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.