Aug. 20 - Sept. 9, 2006Pictures: http://jengill.smugmug.com/gallery/1810536----------------------
I'm waiting to get on an airplane talking to a nice middle-aged American couple.
"I was there 15 years ago and it was so much better."
She's going on and on like all older travelers do: when this place was real... before it became popular...before email and cell phones.
My brother used to do the same thing with music, when he still listened to new music. "I was into Phish before anyone was into Phish. They suck now."
I cut the lovely women off. "Nothing is like is used to be."
The profoundness of my own comment shuts us both up. I gotta write that down. Oh, that's good.
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My most recent travel lull is over. I'm in Lhasa, Tibet at 3650 meters / 11,975 feet - the highest capital city in the world. Woooooo-hooooooo!
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My initial impressions of Lhasa swung from veneration to dread and back again.
There is the Potala - the former residence of the Dali Lama. It's white and maroon stand brilliant against the clean Himalayan sky. Wow. How did I get so lucky? I decide not to go inside. Once again, the government has taken what should be a spiritual, moving experience and turned it into a money maker - one from which local Tibetans don't benefit. The day before you want to enter the Potala, you must get in line at 6 or 7 am. At around 9am, you are giving a number. At 11am, that number is used to stand in another line to obtain tickets for the next day. The 100 yuan ($12 US) permits you to walk in a crowded and chaotic line (most of your fellow travelers are Chinese) through a hallowed out reminder of the slaughter of innocent monks and Tibetan civilians, the 14th Dalai Lama forced into exile, and the continued genocide of the Tibetan culture. No thanks. I will stand in front and let the sanctity of this icon to Buddhism do from the outside what I know can no longer be done from within.
Across the street from the Potala, the Chinese have constructed an ugly cement public square with a soulless, sharp Communist sculpture. Continuing eastward on Beijing Lu (Road) is like walking through any Chinese town: clothing and shoe shops, China Mobile and Telecom outlets, noodle joints and the familiar red and green sidewalk tiles. And for some reason, I didn't expect Lhasa to have stop lights, or brand new Mercedes' rolling around. Most of the ATMs don't work, and that makes me feel better.
The old city retains some character and charm, despite it being tourist driven. Narrow alleys lay between whitewashed or grey brick buildings, all with the Tibetan style window with the frame narrowing at the top. Outdoor gear shops, boutiques, souvenir stalls and restaurants line the two main streets.
And the food here is GOOD! Momos (One of the best food names ever, along with bamba and banufie - big points if you know what those last two are.), naan, chicken tikka, chai. I'm getting closer to India. Ummmmm!
At the center of the center is Jokhang Monastery: small only in size. Throughout the day, Tibetans do the ritualistic "kora": circling clockwise a sacred site. Pilgrims slowly walk the circumference while repeating mantras and spinning a hand held prayer wheel or fingering mala beads. Other devout Buddhists will prostrate themselves in front of the monastery or do the kora while prostrating. The latter being much more time consuming. Koras can be done around anything considered sacred, such as Mt. Kailash. That particular kora takes at least 3 days.
Like the rest of what China considers China, accommodation options in Lhasa are like the rest of Lhasa - lacking a middle class. You can get a room for $4 (dorm with stinky bathroom down the hall and shower across the courtyard) or $24 (a double room with attached stinky bathroom). Of course there are nice places. They are booked up by rich senior citizens who think that they can come to Tibet for two weeks, acclimatize sufficiently in 2 days and then go on a little stroll at 5000 meters.
The needy German woman (remember her?) and her travel mate, Wolfgang, have been kind enough to save me a bed in their 3-person room. Turns out location isn't everything. The staff at this fine establishment clean the toilets once a day, before anyone actually wakes up and uses them. The construction workers across the street start their day at 6am and end well after midnight. Taxi drivers speed down this side street compulsively honking their horns no matter the hour or amount of traffic. And a group of hip Japanese have made the outdoor hallway their hangout spot. They eat fast food from Dicos (a popular Chinese chain) at midnight while someone's 2 year old runs screaming up and down the corridor. All this is fine because I can't sleep. Altitude. I hide under my blankets with headlamp and book while Eva snores and mumbles.
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Tibet is probably the worst country to be a solo traveler. Public buses are scarce, though there always seems to be the hardcore traveler who figures out when they leave and how to get them to stop for a foreigner. Hitchhiking is also possible, but difficult. More on that later.
The norm is for a group of 4 or 5 people to rent an SUV. If you come to Tibet with 4 or 5 people - no problem. If you come to Tibet alone, you spend your 5 days acclimatizing in Lhasa going from guesthouse to guesthouse, posting notices for the trek or trip you want to do all the while checking other postings to see if any match your criteria. All day long, walking up and down the street, checking email, going back to see if there are new postings, checking email again, meeting with possible trekking mates, checking email again, meeting other possible trekking mates. What a pain in the ass!
(A tangent: During one of many Internet sessions there is this horrible Asian-electronica playing. But the music is familiar. What is that? Oh, it's that Jewish dance "Mayim Mayim Mayim". And there's not even an Israeli in the place for me to laugh with.)
I happened to meet a Dutch girl who was interested in going to Mt. Kailash. Sounds good to me. And we begin our search for 2 or 3 others. This is a big trip - 15 days and close to $1000 what with auto rental, guest houses, food, and proper clothing. That's $1000 per person: chicken scratch for all y'all that don't venture out of AmARica. Compared to other treks or tours in Asia, this is high end touring.
After a couple days, we meet a group of 4 who want to do the Kailash trip in 2 cars of 3 each. More money but much more comfortable. But the search has taken too long. Geri has a deadline. She has a job waiting for her at home. Some other members of the 4 person group also have planes to catch. If one thing goes wrong - we have to wait a day because someone is sick, the car breaks down - one thing, people miss their flights and trains. That could mean that we would have to turn back early, and thus, my trip that I've spent $1000 would be kaput.
Both Geri and I decide we don't want to take the chance. We have smartly doubled up on bulletin board notices and now have 2 others interested in the popular 6 day Ganden Monastery to Samye Monastery trek. It covers 80 kilometers and reaches a peak of 5200 meters / 17, 060 feet. At a total cost of 9000 yuan ($1,125 US), we're each paying $280.
At the last minute an Israeli couple joins us, knocking the price down to $180 - a much more manageable price, but I still can't fathom what could cost so much. Some rice, some bread, some water. We're not even taking an SUV.
The organizing agent doesn't like my questioning him about this.
"You ask other people. They do trek. They know. "
"But I'm asking you. I'm giving my money to you."
I decide to let it go. I don't need another crying tour agent on my conscience. This time I will be agreeable. In any case, I was out-voted by this group long ago. Or was that yesterday?
We're paying our balance the day before departure and our trekking guide has come to meet us. "Vinni" is wearing a black leather jacket, black slacks, black dress shoes with pointed toes and shades. This guy is Tibetan slick. He pounds his chest and announces, "I am joking guy. I like joke. We have good time. We laugh." Oh shit! None of us are laughing.
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At 10am on Friday morning we are picked up by a private mini-bus for the 3 hour drive to our starting point - Ganden Monastery. Our own bus! Not bad.
It is with open mouths that we watch our guide and cook - yes, we have a cook - load the bus: our packs, tents, sleeping bags, sleeping mats, sacks of vegetables and grains, cases of water, pots and pans, 15 dozen eggs (we're trekking with eggs?), a portable 2 burner stove and two propane tanks.
How are we carrying all this you wonder? Along with our guide and cook, this package includes 7 transport yaks and 3 yak men. I'm beginning to think that this is going to be $190 well spent.
"Hey everyone. Let's take a group photo." I am upbeat and positive. And let me tell you, it ain't easy.
As if planned, all 5 fellow trekkers simultaneously groan.
Wow. This is going to be a fun group. I sink into my seat at the front of the bus, and plug into the iPod. What a buzz kill.
While I listen to Spoon, let's get familiar with the players:
Geri: Dutch. 31 years old. Works at the Van Gogh Museum. Nice girl with an edge that she keeps somewhat hidden. But she laughs at my vulgarity and cynicism, so I know there's some fire in there. She is not, in the least, playful or silly. Maybe she would be with guys. But I have a hard time having fun with her. She can neither frame a photograph nor get it in focus and gets annoyed that I make her do several shots. We have, however, organized this group, we trek at almost the same speed and we're both recent non-smokers. We get along fine.
Marja: Dutch (not traveling with Geri). 56 years old. Lesbian (the butch kind). Physical Therapist. She's a friendly woman who's English skills are no where near those of Geri's. Conversation can be slow. She licks her lower lip constantly like a cow. It begins to gross me out and I have to turn away. Marja is the oldest of the group and the most fit. She ends up leaving us all in the dust on the uphills. Wow.
Gregory: German. Around 40. Gregory gets sick our second day and, led by a local, follows the valley back out to the main road. Just as well. He was nice, but humorless.
Nadav and Anat: Israeli. 32 and 27 respectively. They both teach in universities and are working towards PhDs - Nadav in some branch of psychology and Anat in film studies. They're an interesting couple but still in the honeymoon phase of their relationship. They cannot keep their hands off each other. Holding hands while hiking. Stopping to kiss every 5 minutes. It's disgusting, not to mention rather inconsiderate to the rest of us who are getting a constant reminder of recent lost loves. Each night Geri sets up her tent as far away from them as possible.
There we have it. A bunch of nice, friendly people with no inclination towards buffoonery and little in common except this 17,000 foot challenge we will face together.
(I have no idea why I can't bring myself to say anything nastier about these people. I was so emotional on the Mongolian tour. I had strong feelings, one way or another, for each person. Now, I can barely muster one biting or sassy remark. I already feel bad about that cow-lip-licking jibe, no matter how true it may be.
I attribute this the composition of the tour itself. In Mongolia, we had to do everything ourselves: cook, clean, pack, sit in a car all day. Now, all we have to do is walk. There's no discussion about what and when we'll eat. They feed us. There are no decisions to be made, except where to take a dump. And there's no car to be load. While I claim expertise in car packing, I know not one thing about yak packing. I leave that to the pros - our Yak Men: Larry, Moe and Curly.
The lesson here? Group decision making is a bitch. Leadership is a vital component of effective troop moral, progression and mission success. Problems always arise when 2 entities claim superior knowledge and, thus, vie for power. This is why all of my sister's bosses have found her "difficult". This is why all teenagers should be shipped off to boarding school.
Therefore, I do not question the Yak Man in how best to tie flammables to a mammal. And cranky Irishmen should not question me on how to best pack a vehicle. (Can you get a Masters in Closet Organizing?)
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And so the adventure begins. Welcome to...
BROKE YAK MOUNTAIN
Day 1 - Acclimatizing at Ganden Monastery.Starting Altitude: 3650 meters
Peak: 4500 meters
Sleeping Altitude: 4300 meters
We zigzag up a dirt road for nearly an hour to reach the monastery. "Vinni" tells us that the Chinese want to pave this section so that tour buses can more easily make the climb. "They will only hire Chinese workers. They don't want to pay Tibetan people." This is the first of many understandably bitter comments "Vinni" will make concerning the evil Chinese regime. Such criticism will never be heard in Lhasa. I guess it's safe to speak your mind out here, in the absence of police (plane-clothed or otherwise) and the ever-growing majority of Han Chinese neighbors.
Ganden Monastery charges a 45 yuan ($5.60 US) entrance fee. We're all waiting at the gate for Anat and Nadav. They've stopped for a quick grope. The monk cashier hands them their tickets and they ask, "Discount possible?" I guess I would have been disappointed if an Israeli missed one opportunity to save some shekalim.
"Can't you guys ever just pay the price?"
"What? What price? We ask because we get."
This is true.
We cruise the grounds. There isn't much happening. Where is everyone? One monk in trainers stands in the shade of the meditation hall while talking on his cell phone.
We do a acclimatization kora around the monastery. Even a slight incline dictates a pause for breath. But things are going well so far. I don't feel as if my head will explode anytime in the near future.
We've set up our tents about 500 feet below the monastery. You should always sleep lower then you climb. When we return from our walk, Cookie (Yes, I am calling the cook "Cookie".) has...cookies for us. It's like coming home from school and being greeted by your mom with a plateful of Nutter Butters and a glass of 2% milk. That is, of course, unless you're parents were divorced when you were six and you're mom worked all the time and your father was with his "other family" and you were met at your front door by...well, no one, but you could hear your babysitter in the living room making out with her boyfriend, which is a truly comforting sound.
Um. Ok...
While enjoying our cookies and Nescafe, "Vinni" tells us a little story. (I do not claim any responsibility for the accuracy of this account. While it is wholy plausable, there are some logistical loopholes that I thought better not to bring up at the time. "Vinni" is a proud man and who am I to question his hardships.)
When Vinni (I'm going to stop using quotation marks now. Do we all understand that this is not his real name?) was 20 years old he walked to Dharamsala in northern India with 30 others. For those of you who don't know, Dharamsala is where the Dalai Lama now resides. He stayed and studied with the Dalai Lama for 3 years. When he came back to Tibet the Chinese government accused him of "knowing about politics" and he was incarcerated for 2 months. He must still check in with the authorities each month - a type of probation.
My one question would have been, "Why did you come back?"
While Vinni's story may or may not be true, this one certainly is:
"China tries to gag climbers who saw Tibet killings"http://news.independent.co.uk/world/asia/article1834347.ece--------------------------------
On a happier note, here's the dinner menu for night #1: homemade french fries, dahl, rice, green beans with garlic, meat (I didn't ask) and cabbage. Delicious!
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Day 2 - A Little 6 Hour Warm UpStarting Altitude: 4300 meters
Sleeping Altitude: 4550 meters
As we leave camp for our first real day of trekking Cookie hands out little bagged lunches. Naan, hard boiled eggs, corn on the cob and a banana. I love this man.
We have begun to pass by local farmers/herdsman out on the mountain for the summer. They construct tents from canvas similar to a ger but not nearly as stable or waterproof (Not that a ger is water proof. It's not!) and hang out here for a few months while the animals graze. Down below, other members of the family collect and store feed for the winter months. Vinni says that when he was a boy this is what his family did. His job was to collect dung, which he found to be great fun. "Hey kids, instead of going to Disneyland, we're going to stack yak shit."
Vinni tells us not to speak Chinese to locals. I guess he's talking to me because no one else in the group knows any Chinese.
Today I'm trying to improve my skills in describing landscape. Let's see how I do.
Geri says that this area looks like Scottland. So now I know what Scottland looks like: coarse grass covering rocky hills and mountian tops covered in early morning mist.
That sucked. Another one...
The mountains meet the valleys abruptly, like gigantic dinosaur feet stepping out of the sky.
Eh. Maybe a little bit better. One more...
From here you can see the earth. And I'm talking "the earth": the folds and cracks, the fissures and bumps, the water sculpted rocks and paths. Every single time it is a wonder.
I like that one.
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It rained for the last hour or so of hiking today. I will be very unhappy if I'm trekking in rain for the next 4 days. I will die of exposure. I'll have to get my toes amputated. Can I turn back now?
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Day 3 - THE BIG DAY Starting Altitude: 4550 meters
Peak - Shuga La Pass: 5200 meters
Sleeping Altitude: 4700 meters
10k in 8 hours
"My tent leaks!" I am not happy this morning. I'm cold, it's way too early and I'm still a non-smoker.
Vinni is a problem solver. "You can sleep in my tent tonight." Huh? What? Is my trekking guide hitting on me? In front of everyone? I bet he's never tried this before. Not that I'm flattered. It's pretty much me or the Dutch lesbian. But he isn't unattractive. I'm sure he's banking on the "cute Tibetan trekking guide" novelty factor. I'm equally as sure that it's worked for him in the past. Then again, I'm not quite sure he knows my name.
I ignore him and eat my muesli with yak milk.
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The trek today will be told from the point of view of my hiking boots...
I am the only birthday present she has any memory of her brother ever giving her. Usually he would steal the birthday cash from the grandparents and go see Star Wars again. So, I'm special. Since I was aquired 5 years ago, I, like my owner, have aged considerabley. We've been to a lot of places. Climbed a lot of hills. Spent many an hour exposed to the elements: wind and rain, sun and salt. These things take their toll.
I know I'm almost finished but if I can make it 3 more weeks I might be given a proper burial or, better yet, be bronzed.
It's only Day 3 of a 6 day trek. It poured last night and the leaky tent dripped straight into the right one of me. I am sopping.
There is no trail here. The wide meadow curves upward on both sides toward the grey, craggy mountain peaks. Master and I weave through rocks and boulders, mud and lumpy grass mounds which hide the web of passages water takes from the mountain tops.
Stepping over one such small rock my lazy-ass owner has scraped the tip of my right toe for the 3,742nd time. Why can't this girl pick up her feet! The entire front half of my sole has become detached. Ms. "I've traveled all over Asia by myself" has broken a cardinal rule of travel: always carry duct tape!
Flipity flop we go for another 2.5 hours up and 3 hours down. She's particularly careful not to snag me on anything on the downhill. Killed because of a lack of adhesive. Not the way I imagine she wants to go.
The horny Israelis end up saving me and my governess from 3 more days of misery. Along with K.Y. they're carrying Superglue. I am whole again, and unlike my owner, good as new.
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The hiking boots are warming by the double burner stove. The rest of us sit outside taking advantage of some sunlight and almost too exhausted to make a cup of Nescafe. A grueling eight hour day. Maybe I'll be able to sleep tonight. Sometimes I wonder why I do these things. High altitude sleeping is not fun. Actually, it's not sleep. So Nadav's vomiting doesn't disturb me at all. He's not doing well at all. But there's no where to go but forward. With a schadenfreude-esk grin and chuckle, the Dutch lesbian makes a misandrist little comment about how the men have become ill and all the women are doing fine. I don't feel so bad now about the cow-lip-licking wisecrack.
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After dinner Vinni comes into my tent to give me a massage. Yes, I know what this means, but I could really use a massage. This is an all-too-common conundrum: do I give this man permission to touch me when all I really want is the freakin' massage? Two minutes into the shoulder rub he tries the ol' reach around. This is the conversation that follows:
"Stop."
"Why"
"Because"
"Why"
"Because"
"But I love you."
"Get out."
I figured his sexual maturity was that of a 16 year-old. Thus, the "cute Tibetan trekking guide" novelty is far overrided by the fear of having some maladroit slobber all over me
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Day 4 - EAR POPPING DESCENT
Starting Altitude: 4700 meters
Peak - Chitu La Pass: 5040 meters
Sleeping Altitude: 3800 meters
6.75 hours trek time
Uhg. I have to describe nature again.
Today was a miraculous day. We go through 4 types of landscapes and drop over 3000 feet. The summit is above the tree line. Boulders, over the past few thousand years, have been freed from the fortified mountain top. They lay strewn down the slopes in various states of size and shape and fill indentations in solid land. Water continues to slyly run under rock and loose earth like rain down a windshield. Variegated pastels have stained the rubble like a child who sees no reason to color rocks in earth tones and along with the moss and light green grass we could just as easiy be inside that child's aquarium.
On the other side of the apex blue-green waters of an alpine lake take us by surprise.
As the mountain sides turn bright green we follow the stream on the far side of the lake down the canyon, hopping back and forth over the winding current to stay on the path.
Soon, the stream becomes a river and we see signs of human habitation. The bridges are most often two narrow tree trunks and Vinni steadies the precarious crossings (but I'm still not gonna make out with him). We've hit trees and bushes and discuss the difference between trees and bushes. It's all downhill and we're making good time. The wonders of oxygen.
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Arriving at our campsite we are shocked to find litter sattered everywhere: instant noodle packages, spice packets, yogurt cups, chopstick wrappers, plastic bottles, tin cans, plastic bags, cardboard boxes. The culprets have written their "gang" name on a piece of cloth which they've tied to a stake in the ground, like they landed on the moon. It's a childish and disrespectful "We were here." Vinni is pissed. One week prior, this place was clean. (Later he throws his cigarette butt on the ground.)
We do our best to clean it all up but then the yak men light it ablaze. I'm not sure if this is better. How inscrutable that anyone would make the long journey out here only to destroy the reason they came in the first place. This was Chinese people and possibly some Tibetans. There is no way that a westerner would do this. The thought of leaving one scape of plastic out here... We have our big corporations to do all the polluting for us. Regardless, it's a sad sight and it makes me dread what the new Beijing to Lhasa train will do to Tibet in the next 10 years.
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Day 5 - Back to Man Made Toilet Holes Starting Altitude: 3800 meters
Sleeping Altitude: 3500 meters
2.5 hours trek time
Vinni saves me and the Dutch lesbian from being attacked by savage Tibetan dogs. (But I'm still not going to make out with him.)
Besides that, it's a casual walk to the point where we must bid our trusty yak men adieu. It is a sad moment saying goodbye to my favorite transport animal which I have aptly named Propane Yak. Propane Yak has supplied us with warmth by which to thaw our chilled tootsies and heat for scrumptous food and hot beverages. And I thought a lighter would be useful. I am never again trekkiing without a yak and a cook.
A transport tractor carries bodies and gear through the inhabited, flat, farm lands towards Samye Monastery. This could turn out to be more dangerous than hypothermia. Teetering on the edge of what is in essence an adult version Radio Flyer, I grip Cookie's jacket.
Up ahead we can see weather in action. The sky is divided into 2 crisp halves: on the right it is fairytake blue and on the left, gray and darkening. The moisture-filled clouds strentch down to the ground like taffy. Unfortunately, I can't let go of Cookie's collar long enough to take a picture. Mental moment. Click-click.
That night at Samye Monastery, Vinni treats us all to some celebratory beer. (No, he's not trying to get me drunk.) We sit in the kitchen tent and talk of love. I'm serious. Vinni, it turns out, is quite the philosopher.
"I want love like a clean lake. When you look down you can see the stones underneath. I don't want love like a curry! Wow! I don't want love like a curry either. 'Nough said.
My other favorite Vinni quote: "No sampa? No meat? No live!"
Sampa is barley powder that is mixed with yak butter tea. Way back in Yunnan Province, China, I said it smelled like Cheerios.
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Day 6 - Yak to Civilization
Most of this day is spent getting to Lhasa: public bus, boat, private bus. Cookie talks the entire way back. He is non-stop. He's using his arms and laughing while Vinni and the bus driver nod at appropriately timed intervals. I haven't given him credit before, but Cookie is a fucking riot. What a goofball. He likes to make fart sounds. I usually don't think this is the least bit funny coming from a grown man, but for some reason it works for him.
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I think I've done exceptionally well on this little adventure. Besides some minor disagreements with Vinni about where to cross a stream, I was amicable and pleasant. None of these people hate me. I must be growing. And despite my early apprehensions, the trek was surprisingly well-organized. The staff was outstanding and Vinni was, indeed, #1 trekking guide.
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5 DAYS LATER.... TODAY I SAW MOUNT EVEREST
Nothing else about this day seems important. Not the 5 hour drive on the dirt road to Rongphu Monastery. Not the 2.5 hour walk at 16,000+ feet to Base Camp. Not even the gorgeous scenery along the way or the beautiful smiles of the local children as we passed by. Certainly not anything about my altitude sickness trying to sleep at 17,060 feet later that night: the shortness of breath, headache, heart pounding in my throat, nausea, waiting for the night to end so I could get down the mountain.
Today I saw Mount Everest - with my own eyes. Not in a magazine or a movie. I felt the freezer blast of wind shoot down the valley, numbing my face and tearing up my eyes. I saw the clouds capture and release the summit. I saw the snow being blown from the ridges of the range.
Today I saw Mount Everest. It was a good day.
The next morning, the sky is clear and the breeze is calm. The mountain goddess is shining like a giant window washer has taken a squeegy to a 2 dimensional sky. I climb the small hill at the end of Base Camp Boulevard and sit on a large stone that makes up part of the ever-growing rock stupa. I can't believe I'm here. Shy, quiet, fat little Jenny is sitting before the highest mountain in the world. TAKE THAT!!!
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HITCHHIKING AT 13,000 FEET
I've got 5 days to get out of Tibet and I'm stranded in the tiny outpost of Shagar, aka New Tingri. After a night at Everest Base Camp (EBC) with two others who have taken our rented SUV back to Lhasa, the Dutch Lesbian and I have been dropped at this bustling crossroads. Tenzing, our Lhasa travel agent has assured us that finding a ride form Shagar to the Nepal border is easy peasy.
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They said there would be a car to take us to the border at 8am. "Great. We'll have breakfast at 7." At 7:20, the staff is still asleep on the couches in the restaurant that double for beds. This is where they live. I turn on the lights, bang some drawers. Soon enough, they wake to a man shouting down the hall for them. It takes a man to get them to move.
At 8am I ask, "Where's the car?" Sweet but useless staff girl points me down the street. "Where?" She understands my toneless Chinese and points again. "What is this?" I say mimicking her movements. "I don't understand this. You show me." I pull her outside and can see from her face that she is not happy having to do actual work. She doesn't make it much farther than the sidewalk. "There. You wait. Big car come." So when they said "Car tomorrow at 8", they meant that this is the time we should sit our asses on the curb and stick out our thumbs, though in Asia it's an outstretched arm, palm down with fingers straight and a slight waving motion, like you're ineffectively fanning a short person.
So this is what we do, the Dutch lesbian and I. We try to wave down every car that passes. We harass the drivers stopping for petrol at the station across the street. No one is spared out scrutiny.
And though this road is the main artery between Lhasa, EBC and the Nepal border, there are surprisingly few cars, and those that pass are all going to EBC for the night. We are beginning to doubt the word of smiley Tenzing.
We talk to a German man who is going to Base Camp and then Nepal. He's already carrying one hitchhiker. But he seems strangely impatient. "My driver wants to go." We could exchange cell phone numbers but I just don't like him. My driver wants to go? Who's in charge here? If he really wanted to help us, he would tell his driver to wait. I am baffled by people who let the hired help dictate their behavior. (That statement sounds worse than it is. When I'm an employee, I do what the boss tells me to do. This is how the system works.)
We meet an American woman with a Chinese/Tibetan speaking guide. She works for a touring company from, of all places - my old neighborhood, The Presidio, San Francisco. She takes recon trips twice a year and is astounded that anyone would come out here alone, with no plan of getting to the next place. I'm equally amazed that someone working for a company employing the word "expedition" has no sense of adventure. I tell her, " This is the adventure. This is the journey. Today will undoubtedly be a much more interesting story than yesterday, when I saw the highest peak in the world. Everyone around here does that!"
A group of Chinese tourists, who, thank the good lord above, speak English, graciously offer to get us the 60 kilometers to the next town - Old Tingri is situated between EBC and Nepal, making it a much better location for finding spare seats in cars going to the border.
Not wanting to break the law, the Chinese group requests to see our travel permits.
Uh-oh.
"Our travel permit is in the car headed back to Lhasa. I don't think we need one."
They are not convinced.
I call Tenzing. (No matter what anyone says about destroying the purity of travel, when you're stuck in the middle of nowhere and can't get a ride, a cell phone is a blessing.) I'm shouting above the rumbling motor of a Tibetan tractor. 'How are we supposed to get a ride without travel permits?" He'll call back. Yeah, right!
We see a car full of guys from our guesthouse in Lhasa. They too are dropping off a Nepal-bound passenger: a French guy who doesn't use deodorant. While the Dutch lesbian guards our bags, I go back to our hotel with them. The staff, of course, is surprised to see me. "No car?" "No. No car." They now promise a public bus to the border at 8pm. After 5 hours of short person fanning, we are too exhausted not to believe.
There were, however, a couple transport offers. One local said he would take us to Old Tingri for 500 yuan ($62). Another man would do it for 300 yuan. However, I refuse to be taken advantage of! I would rather sit here for days and overstay my visa than give in to their extortion. What disgraceful opportunists!
It's important to specify that when I say "we", I mostly mean "I". The Dutch lesbian doesn't speak any Chinese. It is I that asks drivers where they're going. It is I that gets prices and haggles with the local swindlers. It is I that gets inaccurate information from the hotel staff.
She is getting on my nerves with her questions and complaints.
"What did they say?"
"Did you ask them this?"
"Why didn't they tell us that?"
Jeez, woman. I'm not Google. My Chinese is limited to food, time and tickets, and I'm not about to explain to you in simplified English why Asian people are the way they are.
And she's getting a little irritable for this ordeal to be fun. This is a perspective experience. With a good attitude, it's an adventure. With a bad attitude, it's spending the entire day standing in the sun in a characterless town erected solely to support itinerants: stores, restaurants, guesthouses and the Nature Preservation Management office where you pay individual and automobile park entrance fees.
I, too, at moments, am letting the frustration get to me, but we're in a safe place and I know something will eventually change. It always does.
We wait for the evening bus at the hotel. I try to sleep on a couch in the empty restaurant, but when I lay down the sweet but useless staff turns up the distorted music. When I sit up again, they turn it down. While the speakers buzz, they play handheld video games. They are stupid, stupid girls.
They are, however, adept at pouring beer. Each day around 4 or 5 pm a group of men (local truckers and mechanics) come in and order, say, 4 warm Budweisers. They don't order it warm. All drinks are room temperature. Meat is refrigerated. Coca Cola is not. Oh, the injustice. The girls pour the beer into small glasses, wait for each man to take a sip, and refill. Sometimes they'll put the glass in a man's hand. The men chase the beer with green or red tea and try repeatedly to get a spark from lighters that don't work at high altitudes. It is an archaic custom, but perfectly suited to this Tibetan version of the old west.
Yaksmoke
It's a showdown in the one yak town of Shagar. Two men on mini-tractors stare each other down from opposite ends of the half-paved road. A snowball rolls past and a sharp, cool blast of Himalayan wind tousles the colored fabric plaited into their long braids. They start tut-tut-tutting towards each other. Not so unexpectedly, one tractor stalls. The rivals both attempt to fix the already jury-rigged appliance while 50 spectators look on in absolute enthrallment. A yak stampede pulverizes them all. The end. After 4 hours in the hotel restaurant I feel the need to get back out on the street. We meet an English speaking Chinese girl who works for the tourism department. She thinks there should be public buses to EBC. Maybe they'll build a cable car straight to the summit. She tells us that maybe the bus will come at 8...or 9...or 10...or 1.
The same man that offered us a ride for 500 yuan earlier in the day has dropped his price to 200. Looks like a local needs to get to Old Tingri and we're the suckers paying for it.
Tenzing, meanwhile, is back in Lhasa arranging for us to be picked up in Old Tingri by a 4x4 going to the border the day after tomorrow. A distance that can be covered in 6 hours will take us 3 days.
After 11.5 hours, we are on the road: the smelly Frenchman, the Dutch lesbian and I.
The vivid and rich light of dusk sets the mountains and meadows of the Himalayas aglow.
This is the adventure. This is the journey.
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OLD TINGRI
Old Tingri is a charming town in the middle of a valley of farming plots. On a clear day, Everest and Cho Oyu are easily visile. The Dutch Lesbian and I share a room that looks like a padded cell for Holly Hobbie. Yes, the two-holed toilet closet is across the courtyard and a Chinese woman can't wait 30 seconds for me to pee before she comes in and...well...you know. But I have my first shower in 5 days. Grandma mans the showers, burning wood to heat water.
Government workers are passing out China flags for the Tibetans to fasten to their homes. An offical convoy is driving through and this is a show of respect, though you can see that the local girls trying to climb onto their roofs think otherwise. How utterly wrong it is to see Buddhist prayer flags and Chinese national flags flapping side by side.
I climb a small hill out in the middle of the fields. It is 360 degrees of unrelenting, majestic perfection. Everest and Cho Oyu are hidden today but I feel their refridgerated exhalation. The residents of Old Tingri are tending to their plots while their animals graze on the green and golden crops. The sound of thunder rumbles across the valley and cow bells ring like wind chimes. A woman is singing.
In an article I'm reading, "The road to Herat", by Elizabeth Rubin, she is told that in the Afgan culture a fox crossing your path is a sign that your jouney will be a sucess. And, whow! Looky there. A fox. A real fox. The first one I've seen in almost a year of travel and not one day after a read that it's good luck. Coincedence? I think not. Divine destiny more like it. A similar superstition is that if a hare is seen, your travels will fail. No hares yet, and I'm not looking. For this one I'll employ free will.
Of course the vista also reminds me of this time in Israel when the sun's rays where filtering through clouds and casting magnificent ethereal slides. I playfully said, "Hey, it's G-d." One very pompous wanna-be-academic replied, "That is so Christian!" So, I'm trying not to think anything like that today. Now I'm more apt to say, "Hey, it's goddess mother of the universe!" Or, "Hey, it's millions of years of shifting tectonic plates and water errosion!"
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LEAVING TIBET Tenzing has been redemmed. The Dutch Lesbian and I are picked up on schedule, though one of the male passengers has to sit on top of the luggage in the rear of the truck.
We drop over 2000 meters in 6 hours. Nearing the Nepal border, huge rain forest cliffs are obscured by mist and waterfalls wet the already trecherous winding road. Local pedestrians carry umbrellas.
Zhangmu is, perhaps the oddest of border towns yet. Like Laurel Canyon or somewhere in the Oakland hills, the cement road twists down the steep mountain side. The view upwards is of windows; looking down you are treated to the granduer of rooftops and trash heeps. However, what makes this place so particularly unlivable is that the road is constantly clogged with large delivery trucks spitting fumes into the homes and businesses that line the street. There is nowhere for people to walk, nowhere for children to play. I'll give it a Border Town Rating of 6.
After a night in a moldy hotel room with the Dutch Lesbian and the two German boys that were our truck mates, we continue down the road on foot to the immigration office. This is it. It's been a total of 4 months in "China". This is my last chance to speak Chinese.
"How much single room?" The immigration official is not amused.
And I'm out.
Zai Jian. -----------------------------------
Let's Be Political. Support a Free Tibet. Support an Independant Taiwan. Support Blog Viewing in China.
(Here are some links for extra reading. Curiously, I know of no sites that raise money for the plight of the Taiwanese.)
The Government of Tibet in Exile
http://www.tibet.com/International Campaign for Tibet
http://www.savetibet.org/index.phpTibet Online
http://www.tibet.org/The Gere Foundation
http://gerefoundation.org/
Sept. 9 - 16, 2006
