Nepal Ease

Nepal is everything Tibet was not.

The landscape is crowded with thick vegetation, from bright, green rice paddies to tall, leafy banana trees. Rivers and cascading waterfalls cut through forested valleys. The warm air is thick and humid, rich with the smells of life and spice. The food, the wonderful food! Everything is available, from Nepalese curry and lentil soup through to pizza and burgers .

Kathmandu is a sprawling expanse of a city with restaurants, hotels, showers, sit down toilets and Laundromats. It's overflowing with beeping traffic, with every type of vehicle ever to have wheels. This newly found luxury and civilization has also come with reduced prices. Tibet was not expensive, but Nepal is dirt cheap. A quality hotel room with bathroom costs no more than AU$3 a night. A three course meal at an expensive restaurant is lucky to cost AU$4.

And on top of all this, the thing that wins it all hands down for Nepal, is the people. They are possibly the most friendly people on this planet, almost too friendly. A simple act of changing money becomes a half hour chat with the guy behind the teller. Every time we leave our hotel we end up chatting with the guy behind the counter for half an hour about our plans for the day, the weather, the Maoists, even dating procedures in Australia.

Everybody speaks English, but it's more the laid back attitude of "hey, welcome to our country" that wins us over. There's a justifiable pride in these people for their homeland and at the same time an in-built sense of hospitality - there's nothing they won't do to help. Of course there are plenty of touts and scam artists that take advantage of this, but even these guys are so friendly and easy going that you don't mind over much that they are trying to sell you a trek (or a pound of hashish) that you don't really want or need, for double the normal price.

The Maoists - a strange bunch. They are basically rebel, freedom fighters, trying to reintroduce democracy to Nepal, which is currently run by a government appointed by the King. They are communists, and are inspired by Mao Zedong, the late leader of Communist China. To us, it seems a strange choice of inspiration, since Chairman Mao was an insane dictator responsible for the death of thousands and the destruction of a lot of Chinese, Tibetan and Uyghur culture. Obviously the history of China has been a little embellished in the telling to these Nepalese rebels.

The Maoists are a formidable force, and generally have the support of the public (though not always). When we first arrived in Nepal, we were told that the Maoists had set up a 'blockade' around Kathmandu, demanding the release of political prisoners. It was with some surprise then that we boarded one of the many buses to Kathmandu and arrived some six hours later without any sign of a blockade. No one in Nepal, it seems, wants to upset the valuable tourists.

Most of the economy is based on tourism and both the Maoists and the government have decided to keep their little war away from tourist based activities. There are military check points all over Nepal and at each all passengers have to get off the bus and walk through, getting checked out for possible Maoist links. The exception to this is the tourists - we sit on the bus and drive through, the heavily armed soldiers waving and saluting us with friendly smiles.

Aside from the Maoists, the student groups in Kathmandu are another source of political unrest. There are frequent protests and rallies in the city (though rarely near the tourist area of Thamel where we are staying). These often end when the police march in with batons and tear gas. Strikes are called frequently too, and there has been at least two days where shops, buses and taxis have shut down at the 'request' of Maoists or student groups in protest against the government (anyone who ignores the 'request' has their shop or car stoned).

All in all this hasn't affected us, though the frequent stopping of buses for check points (buses are crowded, even the roof has little seating space left) makes public transport enough of a hassle that we avoid it. Instead we hire out a couple of mountain bikes. Kathmandu is in the center of a lush valley and within a few hours ride in any direction you can be up in the mountains looking down over the rich, green expanse of rice paddies and forests.

Kathmandu traffic takes some getting used to. For westerners on push bikes, it at first seems like total chaos. Six lanes of traffic seem to squeeze into one tiny back alley, with pedestrians scrambling in between cars, carts and bikes. After a while, however, we start to find the rhythm to it all. There's no order, no rules, but there is a flow and everything seems to just work itself out. The trick is to ebb and flow with the traffic, never stopping, never rushing, like a river meandering down a mountain.

Of course at least one of us has to have a stack. It's inevitable - Murphy's Law combined with the coordination levels of your average computer geek. Being the generous lad that I am, I take the hit for the team and go down hard. Ironically it's a traffic light that causes the problems, one of the few in Nepal.

Glover is ahead of me and rounds the corner just as the lights change orange. Not wanting to lose him in the crush of traffic, I jump up a gear and go for the standing pedal. The bike slides out from under me as I turn and the next thing I know I'm lying spread eagle on the road, bleeding from a few shallow wounds, while a copper (who had been standing on the corner watching me attempt to run a red light) picks up my bike and traffic swerves around me. No serious damage is done, but the copper, with a mischievous grin, explains that I should slow down when the light goes orange not speed up.

We spend four days riding around Kathmandu valley. It's the monsoon season so the shortcuts we take put us on mud covered roads. We arrive each evening at our destination covered in sweat and mud. Luckily the Nepalese hospitality extends even to us dirty bikers and we are given prime rooms each time - with good showers. Tourism is slow as well at the moment due to the Maoist threat (more physchological than physical) and we are often the only guests at most places.

Every day seems to be festival day here in Nepal, whether Buddhist or Hindu (although sometimes it's hard to tell the difference between a riot and a festival). We've visited Doshinkali, where every weekend Hindus gather to sacrifice chickens and goats to Kali (the blood hungry goddess, spouse of Shiva). For us it's strange to watch chickens have their throats casually cut and bled but in reality the 'sacrificed' animals are just being butchered and cooked. Basically it's an excuse for a big BBQ and party every weekend.

There's also been the cow festival, where families who have lost members in the previous year, dress up in colourful clothes and parade down the street. They lead cows (who have a damn good life in this country), and it's believed that the cows will help guide their lost family members to Heaven. Apparently if you are holding a cow's tail when you die you are almost guaranteed to be led to Heaven - I imagine Last Rites in this country are interesting: "He's dying. Quick, bring in the cows!".

There's been festivals for the retying of holy necklaces, festivals where holy men wash away illnesses in rivers, rice festivals, and who knows what else we've seen but not known the name of. Every festival is accompanied by brightly dressed dancers and loud, energetic music. Maybe it's just this time of year, but we feel like we've walked into one big, endless party. We're not complaining.

We've returned our bikes today and are now preparing for our trip to India. In order to avoid the slow and dull public buses we have decided to raft our way to the border. We are booked on an eight day trip down the Sun Kosi river (apparently one of the top ten rafting trips in the world - once again our careful and detailed planning has served us well).

This rafting trip will take us all the way to the east border of Nepal, where we will enter the wild national parks (home of the rare Bengal Tiger) and relaxing tea estates of North East India. From there we will work our way down to Calcutta and for me my trip will reach its end. I feel I could easily travel through this exotic land for an age and a day but home is calling. Life is best enjoyed with balance, and friends and family await.

A Tibetan Farewell

Tibet, it seems, was not letting me away that easily. Oh no, it had one more little "cultural experience" to share with me. A little warning about this blog before you read on: it contains scenes that some readers may find disturbing. For those of you who are squeamish skip to the end. For the rest of you sick puppies (ie. the majority of you) go make yourself a coffee and get comfortable.

We escape from the back of the crowded truck like two refugees clambering from a sinking boat onto the unwelcoming shores of Australia. We find ourselves back in Tingri, which I described before as something like a mud-brick slum in the middle of a treeless wasteland. Much to my dissapointment, things have not improved in the three days we've been roaming the Tibetan plateau, lost and hungry.

We get some desperately needed food, ordering two meals each. We try to slow our eating, knowing that to feast after a fast is never a good idea. It is, however, a pathetic attempt. We practically burry our faces in our plates and hoe into the food like pigs at a trough.We are disgustingly dirty and the staff give us strange looks.

It's four in the afternoon by the time we roll out of the restaurant. The Nepalese border is some 150km south, but in Tibet this is considered "down the road". Despite being exausted and dirty we decide to try and hitch then and there. We just want out of Tibet (and China for that matter) as quickly as possible.

We spend an hour on the road in the sun but it is too late in the day for jeeps to be coming through. We are willing to do the back of a truck but even these have stopped running. In the end we give up and leave it till the morning. We hike back into Tingri town and check into our old, shitty hotel room.

We pass out in our beds, both still fully clothed. There is no running water in this place and we haven't showered since leaving Shigatse some four days before. Given the activities we've been involved in since then - hitching on tractors, sleeping under steam rollers, getting spewed on in trucks, etc - you can imagine the fine state both our clothes and our bodies are in.

It's sometime around midnight when I wake with a certain and urgent need to use the shitters. I grab the bog role and torch and hurry out into the darkness. The outdoor dunny is a concrete cell with no doors, built over a dug out hole and it's some thirty meters walk in the dark to reach it. It's a piercingly cold night and I shiver violently as I squat over the slightly too wide hole in the cement. Tingri is about 4,400 meters above sea level, and at this altitude even the act of squatting and shitting is an effort.

I know when I'm done that I'm not really done, that I am in fact in for a long night. If nothing else this trip has made me an expert in the ways of the human digestive system. I head back to bed to try and get what little sleep I can before my next appointment.

It's less than an hour later. The walk out to the shitter has me panting for breath and my head is spinning, I stumble in the dark. When I return to bed some fifteen minutes later I am practically hyperventilating to try and catch my breath. I am shivering violently but I feel like I am on fire. As the sweat swokes my shirt I realise I'm coming down with a fever.

The toilet runs become routine. Almost like clockwork, on the hour every hour, I crawl out of bed stumble out to the dunny, assume the position, do what I need to do and stumble back to bed, dizzy, shivering, sweating. Glover alternates between being sympathetic and laughing - he's had his turn at this game before and knows the score. There's little he can do (or at least that I want him to do) to help me anyway.

I sleep little between "expeditions". I lie awake shivering and panting in my bed. With each journey I become more and more unsure on my feat. I am weak and dizzy. Apart from the loss of goods from my body and the lack of sleep, I also have to deal with the harsh cold and the thin air. The last few days of not eating and exposure to the elements have not left me at my healthiest either.

It's the 5 am run where things go wrong. Horribly wrong. I'm crouching over the concrete, bog roll in hand, shivering and breathing hard. My head is swimming. Suddenly the world goes black as I brieflly pass out. I fall forward in the squat position and smack my head against the wall, coming to just in time for the pain to register. At the same time, my bowels jetison their load. I spray shit over the entire dunny, in the process dropping my bog roll down the hole.

All of this in itself is not a huge problem. I haven't sprayed myself and I'm certainly not the first person to go off target in a Tibetan dunny (in fact the Tibetans seem to feel this is the way a dunny should be used). There's more bog roll in the room too. I stand up and pull on my trousers. I'm still groggy and confused and the act of standing itself takes my breath away again. I pass out once more, falling forward again but this time on my feet. Again I come to just in time for the pain of slamming my head against the wall to register.

Miraculously I've managed to keep my footing and have avoided falling down the shitter hole to a certain and horrible death. Unmiraculously my bowels have once again acted in my minds absence. The only problem this time is that I've just pulled on my pants. I've shit myself.

I stumble back to the room. I turn on the light and Glover wakes up. The conversation goes a little something like this:

Daniel: I've got a little situation I might need a hand here with mate.
Glover: Huh? What? Turn off the bloody light.
Daniel: Mate, I've just passed out in the dunny and shit myself.
Glover: You what?
Daniel: I've shit myself.
Glover: You fucking what?
Daniel: I've shit myself.
Glover: You've shit yourself?
Daniel: Yea, I've shit myself.
Glover: Right. You've shit yourself.
Daniel: Reckon you could find me the spare bog roll, and poor us a bowl of water.
Glover: Hang on. You mean you've like really shit yourself.
Daniel: Yea mate, I've really shit myself.

Eventually he gets the supplies and then buries his head under his pillow, either crying or laughing (or both) while I clean myself up. As I mentioned before, there is no running water in this town. I make do with one of the bowls they provide and the last of our drinking water. It's really not what I would like in this situation. Something more along the lines of a bottle of disinfectant and a blast from a fire hose would be more my preference.

The jocks are jetisoned out the door and I pull on the last of my clean clothes. As decent as I can possible be, given the circumstances, I fall back into bed and pass out. I manage to sleep a couple of hours and wake up around eight.

I feel like crap. The fever has died down a little with the few hours sleep but my stomach is still churning. I'm not hanging around however. The sooner I get away from this God forsaken hell-hole the better. There's little chance for recovery at this altitude and with this town's level of hygiene. Besides, once they see what I've done to the dunny they're not letting me stay another night anyway.

I pop a couple of immodium tablets. It's the only way I am going to make it through this ride. A few minutes later I need to shit again (it takes about half an hour for the immodium to take effect). Gingerly I enter the dunny. My handiwork is evident and it's hard not to be impressed with the way I have destroyed this little cement cell. I manage to perch over the hole and do what I need to do. Only now, in the clear light of day, I discover something. I am in fact shitting a fair amount of blood.

Although this explains a few things, like why I passed out for instance, it has me more than a little worried. No man likes to look down after the morning's work only to discover a redish hue where none should be. A little research in the "Health" section of the Lonely Planet identifies the symptons as a case of Dysentry (shitting blood, fever, etc). Up until this point it's a disease I had heard about in relation to army life and trenches. I guess that minus a few bullets, the past few days haven't been too far off that.

There's nothing I can do really. The best option is still to get to Nepal, and Kathmandu as soon as possible. The illness is serious if untreated, but not an immediate threat. The Planet does recommend against taking immodium however. A little too late for that advice.

It takes till midday to find a ride. While Glover flags down passing vehicles, I lie in the shade of a building by the side of the road, occasionally groaning. The wait is hot and dusty and when an empty, air-condition Toyota Landcruiser pulls up I am ready to offer them Glover's first born child for a lift (at this point in time I'm pretty sure children are no longer an option for me).

It's the most comfortable vehicle we have travelled in while in China. It has leg room, comfy seats even suspension. The drivers are two Chinese guys, working the tour group scene. Say what you will about the Chinese but they know what a customer is and they treat us well. All this luxury is just enough for me to survive the trip without shitting, spewing or dieing.

With every meter that we near Nepal, and flee Tibet, things improve. The sceneray changes from empty, lifeless mountains to lush, green foliage. We travel in a deep valley and waterfalls cascade down the edge on both sides. Some of them fall so far that the water turns to mist before hitting the ground. The altitude drops quickly and by the time we reach the border town of Zhangmu we are down to around 2,500 meters. The air is full and tasty, rich with the flavours of wild plants and spices. I take in great gulps of it tasting the moist humidity.

Zhangmu sits on the Tibetan side of the border, perched along the cliff face. It is a town unlike any we've seen in China. It is filled with tall, solid buildings with an attractive style that we later come to know as Nepalese. Trees and bushes surround it, crowding it with colour and life. As we drive through the town we find medical facilities, a bank, internet and restaurants selling Nepalese and Indian food. We are in paradise.

We find a hotel and the staff speak English. They are easily the friendliest people we have met in China. They are of course Nepalese. We get a room with clean, comfortable beds and soft white pillows. There is a shower here with excellent water pressure. I head straight for it. It's not hot but in this humid climate it doesn't need to be. I am clean. I no longer have shit on myself, whether real or just imagined.

After showering we find a medical center. It's primitive but the guy here is no stranger to Dysentry and supplies me with enough anti-biotics to get rid of my little parting present from Tibet. After that there's food. Surprisingly, I manage to eat a full meal and it's good. Damn good. I am fast developing a love affair with the friendly, green kingdom just a short walk below me and across "Friendship Bridge".

We spend the night in Zhangmu however, it's too late in the day to be crossing borders. It's our last night in Tibet and our last night in China. We've had many experiences in our month here some of them good some of them bad (obviously the more recent ones have been filed as "unsatisfactory"). The people have been a huge dissapointment but the landscape has made up for it. More than a few of the hardships have been our own doing but more than few have not.

Whatever has been is behind us now. Now we are onto Nepal, a new journey is beginning and it's beginning well.

The Roof of the World

In truth we admit to having done our fair share of stupid things on this trip: illegal border crossings; hitching in trucks loaded with explosive fuel; Tibetan religious festivals; and well, pretty much any potentially fatal tourist attraction we could find. So far things have ended up well enough, but even two fools as ignorant as us know there is a limit to how far dumb luck can carry us.

So, when we hear about the blockade around Kathmandu, where armed rebels are threatening to open fire on any vehicles that try to enter or leave, we decide to play things safe. We're in no rush. By all reports these blockades are common and end after a couple of days. We decide to take a little side trip to Everest base camp for a few days. It's practically on the way and it seems a shame not to check it out when we are so close.

Only Glover and myself are on this expedition. We parted ways with Ben and Riva in Lhasa, as they unfortunately had to return to East China to start teaching again. Dai mysteriously dissapeared very soon after the drunken night in Latse where we all threw up and I came very close to accidently pissing on him. Japanese can be strange that way - no sense of fun.

So Glover and myself get our jeep to drop us off at a town called Tingri. It's yet another small, pathetic, mud-brick shanty town set in a treeless expanse of endless rolling foothills. The customary hoard of dirty beggars dog our heels as we escape from our vehicle and seek out accomodation. This town has one advantage over the others we have seen. From the top of a nearby hill there is a clear view of the tallest mountain in the world, the great giant of Everest.

Everest towers over the empty plateau below it. At some 8,800 meters above sea level (oxygen is pretty much gone by 9000 meteres) the snow covered peak of this behemoth is an awesome sight. Everest does not sit alone however. A jagged line of ominous giants stretch from east to west guarding the border between Tibet and Nepal. This is the Himalaya, the "Abode of Snow" and the, so called, roof of the world.

We spend one night in Tingri. The following day starts with a gorious morning of sunshine and bright blue sky. We climb to the top of the viewing hill and are treated to a spectacular sight. Everest is completely exposed, not one cloud blocks our view. We have heard from many travellers that this is a fortunate occurance as Everest is nearly always shrouded in mist this time of year. Most of the travellers we have met in Tibet have travelled this way without catching more than a glimpse of this giant.

With our eyes we follow a dead straight road heading directly for Everest. Less than ten kilometers away is a small town. We know it's at least a three day hike to Everest and our plan is really to hitch on one of the many tour jeeps that pass through this way. It's early in the day however and no jeeps are on the road as yet. We decide to hike to the next town and have lunch there, picking up a jeep on its way through.

There are a few road workers hacking at some rocks at the start of the road. With our new philosophy of "sensible travel", we double check with them that we are heading down the right road and not actually heading into the Tibetan wasteland to die. I feel a little stupid asking directions to what is essentially the world's biggest land mark, and the Tibetans seem to agree with my feeling. They wave along the road and then ask for a sip of our water. Glover passes the bottle over, and the guy decides to keep it - a common occurance in Tibet. We reluctantly give it up and head out on the road with only one bottle between us now.

We carry our full packs and it's almost lunch time before we reach the town. An army of dirty kids see us coming and then plague us as we enter the town, crying "money, money, money", with hands out stretched. It's the same scene we've seen all through Tibet and we know that if we give them something they will just fight each other for it. Even the adults will get in on the scavenging as well, picking on whoever ended up with the goods, like a pack of hyenas fighting over a piece of rotten meat.

We find someone willing to feed us and end up with a meal of freshly boiled noodles. It's very plain but at least it's not Pot Noodles. With the usual game of charades and pictionary we find out that there is another town just twenty kilometers along. The guy offers to drive us to Base Camp but he is an extortionist and wants more money than a five day organised tour would cost from Lhasa.

There are still no jeeps coming through. We assume this is due to the rebel blockade as most of the jeeps that would come down this western road would come from Nepal. Jeeps from Lhasa would take the other road in from the east. We decide to hike to the next town. Perhaps there we can find a driver for a more reasonable price. The worst case scenario is that we spend the night there and then hike back the next day. If getting to Base Camp proves too complicated we are willing to give it up - we are being sensible travellers now.

We head off. As we leave town the gaggle of kids follow us out, once again begging. When we get too far down the road for them to bother following us, they start throwing stones at us instead. The more time I spend in this country the less respect I have for the Tibetan people and their culture. Perhaps the Chinese can be blamed, perhaps this pack-like social structure and inhospitable nature is a result of having their nation invaded and dominated. I have no way of knowing for sure.

We walk for another five or so kilometers. Glover's pack is hurting him again. It is evil, truly evil. The kind of pack Hitler would make in his spare time, were he into needlework. I swap with him and we walk another few kilometers. We stop for a quick drink and it's then that I notice the storm brewing on the horizon. We need to make tracks, but Glover has a sore back.

Just at that moment a bright yellow truck appears on the horizon. Slowly, with a great rumble of noise it aproaches. It is in fact a massive yellow bulldozer. The driver pulls over and a few dollars later we are clinging to the side of this mighty engine with the wind blowing through our hair and the road passing beneath us at the lightning speed of some fifteen kilometers an hour. The storm dissapears behind us.

The truck takes us some twenty kilometers without sight of the town. In fact, without sight of anything other than mountains and rocks. The guy who gave us directions to this next town was obviously not too good with measurements since we have travelled close to thirty kilometers by this stage. Finally the bulldozer lurches to a stop and the driver tells us to get off. We assume that the town is around the next bend. It's usual to be dropped off outside of towns when hitching as the driver can be fined for engaging in such criminal activities.

The bulldozer dissapears around the corner and we hike after it. There is no town as it turns out, only what appears to be a small, military sniper tower mounted on the hill. Glover languishes at the bottom of the hill, minding the packs, while I hike up to find out what this structure is. We are now some thirty kilometers from the nearest town and we have only snacks to eat and no tent to sleep in should this "next town" not materialise soon.

The tower is in fact a millitary check point, obviously set up to guard the road against an invasion. It's also unmanned - no invasions scheduled for today it would seem. There is a small barracks behind the checkpoint. Looking for information, and hoping to buy some food and maybe a night's shelter, I knock on the door. There is no answer from inside but instead a pack of dogs come charging round the corner barking and growling.

Tibetan dogs have a reputation for savagery, not to mention rabies, and before my mind kicks in my legs have decided to move the rest of me back down the hill as quickly as possible. The pack gives chase, getting too close for comfort. I grab a few stones as I skid down the mountain and take random pot shots behind me.

I slide back down to where Glover is waiting. The dogs have stopped above, satisfied that the intruder has been routed but still growling and keeping watch just in case. Glover and I don our packs and move out with a little extra spring to our step. The next town is surely near and heading back up that cliff is not an option.

The next town is not near as it turns out - we hike another eight or so kilometers. Luckily a mountain river runs past the road and we have water at least, if little else. The road has begun to turn away from Everest now, heading more south than we would expect. It winds around a mountain however and we assume that this diversion is just to avoid the steeper paths.

We come at last to a military camp made up of six large, brown tents. We have travelled some thirty five, maybe forty kilometers to reach this point. It's around six in the evening and we are tired and hungry. These army boys will surely help us out. They are, understandably, surprised to see us.

They are Chinese, not Tibetan, and we ask them for directions using our few mandarin words and hand gestures. There is some confusion at first but eventually they draw us a map in the sand and explain that we have only 38 kilometers to go to reach Rongphu (the monastary just below Everest base camp). This is good news, but better still, there is a place where we can stay just eight kilometers along this road. There is a jeep in the camp and I indicate that a lift would be nice, but the army boys aren't too keen on this idea.

We ask the army boys if we can buy some food off them and they are confused but eventually agree. They take us into a tent and then sit and watch us. We sit and watch them. After half an hour we realise these army boys aren't too bright. They have provided us with a place in which we can eat the food we have brought with us, rather than provided us with actual food. Since we haven't actually brought any food this is no help at all.

There's nothing we can do, so we head off not wanting to waste anymore precious time. Just as we are leaving, the jeep pulls out and drives off in the direction that we are heading. I turn to the army guy next to me asking some serious questions. The dumb bastard suddenly remembers that we we need a lift. He starts shouting at the jeep, but it's too late. It's gone.

Having gained nothing from these fools we head off to find this place where we can stay. What the army boys haven't told us is that the next eight kilometers are all up hill. It's hard, hard work. Each step is a struggle. We are tired, hungry and sore. The path zig-zags up the cliff. We cut corners, making our climb harder and steeper but saving on precious time. The sun is setting, light is dissapearing fast, the air is thin, it's getting cold.

We've travelled more than eight hard, long kilometers more without sign of anything. It's possible that we have dealt with the most complete bunch of morons this day. Not one person has given us directions close to correct. It's nine in the evening now, the sun has well set and its dark. We can barely put one foot in front of the other. We stop briefly for dinner - half a snickers each and some muddy river water.

Then up ahead we see something definitely man made. We approach slowly, painfully. In the dark it's hard to make out the shape. It's not big, but then none of the buildings really are. Finally we are just a few hundred meters away and the dark shadow takes form. A bitterly dissapointing form. It's a steam roller. A great, big, useless, yellow steam roller. We try the doors. If it's unlocked, we're sleeping in it - it's not. We slump down next to it, too tired even to despair.

Eventually Glover rolls over and starts pulling gear out of his pack. "Fuck it. We're sleeping here". It's a stupid plan but it's also the best one we have. There is no shelter for miles, just endless stony hill. We empty our packs and put on everything we own. I'm wearing thermals, four t-shirts, two jumpers and my gore-tex jacket. I'm still freezing. Glover finally has a chance to wear his God-aweful bath robe, and it's a strong indication of how knackered he is that he is unable to gloat.

We crawl underneath the steam roller using the big, solid roller as a wind shield. It does a poor job, but it's better than nothing. The road is cold, and sharp rocks poke into our sides. Putting aside our socially inbred homophobia we move in close to share body warmth. It's this or death by exposure.

We spend the night shivering in our sleeping bags, trying to block out the wind. After a few hours the rain starts. It's only a light shower and the truck goes some way to shield us, but by the end of the night all our gear is damp. It makes little difference however, we are already frozen to the bone.

There's little chance for sleep. Occasionally one or the other of us passes out for a few blissfull moments of peace. When we wake it's only to rediscover that the nightmare of sleeping under on a road, under a steam roller at some 5000 meters above sea level in the Himalayas is in fact no dream at all. Finally at around five in the morning we both slip into unconsciousness for the last few hours before dawn.

I awake (or rather, come to) to find a dim glow to the land. The sun is up but has not yet crested the mountains to warm us. I struggle out of my sleeping bag and out from under the truck. White, icy snow crunches under my feet. In the last few hours before dawn, the night turned its coldest and a spattering of snow has covered the land. It's not much, but it's enough to let us know just how damn cold things got.

I check to see if Glover is alive, and he asures me he is though he seems a little uncertain himself. We eat breakfast as we wait for the sun to come up. It takes a while to open the packet, our fingers are so numb, but eventually we are rewarded with a handful of cashews each. We have one bruised and battered apple, forgotten at the bottom of my bag and we share this between us.

With our gourmet meal finished we head off once more. It turns out that a few hundred meters passed where we slept, the path begins to head down again. Basically this meant that we spent the night at the highest, most exposed part of the path - though we had no way of knowing this at the time.

We follow the path down and after two hours hiking we come across a construction site. Several diggers are at work clearing the road of rubble from landslides. They have no food to sell us but they tell us that less than seven kilometers on is the Rongphu monastary. We push on.

It's more than twelve kilometers when we finally arrive at the place they are talking about. Only it's not Rongphu. It's not even a bloody monastary. What's wrong with these people? Why can't they give us decent directions? It is in fact, a tiny little village. They do have food however. Pot Noodles. Gloriously delicious Pot Noodles. We devour the stuff, thinking it to be the finest meal man could ever want. We are clearly delirious.

Rongphu must be close. So many people have given us directions. Sure, everyone of them got it wrong, but they couldn't all have gotten it that wrong. We get directions off these village people. Rhongphu they don't know, but when we make monk like praying motions, they start saying Chongphu. Close enough for us. Must be a different pronunciation. They set us off on the trail.

Just as we leave, a big blue truck leaves the village, heading in our direction. We jump up on the back, throwning the guy some money, giving him no chance to refuse. We are glad of the lift. It is a further ten kilometers down the path before we reach our destination. The scenery changes dramatically in this time. Life begins to flourish in these hills. We are in a deep canyon filled with thick green vegetation. A wide river gushes alongside us. Waterfalls cascade down the canyon wall, between the trees, and merge into the churning river. This is unlike anything we've seen in Tibet - it's alive! Even in our exausted state we still are moved by this sudden beauty.

It is, of course, not Rongphu that we arrive at - that would be too much to hope for. It is another town. By some miracle we find a guy who speaks English. As it turns out, we are at a border town between Tibet and Nepal (though foreigners can't cross here). We are no where near Rongphu. There is no town near this area with a name anything like Rongphu. Apparently in Tibet there is a preference when you ask for directions to make something up, rather than dissapoint you by not knowing. Great. Thanks.

By some further miracle there is a guy here with a truck. He just happens to be heading to Rongphu the next morning. As it turns out, the way to Rongphu is to first go to Tingri and then head down a different valley. Basically the first road we took was the wrong one. Every single Tibetan bastard we've met since then has been just making up directions.

Needless to say, we organise a lift on this truck. There's no way in hell we're walking. We also need accomodation for the night. There is no guest house in town. The guy who speaks English organises something for us and leads us into a flash looking cement building where we spend the night. We find out later that it is in fact the barracks for the border guards.

The truck ride back to Tingri is almost as bad as the walk in the first place. We have no breakfast as we have to leave at six in the morning to avoid the police (which seems a little pointless seeing as we are staying in their barracks). We are not the only passengers on this little journey however. The entire village crams onto the back of the truck, men, women, children. Apparently they are all off to sell their wares at Rongphu. Given that they have wood and freshly grown produce not found in Tibet I imagine this is a regular and lucrative journey.

There is over forty people jammed in the back of this big, blue dump truck. It crawls back up the hill slowly. There are the usual breakdowns, bogs and stops to cool the radiator that are just an accepted part of Tibetan travel. It will take at least half the day to reach Tingri. We will then spend the night in a town called Tashi Dom and it won't be until lunchtime the next day that we reach Rongphu.

This truck trip is the worst ride I've had in Tibet - and really that's saying something. Perhaps it's to do with the three days leading up to it - the lack of sleep, food and shelter. Perhaps its to do with the fact that I can't move as I have three Tibetans sleeping on me, and one of them throwing up next to me. Perhaps its to do with the sun beating down on me and no way to escape it. Perhaps its all of these together.

Whatever the reason, by the time we reach Tingri, around three that afternoon (having eaten only a few biscuits that day) both Glover and myself are well and truly over it. Everest base camp is off our itineray. We've seen Everest and that's enough for any man. We are done with Tibet and everything Tibetan. We are going to Nepal. At least if the Maoists rebels decide to shoot us it will be over with quickly.

Festival of Yoghurt

They say we've seen the best parts of China, that the rest of it is just an endless sprawl of identical, concrete cities. It's just as well really, since we've decided to ditch our trip through the rest of China. We have a new plan, a far more exciting plan. But I'm getting ahead of myself ...

Shigaste is a town. A real town, with busy streets and buildings over one storey high. It's definitely Tibetan but the Chinese brute force modernisation is once again evident. The town is divided into a modern but ugly Chinese part, and a quirky but dirty Tibetan part.

We are still suffering from massive hangovers when we arrive, a little momento from Latse. We check into the first place available. It's a decent enough hotel in the old part of town. It has showers and that's about all we need.

It's not until lunchtime the next day that we are in any state to see the local sights. Before we get too cultural though, we manage to find a classy restaurant selling western food (or close enough anyway). It's the first "real" food we've seen in weeks.

Glover and I order up two hamburgers. When they arrive we discover that they are in fact Yak burgers, with a nice juicy chunk of Yak steak as the pattie. We devour them. Then we order two more. Like I said, it's the first real food we've seen in weeks and we are gaunt, like two escapees from the local prison camp.

Shigatse is home to a large monastary, called Tashilhunpo. It's a decent construction at the base of a mountain. This is (or at least was) the main hang out for the Panchen Lama. The Panchen Lama was the Dalai Lama's side kick in one of his previous lives. In his more recent reincarnations he is seen as the second in charge for Tibetans. His kidnapping by China, at the age of six, has put a hold on that though.

We make the pilgrimage around the monastary. A nice hike with good views of the city, though the extra weight of our Yak burgers slow us down. The entire path is lined with large golden prayer wheels that we spin as we make the walk. The path finishes up at the ruins of a once impressive palace that sits alone on a hill towering over the old part of town. The ruins are now covered in bright prayer flags.

After the pilgrimage we enter the monastary itself. There's a very non-Buddhist cover charge and Ben and Riva decide to pass. Glover and I go in and are visually impressed but emotionally underwhelmed. The place has a strange fakeness to it. This feeling is not helped at all by the monks sitting out the front selling "protective medallions" in little plastic wrappers for two dollars each.

We stay in Shigaste only the one day. We have some small business to take care of: I have two days before my visa expires. We jump the bus to Lhasa, the capital of Tibet. It's another marathon eight hour bus ride on bad roads. The "Friendship Highway" linking Shigatse to Lhasa is under repairs.

In Lhasa we find another bustling city, with a population of some 200,000. The Chinese presence is even more evident here, with the now familiar concrete new town, and pokey little old town.

As a result of our usual excellent planning and organisation we have timed our arrival with one of Lhasa's big festivals. The Xodoin festival, or Yoghurt festival in English, is some sort of celebration to do with monks not coming outside at this time of year for fear of treading on and killing insects. To somehow compensate them for being locked inside, the benefactors of the monastary feed them yoghurt (or more correctly translated, sour milk).

This is a great cultural experience for us and we are lucky to arrive in time for it. The only draw back is that every hotel in town is booked solid. Both foreign tourists and Tibetans alike have swarmed to the city to celebrate this most excellent occasion.

After tramping around the city for several hours, getting more rejections than we average on a Friday night out, we finally score a room. We stay in a new and virtually unkown Indian hotel buried in the very back of the old town. It is near a monastary (one of many in Lhasa) and by the time we check in we have completed the pilgrimage around this monastary at least twice.

The next morning we are up at five to catch the festivities. We take a taxi out to the main monastary, pay the merchant monk his ten dollars entrance fee (scoring a free multi-media CD as part of the ticket!) and follow the thousands of pilgrims heading up the steep hill to the monastary. It's still dark as we follow the dirt and stone path up, and only the press of the crowd stops us from falling over.

The sun comes up as we reach the top. We are standing on the edge of a steep cliff looking down on the monastary a few hundred meters below. We take a seat amongst the crowd of Tibetan festival goers. There are thousands of them, all in their best clothes (i.e. the ones with the brightest colours - vibrant reds, blues and yellows). They throw prayer cards into the air and they flutter like hyper-coloured leaves in the wind.
After some time the music starts. A cacophony of slow, drawn out horns - like the baying of a dying yak - accompanied by half hearted drum beats with no detectable rhythm. It's my kind of music (as in the kind I could play, rather than the kind I'd like to listen to).

A procession of monks, dressed in the customary red and yellow robes, make their way through the crowd. They are carrying a furled poster some fifty meters in width. They reach the bottom of a huge structure of scaffolding, pushing their way through a veritable mosh pit of pilgrims.

The lead monk carries a huge yellow umbrella and as he passes, the crowd throw strips of white material (from where we sit it looks suspiscously like bog roll) over his shoulders. By the time he reaches his destination he looks like the Sorbent equivalent of the Michelin Man.

From the top of the scaffolding a group of twenty or so monks throw down ropes to the monks below. At first we think that a bit of monk abseiling is planned, but alas it is not to be. The monks at the bottom tie the ropes to the furled poster. The monks at the top then haul on the ropes, revealing the poster bit by bit.

It is a huge depiction of a monk (assumably Buddha) sitting in the standard cross legged position. In his lap is the all important bowl of yoghurt symbolising this great ceremony. The crowd go wild as the image is revealed, throwing prayer cards into the air and hurling more white bog roll onto the huge poster.

Huge mounds of incense are lit and the entire mountain is covered in a thick, pungent haze. The crowd begins to move. The faithful make their way under the massive poster and on to complete the pilgrimage around this huge monastary. Thousands of people push and shove each other along goat tracks cut across the steep hills. With the bright colours, the smoke, the hoard of shoving people and the deep sound of the horns, the entire scene is like a riot at an English football match.

We join the press of people flooding past us. We are herded along the path, up steep hills, over loose rocks and all the while on the edge of a sheer drop to the rocks below. People slip and fall on each other. At each turn, burning mounds of incense fill the air with smoke so that we can barely see a few meters in front of us. We emerge choking and coughing onto the high ground.

It takes more than an hour to finally reach flat ground. Here the pilgrims claim space on the ground and spread out picnic blankets. From all accounts this is how they will spend the rest of their day. We unfortunately have no picnic food with us and the festival is over for us. We make our way back to town for lunch.

The Yoghurt festival continues for a week but this is the only public ceremony we find. I guess the rest of the celebration is private. No one knows what those monks get up to with all that yoghurt.

I focus on other matters. My all important visa. The Police office was shut on our arrival on the 14th and was of course closed for the festival on the 15th. It's now the 16th and my visa is offically expired. I'm once again illegally travelling through China for the second time in only three weeks.

Luckily the Police really don't care, or perhaps can't add up to work out that my visa is expired. It may have something to do with the abusive Europeans in the office at the time, getting angry about some permit prices or something. The little Chinese woman who serves me seems to be just glad that I'm not yelling at her. In any case I escape with a ten day visa extension and no fine. A friendly tip for all travellers: a smile gets you a long way, yelling just ups the price.

Our plan is to fly to Beijing and work our way down the East coast. We have to tick off all the required Chinese sights: The Great Wall, The Terracotta Soldiers, Shanghai, Hong Kong, etc. They have some appeal, but from the reports of other travellers, China really is a monotony of big concrete cities. Even for us, Shigatse and Lhasa have blurred into one and we are strangely unenergetic and unmotivated.

We go in to book our flights only to find that the festival has made this difficult too. To get to Beijing we will have to spend a week in Lhasa. In fairness, Lhasa is a nice town with plenty to see and do but really we are done with it. As Dai said, after endless days of rolling foothills on our journey here, "It is very beautiful, but I am full".

We check the map. Apparently there is a closed road that we can hitch on to get to Chengdu. It's at least three days however, on roads possibly even worse than the ones we've been on. Fines are high if we are caught. The monsoon season has just started and avalanches are common. At the end of the hitch we end up half way down China, meaning we have to travel up and then backtrack down. It's an option but not a good one.

Then we realise something: just south is Everest and past that is Nepal. Tourists are making trips to Everest basecamp and the Nepalese border from Lhasa, maybe we can head there. We do the research. It's possible. What's more, after Nepal is India, from all accounts one of the most interesting places in the world. After that is Bangladesh, Burma, Thailand and the rest of South East Asia. China begins to look very dull. Our Way is obvious.

So now we are travelling in a jeep (luxury!) to the Nepalese border with a new plan and fresh energy. Tonight we stay in Shigatse once more. Tomorrow, after passing through Latse (where Glover and I intend to wear hats and dark sunnies so as not to be recognised) we should arrive at the base of Mount Everest and the Nepalese border.

There does seem to be a slight problem getting into Kathmandu at the moment. The Maosist, a popular Nepalese terrorist group, have set up a blockade, demanding the release of political prisoners. I'm sure they will let us through however - who wouldn't?

Liquid Lobotomy

Civilization at last! Hotels with electricity and flush dunnies; restaurants with English menus (meals only double the price as those on the Chinese menus!); even a place in town with a hot shower. Sure, Latse has only one street, and you can walk from end to end in under ten minutes. However, compared to the mud brick shanty towns we've travelled through it is a bustling metropolis.

There's even a public bus that will take us on to Shigatse, though we decide to spend the night in Latse to recooperate. The laundry is the only luxury we can't indulge in. The bus will leave too early and our clothes will not dry in time.

After showering (for a good half hour) I put my dirty clothes back on. Now that I'm clean I realise just how rotten my gear actually is. There's been no chance to wash clothes since leaving Kashgar, some two weeks earlier. Mud, sweat, petrol, and bits of past meals combine to form a solid coating on my jeans - and that's just the exterior.

In the evening we head out to one of the small, cheap restaurants for a meal. Dai has gone walkabout, so it's just myself, Glover, Ben and Riva. The meal is primitive: some meat with rice and vegetables. It's not instant noodles however, and we devour it with pleasure.

Having reached civilization once again, we do what any self respecting westeners would do in our situation. We decide to get drunk. Ben and Riva have been living in China for six months, working as English teachers and they introduce us to a special Chinese brew, called baijiu. It's a potent form of rice whiskey, and a full bottle is purchased for less than four dollars. The Chinese call this a "liquid lobotomy".

It's barely six in the evening when we crack the bottle and pour out shots to go with our meal. The smell alone is enough to put us over the legal driving limit. I down the first shot and it occurs to me that I've not been properly drunk since leaving Australia. As the harsh liquid strips my throat bare, I have a sudden premonition that this night is going to end very, very badly.

We polish off the bottle with our meal. The owner of the restaurant comes over to see what all the commotion is about and we quickly pour her a shot as well. We over-rule her protests with a friendly barrage of "Gampae" (Chinese for "cheers", or rather for "skul"). She knocks it back with a grimace and then wisely retreats to the safety of her kitchen.

As everyone knows, one bottle of baijui is never enough. We pick up a fresh one at the local corner store. Having finished our meal however, we now have nowhere to drink. Already well and truly pissed, we make the sensible decision to head to the local park.

It's early evening, the sun still lingers in the sky, and children are playing in the park. We had planned to keep a low profile in Latse as the local Police are rumoured to be hard on foreigners and our permits are not valid here. Either we forget this plan, or we decide that being drunk and disorderly in the local playground counts as keeping a low profile - I honestly don't remember.

We pull up a bench in a nice little pagoda and pour out shots into paper cups (where these came from, I have no idea). As we throw these down, kids begin to gather and surround us. Apparently there is nothing more exciting to a Tibetan kid than a group of westerners getting sloshed in the public park. They line up in front of us, laughing and making jokes among themselves. We respond accordingly: we cheers them and keep drinking.

Thankfully the sun has set when we finish the bottle. A few adults have gathered now to watch the performance. It's definitely time to move on. We lurch to our feet and stagger down the main street. Our getaway is not perfect however: the gaggle of kids, some twenty of them, follow us. The kids yell and scream at each other, running and playing around us. Repeatedly, they call out "hello" and "how are you?", the few English phrases they know. The crowd swells in size as we make our way down the street.

The kids pull at our shirts, some begging, some just playing. One of us, I don't remember who, starts high-fiving the kids. Before we know it ever kid in town is trying to slap our hands. The kids aren't quite sure of the purpose of this game. They assume the point is to slap your opponent as hard as you can. Before long we are fighting off a crowd of excited kids trying to slap the shit out of us.

Glover and myself make it to the edge of the crowd and flee. Ben and Riva are lost in the swell of children, though in our drunken state we fail to notice. Assuming they are following us we set off in search of whatever this town has to offer in the way of a drinking hole.

We come across what looks to be a bar, based on the pictures out front. Unfortunately it's locked tight. There's little else in sight. We have the inspirational idea to ask two of the local men walking by for directions. It's only half way through the conversation that we remember that we don't speak Chinese. We resort to charades and pigeon English.

"Where is Party Party, Drinky Drinky, Disco Disco?". We make skuling motions and bust a few dance moves to hammer home the point. They look at us blankly. That is until Glover starts girating his pelvis and swings his hand above his head like a cowboy with a laso. I stop halfway through my dance move to look at him, "What the hell is that?". This however is the breakthrough and the two men start gibbering at us and lead us to a venue.

We invite them up to drink with us, but for some reason they politely refuse. It's at this point that Glover realises that Ben and Riva are no longer with us and he decides to go looking for them. I'm still convinced that they are just behind us and fail to notice that they, and now Glover, have dissapeared. I walk upstairs and into the club.
It's a karaoke bar. I'm greeted with an over-friendly "halloo" by a gaggle of hookers. They clear a table for me, and I go to order a round of beers but stop, finally realising that I'm on my own. I look around the club, the only other patrons are a group of army boys, happily surrounded by their own pack of prostitutes.

I order a beer and sit back while the hookers at my table attempt to make small talk. It's the smallest of talk, since they don't speak English and I don't speak Chinese. A few of them give up on me and head over to the army boys. One particulary persistent Nepalese girl keeps on at me, and I just nod drunkenly.

After some twenty minutes Glover arrives with Ben and Riva in tow. The hookers back off a little but loiter nearby on the off chance that we are looking for a group deal. We order a round of beers and settle into the comfy lounge chairs.

It's a dingy, smokey place, with poor lighting and tacky, loud music. Exactly the sort of place we were looking for. The ladies bring us over a list of songs available for karaoke. There are literally thousands of them, and at least half of them are English. The army boys are working their way through the list. There are four of them and they take turns abusing the microphone. The songs are Chinese and I'm not sure if it is the music or their singing that is more terrible.

We knock back a few more beers, enjoying the cultural sights and sounds. One of the army lads, a bald, chubby Chinese guy, comes over for a chat. He offers us all cigarettes and Glover and I accept, temporarily forgeting that we don't smoke. We sit and drink and smoke with our new friend.

We decide to treat these lucky people to a little western music. After much debate we decide on Hotel California as our Karaoke selection (which clearly shows how much our judgement was off that night). We write down the number and hand it to the girl in charge of the karoake machine. At the same time Ben and Glover decide they need to piss, and they dissapear.

Of course, the very next song to come up is our selection. Riva and I take center stage, with a microphone each. It is dismal, truly aweful. Neither of us can hold a tune, and being absolutely sloshed helps not at all. We bellow the slow words into the microphone, out of time with each other and the music. The army boys cheer us on however, though I suspect this has less to do with our singing and more to do with Riva's dancing (she's half Shri Lanken and a slim, attractive girl).

As we come into the final verse, Glover and Ben burst through the door, bellowing out the words. The four of us bring the song to it's horrid, deafening climax. It sounds like a cow being slaughtered. In truth we are yelling, not singing. As the final notes die away, there is a polite clapping from the audience and the microphones are quickly and firmly taken from us.

We take our seats and resume our drinking. Things are getting messy. We have drunk two bottles of potent rice whiskey and too many beers to count. We are on our last legs when I get generous and buy the army boys a round of beers. They return the favour and buy us several rounds and cheers us every two minutes.

The rest of the night is, at best, a blur. The details have been pieced together as a collective effort (in fact Riva still can't remember singing Hotel California). At some ungodly hour, Glover and I stumble out into the hallway to find Ben hugging a bucket and spewing his guts up. The club is connected to a hotel and Riva appears from one of the bedrooms where she has been watching TV with a Chinese family.

It's time to go home. I pick up Ben and half drag him out into the street. Riva and Glover lead the way. We stumble down the middle of the road, singing Hotel California. Eventually we find our hotel. Ben sits outside our room, not yet ready for bed. Glover decides to join him for a sympathy spew, and the two of them spend the next while taking turns throwing up.

We all finally somehow make it into our respective beds and pass out. Sometime in the night I wake up, still drunk and very confused. I stand up in the middle of the room and try to get my bearings. It's pitch black and I'm totally confused. Where am I? Is this the back of a truck? I'm sure of only one thing: I need to piss.

I stumble over to a wall, still half asleep and maybe thinking that I am outside I decide it's as good a place as any to take a piss. Some small, sane part of my brain convinces me to check the area before taking any action and I reach out to feel the space in front of me. Dai, who I was just about to piss on, wakes from his sleep with start as my hands grope his face. I realise where I am, and find the door outside where I relieve myself without hitting any sleeping asians in the cross fire.

The sun comes up the next morning to reveal the chaos. Ben has a half full bucket next to his bed. Glover is a tangled mess amongst his sheets. Only Riva seems to have survived the night unscathed and is tucked away in her bed.

I realise something is sticking into my back, and I pull out the lonely planet from under me. It's wet and stinks of rice whiskey. I wonder if we emptied the bottle over it or something. Then I notice, in a nice little pile on one side of my bed, my dinner from the night before. Apparently I managed a little up-chuck myself, covering our travel guide, my bed and the sleeve of my shirt.

With groans of pain we stumble out of bed. We have only a few minutes to make the bus. Quickly we jam our gear into our bags. Riva has lost her jumper, but there's no time to look for it, and we wouldn't know where to start. We don't even know where the bus stop is, and shame faced we ask reception. They laugh at us and one says, "you last night too much drink". We can't deny it. There's probably no one in this town who didn't witness some part of the debacle from the night before.

Surprisingly, despite having trashed their hotel and surely woken up most of the guest, the staff seem sympathetic towards us. The poor westeners got a little drunk. One of them even walks us down to the bus stop. We manage to buy some water and a few steamed buns before we are herded onto the bus.

Latse dissapears behind us as the bus jostles down the dirt road. It's a long, painful five hour ride to Shigaste, the next town. We talk little, holding our heads in our hands and praying for unconciousness. A few hours out of Latse it occurs to me that we escaped the town without coming foul of the hard and angry police rumoured to be working there. Lucky we kept a low profile.

Hitchhikers' Guide to Tibet

In Darchen the weather has turned nasty: rain and hail pelt the earth turning it to mud. It occurs to me that the Russians should now be about half way around Kailash and they would not be having a good time of it. I can just imagine Karol and Victor hurling demands at Shiva: "Sun very Good! Rain very Bad!". Perhaps Shiva needs a bear hug.

The rain is causing problems for us as well. The 'roads' have turned to muddy puddles and no driver is willing to take us on the next leg of our journey. We have decided to take the difficult but scenic south road through to Shigatse and then on to Lhasa.

Surprisingly the jeep that we booked in Ali (the one that never showed up) is here in Darchen. A group of Koreans have hired it, and it is taking them to Lhasa. These Koreans were hanging around when we booked the jeep and we learn, through a bit of detective work, that they stole our jeep by over-bidding for it after we left.
We consider slashing their tires but it turns out they have a spare seat and Frank quickly claims it for himself. This is a double boon, on the one hand we get rid of Frank, and on the other we get our sweet revenge. These poor Korean bastards will spend the next few days in a cramped vehicle with a man who could bore a comatose sloth to death.

This leaves only myself, Glover, Riva and Ben: a happy little team. We continue our vehicle hunt, walking up to random strangers, waving cash at them and chanting Lhasa.

Finally we get lucky - well in a way. A group of Hindu pilgrims are coming down the mountain this day. They are travelling in a convoy of jeeps first to Saga (about half way to Lhasa) and then across the Nepalese border to Kathmandu. The jeeps are unfortunately full, but they do however have a large, blue supply struck. We strike a bargain with the Nepalese tour guides. For a handful of cash they let us hitch in the back to Saga.

It's a beast of a truck, a huge four wheel drive wagon. The cab can seat three and the back is a long metal trailer. An army green canopy covers the trailer in a high arch, supported by metal poles. The back of the canopy is open, the front has been covered with a blue tarp. We climb aboard and the truck heads off on the bumpy road. Three of the Nepalese guides ride in the back with us. Riva rides in the front, these lads have a healthy respect for women.

Black smoke poors from the back and the whole truck vibrates and shudders like a broken lawn mower. The road is pocked with holes and muddy rivers, and we are thrown from one side of the truck to the other with every bump. Luckily it should only take three days to reach Saga.

We move around the supplies and try to make ourselves comfortable. The truck carries food, tents and sleeping bags for the group of eighteen Indian pilgrims. More worringly, the truck also carries several rusty drums of fuel for the jeeps and at least ten gas cylinders for cooking.

The petrol drums are only loosely sealed and splashes of fuel slop from the lids. The little gas canisters jostle from side to side in time with the engine, banging into each other. Basically the entire truck is one giant explosive. We attempt to discuss this with the Nepalese guys in the back of our truck, but they just don't understand our constenation. They pull out a pack of cigarettes and light up before settling in for the long ride. Kindly they offer us a smoke each, but we all decline.

We resign ourselves to our fate. We all have to die sometime, and "Spontanous Combustion While Hitching in Tibet" makes a better epitaph than most. With a gas canister for a pillow and a petrol tank for a back rest I lean back and watch the mountains of Tibet fade into the distance through the opening in the back of the truck. It's better than a wide screen TV, although with only one channel, showing only silent documetaries on the back roads of Tibet.

A few kilometers out of town we pick up another hitch hiker. A Japanese guy called Dai. He's a happy looking guy and friendly and we make room for him amongst the canisters. He's following mostly the same path as us to Lhasa.

We drive only a few hours this first day, and we make camp at the east end of Lake Manasarovar. This is another extremely holy site for Hindus. Bathing in this lake is said to wash away three hundred years of bad kharma. We wade in and wash our feet, hands and faces. Our kharma is now pretty damn good. Take away this life for Kailash - that's 1977. Three hundred years back from there and I'm now kharma clean from 1677 onwards.

Glover goes one step further. He reveals that along with his bath robe he's brought swimming goggles and a cap. I begin to wonder what other useless shit he has been lugging around China but I am afraid to ask. He dons his cap and dives in. The rest of us head back to the camp shaking our heads.
The view around the Lake is spectacular. Mountains line the shore on all sides. In this high and open land you can literaly see the weather roll in. We watch the sun set behind a patchy canopy of white billowing clouds, while dark storm clouds charge in from the east. Within a few minutes the sky has gone from golden-red to angry black.

An awesome display of lightning cracks across the sky. At this height the lightning looks solid enough to touch, lingering in the sky for several seconds. The jagged flashes are almost horizontal across the black sky - nature's fireworks. The rain pelts down on us, and despite the potential of death by lightning (another fine epitaph) we stand and watch in awe. Until the hail hits that is, and then we are driven indoors soaking and cold.

A few clouds linger the next day, but the bulk of the storm has moved on. We are up early and bumping along the pot-holed road with only a few sugar snacks for breakfast. The day drawls on, we sleep or at least pretend to, trying to convince ourselves that it's possible. The vibrations of the engine become bareable but every ten minutes or so we hit a over large ditch and we are thrown a foot in the air before coming down hard on whatever explosive device we are leaning against.

We travel for eight hours this day, with the same, endless view of mountains and plateau. A tail win chases us and every time we slow down, rain or dust (depending on the changeable weather) is blown in on us. Lunch is an ordinary affair of pot noodles and bitter yak butter tea. One of the petrol tanks is leaking badly now and the fumes fill the tent. We are tired, hungry, sore and possibly high when we pull into a shitty mud brick town in the middle of nowhere.

There's is little to tell of this town, even the name is too uninteresting to remember. The only redeeming feature is the generosity of the Nepalese guides who we have befriended (spending two days in confided quarters with someone invariably ends up with either a friendship or a deep loathing). After the Indian travellers have had their full, we share the left overs with the guides. The rich spices of the Indian meal is almost enough to restore us.

The Indians keep to themselves, perhaps a little annoyed that these free loaders are bumming a lift on their holy (and expensive) expedition. There is also a definite tension between the Nepalese guides and the Indian tourists. There have obviously been some problems on the trek, but I suspect there is also a natural rivalry between the two races.

Only one Indian guy chooses to spend his time with us. He is a younger guy and feels out of place amongst the older pilgrims. He's extremely friendly and we spend the nights chatting more about Hindu culture and customs. Among other things, the extreme tolerance that Hinduism has for other religions (among the people I have met so far, at any rate) is definitely a welcome insight.

The final day sees us in the back of the truck once again. We drive for another rough eight hours to the town of Saga. Today however, we have stuffed the petrol lids so the fumes are not as bad. The trip is much the same as before, same views, same people, same bumpy road. The truck, it has to be said, is an impressive vehicle. It is no way fast, but it is reliably consistent. Occasionally we have to stop to tow one of the bogged smaller jeeps from a muddy river crossing. Our truck never falters.

It's dark when we pull into the small town of Saga. We share dinner one last night with the Nepalese guides, and then bid them fare well. In the morning they take the road south, through the mighty Himalayas and on to Kathmandu.

Our path is east, and we need to find another ride. It is early morning when Glover bursts into the room clutching his bog roll, having just completed his morning routine. "Wakey, wakey. I got us a ride. You've got ten minutes". We stumble out of bed. Ten minutes is more than enough however: there are no showers (there have been none since Ali), there's no point in changing clothes (we have no clean ones left) and breakfast is a sugary energy bar (again).

Our truck is much the same as the last one. Only the petrol tanks are better sealed. Our drivers are Tibetan this time and not as friendly as the Nepalese. Riva rides in the back with us for the first time.

There is no smell of petrol in this truck. No, the smell is far, far worse. We look around and discover, hanging at the front of our trailer, a recently skinned leg of goat - foot still attached. Obviously the boys are taking home a bit of meat for the family meal.

The lads tell us that it's a four hour drive to Latse, our next stop. We look on the map and are surprised. The roads must surely get better to cover that distance in that time. Not so. After eight hours of driving, and still no sign of Latse, we realise these guys haven't a clue. The night closes in, and the temperature drops. Dai is horribly under equiped for this and I lend him my beanie and a spare T-Shirt. He curls up in a ball under a hessian bag and shivers in the cold.

It's raining heavy and it's dark when the truck jerks to a halt and we are all thrown forward. It's close to eleven now, we've been travelling for more than twelve hours. We climb out for a piss, and to see what's going on. We are on the side of a steep cliff. The narrow road is not a road anymore, it's a river. Ahead a full fleet of trucks and jeeps are stagnant in the mud. The rain is lashing down. We are going nowhere soon.

A few half hearted attempts are made to sort things out but it's not long before the engines are killed and the decision is made to sleep here and sort it out at dawn. The wind and rain lashes into our little shelter. This truck is opened at both the front and back, i.e. it's a wind funnel. We curl up cold and wet and pray for dawn or death. Which ever can be delivered sooner.

Salvation comes however, when one of the drivers (who are sleeping in the dry cab) reveals that one of the sacks we have been using for seating actually contains sleeping bags. There are ten in all, we use them all. Calling on all our cubby-house building skills, we string up bags at the front and bag to block the wind. We use some bags for padding and some for warmth. When we are done our trailer is a veritable fortress.

Only the meat remains. Glover and I decide to put it outside. Glover has an attempt but retreats, practically dry retching from the smell. I approach carefully, my mouth covered. Hurriedly I untie the wire holding it, then touching it with two fingers I flick the putrid flesh out onto the roof of the cab where it sits in the rain, hanging over the driver's widow. I drop the sleeping bag cover back in place and the evil thing is hidden from sight. Until dawn that is when I once again have to tie it back in place.

We pass the night without incident. I sleep on top of three petrol drums, wearing five layers, including my rain jacket and cap. I have two sleeping bags for warmth, but am still cold. A dirty T-Shirt is my only pillow. As I drift off to a restless sleep, it occurs to me that this is still better than the bus ride from Khargilik to Ali. All things are relative.

The engine roars at eight the next morning. The sun is up but it has little time to warm us. Ahead the trucks rearrange themselves. In fact the solution to the blockade is incredibly easy, taking only a few minutes to sort out. Why they couldn't have done this last night is a mystery.

We drive down the winding road for a further two hours. Then, five kilometers out of Latse, we stop. The drivers come back and tell us to get out. There is a police check point ahead and they can't take us any further. We will have to hike the remaining distance.

We don't bother to argue. There is no point. We take up our packs and begin the long walk. Latse is not even in sight. At first I am bitter, too weary to be really pissed off. As the walk stretches on however, my legs, unused for four days, inform me that they are glad of the excercise. The sun is shining for the first time in days. It occurs to me that if the truck had not of broken down, we would have had to make this walk in the dark and the cold rain at around two in the morning. I decide to be grateful.

Shortly after my mood change, a little tractor pulls up next to us. The tractor is really just an engine with a gear stick rising out of it and a trailer attached to it. For a fee close to nothing the driver offers us a lift for the remaining few kilometers. We accept gladly. The little engine splutters out black smoke and we travel along at a speed only slightly faster than walking but it is a welcome boon.

After a few minutes we pull into town, driving past a police check point without even stopping (or slowing down, which would be much the same thing). The bright city lights of Latse sprawl out in front of us. Cement streets, tiled buildings and neon signs - all the artifacts of civilization that we have not seen for weeks. In truth Latse is a tiny town, with one street, barely a few kilometers long. For us it is vegas. It even has showers, the first we have seen in ten days.

Redemption

It takes three days to hike around Mount Kailash. We leave most of our gear in Darchen, taking only a change of clothes and some food. Good packaged food is hard to come by in Tibet. The fresh food is good enough, but Uncle Toby has not yet made it into the lucrative Tibetan market with his muesli bars. We have some fruit, but the bulk of our supplies consist of what the locals call energy bars: effectively brown lumps of compacted sugar and salt.

We have never heard of this mountain, but it is one of the most sacred sites in the Hindu religion. Shiva, who ranks in the top three for Hindu Gods, is said to hang out at the top. As a result it is forbidden to climb the mountain. The Hindus believe however that by making a pilgrimage around the mountain you experience spiritual death and rebirth - a complete once round of the kharma cycle. This effectively wipes your current kharma and gives you a clean slate to work with.

The Buddhists, as well as the lesser known Jain and B'on religions, also hold Kailash as holy. The B'on is the most interesting of these, being a darker, more primitive religion predating Buddhism and still practiced by a large number of Tibetans. These guys revere the Swastika (the one pilfered by Hitler for his Nazis) as a symbol of power, life and death. They reckon they can make out a Swastika on the south face of Kailash but personally I can't see it.

We set out early. Kailash sits to our north, it's pyramid like peak covered in thick white snow. It's a clear day and the sun is warm, though a cool breeze follows us. Frank is with us, wearing an incredibly unattractive jump suit. He likes to walk in front and we let him. His constant, humourless babbling has begun to annoy, and I wonder whether the trip round Kailash can clear enough Kharma to cover a little hiking 'accident'.
The Canadians, Ben and Riva, share the path with us too. They are proving to be good travelling companions and I'm glad to have them along. Various Japanese travellers are ahead and behind us, but the language barrier limits our conversations to one word comments and pantomine jokes.

As we start down the path, a friendly white dog comes along side and leads the way. At the same time a shaggy black dog passes us heading in an anti-clockwise direction. All this talk of Gods and kharma has made us superstitous. It seems too great a coincidence that the white dog follows the Hindu and Buddhist way, whereas the black dog seems to follow the B'on path.

We reach a spot on the path littered with old clothes and tattered prayer flags. This is the beginning of the first stage of the pilgrimage - the dying stage. Here, believers discard old clothes to symbolise leaving behind their previous lives. I discard a Join Me T-Shirt, lying it flat on the ground. It seems appropriate, a black shirt with the words "Join Me" on it marking the start of a pilgrimage into death and beyond.

Both Ben and Riva have minimal gear and clothing. Riva opts to ditch a flower covered g-string. Surely Shiva is satisfied with this. One of the Japanese guys has been travelling with a little troll-like doll that he calls his "Master". This is his offering and the pug faced troll is left standing in the pile of old clothes, staring at Mount Kailash.

After a few hours hiking the path splits. Myself, Chris and Frank are a little ahead of the others, who have stopped to take photos. I decide to let the dog choose the path. The dog however walks to the intersection and stops, waiting for us. It seems we must choose our own path to redemption.

We take the path to the right and immediately the dog takes the lead, once again guiding us. The path rises steeply and before long it becomes little more than a goat track on the steep side of Shiva's home. Far below us is a great plateau, with a river curving through it. Had we taken the left path, this is where we would have ended up, an easy walk.

We would however have missed the view - and the view is spectactular. The white peak of Kailash lords over the land, and smaller mountains huddle around it, like worshippers bowing at its feet. In the valley below dozens of brightly dressed pilgrims make a snake-like trail along the gray-green path. We drop our packs and spare a moment to take it all in. Only Frank's babbling breaks the serenity but the climb has left him breathless and he is forced to reduce his normal banter.

Eventually the path leads us down a rocky ledge. It's a hard hike but the white dog is with us, and I enjoy it all. After a final climb down a small cliff face (forcing us to remove our packs and throw them down in front of us) we reach the plateau. The moment we are down the dog dissapears. I take it to mean that our path is sure and we no longer have need of a guide. Glover thinks it's because the dog has realised we are idiots and is happier following more sane, sedate pilgrims on the easy paths. I like my explanation better.

In the valley we come across a herd of yak, loaded with expedition gear. Many of the Hindu pilgrims are often elderly, wanting to patch things up with Shiva before their final judgement day. They come here on guided tours, with cooks and camping gear. The yaks serve as beasts of burden, carrying their equipment. I wonder how many times these yaks have circled Kailash, they are surely well on their way to Nirvana.

I am enthralled with the yak. They seem somehow more noble than your average bovine. Great curved horns and long, draping manes lend them a certain dignity. They are massive creatures with powerful strong bodies, yet despite this they can break into a skipping run with ease. I wonder weather customs will let me bring one home as a pet. I'd call it Malcom. It's a good name for a yak.

Frank has no time for yaks and he powers on ahead, leaving us in blessed peace. We eat lunch in a tent tea-house, set up to make a buck off the pilgrim trade. The menu is limited to instant noodles and tea. This is our first of such meals but in the days ahead this becomes our staple, aweful diet.

Ben and Riva catch us and we stroll up the gently sloping valley together with Kailash sitting peacefully to our right. As the afternoon wears on we begin to feel the climb. The incline is slight but steady, our destination for this day is a camp sitting at 5,200 meters above sea level. This is dangerously high, and the air is thin and dry.

Glover is hurting the most, his pack is from an Irish reject shop and the straps have obviously been designed by a kindergarten class. What's more he has insisted on bringing with him his heavy bath robe, claiming it to be the warmest thing he owns. Thankfully he has left the travel scrabble set behind. We are in no hurry however, and we stop frequently to rest and take in the awesome scenery laid out around us.

Finally, after a full eight hours of hiking, we reach the camp. It is a small mud brick dwelling with primitive beds, but it is a welcome paradise for our tired bodies. It faces Kailash, with a view of the white peak nestled between two smaller foothills. There is a monastary across the river from the camp, where we can also stay. Frank however, has already organised a room for us and the extra kilometer needed to cross the river convinces us to stay.

Dinner looks to be pot noodles again. Shiva sends us a blessing however. Staying in our camp is a group of Indian pilgrims. I start chatting to one of them. Knowing very little about Hindu religion I ask child-like questions about Kailash, Shiva and their beliefs.

I learn that Shiva is one of three great Hindu Gods. The first is Brahma, the creator, who made the earth and all things on it. The second is Vishnu, the preserver, who takes care of the living world. The last is Shiva, the destroyer. Shiva's main job is to judge you when you die and determine whether you will have to spend your next life as a dung beatle or if you are good for Nirvana. Basically he's a pretty tough character and you should try and keep on his good side.

Shiva is also a cross dresser, having decided to make himself half man and half woman. I didn't quite understand all of this last bit, I think it requires a little more knowledge of Hindu culture. The Hindu guy explaining it to me said it was done for the benefit of mankind. Personally I've got nothing against it, but I'm not sure how it helps either.

While explaining all this to me (with intense passion and belief) the Hindu pilgrim also decides to boost his kharma by sharing his meal with us. Their yaks have carried up a delicious feast of fragrant rice, spicy soup and vegetable curry. Even under normal circumstances this would have been a treat. After a day of hard hiking and artifical meals it is a taste sensation.

The next day we begin our second stage of the pilgrimage - the ascention. It is to be an even harder hike than the first day, as we must climb to reach the high point of the trek, a rise of 5,600 meters. This is the highest any of us have been in our lives and we expect a struggle.

Frank is up at six, and rushes off. His idea is to beat the climb by hitting it early, he insists that we do the same. The rest of us prefer to get a decent sleep in, have a bit of breakfast, and then take the climb when the sun is warm and the view can be enjoyed. I can almost feel Frank's 'dizgust' with this attitude as he rushes out into the cold, morning darkness.

For breakfast we eat the last of our fruit. It is heavy and we want to get rid of it before tackling the high point. The Tibetan people crowd around us as we eat. They have a culture of begging and they are insistent. The begging in itself is annoying but more dissapointing is the complete lack of gratitude shown when you do actually give them something.

Worst of all, when I hand a bag of raisins to one of the beggers, instead of sharing them around with the others, he runs off and hides. I have seen several cultures where people are too poor to eat. In nearly all, the concept of sharing was intrinsic. These Tibetan beggars are a great dissapointment, even more so since my expectations are so high based on the western ideals of Buddhism.

I put the beggars out of my mind as we head out on the climb. I lead the way today and set a slightly faster pace, knowing what's ahead. It is a tough climb. The path is wide and sturdy, however the steep ascent and lack of air make it physically draining. Talking is limited to one word grunts.

Despite hitting the highest part of the path the view is less spectacular than it has been. The back of Kailash is hidden by the smaller foothills around it, and there is not much else to look at. We focus on the climb.
After four hours of an exhausting trek we come upon a rise, marked with a huge tent-like structure, covered in brightly coloured but ragged prayer flags. We have reached the high point. It is almost an anti-climax, the view is still limited and the brown-grey hills around us are somewhat dull.

We stop for lunch (a few 'energy bars') and while we are there a few other pilgrims top the hill. The Tibetan pilgrims pull out brightly coloured prayer sheets, about the size of post-it notes, and hurl them into the air. They flutter gently in the breeze, like coloured snow they twirl in the chilly wind. We share some food with these pilgrims, but they are distracted by the hair on Glover's arms. The Tibetan people have hairless arms, and the thick ginger curls on Glover's arm are a fascination. Glover makes gorilla noises and is rewarded with squeals of delight from his audience.

The Hindu group, who we passed earlier, reach the rise as well. They are exhausted, most of them being over the age of sixty. They huddle around a red stone I hadn't noticed, and my host from the night before explains that they each will draw a drop of blood and leave it on the stone. Another symbol of death and rebirth. While they are performing this sacred ritual, Glover pulls out his beef jerky (too disgusting to describe) and munches down on it. I'm just glad that the vegetarian Hindus don't notice him gnawing away on the carcass of their most sacred animal.

Having eaten, we set off once again, but this time downhill. It's an easy walk, though Glover is still hurting from his dodgy pack. Clouds roll in, hiding the sun and the wind takes on a nasty chill. After a while a light rain closes in before turning to hail. Despite this Glover decides not to use his bath robe, and I once again abuse him for bringing it. He is unrepentent.

The path leads on, seemingly forever. Eventually it comes down to a ravine, and we follow a muddy river flowing south. The rain has caused the river to swell and the land is a muddy marsh. We hop from dry patch to dry patch and occasionally have to make running leaps across smaller streams. We have been hiking for nearly eight hours and every time we round a corner we expect to see the camp. Each time we are met only with the sight of more mountains and the endless muddy path.

Finally, after more than nine hours of hard hiking we stumble into the camp. It's much the same as the night before. There is a monastary a little up the hill. Ben and Riva stay in this as its cheaper and they have a pretty tight budget. The monastary can't take any more people so the rest of us stay in the camp. Dinner is pathetically sparse. Our Hindu friends are camped separately to us so we make do with the sugary junk left in our pack.

The final day is overcast once again, but we have a flat easy walk ahead of us. This is the day of rebirth, the beginning of our new, kharma clear lives. Frank is off again before dawn - some anxiety about organising transport. This makes the day all the more pleasant and we take our time on the last leg of the trek. The view is once again impressive. Kailash is still mostly hidden, however a wide flowing river has cut a deep gorge through the valley and we walk along the edge of this. Steep cliffs drop down to the river below us.

Some four hours later we arive at Darchen. Here we gorge ourselves on freshly cooked noodles and dumplings. In any other circumstance this meal would have been an ordinary affair but to us half starved pilgrims it is a feast fit for kings.

Despite having cleared our souls of bad kharma, we feel only dirty and tired. There are no showers (or plumbing of any sort for that matter) in Darchen and we have not washed since Ali. We take solace in the fact that we are all pretty much in the same state. We spend the rest of the day planning the rest of our trip through Tibet and contemplating just how we will restore our kharma levels to their previous levels.

Very Good Business

There's not much to do in Ali (except of course for the shower parlour that seems to double as a brothel). We decide to find a ride out of town as soon as possible. This is more difficult than it sounds. There are no organised buses in this remote part of Tibet. The main forms of transport are jeeps and trucks, and these are a rare commodity at best.

We have little information on Tibet. Having no guide book for the region, we rely on advice from other travellers. Several people have recommended the Guge kingdom to us, just south and west of Ali and we aim for this as our first stop. This kingdom apparently contains ruined Tibetan monestaries, destroyed in the Chinese cultural revolution. One traveller said that the sight 'brought a tear to my eye'. It's a recommendation we take with caution, as many of the local toilets have had the same affect on us.

The road to Guge is bad and trucks avoid it. Our only option is a jeep, but for this to be economical we need to fill it to the brim. We gather a small posse of other travellers. Frank is still with us (though Glover and I are entertaining plans to change this situation). Ben and Riva join us: a Canadian couple from the nightmare bus ride from Kharkgilik to Ali. Two Japanese guys, also from the bus, team up with us as well. One is called Onish, the other I still don't know the name of despite him telling me several hundred times.

We are looking for the bus depot when we are approached by two stocky looking guys. One is Russian, the other is Polish (but living in Canada). They have that solid Eastern European look - chiselled chins and ox like bone structure. The Polish guy introduces himself as Karol. His English is good but he has a thick, heavy accent and for a moment I wonder if he is actually a cyborg sent by the Chinese government to Terminate illegal foreigners.

The Russian introduces himself as Victor. He is friendly, loud, and excitable. His English is broken but that doesn't hold him back. "I am Victor! I am very Happy! I am English Student!" He yells each phrase, and repeats them to every person in the room, even the Chinese staff, who look like they are ready to call the police or possibly the army.

These two strange men explain to us in hurried but definite terms that they are about to organise a jeep or possibly hire a bus to take them to Guge and then on to the next stop on our list, Mount Kailash. I am hastily elected spokesman for our small band (by virtue of being the slowest to back away from the Russians at the time) and sent along with them for the negotiations.

We take a cab. Victor speaks some Chinese, though he again seems to make up for his lack of vocabulary with extra volume. He hollars at the poor cab driver explaining that we want to go to the Antelope transport office. The driver seems too afraid to understand. Victor continues yelling. Karol produces a business card of the office and shows this to the driver commanding him in English.

The cab driver, bombarded with directions freezes like a deer caught in headlights. Victor and Karol alternate between yelling at the driver and arguing with each other in Russian. After a while Karol turns to me and says, "He must be finished idiot not to understand where we want to go". At this stage I'm thinking the guy is a 'finished idiot' not to have ditched his car and legged it for the mountains.

Eventually the directions are sorted and we end up at the Antelope transport office. This is the only company in town capable of servicing our needs. Karol and Victor have been given the details of several contacts and as they bundle out of the cab they storm through the garage yelling the name of their contact to anyone and everyone in their path. It is amazingly effective and we are quickly ushered into an air conditioned office.

The boss of the Ali branch of Antelope is here lounging in a cushy leather chair. He eyes us up shrewdly, obviously a keen businessman. He speaks excellent English and Karol conducts the negotiations with him in English, rather than using Victor's Chinese.

There is only one jeep available, seating (a very optimistic) twelve. The Russians are a group of eight, leaving four seats for my team. The logistics of the seating is a problem for later however - Karol sets to work on the man for a price. The initial quote is 4,000 yuan for the three days needed. Karol is not impressed, and explains that the price should most definitely be lower.

A display of bargaining prowess, the likes I have never seen before, ensues. The boss is no push over, and he knows he has the only goods in town. Karol hits him from every angle. Karol explains that they are coming with a full truck load of tourists and that this is very good business for Antelope. He also points out that they are friends with the director of Antelope, Paul Chang.

The whole time Karol is calmly negotiating, Victor paces the office, parroting key words from Karol's sale pitch. "Very Good Business!", he yells, "My Friend, Paul Chang!". Karol carries on as if Victor is not there. It's an impressive act and I stay on the sideline, not sure whether to laugh or hide.

The boss is beginning to feel the pressure so he trys a new tactic. He explains that the price is up to the driver and not his decision. The driver is called in, and the brilliance of this plan is revealed - the driver speaks not a word of English.

This doesn't stop Karol and Victor. Victor pulls out the heavy guns, "I am Student! I have little money!". Karol starts writting numbers on a piece of paper, and attempts to shake hands with the driver. "Cheap very good! Expensive very bad!", Victor hammers the driver with undeniable logic. This bombardment has started before the boss can even explain the situation to the driver. The poor guy has no idea what is going on.

Karol pulls out the deal clencher. He wraps the little driver in a bear hug and lifts him from the ground. Victor grabs the stunned driver's hand and shakes it, which is obviously better than a written contract for a Russian. As Karol lowers the confused driver to the ground, he slaps him on the arse for good measure. The boss has given up by this point and the Russians and I walk out with a price of 3,600 yuan. I'm not sure if it's imagined or real, but I hear the solid click of the door lock sliding into place as we leave the office.

I return to the team and explain that we have only four seats for the jeep the next day. There is no clean way to split the team and eventually we decide the best option is to give the seats to an Aussie family that had just arrived. We figure that with two young kids they would have more trouble than us travelling from Ali. It's obviously a charitable offer, though I'm pretty sure most of the group were more than a little scared of travelling with the Russians for three days.

So we are back at square one, stuck in Ali with no way out. Eventually we find an indepndent businessman willing to take the seven of us in his jeep. Onish, who speaks Chinese, does the bargaining and I can't help noticing the difference between the Russian and Japanese bargaining methods. Obviously the Russians got the better price. I consider bear hugging the driver myself, but my Polish genes prove to be too diluted.

The next morning we wait in our hotel foyer at the designated time. Our driver is a no show. We give him till midday but he fails to appear. Things are not going well. Unwilling to spend another day in Ali, we comb the streets. We find the main post office. It is possible to hitch a ride in the back of one of the huge green mail trucks, using the mail bags as seating. Unfortunately however, the next truck is not due out for a few days.

Eventually we find a mini-bus willing to take us directly to Mount Kailash. It means missing the Guge kingdom, but it's really our only option. We climb aboard and settle in for the ten hour trip.

The landscape starts out much the same, barren, rocky mountains and open plateaus. The further south and east that we travel, the more the land begins to come alive. There are no trees, but lush green grass starts to cover the plateau. Through the dirty bus windows we see large weasel like creatures scurry into tunnels and smaller mice follow suite. In the distance four wild deer leap across the open plain with nowhere to hide. Overhead three massive eagles soar in time with the bus, escorting it along the road through the windy cliffs.

As night begins to settle in we finally arrive at the small, primitive town of Darchen. It's a nothing town of lowset, mud-brick houses. Overhead however, looms the reason for the town's existance - the snowy cap of Mount Kailash. This solitary mountain, rising to 6,700 meters high, is one of the most sacred sites in Hindu mythology. This is the home of Shiva, the greatest of the Hindu Gods.

Hindus believe that by walking around this mountain you can wipe away a lifetime of sins, clearing your Kharma for your next incarnation. Obviously this is an opportunity Glover and myself can not aford to miss. We surely have more than a few outstanding Kharma debts.