by Jeffrey Vonk
While my travel buddy is bed bound with a serious flu, I roam ancient squares and streets where monks in blood red robes are begging, whilst drumming their silver prayer wheels. Vendors sell delicious momos at simple stands, small shrines have different fragrances of incense burning. Visiting the Potala Palace I conclude it was worth everything to come here. An airplane may have been faster but it cannot be compared to the sheer happiness of having completed a journey. Dark carpets with white inscriptions decorate the facades. Golden buddhas intrigue with piercing brows, as well as the timeworn tapestries with embroidered legendary sagas. Bald-shaved monks turn the long rows of copper prayer mills on the westside of the complex, making them spin around to, spiritually speaking, throw the mantras into the world. A religious custom that has been practiced daily for centuries. Locals make entry for the price of a symbolic one yuan, while westerners pay a hundredfold. Still you don't hear me complain. It truly is a privilege to stand here where the gods themselves were once present. And all of this on May 14, my birthday. Today I turn twenty-six.
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One cannot help noticing swastikas all around the place. Painted on walls outside, printed on cars, carved into furniture and even carved into the skin of the elderly. Locals seem completely ignorant to the fact that an evil man from the 1930s borrowed the Buddhist sign for purposes known. Questioning people about the Second World War results in the revelation that pretty much none of them had done their homework. One proper lesson to be learned here, the government controls exactly what the people are allowed to know and not know. To their credit, in the West we are not exactly taught about their history either, which contain an endless number of dynasties.
One thing is for sure, the Chinese have utterly pillaged Tibetan culture. The once so peaceful monk village of Zhöl has turned into an enormous city thanks to the atheist oppressors, spreading like locusts. They certainly do know how to get rid of nostalgia.
Summiting a mountain ten miles from this regional capital treats me to a view of the entire valley plus the encompassing white peaks as far as the eye can see. Having spent the night in my single tent on the edge of a cliff, crampons prevent me from sliding on the way down, going all the way through a steep canyon. When snow in my sports bottle melts, I use it for drinking water. Without anything to eat, I make it back to the foot of the mountain, drained from energy and with a sunburned face. Two hours pass before a utility truck comes by with blocks of rock in the open back which have been blown out of the hills with dynamite. The previous day I actually heard the sound of the explosions echo through the concatenations of valleys.
Hitchhiking along we end up somewhat close to the hostel where Steve is still recovering. At the property where the truck unloads those rocks I see something that makes me unpalatably sad. Power tools hack them to small pieces and once more into even smaller pieces, until they can be worked with hammer and chisel, tools held by the hands of children. Groups of preteens are working these stones under poor conditions, only to answer the growing demand of hard stone in the wealthy West. Condemned to modern-day slavery and no one gives a flying fuck. That is the world we live in today. As long as we get to buy our favorite products at the garden center we don’t care how it got there, or who had to suffer for it.
Due to the many mechanics around, we have our bikes totally refurbished. Pretty much every single item has to be fixed or replaced. That is the price you pay for a Made in China.
Anyway, we are good to go for our next road trip. We move north for the weekend to the heavenly lake of Namtso. On an altitude of four thousand seven hundred meters lies the highest salt water lake in the world. At least, that is what it is famous for. Heading towards it, a van cuts me off by switching lanes without a signal light or any notice at all. I have to pull the breaks so hard my motorcycle loses balance and I nearly come to fall. Not a boy, but perhaps not a man yet either I kick a dent in his door and while driving next to the van I raise my middle finger and yell: “Fuck you asshole!” Some biker behavior eh? Not saying I am proud of those actions.
Having left the crowdedness of the city behind, the mesmerizing infinite plains await us; yellow grasslands stretching from here to the horizon. In the distance, we marvel at another rumor that turns out to be true. With our own eyes we see what newspapers boast about. The forsaken yet spotless territory is cut in half by the construction of a brand-new railway line. So the reports of the thousands of miles long iron serpent were trustworthy. Now we witness what nobody ever expected, all to serve the explosion of tourists that shall flood the nation in two years’ time.
A fading mountain range ahead notifies us that we missed a turn somewhere and took the wrong way. Returning to where we came from and hours upon hours later we finally guess the right direction. Spotting a rusty arch looping over the road, our doubts are removed. A red-white roadway gate bar and guarded tollbooth herald the entrance of Namtso Natural Reserve Park. I am not a fan of paying for something that nature offers for free, but if you wish to see some things of this world, you have to abide to the rules sometimes. Above five thousand meters a sheer visual sensation unfolds. The lake is a retina triggering wonder, a coalition of the divine and mortal, a masterpiece of the Creator himself. Turquoise waters stir the senses, the purest of ice resting at its shores. Descendants of ancient tribes have pitched their tents here and built suitable huts from yak manure. By sound of approaching engines, the children run to the side of the road and wave hello. Their delighted facial expressions when we wave back melt my heart.
Early the next day everything smells like our rented yurt, having me too excited to sleep in. Pairs of black-necked cranes soar the water surface as yaks chew the grass, some brown, some white, but all undisturbed by never ceasing sharp winds.
Oral traditions have us believe that the lake is holy for the surrounding tribes. No one is allowed to set sail, swim or quench their thirst in it. When no one is watching, I reckon it is time to put the myth to the test. I fill my cup and take a sip, and another one, and another. When Steve tastes it he comments that the water is nothing remotely close to salty. He smiles from ear to ear saying: “So fresh!” A nearby Chinese couple is appalled by my action, yet eager to test for themselves upon hearing the results. This ain’t the highest salt water lake in the world as their Lonely Planet travel guidebook states. By all means it is sweeter than sweet. Conspiracies are quickly drawn. Upon certain invasion in time of war, this lake is the biggest fresh water supply in the world, no enemy will seek to contaminate water that is supposed to be undrinkable. It is a treasure of a reservoir, and none are aware of it except the elite and those within the highest levels of government. It seems like one of their dirty little secrets is now being exposed. Blown away by the number of fully staffed military bases along the way, which probably is the reason behind the banning of tourism in the area, a saying by Napoleon Bonaparte comes to mind. He said: “China? There lies a sleeping giant. Let him sleep, for when he awakes he will move the world.” Now that the red dragon slowly shakes the dust from its feet, it might prove the little French warlord to be correct.
Filming the perimeter, I boldly walk among dwelling places. A young woman sticks her head out of one of the hairy tents, more or less inviting me for tea. Without hesitation I crawl in through a slender opening behind a flap. Her child is scared to death when he lays eyes upon the white devil. Inside is another woman who couldn't care less about openly breastfeeding her newborn. Now that I have been without the touch of the opposite sex for so long, it actually turns me on a little bit. Trying to communicate turns out to be quite a challenge. Smells of the fire in the center of the tent are excruciating – if you could only smell dried burning yak shit… A unit of molecules nests in nose hairs where they feel safe and decide to reside for the next few hours.
Fleeing the scene, I meet up with Steve who is already packing. It seems like we have to flee from something else. A cirrocumulus is rolling our way, and I don’t recall ever having seen such a threatening dark
cloud. One of nature’s dazzling wonders, yet a deadly one, is heading straight towards us. Even the geo-engineered storms of today would be ashamed of this massive tyrant. Tribespeople hasten to their homes – being able to read the sky they know what is upon us.
Naively thinking that we will outride the cloud, it catches up with us in record speed. Our route leads partly toward the front of this heavenly army, about to unleash the battle, hence resolving to go off road. Skeletons of yaks and sheep are scattered across bumpy lands. Driving as fast as we possibly can, in a last attempt to escape the horrors, appears to be not fast enough. Raging winds carrying hail and snow attack in full force. It hurts our poorly covered faces. Within no time the landscape turns white, eliminating any view of direction. Blessed with the sense of direction of carrier pigeons we hit asphalt again not long after.
The torturous weather conditions continue until the cloud bends south. The damage already done, patches of snow swiftly freeze to ice, on our bikes as well as on our faces. Riding back up the high-pass we are as slow as ever, shivering from the cold. Lacking the necessary outfit, the cold soon turns into hypothermia. Then an intense downpour leaves us drenched, my legs are all wet as my ski pants are far from waterproof, Steve’s arms are all wet from wearing a winter coat, also not waterproof. Omitting summits of the white mountains donate temperatures that could turn a North Alaskan resident cranky. You have to realize, even when you have to pee there is no way to open your pants with frozen fingers, let alone grab your phallus. Descending the other side on dangerous rocky trails, the infuriated weather gods turn their faces against us. After filling up the bikes at China Petrol, the dominating petrol supplier, it starts to dribble again. Rather quickly, this whirls into a rainstorm that drowns us, erasing all sight with a thick curtain of water, flooding the road with three inches. All the while obliterating winds overpower me until I scream aloud from agonizing pain, having developed serious hypothermia in my knees and fingers. My legs are literally unable to stretch and the senses have long left my fingers, due to having drenched gloves. Only pain remains. Steve faces similar challenges. Diligently we search for cover, a shack for shelter or anything to save us from possible death. We would not be the first lives claimed by the barren tundra.
Disesteeming the powers of nature itself, I suddenly spot a tiny tunnel on the left. I lower my speed until my buddy has a visual. I cannot pull over in fear of falling with legs that possibly won’t stretch. Seeking refuge I drop with my shoulder against the concrete wall. It is all I can do with a body that can’t move. Moments later we are standing there together. Repeatedly my friend mumbles in a soft shaky voice: “I’m so cold.” His mumbling sounds like repetitive prayers. We are both in shock. With pinched eyes from the pain I make an effort to walk, but fail immediately. While the hostile curtain of disaster was sagging away we spot a low building across the lanes. Our last hope switched to survival mode we crawl towards it before the night sets in. Miraculously we find it staffed. Goodness gracious we are saved! About ten men fill the damp house. They are very surprised to see us. Due to their hospitality, we can dry our clothes near the wood stove and warm ourselves. They serve us herbal tea, noodles and a soup with large chunks of yak meat in a tin can. We eat quickly before they change their minds, starved as we are. Thankfully while sitting and communicating among the men our body joints slowly start to defrost. We find out that these seven beds that are crammed next to one another without any walking space is their mobile home, their temporary living room if you will. Yes, that is right, seven beds for at least ten men. Here are the hardworking laborers that are building the railway track to Lhasa, the first in its kind. We are grateful for their kindness and are forever in debt to these heroes. Who knows what could have happened had it not been for them?
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Xigaze or Shigaze is the second largest city of Tibet. Skidding through its dirty streets we are struck by the sheer number of outdoor sport stores. The locals thrive on the swarms of climbers. Unpaved roads are hazardous, mud and rocks give us a hard time. In fact one of these rocks proves to be too much of a challenge. For the second time I come to fall. My brake pedal is all bent, unfortunately due to my own ankle that is stuck beneath it. Turning blue, it swells up instantly. Being far from comfortable the painful journey continues.
Days pass on tracks with heavy roadwork until we reach the highest summit so far, five thousand five hundred fifty-two meters! We pitch our tents among strings of hundreds of colorful prayer flags that are flapping in the wind – you have to see it to believe it; the sight will make any travelers’ heart skip a beat. Once again they are accompanied by an indispensable white stupa, symbolizing the ancientness of their teachings of wisdom and worship.
With the sunset comes the increasing cold, by now we are wearing everything we have. The high altitude robs me of my much-needed sleep, turning me into a zombie. Morning light reveals black circles around my eyes and skin evidently turning grey. Shortage of oxygen is good for nobody. In the afternoon, the next road sign greatly lifts our spirits. It’s so exciting to be closing in on yet another dream that is about to be turned into reality.
Before us lies the entrance to a park so large that it is easily as big as an entire country. Praised for its unprecedented biodiversity, of course, I am speaking about the Qomolangma National Nature Preserve. Known by Tibetans as the region that hosts the Holy Mother, the tallest mountain in the world, better known as the Mount Everest.
Leaving the first check post behind the view is phenomenal. Rust-colored mountains writhe as if molded by a force powerful beyond measure. A surplus of sea shells and petrified sea creatures are but echoes of our occult distant past. Even on these incredible heights, there is little doubt that all of this was once at the mercy of a submerged event, exactly as several ancient accounts describe. Dare I say the Great Flood?
At least once a day we need to pull over when something breaks in one of the bikes. Zip-tights, duct tape and wire are holding the parts all together. New prayer flags greet us at the last high-pass before the last ninety kilometers toward our destination. Crowned by blue skies and cheerful sunshine a living painting unfolds. Right in front of us, from the left side of the horizon to the right a sequence of the tallest snow-capped mountaintops, the entire awe-inspiring Himalaya Range! No photograph can remotely resemble what our eyes are staring at, no words can describe the sublime perfection. Truly, this is the Roof of the World! Overtaken by sudden emotions due to this astounding natural beauty we flop down and cry, both remaining silent. Ever since I was a toddler and heard the term eternal snow for the first time this picture was on my mind. Without a shadow of a doubt the most impressive thing I have ever seen. Not so much for a group of Japanese tourists arriving at the scene in Jeeps. They seem more interested in two white backpackers than in the view, insolent snapping away at our contemplating faces.
At nighttime, the meals in a rancid guesthouse leave nothing to boast over. At least we have some distraction from girls who work in the restaurant, since we’re the only guests. While they are braiding Steve’s hair and stroking mine, they stick out their tongues. We were assuming that they thought we smelled bad or something but the owner later explains that it’s a Tibetan custom. Whenever someone likes you this is their way of showing it. When we understand the custom, it unleashes a groove of sticking out our tongues to pretty much every girl we come across, with flirtatious yet funny moments to follow. Tomorrow is the big day so we wisely hit the sack early, thus receiving the gift of a real bed one last time. We smuggle in a female guest but don’t get your hopes up, it is a hungry puppy, enjoying the warmth of the tip of my smelly blanket.
Supposedly, we are not allowed any further with our bikes. Due to the protected Nature Preserve, we are ordered to take an environmentally friendly bus. When the deteriorated diesel arrives, we know that this is a freaking scam. Traversing the rough depleted terrain on roads from cut-away rocks, the excitement builds and we forget about our minor misunderstanding.
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br /> Stepping out at Rongbuk Monastery we are mere miles away from Base Camp. Typical architecture with white ramparts and golden shrines makes time stand still, as if nothing changed since 1902 when it was erected. Sounds of little tinkling bells give away that horses are approaching, beautifully ordained like all the cattle around. When clouds are fading the triangular summit of Everest looks proud and dignified. Walking towards it we are picked up by truck drivers that are kind enough to give us a lift. Sitting on the back in between the rubble really provides a sense of the joy of wandering this earth.
It’s easy to find a place to sleep in one of the traditional Tibetan tents, however, that’s not what I travelled half the world for. The plan is to set up camp at the foot of the mountain, but the entrance to Base Camp is sealed off to those without a Climbing Permit. It’s not like we have forty thousand US dollars in an old sock, which is the average cost of going up. Therefore, we forge a sinister masterplan, ready to be executed by nightfall when security is low. Sneaking up on the barrier to enter without being seen is an instant failure. A man in charge of regulation spots us and questions our presence at this unusual hour. We come up with a lie stating that we are here to re-supply one of the current expeditions. Only a few weeks ago I was emailing Harry Kikstra, a Dutch climber and the owner of Seven Summits. While he replied that he was already in Camp 3, I informed him we were on our way. Mentioning his name persuades the guard to let us in. It worked!
