford to do it casually. They asked us - how many people are in your group? Well, two people is not a group by anybody's measure, so we were out of luck. If we had a mobile phone they could call us when a group was in town, but without that we'd just have to check back whenever we could.

The next day, there was still no show scheduled. They were rehearsing, though, and invited us to watch. Three men wearing street clothes danced to Tibetan karaoke. Despite their ordinary outfits, their movements were captivating. Tibetan dancing, like Tibetan singing, has grown from an interest and dependence on horseback riding. The movements are very athletic and exuberant, almost ecstatic. The songs are filled with cowboy whoops and hollers, as if they can't believe their good fortune, riding the open range under clear blue skies.

The rehearsal was exciting, but it only made us more eager to see a show. We came back every day to see if maybe there would be a performance that night. It began to feel like a joke; we'd politely ask if any tour groups would be coming and they'd politely tell us, no not tonight, maybe tomorrow. I wondered if they *ever* gave performances, or if they just kept practicing in hopes of someday having an audience.

On our last night in Deqin I half expected then to say, "Look, nobody is coming tonight; nobody ever comes, but if you really want to see some singing and dancing, we'll put on a show just for the two of you." We had been so persistent; I imagined them feeling sorry for us and indulging our curiosity. Plus they'd finally get a chance to perform, even if only for two people. So at first, I didn't know what think when they said yes, there would be a show tonight at 8 o'clock.

We made a point of getting there early. Initially it felt like just another rehearsal. Four male dancers were practicing moves, going over the same song again and again. They were in traditional costume now - shirts with absurdly long sleeves hanging almost to the floor, and coats held on with a belt, with only the left arm inserted into a sleeve.

Several staff members were busy with preparations, adjusting the sound system, setting up extra tables, putting snacks in dishes. So far, we were the only guests. We took seats in the front row and munched on roasted barley grains and sour Tibetan cheese. Soon we were served hot cups of freshly brewed butter tea, along with a supplementary bowl of barley powder, in case we wanted to make our tea "stronger."

It was almost 9 o'clock before the first Chinese guests stated passing through the door. There were some women and a few children but mostly lots of men. The men walked into the room tentatively and cautiously. It's possible that the grandeur of performance space was inspiring awe, but a simpler explanation is that most of the men were close to falling-down drunk.

In everyday situations, Chinese men rarely drink; drinking is reserved for special occasions. These men were on vacation and it was pretty clear now why they were an hour late. Men don't drink often, so they make up for it by drinking a lot. I felt like I was at a dance in a high school gymnasium, where everyone had been partying first out in the parking lot, giving priority to getting loaded.

The hostesses served the new arrivals Tibetan butter tea, then bowed to reality and filled small shot glasses with Chinese grain alcohol. Many cups of butter tea cooled and congealed, many more shot glasses were enthusiastically downed and refilled.

With little fanfare and less attention, the performance had begun. Between the drinking, the smoking, and the shouting, there wasn't much interest in the show. It's too bad, because some of the acts were spectacular. My favorite was when the four men danced in a circle, each playing a musical instrument that looked a little like a banjo; that is, if the banjo were played with a bow, and had a drum-shaped head covered in snakeskin. The men held the instruments at about hip level, poking it out ahead of them as they danced. The effect was a little bit like Rambo and a little bit like Chuck Berry. They even did a sort of duck walk as they circled the room.

I doubt that anyone else appreciated the similarity, not because no one else was familiar with Chuck Berry, but because no one else was watching. For the drinkers, the Tibetan singers and dancers were about as notable as a whore-house piano player, providing nothing more than a little atmosphere for the more important business. Toasting was the main preoccupation, and nothing stood in the way. When someone wanted to offer a toast, he would just stride across the dance floor, regardless of the performers, and loudly down drinks with his buddies.

The Tibetans smiled professionally throughout their performance, but it couldn't have been easy to maintain their enthusiasm with this crowd. After who knows how many weeks of rehearsals in an empty room, they now had a full house of drunks paying no attention to them.

We have often wondered how the majority Han Chinese view ethnic minorities like the Tibetans. That night, I found myself wondering just the opposite.

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