Seven Days in Tibet

...well, actually, more like nine days, but this just sounded better.

After exactly two months in Nepal, including three weeks of trekking, I was ready to go to Tibet. I spent one day in Pokhara to rest, and to do something I had been wanting to do for some time: paragliding. Unfortunately, it was very cloudy that day. But it seemed like such a good opportunity - I was there, and could be up and flying in a few hours - that I decided to do it anyway. It was a nice experience, very graceful, and not scary at all. However, in spite of the preventive pill I took, I did get motion sickness. My pilot kindly requested to throw up as far behind him as I could. It was a bit hard to enjoy the view while sprinkling the content of my stomach all over the the Nepali hills. I was still vomiting while we landed. The local kids looked amused when, as we were sliding down, legs stretched forward, I had to bend over sideways to throw up. The whole thing didn't take more than 20 minutes,but considering my condition, it was more than enough. It started raining just after we landed, so I was very lucky to have been flying to start with.

View of Pokhara during paragliding

The next day I went back to Kathmandu. Just like almost every bus trip in Nepal, this one wasn't without incidents. Some bridge had collapsed, forcing all the traffic to go through one lane, which caused a huge traffic jam. As soon as I arrived in Kathmandu, I went to the travel agent to arrange my tour through Tibet. I had tried to figure out a way to travel alone through the heavily guarded country (oops, I mean, region, sorry), but that turned out to be virtually impossible. The roads are full of checkpoints, and foreigners are not allowed to travel without a guide or with public transport. My only option was to go on a short and expensive group tour. Partly because I wanted to see Tibet, and partly because I wanted to go to China, by land, I went through with it. I booked a seven nights, eight days overland tour from Kathmandu to Lhasa. From Lhasa I would take a train to Chengdu. I was happy to find I could leave six days later.

I didn't do much on my last days in Kathmandu. It was the first week of Dasain, a 15-day Hindu festival, the biggest one in Nepal. There was a festive atmosphere, but the capital was more overcrowded than ever. As I once again realized, Kathmandu could be an extremely nice city, but there are just too many people there. One day I went bungee jumping at 'Last Resort', a place close to the Tibetan border. It's said to be the second highest jump in the world, but maybe it's only the third, or the fourth; anyway, it's 160 m, and that's high enough for me. I got extremely nervous on the way there, and even more when I first looked down from the bridge. Talking to the British-Japanese guy I had met on the bus, I realized at least I wasn't the only one. The jump was amazing, but, of course, short. For a reasonable additional payment, you can do a "canyon swing" as well (allegedly the highest one in the world). The rope to which the victim is attached is suspended at some distance, so that after falling for a few seconds, the poor fellow starts swinging back and forth. My companion and I decided to give it a go. It looked less scary than the bungee jump, as you jump feet first instead of head first. Besides, since we had jumped once, the second one was bound to be easier...right? We bragged to each other:
-"Man, I'm so not nervous this time. "
-"Yeah, me neither. I mean, we did this before, didn't we? No, I'm supercalm, dude."
For some reason, there was a significant change in attitude once we reached the bridge:
-"Dude, are you nervous?"
-"Dead nervous, man."
-"Me too, man. Why are we doing this, again??"
And, although I wouldn't believe it, what they say is true: the canyon swing is definitely scarier than the bungee jump.

Two days later, I finally left for Tibet. I had been told to go standing in front of the travel agency at 6.30 am. I had hoped I would be greeted by some driver, or at least some other travelers, but I was all alone. For the first twenty minutes I just enjoyed watching the people pass; they were all going to temples with offerings for Dasain. But then I started to worry. Had I misunderstood? Did I go to the wrong place, or at the wrong time? Where were the other people? I knew there were dozens of other travel agents, but this one was the actual organizer of the tour; surely everyone would end up there? I paid so much money for this, I can't afford to miss it! After one hour of nervous pacing around and trying to calm myself in vain, I finally got picked up by a man on a motorbike. I had a vague recollection of being told we would be in Jeeps in groups of six, but I also expected that, as always, all the people from different travel agencies would be thrown together. So I wasn't really surprised when I saw the two big buses. Our group consisted of fifty people of all ages and backgrounds. This shows striking similarities to my worse nightmare, but it was the only way I was going to get to Tibet. As I understood later, a big group has one advantage: I was bound to get along well with at least some of them.

I knew the first day was going to be a long one. We would mainly drive to the border and go through the formalities. Although it was drizzling, it was an beautiful drive. The Dasain festival was coming to its more intense part. As a tradition, huge swings made with bamboo sticks were installed in the gardens. Despite the rain, everywhere there were children playing on the swings, which created a very festive atmosphere.
At the border, I had my first look at Chinese soldiers with their neat uniforms. The day before I had acquired my first Yuans, with the face of Mao on them. I realized that a fifth of the world's population uses banknotes that portrait one of the biggest murderers of all times. The guides had warned us about getting some certain books across the border. The Lonely Planet guidebook, for instance, contains a map which doesn't show Taiwan as being part of China. I had my guidebook at the bottom of my small backpack, and the fantastic "Wild Swans" (Jung Chang), which is banned in China, hidden away somewhere in my big backpack. They found none of both; I was happy to call myself a successful book smuggler.

After crossing the border, we drove on, on the nicest asphalt road I had seen in months. A lot can be said about the Chinese presence in Tibet, but they are rightful in their claim that they bring good infrastructure. That night, I stayed in a room with five others, all twentysomething. We had great fun, and they would be my buddies for the rest of the tour.

The next day and a half was mostly a lot of driving. We climbed up to the vast, endless Tibetan plateau. The landscape was arid: just rocks, sand, and some dry grass. The plains were vast, and the peaks always looked far away. The brand new road was broad and almost empty. The few people we saw were mostly men on tractors, bicycles or motorbikes. Funnily enough, most of them were wearing Western style hats. They looked strangely out of place on this modern road. When I saw some mud brick houses with prayer flags, and some people plowing the barren soil with long-haired yaks, I realized: I'm in Tibet!

Typical Tibetan landscape

On day three, we reached Shigatse, the second biggest city in the country (oops, did I say country again? Sorry, I meant region). That's the first place where I fully realized the extent of the Chinese presence in Tibet. The old town, with traditional mud brick houses, was completely surrounded by ugly concrete buildings and asphalt roads, with signs in big red Chinese characters everywhere. We arrived in Shigatse around noon, and went straight to the monastery. Fortunately, me and my British roommate had the same dislike for guided tours, so we split off from the group at the first opportunity. We infiltrated in a group of pilgrims who were going around the monastery. We were surprised by the speed and pragmatism with which they proceeded. They rushed from chapel to chapel, mumbling their mantras, pushing slower people aside. They dropped some money here and there, and added some butter from their big packs to the lamps. I remembered how Heinrich Harrer made several reverences to the rancid smell of butter lamps in "Seven Years in Tibet"- that's one thing that doesn't seem to have changed too much. Many pilgrims were wearing dark and heavy clothes with a colorful belt, much like the people I had seen in Ladakh. Many women wore their hair in many small braids, tied together at the end with a piece of ornament. In spite of the Chinese presence everywhere, I really felt that I was in Tibet.

Two monks at the monastery in Shigatse

The next day we went to Gyantse, where there's another monastery and a beautiful, nine-tiered stupa. Again we strayed from the group and followed what we had come to call our braided-haired friends. They performed the same kind of rituals, at the same excruciating pace. The Tibetan part of Gyantse looked pretty authentic. I recognized the architecture from Ladakh: white-washed mud brick houses with a black strip on top and the wood from the roof sticking out in between, painted red. Most houses had stacks of firewood on the sides of the roof, and yak dung was stuck against some walls to make it dry.

The drive on day five, from Gyantse to Lhasa, was the most beautiful one of all. We passed two lakes of the most beautiful turquoise I've ever seen, and stopped at a glacier. And then, after five days of mostly driving, we finally arrived at the Holy City of Lhasa. Our arrival at the capital of Tibet wasn't exactly like I imagined it, though. We passed through ugly suburbs, on sterile avenues lined by modern buildings. I got only a small glimpse of the mythical Potala palace, the former winter residence of the Dalai Lama, before we arrived at our hotel. I felt like we had really arrived in China. Luckily, we were staying in what seems to be the only proper Tibetan neighborhood that Lhasa still has, around the Jokhang Temple. This is the holiest temple in Tibet, and one of the biggest attractions in Lhasa, along with the Potala. My (and probably anyone's) favorite place in Lhasa is the Bharkor, the circuit around the temple. A part of any pilgrimage to Tibet is to circumambulate the temple one or more times. Day and night, pilgrims take laps around the temple, some of them prostrating every two steps, others spinning their prayer wheel in one hand and holding their rosary in the other. In front of the temple, there is a special area where people are prostrating themselves over and over again. The sides of the Barkhor are full of stalls and small shops selling jewelery, paintings and religious items. It's a real joy to be carried around by the clockwise flow of people, and I must have done about a dozen of laps in the few days I was there.
It's well knows that there's a strong Chinese military presence in the center of Lhasa, especially following the protests in 2008. About half a dozen military were standing on each corner of the Barkhor. On several places you could also see them on the roofs. Any new protest would immediately be quelled.

Pilgrim at (Yamdrok?) lake

On the morning of the sixth day, we visited the Potala palace. Many famous monuments have appeared almost disappointingly small to me when I saw them in real: the Notre Dame in Paris, the Tower Bridge in London, the Taj Mahal, etc. - not so the Potala. With its thirteen stories and over 1000 rooms, it looks massive. Visitors are allowed to stay one hour inside the palace. We rushed through heavily decorated residential quarters and audience halls of the Dalai Lama. Despite the brightly colored woodwork and carpets, the interior of the Potala is kind of murky. In "Seven Years in Tibet", I read how the young Dalai Lama couldn't wait to get out of the dark Potala to go to his summer palace, the Norbulingka - I can imagine all too well. That afternoon, we visited the Jokhang temple, the spiritual center of Tibet. I was started to get tired of Buddhas and butter lamps by then, but I enjoyed being on top of the temple, with its beautiful golden roofs and statues. The view was terrific: the arid valley around, the pilgrims prostrating themselves down on the square, and the mighty Potala in the distance.

Prostrating pilgrims viewed from the roof of Jokhang temple

On the program for day seven: two monasteries. Drepung and Sera monasteries are two of the largest ones in the country (oh man, did I do it again? So sorry - I meant region), and a must on a trip to Tibet. As I said, by then I had had my share of Buddhist stuff (and I wasn't the only one), so I wasn't too enthusiastic at first. The best thing about Drepung monastery I found the stunning view on the valley - those monks really knew what they were doing when they decided where to build there residence. Drepung used to be the biggest monastery in the world, with no less than 7000 monks (some sources say 10000). At some point, we heard singing, that didn't really sound like Buddhist chanting. It came from somewhere above our heads. As we looked up, we saw about a dozen people on a roof. They were banging on the floor with sticks, presumably with something attached at their end to make the floor flat. They were all singing a cheerful working song to the rhythm of the banging sticks, dancing gently back and forth. It was fascinating to observe.
"Alright, the last one", some of us sighed with relief when we attacked Sera monastery. It turned out to be pretty entertaining, with beautiful sand paintings and animatedly debating monks. And then we were finally free! Since the train to Chengdu ran every other day, I had one more day in Lhasa than most of the people, who just flew back to Kathmandu the next morning.

On my last full day in Lhasa, after saying goodbye to my buddies, I checked into a youth hostel full of Chinese tourists and rented a bike. In front of the Potala, I asked one Chinese girl to take a picture of me; I ended up posing for ten minutes because the whole group - all girls, I can't complain - wanted a picture with me. Clearly my celebrity status hadn't ended yet; it was the first of many similar experiences in China.
The weather was excellent that day, and I thought I'd just ride around town. Unfortunately, broad Chinese avenues and ugly concrete buildings don't make the best biking trip. Also, I kept getting lost because I couldn't recognize any of the characters from my Chinese map on the signs. I gave them names, like "house with cross" and "man on chair". I spent quite some time trying to find ladder-and-robot-with-hat-and-hockey-stick street, but it was either a ladder with other stuff, or a robot without hockey stick. So I gave up and went to the summer palace (Norbulingka), which was mentioned quite a lot in "Seven Years in Tibet", so I was curious to see it. They Norbulingka complex is really a nice park, with buildings here and there. It was fall in Lhasa; after months of tropical climate, walking around between trees that were starting to loose their colorful leaves almost felt like home. At some point, I heard some happy singing, so I went towards the sounds. Some Tibetan families were having a picnic in the park. They had brought a huge barrel of chang, the local barley beer, from which they drunk glass after glass, frequently toasting. In a couple of tents around, men were playing some dice game, where they shook the dice in a box which they then slammed down on the table with a loud bang. It was a cheerful atmosphere, and no-one really seemed to notice me. I was the only Western tourist around; the exaggerated entrance fee keeps the crowds away.

Me posing in front of the Potala; I did this pose because about fifteen Chinese girls were screaming "pose! pose!".

On the ninth day since I left Nepal, I took my first Chinese train, from Lhasa to Chengdu. It's the highest train in the world, with a big part of the way above 4000 m, and a pass above 5000 m. Each passenger has his own oxygen supply, although I never figured out how it works. It takes about forty-three hours to get to Chengdu. The train makes a huge detour, going about 500 km north, then east and then all the way south again. Once again, it was an astonishingly beautiful ride. Tibet north from Lhasa is pretty much like Tibet south from Lhasa: an endless, arid plateau. The altitude increased progressively over a couple of hours as we approached the pass. The higher we went, the more surprised I was to see small villages and people, even around 4500 m. The most touching image was that solitary yak that was roaming around the steppe at almost 5000 m, surrounded by nothingness. The night fell while we crossed the pass. The next morning when I woke up, we were still above 3500 m. The landscape was very much like I what I would later see in Mongolia: endless plains with hills here and there, covered by a thin layer of snow. And then, as we got below 3000 m, we finally started seeing some trees again. We were back in more populated areas, with cities, roads, and fields. It looked strangely familiar; the snow-covered fields reminded me of Belgium the way I had left it in February. The weather wasn't like in Lhasa; it was cloudy and gray. As we gradually went further down, the scenery changed yet again, into misty hills of gray rock, covered with greenery. I went to sleep again thinking about all I had seen, but also about what was coming. The next morning I would wake up to the next chapter of my trip: China!