I write this from the eastern edge of the formerly independent region of Tibet. The small city of Kangding is tucked into a snow-capped valley just below the rim of the treeless, windy Tibetan Plateau. The ZeDuo River bisects town at a steep and constant class II then cranks up to class V below town before dumping into the big and surly Dadu River, which has the look and feel of B.C.’s Fraser River in flood.

I’m here as an ecotourism consultant at the request of the state government. Though it’s an area far off the beaten path, one where others rarely travel, the regional authorities are eyeing ecotourism as a means of conserving their beautiful landscape while providing sustainable economic growth. For the last two weeks I’ve worked with officials, entrepreneurs and educators to develop ecotourism training programs.

Workshop participants are eager to record my every word in their intricate Chinese script. They write busily and without discussion, unwilling to show disrespect by questioning ‘Teacher Jeff’. Occasionally, during frequent cigarette breaks, someone will apologize and slip my interpreter an anonymous note. On the second to last day I was asked: “How do we get local citizens to embrace environmental protection?” I didn’t have a meaningful answer.

At 1.3 billion people and an economy growing at 10 per cent annually—four times faster than any other developed nation—China has some of the most severe environmental problems on the planet: air pollution, erosion, loss of biodiversity, toxic water, river diversions, salinization and the

plain accumulation of trash are worse here than anywhere else I have been. As China accelerates towards “First World” status, and embraces the consumption that apparently goes along with it, all of these problems will get worse, possibly doubling the environmental impact humans inflict on the planet.

Officially, environmental protection is a vested national principle, but it has always taken a back seat to economic development. It’s a principle that has tangible meaning, however, to rural and traditional villagers, who have worked hard to conserve their landscape in order to hand it on to future generations. Folk songs swoon over the beauty of the Tibetan mountains and rivers, but they don’t mention the raw sewage, construction debris, animal guts and trash being dumped directly into the rivers in accelerating quantities. The ZeDuo is awash in garbage. Plastic bags mark the waterline, advertising in bright blue their slow degrading presence.

Canada was in a similar situation once, albeit with a fraction of the population on a bigger land mass. A concerted effort by activists and the integration of environmental education into the school system has slowly moved our national consciousness forward, although we still have a long way to go. Note the number of coffee cups floating in your home river.

China has markedly low education rates, having 20 per cent of the world’s population but spending only 1 per cent of the world’s education budget. In many cases, environmental degradation is the outgrowth of ignorance in people who have never been to school, nor been very far downstream to see what happens to the shit they throw in the river.

But with development also comes some progress, progress rooted in tradition. Liu Hong is a 30-year-old visionary who speaks fluent Tibetan, Mandarin, and a smattering of English. He travelled six hours by bus to come to one of the workshops. He has written a book on Tibetan culture, and won an award for his educational efforts.

Hong travels the countryside teaching locals how to preserve their culture in the face of massive economic change, and urges them to preserve their landscape. How does he do this? He invokes the writing of Buddha, who wrote that to pick a flower is to take a life. Liu builds on this idea within modern contexts and encourages communities to make their homes a place for “100,000 flowers to grow.” For this, he promises, they will be rewarded. My visit there was proof that some part of the state government thinks he is right.

The next day I shared the story of Hong with the last workshop group, including my anonymous question writer. It brought appreciative nods from all, and I could see thoughtful recognition on the faces of many. An environmental ethic is not about right and wrong—it is about making people proud of who they are, and proud of their home. It is as true in North America as in China, and it was as true in Buddha’s time as it is today. Liu Hong is reminding people of this, and is making a difference in the grasslands of Tibet.

Jeff Jackson is a professor of the outdoor program at Algonquin College in Pembroke, Ontario. 

This article first appeared in the Fall 2005 issue of Rapid Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions here. 

The mighty hunter returned. No duck or goose had accepted the invitation to dinner. No matter. They would eke out a meal from the 25-pound salmon they’d caught earlier.

To cook it, they built not so much a campfire as a Viking funeral pyre. As the fish baked on its plank, one of them produced a pil- low-sized bag of B.C.’s largest cash crop and proceeded to build a joint with dimensions that would have met NFL regulations for an official pigskin. They politely offered me a toke, but I had to decline. I suffer not so much from Reefer Madness as from Reefer Mellowness; the only time I’d accepted similar hospitality, my pad- dling mileage had been cut in half for two days afterward.

To accompany this appetizer, a 40-ouncer of whiskey appeared as an aperitif. This being more familiar territory for me, I gladly accepted a glass — and then another, and then another. At one point I expressed reservations about the inroads we were making into their liquor supply. Not to worry, one of my new friends assured me with a rib-rattling slap across the back; they had a full bottle for each day of their trip.

It had come out in conversation that Dwayne and Wayne were loggers. I managed to concentrate fiercely and refrain from singing Monty Python’s “The Lumberjack Song.” But I could not resist asking them about how they’d gotten into kayaking—I’d always stereotyped lumberjacks as more comfortable on ATVs or PWCs. It was pure impulse, as Dwayne explained. He thought those funny-looking tourists were having fun so one day, flush with a bonus cheque, he dropped into the local kayak store and bought a boat, persuading his friend Wayne to do likewise.