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.
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.
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