The Cold Desert

Overland from Lhasa to Kathmandu

My trip in Tibet began with a flight to Lhasa, the country's capital and holy city. I have to point out, however, that when one flies to Lhasa, one actually lands in a town 90 minutes by bus from the city itself. As it turns out, this is actually a good thing, because Lhasa is more than 12,000 feet above sea level, and this causes a tremendous altitude shock for a visitor from the lowlands. Sitting in one position for an hour and a half is probably the best way one can start a trip in Tibet.

My wife and I arrived in Tibet in October of 1996, having just spent a week in the sub-tropical Kathmandu Valley, in Nepal. After the valley's warm, humid days, with temperatures climbing to a summer-like 85 degrees, Tibet's cool, dry air came as a pleasant change. Unlike Nepal, which was still in the tail end of the wet monsoon, Tibet had clear skies and bright sunshine. Indeed, after the first day, we hardly saw a cloud for the duration of the trip, and the mountain views proved spectacular.

I am getting ahead of myself, however. Back to the beginning: we made our way from the airport to Lhasa, passing west through the relatively lush valley of the Yarlung River and then following the Lhasa River north to the city. The bottoms of the valleys are extensively cultivated, and in October, just after the harvest, the land looks prosperous and inviting. Small villages, in which every low, square, white-washed building is decorated with prayer flags, dot the valley floor, and we saw many locals herding yaks and sheep in the wide fields. In addition, the valleys harbor a few thin forests and groves, and in autumn, a bit of gold adds color to the landscape. However, if one looks up at all, Tibet's dominating barrenness asserts itself. The slopes of the mountains all around are grey, rocky, and virtually devoid of life. Higher still, the sky is a harsh, glaring blue, though on our first day, a few grey-white clouds softened the effect, somewhat.

Lhasa, Tibet's capital and the Holy City of Tibetan Buddhism, proved an amazing place. Few cities in the world equal Lhasa's wealth of wonders, and its forbidding location lends it an atmosphere of exoticism unequaled by treasure-houses such as Paris, Beijing, or Edinburgh. Perhaps the most famous of Lhasa's sights is the Potala Palace, which looms above the city on Red Hill. The palace can be seen from just about anywhere in the city, but getting to it is quite a climb. My wife and I spent several hours exploring its chambers, which are dark and mysterious, and which are filled with innumerable statues of the Buddha and various Bodhisattvas, paintings of Tibetan deities, and sepulchres of important lamas. The Potala was also crowded with Tibetan pilgrims, who had come to Lhasa to visit its holy places and thus acquire merit. I presumed that, in the autumn, because the harvest was complete, people from the countryside had time to make pilgrimages. We found that in many ways, despite the magnificent objects all around us, it was in fact Tibet's people that most often captured our attention. Most of the pilgrims wore their traditional costume. Men typically wore dark colors -- usually a knee-length black or grey sark over trousers. Many wore sashes, and some, pilgrims from Kham province in Tibet's eastern region, carried long daggers at their waists. Women often wore combinations of bright colors -- reds, greens, blues, and magentas -- with bits of jewelry everywhere and turquoise beads braided directly into their hair. Nearly all pilgrims carried a mala, or Buddhist rosary, a prayer wheel, and small, cup-like butter lamps, for which yak butter provided the fuel. They repeatedly made offerings of yak butter or money to the images of the Enlightened Beings. I found myself profoundly moved by the piety of these people, who have very little material wealth and yet are so willing to give the little bit of money that they have to the monasteries and also to the beggars that are to be seen outside.

As I said, we spent hours exploring the Potala, but unfortunately the Chinese authorities, in order to protect their wretched postcard industry, insist that one pay 100 yuan per chamber for indoor photographs. I wouldn't have minded if photography had been forbidden inside in order to protect the priceless paintings and other artwork, but that wasn't the purpose at all. No, just putting the squeeze on travelers. Well, I bought the book on the Potala that they were selling nonetheless, so I guess I can't squawk too loudly, but all of this is the reason I have not posted any pictures of all of the wonderful things that we saw in the Potala. After exploring the palace's many chambers, we climbed up to the roof for some terrific views of Lhasa and the surrounding mountains. The roof itself is quite a site, as it is massively decorated with gold, which covers the actual roof surfaces and also various decorative objects.

Outside of Lhasa, just to the west of town, is Drepung Monastery. Drepung's numerous buildings climb a steep mountainside, and like the Potala, visiting the monastery taxes the endurance of the newly-arrived travelers. At Drepung, and indeed at every monastery and small town in Tibet, dogs laze about in every alley and courtyard. Perhaps I will digress a bit and say something about Tibet's dogs. Before going to Tibet, I had heard that one has to be very careful because many of the dogs are quite fierce and some are rabid. Obviously, being bitten by one would not do. However, and though I would still urge caution on anyone planning to visit Tibet, I am not certain that I ever saw a Tibetan dog even do so much as move during daylight hours. I exaggerate, of course, but the fact was that, during the day, Tibetan dogs just seem to sleep a lot, lounge around, and not much else. At night, though, it's a different story. As the sun sinks down, in towns all across Tibet, hundreds of dogs wake up and begin the nightly business of running around, barking, yipping, howling, raving, and generally making an infernal racket. It is as if one's CD player got stuck on the opening part of that song by Jane's Addiction -- actually, it is as if 100 CD players all got stuck at the same place simultaneously. This continues without letup until dawn, when the dogs return to their docile daytime habits. All I can recommend is that one shut his windows at night and perhaps put in some earplugs, because otherwise sleep may be hard to come by.

Anyway, I'll get back to Drepung. Like most monasteries in Tibet, Drepung consists of numerous buildings, most of which have white lower walls, maroon upper walls, and gold covered roofs decorated with intricate designs. Drepung once provided home and education for about 6,000 lamas and monks, but under Chinese domination the institution is only allowed to have 500 or so monks at one time. This same situation (with different numbers) is true about all of the remaining monasteries in Tibet. (Here allow me to digress and say that if you are concerned about Tibet's situation, and I believe that such concern is commendable, please have a look at my page on Buddhism & Tibet, which contains several links to pages on Tibet's political situation.) Despite Chinese domination, Drepung seems fairly lively. The main assembly hall has cushions for many monks, and they appeared recently used. The monastery also contains many beautiful thangka paintings of Buddhist deities, such as Chenrezig (Avalokiteshvara), Green Tara, White Tara, and also several wrathful deities. As was the case with the Potala, Drepung hosted numerous pilgrims. In sum, the monastery seemed to being doing well enough. I should note however, that there were no images of the Dalai Lama to be seen, and I am certain this is because the Chinese authorities have forbidden such displays.

Sera Monastery (pictured at the top of this page), which is located in Lhasa's northern suburbs, is also an institution of extraordinary beauty. The complex is somewhat smaller than Drepung, but it is otherwise similar, with many beautiful statues and paintings within. It also has a contingent of resident monks that, while robust in its own right, is nonetheless much smaller than that which Sera would have hosted before the Chinese invasion. Behind Sera, well up the mountainside, is a small building that is evidently intended for meditation retreats, and I do believe that given its high place on the slope, few tourists would be able to ascend to the building to pester the monks. From the rooftop of one of Sera's buildings, one can look across Lhasa's northern district at the Potala, which stands prominently above the streets on the hill.

Finally, let me mention the Barkhor and the Jokhang Temple. The temple itself is, as I understand it, the most sacred in all of Tibet. The story that I have heard is that in ancient times, before Buddhism had established itself in Tibet, there was a lake where the temple now stands. Tibet itself was considered to be an enormous demon, and the lake was its heart. The Buddhists decided to use the direct approach against the demon and, to subjugate it, drained the lake and built the temple on the site. Anyway, the temple contains an image of the Buddha Shakyamuni which is itself considered the most sacred of Tibet's works of religious art. Given the very holy character of the Jokhang, then, it is no surprise that, from dawn until dusk, hundreds of pilgrims walk clockwise around the building along the Barkhor, which is the series of alleys around the temple. The Barkhor, and the square before the temple, serve as a market as well, and Tibetan merchants sell various items to tourists and pilgrims alike. Directly before the temple, pilgrims gain merit through repeated prostrations. Within the building, offerings of money or yak butter are made before the several shrines devoted to various deities.

When I explored the temple, however, there were few pilgrims inside, so the place was remarkably quiet. It was also remarkably gloomy, as there is very little lighting within. The shrines, which are alcoves set into the outer walls of the Jokhang's main room, at first seemed almost dungeon-like, due to the darkness and the chain curtains hung before the statues to protect them. Still, this impression did not last, because the character of the religious artwork quickly dispelled it. In the middle of the Jokhang's main rooms is a large statue of the Buddha of the future, known as the Maitreya, along with hanging thangkas and other works of art. The Jokhang's roof again provides good views, particularly of the Potala, across town about a mile or so.

After a few days in Lhasa, we headed west along the "Friendship Highway," which eventually leads to Kathmandu. I should say at this point that I was traveling with a tour group -- something I generally prefer not to do. However, individual travel in Tibet, while possible, is a bit tricky, and on this trip my wife and I could not spare much time. Therefore, we had to ensure that we could stay on a schedule and that we would not end up stuck somewhere for a few days trying to arrange permits or transportation, and so a tour group was the only way to go. Anyway, our group all clambered aboard the bus from Hell and hit the road. The vehicle in question was large, ancient, and clearly never designed for anything other that the most sedate of city streets. On mountain roads in Tibet, it at times proved to be an alarming means of transport.

Our bus took us southwest from the capital, following the Lhasa river valley until it joined the Yarlung River. Then we turned west, passing cultivated fields (barley, for the most part), sandy areas with dunes, and the odd village. At one point on the road, we passed about 50 Tibetan villagers, who were riding their bicycles in the same direction that we were going. About a quarter of a mile further west, several of the women in our group concluded they had to relieve themselves and asked the guide to have the bus stop. I saw what was coming and laughed quietly to myself, but I didn't say anything. (In fact, given the determination, or perhaps desperation, of the group, there was no way to stop what was happening.) Sure enough, just as the ladies had begun squatting to urinate, 50 Tibetans arrived and, oh boy, from their point of view, the circus had come to town. The women were chagrined but, as there is little cover in Tibet, had no choice but to endure the staring squad until matters were taken care of. I was tremendously amused, but I have to say my wife didn't think it was all that funny. In all fairness, I should say that the women handled it well, and by the end of the trip they were veterans of Tibet's "natural toilets" and the spectators that frequent them. In addition, lest I seem overly callous, I should point out that I have been in similarly awkward situations myself, in China, where some of the local people also find the sight of a foreigner relieving himself to be particularly fascinating, for some reason. I guess there just isn't a whole lot on tv in thoseparts....

Shortly after the "natural toilet" debacle, our road left the river valley and began climbing the Kamba La. "La," I gather, is the Tibetan word for a mountain pass, and the Kamba La rises to an astounding 15,700 feet. It is a terrifying climb, as the road is narrow and there is often a high, steep drop just inches from a vehicle's wheels. Matters are made worse by being aboard a bus such as ours and also by the insane Tibetan drivers coming down the mountainside in the other direction. In Tibet, because the air is so thin, trucks and buses generate little horsepower and have a lot of trouble climbing mountain roads. Drivers, having crawled up a long slope, view the downhill side as an opportunity to make up for lost time and therefore come careening down at ludicrous speeds. Suffice to say, the NTSB would have a fit. Nevertheless, we did finally make it to the top of the Kamba La, and from there we were rewarded with a spectacular view of Lake Yamdrok, one of Tibet's sacred lakes. The lake is remarkably blue, much like Crater Lake in Oregon, but for a different reason. Crater Lake's blue is a result of its depth -- white light enters the deep waters and most frequencies (colors) are absorbed. Blue and violet escape, giving the lake a deep, rich, indigo color. Yamdrok is quite shallow, and I believe it is very blue because Tibetan skies are themselves tremendously blue. The lake is a dead salt lake -- no rivers feed it -- and it is considered to be the abode of certain protector deities. The Chinese are busy building a hydroelectric plant there which will drain water from the lake. The Tibetans are not happy about what will be a permanent loss to a sacred body of water, but the authorities don't care what the locals think.

We descended the Kamba La and traveled along the lake shore, stopping for a brief lunch in a small town, and then we continued along the lake until we eventually began climbing another pass, the Karo La. Because the road to the top of the Karo La follows a river, it is less steep than the roads to the Kamba La. At the top of the pass, near 17,000 feet, we had a good view of Nosin Kang Sa Mountain, which rises to nearly 24,000 feet.

From the Karo La, it is still a long, winding, dangerous ride to the town of Gyangtse, where we spent the night. The first site that any traveler arriving in town sees is the Gyangtse Dzong, which stands on a large hill above the town. Gyangtse proved the most "Tibetan" of all of the major towns we visited, due to the relative lack of Chinese inhabitants. Lhasa and Shigatse are larger than Gyangtse and are each about 50 percent Han in terms of population. From what I could tell, Gyangtse was about 75 percent Tibetan, maybe more. The town's architecture is almost entirely traditional, men ride horses through the dusty streets, and, of course, the ubiquitous Tibetan dogs rule the night. (Gyangtse turned out to be the noisiest of many noisy towns and villages.) Gyangtse's other architectural attraction is the famous Kumbum, which is a Nepalese style stupa at the Pelkor Chode Monastery. This monastery, which stands at one end of town in the shadow of the fortress, is encircled by a long wall and consists of a main assembly hall, a few other buildings where the monks dwell, and the Kumbum itself. The main assembly hall, like so many others in Tibet, is large and rather dark within, as it is lit only by yak butter lamps and the few stray beams of sunlight that filter in from outside. Large statues of Buddhas and various peaceful and wrathful deities loom in the darkness, and magnificent cloth thangkas abound. The Kumbum, which stands next to the main hall, contains numerous small shrines. Most of them are quite dark, and it is a good idea to have a small, powerful flashlight (I carry a mini Mag-light) so that one can view the statues within the chambers. Other parts of the Kumbum are brightly lit by sunlight, and one can climb the stupa's five stories for an excellent view of the paintings within the upper chambers as well as the surrounding town and farmlands.

I thoroughly enjoyed Gyangtse and wish we could have spent more time there. The town is quite peaceful (once one gets used to the dogs), and at night, because there is so little light pollution, it gets extremely dark. Again, one ought to carry a flashlight to avoid getting lost or stepping in something one would rather walk around. In the evening, we ate at the Zhangyuan Fanguan, which is a small restaurant fun by a Han Chinese man from Chengdu. As much as I am against the Chinese policy (I call it a policy, because whether it is an active program sponsored by the government or a natural result of economic reforms in Tibet that the government has permitted, it amounts to a de facto policy at least) of populating Tibet with Han Chinese, I invariably found individual Han people to be very agreeable indeed. The gentleman from Chengdu was the manager and chef of the restaurant, and when he found out I spoke Chinese he gave us his recommendations about what the best food on the menu was. I enjoyed a terrific eggplant dish (with red chilies thrown in), while my wife and another woman had a soup called doufu qingcai tang, which is Tofu and green vegetables in a broth. When one is in China, if one is in doubt, eggplant is usually a good choice for dinner, as it is always delicious and, if well-cooked, is safe to eat. I usually ate in Chinese restaurants rather than Tibetan ones for the simple reason that Tibetan food is just far less appealing than Chinese food, and I sensed also that Chinese restaurants tended to be more sanitary, on the whole.

After a brief time in Gyangtse, we again boarded our venerable bus and headed toward Shigatse. The road proved quite good for that particular stretch, as it passed through a broad river valley. Shigatse is Tibet's second city, and it is located near the main river of Tibet, the Yarlung (or Brahmaputra). I actually did not much enjoy Shigatse, because it seemed very much a Chinese city. Although the famous Tashilhunpo Monastery is there, as well as a bustling Tibetan market, much of the city is composed of the grim, uniform, boxy communist architecture one sees in cities in China proper. Like Lhasa, Shigatse is at least half Han Chinese, but Shigatse has fewer "Tibetan" sites to remind the visitor where he is.

That said, Tashilhunpo turned out to be worth whatever down side there may have been in visiting Shigatse. The monastery complex is composed of dozens of buildings (perhaps more than one hundred -- I am not sure) that are clustered together at the base of a ridge. Four large shrines stand amid the buildings, dark red towers among the ubiquitous off-white buildings. As one enters, there are cylindrical prayer wheels to turn, and then one is soon lost among the maze of alleys and lanes within the complex. One of the squat red towers contains an enormous gold and copper statue of the Maitreya -- it stands about 75 feet high. However, though its size is quite impressive, what is truly remarkable about the statue is its face, in which the artist captured a remarkable expression of compassion and beneficence. The various shrines within the Tashilhunpo complex also contain the myriad paintings, statues, and wall murals that one sees in other monasteries, and though their numbers are much reduced from those of the monastery's best years, there is a sizable contingent of monks and lamas.

Shigatse's Tibetan market is an remarkable experience. The merchants who sell various artworks or practical items there are quite aggressive and will seize a visitor's arm and cling on doggedly, hoping to make a sale. In the market one can purchase small religions items, such as prayer wheels, Buddha statues, and so forth, and there are also more ordinary items such as the lamps that are used for the burning of yak butter. My wife and I bought several of those, as well as a pair of scarfs that we planned to use to ward off the dust as we traveled on Tibet's long, unpaved roads.

West of Shigatse, one quickly finds oneself in the wide open desert. The land is very dry and cultivated areas are smaller and more widely dispersed than is the case in the river valleys further east. A plant not unlike sagebrush becomes the dominant flora, and one even sees dunes on occasion. Our decrepit bus rolled along in a cloud of dust, and gradually we made our way to the top of the Tsuo La, a pass that rises to about 15,000 feet. At the top of this pass, our driver stopped to change a flat tire, so I climbed to the top of a nearby hill (a most breathtaking climb, in all respects) and enjoyed views of the wide lands behind us and the mountain peaks ahead. A land rover arrived a bit later, and the driver made monetary offerings, remarking that, having seen our bus, he felt we could use some luck. This was not a comforting thing to hear, I can assure you. As we waited for the tire repair, a small band of Tibetan drovers came along, with their small herd of dzo (yak-cattle hybrids). They were tolerant of the 20 or so cameras that were pointed their way, and likewise we endured their staring -- a fair trade-off, I guess.

From the Tsuo La we continued west and had a tasty lunch of boiled noodles and vegetables in a Tibetan cafe in Lhatse, a small town on the main highway. It was here that, with amused encouragement from the driver, that I had my first cup of yak butter tea. I approached this cup with some trepidation, as I had been told that the drink was none too appetizing. However, I was pleasantly surprised, and even had a second cup. Yak butter tea, as I had it, was simply black tea with yak butter mixed into it, much as we would add cream in the west. The main surprise was that yak butter is very salty, and as a westerner I was not expecting a hot drink to be salty. Nonetheless, I liked it quite well, and I did not get sick from drinking it, so I would encourage others to try it, provided they drink tea that is well-boiled.

From Lhatse we took a detour to the monastery at Sakya. This monastery stands in a high valley, the floor of which is at about 14,000 feet. Though the valley is cultivated, it seems more barren than the river valleys east of the Tsuo La. Sakya is an unusual town -- its buildings are painted dark grey, with vertical red and white stripes. It stands in stark contrast to most Tibetan towns, which consist primarily of off-white buildings. Sakya Monastery is also unusual. From the outside, it seems more like a fortress than a religious structure, and it completely dominates the town. However, despite the somewhat forbidding atmosphere, the monks at Sakya proved very friendly, and they kept the monastery open a few minutes after the normal closing hour so that we might have a longer look around. Within the monastery's main assembly hall was the (by now) usual collection of priceless paintings and statues. These were a bit different than those of the various Gelukpa institutions we had visited (Sakya is a separate order of Tibetan Buddhism, after all), but for the most part, the monastery seemed similar to the others we had seen. For some reason, many of the people with whom I was traveling reacted somewhat differently than I did. They found Sakya to be more intimate and inviting than Drepung, Tashilhunpo, or Sera. I guess I agree with that, though as I said, from the outside, Sakya seems a bit ominous.

Regretably, our time in Sakya was limited to just a couple of hours, as we were due to continue on to Shegar that same day and thus had many more miles to cover. To reach Shegar, we crossed yet another pass, the Jia Tsuo La (or Lhakpa La), which rises to 17,000 feet and was the highest pass we crossed. We all got out at the top to walk around and find out just how high 17,000 feet really is. It proved almost as bad as our first day in Lhasa, and in addition to the air being very thin, there was a fierce wind and it was quite cold. As it happened, we were able to experience more of this cold than we had counted on, because on the way down from the top of the pass, at about 16,500 feet, we came upon a stream that crossed the road. The crossing place was extremely muddy, but our fearless driver just accelerated and pressed on. This proved a poor decision, as our bus quickly became thoroughly mired, with its wheels sinking down into the muck to near axel-depth. We all clambered out and froze for a while, until a Chinese army truck came along and hauled us out. Considering that we could have just gone off-road to a dryer place to cross the stream, I found the whole sequence of events a bit puzzling. Our driver told me he had been driving the Friendship Highway for more than 30 years, and indeed I believed him, and yet he still on occasion made some odd choices when it came to getting past obstacles. I didn't know whether to attribute this to bad judgement or just indefatigable optimism. I have to add one short anecdote to this paragraph, since I almost knocked my poor wife unconscious while we were waiting for the bus to be pulled from the mud. As I said, it was quite cold, and my wife decided to stand close behind me to shelter from the wind. We were standing back-to-back, and as I faced into the wind, a particularly fierce blast yanked my hat from my head. Acting on instinct, I reached upward to catch it, forgetting where my wife was standing. I felt my elbow strike the soft place at the back of her skull with considerable force -- I am afraid I only added to the headache from which she was suffering.

Unstuck at last, we proceeded until we got our first view of Mt. Everest, which stands without rivals against the sky. All I will say about this is that it is a strange experience to know that one is standing at 16,000 feet and yet find oneself looking up at something that isn't a cloud. Oh, one other thing: perhaps the news of the several climbers who died on Everest in 1996 was fresh in my mind, but at any rate, the mountain seemed to almost scream danger at me. I was not at all tempted to climb it! The land southwest of the pass seemed more lush than the desert behind us, but it was still very desolate. In Tibet, as one reaches very high altitudes, melting snow waters the land and the sand and sagebrush is replaced by moss and lichen. It is by no means a moist environment, but it seems less harsh than some areas at lower elevations. In some ways, the land between the pass and Shegar reminded me of Scotland's desolate highland moors, though of course Britain is far wetter than Tibet.

When we arrived in Shegar, we discovered that the hotel staff had never heard of us. Strictly speaking, we were not in Shegar proper; instead, we were at the Shegar checkpost, which is really nothing more than the hotel itself, as far as I could tell. Because our reservations had not been honored and because there were few rooms available, my wife and I ended up staying in a rooftop room. This literally meant that, from the lobby, we climbed the stairs until we reached the open rooftop, and then we entered one of several small rooms whose doors opened onto the roof. The rooms had no heat and just one pathetic light bulb, but the beds were comfortable and quite inviting after a long day on the road. The only working bathrooms were a 200-yard walk away (down on the second floor), and midnight visits were to prove quite chilly, but we slept well nonetheless. Because we were not in Shegar itself, we did not see the Shegar Dzong, but we did see the night sky, which proved so extraordinary that it merits a mention in its own right. At 15,000 feet and miles from "civilization," Shegar has the darkest skies I have ever seen. Millions of stars are visible, and the Milky Way hangs dramatically overhead. I stood on the roof for some time in the cold wind, but I scarecly noticed the chill, so enticing was the view overhead. I was reminded of Tibet's southern latitude by the fact that, though it was already well into October, the constellation Scorpio was clearly visible above the southern horizon. This would not have been the case back in the eastern United States, if my knowledge of astronomy is not faulty.

After a night in Shegar, we arose before dawn and hit the road. However, we were not more than 15 minutes down the road before we reached a Chinese army checkpoint, which delayed us for about 45 minutes while some officer checked our permits. This seemed a bit odd, because had we not had the correct documents, and had they chosen to deport us, the nearest county was Nepal, and we were going there anyway. In any event, we pressed on as the sun rose behind us and soon enjoyed more remarkable views of Mount Everest and the Great Himalayan Range as we traveled west across the Tingri Plain. Tingri itself is a small, very Tibetan town with a terrific view of Everest itself. We stopped at the side of the highway there for a good long look, and then proceeded onward. As we moved away from Everest and closer to Tingri, I noticed that several ravens were perched on the corner of one of the buildings. At the risk of sounding bizarre, I will venture to say that if there has been one creature that I have run into time and time again in my travels, it is the raven. I have seen them circling over the ruins of the Great Wall of China, I have had one follow me through the woods of the Pacific Northwest, I saw one fly past me as I stood atop an extinct volcanic cone in the deserts of eastern Oregon, and I saw several in Tibet. If I do have a totem, it must be the raven. (Of course, I have also seen them at the Tower of London, but then everyone does.) Also on the Tingri Plain, one sees numerous ruined fortresses crumbling in the dry wind. The forts were built by the Tibetans long before the Chinese occupied the country and are relics of the days when Tibet was a great Central Asian military power. The morning was quite cold, and only as the sun neared zenith did ice in the few streams melt. Indeed, in the course of two weeks we had gone from "June" in Nepal to "January" in Tibet. We gradually climbed to the top of the Lalung La, which rises to nearly 17,000 feet. From there we could see the magnificent Himalayan peak Xixipangma, which towers over its surroundings. The Lalung La also gives one fabulous views of the Great Himalayan Range.

At the top of the Lalung La one finds the typical stone cairns and many prayer flags. Then, as one descends, the land falls sharply and the river known as Bhote Kosi changes from a stream into a significant torrent. Its waters are a pale blue, laced with white. The further one travels toward Nepal, the lower one gets, and yet one is left wondering how it will be possible to pass through the mountains ahead. We traveled for a few hours, and as we got lower, the air became more moist and dense, and the desert gave way to increasingly lush foliage. At a small town called Nyalam, we had to at last leave our faithful bus behind, because a bridge that had washed out during the monsoon had not been repaired. Therefore, we found ourselves riding in the back of a flatbed truck that had recently been carrying flour, or so I guessed. At any rate, we all looked like bakers before the ride was over. The road we were soon bouncing along led into a high, narrow gorge. I must confess to being somewhat nervous about heights -- actually, I should not deceive you. I am terrified of heights. Consequently, the trip from Nyalam to Zhangmu (the last town in Tibet before one reaches Kodari in Nepal) was as horrifying a journey as I would ever care to imagine. I will say that it was not just that the road was often only 12 feet wide, muddy, and 2,000 feet above the Bhote Kosi. To make matters worse, the trucks were in disrepair and the drivers suicidal. Nevertheless, we somehow managed to survive, changing trucks on several occasions (when mudslides had made the roads impassable), and at long last we made it to a hellish little border town called Zhangmu, about which I will say more in a moment. I should say this about the Bhote Kosi Gorge -- it is beautiful. The cliffs are sheer, yet clad in lush, green forests, and dozens of waterfalls plunge vertically into the river below. Mists pour up through the gorge from the south, shrouding everything in a mysterious veil. Were one traveling on foot, the trip through the gorge would be a wonder and a joy. I cannot, however, recommend making the trip by truck.

I call Zhangmu hellish, and it is. It clings desperately to a precipitous slope, and the only road in town is nothing more than a series of steep switchbacks. Within Zhangmu is a nasty Chinese hotel, which is the site of the World's Filthiest Toilet. I should know, because I have traveled all around the world and I have seen my share of foul restrooms. This was truly the end-all-be-all of third-world experiences. I'll just say that the toilet seemed to be the only one in the entire hotel, and no one had ever bothered to clean it, or even hose it out. The hotel restaurant was just across the hall, but given the evident lack of standards, I chose not to patronize it. Instead, my wife and I ventured out into Zhangmu, which is an interesting mix of Tibetans, Nepalese, and Chinese, all living together in a town that bustles with the mercantile energy common to border towns. We walked past shops selling liquor, snacks, water, and all manner of equipment. We also noticed many restuarants. We found a Sichuanese establishment that seemed inviting and enjoyed a meal of fried rice with hot green chilies. We also learned that Nepalese rupees, Chinese yuan, and U.S. dollars are all accepted in Zhangmu, and my wife was able to quickly exchange our yuan for rupees on the street. This was our only brush with the black market, made necessary by the fact that the official bank in Zhangmu never opens. (Actually, I cannot swear there even is a branch of the People's Bank of China in Zhangmu. I believe there is, and I seem to remember it being closed, but I would not bet my life on that.)

Our last day in Tibet consisted of getting through customs and back into Nepal. We had been warned that we must be certain to have our passports properly stamped. Apparently, the Nepalese customs people in Kodari (the entry point for Nepal) will fine anyone trying to enter without the proper stamp in his passport. The game is, the Chinese "forget" to stamp "exit" in one's passport, the Nepalese then fine that person, and the two sides split the take. Because I can speak and read Chinese, I ended up making sure they stamped everyone's passport properly. The customs official did not want to, and our guide clearly was reluctant to get involved, so I had to really get on the customs official's case, but in the end he did break out the ink pad and do his job. Afterwards, we all climbed onto another flat-bed and made our way down to the Friendship Bridge. We walked across and into Nepal, and that was the end of our adventure in Tibet.

Other images of Tibet

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Copyright © 1996 Scott Carr

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