TRAVELING ON TOP
OF THE WORLD
BY JULIE AND RICHARD FARKAS
"How do you turn on the heat?" my husband asked, blowing on his hands to keep warm.
"The heat?" our Tibetan guide asked. "It’s summer. What do you need heat for?"
It may have been summer in Lhasa, Tibet, but it was also 45 degrees and we were cold. After he left, we stood in our room at the Hotel Mandala and re-read the travel guide. The guide described it as "new, with an excellent location." There was no mention of heat, but the location was excellent. We were steps away from the Jokhang, the most sacred temple for Tibetan Buddhists, and right on the Barkhor, the vibrant concourse surrounding the temple.
The Barkhor is filled with circumambulating pilgrims gaining merit by walking round and round, many spinning hand-held prayer wheels. It is also lined with colorful vendor stands selling an amazing array of goods from souvenirs, candy, and fruit to clothing, house wares, and furniture. We paid extra for rooms that overlooked this teeming street scene.
Rooms with a View
But alas, our rooms did not overlook the Barkhor. Our room overlooked a construction site that operated from 5:00 am until 1:00 am seven days a week. We closed the drapes to muffle the noise and prevent the passing workers from looking in the window. The dim light from the low-watt bulb in the ceiling fixture was probably why we didn’t notice that the toilet was not completely attached to the floor of the bathroom. After flushing, it ran noisily and continuously. We finally got the hang of it. To keep it from running it needed to be tilted to the right. Once we got the toilet quieted down, we dressed warmly for bed, and drifted off to sleep to the rhythmic clang of the pile driver outside our window.
A Tour Guide Called "Bob"
We met our guide, who I will call "Bob" for reasons that will become evident, in the hotel restaurant the next morning. He called us over to a table, where a charming young Tibetan girl hovered over us and attended to our every need, including turning on Tibetan rap music for our enjoyment.
Our first stop after breakfast was a tour of the Jokhang Temple. Bob explained that because he was Tibetan, he could not get an official tour guide license, and if caught guiding us through the Jokhang, the fine would be 1000 yuan ($124). We were very aware that Tibetans have a rough time with the Chinese officials in Tibet, and with my husband’s guide book in hand, and the knowledge of our traveling companion, Prof. Paul Karan, we joined the ever-present flow of people on the Barkhor and took the short walk to the Jokhang Temple by ourselves.
In front of the temple, pilgrims performed ritual prostrations, hands folded together and touching their foreheads, lips, hearts, then lying face down on mats spread out on the damp flagstones. We wove our way through the chanting, bobbing crowd, passed under the gilded rooftop dharma wheel and entered the temple courtyard.
The Jokhang has been under continual construction since completion of the first floor in 647, Paul explained to us. We counted ourselves lucky to be traveling with Paul, who has been to Tibet numerous times and was here to update a book about Tibet he had written 29 years earlier.
As we stood in the open-air courtyard listening to Paul as he pointed out the features of the temple, Bob appeared out of nowhere.
"How did you get in?" we asked.
"I snuck in," he replied with a mischievous grin.
He then began our tour, pointing out the main features of the Jokhang as he slipped between pillars, and hid from officials by blending in with other Tibetan tour groups. At each of the numerous chapels, Bob pointed out the deities and their signifying dress or symbols. We tucked yuans into the statues and watched as pilgrims gained merit by chanting and adding yak butter to the glowing lamps that graced each chapel. From the rooftop of the Jokhang, we enjoyed a spectacular view of the mountains that ring Lhasa, a view of the Potala Palace to the east, and down below, the pilgrims prostrating at the front of the temple, and circumambulating around the temple.
Circumambulating the Barkhor
After our tour of the Jokhang, we joined the pilgrims and began a circumambulation of the Barkhor. We stopped frequently to catch our breath, which excited the vendors who quickly surrounded us with shouts of "lookee" and the waving of wares in our faces. Motivated to move on by the insistent peddlers, we finished one circuit and eventually wheezed back to our hotel and collapsed into bed, as the 12,000+-foot elevation (and 30% reduction in oxygen) began to take its toll.
We met Paul for dinner in the hotel’s restaurant later that night. The waitress greeted us half-heartedly, and eventually brought us menus, but we understood. It had been a long day and we were tired too.
Paul commented on how lucky we were to get Bob as a guide. He was Tibetan, his English was excellent and he had both knowledge and a love of the history, religion, and culture of Tibet. A Chinese tour guide would have lacked information on the religious aspects of the Jokhang Temple, and full of dubious Chinese "history". We counted ourselves lucky, and waited patiently for our dinners.
Ganden Monastery
The next morning we met Bob again for breakfast, and our waitress was back to her bubbly self. As we entered the restaurant, she switched on the Tibetan rap music for us and hovered over our table.
As we ate our breakfast Bob covered our itinerary, explaining that we would be driving to Ganden Monastery, established by Tsongkhapa, the founder of the Gelukpa (Virtuous Ones) Order of Tibetan Buddhism.
As we entered the Land Cruiser, a sour smell hit us immediately. I looked around for the source and noticed a pile of rolled up carpets in the back. We rolled down the windows for fresh air and started the drive to Ganden.
We drove east out of Lhasa and towards the mountains. Brown mountains. No trees, no bushes, no snow. Just brown. Except for the brilliant blue sky with big white puffy clouds that cast sharp, dark shadows on the mountains below.
When we turned off the paved road onto the dirt road to Ganden, a beautiful white stupa appeared at the base of the mountain road. We got out of the Land Cruiser to take pictures and for the first time I felt the spirit of Tibet. The prayer flags strung from the white stupa were waving in the gentle wind against the big blue sky. Cows, goats and sheep milled about in the courtyards of the houses at the base of the mountain, their lowing and bleating carrying across the valley in the thin mountain air.
Two little boys snuck up to the road and hid behind a rock to watch us. Curiosity finally overcame them and they crept up to the car, touched it, peeked in, then turned and ran to hide behind a rock.
After taking pictures, we climbed back into the Land Cruiser and began the drive up to Ganden. This drive would be the first taste of our travels to come. Scary, hairpin turns, up the side of a steep, bare, mountain face is the customary driving conditions in the Himalayas. There was no vegetation to hide the steep drop-offs as we skidded from side to side on the rocky road. Bob’s snickers from the front seat as I buried my face in my husbands coat did not shame me at all.
We finally reached the monastery and got out of the car for some fresh air and an incredible view. Looking down, we could see the road was carved from a steep mountain face that sloped to a brown valley below. The valley was dotted with mud huts and stupas strung with colorful prayer flags that flapped in the wind.
Behind us, the buildings of the Ganden Monastery hung on the side of the mountain, tucked below a ridge and protected the buildings from the wind by a gentle curve of the mountain range.
Ganden, which translates to Paradise of the Buddha of the Future, was once home to 7,000 monks. It was destroyed by the Chinese Red Guards in 1966. What we see today is the result of rebuilding of the monastery that began in 1982.
The Golden Tomb of Tsong Khapa, the founder of the Gelukpa sect of Buddhism, the Golden Throne Room (where the Dalai Lama’s hat was left behind when he fled Tibet), and Nagam Cho Khang Temple where Tsong Khapa taught his students are the highlights of this re-built monastery.
After our morning at Ganden, we drove back down the mountain, where we passed tourists bicycling up! Between the thin air, and the steep climb I wondered how many actually made it to the stop vs. the number who collapsed on the side of the road.
An Unusual Dalai Lama
For lunch, we walked the Barkhor to Makye Ama Restaurant. The restaurant is housed on the third floor of a building made famous by the 6th Dalai Lama. This poem gives a flavor of this monk’s unusual life:
If the bar-girl does not falter
The beer will flow on and on
This maiden is my refuge
And this place is my heaven
A Jesuit priest summed him up this way: "No girl, or married woman, or good looking person of either sex, was safe from his unbridled licentiousness." We enjoyed his favorite haunt also. The food was wonderful and the rooftop is a great place to view the activity on the Barkhor.
Sheep strolling the Barkhor
After lunch, we walked into the Muslim Quarter of Lhasa. The Muslims traveled on the Silk Road to Lhasa for trade, and sometimes for war. Some stayed and settled in what became known as the Muslim Quarter. Muslim butchers slaughter meat for Buddhists, which accounts for the steady stream of sheep on the Barkhor heading in that direction.
The Potala Palace
We met Bob the next morning, and with the Tibetan rap music playing in the background, mapped out our day. The morning would be spent at the Potala Palace, the afternoon at Drepung and Sera monasteries. As we drove to the Potala, I was pleased to see that non-smelly bundles wrapped in blankets had replaced the sour smelling carpets.
The Potala Palace towers over Lhasa, visible from almost every spot. It was constructed onto the side of Mount Marpori, during the reign of the fifth Dalai Lama in the 17th century. To ensure its completion, his ministers concealed his death for twelve years.
Until the 20th century, and the construction of skyscrapers built with steel, it was the tallest building in the world. Its 13 stories measure 380 feet high and contains approximately 1000 rooms. In Tibetan Buddhism, climbing the 400 steps of the Potala garners great merit, so my husband decided to try it.
Paul and I gave Richard a hearty send off as he joined a group of Canadian tourist for the climb. We stayed below to tour the area surrounding the Potala. Paul told me that he was in Lhasa in 1950 when the first Chinese tanks rolled in. He took pictures of the commotion, having no idea what the arrival of the Chinese would mean to Tibet.
We strolled around the base of the Potala on a winding, narrow street lined with vendor stalls selling trinkets, clothing, food and music. We stopped for tea at a two-story Tibetan teahouse. As we walked into the restaurant, about 300 hundred people turned to stare at us. I turned to Paul and said, "Looks like we are the only Westerners here."
He replied, "No, you are the only Westerner here," reminding me that he is Indian.
Being stared at is one of the daily features of traveling in remote areas, and I never really got used to it.
As we climbed the dirty stairs to the second story of the teahouse, I got a good look at the kitchen and the area where the dishes were cleaned. I prayed again that we would not get sick.
After tea, we went back to the car and waited for Richard. He had been gone for about two and half-hours when he came back to the car, exhausted. He had been embarrassed when wizened, elderly Tibetans passed him on their way to the top, but he had made it! Now all he wanted was to climb into bed for a well-deserved rest.
After naps, we met at the Land Cruiser for lunch and our afternoon tours of Drepung and Sera. I checked the back of the car, and noticed that the bundles from the morning were gone, and that the back of the car was full of new square bundles covered in plastic.
Bob took us to a restaurant that was a favorite with other Tibetan Guides. He sat with his friends, and we watched as Bob held court and every female staffer hung around his table. We could not get a menu. Finally, a young male cook came out of the kitchen and waited on us.
Drepung Monastery
Drepung Monastery at one time was the largest monastery in the world with approximately 10,000 monks. It is one of the few monasteries in Tibet that has survived intact from the various wars, plunders, and the Chinese Cultural Revolution that continues to this day. It is now home to approximately 500 hundred monks and is the seat of political activity against the Chinese occupation of Tibet.
As I write this, the monastery is on lock down, due to a "patriotic education" campaign started by the Chinese in November 2005. One monk was killed during an "education" session, and five were arrested after refusing to sign a document that denounced the Dalai Lama and proclaimed Tibet as part of China. After the arrests, the remaining monks started a silent, sit-down protest that was eventually broken up when the Chinese authorities beat the monks until they retreated to their quarters. Since then, no one has been allowed into, or out of, the monastery.
Sera Monastery
At our visit to Sera Monastery, we were witnesses to the oversight by the Chinese. While we often think of monks as leading quiet, contemplative lives, one aspect of Gulag lineage of Tibetan Buddhism is debating. Active, dramatic, noisy debating. The monks gather in the debating courtyard of the Sera Monastery and one monk sits and the other stands. The sitting monk postulates a theory and the standing monk contradicts his theory, ending his thought with a loud clap of his hands and a lunge toward the sitting monk. Every afternoon, the courtyard is filled with monks lunging and clapping at each other.
One of the monks near us appeared to be losing his debate, so he was trying to bury his partners shoe in the rocks. As a tourist passed, she dropped a card into the monk’s lap. Within seconds, Chinese police surrounded the monk and yanked up the card. It turned out to be a blank post card from San Francisco so the police gave it back. We did not see where the police came from, or where they disappeared to, once the event was over.
Riot Instructions from the Hotel Management
When we got back to our hotel, the instruction sheet on the desk made more sense. It gave all the information one needed to know in case a riot broke out: don’t take pictures, don’t join in, don’t talk to the rioters, don’t shout, don’t interfere with the police. The Hotel Mandala is the first hotel I’ve stayed in that provided tips on rioting etiquette.
The next morning, we had our last breakfast at the Hotel Mandala, then checked out and gathered our luggage at the back of the Land Cruiser. The car was already packed to the gills, but we managed to stuff our luggage in the empty spaces and headed off for Samye Monastery.
An Iffy Ferry
Samye is generally considered the first monastery constructed in Tibet. Built sometime between 775 and 779, little remains of the original buildings after wars, fires, earthquakes, and of course, the Cultural Revolution that has taken so much of Tibet’s cultural treasures.
As we neared the turnoff, we found out that the road leading to the monastery was closed, so Bob and our driver "Ted" took us to the river to take the ferry. When we reached the ferry launch, we discovered the "ferry" was actually a small, flat-bottomed boat. I was hesitant to place all of our luggage, and ourselves, in this vessel. When I found out the ride was two hours I was even less enthusiastic. Paul and Richard felt the same way, so we decided as a group to skip the monastery and drive on to Tsedang, one of the largest cities in Tibet. It turned out to be a wise decision.
Tsedang—The Monkey Playground
Tsedang means "playground" and refers to the myth of the Buddha of Compassion emanating as a monkey and playing with a wild ogress. The contemplative, spiritual monkey heard the cries of the ogress, who was pining for a mate. The monkey went to console her and their meeting resulted in the birth of six children, who were the progenitors of the Tibetan race with the dual aspects of spirituality and wildness.
In Tsedang, we stayed at a beautiful Post Office hotel. In China, the new capitalism allows government agencies to run businesses. The Post Office has chosen to build a chain of hotels that are clean and comfortable, with heat and hot water. As we checked in Paul and I were hit with food poisoning (better here than on the "ferry" to Samye!), and only Richard was able to go sight seeing that afternoon. I was sorry I missed the tour, because Richard paid ten cents for a yak ride down from the top of the monastery to the base. Richard made it back to the hotel just as he was hit with food poisoning, our parting gift from the Hotel Mandala.
The next morning, we were still feeling a little queasy when we went to breakfast. Bob had ordered "American" breakfasts for us—toast and fried eggs—but the smell coming from the Tibetan buffet drew me over and I loaded up my plate. My husband and Paul looked on in horror as I downed pickled radishes and cabbage, salted soybeans in a thick gravy, and Tibetan boiled bread. It was delicious and I only suffered a small case of heartburn.
The Friendship Highway
The drive from Tsdang to Gyantse, our next stop, was our first full flavor of the Friendship Highway, a bumpy, dusty, mostly unpaved road that winds its way around the Himalayas from Lhasa to Nepal. We traveled up one side of a mountain to the Kamba La Pass (16,300 ft), and then back down into the Bramhaputra Valley. As I buried my head in my husbands coat on one of the hair pin turns, Paul leaned over to ask, "Did you know that the Friendship Highway is the most dangerous in the world?"
"This information would have been helpful about 6 months ago," I replied. "I could have decided not to go on this trip."
Bob chimed in from the front seat. "Yes, go over side—mashed potatoes," he explained. "They don’t bother to look."
He and Paul exchanged stories of trucks and motorbikes they had seen, or heard about, flying off the road, never to be heard from again, while I hid my face and suffered one wave of anxiety after another.
The anxiety was not as bad as it could have been. Altitude sickness dulls everything. At 16,000 feet, I mostly slept and soon began a routine of waking up, enjoying the incredible scenery, experiencing an anxiety attack due to road conditions, and then falling back asleep.
Altitude Sickness
Altitude is a constant companion when traveling in Tibet. High Altitude is defined as 5,000 ft (Denver, CO.) to 11,500 (Lhasa, Tibet). Very High Altitude is 11,500 ft to 18,000 ft. Extreme Altitude is 18,000 ft and above. This is the altitude of the base camps of Mt. Everest. Climbers on Everest have nicknamed the area of the mountain from 25,000 ft to the top (29,028 ft) The Dead Zone because there is not enough oxygen to support life and body functions shut down. An extended stay without supplemental oxygen is certain death.
The symptoms of mild altitude sickness include lethargy, confusion, poor sleep, and vivid dreams. Acute Altitude Sickness occurs when the brain or lungs swell and can result in death within hours of onset. There is no way to tell who will be affected. A top level athlete in peak condition can be near death within hours of reaching Very High Altitudes while an overweight couch potato treks around with no problem. The only cure for altitude sickness is to descend fast. In Lhasa, sufferers who arrive at the airport are flown out immediately—no questions asked.
Turquoise Lake
The Friendship Highway followed the Yarlung Tsangpo River to Turquoise Lake (Yamdraktso), a gorgeous, blue green lake ringed by towering mountains. The lake attracts shepards and farmers and we encountered herds of sheep and goats, farmers tending crops and small settlements of yak dung huts strung with prayer flags.
One innovation the Chinese brought to Tibet was greenhouse farming. For centuries, the staples of the Tibetan diet have been yak products (yak meat, milk and butter) and barley products (tsampa, bread, beer). Now, all across Tibet, wherever you see water, there are slinkys of plastic covered tubes about 5' tall. Inside, carrots, radishes, and cabbage are grown in an extended growing season, bringing vegetables to the Tibetan diet for the first time.
Of course, the Chinese wanted rice when they invaded in the 50s, so they forced Han Chinese farmers into Tibet to grow rice and then forced the Tibetan farmers to do the same. This disastrous attempt at a rice harvest caused the first recorded famine in Tibet in 1960-62. The Chinese eventually gave up on rice and the farmers are back to barley, yak, and the harvests from the new greenhouse gardens.
Gyantse
After Turquoise Lake, we climbed the mountains again, reaching the Karo La pass (16,500 ft) feet then back down into the valley to reach Gyantse (13,450 ft). When we arrived at our hotel, we discovered there had been a mix-up, and we did not have reservations. Our only choice was dorm rooms—sleeping with about 20 strangers on cots. This is where Bob pulled through for us. He managed to wrangle someone else’s rooms for us. After the luxury of the Post Office hotel, we were back in a traditional Tibetan hotel with its inexplicable plumbing.
That night in the hotel, Richard was lethargic and confused due to the high mountain passes we had driven through. I bundled him into bed and the rest of us went out for dinner. When I came back he was still sound asleep and I decided to tackle the plumbing alone.
I could not get the toilet to flush, so Paul came in to show me the trick. (It involved a button on the top that you pushed and a valve on the side that you pulled.) And the tub! It was a V-shaped vessel only 3 feet wide at the top. I was going to take a shower, but the showerhead fell off, so I risked getting stuck in the V and took a bath. At least there was water, and it was hot.
The next morning we explored Gyantse, a town that sits at the confluence of mountain passes in Tibet and major trade routes from Bhutan and Nepal. Gyantse is also home to the Gyantse Kumbum, an octagonal stupa built in the 15th century and located in the Pelkor Chode Temple complex.
After our tour of Gyantse, we climbed back into the Land Cruiser to spend another bone crunching, high altitude, anxiety-provoking day on the Friendship Highway.
I was acclimating to the high elevation, and was a little more alert in the car. I found out that Bob sang Karaoke at night and wanted to become a famous singer. Our driver, Ted, said he was very good and was well known in every town. This would explain why everyone knew Bob everywhere we went. And the fact that girls came out of the woodwork wherever Bob went.
Shigatse
We arrived in Shigatse (13,120 ft), the 2ndlargest city in Tibet, feeling more alert. After resting, and having dinner, we went looking for an internet bar and found the Heavenly Bird Internet Bar. Logging onto the internet, and getting news from the West, was an incredible feeling after the week in the mountains. It was also exciting to read our email, but we could not respond. The keyboards only typed Chinese characters.
Tashilhunpo Monastery
The next day we toured the Tashilhunpo Monastery, home of the Panchen Lama. The 10thPanchen Lama was 21 years old when the Dalai Lama fled Tibet in 1959. He decided to stay and work with the Chinese. However, he became disillusioned with the Chinese policies in the early 60s and wrote a paper called the 70,000 Character Petition. He was imprisoned in China for 9 years, and then put under house arrest for another 14 years. He was allowed back into Tibet in 1982 and he began a program to revive the Tibetan culture and Buddhist religion that the Chinese had tried to obliterate. In 1989, he returned to Shigatse, and the Tashilunpo Monastery, where he gave a speech criticizing the Chinese. Five days later, he was dead. No one is sure exactly what happened. The Chinese say he had a heart attack. The Tibetans claim he was poisoned. The house where he died has been closed ever since.
In 1995, the Dalai Lama recognized a 6-year-old Tibetan child as the reincarnation of the 10thPanchen Lama. Shortly after, the child, his family, and the monks tutoring him were kidnapped. He has not been seen since and is considered the youngest political prisoner in the world. Later in 1995, the Chinese government named their own Panchen Lama. Tibetans call him Panchen Zuma or Fake Panchen.
After the luxury of Shigatse, it was back in the Land Cruiser to head for Jomolungma (Mt. Everest). Bob had scored an Eagles tape the night before and we rode the Himalayan mountain road singing Hotel California.
We drove to the Yulung La Pass (16,240) then the Gyatso La Pass (17,000 ft), the highest altitude we would experience. This pass was marked, as all mountain passes are in Tibet, with prayer flags, statues, and offerings to the gods. The Gyasto La Pass is at the entrance to the Jomolungma Park, so here the offerings included T-shirts from all over the world, hiking boots, and bandanas. Even though Richard was suffering from the altitude (and in fact he remembers very little of our seven day drive on the Friendship Highway), he continued to take extraordinary pictures.
We were driving along when Ted slammed on the brakes, then put the Cruiser in reverse. He pulled over to the side of the road, and he and Bob jumped out of the car. I jumped out also, to find that they had found two huge blocks of Yak butter on the side of the road. I helped make room for the find among all the other bundles in the back of the car. We eventually caught up with the truck that was probably the source of the Yak butter. I recommended that we follow behind to see if anything else fell off, but Ted and Bob passed the truck, giving the driver a big smile.
At Least it’s not Tingri
And then we reached Tingri and the Snow Leopard Guest House. Tingri is a way station for Everest trekkers and for travelers on the way out of Tibet. There is no other reason to be there. It is a barren, wind swept village at 14,500 ft. Our room had no heat, no water, and electricity only when the smelly, diesel generator was turned on. Our room did have a television. It may have been there to use as a paperweight to keep things down from the wind seeping through the closed window.
The ladies room was a four-holer. As I straddled the rather large hole, I wondered if one could actually fall in. I chastised myself for worrying about such things and finished up my business quickly. The wind coming off the mountain was cold. When I came out Paul told me he had once fallen part way in a hole and almost broken his leg. Again, I let him know that this information was about six months too late.
At this point, we saw the shower. It was a large oil drum suspended from wood scaffolding. You climbed the ladder, cracked the ice, then came back down and pulled the chain. We didn’t take a shower.
We were all suffering from the altitude and cold. I opened our suitcases to find more clothes for bed. Richard suggested that we sleep together in one of the twin beds, but after putting on as many layers as we could, then pulling on our coats, hats and gloves for bed, we were too big to sleep in the same bed. We put our suitcases up against the window to block out the wind coming off Everest, then snuggled under the covers to try to stay warm.
At 9:00 pm, the generator kicked on with a loud chug and the room filled with diesel fumes. It didn’t wake me up because every time I lay down to sleep I felt like I was suffocating. In addition, a group of Korean trekkers was staying at the guesthouse and there was some confusion about who was in what rooms. All night long people were banging on the door looking for "Jason-la". We spent a fitful night sitting up so we could breath, and talking about other places we would like to be. I eventually had to go to the toilets, so I took a flashlight and ventured outside. It was without a doubt the most spectacular night I have ever seen. The stars were brilliant against the black night. In the distance, I could see the outline of Jomolunga. As I teetered over the ladies hole I marveled at the stars out of the window.
The next morning we gathered in the dining room of the Guest House for the worst breakfast I have ever eaten. We were served a "pancake" that was rubbery and tasteless, accompanied by rancid yak butter. The tasteless "jelly" did not help the situation at all.
We were so happy to see Bob and Ted come back to pick us up. As we left, we knew that from now on, no matter what happened to us we could always say, "At least it’s not Tingri . . ."
Bob Explained
From Tingri we headed down the Himalayas towards the border of Nepal. During the drive, we consulted our itinerary. Tonight we were supposed to stay at Nylam and the next night at something called "The Last Resort."
After our night in Tingri, we decided to ask questions about the accommodations. Bob told us that the hotel in Nylam was "good", and that we would be sleeping in tents at the Last Resort.
"No, we won’t," was my reply.
Paul consulted the map and said, "Let’s just go on to Kathmandu."
Bob assured us we would like the Last Resort. "They have bungee jumping and everything."
Bungee jumping off a mountain! "No, no, no," we replied in unison. A trekker paradise would be hell for us.
At Nylam, we looked around and asked what there was to see.
"Not much, but this is where we need to stay," Bob replied.
"I want to see the rooms before we check in," I told him.
He took us to the hotel and we were shown a cramped, dank room below grade, next to a disco.
"No," I said as I left the hotel.
As we went to get back in the Land Cruiser Bob explained that we needed to stay in Nylam for two hours. We didn’t understand, but followed him to a restaurant.
We took our seats and Bob disappeared, only to reappear as our waiter. He explained to us that he had a two-hour restaurant shift he had to finish before we could leave. I started laughing, my husband gave Bob a pen. He took our orders and disappeared behind the swinging doors to the kitchen.
All of the sudden, the bundles in the back of the car, which came in and went out every day began to make sense. The activity from the back of the Land Cruiser, the Karaoke at night, the restaurant gig—Bob was a conglomerate of Tibetan economic activity. Many of the activities could get him arrested by the Chinese, hence the name "Bob."
Paul continued to page through the guidebooks and suggested we drive on to Zhangmu and stay at a Post Office Hotel. Bob agreed, but said that hotel was too expensive for the tour. We said we would pay for it.
When we got to the hotel, Bob went in and negotiated a "reduced rate." By now we were sure that he made a little money on the deal, but we didn’t care. When we checked in, we found out that hot water was available from 8:00 pm to 10:00 pm. We left for dinner with an eye on our watches to make sure we got back in time for hot water.
Our last dinner was our most fun. Bob told us that his next tour would be taking 250 Indian Hindus to Mount Kalish. His only responsibility would be directing a caravan of Land Cruisers, and pitching tents at night. Once the Indians got to the mountain is when things got dicey.
"You take elderly Indians from the plains up to 18,000 ft—then they start circumambulating at that altitude—they start to die. Last trip twelve of my people died."
"They died?" I asked.
"They died. Every trip they die. Then you have to call the relatives," he explained. "One hour on phone for the crying—one hour on phone for the money."
It cost $2500 to send a body back to India. In addition, Bob and Ted had to take the bodies to another city to have them photographed for dead body visas. And this happened every single trip.
Richard told Bob that he was sorry that we hadn’t had tsampa, the traditional meal of barley, on this trip. He and Bob also discussed Bob’s time in India at school and Bob’s desire to start his own tour company.
We spent so much time talking that we didn’t realize it was after 8:00 pm. We rushed back to the hotel and entered the lobby. You could hear the water running already. When we got to the room, I had to take everything out of the small bathroom. There was no shower stall, just a showerhead that came out of the wall to the side of the toilet. I turned it on and blessed hot water came out. It was good to wash the rest of Tingri off me.
The next morning we gathered for breakfast and Ted showed up with a wooden bowl filled with barley flour for Richard. He showed him how to wet the flour and form a ball, then pop it in his mouth. When it was my turn, I found the flour soft at first, then when wet it felt like cornmeal. The taste was a little sweeter than flour. Tibetans aren’t known for their cuisine. They eat to survive the harsh living conditions, and climate.
Bob eventually came in with several VCRs in his arms, trailing cords. He explained that he had overslept and was late for deliveries. He and Ted left, promising us they would be back in an hour to pick us up.
An hour later, we were in the Land Cruiser headed for Nepal. On the drive to the border crossing, Bob explained that he had attended a meeting, and had seen a movie about the Dalai Lama the night before. When Richard told Bob that we had met the Dalai Lama he wanted to know everything about it.
At the border, Bob pulled us into the duty-free shop and loaded us up with cigarettes. When we got back to the car, Bob relieved us of our packages and explained that he had a friend who just opened a shop and needed inventory. We were happy to oblige.
And then we reached the Friendship Bridge leading into Nepal. Bob helped us out of the car and we hugged each other, said our goodbyes and walked across the bridge, away from Tibet and into Nepal.