A whistle stop visit to London for the funeral of a friend. Riga, a Tibetan exile I’ve known for more than 40 years, passed without ever getting back to the homeland she’d had to flee as a child. A fierce and strong woman I remember her mainly for always challenging me on male hegemony, and my part in the patriarchy. She was very active in feminist issues in general, and Tibetan Women’s groups in particular.
In the 1980s and early 90s there were many cultural evenings in London where members of the Tibetan diaspora would spend days making food for the event, and the Tibetan beer – Chhyang. There was always plenty of the latter left over at the end of the evening and Riga and I would sit up to the early hours drinking our way through it, smoking fags (it was allowed indoors then!) laughing, talking and putting the world to rights. That is when we weren’t in a pub with the others after the evening protest outside the Chinese embassy, having been repeatedly photographed by shadowy figures inside.
The embassy protests seemed always to be in winter and we’d stand in the freezing cold, opposite the embassy, outside the RIBA building on the other side of the road because they not only allowed us space there but also use of their toilets inside. (big up to the Royal Institute of British Architects – thanks, guys). There were separate groups of Uyghurs and the Falun Gong, also protesting. We never hung out with the Falun Gong but the Uyghurs, despite being Muslim, always came to the pub with us after the vigil and were impressively hard drinkers.
One Uyghur chap we knew, several pints in, once enthusiastically invited us all round to his place for a Uighur barbecue some day. He told us how they make a great fire pit with hot rocks, then throw a lamb in and cover it with earth to let it slow cook while we’d sit around drinking – i think it was vodka, but i may be misremembering that – before feasting, singing and dancing ‘til the wee hours. Anyway it never happened, or maybe i missed it but it sounded a lot of fun.
Riga often seemed happiest with a pint in one hand and a fag in the other but, much as she loved living in London, I know it hurt she never got to return. I haven’t seen Riga much since moving to Sheffield seven years ago but I shall miss her.
