World Wittering

And so, verily, we did stare blankly and pretend to be stupid and the men in suits did relent somewhat. We were eventually handed a partial refund and a pair of tickets for the bus to Golmud, approximately half way to Lhasa. We were pointed in the direction of the Golmud bus and boarded to find the same drivers as the Lhasa bus, and the same two passengers too, the Lhasa bus had apparently been cancelled.

As we settled into our bunks, the departure was delayed as the drivers held an animated discussion with a fat man. Eventually they seemed satisfied, some money changed hands and we pulled out of the bus station a mere three hours later than planned.

Ten minutes later we stopped and the same fat man re-boarded the bus, followed by enough people to fill the empty bunks. More money changed hands and we were finally on our way to Golmud. We spent the journey munching our way  through the ludicrous amounts of junk food we’d brought and snuggling under our ridiculous coats for warmth. At a roadside toilet stop around midnight, in a nothing town in the middle of nowhere, a group of youths threw rocks at the bus.

Arriving in the not picturesque city of Golmud, one of the bus drivers took us in hand, explained our permit predicament to a taxi driver and we set off across town to the permit office in the hope of straightening everything out. Alas, t’was Saturday morning and the concrete bunker was all locked up. We headed instead for a hotel which had a travel agency.

After a great deal of sign language I was finally handed a telephone and put through to a sinister voice who advised me to go to the railway station, making it clear that onward bus travel was simply not an option. Alas, we’d tried our hardest, but it appeared the train was our only option.

Having bought tickets for the following day’s train we checked ourselves into a half decent hotel within walking distance of the station and settled down to munch our supplies and watch terrible 80’s movies on HBO for the rest of the day.

The following morning we finally boarded the Lhasa bound train and were fortunate to have a compartment to ourselves. The Tibetan plateau slid silently past the window, we climbed steadily passing through snow covered hills and past distant mountain ranges. Unfortunately, the awe-inspiring scenery was accompanied by a constant stream of commentary over the PA system by the Chinese equivalent of Lord Ha Ha who, as well as letting us know when we were crossing the highest bridge in the world and passing the source of the Yangtse, also kept us informed of what an amazing Chinese achievement the railway was and how much happier all the Tibetans are now that they’ve built it and thousands of Chinese people are relocating to Tibet.

Finally, we stepped off the train in Lhasa, jumped a cab and headed into town. Immediately upon arrival the cab driver insisted we pay ten times what we thought we’d agreed and the hotel we were trying to check into started playing silly buggers with rooms and prices. I stomped off into the night and found us alternate lodgings where the people were all smiley and they had a bar.

The following day’s task was to trawl the various local travel agents to sort out our onward travel to the Nepali border. With the limitations on independent travel in place we were told over and over that the only choice was a Land Cruiser tour with guide and driver – an expensive business, we needed someone to share the cost.

And then synchronicity serendipitously struck. As we were leaving a travel agents, Lee paused and addressed one of two men coming in “Excuse me, is your name Matthew?” Indeed it was. We had last seen Matthew in Vietnam on our motorcycle tour of the central highlands with lovely Mr Phuc, we’d bumped into him several times over a couple of days but exchanged little more than pleasantries. Now here he was, several weeks later, on a separate trip, in Lhasa, and, even better, he had a friend with him, Simon, who was looking for two people to share a Land Cruiser to Everest Base Camp.

We quickly repaired to licensed premises to toast our good fortune and plan the details. Matthew had travelled extensively in Tibet and so was able to advise on the route and what to see. With this decided, we returned, mob-handed, to the travel agent who’d quoted the best price and booked it all up.

With everything arranged, we were able to spend the rest of the afternoon strolling through the market where, despite the hundreds of stalls, there was, disappointingly, little worth buying.

The following morning we had a general wander around  the main Tibetan area of Lhasa, sadly only a small portion of the city centre, the rest is a typically Chinese cacophany of concrete carbuncles selling sportswear. We picked up one or two supplies and then hooked up with Simon to stroll to the Potala Palace where we bought admission tickets for the following day and then retired to a restaurant for yak steaks and copious amounts of beer. We lingered long, getting to know our new travelling companion and swapping stories of our exploits. When we finally rolled home we did so in the knowledge that this colourful character would provide more than adequate company for the journey ahead.

After a lie-in and a late brunch we finally got round to taking in the sights of Lhasa, touring the main temple, the most holy place in Tibettan buddhism, constantly surrounded by hordes of pilgrims circling the exterior in a clockwise direction, twirling prayer wheels and chanting mantras. The more full-on pilgrims made their tortuous way around sliding on hands and knees in a series of supplicatory bows, scraping brows across the paving and wailing their devotional prayer.

Following this, it was off to the Potala Palace, former seat of the Dalai Lamas, where we met Simon. It was a gruelling climb up the steep steps to the palace and we were soon out of breath and desperate for water, which we were able to purchase at the top at only five times its normal price. The palace itself was an impressive series of rooms containing statues of the various deities and huge solid gold stupas housing the remains of various of the Dalai Lama’s previous incarnations. When we finally left, we were treated to one last highlight, the toilets – simple hole in the floor affairs where you could watch your doings fall straight down onto the rocks many metres below.

We mooched back into town, passing once more through the market, trying on monks tunics, not flattering, and arguing with stall holders over “antique” jewellery and  “not at all plastic” carved yak bone trinkets. Finally, we hooked up with Matthew for a spot of dinner and a few drinks before retiring to pack and make ready for our tour of the hinterland.

We left, bright and early, in our shiny silver Land Cruiser with our driver Tilling and guide Sunam, and were soon out into the desolate wilderness of the countryside. We climbed up to 4800m to view a beautiful clear blue lake and then struck out across desert sands in the direction of Gyantse. Lee persuaded Tilling to let her take the wheel for some, mercifully brief, off road action.

Eventually, in late afternoon sunshine, we reached our destination, checked into our hotel (along with all the other Land Cruiser occupants) and then made for the local monastery where Sunam gave us a guided tour, including an enormous stupa containing 100 chapels, each containing a different statue of some deity or another.

Cultured out, we strolled into town to see what was going on and found everyone having a picnic in the park. We acquired  some beverages and made the acquaintance of some of the local menfolk who were playing an unfathomable game involving dice and various random objects. None the wiser to the rules, we decided to join a group of old ladies having a sing-song in a gazebo. They gave us sweets and stared at us until one of them decided we were intruding and told us so in no uncertain terms. This just left a group of children who’d been watching us since our arrival. We introduced ourselves, helped with their English homework and then Lee tried to teach them the hokey cokey, with limited success. Elated with the day’s occurrences we made for the cleanest restaurant we could find.

The second day of our trip began with a tour of the Gyantse fort, an ancient stronghold perched atop an impressive hill and accessed by, oh, several hundred steps. The altitude was beginning to tell. Then it was off across more dirt track until we reached Tilling, the driver’s, home village and his striking wife. We were invited into his traditional home and treated to some local delicacies: some dough made from barley kneaded in what appeared to be a bull’s scrotum and barley beer, drunk in the traditional way – sip, top up, sip, top up, down in one, repeat.

We finally extricated ourselves from this alcoholic cycle and ploughed on to that day’s destination, Shigatse, the highest city on the planet. Here we lunched and then took in another impressive monastery. At the gate we encountered further Chinese bureaucracy in the shape of undercover inspectors who hassled Sunam over his, supposedly, erroneous paperwork. Queries addressed and monastery toured, we sloped into town for a looksee and then retired to bed with a takeaway.

The following morning  we joined the pilgrim hordes and made a circuit of the monastery, twirling the wall mounted prayer wheels the whole way round. The monastery walls made their way steeply up and across the face of a large hill and, at the rear, were populated by various holy men sitting in caves and hollows, chanting and shouting. One was immediately transported back in history, or perhaps, as I remarked at the time, into a scene from the Life of Brian, as we jostled with the faithful, young and old, chanting “Om Ma Ne Pet Ne HOOM!”.

Having done our bit for spiritual enlightenment for the day, we jumped back in our enormous gas guzzling four wheel drive and made for Sagya. Unfortunately, this turned out to be a complete dump and all the hotels were either far too primitive, too dirty, too expensive or staffed by obnoxious Chinese, indeed one was all of these. Having forced our driver and guide to take us to every hotel in town to no avail, we decided to press on to Tingri, a decision that paid dividends and brightened our mood considerably. We soon found a lovely guesthouse and made a deal for the three of us to share a room with a view of Mount Everest from the window. Sunam was also pleased as Tingri was his home town and he could visit his family.

The sight of Everest  had us immediately elated and we strolled off into the evening to get a better look from the top of a nearby hill despite gale force winds. Having stared at and photographed it, we then obtained some celebratory Lhasa beers and retired to our room to avail ourselves of hot water, junk food and the FA Cup Final on the World Service. We spent two hours crowded round my little radio listening to the match fade in and out of reception, frequently having to move around the room to pick up the signal again. Eventually the game went to extra time and the signal packed in for good, stubbornly refusing to return no matter where the radio was placed. Time for bed.

Next morning we bundled into the car, picked up Sunam and spent two hours negotiating the “road” to Everest Base Camp, a tortuous track, barely distinguishable in some places, perilous in others, and then finally we were there. With the mighty mountain towering before us, almost in touching distance it seemed, we pulled up at the end of the road, a small row of square tents. We were shown to one of these and agreed to spend the night there, settled in and ordered some food. Then it was off up to Base Camp proper, Simon deciding to strike off on foot alone, Lee walking up too with Sunam, I decided to take a horse drawn cart as, erm, the altitude was having an effect on my energy levels or something.

Once at the Base Camp there was little to see, some tented huddles of expeditions preparing to set off or having been and done it, the obligatory Chinese police presence and one permanent building housing rescue services, radios etc. In truth there was little to see save the great mountain herself, but that was enough as we all stood and stared in wonder. Simon began plotting his return, promising to join an expedition and make summit.

We all walked back down and retired to our tent where the beer flowed and the cards came out and, before we knew it, it was dark save for a bright moon, glittering stars and Everest, looming luminously. Eventually our beds were made up, huge piles of eiderdowns and blankets to keep out the cold, we were individually tucked up fully clothed, praying that the inevitable could be put off and we would be spared a moonlit trip to the latrine tent. We were not to be that lucky.

Emerging into the morning sunlight, the hangovers at altitude were not pleasant, but the views of the mountain took our minds off our headaches. The sky, crystal blue and without a cloud in sight, the sunshine reflecting off the pure white snow, truly “Amazing!” as Simon said for the nine thousandth time.

All too soon we were piled back into the Land Cruiser and were retracing our steps to Tingri through the spectacular mountain scenery. Once back in town we dropped off Simon, who was to catch a bus back to Lhasa, and then headed south towards the Nepal border. Time was tight and we had to get there before 6.00 in order to cross that evening. More and more amazing scenery passed by as the driver did his best to meet the deadline. We weren’t helped by the fact that the road was being upgraded and a vast stretch was a construction site. Despite this, traffic was still allowed to pass and we made our tortuous way, descending all the time, off the edge of the great plateau and down towards the border town of Zhangmu.

As we got closer, and lower, the terrain began to change, the barren brown wilderness giving way to lush green, we wound our way through an amazing series of valleys peppered with waterfalls. Eventually we made it into Zhangmu, and an enormous traffic jam. Traffic was parked up both sides of the road waiting to cross the border and making it too narrow for traffic to pass in anything but single file. We were only minutes away but we weren’t going to make it. I ran down to check but the guards confirmed we would have to cross in the morning. Alas, Zhangmu, like many border towns, was not the ideal place to spend the night. We found a not too unpleasant hotel, bade farewell to Sunam and Tilling and found sustenance, before an early night, our last, technically at least, in China.