Sunday, July 8, 2001

Heading to Lhasa (2 July)

On the evening of our sixth day on the Kailash kora, we trudged back to Darchen, exhausted from the final eight hours of walking, and nearly collapsed into our bowls of Thukpa, Tibetan noodle soup. We'd stayed on the kora as long as our food allowed us to, so it was comforting to be back where we knew we could get a next meal, no matter how simple.

What we didn't dream of, in our post-kora-bliss-exhaustion, was the friendliness and generosity of the Indian tour groups. They invited us to eat every meal with them, and sometimes we were forced -- out of politeness, you must understand -- to eat dinner twice, once with each kitchen. Rice and dal, chapatis, pakoras, pasta, cheese, and honey almost made us forget that Darchen isn't really a very great place to hang out, especially camped right in front of the PSB. Finally we overcame our gastronomical greed and took a ride back to Ali where we hoped to extend our Chinese visas. I sat in the open bed of the truck with two Tibetan road workers and a little boy, while Juliette sat up front in the cab. It was bumpy and dusty in back, but I think Juliette ended up suffering more by thinking of how uncomfortable I must be in back. This was our first time hitching with a Tibetan driver, the most notable difference being that he stopped for yak butter tea all the time -- an acquired taste, to be sure, but once acquired it's kind of nice.

Arriving in Ali the next day, we were disappointed to find out that they couldn't extend our visas until we were within a week of expiry. That meant either hanging out in Ali for two weeks, or going to Lhasa where visa extensions were rumored to be impossible. Hanging out in Ali was the worst idea we'd ever heard, so we visted our friendly neighborhood gangster travel agent who runs the magic bus to Lhasa -- a service that had only been running for six weeks, before which we'd have had to hitch. The reason I call him a gangster is because he's a hardcore businessman -- he has a monopoly with his magic bus, and he won't bargain even a single mao below his fixed "discount price," even to make up for our last bus getting stuck in the middle of nowhere. There was a bus leaving for Lhasa the very next evening, but it was full. However, he wasn't above charging us nearly full price for a tiny bench and a plastic stool in the already overcrowded aisle, with a promise that a single bed would open up half-way through the fifty-hour journey. We were stuck, as usual, between a rock and a hard place -- the clock was ticking on our visas, so we didn't have time to hitch a ride to Lhasa, which would take a minimum of a week travel time and possibly much longer.

So we bit the bullet and shelled out $63 each for our tiny seats. Again, we camped on the edge of town to save a few dollars, and the next day we collected food for the two day bus journey. Shortly before our departure time I was in our favorite Muslim restaurant ordering some noodles to take with us on the bus, when two policemen approached me; one in uniform and one wearing an L.A. Lakers jacket.

"Are you American?" the uniformed officer asked me. It seemed a benign enough question; police and army often come up to chat, even asking for my passport, just because they're bored. I told him I was, then went back to trying to order my noodles -- it can be a lengthy process to point at each thing in the kitchen to make it clear whether I want it or not.

"Did you camp last night?" the officer asked. Uh oh...we'd camped in Ali a bunch of times now, but usually farther from the center of town. Last night we'd had a lot of visitors, including policemen, watching us cook or just watching the tent, as if it might start flying at any moment. I smiled at him and tried to get the attention fo the cook.

"Did you camp there?" he insisted, pointing in the direction of last night's rest area.

"Mm hm. I go to Lhasa today," I tried to change the subject.

"Are you with German girl?" the plainclothes officer asked. Wow, they knew a lot. No sense in lying; I nodded yes.

"Ali is closed city. Camping is illegal. You come to PSB."

Normally I would have gone with them -- I don't make a habit of arguing with men with guns -- but I really didn't want to miss this bus to Lhasa. That would mean waiting another four days for the next one, and getting a refund from the gangster seemed unlikely.

"I'm sorry," I said, "my bus leaves to Lhasa in one hour, I must hurry."

I think they were stumped. They went outside for a minute and talked, then came back in. The plainclothes man, apparently with better Engilsh, began translating my order to the cook. This was a strange turn of events -- first they wanted to haul me off to prison, and now they were ordering my lunch. Nothing makes sense in China.

"This is warning," the plainclothesman said after verifying the order. "If you camp again we fine you."

"Okay, thank you." Whew -- another confusing run-in with the schizophrenic PSB was behind me, disaster averted by street smarts, quick wit, and complete oblivion.

Since we weren't in prison, we made it to the bus on time -- soon to wish the PSB had been more strict. The first few hours of balancing on a few square feet of bench on the bumpy dirt road went by quickly, giving us unobstructed views of beautiful west Tibet river valleys, grazing plains, and a few snow mountains. After dark, however, the view wasn't enough to keep us awake and we were still 20 hours from inheriting our single tiny bed. Using the skills we'd learned on our many truck rides, we failed to sleep in myriad uncomfortable positions that night, including stretching out over the bench across the stool and onto the engine cover, and even curling up in the stairwell.

By morning we were exhausted from our gymnastic napping. Without the kindness of a policeman who liked to sit up front, and the tolerance of the mean women in the back who usually guarded the empty bed in their row with nasty looks and Chinese scolding, we'd surely have resorted to something extreme. We counted down the hours until our bed opened up, but even after the long-awaited stop for some reason it was still occupied.

"Hey," I said to the guy in our bed, "what's going on?" Translated into my limited Chinese and back into English, what I actually said was something like, "I five. You five? Ticket five. You ticket?"

He responded by telling me about his back problems, and eventually offered to share half the bed with me. I was too tired to believe his story about a bad back, and sharing the bed between the three of us and the fat guy who spilled over from the neighboring mattress just wasn't possible. I figured he'd bought an aisle seat and could scrounge sleeping space like we had, so I persisted.

One of the driver's helpers, apparently without the clout to evict the stubborn bed squatter himself, mimed that I should beat him up. Eventually the driver stopped the bus and came back, just like a squabble at school over the new Star Wars action figure. Mr. Back Problem relented. I slept.

The rest of the 50 hour trip was just an endurance test -- how long can you live in a tiny slice of bed, sharing it with a fat Chinese guy and a tiny German girl, going outside only for bathroom breaks, before you go crazy? I strongly recommend saving yourself the trouble by starting off a little loony -- it makes the whole journey a bit more interesting.

Crazier than ever, we arrived in Tibet's biggest city, Lhasa, straight from the austere wilderness of Western Tibet.