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In one of my restless, jet lagged periods last night in Kathmandu I worried about not making it as far as Lhasa today and the logistical mess this would create...
(Alle tijden zijn fietstijden)
Entry to Tibet is only via a group visa and the flights can be arbitrarily handled – if a bigger tour group comes along and needs seats – they usually end up with them. My fears are groundless – since the company running our tour has a specific “know everyone” troubleshooter who manages our check-in at the airport. The perils of doing it yourself become clear as a shouting match ensues at the next kiosk where a woman argues about the particulars of her visa and her right to enter Tibet. She even goes so far as to walk behind the counter and berate the staff. This is a source of amusement to some passengers and embarrassment to others.
The flight is a 90 minute hop – and views of Everest and Kangchangjunga occur at the mid-point. Lhasa is about 12,800 feet so as we land the high-speed approach is a bit unnerving. The plane rattles to a stop and we queue for a SARS checks and customs – glad to see our bikes slide out of the planes belly onto a luggage cart. After customs our Tibetan guide – a requirement for every tour group, meets us. He offers each of us a khata – the traditional white prayer scarf. The luggage is squeezed onto the bus and we pile in for the 100 km drive to Lhasa.
The road is well paved and follows the bank of the Brahamaputra (known in Tibetan as the Tsangpo) – which eventually joins the Ganges. It’s a wide brown river – currently running high and flowing fast. The river and flood plains are surrounded by steep slopes of dull brown with periodic patches of low-lying, olive drab vegetation. There are very few trees in sight – usually willows planted beside mud-walled village building. The bright sunlight, filtered by 12,000 feet less atmosphere, creates vivid black shadows in the gullies.
As we drive it’s clear that the harvest is being brought in. Hand gathered bundles of golden yellow barley are stacked in fields and in courtyards women with long sticks are tossing the barley into the air to separate the barley from the chaff. I look forward to cycling back along this road in a few days time.
The road crosses the river and buildings sprout up as we enter the edge of Lhasa. Passing a cement factory a large wide boulevard begins – dominated by Manadarin billboards. We weave through this modern Chinese city – spying the Potala palace rising up above these modern streets. A few turns later the bus turns into a narrow alley and then the courtyard of the Dhood Gu Hotel – at the edge of the old Tibetan quarter. Here there are vendors on the street – more Tibetan faces than Han Chinese and the traffic is primarily on foot or cycle.
The hotel is decorated in traditional ornate Tibetan style. As we wait in the lobby we examine all the surfaces, intricately painted with Buddhas, animals and abstract patterns. The rooms are similarly ornate – but posses all the modern conveniences of a western hotel room.
After settling in, Julie and I are restless – so we head out in search of water – to ensure we don’t get dehydrated at this altitude. With our yuan from the hotel desk fresh in hand we find a small hole-in-the-wall shop and with sign language get water. We then head down the narrow streets in search of the Barkor – a pilgrimage circuit around the Jokang – one of Tibetan Buddisms holiest temples.
We come to a slightly wider, carefully paved street with a steady flow of people in one direction. The Barkor. Buddists always walk around (circumambulate) temples clockwise – hence the one way pedestrian traffic on this circuit. The street is clean, smoothly paved and lined with stalls on both sides. These are genuine market stalls, which sell everything from shoes, blenders and daily items to items for tourists and pilgrims. As we amble around the Barkor we come to the entrance of the Jokang. Several dozen pilgrims are mumbling prayers and then ritually prostrating themselves before the temple – wooden blocks strapped to their palms to allow them to slide forward on the stone. The sounds of the chanting mix with the sounds of the wood sliding on the stone and we watch – mesmerized by the display of piety. Set back from the temple is a hut with an array of butter lamps – bracketed by large stone ovens – chortens – in which offerings of juniper are burning. The sweet smell wafts over the temple and the pilgrims.
After a break in the hotel room our group returns to wander the Barkor and find a spot for dinner. At one corner of the Barkor we ascend several rickety fire escapes and come to a rooftop restaurant that overlooks the activities below. Here we sample Thukpa – a soup of noodles and Yak meat – and munch chapattis. Below us people circulate around the Jokang. A pair of men in leather aprons with blocks on their hands appear and slowly, body length by body length, pray, prostrate and step forward. Dinner finishes and we walk past groups of monks sitting, chanting and begging as we navigate the dark streets back to the Dhood Gu.
Wednesday September 17, 2003 – Lhasa
Over breakfast at the hotel we exchange symptoms and assess the altitude’s effect on us. Between a mix of altitude headaches and frequent trips to the bathroom – all the water we’re drinking – no one is too bright this morning. At 3am I read the side effects for Diamox – sometimes used to relieve altitude sickness and instead opt for Tylenol.
Prior to breakfast I headed up to the rooftop – the exertion of climbing the stairs very noticeable. The Potala was dimly lit and obscured by the smoke from various roof top chortens consuming their offering of juniper branches. Then after the easier downstairs walk I find the breakfast room empty so I head to the Barkor to do a Kora (a circumambulation). In the early morning the path has a very different feel as there are Tibetans briskly walking around the Barkor chanting under their breath with fingers on prayer beads ticking off the mantras. Groups of monks sit and chant - the voices becoming almost musical. Tibetans hand out Mao notes as they pass by as an offering to the monks.
After breakfast we rendezvous in the lobby with our Tibetan guide Suni. This morning we’re off to the Jokang temple at the center of the Barkor. At the entrance kiosk we get a business card sized CD-ROM as our admission ticket – and odd juxtaposition to the small wooden table in the courtyard and the building itself. Moving through the courtyard we enter a crush of pilgrims doing a circuit of the temple itself. The path around the inner perimeter takes us past a number of small chapels – each with a Buddha statue in the center and many more in the surrounding walls. We press into one – stopping in the three-foot wide aisle to listen to the guide while pilgrims carrying small chalices filled with butter and a wick burning brightly press past us to navigate around the Buddha. Many stop to pour small offerings of melted butter into a large butter lamp before the Buddha where several dozen wicks burn and provide the light for the small temple. I try to follow the guide’s explanations about the specific Buddha represented here and the various manifestations around the perimeter but soon lose the thread of the discussion and instead examine some of the figures in more detail.
We move on past a number of other small temples/chapels and come to the entranceway into the main central chamber. Alcoves on each side contain large butter lamps and protector Buddhas that look out for travellers. In the main chamber are two twenty-foot high statues and before them the floor is torn up. Monks move about carefully selecting boards and then shimming each to the correct height. Around this scene is another circuit of pilgrims with butter lamps and within alcoves in the main temple are more figures and butter lamps. The flickering lights cast shadows over the weathered faces of the Tibetan pilgrims – a sight which has been constant here for hundreds of years.
After many explanations of Buddhas and their manifestations and becoming saturated with the smell of butter lamps, we emerge at a staircase which takes us up to the roof of the Jokang. From here is a clear view of the Potala palace and the ability to look out over the pilgrims prostrating themselves in front of the Jokang.
After lunch we head to the summer palace of the Dalia Lama – the Norbulinka. It’s a walled garden area with a number of buildings. The first building we enter is the summer palace of the eight Dalai Lama. There are rooms, which are richly adorned but sparsely furnished. Two monks chant and one strikes a large temple drum rhythmically – the drumming starts as we enter and then fades away as we exit.
Most interesting is the summer palace of the thirteenth and fourteenth (present) Dalia Lama. Again the furniture is very simple. A flat platform for sitting on and studying. Still present is the huge circa 1940s console radio the 14th Dalai Lama had brought from India. Also present is the 500 kg gold throne of the 13th DL. It’s hard to understand why this was not melted down during the Cultural Revolution.
We wonder around the gardens – enjoying the pleasant day. An opera rehearsal is underway and we stop to watch the strange costumes and listen to the unfamiliar music.
Thursday September 18th – Lhasa
I continue to wake before the sunrise so I again find myself wandering the dark alleys leading through the Tibetan quarter and end up at the Barkor. I do two fast paced koras to see how I have adapted to the altitude and manage to make myself feel light headed.
Over breakfast we agree that the altitude is inducing dreams, which are both more frequent and vivid than usual. The increased frequency is likely due to the fact that deep sleep eludes us. As breathing slows the body recognizes the lack of oxygen and either briefly wakes you or stops the descent into sounder sleep.
After breakfast we dig our bike boxes out of the storeroom and drag them into the courtyard. Then for an hour we help each other extract the machines and complete the minor re-assembly required to make them ridable. The hotel guard and staff look on with interest as we complete the task and then wheel the completed bikes back inside.
A small bus pulls into the courtyard – a minor feat given the narrow width of the alley it must navigate to get here. We and another group pile in for the drive to the Potala. The path through the alley is reversed and then the bus pulls out onto the wide four-lane modern boulevard that leads down to the Potala. There are bike lanes – separated by a metal barrier on both sides – to protect the pedi-cabs and bicycle riders. We pass beneath the Potala – it’s red and white buildings looming above and then pull onto a cobblestone road, which leads us up behind the hill on which it is perched. Tour groups get to start at the top and walk down in the mornings. In the afternoon individual pilgrims must start at the bottom and climb the 150 meters of steps to the top.
After a brief dispute that our tour guide is not licensed to lead us into the Potala we enter the bottom of the red palace. The Potala dates from “The Great 5th Dalai Lama” who started construction in the 15th century. His death was concealed for 18 years to ensure the palace was completed (“no really, he’s just meditating and can’t be disturbed” – in fact his cloak was used as a substitute for him in all the required religious appearances – referred to as “inviting the clothes”).
We tour through butter-lamp illuminated prayer halls and temples. In one room are the funeral monuments – stupas – for the 5th through 9th Dalai Lamas. The fifth’s is a tall gold clad conical structure rising many meters above us – embedded with a myriad of precious stones. Hanging down beside it are large ornate cylindrical cloth hangings. They are doubtless quite colourful – but in the dim light this is inferred. Some have been restored since the Cultural Revolution and all were restored after Mongols sacked the place in the 17th century.
Many of the chambers have walls lined with cubby holes in which are nested Tibetan prayer books. These are stacks of woodblock-printed paper protected by a board and then placed in a cloth covering. I feel a strong affiliation with these repositories. The specific texts include the treatises describing the path to enlightenment for Mahanyana Buddhists – who believe enlightenment can be achieved in a single lifetime – only 408 books for those who wish to take the fast lane.
We continue through the red palace – climbing narrow rickety stairs and passing through audience chambers and personal rooms for past Dalai Lamas. Each chamber has butter lamps and many pilgrims are carrying yellow plastic bags of yak butter and they spoon some into each butter lamp as they go. In some small window nooks monks reciting prayers can be seen. Once home to thousands of monks the Potala is now staffed by a few hundred – all selected by the Chinese for correct political thought.
As we get to the top of the red palace we come to the rooms of the 13th and 14th (present) Dalai Lama. The rooms are ornately decorated but posses only simple furnishings- small cloth-covered wooden benches. A large yellow hat sits atop the Dalai Lamas audience platform and it is almost buried beneath a pile of white prayer scarves left as offerings. The Chinese tour guide for the following group describes the rooms only as those belonging to the 13th Dalai Lama – following the party line of omitting all mention of the present Dalai Lama.
Descending we reverse down the narrow steep stairs. Looking up in to the ceilings the construction material can be seen. Wide square wooden beams hold up boards running perpendicular. Piled on these boards is a mix of rock and mortar, which form the floor for the story above. It astonishes me that five stories of building can be supported in this way. One last staircase takes us down into a sunny courtyard. Here we can see the way into some of the rooms of the white palace – closed to tourists. It consists of about a thousand rooms – which were used for the governing of Tibet prior to communist rule. We cross the courtyard and then start the descent down the hill to street level.
Lunch at the hotel is very tasty (lentil dal and chapattis) and then it’s off to the Barkor to do some bargaining. Over dinner last night we ended up deciding to get some colored prayer scarves to mimic the jerseys of the Tour de France. Yellow for the first to camp, spotted for the best climber, red for last and so on. In front of the Jokang we find the necessary colors and after some fruitless bargaining we get the ones we need. I then head off to get some prayer chalices and cymbals – getting some discount and then end up with a pair of prayer beads. The Tibetan woman at the stay pulls on my sleeve as I try and leave and keeps trying to sell me more item– “ I have no money, very poor” she insists. The prayer beads result from my attempt to offer a price so low she will let me escape – instead I end up with beads not for her initial price of 150 yuan – but for 30.
Other odd sights compete for attention as we amble around. Two goats being slapped in the face with a plastic bag by a women who s trying to discourage them from chewing up the juniper she is selling to pilgrims…
In the evening the hotel shows another part of itself. First I’m asked to move to a different room – which I good-naturedly do. Then after much more huddled conversation between the guides and the manager I’m asked to move into a large three bedroom with the guides. I agree – since otherwise the group would have to switch hotels due to some booking confusion with another group. In fact, our entire group shuffles rooms at least once before dinner. The hotel manager is so delighted by our helpfulness – since we have helped him avoid a confrontation with a rather intractable group of Germans – that we’re offered free dinner at the hotel.
We settle in the dining room and the waiter – in an ornate Tibetan jacket – comes by to take our orders. Life is simpler for the kitchen when the same order is placed by more than one. His very polite smile becomes an enormous grin when three of six order tomato soup. “Oh, VERY GOOD sirs” and he volunteers to bring tomato soup for all. Three main dishes arrive but several curry dishes “curry ring rice” have ended up at another table by mistake – where they are promptly eaten. The waiter hovers around us – picking up on our concern and finally, after about an hour, two portions of curry ring rice appear – instead of the required three. Our guide points this out – we agree to share them between three – but meanwhile the waiter has gone in search of anything and scurries around us with rice and dal forcing food onto our plates against our wishes. In the interludes between these dishes Mark starts to pull quotes from Faulty Towers including “Just don’t mention the war” which sets us all off. Between the fatigue, a lot of walking and the poor sleep we’ve all been getting we end up with tears of laughter rolling down our faces. None of us can look the waiter in the face for the duration of the dinner – at risk of setting of another chain reaction of laughter. Two and half hours later we shuffle out of the restaurant as a fourteen person German tour groups sets down. We can only imagine the chaos that will follow.
Friday September 19th – Lhasa
Today is the first day on the bike – a warm up ride to the monasteries at the edge of Lhasa. Some of my cycling gear was sent via truck overland to Lhasa – but the truck has not appeared yet. The lack of a helmet is a concern – the lack of bike clothing more easily adapted to. Bike shoes I have – since they were squeezed into the bike box. From the hotel courtyard we ride the short alleyway to the main street. Here I wait and following the guide slip across the traffic and into the bike lane on the opposite side.
The route to Sera takes us along a sequence of modern roads. Vehicle traffic is modest and manageable as long as I keep a careful watch. The road leads out towards the hills on the north side of Lhasa. We pass a section where more modern concrete blocks of three story apartment buildings are being constructed then ride a short dirt road to the main entranceway of Sera.
Sera is the best-preserved monastery in the Lhasa area. Leaving the bikes to be watched over by the driver of the jeep, which conveyed our Tibetan guide, we amble through a series of meditation rooms and small temples. The Buddha statues and butter lamps are becoming a remarkably routine sight – since we have been saturated with them for the past several days. The main audience chamber of the monastery is an impressive sight. Dull red pillars subdivide the large dark space. Continuous rows of cushions run across the width of the hall. At the center of one end is the abbot’s throne – a four-foot high cushioned platform with a small set of steps on one side.
Also impressive in Sera is the book printing room. The walls are lined with cubbyholes filled with wood plates on which the pages of prayer books are carved. In a patch of sunlight a monk sits rubbing ink on a plate with a sponge, then deftly dropping a sheet onto the block and quickly rubbing a roller along the back. The sheet is then quickly lifted and dropped onto a nearby pile. Each sheet takes about five seconds as the monk moves in a steady rhythm.
From Sera we opt to cycle on to Drepung. The route takes us on an expressway around the northern edge of Lhasa lined with drab Chinese apartment blocks. The jeep paces us and at one point the guides jokes he’ll pay 100 Yuan to the winner. I use this as an excuse to push myself and the pace – and soon I’m humming along at 30 kph and developing a mild headache from the exertion. I ease up and look back to see Julie catching up. We head down a dirt side road and see a monastery – but it’s Napping. The road turns left and we Drepung several hundred meters above us. We head onto the uphill dirt road and settle in for the climb. Within five minutes Rajesh, the Nepali guide, rolls by apparently effortlessly. The path steepens and I drop gears and slowly climb to the top. I leave my bike in Rajesh’s care and get us some Sprite’s at the monastery gift shop. Within a few minutes we’re all assembled and we set out into the monastery.
Drepung is a large site climbing up the side of a hill overlooking Lhasa. We climb many steps past former monk living quarters. The audience chambers and temples are all at the top of the complex. Formerly the home of 10,000 monks – it is now staffed by 700. It was shelled when the Dalai Lama escaped to India – since it was the monastery closely associated with him. The interior merges together in my mind with all the monasteries and places I’ve seen over the past three days. At the top buildings – the Abbot’s living quarters – we look down at the long set of steps to the parking lot below where we see our bikes leaning against a wall.
We descend to the bikes and then ride down from the hillside. In a quick blur of switchback and turns we emerge on the Chinese streets and ride back along the bike lanes to the Tibetan quarter and the hotel courtyard.
For our final Lhasa meal we head over to the Dunya – a place we have collectively adopted over the past four days. I decide it’s time to sample butter tea – so I order some – as well as a Lhasa beer in case the tea lives up to its ghastly reputation. Lacking a source of indigenous sugar, the Tibetans historically put salt in their tea and add yak butter as a source of nourishment. It arrives and the group watches me expectantly. I try it and then share it around. It’s more like a slightly burnt creamy soup than tea – but as long as you think of it as soup it reasonably palatable.
Today the cycling adventure begins! We leave Lhasa for the 1100 km trek to Kathmandu. We anxiously pace about in the hotel lobby – checking our bags get loaded onto the truck – confirming we have cameras, water, sunscreen with us. Things get sorted out and then we’re again out on the busy Chinese boulevards. We weave along the bike lanes – sometimes shifting to the road to bypass slow pedi-cabs or pedestrians. Several intersections create a bit of chaos as we try to pick a line through traffic to the next road. We stop in front of the Potala for a picture and then continue for an hour through the streets.
Finally we cross the wide, brown waters of Brahmaputra/Tsangpo river and turn west onto the Friendship highway. Barley fields bracket the road with their golden harvest cut and neatly stacked. Beyond this narrow ribbon of fertile valley bottom are steep hills of brown rubble dotted with small dull green plants. In some places the hillsides look like gravel – in others huge swaths of sand.
As I ride along the tarmac I see small clusters of farming villages. In the courtyards the barley is being brought in. Some have automatic threshers – sending the barley arching into a pile. Others have groups of old ladies lifting the barley into the wind with ten-foot long poles and letting the chaff blow away. Groups of children run to the roadside and shout “Hello” or “Tashi Deleg” – some holding their hand out for a “high five”. I spy one pair who have caked their hands in wet mud and I cease participating in high fives after that.
We take a break to re-group and instantly we are surrounded by Tibetan children curious about our bikes and us. Pressing on - the road continues and the riding becomes routine. I drift forwards and backwards within our group as I stop to take pictures of the fields and the hills. The effort of riding is a bit different – since even a modest uphill slope leaves me gasping for air – and recovery from a burst of speed takes far longer – leading me to try and ride at a steady and even pace.
We come to the bridge across the river, which leads to the airport. The small village at this junction affords us a place to stop for lunch. We find a small Chinese restaurant (i.e. a table in a small concrete blocked room) and with a bit of sign language it’s agreed that they will bring us some type of food. While we wait our bikes are subjected to a serious examination by the locals. Mine ends up upside down – so Rajesh can check my disc brakes are still running true. This leads to a string of Chinese children who come by and spin the tires on my bike. Fried rice appears and I shovel in the rice while keeping one eye on my bicycle outside.
Crossing the bridge we pass the pair of Chinese soldiers who have the unenviable job of standing at attention at the mid-point of the bridge. At the far end, instead of turning towards the airport we turn the other way onto the sandy road leading to Khamba La - the first pass – a task for tomorrow. This road is less travelled – since there is a more direct way to the next major town, Shigatse. The dirt road climbs through a mud-walled farming village and more kids run to the side of the road to shout hello. At the top of the small rise there is a Tibetan Mastif in my path. The guidebook has warned about dogs – so I approach slowly with my cranks horizontal and legs unmoving. The dog wanders to the ditch to sniff – far more interested in the prospect of food than in me.
The road continues on – separated from the Tsangpo by barley fields. Looking ahead I see the road branch to the left into a side valley. The road then starts to climb. After about gaining 50 meters in height I spot our first campsite of the trip – on a shelf of rocky land about 30 meters wide and a hundred meters long. Already the crew is setting up tents. I pull up and look across the valley. On the far side is a mass of dark clouds and a wall of rain moving towards us. It reaches us in about twenty minutes – greatly diminished in force – still enough to send us briefly into our tents.
The sun returns and we emerge. I pull out my novel but the scenery is too distracting. Tibetan kids cluster around to stare as I make notes in my journal – trying out their one English word “hello” repeatedly. They grow bored and take an old seatless bicycle of theirs and wash it in a nearby pit. Mads is restless so he rides his bike up to the next rocky terrace ten meters above and then searches for a way down the steep slope back to us. He starts down in great form and then hits a rock near the bottom and flips off into a pile of thorny plants. He spends much of dinner searching out thorns in his arms and shoulders and working them out from under his skin.
After a lazy few hours watching the shadows creep into the valley we’re ushered into the dining tent. Perching on small stools the six of us watch in amazement as a three-course meal is offered. Soup, fried curried vegetables, rice and spinach/garlic dal, fried chicken, tea and fresh fruit. During the meal we generate an audience of Tibetan kids joined by several adults. As they press almost all the way into the tent Mads generates a mock shout at the kids to make them move back. As dusk falls the kids head back to the village.
We sip tea in the tent and exchange stories about backgrounds and how we found the trip and why on earth we think it’s a good idea. Like me, Julie is here for a decade birthday (30 versus my 40) and Mark and Sue have it as a deferred 40th. Both Mark and Sue had travelled in India before meeting – and oddly enough were engaged 10 days after meeting for the first time. Our conversation then turns to tomorrow’s main attraction – our first big pass. It’s a 1200-meter climb starting at an elevation of about 3700 meters.
The climb starts well. The grade is modest and the road wanders along the side of the valley. Looking down the valley and seeing that the only way out is to climb over the walls at the end – the route seems somewhat daunting. I have donned my heart rate monitor and attached the readout to my handlebars. Since the guidebook predicts a climb of five hours – I set a goal of keeping my heart rate at 140. The climb continues and the group spreads out a bit as our paces vary. The road is a mix of gravel and dirt wide enough for about one and half vehicles – although somehow vehicles find a way to pass each other. As we climb up the valley walls – one side is always a steeply sloping drop, which as we climb becomes more and more likely to be a fatal.
After two hours of peddling uphill it does appear we are about halfway up but as we get higher we get a little slower and bit more light-headed. Now instead of simply riding near the edge in order to let a vehicle pass I typically come to a stop and wave them by. For the final hour of the climb the progress is more stop and go. An objective is set “I’ll just ride to that next switchback” and then once met a short break is the reward. Finally a cluster of prayer flags comes into view – as well as some jeeps stopping so tourists can take in the view. On the far side is another long valley system and in the bottom is Yamdrok Tso – a turquoise lake fed by the winter snow – with no natural drainage. At the pass a man with a yak tries to get me to have my picture taken (for a fee) but I decline. From starting at 9am I am now at the pass at 1:15pm. The computer records 3 hours and 45 minutes of uphill cycling.
The descent to the shore of Yamdrok Tso – a drop of 500 meters – passes in an instant – even with my innate caution on downhills I swoop around the swichbacks and around the blind ridge corners. On the shores I find the truck – with kitchen tent set up and mattress set out in the sun. I flop down and drink several cups of warm juice as the others pull in. Yaks graze around us and two old yak herders sit on their heels and watch the spectacle of our group.
By 2pm lunch has been consumed and we must now ride along the shore of the lake on sandy roads for about 40km to our camp. I head out and follow the road as it winds along ridges in the valley wall. As side valleys come into view so do some snow-capped peaks in the distance. Then the road turns and they disappear again. The shore of the lake is still about 600 meters higher than last night’s camp and a slight headache starts as I ride in the afternoon sun. The final ten kilometres seem endless and the shadows in the valley lengthen. Finally I see the truck and our tents on a small smooth patch of pasture near the road. I pull up and flop onto a mat and watch as sheep are herded past our camp down to the water.
By the time we have dinner it’s getting late and my hunger has abated. I force myself to chew through some of the food – since I know I’ll need the fuel for tomorrow – there is another pass to face.
What a miserable night! After force-feeding myself dinner I tried to settle down in my sleeping bag. The zipper jammed and in my exhausted state it took me ten minutes to fiddle with it. A headache started to build coupled with a head cold. All the water I’ve been drinking forced me outside twice and then the Tibetan Mastif choir broke out in a chorus of howls and barks for three hours. Thirty minutes in I fish out some earplugs – but they fail to muffle the howls. I am dreading the next pass in my current state. At 4am I finally remember the cold medication and dig it out. I then wake at 7am and wait for the warm cup of tea that signals the start of the day.
By 9am I am on the bike. The road starts along a flat section, passes a village and disappears down the floor of a side valley with an imposing ridge at the end. The wind is cold and I feel very disconnected from what I’m doing – a bit like I’ve had one too many drinks. We advance along the road towards the imposing ridge only to discover that the road skirts the bottom of the ridge and turns behind it and begins a modest climb. We continue down a series of narrow valleys climbing in a slow but steady fashion. A glacier-clad peak comes into view on the left and later another appears on the right. Oddly, as the climb progresses the lightheaded feeling dissipates – although I’m careful to watch the heart rate monitor and adjust my pace accordingly. I stop to photograph a large cascading glacier. I find my climbing pace and before I realize it I have prayer flags and the snowy summit of a 7000m peak in sight. Odd that despite such a miserable night this 5000m pass comes more easily than the one before.
After a few pictures on the windy pass Mads, Rajesh and I elect to descend to the lunch spot to get out of the wind. The road descends along a valley and with no major switchbacks or blind corners the descent screams. Mads stops at a small teashop to hand over his GPS to Rajesh and very pushy kids who touch everything on my bike mob us. One motions to my watch and optimistically holds out a quartz crystal in exchange. I grin and shake my head and then re-start the descent dropping several hundred meters to the lunch truck in no time at all. I huddle behind a rock as protection from the wind and enjoy a mug of warm mango tang.
The descent continues after lunch with more long, relatively straight descents until the gully we’re in opens out into an expansive plane of barley fields. I glance back casually and brake to a stop – since behind us is now an unobstructed view of the 7000m peak we glimpsed from the pass. Now that we’re lower it dominates the valley. As each other rider comes out of the gully I motion to look behind and they all stop astonished at the view and reach for their cameras.
The descent now becomes gentler and weaves down through small villages, past people harvesting barley and then the road begins to follow the central river of this valley system. In places the road has been washed out and the jeeps have churned the surface into huge ridges of rocks and mud. At one village a stream a foot deep runs across the road and as I pedal out the other side there is a gauntlet of children. I weave and accelerate – avoiding the two boys who have sticks and are eying my spokes.
Continuing along the valley I start to anticipate the camp at each bend in the road. At lunch the advice was camp would be about 52 kms on. When I hit kilometre 60 I begin to wonder. I stop and sit on a rock and watch the stream flow by. I much through a Clif bar and then head off again. Finally at kilometre 67 – just before the end of the valley and the next pass – camp is located.
The camp is on a river shelf near a small stream coming from the valley wall. Above us are two small caves in the rock wall and goats picking their way down the impossibly steep wall. I watch for a while – wondering if I’ll see a goat “crash” – but they’re way too agile and experienced. Below us is a seemingly abandoned mud walled village but when I go to explore later I see several large dogs milling about – a sure sign that it is - in fact - inhabited. I get cleaned up and then we swap stories over our afternoon tea. Mark jokes that the only way to film his progress up today’s pass is with time lapse photography – but the truth is at this altitude that applies to all of us. We’ve all managed two big passes in two days and we’re very satisfied with that. Tomorrow pass is significantly lower and should take less than an hour. We are not afraid.
Finally! A good nights sleep at the campsite. The morning is cold and our breakfast table is set out in the open – exposed to a frigid wind. In between toast and oatmeal I dart to the tent to warn up out of the wind. It’s clear the sun will lurk behind the eastern ridge of the valley for a while – so we bundle up and set out on the bikes.
The road is flat to the end of the valley and then it turns into a canyon on the right. The rounds the back of the canyon and then up to Simi La. The slope of the road on the far wall seems dauntingly steep – but once we reach it it’s not so bad. Within 30 minutes we’re at the top of this pass. The far side drops towards a reservoir and the road clings to the side of the valley wall. It’s a sheer drop from the road to the reservoir – so I keep my speed under control. A slight climb on the far side then leads to a quick descent with some deeply rutted, perfectly banked 180-degree switchbacks. At the bottom is a small village associated with the hydro dam. Several new buildings are under construction – following the traditional pattern of ornate beams and window ledges surrounded by mud bricks.
The road heads out into a wide sandy valley and heads towards Gyantse. We power along the road following a descending river with the blur of golden barley in our peripheral vision. After 20km the valley turns north and the town becomes visible in the distance – dominated by a large fort (Dzong in Tibetan) where Younghusband first used canons against the Tibetans. The fort grows larger and the sandy road becomes a dusty Chinese street. Livestock and pedestrians create an obstacle course for both our bikes and the occasional truck. All the signs are in Mandarin and eventually we find the one for the Wu Tse – and duck through the alley into the Hotel’s courtyard. It’s been a short day and it’s noon when I dump my stuff into the very small hotel room.
In the afternoon – after standing under a thin trickle of water pretending it’s a shower – we head out to a Buddhist temple – the Kunbum. The streets along the base of the fort become dirtier and dustier and the buildings switch from Chinese to Tibetan. Houses on one side are being pulled apart – blocks of mud thrown from the roof – to make way for new apartments. As we reach the gate for the Kunbum a small girl tugs at my sleeve and motions towards a crippled old woman on a wheelbarrow nearby.
The Kunbum is a temple of temples. Each of its nine floors has dozens of small shrines to different Buddhas and their manifestations. It’s impossible to take it all in – so we weave through the interior from rickety staircase to small ladder and finally emerge at an outside platform just below the large looming eyes painted near the top of the structure. It’s a three-meter wide circular path in the open air – with no railing and an eight-story drop to the ground.
Later in the hotel we watch a large British jeep tour group come in for dinner and their guide playing super-waiter – ensuring everyone has ordered. We decide that the experience of camping in the valleys allows us a much more intimate connection with the countryside. The food is better too.
Another good nights sleep – thanks to the earplugs shutting out the noise from the courtyard. At breakfast the sole choice is tea or coffee – after which toast and some grey eggs appear. As each new person comes to the table the coffee spills – since the table is too low for the chairs and everyone bangs their knees. We agree that it’s worth delaying our cycling departure to allow us to tour the fort.
We pile into the jeep and head out onto the dusty street, weaving against the tide of cattle and sheep heading to market. The jeep pulls into an alley and the driver negotiates a skinny road – with a wall on one side and a 10-foot drop into a ditch on the other. The road then climbs steeply up to the fort – weaving through walled streets and past sleeping dogs.
The view from the top draws our attention – views of the Kumbum and the stacks of barley in the fields around Gyantse. Next we tour through the exhibits at the entrance. There is the “Museum of Anti-British” which details how the brave Tibetan “brothers” fought against the evil Younghusband to defend the sanctity of the Chinese motherland. The translation is littered with errors – both linguistic and factual. Next we climb through rooms within the fort and take in the views along its walls. Again, safety is not a concern – sheer drops just off the path are common. If you fall – it’s your own fault. It’s easy to see why the Tibetans felt so invincible in such a place – pity about the British artillery. At the top the route down is a very steep, very long set of stairs – a dramatic finish.
Returning to the hotel we change back to cycling gear and prepare to ride to Shigatse – where tomorrow we will have a rest day. From the courtyard we cycle out and weave through donkey carts and pedestrians making our way to the paved highway. The highway has little traffic and a gentle tailwind. After several days of dirt roads, we’re in cycling heaven and we spend the first 30 minutes pushing along at 28 kph. Today is a 93 km day – with lunch at about kilometre 60.
I roll along – sometimes chatting with who ever is nearby – sometimes in a gap and left to my own thoughts – or even better the lack thereof. The road is nestled in a valley perhaps 10 km wide – bracketed by foothills which anywhere else in the world would be called mountains. This is one of the major valleys in Tibet and it has a number of concrete lined irrigation canals to maximize the use of the water running down the valley.
Children run to the side of the road and call out hello. One places a stick on the road and motions for me to jump it – but I’m more focused on the kid with his hands behind his back. Sure enough as I go by he tries to throw his stick into my spokes – but it bounces out.
I’ve developed a sore throat and a high altitude cough, which kicks in whenever I stop cycling. The road rolls by slowly and eventually I see Mads in the middle of a village waving me into a small mud walled courtyard where the truck has set up for lunch. There is already a crowd of Tibetans – and my bike is a new source of fascination. I lean it against the truck – careful to remove water bottles and computer before leaving it. Julie arrives and Mads suggests we head into the Tibetan house to have a drink of juice.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adapt to the dimly lit interior. The building has mud walls. On one wall is a cast iron stove with an old black kettle simmering over a Yak dung fire. Several low padded seats – which I assume also serve as beds – line two other walls. By the grimy window sits an old woman using a homemade spinning wheel to create strands of wool. A power bar hangs from the ceiling – attached to a boom box and a television. The television is turned on for our entertainment – bad Chinese pop songs. The ceiling is supported by a central beam on an ornate pillar which in turn supports cross braces on top of which are piles of sticks covered with mud. After the juice we head back to the courtyard – where the table has been set for lunch. As we eat the Tibetan men examine the bikes, clicking shifters and squeezing bikes – the woman have dispersed – obviously they have work to do.
After lunch we head back to the paved road. Mads and Julie must have had steroids in their SPAM – since they rocket on ahead. Mark, Sue and I end up spread out over several kilometres. I’m trying to just disconnect from the goal and peddle the bike – letting the speed be whatever it will. I try to study the landscape to distract myself from my dry throat and the heartburn caused by lunch. Finally the road enters Shigatse and the jeep is waiting at the edge of town to lead us to our hotel (again a Wu Tse). As I snack and wait for the others I watch a Chinese man and his son sit on the curb and stare hard at my bike – pointing out various features to each other.
The path to the hotel is a bit convoluted and Shigatse has busy, wide streets. We watch carefully and try to avoid being separated by buses pulling in and out of traffic. The hotel is a modern, tile-covered building – very touristy. I dump my gear in the room and head for the shower. Tomorrow is a rest day and I look forward to a day’s break from the bike before we start heading towards Everest.
Our Tibetan guide is missing in action – with Lhasa beer the presumed culprit. So instead of visiting the Tashilhunpo monastery this morning we will visit this home of the Panchen Lama in the afternoon. Actually it’s not quite clear whose home it is – since the Dalai Lama and the Chinese government disagree on who the Panchen Lama is. China has a boy sequestered in Beijing – while the child selected by the DL is now in India. This is viewed by some as a blunder by the DL – since he and the Chinese had agreed independently on a child – but since the DL jumped the gun and announced it first the Chinese could not let him have the definitive word on the subject and promptly selected a new one.
The streets of Shigatse are busy with trucks, pedi-cabs and pedestrians. We wander to a smoke-filled Internet café and type emails as Chinese adolescents play loud, violent games and “lock and load” booms in a theatrical voice. Several outdoor stores catch our attention. As I convert the price of a Gore-Tex jacket I wonder if I’ve dropped a factor of ten – but no – the price really is $28. The explanation is that these are made in China and workers make some on the side for internal sale. I can find no flaws in the jackets – so I get a pair of his and hers jackets. Next we have coffee in tall glasses at a sidewalk café and then return to the hotel to see if the Tibetan guide has made an appearance.
There is no guide – but we get a replacement – Mads has bumped into someone he worked with on a previous trip. We head off to the Tashilhunpo and note the recently constructed mock-Tibetan buildings built in front of the monastery to promote tourism. The complex itself is interesting – since it was comparatively spared during the excesses of the anti-Tibetan purges of the late 50’s and the Cultural Revolution, which followed. Many of the college and monk residence buildings are intact and we wander through narrow alleys between these buildings as we climb up to the larger temples on the hillside above. The highlight is the second largest Buddha in the world – standing 26 meters high. The copper clad form is sheltered in a five-story building.
For dinner we avoid the hotel – and it’s tepid noodles of the night before and head out to a “Tashi” Tibetan restaurant – the closest thing to a restaurant chain – there being several cities which have such restaurants – keying on name recognition of the one in Lhasa “as listed in Lonely Planet”. We’re joined by a pair of Danish women on a jeep tour – again a fortieth birthday excursion – Tibet seems to attract us forty year olds. After dinner we walk back and stop in a night market. Clustered around a small metal table on rickety chairs we sample some spicy meat and flat bread. Even with Mads ordering half strength spice – I’m quickly reaching for the bottle of Lhasa beer to quench the burning. Meanwhile, our Tibetan guide has slunk back to the hotel so we are ready to resume our cycling tomorrow.
I emerge from my tent after the days ride from Shigatse and look at a pair of old shoes two feet away. Looking up I meet the eyes of a teenaged boy with a large sack filled with Yak dung. He stares impassively at me and after a polite smile I find a stool to settle on the record the events of today. Half a dozen Tibetan children cluster around and watch as I set pen to paper.
The day’s ride was the hardest so far – in spite of the fact that we got a 30km jump start in the truck. The ride out of Shigatse was bizarre. First it ended at a huge pile of dirt blocking a major intersection. Back-tracking, the truck found a dirt road and then appeared to be driving cross country along the river flood plain. Some traffic in the opposite direction appeared and it became clear this was the detour around the road construction. Good thing we’re in the truck – the road surface is very bumpy and loose. After thirty minutes of off-roading we get back on a more typical dirt road and drive to the base of the Tra La – a very modest pass.
The minor pass is dispensed with in about ten minutes – it’s really just a hill with good marketing. The road surface becomes sandy and progress is made with more effort. I am tempted to get off and check my tires have not gone soft – but I know that it’s just the sand playing games with my head. The valley is a narrow one – two or three kilometres wide with a thin stream – running the opposite direction to us – a sign we will be subtly climbing as we go along the valley. I press on – sand sapping my strength – watching the odometer increment towards 30 kilometres – the target for our lunch spot. At kilometre 40 I find the truck in a small farming village – tucked in behind a large stone wall designed to deflect the wind. This was the nearest spot at which water could be found to cook lunch.
After lunch we returned to the sandy road. A few short paved sections boosted my spirits – but the endless slightly uphill sandy road continued to sap my strength. Some of this is the rebound from the rest day – everything just seems harder than it should. At one point I get off and sit cross-legged on a hillock and watch the river valley. I try to absorb the surroundings and munch through a Clif bar and not think about getting back on the bike. Rajesh and Mark come and join me in my sloth. I finally find the energy to re-mount the bike and on I go. The stops become more frequent but I finally pull around a bend in the valley wall and see the tents on a grassy portion of the river plain. I collapse onto a mattress pad and for ten minutes the only movement I can muster is to accept some red liquorice from Julie. I finally stagger back to my feet and into the tent to change. Over dinner Mark notes that his computer indicates about 2000 feet of climbing – all of it up and down modest sandy slopes along the river. Just beyond the campsite we watch the sun set on the Lhampa La – a more significant pass and tomorrows
I stand with a cup of sweet milky tea in my hand and watch the sun rise and its light creep onto the surrounding hills – including the slope leading to Lhampa La. The sky changes from a deep purple to blue as the line of sunlight moves across the valley. The show continues as we sit at the breakfast table.
From the camp we get a good view of the road up to the pass – watching the clouds of dust created by jeeps. The climb is about 350 meters and with a steady effort we’re at the top in an hour. The far side holds another valley with a single snow capped peaked visible in the distance. I switch to descent mode (jacket sealed up, shocks dialled up) and start the quick, twisty descent. There is the usual fatal drop on one side and a lot of blind corners as the road hugs the ridges of the valley wall. I try to look ahead down the valley and anticipate vehicles – but a bus still manages to surprise me at one corner – and I veer quickly to the edge taking care to leave some margin for myself.
The road rushes down into a wide valley and the first ten kilometres on the valley floor are paved. I push the pedals happily – watching the barley being brought in and Yaks pulling ploughs to turn over fields, which have been harvested. In some places women and children are sweeping the field with straw brooms to recover any kernels, which have fallen off while the barley was gathered.
Before the usual lunch distance, I pull over at a small rock outcropping and wait for the others. The truck has not passed me yet and I don’t want to inadvertently ride past where it will stop. The jeep pulls by and gives an update. The truck is out of commission and needs a part – which the jeep will go ahead to get. The group of us will ride to Lhatse and find a spot for lunch.
Lhatse appears after another 15 kilometres. It’s a one-street town with a few dingy hotels and Chinese restaurants. The jeep has pulled up at a “Tashi” and we lock the bikes in the courtyard and head in – getting the last table for lunch. Lhatse is a popular lunch stop for Jeep tours on their way to Everest base camp or Mount Kailash. I watch the German tour group as they pay and return to their bus – mobbed by beggars and women offering crystals through the bus windows. None of them thought to accost us as we arrived on our bikes. I am again grateful not to be seeing Tibet through the windows of a bus.
After lunch we ride on, past a checkpoint and turn into a steep sided gorge – the start of the climb to Gyatso La – a 900 meter climb that we’ll leave most of for tomorrow. The gorge has large slate slabs in its walls and the villagers have collected stacks of two inch thick slate two feet wide by up to eight feet long. These are used for roof sections on the mud houses and to make windbreaks. The first five kilometres of the climb up the gorge pass very slowly and finally I pull level with our camp.
We have a quiet afternoon in the camp – our early arrival has left all of us time for a nap. Over tea we remark how it’s hard not to countdown the days to the end of the trip and to remember to focus on each day. I spend some time just sitting – absorbing the surrounding gorge. The guides – being guides – go rabbiting up the valley wall to see if they can glimpse the Himalayas from here. They return several hours later having climbed up and down about 2000 feet.
In the shadow filled gorge part way up Gyatso La the usual morning routine unfolds. As Dawa passes tea into my tent I emerge from my sleeping bag. In the 4 degree interior I wriggle out of the down cocoon and into some wind pants and my heavy weight cycling jersey. As the tea is consumed the contents of the tent find their way into the duffel bag and I emerge into the chill morning.
As I munch on toast I look forward to the view of the Himalayas that today will offer – snow and ice capped peaks. As breakfast finishes we load bottles on the bikes and set off up the shady gorge. The guidebook says it’s 20 kms to the summit – but Mads is certain that 14km is closer to the correct figure. With that in mind I follow the road as it ascends a series of overlapping ridges – which block the view up to the pass. Mads pulls away and I follow the dictates of the heart rate monitor – but I feel good. The distance slowly ticks away and finally the sun reaches the floor of the gorge. A headwind begins and the vehicle traffic starts to increase – each jeep and truck kicking up a huge cloud of slate dust. Each time I reach to pull up my neck warmer to cover my mouth and the bike veers in response.
After a strong initial 10 kilometres my pace slows. Two riders from the Australian group pull past me with a “hello”. The 14km point comes and goes and it’s clear there is still a LONG way left. The stops become more frequent – any pretext will do – pee, picture, food. The ascent has now become an exercise in suffering. Mark passes by and I watch him disappear above me. I feel the thin air. A glimpse of a snowy peak causes a momentary surge of energy, which quickly abates. As I pass a Chinese army camp – walled concrete – I wave to the poor soul standing at attention by the gate. I notice a small stream in the ditch beside the road and become mesmerized by the flow of the water. “Water over stones” becomes my mindless mantra as I try to make my uphill progress as inevitable as water falling over stones. The gorge opens into a wide sloping plain. Each switchback on the skyline looks to be the last until I reach it and see the next one. Finally - after I have given up hope – I see the prayer flags and a few snowy rock spires on the skyline. With this incentive I find the energy to push to the top.
The view is a complete letdown. There are several large peaks poking up – but not the horizon-to-horizon spectacle my imagination had constructed. Mark and I take some pictures and Susan and Julie appear. Switching to downhill mode we set off.
There is a strong headwind but the first few minutes see me drop quickly down from the pass. The grade softens and I now have to peddle to overcome the wind and the rocks on the road. Soon I have to peddle all the time to make any progress downhill. This sucks! After six more kilometres of this terrible road surface we come to our rocky, windy lunch spot – and it’s now 2 pm. Lunch finishes at 3pm and with more of “the world’s worst downhill” ahead of us – we all agree it’s time to get in the jeep.
The resulting roller coaster ride down into the valley is made more frightening by the huge clouds of dust that obscure our view of the switchbacks and the edge of the road. Eventually we make our way to a small town, Xegar (also known as New Tingri) where we stop for gas – and to get our permits in order for Everest. Now we experience the life of a jeep tourist. Beggars cluster around our jeep and a grandmother makes her two grandkids do a pathetic song and dance routine for us. We all try to ignore these intrusions and look forward to getting on our way.
The jeep then takes us to the entrance to the Everest area. At the checkpoint there are difficulties, as one of drivers does not have his paperwork in order. As we wait, several old Tibetan men – spinning wool in their fingers – watch us as we sit in the jeep. One walks up and presses his forehead against the glass for a better view of the interior. Odd, since they must get a lot of tourist traffic. Finally it’s agreed our Tibetan guide Suni will stay behind as a deposit/hostage while we get driven to the campsite and then the driver will return to sort things out.
The jeep enters the Everest area and climbs up onto a perfect green plateau overlooking a small village at the base of Gyatso La. We’re camping here - as are the Australians. We stretch out on mats as the camp is set up – our efforts to help rebuffed.
I awake early and again enjoy sipping my tea in solitude as I watch the sky lighten. Today another pass and at 800 meters a non-trivial one. Fortunately the road is a good one – having been revamped in the past two years. The ascent is gradual with a long series of switchbacks and good visibility to the switchbacks above. My guess is the climb will take about three hours of pedalling.
The road twists back and forth across the back wall of this valley. Looking up it’s clear this pass is very high. I pull over and sit on a concrete turn barrier – its very presence a clue that this is special road. Given all the jeep tours to Everest base camp they must have been deemed worthwhile – more for show than anything else. I can now look down onto the top of the hill beside our campsite. I have climbed four or five hundred meters but there is still a long way to go. I drink some water – being careful to take only one swallow before breathing – otherwise I will get out of breath at this altitude.
After about 2hours and forty-five minutes a long, final switchback leads me to the top. The road goes through a small tunnel of prayer flags. The horizon on the far side is limited to a few glaciers poking down through the clouds. Once again there is no view of the Himalayas – despite a plaque, which shows the locations of Everest, Makalu and Cho Oyu. We huddle behind a wall out of the wind and eat lunch hoping to outwait the clouds. We’re rewarded with a brief view of Cho Oyu before we start down.
The route down is wild. After dropping along a ridge we switch back and hundreds of meters below is a network of switchbacks with jeeps puffing up dust – like something in a child’s race set. A few more ridges down, I’m in this serpentine switchback system – the wind resisting me in one direction and pushing me along after the turns. Each corner requires careful navigation of the large, banked ruts left by the vehicles. The switchbacks then lengthen and the descent steepens – the bike racing along the bumpy surface. The road then drops further into a valley and I plunge downwards – stopping only to photograph rock formations, old ruined forts and a small village perched on a terrace. At the bottom of the valley is our camp on a flood plain beside a small stream.
After changing I sit writing in the dining tent. The doorway is walled with Tibetan children all quietly saying “hello” – hoping for a response. I smile a few times, write for a while and then grow tired of being stared at. I realize it’s just the same instinct that leads to “People Magazine” – the desire to see how the other live. The children are dusty and dressed in a variety of hand-me-downs and knitted sweaters. Each has a backpack and schoolbooks – including an English primer. Another sign that this is a well tended location – likely due to the tourist traffic.
Tiring of being on display I wander out onto the dry flood plain and scrounge for some rocks. I find some interesting – almost volcanic rocks – although Mark’s guess is they’re limestone. As I head into the tent at dusk a herd of goats pass by the tent on their way to the stream and then into their pen down at the village.
I’m up early as usual and I notice a pack of dogs on the far side of the stream approaching the camp. It become clear which is the leader and after I make a display of picking up a stone – some become nervous and walk farther around before passing by the camp. Breakfast comes and goes – and the kids return to scope us out further on their way to school. Tiring of the attention we gather our stuff and head for the bikes.
The route starts with a short descent to the village and then we turn onto a dirt road following a wide valley. The barley fields and children calling now seem very routine and normal. Kilometre markers countdown the distance – but it’s not clear if the distance is to Rongbuk or base camp – a difference of about eight klicks. The next marker I spy reads 48 km. Today we’ll climb about 800 meters – which should require about five hours on the bike.
Soon after the village the road degrades into the endless bumps of washer-board. For kilometre after kilometre we try to find one side or a tire rut which minimizes all the up and down – to little avail. The bikes chatter along and our speed drops as we push towards the end of the main valley and the turn into the Rongbuk valley.
At lunch we commiserate about the road. Realizing there is much suffering still ahead I head out early. If anything, the road quality gets even worse as I make it to the end of the main valley. The road turns south and starts to climb – with a headwind to add to the day’s fun. I ride along looking at the blue-grey of the cascading glacier-fed stream. I stop and sit by the road staring at the water as I refuel with Gatorade and energy bars. I continue in my quest to find a smooth path on the road – but it is futile – a lot of energy is going into climbing and descending an endless sequence of two-inch bumps.
The valley is cloudy and a few raindrops start to fall. The road steepens and a series of switchbacks start. I do these in pairs - stopping at the end of each minor objective to recover some strength. The jeep pulls up – some have elected to sit out a few kilometres of the bumpy road – and I debate joining them. Suni assures me the camp is at kilometre 7 (and not 0) so I decide to press on the final five kilometres. I observe my speed – 4 km/hr – and realize the final stretch could take over an hour.
After a few more washer-board sections and switchbacks the road sweeps around a ridge and I can see the flank of Everest poking out through the clouds. There follows a bone rattling descent across the ridgeline and then I sweep around a corner and see the prayer flags of Rongbuk – with our tents flapping in the wind just behind.
As I pull up to the truck Mads confesses that the road was perhaps the worst he’s ever ridden. I concur and decide I need a new word since “sucks” doesn’t properly sum up what a miserable experience riding that road was.
I escape the fierce wind by crawling into the tent to change into warm clothes and my down jacket. I have developed an unnatural affection for the down jacket and my sleeping bag. I may have to sleep in them when I get home. I poke out my nose – take a few pictures of Everest – mostly obscured by cloud – and then retreat under a blanket of down and doze. Chicken noodle soup is delivered to my tent (thanks Dawa!) and soon I have warmed up and I’m ready to explore a bit more.
The summit of Everest teases us from the clouds – it’s a long way up – 4000 meters above the monastery. The valley frames Everest beautifully – with dull grey moraines bracketing the white slopes. Behind us is the highest monastery in the world – actually a nunnery too. It’s very modest – perhaps three stone buildings. The old guest house – a mud walled structure is on the opposing side of the road and then there is a pink, tiled modern Chinese hotel - so much for buildings which match the natural environment. On the other side of the valley is a cluster of yak-skin tents and several hundred meters above those are the black forms of yaks wandering the high walls in search of small alpine plants.
I return to my tent and leave the door open – with its view of Everest. With a sleeping bag draped over me I watch for an hour as the mountain drifts in and out of the clouds. I look at the summit pyramid and the snow being carried away by the wind. If it’s 50 kph here – it must be insane up there. The ridges and faces look steep and difficult.
A cold night at Rongbuk. I step outside at midnight to pee with bare legs – too lazy to find something in the dark. Back in the tent it’s hard to get warm and my perpetual head cold makes it hard to get back to sleep. I become convinced my feet are higher than my head – that I’m sleeping on a slope – a common delusion of altitude. I reverse my orientation in the tent – but still I toss and turn. Finally I get out the light, find some clothes to sleep in and take a cold pill. I then sleep until 7am – when I notice it’s about two degrees in the tent.
The valley has clouded in again. Tea is offered and I sip, watching the frost on the sides of the valley produce low lying clouds as the sun falls on it. Above us, there are several snow-covered ridges which show their fluted features as the light plays across them. We watch carefully from the dining tent for a better view of Everest – the sun is slowly burning off the clouds. From time to time the view seems better than before and we pull out our cameras. Finally after breakfast the sun rises over the ridge and the clouds disperse. We take pictures of bikes and Everest, people and Everest, Everest and Everest…
Today is a rest day with a walk up to the base camp planned. We head out on a trail high on the moraine. The progress is slow – enforced by the altitude. The trail takes us beneath the ruins of the former nunnery – artillery was used to demolish it during the Cultural Revolution. Further on is a prayer chorten with a tiny Buddha figure set in a rock alcove. Beyond that is a small hermitage – Mads checks but the door is locked.
As we work our way along the ups and downs of the moraine, Everest appears and disappears from view. After about two hours of shuffling along the prayer flag mound, which denotes the base, camp appears. Here the wind is steady and forceful. I pass by the small permanent tents, which serve tea to the jeep tours, and slowly climb up the prayer mound. The flags boom in the steady wind and I hold out my arms to see how far I can lean into the wind before I fall over. Over the din of the flags we ask each other to take pictures of us with the mountain. Then we head down to the warmth of the tea tent below.
Inside we’re offered some green tea from a large flowery thermos. A kettle is on a small stove and I watch as the tea girl opens the grate and crumbles in another piece of dried yak dung. Another tour group is warming a can of fish on the stove and passing around bread. Dawa arrives and serves us soup, fried potatoes, fish and fruit salad – drawing many interested glances from the other travellers. The jeep then takes us back to the camp, where we idle the afternoon writing in journals, napping and sipping tea.
The morning temperature in the tent is 2 degrees – but I have slept well. Two things contribute to this success. First, I pushed all my bags against the tent zipper to seal any leaks of cold air. Second, I dedicated a Nalgene bottle – the yellow one – to collect pee during the night. No trips outside.
I read a book by the dimming headlamp – the fresh batteries are on the truck – and tea arrives. The now very usual breakfast ritual ensues and we prepare for a jeep ride to the top of Pang La – since it would make for a very long day to climb that pass and get all the way to Tingri. We’re dressed for cycling – but it’s minus 5 degrees and the cold is soaking in. We help out taking down tents and then walk over to the side of the valley where the sun will make its first appearance.
The jeep ride up to Pang La rivals any amusement park ride I have been on. The road is extremely rocky and in places the jeep has trouble climbing some of the short rocky sections. I regard the ascent as un-ridable – except that we pass the Australians on their way up. We’re shaken and slammed around inside the jeep and then emerge on a broad featureless gravel plain – the unspectacular top of Pang La. As the bikes are unloaded I try to capture the rocks on film. I had always assumed the Himalayas were thrusting granite spears – the reality is that they are heaps of rubble. I cannot imagine trying to climb up stuff like this.
The route down from Pang La is a road across this rocky surface. The domed top of the pass drops down - growing steeper until it runs out onto a flat section a hundred meters below. Mark heads off with me next. The grade steepens and I need to put my weight further back – behind the seat. Mark lets out a whoop and decides to go for it. As I brake and balance, I see Mark pulling away - blistering down the hill. Then something goes wrong and he pitches over the handlebars. At what we later learn is 64 kph, he pitches headfirst into the gravel. After the first bounce the helmet, Mark and the bike all fly off in different directions. Mark tumbles head over heel several times then gets flipped around in random directions and slides to a stop several hundred feet downhill from where he launched. He pushes up to his elbows and then slumps down again.
I move down the hill as quickly as I can – pulling up beside him and then waving to Mads as I call out to Mark. He is conscious – which surprises me. As I pull off my backpack I can see his back and rear is torn and bloody – no lycra remaining and blood is running down from his scalp. I pull out a bandage and start to wrap him in a space blanket as Mads pulls up. Together we check to see if anything is broken – remarkably nothing seems to be. Julie and Sue appear and the truck pulls up. Everyone stays very calm and finds a role with a minimum of fuss. After a more careful check for broken bones – we share out the first aid supplies. Julie, Susan and Mads start the slow process of cleaning wounds as I scurry about looking for more clothing and making sure Mark’s feet stay higher than his head so that he doesn’t go any deeper into shock. After forty-five minutes of cleaning and applying gauze, Mark is lifted into the back seat of the jeep and Susan and Mads climb in. The jeep then slowly pulls away.
Julie, Rajesh, Manos and I are left with our bikes and the rest of this steep hill. Still a bit shaky from the incident we walk the bikes down much of the way. After a short ride we come to a boulder field and end up carrying the bikes over fifty meters of rough stones. The road then continues its descent and this time the wind is in our favour. A strong 30-40 kph wind pushes us down the rough roads and onto a series of sandy ridges, which cut along the edge of a river gorge.
We come to a rocky stream crossing – a ten-foot width of what looks to me like eighteen inches of glacial fed fun. Looking around we see no alternative – so we strip off shoes and socks and push our bikes through. Julie wins the lottery – just as she’s about to start across a truck comes by and she hops in. The wind dries out my feet quickly and soon the wind is pushing me down the valley again.
When I can forget about Mark and stop worrying if he has a serious head injury – the ride is fun. Downhill, tailwind, and ridges, some bumps – what’s not to like. Several small villages create some confusion. Barley is stacked in piles in the main square creating a maze through which we navigate. I barrel along the downhills and at one point catch up with our jeep. They have to take it slow – since the bumps are inducing nausea. Not too surprising – if I was lying down in the jeep I would doubtless be car sick under the best of circumstances.
As we near Tingri – now visible at the end of the valley – I look back. Amazing. The peaks of Everest and Cho Oyu perfectly frame the valley. A very dramatic vista indeed.
Our dirt road turns into a paved road, which very soon after the transition enters the small town of Tingri. There is no hospital here – so the jeep pulls into the Snow Leopard Inn. Mark is helped to a room and the jeep heads out in search of a doctor. Mark seems to be brightening up – and insists on seeing each of us - and thanking us for our help.
Camp awaits – so we head out of Tingri. It should be twelve kilometres – despite Rajesh insisting it’s about six. I have learned my lesson from Gyatso La! I push against a headwind and manage to disconnect from the physical effort and find a place where I’m just riding the bike. Finally I come to the tents set up on a putting-green perfect piece of pasture behind some abandoned mud structures. To the south, Everest and Cho Oyu are prominent in the afternoon sun. Mads arrives in the jeep and we are all relieved to hear that the doctor’s assessment of Mads is positive. No major head injury or broken bones.
After tea and soup we decide to try the local hot springs – a cluster of concrete buildings on the far wall of the valley. We walk into the courtyard and see a concrete walled pool of brown water – perhaps eight meters by three meters. A Chinese man is soaking already. The owner shows us a shower – a nozzle pointing out over a dirty ceramic floor and we opt to head straight for the “hot tub”. I enter the brown water, sliding over the algae on the rocky bottom and find a hot spot. I soak as the others hurl bits of algae at each other and even go so far as to immerse their heads in the water. No thanks.
Tea arrives and I note that it’s a tropical 6 degrees in the tent. I pack up my stuff between sips of tea and don a layer of Gore Tex to screen me from the wind as I settle at our open-air breakfast table. The sun first lights up the summits of Everest and Cho Oyu – their golden tops peeking over the valley walls.
Rajesh appears and the logistics of the day are discussed. He will box up Sue and Marks bike and then collect then from the Snow Leopard hotel and they will start on their drive back to Kathmandu – hopefully reaching the border by the end of today. A spare jeep has been located and it will support Julie, Mads, Manos and I for the ride up to LaLung La – a significant climb.
The morning is calm and it’s a relaxing ride along the edge of the valley. At several places the river widens into a lake and a variety of Himalayan ducks float along. I realize this is our last day in a Tibetan valley and that from LaLung La we should have a view of the Himalayas so I look forward to the endless climb. The valley rolls by with views of Yaks pulling plows, mud bricks cut out of the valley floor and left to dry in the sun. Small villages and ruins of old monasteries dot the valley floor. Several times it looks like the valley ends and the climb must start – but each time the road ducks behind a ridge and the valley continues on in a different direction. The valley narrows to a gorge and focuses the developing wind. I ride into the headwind for another five kilometres and then find the truck pulled over by the stream.
The usual crowds of children and adults mill around and watch us. One woman has something wrapped in a coat. She uncovers it and I decline the offer to purchase the raw hind leg of goat – complete with hoof. Three young girls appear. They have wide ornate, silver belts and calm, expressionless faces. One shyly shows an amazing fossil of a spiral shell.
Mark’s jeep pulls up and we cluster around and Mark jokes with us about being sorry to deprive us of his company. He’s alert but is clearly very uncomfortable moving from one side to another. His forehead is covered with patches of gauze, which poke out from a bandana on his head. Sue joins us at the lunch table and outlines their plan to get to Kathmandu and then delay their return while Mark grows some new skin and the swelling and bruising go down. With any luck we should see them again in Nepal before we fly home.
The headwind continues after lunch – but Mads, Manos and I are still game. We plod into the wind – a relentless 30 kph – like a hand pushing us back. The road threads through ridges toward the pass and even before the climb starts our progress is slow. I mentally settle in for a three-hour climb. Ahead, Manos and Mads have stopped at a small bridge. They’ve had enough fun for one day. Not wanting to hold up the group I agree to pack it in and we shoe-horn all the bikes into the jeep and start the drive up to LaLung La.
The jeep climbs and climbs. Long switchbacks weave around the end of the valley and we can look down onto an enormous open plain where the road turns to Mount Kailash. It becomes clear that riding this stretch up to the top would have been soul-destroying and probably would have taken more like four or five hours. As we round a ridge near the top the massive snow covered Shishapangma comes into view. At more than 8000 meters it’s a “name-brand” summit – all the more dramatic as it towers over the dull brown Tibetan plateau.
At the top of the pass we pull out the bikes for the brief 7km descent to camp between the pass of LaLung La and Trang La. The first gentle part of the downhill requires pedalling into the wind – then the road tilts down and I coast through bumpy switchbacks. Down below – nestled in the valley I can see our tents set up beside a small river – across the road from a cluster of buildings. Near our tents are some yak skin tents with smoke drifting up from a stovepipe in their center.
At camp we sit watching the valley – too lazy at first to get our gear from the truck and change. Two old Tibetan women – their faces a mass of wrinkles - come and sit beside us. They chatter to each other. One dons Julie’s bike helmet and then both dissolve into giggles.
After some tea and fresh clothes I settle cross-legged on a small grass mound. They seem to grow up like mushrooms. Yaks, sheep and goats are descending down the ridges as dusk approaches. One of the goatherds comes by on his way to get water from the stream – as does his father a few minutes later. They move from tent to tent checking us out – offering grins and “hello”.
The valley floor is coated with a thick layer of frost as I watch the sun touch the summit of Shishipangma. The sheep start to move about. The dogs which serenaded us for much of the night scamper about and bark at each other. I take a few pictures in the dim morning light – hoping for the best. Over breakfast the village kids return to gawk at us and motion for food. I think about how the boy sleeping in the Yak tent must be about the same age as my sons – and how through the simple lottery of where you’re born the life you lead is so different. It’s not a depressing thought – I simply acknowledge it for what it is – obviously an easier thing to accept when you’re the one with the privileged outcome.
Today’s climb to Trang La is written up as 7.7km and 500 meters up – Taking us up above 5000 meters. As we emerge from the valley to the wide uphill plain a freezing headwind greets us. As my fingers and toes turn to ice I get a glimpse of snow-covered peaks on the horizon. I stop and warm fingers between my thighs to get some feeling back. A few kilometres more and I reach the large cluster of prayer flags. For once, the view is extraordinary. Cho Oyu and Shishipangma are prominent and a handful of other snow and ice capped peaks complete the skyline. This is the view I have been dreaming of.
The mandatory pictures are taken and we study the dark, deep valley between peaks. This is where the road to Kathmandu cuts through the mountains. You don’t so much cross the Himalayas as you avoid them by sneaking through these deep valleys. The descent off the Tibetan plateau starts with quick descents and sharp turns. Stops are required to warm cold fingers – to ensure some hand strength is left for braking. The guides avoid a long sequence of switchbacks by barrelling cross-country down from the pass. Julie and I – mindful of Mark’s outcome – stay on the road and continue the descent. The lunch truck passes by and sets a target of a lunch stop in the next five kilometres. We ride along the road – now hugging the side of the river gorge. With the river a hundred meters below and the road chiselled out of the gorge wall a spot for lunch will be tough. After about seven kilometres the truck comes into view. A small side road drops down to the river. We’re glad to bounce down the hillside to the truck – but the ride back up to the road after lunch will be a different matter.
Twenty-five kilometres remain before we get to the campsite past Nyalam – although we still have another 500 meters to descend – so we hope for the best. Mads and I continue – although at our own paces. Our route alternates pleasant downhill sections with sandy climbs across ridgelines, which cut into the valley. The inevitable headwind develops and some of the climbs force me down into the granny gear. The valley narrows to a gorge and the steep walls now start to support small scruffy trees – the first hint of green vegetation in weeks.
At one village a Yak prances onto the road – an odd sight for such a typically mellow and slow moving creature. Then a string of Tibetans are pulled onto the road – connected to the Yak by a rope. I stop well clear of this little drama and watch as they try to cajole the Yak into a stone-walled pen on the far side. After a brief tug of war the Yak goes in the right direction and the road is clear.
The trees on the gorge walls increase in stature and the road crosses a bridge and into the town of Nyalam. The concrete main road is well kept and the buildings seem reasonably modern. Mads stops at the China Telecom office to check that trucks will meet us at the border tomorrow and is assured everything is arranged. I go in search of a chocolate bar – but come up empty.
Cycling out of town we see the traffic is at a complete standstill. On the left side of the road is an eight-foot deep three-foot wide ditch with a large drainage pipe. We push our bikes along the two-foot margin between the ditch and the line of motionless vehicles. Ahead of us a Yak crosses the road and at the edge of the ditch jumps back as the dirt crumbles away. It becomes agitated and tries again – finally finding a pedestrian bridge - some planks covered with sheet metal. It steps carefully and I expect it to crash down – but the bridge holds the weight. I push my bike forward again.
The source of the obstruction becomes clear. A loader is filling in the ditch and the vehicles just have to wait. Carrying bikes we climb uphill around the obstruction and then continue a few kilometres to a knoll looking down the gorge. The road down is imposing – clinging to the wall and dropping steeply. A small terrace below us holds a few tents and when our truck clears the traffic jam it will set up there. Above this the gorge wall rises up and up. A snow covered peak looms above and a hanging glacier is the source of a small stream which runs down past the terrace where we will camp. Mads finds a nook out of the wind with a great view of the valley and we settle there – sipping from our water bottles and soaking up the scenery – waiting until the truck passes by.
The camp is set up on the terrace. I wander out of the tent past the truck and five feet away there is a very large yak standing among our bicycles. It wanders up to the kitchen tent a licks some powdered dish soap out of a bowl. A head pokes out of the kitchen tent – Badiman spys the yak and shouts at – making it move off to the stream. Its large tongue flicks in and out - it bellows – clearly it is not a happy yak. It wanders back but a few well-thrown rocks persuade it to keep its distance.
In order to get through customs – 40km away we have agreed on an early start. I emerge from tent to discover that the brief rain in the night has resulted in snow deposited on the hills around us. The morning is very crisp and I done Gore Tex everything to hold off the chill. I clip into the bike and set off on the steep road dropping down through the gorge.
The sandy surface forces attention to the road. Periodically a stream from the gorge wall washes across the road and I need to guess which path is most likely to allow me to get across with dry feet. The gorge drops even faster than the road and soon I am a hundred meters above a raging snow fed stream. The road switches back and eventually crosses the river and I stop to warm my hands.
After 15 kilometres I stop to examine the surroundings. I have lost a lot of altitude. The air is warmer and for the first time I notice that the vegetation has a smell – a sharp contrast to the almost odourless Tibetan plateau. It’s also become noticeably humid. The road continues to plunge along the edge of the spectacular gorge – with walls now towering several thousand feet above on each side. I know that there are huge mountains on each side – but these can’t be seen – since I am deep inside the gorge.
After 90 minutes I have covered the 33 km to the Chinese border town of Zhangmu. It’s concrete main street switches back down the steep gorge wall. We glide down through the small amount of traffic - passing modern concrete block buildings perched on the slopes. A dozen switchbacks later we pull up at Chinese customs. Forms are filled out – queues are negotiated and in about an hour we are ready for the 12km descent to the river and the bridge to Nepal.
The descent is muddy, steep and rocky. It ends up being a fun puzzle – avoiding the jeeps, picking a line through the muddy rocks and keeping the bike under control. At the final switchback before the bridge we wait for our truck. Our luggage must be carried across the border by a shuttle truck (or porters). Several other trucks unload and then attempt to turn around to return uphill. With a sequence of whistles and thumps they jitter back and forth – sometimes with wheels right on the edge of the drop-off. We bid our Tibetan guide and driver farewell and head over the bridge to Nepali customs. That simple task out of the way we find a restaurant and wait for the luggage transfer.
As we work our way through bowls of Thukpa – Dawa comes by and explains to Mads that it’s a Hindu holy day and there is no sign of our Nepali vehicles. This explains all the red paste smeared on everyone’s foreheads and the red powder rubbed on the wheels of the trucks. The usual baggage handler is on vacation and things appear to have fallen apart. Other tourists relying on the public bus are nervous – some need to fly out from Kathmandu tomorrow – taxis are offered at outrageous prices.
Julie and I wander down the main street – which takes all of ten minutes to explore. After a short discussion, Mads suggestion that we ride on – and find a hotel if our truck does not appear – seems preferable to sitting here. Off we go down the river valley. The first portion of the road is rocky and has a number of water crossings – but with the lower altitude the water is pleasantly warm – as I learn when I stall out in eighteen inches of water after hitting a submerged rock. I strip off wind pants and for the first time ride in bike shorts. After 20 kilometres of descent the paved road begins and we wail down the valley. Caution is required since washouts can appear at anytime and in some places they are steep and very muddy. In one place there is an eight-foot mound of rock over the road – and I assume this is the cause of our trucks delay – until I see the nose of a bus pushing up to the sky and then thumping down on my side of the mound.
One village has a novel set of speed bumps at the entrance to town. Two eight-foot planks are lying on the road – offset to require steering around them. Each has an array of three-inch nails sticking up into the air.
The valley becomes greener and lusher as we decend. Rice terraces line the steep walls. A suspension bridge beside a resort advertises the world’s longest bungee jump – one hundred and sixty meters. Further on we see several towers of bamboo from which swings have been constructed. Part of the religious days events include spending some time with your feet not touching the ground. Some teens swing aggressively skyward – causing the bamboo to sway and flex.
After two hours we find ourselves in Barahbise. Mads has found a phone and requested a jeep to take us farther – since this small town has no suitable hotel. In the two hours it takes for the jeep to come we watch and listen as Hindu music is cranked out and children put on dancing display for a phalanx of villagers. We go in search of Nepali tea and sit on a small bench by the side of the main road – watching two children chase each other around and over some parked buses.
The jeep arrives at dusk and whisks us down valley roads. As it gets dark I become convinced that we will either be killed on the hairpin bends or run someone over in one of the villages. The sharp turns and bumps quickly have me clenching my teeth hoping to hold off the growing nausea. I nearly ask for us to pull over but we reach the bottom and then start to climb and the slower speed is more tolerable. We climb up to Dhulikhel – a long 22 km climb of 1200m that will now not be cycled. My stomach unkinks as the lights of the village come into view. As we pull into the courtyard Mads asks if Julie had a good nap – since she has been so quiet. Julie admits to hanging on for dear life and trying to keep her lunch down.
The hotel rooms are large and opulent. I shower and then don the same dirty cycling clothes I arrived in – since the luggage is still at the border. Julie and I choose simple, familiar dinners to pamper our sore stomachs.
On the balcony of the Himalayan Horizons I watch the clouds in the rice-terraced valley below. I am now getting wound up about the return trip – Julie and I fly out tomorrow. I shower again – more for the novelty of it – since I am again in the same set of dirty bike clothes at the end of it. I return to the balcony and the other riders heads poke out and we head off for breakfast and bikes.
The road is paved and busy – trucks and cyclists whizzing past. There is a bike lane and Mads reminds us to ride on the left now that we are back in Nepal. A quick descent leads to the start of another ridge to climb – but at this low altitude I can for the first time push hard on the pedals and expect to recover. Buses are a nuisance as they dart to the edge and then pull out again. We enter the very busy town of Bhaktapur where the bus traffic becomes truly crazy. Finally after weaving between and past buses we duck out onto a side road and exchange the clutter of traffic for the clutter of pedestrians. The buildings thin out and rice paddies appear by the side of the road. The rice is tall and yellowing – ready for the fall harvest. The road leads to the edge of Kathmandu. We skirt the airport and then weave through a maze of busy minor streets. Finally we reach Thamel and pull into the alley to the Hotel Dynasty. We shake hands and congratulate each other in the courtyard and then head inside. The place feels remarkably like home.
After a shower – and return to the same clothes – I head over the Utse. I ask the receptionist for the Beamounts – getting a blank look. Then I try British bike rider and his face lights up “Oh, yes. Bike crash – very bad. I walk him to his room!”. I call up and soon I’m sitting with Mark chatting about the last few days of the trip. He is very lively but still not very mobile. Sue arrives and we discuss their hopeless Nepali doctor and agree to catch up more over lunch. Julie and I meet with Sue at the “French” restaurant across the street and have the “suggestion” - strips of ham with cheesy mustard filling.
The rest of the day is spent hobbling about in my bike shoes doing some last minute souvenir shopping. I get some Tibetan books recommended by Mads, prayer flags and a map of the route I cycled and few other knick-knacks. Luggage arrives and bikes are dismantled - everything is packed away. We meet for a final dinner of the full crew – including the Nepal staff. We hand out tips and there is much smiling and clasping of hands in the Nepali greeting.