Illegal Aliens
Our options for reaching the east cost are limited. We can, of course, head back the way we came, guranteed of a safe and relatively easy trip up to Urumqi and the main train lines. Backtracking is always a last resort however, and besides, that would be far too easy an option.
Alternatively, we can take a 24 hour bus ride from Hotan through the heart of the Taklamakan desert and on to Urumqi. Crossing the desert that "you go into but don't come out of" has a certain appeal, but ending up back at Urumqi is still a little too close to backtracking to be really interesting.
The most direct route is the Southern Silk Road which runs east from Kashgar along the southern edge of the Taklamakan desert. However, the small mini buses that run along this road are notoriously unreliable. Breakdowns are common and buses are often three or four days late. There is little of interest along this road too. Monotonous desert scenary is broken only by the occasional bland Uyghur town. We are reluctant to invest the amount of time needed to take this barren route.
We are left with only one option: Tibet. This exotic mountain land lies to our south and stretches east across half of China. A road runs from the small Uyghur town of Karghilik and weaves south, clmbing sharply into the mountains. A thousand kilometers later it hits the small town of Ali, the eastern edge of the great Tibetan plateau.
There are, of course, a few small problems with this Tibetan expedition. The fact that it is completely illegal for foreigners to enter Tibet from this side of China is perhaps the biggest hurdle. There are only two roads entering into Tibet that foreigners can legally use, and both of these are far to the east. What's more, once you are in Tibet, you need to have a permit. Since the road to Ali is off limits to tourists, it is understandably more than a little difficult to get these permits before heading off.
Another weak point in this plan is that the road is only open, even for Chinese nationals, for two days in every ten. Our arrival in Kashgar was timed beautifully. Not only were we five days early for the markets, but we also missed the road opening by one day, leaving us with a full nine days to slaughter.
Of course, there are other minor obstacles, such as having no guide book for Tibet, having little cold weather gear, and having no experience at the potentially fatal altitudes of 5000 meters and above. Apart from these triffling problems the plan is totally fool proof, we can hardly justify not doing it.
We gather information on this mad scheme from other travellers who have already braved the path, but in the opposite direction. We learn that the legality of our presence in Tibet can quickly be legitimised. It is merely a matter of providing the right people with the right amount of cash. The word 'fine' is used, however 'bribe' seems a far more appropriate word. A few cigarettes are recommended as deal sweeteners.
In Karghilik we hunt down a bus company willing to risk our illegal cargo. In this, Frank earns his keep. He has arrived serveral hours before Glover and myself and discovered two companies dodgy enough to be of service. We check out the first. The office is a dismal shit hole, reached only by a winding path through a shifty neighbourhood on the outskirts of town. As we enter the garage we come across several dirty Uyghur lads working at the underside of a bus with a hammer. The battered bus has, from the look of it, seen some heavy military action.
A fat, shirtless Uyghur man approaches us and the business negotiations begin. The trip will take 30 hours without stopping, and the ticket price is 600 yuan (about AU$80). A fair portion of the ticket price is to be used to smooth the passage through the various check points along the way.
We have little confidence in this shifty character and even less in his vehicle. We decide to check out the second option. A few kilometers down the road we find the Antelope bus company. This is a slightly more professional looking outfit, but only just. The price and conditions are much the same, however this bus is a sturdier looking vehicle and has the clear advantage of being a sleeper. On a 30 hour bus ride, a bed, no matter how small is a definite plus.
We pay the driver and are surprisingly issued legitimate looking tickets. For better or worse myself, Glover and Frank are now commited to the road through Tibet. Not wanting to alert the authorities to our plan, we decide to keep this secret until we get to Tibet and pay our 'fines'.
Eventually friday rolls round and the road to Ali is opened. We meet our bus at the designated place at eight in the morning and climb aboard. It seems every time we get on a new vehicle in this country we have to redefine the concept of small. The bus is a normal sized bus, however it has three lanes of double bunks on it, one on each side and one down the middle.
The beds are barely shoulder width wide. Climbing into my top bunk, I disover that the bed just comfortably fits my legs. Unfortunately this leaves the small problem of what to do with the rest of my body. If I sit up straight I have to hunch not to hit the roof. If I lay down, I can fit only by curling into a tight ball and hanging my knees over one side and my arse over the other.
The beds have a quaint little feature. At the top of each is a built in pillow, made from a sheet of hard, cold steel. This is uncomfortable, to say the least. Luckily the trip is only a day and a half long, just a short little country drive really.
For Glover and myself this 30 hour bus ride is looking pretty painful. For Frank however things are a little more serious. He has come down with a severe case of the runs. There is really no worse situation you can be in than to be faced with a day and half aboard a cramped bus with the constant need to shit yourself. I offer Frank my immodium (never, ever leave home without it). He rips them from my hands and starts knocking them back. He takes four in less than 20 minutes. This is an obscene amount, and I try to explain to him the consequences, but he is beyond reason.
The bus fills up. There are a few other foreigners on board. A few Koreans and Japanese and one Canadian couple. It is some comfort to know that if we are in for a good beating from the authorities before being locked up and used as some Tibetan man's plaything, at least we won't be doing it alone.
We head out from the main station and drive for a few kilometers. Then surprisingly we pull into the Antelope main bus depot where we are all unloaded. The bus it seems is not ready to leave yet. There is one, dodgy restaurant at the depot and we use this opportunity to pick up some breakfast. Then as the hours roll by, and we still have not moved, we order lunch. As the afternoon slowly creeps in we confront our driver. It seems we are waiting for the 'right' people to start work at some of the check points.
With no other option we settle in for a long stay. Several card games later we order dinner. We have now been at this grotty little bus depot for a full day. Finally at around 8pm the bus driver loads us all onto the bus and we set off. It is 12 hours since we first boarded the bus and we have travelled around five kilometers.
The fun is only just beginning however. We drive only two blocks and pull into a garage. The left, middle tire of our bus is in need of work, it would seem. The bus is jacked up with all of us on it and the tire is removed. A few Uyghur lads set to work on it with the only tool they seem to have: a hammer. For two hours they work on our wheel until at last they are happy with it. Why they couldn't have done these repairs during the last 12 hours of inactivity is beyond me.
We head back to the bus depot, where we sit for another 20 minutes, for no apparent reason. Finally at around 10pm we head off on the road to Ali. We are barely 10 minutes down the road however when the driver does a u-turn, heads back to the garage where the wheel is once again removed. It seems that the orignal job is not to the drivers satisfaction.
At 11pm, finally, we set off for Ali, and this time we don't turn back. We are 15 hours into our journey and we have only just left the town that we started in. We begin to wonder if perhaps we have signed up for something more than we bargained for.
As we head down the road, towards the distant mountains we pass a giant sign, in English and in bold letters: "Foreigners are not permitted to travel past this point to Ali". We wonder what they are trying to tell us with this ambiguous message.
It is midnight when we hit the first check point. Our drivers (we have two, to share the driving) hop off the bus and spend the next half an hour smoking and chatting with the border guards. Eventually they climb back on board and we drive off. The guards make no attempt to check the bus.
Tibet has an average altitude around 5000 meters. The entire country is one big mountain range. The road we are on cuts sharply up the side of a cliff face, rising quickly. It is dark outside, though pale moonlight seeps through the cloudy sky. The white-blue light reveals the dark siloutettes of the giant mountains around us. Miles ahead and above us, a heavy truck climb slowly along the road. It's bright headlights create flickering shadows on the jaged cliff face. It is the only movement in this lunar-like landscape.
The road is dirt and gravel, testing the suspension of our heavy vehicle. The driver takes it slow, thankfully cautious of the drop into darkness and death that is barely half a meter to the right of the road. Despite the slow speed, the bus rattles and creaks. With our heads banging against metal pillows and our bodies twisted into positions that Hudini would find uncomfortable, we try to get what rest we can.
Eventually exaustion wins out and I doze. At 6am the bus comes to a sudden halt. We are at the next check point. The bus drivers, two of the most surely men on this planet, yell at us to get up and show our passports. Bleary eyed and confused we stumble into the small office. Unsure what to do the foreigners linger at the back of the queue. The Chinese nationals in front of us are copping a grilling from the guards. Each one has to provide a permit and answer a series of questions.
Eventually it is our turn, we approach the counter with trepidation. We are completely illegal and we have no defense. We all watch as the first foreigner hands over his passport. The guard takes the passport. This is the end surely. We are nicked. He flicks through a few pages without much interest and then hands it back, barely looking up. The foreigner stands there for a few more seconds before realising that he is through, he has survived the check point. The rest of us remember to breath and then quickly rush forward to have our own passports treated with the same disinterest.
Back on the bus, the Canadians have just woken up. The bus is already through the check point however and they have missed the passport control. No one seems too concerned however and we all head back to our beds.
The sun rises, revealing a glorious landscape of giant jagged mountains and snow capped peaks. The land is as dead and barren as the desert we left behind, but the mountains crowd the horizon and loom over head. Despite the lack of life, there is a presence to the place that seems to have a life of its own.
It is mid-morning when we come across a small town nestled in amongst the mountains. More of an outpost than a town, the place has only one street and just a few concrete buildings. A local mechanic (the only trade in town) gives our bus a quick service. We chat with him and learn that in our 12 hours of driving we have travelled only 240 kilometers, not even a quater of our journey. We have not yet entered Tibet.
There are a couple of places to eat in this town but they are very suspect. We decide that with the better part of the bus ride ahead of us it is too risky a proposition. We have purhased a large supply of snacks and bread to get us through the trip and we decide to make do with these. This is the last town we see until we reach the outskirts of Ali.
The bus trundles along, as the sun crawls across the sky. We have reached a wide open plateau, ringed by undulating mountain peaks. It is a majestic scene, though the muscle cramps, headaches and tiredness limit our appreciation of it. A river cuts through the plateau and a tough carpet of grass follows its path. This small strip of green is the only life in sight.
Glover and I pass the time as best we can. There is little to do. Frank lays unmoving on his bed, moaning in pain. He is on an immodium come down. Immodium is a wonderful drug. There are times (for instance when on a 30 hour bus ride) when uncontrollable diarrhea can be a problem. Immodium can block you up quicker than cement. Like everything in life however, it comes at a price. When the drug finally wears off you are left with sharp cramps and constipation, with the contradictive feeling that you need to shit.
Having had four tablets, Frank is feeling it bad. To make matters worse, the bus drivers stop only when it is convenient for them. When they do pull over Frank rolls from his bed and runs off behind a rock with his bog roll. It is never more than three minutes however before our angry little drivers are beeping the horn and demanding everybody get back on the bus. Each time Frank returns shaking his head, before curling up in his bed and passing out.
The bus makes better time on this open road and small stone markers along the way count the kilometers we have travelled. At 8pm on day two we reach the half way mark, 504 kilometers. Glover and I celebrate with little packets of jelly we picked up in Kashgar. We have eaten nothing but junk food and dried fruit since setting out. These fruit filled treats are the best tasting things we have ever eaten.
The sun sets behind the snow covered peaks of the surrounding mountains. At the same time the road suddenly takes a turn for the worse. The track is lined with ditches and as we plough through each we are thrown into the air. We are forced to clasp tight to the metal hand railings in order to stop from falling. There is no chance of sleep in these conditions and the bus slows to a crawl.
It is not until 2am that the road finally flattens out again and the jostling lessens. I fall asleep exhausted, hungry and dirty. The night is cold as well, at this altitidue the air retains none of the days heat.
At around 4am I awake with a piercing headache. We have climbed while I slept. A chinese man with an altimeter informs me that we have reached 5200 meters above sea level. This is the highest point of the trip and the highest I have ever been in my life. I suck in deep slow breaths of the thin air and eventually my headache lessens. It's at this point that I realise that the woman in the bed behind me is throwing her guts up. Looking around the bus I realise she is not the only one suffering from the altitude. People all over the bus are spewing in bags or out the window. I pull my blanket over my head to block out the sights, the sounds but most of all the smell.
By 7am we have decended back to 4500 meters. The spewing has stopped but I am awake and sitting up. My headache is still with me though it less severe and I suspect it is less from altitude and more from three days on a bus without real food and with a sheet of metal for a pillow.
I am in the middle seat so I am looking out the front window as the bus begins to drift to the side of the road. Suddenly it veers sharply to the left and crashes violently into a ditch. The bus comes to a jarring holt and rises up on two wheels nearly tipping. The little asian man in the bed in front of me is thrown two meters from one side of the bus to the other. By some miracle he flys through the air and lands on an empty bed unhurt and barely missing the metal bed poles that would surely have smased his brains open.
Around the bus others have fallen from their beds but all are unhurt. Bags and shoes have toppled and are everywhere. Shaken we climb from the bus, which is wedged firmly in the ditch and is on a serious lean. At first we suspect that the driver fell asleep but he angrily denies this and demonstrates that in fact the steering gave out. It is a series of miracles that we have survived undamaged. Had the steering given out only a few hours earlier we would have plummeted thousands of meters down a steep cliff to a nasty end.
The bus is in worse shape than the passengers. We set about trying to back it out of the ditch. It takes the better part of half an hour to dig it out and then push it back onto the road. In the high altitude this physical exertion leaves us dizzy and gasping for breath. Getting the bus out of the ditch is only the first step. The steering is still broken and now the engine now won't start.
We spend the next five hours sitting on the ground at the side of the road while the two drivers work at the engine. They yell and argue with each other the whole time. Glover and I make the most of the situation and have a picnic with the last of our now very stale bread. We lie back in the sun and soak up the surrounding landscape. It is simply stunning. In some ways we are glad of the stop.
It is around midday when our bus is finally moving again. We are less than 200 kilometers from Ali now, though we are averaging barely 30 kilometers an hour. Eventually the mountains open up to reveal a huge blue lake. Tough grass and long reeds line the bank and birds swoop and dive into the water. Having seen no life for three days, the scene is aweseome. We start to pass flocks of sheep and the occasional herder as well.
The road takes us along the edge of the lake for over an hour. Jagged cliff faces border the blue water on all sides. Eventually the road turns away from the lake and we are once again in a dusty plateau. Here we reach a small dusty town where we stop for lunch. We feast on our first cooked meal, noodles and meat, in three days. Ali is barely 100 kilometers away.
The last few hours of this marathon are the toughest. The road seems to stretch on forever and each minute feels like an hour. There is no sign of Ali and the landscape is dusty and empty. It seems impossible that a city of any size could exist here. At last we come round the foot of a large mountain and in front and just below us is the town of Ali. It is a tiny town by any standard, barely a few kilometers across. For us however it is a sprawling metropilos with promises of cooked food, beds, showers and most importantly toilets! It is heaven.
It is 7pm on Sunday when we arrive. The trip from Karghilik to Ali has taken us 56 long painful hours. We check into the local hotel, shit, shower and pass out. The next morning we head straight for the local police station. We have heard that if we turn ourselves into the police and admit we have no permits they will 'fine' us and at the same time provide us with a valid permit to travel in tibet.
We decide to walk to the police station, but we get conflicting directions from the locals and end up having to take a taxi. We are dropped off out the front of the police station but we are stopped at the door by a police officer and told we are at the wrong place. The Canadian couple suggest to the copper that he could give us a lift to the proper police station and amazingly he agrees. So now we are all loaded into the back of a police van, illegal aliens, getting a free lift through the town.
When we arrive at the proper police station, all the foreigners from the bus are queuing to turn themselves in. Eventually the polce officers turn up to work, usher us in and start processing our permits. Far from being the gruelling experience we had expected the whole thing goes very smoothly. There are even nice little forms to fill out. We are obviously not the first illegal travellers through this way.
It takes only half an hour and we walk from the station with a rather nice looking document stating that we are now legitimate travellers in Tibet. Say what you will about goverment corruption, this day I have no problems with it.
So we have completed the first leg of our Tibetan trip. We still have several thousand kilometers to cross and there are few buses along the way. We have heard rumours that we can hitch a ride in the back of the mail trucks that run through the country. We have also heard that on our route, which will take us within sight of the mighty Everest, we will stay in Tibetan monastries. We don't know if these rumours are true but we will soon find out.
Alternatively, we can take a 24 hour bus ride from Hotan through the heart of the Taklamakan desert and on to Urumqi. Crossing the desert that "you go into but don't come out of" has a certain appeal, but ending up back at Urumqi is still a little too close to backtracking to be really interesting.
The most direct route is the Southern Silk Road which runs east from Kashgar along the southern edge of the Taklamakan desert. However, the small mini buses that run along this road are notoriously unreliable. Breakdowns are common and buses are often three or four days late. There is little of interest along this road too. Monotonous desert scenary is broken only by the occasional bland Uyghur town. We are reluctant to invest the amount of time needed to take this barren route.
We are left with only one option: Tibet. This exotic mountain land lies to our south and stretches east across half of China. A road runs from the small Uyghur town of Karghilik and weaves south, clmbing sharply into the mountains. A thousand kilometers later it hits the small town of Ali, the eastern edge of the great Tibetan plateau.
There are, of course, a few small problems with this Tibetan expedition. The fact that it is completely illegal for foreigners to enter Tibet from this side of China is perhaps the biggest hurdle. There are only two roads entering into Tibet that foreigners can legally use, and both of these are far to the east. What's more, once you are in Tibet, you need to have a permit. Since the road to Ali is off limits to tourists, it is understandably more than a little difficult to get these permits before heading off.
Another weak point in this plan is that the road is only open, even for Chinese nationals, for two days in every ten. Our arrival in Kashgar was timed beautifully. Not only were we five days early for the markets, but we also missed the road opening by one day, leaving us with a full nine days to slaughter.
Of course, there are other minor obstacles, such as having no guide book for Tibet, having little cold weather gear, and having no experience at the potentially fatal altitudes of 5000 meters and above. Apart from these triffling problems the plan is totally fool proof, we can hardly justify not doing it.
We gather information on this mad scheme from other travellers who have already braved the path, but in the opposite direction. We learn that the legality of our presence in Tibet can quickly be legitimised. It is merely a matter of providing the right people with the right amount of cash. The word 'fine' is used, however 'bribe' seems a far more appropriate word. A few cigarettes are recommended as deal sweeteners.
In Karghilik we hunt down a bus company willing to risk our illegal cargo. In this, Frank earns his keep. He has arrived serveral hours before Glover and myself and discovered two companies dodgy enough to be of service. We check out the first. The office is a dismal shit hole, reached only by a winding path through a shifty neighbourhood on the outskirts of town. As we enter the garage we come across several dirty Uyghur lads working at the underside of a bus with a hammer. The battered bus has, from the look of it, seen some heavy military action.
A fat, shirtless Uyghur man approaches us and the business negotiations begin. The trip will take 30 hours without stopping, and the ticket price is 600 yuan (about AU$80). A fair portion of the ticket price is to be used to smooth the passage through the various check points along the way.
We have little confidence in this shifty character and even less in his vehicle. We decide to check out the second option. A few kilometers down the road we find the Antelope bus company. This is a slightly more professional looking outfit, but only just. The price and conditions are much the same, however this bus is a sturdier looking vehicle and has the clear advantage of being a sleeper. On a 30 hour bus ride, a bed, no matter how small is a definite plus.
We pay the driver and are surprisingly issued legitimate looking tickets. For better or worse myself, Glover and Frank are now commited to the road through Tibet. Not wanting to alert the authorities to our plan, we decide to keep this secret until we get to Tibet and pay our 'fines'.
Eventually friday rolls round and the road to Ali is opened. We meet our bus at the designated place at eight in the morning and climb aboard. It seems every time we get on a new vehicle in this country we have to redefine the concept of small. The bus is a normal sized bus, however it has three lanes of double bunks on it, one on each side and one down the middle.
The beds are barely shoulder width wide. Climbing into my top bunk, I disover that the bed just comfortably fits my legs. Unfortunately this leaves the small problem of what to do with the rest of my body. If I sit up straight I have to hunch not to hit the roof. If I lay down, I can fit only by curling into a tight ball and hanging my knees over one side and my arse over the other.
The beds have a quaint little feature. At the top of each is a built in pillow, made from a sheet of hard, cold steel. This is uncomfortable, to say the least. Luckily the trip is only a day and a half long, just a short little country drive really.
For Glover and myself this 30 hour bus ride is looking pretty painful. For Frank however things are a little more serious. He has come down with a severe case of the runs. There is really no worse situation you can be in than to be faced with a day and half aboard a cramped bus with the constant need to shit yourself. I offer Frank my immodium (never, ever leave home without it). He rips them from my hands and starts knocking them back. He takes four in less than 20 minutes. This is an obscene amount, and I try to explain to him the consequences, but he is beyond reason.
The bus fills up. There are a few other foreigners on board. A few Koreans and Japanese and one Canadian couple. It is some comfort to know that if we are in for a good beating from the authorities before being locked up and used as some Tibetan man's plaything, at least we won't be doing it alone.
We head out from the main station and drive for a few kilometers. Then surprisingly we pull into the Antelope main bus depot where we are all unloaded. The bus it seems is not ready to leave yet. There is one, dodgy restaurant at the depot and we use this opportunity to pick up some breakfast. Then as the hours roll by, and we still have not moved, we order lunch. As the afternoon slowly creeps in we confront our driver. It seems we are waiting for the 'right' people to start work at some of the check points.
With no other option we settle in for a long stay. Several card games later we order dinner. We have now been at this grotty little bus depot for a full day. Finally at around 8pm the bus driver loads us all onto the bus and we set off. It is 12 hours since we first boarded the bus and we have travelled around five kilometers.
The fun is only just beginning however. We drive only two blocks and pull into a garage. The left, middle tire of our bus is in need of work, it would seem. The bus is jacked up with all of us on it and the tire is removed. A few Uyghur lads set to work on it with the only tool they seem to have: a hammer. For two hours they work on our wheel until at last they are happy with it. Why they couldn't have done these repairs during the last 12 hours of inactivity is beyond me.
We head back to the bus depot, where we sit for another 20 minutes, for no apparent reason. Finally at around 10pm we head off on the road to Ali. We are barely 10 minutes down the road however when the driver does a u-turn, heads back to the garage where the wheel is once again removed. It seems that the orignal job is not to the drivers satisfaction.
At 11pm, finally, we set off for Ali, and this time we don't turn back. We are 15 hours into our journey and we have only just left the town that we started in. We begin to wonder if perhaps we have signed up for something more than we bargained for.
As we head down the road, towards the distant mountains we pass a giant sign, in English and in bold letters: "Foreigners are not permitted to travel past this point to Ali". We wonder what they are trying to tell us with this ambiguous message.
It is midnight when we hit the first check point. Our drivers (we have two, to share the driving) hop off the bus and spend the next half an hour smoking and chatting with the border guards. Eventually they climb back on board and we drive off. The guards make no attempt to check the bus.
Tibet has an average altitude around 5000 meters. The entire country is one big mountain range. The road we are on cuts sharply up the side of a cliff face, rising quickly. It is dark outside, though pale moonlight seeps through the cloudy sky. The white-blue light reveals the dark siloutettes of the giant mountains around us. Miles ahead and above us, a heavy truck climb slowly along the road. It's bright headlights create flickering shadows on the jaged cliff face. It is the only movement in this lunar-like landscape.
The road is dirt and gravel, testing the suspension of our heavy vehicle. The driver takes it slow, thankfully cautious of the drop into darkness and death that is barely half a meter to the right of the road. Despite the slow speed, the bus rattles and creaks. With our heads banging against metal pillows and our bodies twisted into positions that Hudini would find uncomfortable, we try to get what rest we can.
Eventually exaustion wins out and I doze. At 6am the bus comes to a sudden halt. We are at the next check point. The bus drivers, two of the most surely men on this planet, yell at us to get up and show our passports. Bleary eyed and confused we stumble into the small office. Unsure what to do the foreigners linger at the back of the queue. The Chinese nationals in front of us are copping a grilling from the guards. Each one has to provide a permit and answer a series of questions.
Eventually it is our turn, we approach the counter with trepidation. We are completely illegal and we have no defense. We all watch as the first foreigner hands over his passport. The guard takes the passport. This is the end surely. We are nicked. He flicks through a few pages without much interest and then hands it back, barely looking up. The foreigner stands there for a few more seconds before realising that he is through, he has survived the check point. The rest of us remember to breath and then quickly rush forward to have our own passports treated with the same disinterest.
Back on the bus, the Canadians have just woken up. The bus is already through the check point however and they have missed the passport control. No one seems too concerned however and we all head back to our beds.
The sun rises, revealing a glorious landscape of giant jagged mountains and snow capped peaks. The land is as dead and barren as the desert we left behind, but the mountains crowd the horizon and loom over head. Despite the lack of life, there is a presence to the place that seems to have a life of its own.
It is mid-morning when we come across a small town nestled in amongst the mountains. More of an outpost than a town, the place has only one street and just a few concrete buildings. A local mechanic (the only trade in town) gives our bus a quick service. We chat with him and learn that in our 12 hours of driving we have travelled only 240 kilometers, not even a quater of our journey. We have not yet entered Tibet.
There are a couple of places to eat in this town but they are very suspect. We decide that with the better part of the bus ride ahead of us it is too risky a proposition. We have purhased a large supply of snacks and bread to get us through the trip and we decide to make do with these. This is the last town we see until we reach the outskirts of Ali.
The bus trundles along, as the sun crawls across the sky. We have reached a wide open plateau, ringed by undulating mountain peaks. It is a majestic scene, though the muscle cramps, headaches and tiredness limit our appreciation of it. A river cuts through the plateau and a tough carpet of grass follows its path. This small strip of green is the only life in sight.
Glover and I pass the time as best we can. There is little to do. Frank lays unmoving on his bed, moaning in pain. He is on an immodium come down. Immodium is a wonderful drug. There are times (for instance when on a 30 hour bus ride) when uncontrollable diarrhea can be a problem. Immodium can block you up quicker than cement. Like everything in life however, it comes at a price. When the drug finally wears off you are left with sharp cramps and constipation, with the contradictive feeling that you need to shit.
Having had four tablets, Frank is feeling it bad. To make matters worse, the bus drivers stop only when it is convenient for them. When they do pull over Frank rolls from his bed and runs off behind a rock with his bog roll. It is never more than three minutes however before our angry little drivers are beeping the horn and demanding everybody get back on the bus. Each time Frank returns shaking his head, before curling up in his bed and passing out.
The bus makes better time on this open road and small stone markers along the way count the kilometers we have travelled. At 8pm on day two we reach the half way mark, 504 kilometers. Glover and I celebrate with little packets of jelly we picked up in Kashgar. We have eaten nothing but junk food and dried fruit since setting out. These fruit filled treats are the best tasting things we have ever eaten.
The sun sets behind the snow covered peaks of the surrounding mountains. At the same time the road suddenly takes a turn for the worse. The track is lined with ditches and as we plough through each we are thrown into the air. We are forced to clasp tight to the metal hand railings in order to stop from falling. There is no chance of sleep in these conditions and the bus slows to a crawl.
It is not until 2am that the road finally flattens out again and the jostling lessens. I fall asleep exhausted, hungry and dirty. The night is cold as well, at this altitidue the air retains none of the days heat.
At around 4am I awake with a piercing headache. We have climbed while I slept. A chinese man with an altimeter informs me that we have reached 5200 meters above sea level. This is the highest point of the trip and the highest I have ever been in my life. I suck in deep slow breaths of the thin air and eventually my headache lessens. It's at this point that I realise that the woman in the bed behind me is throwing her guts up. Looking around the bus I realise she is not the only one suffering from the altitude. People all over the bus are spewing in bags or out the window. I pull my blanket over my head to block out the sights, the sounds but most of all the smell.
By 7am we have decended back to 4500 meters. The spewing has stopped but I am awake and sitting up. My headache is still with me though it less severe and I suspect it is less from altitude and more from three days on a bus without real food and with a sheet of metal for a pillow.
I am in the middle seat so I am looking out the front window as the bus begins to drift to the side of the road. Suddenly it veers sharply to the left and crashes violently into a ditch. The bus comes to a jarring holt and rises up on two wheels nearly tipping. The little asian man in the bed in front of me is thrown two meters from one side of the bus to the other. By some miracle he flys through the air and lands on an empty bed unhurt and barely missing the metal bed poles that would surely have smased his brains open.
Around the bus others have fallen from their beds but all are unhurt. Bags and shoes have toppled and are everywhere. Shaken we climb from the bus, which is wedged firmly in the ditch and is on a serious lean. At first we suspect that the driver fell asleep but he angrily denies this and demonstrates that in fact the steering gave out. It is a series of miracles that we have survived undamaged. Had the steering given out only a few hours earlier we would have plummeted thousands of meters down a steep cliff to a nasty end.
The bus is in worse shape than the passengers. We set about trying to back it out of the ditch. It takes the better part of half an hour to dig it out and then push it back onto the road. In the high altitude this physical exertion leaves us dizzy and gasping for breath. Getting the bus out of the ditch is only the first step. The steering is still broken and now the engine now won't start.
We spend the next five hours sitting on the ground at the side of the road while the two drivers work at the engine. They yell and argue with each other the whole time. Glover and I make the most of the situation and have a picnic with the last of our now very stale bread. We lie back in the sun and soak up the surrounding landscape. It is simply stunning. In some ways we are glad of the stop.
It is around midday when our bus is finally moving again. We are less than 200 kilometers from Ali now, though we are averaging barely 30 kilometers an hour. Eventually the mountains open up to reveal a huge blue lake. Tough grass and long reeds line the bank and birds swoop and dive into the water. Having seen no life for three days, the scene is aweseome. We start to pass flocks of sheep and the occasional herder as well.
The road takes us along the edge of the lake for over an hour. Jagged cliff faces border the blue water on all sides. Eventually the road turns away from the lake and we are once again in a dusty plateau. Here we reach a small dusty town where we stop for lunch. We feast on our first cooked meal, noodles and meat, in three days. Ali is barely 100 kilometers away.
The last few hours of this marathon are the toughest. The road seems to stretch on forever and each minute feels like an hour. There is no sign of Ali and the landscape is dusty and empty. It seems impossible that a city of any size could exist here. At last we come round the foot of a large mountain and in front and just below us is the town of Ali. It is a tiny town by any standard, barely a few kilometers across. For us however it is a sprawling metropilos with promises of cooked food, beds, showers and most importantly toilets! It is heaven.
It is 7pm on Sunday when we arrive. The trip from Karghilik to Ali has taken us 56 long painful hours. We check into the local hotel, shit, shower and pass out. The next morning we head straight for the local police station. We have heard that if we turn ourselves into the police and admit we have no permits they will 'fine' us and at the same time provide us with a valid permit to travel in tibet.
We decide to walk to the police station, but we get conflicting directions from the locals and end up having to take a taxi. We are dropped off out the front of the police station but we are stopped at the door by a police officer and told we are at the wrong place. The Canadian couple suggest to the copper that he could give us a lift to the proper police station and amazingly he agrees. So now we are all loaded into the back of a police van, illegal aliens, getting a free lift through the town.
When we arrive at the proper police station, all the foreigners from the bus are queuing to turn themselves in. Eventually the polce officers turn up to work, usher us in and start processing our permits. Far from being the gruelling experience we had expected the whole thing goes very smoothly. There are even nice little forms to fill out. We are obviously not the first illegal travellers through this way.
It takes only half an hour and we walk from the station with a rather nice looking document stating that we are now legitimate travellers in Tibet. Say what you will about goverment corruption, this day I have no problems with it.
So we have completed the first leg of our Tibetan trip. We still have several thousand kilometers to cross and there are few buses along the way. We have heard rumours that we can hitch a ride in the back of the mail trucks that run through the country. We have also heard that on our route, which will take us within sight of the mighty Everest, we will stay in Tibetan monastries. We don't know if these rumours are true but we will soon find out.
<< Home