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Castle in the Clouds

Engineers Without BordersIs there a culturally sensitive way to introduce an ancient Tibetan people to the latrine?


At 14,000 feet, each breath carries only about half as much oxygen as at sea level. Already, one member of our party, overcome by altitude sickness, has had to be evacuated to a lower elevation. There are six of us now—three engineering students, two liberal arts students (of whom I am one), and our faculty adviser, Professor Douglas Matson—all members of the newly formed Tufts chapter of a national organization called Engineers Without Borders. Crammed into a 454, we are traversing a Himalayan pass in the direction of Gyapthang, a small community in the Tibetan Autonomous Region. We hope to help raise living standards there by introducing "appropriate" technology, designs that take the local environment, culture, and economy into account.

> > Watch a video retrospective of the group's time in Tibet
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Just five years ago, Gyapthang's population was almost entirely nomadic. The government built houses and provided running water, which, in turn, settled the community. No longer moving from place to place, the people of Gyapthang face depleted resources and problems managing human waste. Firewood can take many hours a day to gather now that sparse tree cover is receding up the mountains, and the open latrines aren't adequate to contain bacteria and the spread of disease. Along with other students back at Tufts, we have developed two designs to address these new complications: a solar cooker and a closed self-composting latrine.

We don't expect to build any permanent structure on this trip, only to gather information. Is the community interested in the designs? What materials are available? Where do bacteria, which our latrine is designed to control, fit into the Buddhist understanding of life? Actual construction, we assume, will wait for another trip.

A strong sun is up when we arrive among Gyapthang's 105 houses. Made of stone and mud with corrugated steel roofs, they are perfectly aligned in 15 rows, their red doors numbered in the order of the homes' construction. The leader of this town of 750 people and the head of the Women's League come to welcome us, sticking out their tongues in the Tibetan sign of respect. They invite us to tea.

"As we sip, I worry that our presence might have unintended consequences. But I am reassured when the head of the Women's League tells us, through a translator, 'If we are to survive as a people, we must learn from you.'"

As we sip, I worry that our presence might have unintended consequences. Suppose the arrival of affluent, digital camera-toting Westerners were to sow discontent, or the community were to grow dependent on materials or technologies we introduce. But I am reassured when the head of the Women's League tells us, through a translator, "If we are to survive as a people, we must learn from you."

In the dusty courtyard of the community center, we hold a town meeting. It is there that the community members throw us into a mild panic. Not only do they want a latrine, they tell us, but they want it now. Construction can begin after the coming festival, in two days. We exchange apprehensive glances. Bringing a blueprint of a trailer-sized structure to life with scant construction experience—and before our permits expire, just 10 days from now—is a daunting prospect. We barely have time to plan when the Harvest Festival is upon us.

Engineers Without Borders

Working together during the construction process.

The festival is said to be more than 1,400 years old, a remnant of the Bön religion that preceded Buddhism here. Men come down from the mountains, where for two weeks they've been collecting caterpillar fungus, an expensive ginseng-like medicine. The children return from boarding school. Others return from construction jobs in neighboring towns. A growing excitement spreads along the dirt streets as the stone houses fill with reuniting families.

On the morning of the festival, we are invited into a courtyard, where women in traditional red and turquoise jewelry and brightly colored aprons pour chang, a homemade barley beer, from teakettles and gasoline canisters. The monk sitting beside us refuses and drinks his butter tea instead. We cover our cups with our hands when we've had enough, but the women pour between our fingers; it's both courtesy and novelty to have us drunk. Men race horses along the main road, and afterward, scriptures are sashed to people's backs as a flag bearer, a drummer, and a conch-blower lead everyone around the fields in a half-day procession, praying for a bumper harvest. (continued)

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Profile written by Elliot Hirshon, Class of 2005

Tibet photos by Elliot Hirshon (A'05) and Sarah Freeman (E'05)

This story ran online on July 16, 2007. It originally appeared in the Spring 2007 edition of Tufts Magazine.