tibet against the odds - occasional climber · from tibet tours and travels, our host and made some...

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It was November, a magnificent time tobe amongst the mountains of Nepal.Clear cobalt skies, bright sun shine andmagnificent views. I had just completeda short trek into the Annapurna Sanctu-ary and now, sitting in a light aircraft onmy return to Kathmandu, I had time tosavour the excitement of my main rea-son for being back on the Roof of theWorld. I was actually going to Tibet. ToShangri La, that high altitude moonscape where the people lived ontsampa, yak meat and rancid, buttertea, mystical Lamas levitated and thedead were fed to vultures.

Just the name “Tibet” conjured up feel-ings of intrigue. It was a place that hadnever been easy to reach due to itsgeographic isolation, Tibetan isolation-ism and, most recently, Chinese censor-ship. It was forbidden fruit and conse-quently all the more desirable. Getting inwas against the odds and knowing thatI was about to was exhilarating.

At the time I knew very little about Tibet.It was materially backward and lesstainted by westernization, but forciblyoccupied by the Chinese. How had Ti-betan culture fared in this environment I wondered. Certainly theTibetans I’d met in Darjeeling and Nepal were enchanting peo-ple. Would they be the same in their overrun homeland? Thatseemed against the odds too, but time would tell.

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Because entry to Tibet for foreignerswas restricted by the Chinese my onlyoption at that time was to join an es-corted tour group. This isn’t my pre-ferred style of travel, but I consoledmyself that visiting Tibet as part of agroup was better than not visiting at all.Besides, a few group imposed restric-tions might heighten my empathy to-wards the far greater restrictions beingendured by the Tibetan people.

Back in Kathmandu I met my group ofeight westerners, had a short briefingfrom Tibet Tours and Travels, our hostand made some last minute prepara-tions, primarily to secure a stock ofpassport sized Dalai Lama photos. Nextmorning we boarded a China Airwaysjet bound for Gonggar Airport. Theweather was clear. I pinched myself tomake sure that it wasn’t all just adream.

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Certainly the views from our aircraftwere dreamlike. The familiar, lush, ter-raced terrain I enjoyed as we flew eastfrom Katmandu was quickly replaced by

deep valleys and mighty snowclad peaks. The aircraft bankednorthwards as we reached our cruising altitude of about 10,000metres. We were crossing the border between Nepal and Tibetat a point marking a high pass across the Himalaya.

A dramatic contrast . Above, Mount Everest from thesouthern side of the Himalaya and, below, a view of

the Tibetan Plateau on the northern side


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To the west was Sagarmartha (Nepali for MountEverest) but, no, I reminded myself, I’m in Tibetnow and the tallest mountain is known by Ti-betans as Chomolungma. Even viewed from10,000 metres, she asserted her absolute domi-nance over everything else. I could distinguishLhotse, Nuptse and Makalu amongst the sea ofpeaks and glaciers, but because there were somany peaks, it was difficult to identify manyothers as we drifted swiftly by. From the otherside of the aircraft, looking east, I could seeKanchenjunga towering over everything else.

As I watched, a startling transformation un-folded. The shades of blue, green and black ofNepal gave way to golds and browns and theearth’s surface was suddenly much nearer to us.Unmistakably, we were flying over the Tibetanplateau, which has an average height of 4,500metres. In the rain shadow of the main Hi-malayan divide, the snow line had risen to 6,000metres and the mountains now appeared to besprinkled with icing sugar rather than smotheredin heavy snow and ice.

Although numerous mountains still puncturedthe terrain, they were spaced more widely andthe land in between them was much flatter thanon the Nepalese side. Dark green rivers loopedtheir way amongst the mountains, giving somerelief to an otherwise desolate domain. I couldsee virtually no vegetation, but this only servedto accentuate the striking turquoise lakes thatblinked skywards like precious jewels.

A particularly large, gleaming lake came into view. It was Yamdrok Tso, thedeepest lake in Tibet. I looked forward to when we would pass along its rockyshores in two days time.

Onboard the aircraft time passed veryquickly. While still transfixed by thescene below me, a surprisingly largeairstrip came into view. It had to beGonggar, which was confirmed as westarted our descent.

Gonngar airport lies 130 kms south ofLhasa in the Yalung valley. Reputedlythe cradle of Tibetan culture, my firstimpressions, as I set foot on Tibetansoil, were not Tibetan. Multitudes ofgreen uniformed, peak-capped Chi-nese officials stood about the place.Most were still teenagers, neither hos-tile nor welcoming, probably just feel-ing awkward, but certainly om-nipresent.

The arrival hall served far more effec-tively as a fridge than a place to re-ceive people. Maybe the intention wasto numb the minds of all foreign guestsfrom the outset, in the hope that they

wouldn’t notice the extent that the Chinese seemed out of place on the plateau.

I discovered later that the boxlike concrete architecture of Gonggar Airport wasentirely consistent with modern day Chinese architecture throughout Tibet andmuch of mainland China at the time. In Tibet it served as a stark contrast,accentuating how the Tibetan buildings blended so naturally with the landscape.



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Eventually we made it through passport control, feeling relievedto be out of the ‘fridge’. Through customs we were met by MrWu, our official Chinese guide. Mr Wu was a tall, skinny,conscientious fellow, with round glasses, in his mid twenties,who spoke relatively good English.

To be fair to him, he had a difficultassignment. He was young andChinese. His group were all ma-ture, well educated, western indi-viduals sympathetic to the plight ofTibetans. I could see by his tense-ness that he realized this. At leasthis group were reasonable peoplewho also realized Mr Wu’spredicament. We didn’t seek tomake him any more uncomfort-able than he already felt.

As it turned out, over the followingweek Mr Wu made a genuine ef-fort to show us as much of nativeTibet as his people’s rule bookwould allow. At times, he eventolerated the odd infringement,giving us a little extra rope bywhich we could explore just a littleoutside our prescribed itinerary.We appreciated this very much.

Like most Chinese I have met, Mr Wu proved to be a perfectlynice individual. I have often pondered how the Chinese en masscould be so inhuman in Tibet when, individually, they are justhuman beings with the same hopes and dreams as anyone else.

Also waiting for us through passport control was Pemba, a huge,self confident Tibetan who was to be our driver. In Tibet driversare treated a bit like royalty. Tibet is a huge place, roughly thesame size as western Europe and much more difficult to negoti-

ate. A good driver was worth his weight in gold and Pembaknew it. Adding to his prestige was that his vehicle was aluxury, air-conditioned mini coach, not that Pemba drove itany differently than he would have one of the ubiquitousheavyweight Chinese army lorries so common in Tibet. On therugged dirt roads snaking across the plateau this proved to bea mistake later in our journey.

Everyone managed to connect with their baggage and wewere soon bouncing along the Yarlung valley on a dirt roadtowards Zetang. We encountered mainly two kinds of vehiclealong the way, heavy Chinese lorries and motorized rotaryhoes, converted into modes of transport by attaching trailersto them. People neither had the money nor the time to wasteon impractical cars.

As the lorries thundered by, clusters of magnificent, longhaired yaks scattered in panic. These beasts of burden hadbeen partially superceded by motorized vehicles around themore urbanized regions close to Lhasa but, as we traveledfurther afield, we realized that they still provided the main formof transport, haulage and sustenance in Tibet.

The Tibetan houses impressed me. Although of similar boxyshape, they were larger than those I had seen in the SoluKhumbu, implying prosperity. Normally two or three storiedbuildings, with attractive stucco decorating the whitewashedwalls, in each corner of each household short poles with colour-ful prayer flags protruded, protecting the inhabitants from evilspirits.

Decorative stucco on a Tibetanhouse in Lhasa



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Grazing around the houses were very peculiar looking sheep.Their sides had been shorn while the full length wool on theirbacks had been dyed an earthy orange colour. Punk sheep,surely not! From the windows and doorways of the houses camespontaneous, friendly waves of welcome. Mr Wu smiled.

Zetang was a hick town, a sprawl of Tibetanand Chinese buildings about 195 kmssoutheast of Lhasa. The general store wasmildly entertaining, due mostly to the hu-morous glances the locals gave me, al-though the hotchpotch collection of mer-chandise was rather quaint as well.

Having just been hiking in the AnnapurnaSanctuary, I was coping well with the sud-den 2,700 metre altitude gain we’d madesince leaving Kathmandu. Some of the oth-ers weren’t faring so well. Head aches andnausea were common complaints, butthese symptoms disappeared after a day orso as everyone acclimatized to the higheraltitude.

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Next morning the conditions were typicallyharsh. A blazing sun burned relentlesslydown from a clear sky, while an icy wind bitour exposed skin and churned dust into our eyes and mouths.We bumped along beside the Yarlung River in our luxury minicoach for about 40kms, dismounting at Samye Dukou, a wellused ferry crossing point for pilgrims wishing to visit the oldestmonastery in Tibet, known as Samye.

Here was our first chance to rub shoulders with real Tibetans.With us, they waited to cross the Yarlung River. Dressed in allmanners of attire, they made a fascinating picture. I suppose wehad a similar impact on them too.

I wanted to photograph one particularly pretty youngwoman, but she was rather shy. Maybe a DalaiLama photo would give her courage? Of course, itworked like magic. Regrettably, the portrait I tookwasn’t a very good one, but I still remember vividlyher look of complete adoration when I placed thelittle passport sized photo in her hand. She stared atit for a moment then, as she went to put it inside hercoat next to her heart, she quickly took it out again toreassure herself that, yes, she really did have herown little portrait of her God King. I was actually alittle startled, witnessing for the first time just howdeeply Tibetans love their spiritual leader.

At first glance, Tibetans are simple folk from aspartan environment. But what they lack in the phys-ical world they make up for in the spiritual one.Fundamental to their belief system are the conceptsof compassion and impermanence. When the notionof rebirth is added, it becomes clear why they placesuch little emphasis on things material. Tibetanslaugh often, even in times of extreme adversity likethe Chinese occupation they continue to endure.

Tibetans are devout Buddhists. This is undoubtedly what en-ables them to remain strong in the face of oppression. Theirbranches of Buddhism are unique, having strong linkages withBon, the Shamanist religion that prevailed in Tibet prior to theonset of Indian Buddhism.

One of our fellow passengers on theferry across the Yarlung river



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Tibetan Buddhism, whatever stream it takes, is central to aTibetan's life. It not only shapes the way they think, but also whatthey do on a day to day basis. It is normal to see Tibetansspinning prayer wheels and chanting mantras, almost as secondnature, as they go about their business. Making pilgrimages tochortens and gompas are a regular, often very time consumingand physically exerting pastime. So is the circumvention of maniwalls, sometimes several kilometres in length,as they are encountered on mountain trails orin towns and villages.

I dwelt upon the dramatic contrast between myown life and those of the locals I sat with as wepicked our way through a maze of sand bars inthe shallow, broad waters of the Yarlung River.The slow journey took about an hour and, onceon the far bank, we all boarded an open toppedChinese lorry to cover the remaining distanceacross golden sands to the small village ofSamye.

As we approached Samye Monastery, once acomplex of 108 buildings and the oldest of allTibetan Monasteries, I hoped that the damageinflicted on the sacred site by the Chinesewould not be too great.

Samye is set in a wide, flat valley surrounded by snowlesspeaks. Completed by King Trisong Detsen and Padmasambhavain 779, it represents the cradle of Tibetan culture. Although manyof the 108 buildings have disappeared, the central temple standstall. Ironically, while the first level is of Tibetan architectural style,the second level is Chinese and the third Indian, signifying theorigins of Tibetan culture.

I was initially impressed, then relieved, as we approached themonastery. It loomed over the mud walled dwellings spread outaround its base. The gilded rooves gleamed in the harsh sunand monks seemed to populate all the levels. It looked at onceformidable yet beautiful. The interior lived up to the exterior’sgrandeur, with intricately carved and painted frescoes, columns,doorways, Buddhist statues and thankas.

To visit any Tibetangompa is a very spe-cial experience. Theyespouse peace andnonviolence and,whilst being steepedin mystique, resultingfrom their great ageand the strong feelingof spiritual serenitythat pervades, a Ti-betan gompa is a liv-ing place. Monks anddevotees are alwaysthere, doing whatthey have done for somany centuries, giv-ing and seeking spiri-tual guidance and

traditional cures for physical ills. The head monk, known as theLama, is believed to possess magic, healing hands.

For a westerner, being in such a place can be a pertinentreminder of just how materialistic and unnecessarily complicatedwe sometimes permit our lives to become.

Outside and withinSamye Gompa



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Samye was indeed impressive, but I wanted to get a better feelfor the entire complex. Mr Wu agreed that, if I hurried, I couldclimb the hillside to the east of the village to get a view. I puffedmy way up about 100 metres in the thin air to a little, whitestuppa. The view back was worth the effort.

From my vantage point I could see busy farmers cajolingtheir yaks to plough faster while women bent over,tending crops. Well defined and orderly plots fanned outin all directions, accentuating the Gompa as if it were thecentre of the universe. Pilgrims made their way in aclockwise direction around pilgrim circuits and monksmoved about in the main courtyard of the Gompa. Thehills surrounding the valley, although devoid of snow,dwarfed all manmade objects. The limitless, blue sky inturn dwarfed the hills. It suddenly struck me again that Iwas actually in Tibet. And it was big, both in terms ofphysical dimensions and spiritual impact.

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Day two involved a 310km journey from Zetang toGyantse, Tibet’s fourth largest city. For the first twohours Pemba zoomed us along relatively level roadbeside the Yarlung River. Then we headed south, climb-ing quite rapidly up a dirt road that deteriorated as weascended. As we neared Kamba La, a prayer flag strewnpass at 4,900 metres, Pemba’s driving skills becameincreasingly questionable. His approach entailed charg-ing all obstacles at what ever speed was achievable withhis accelerator foot jammed to the floor. Hairpin turns,pot holes and mud patches all crashed by in a vibrating blur. Iwondered how long our comparatively delicate coach was goingto withstand Pemba’s punishment.

Arriving at the pass unscathed, we all got out for some freshalpine air. While a stiff wind whipped the multitudes of weatherbeaten prayer flags into a frenzy of prayer sending, I marveled atthe scene spread out before me over the pass. Directly below

lay Yamdrok Tso. Its almost lu-minous, turquoise coloured wa-ters seemed to soak up the sunsrays, radiating them back sky-wards in brilliant turquoise. Thehills surrounded the lake in richshades of brown and gold while,in the distance to the south, abeautiful snowclad mountainrange graced the near horizon. Ifigured that this must be KulaKangri, a 7,553 metre peak lyingon the border with Bhutan.

I was relieved to find Pembataking the downhill section a littlemore sanely. Even so, it didn’ttake long to reach the lake shoreat 4,480 metres. As we tracedthe sweeping bends of YambrokTso, the scenery resembledmore and more that near Sagar-martha in the Solu Khumbu, onlyflatter. Glaciers extended likegnarled, icy fingers from thesnowy peaks high above us.Sparkling streams supported lit-

tle explosions of plant life and Tibetan families, who had builttheir whitewashed, mud dwellings near their sustaining waters.

Samye Gompa viewed from thesurrounding hills



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At a convenience stop we were surprised when a group ofhunters materialized, seemingly out of nowhere. All sportedancient, flint lock rifles and one had a clutch of soft, red fox peltsthat he hoped to sell us. It never ceased toamaze me how people appeared unexpect-edly in the most remote places on the plateau.In such a vast, inhospitable and materiallybackward place, the local people were incred-ibly mobile.

We began to climb noticeably again. Thisheralded our approach to Karo La, which webreached, at speed, at 5,010 metres. Onceover the Karo La, during the 75 km descent toGyantse, the scenery underwent another per-ceptible change. As the mountains receded,wide open, desolate valleys painted in shadesof red and gold dominated. Nearing Gyantse,the scene became more fertile, featuring largefields of golden barley, interspersed with nu-merous little Tibetan villages. Little, whitestuppas dotted the hillsides, yaks toiled pon-derously at the behest of their hardy masters,or grazed contentedly in the fields.

At face value, the only evidence of any Chi-nese influence was the occasional destroyedgompa. Everything else seemed to be as itmight have been for centuries. The people Isaw during the entire journey along the south-ern route to Gyantse were also unmistakablyTibetan. There was no evidence of the ubiqui-tous blue Maoist suits - all were dressed in Tibetan clothing. Itwas surprising and reassuring.

Our first sight of Gyantse was of the Dzong, a formidable lookingfort planted firmly atop a prominent high point some 200 metresabove the surrounding plain. Even in ruins, the Dzong com-

manded our skyward gaze. It con-jured up images of courage anddesperation in my mind’s eye. In1904 Gyantse was the site of Tibet’slast gallant attempt to halt the BritishExpeditionary force led by FrancisYounghusband.

Since 1268 the Gyantse Dzong hadcontrolled passage along the silkroute. Its location was ideal for polic-ing those who trod it and for extract-ing taxes. Maybe the 1904 defend-ers felt confidence in the Dzongbecause it had performed soformidably for so long but, given thegulf between Younghusband’s mod-ern weapons and the Tibetan’s an-cient muskets and slingshots, it wasa tragically one-sided confrontation.The result was 2,700 Tibetandeaths, Younghusband lost 40 of histroops, but his passage to Lhasawas assured.

Thankfully, Chinese destruction wasless evident. Due to the shape of thecrescent ridge enclosing the old partof town, virtually all Chinese con-

struction had occurred outside the old city walls.

Above, looking across Yamdrok Tso to Kula Kangrifrom Kamba La

Below, a view towards Gyantse from Karo La



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Gyantse lies 250 kms southwest of Lhasa at 3,950 metres,housing a population of 10,000. Once a major wool craft centre,the trade had struggled to re-emerge since Chinese occupationalmost snuffed it out. To view old Gyantse from either the Dzong,at the eastern end; or the crumbling city wall above the fabulousPango Chorten and Palkhor Choide Gompa, at thewestern end; was one of adventure travel’s rare privi-leges. To see it was to see a concentrated dose ofTibetan culture, encapsulated within the easily di-gestible confines of the brick-red city walls.

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Waking with a head cold, spread through the tour groupvia the air conditioning in our now battered mini coach,I got my chance to explore Gyantse at dawn. As Iwalked briskly along the wide main street, exhalingwarm mist into the biting air and marveling at theimposing silhouette of the Dzong, roosters announcedthe arrival of the sun’s first rays on the town. It was 8.30am Beijing time. Eventually I reached a high point on one of thepilgrim circuits up behind the chorten where, below me, anotherday in Gyantse unfolded.

Pilgrims circumvented the beautifully decorated, nine leveledchorten as the all seeing eyes of the Buddha, painted on theoutsides of the ninth level, gazed down approvingly. This spec-tacular chorten, standing since 1389, is shaped like a threedimensional Mandala, representing the Buddhist universe. Thepilgrims also moved purposefully around the neighboringGompa, constructed by members of the Gelukpa sect, turningscores of golden prayer wheels as they passed. In and out of theGompa, up and along the ridge, tracing ever larger pilgrim trailsthey went, until their energy failed them.

Smoke rose from the crumbling chimneys, people took sun ontheir flat rooves, or passed the time of day trading market itemsor just talking in the wide main street linking the Dzong with theGompa. In narrow, meandering alleyways mangy dogs snarledat passing strangers.

Left, a view of the GyantseDzong at dawn, from oldGyantse

Bottom left, locals outside thenine leveled chorten

Bottom right, a section of thechorten



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Before midday we were once again careering along madly at themercy of Pemba. Our destination was Shigatse, Tibet’s secondlargest city, 90 kms northwest of Gyantse. It shouldn’t havetaken very long to cover the distance across mostly flat terrain,but Pemba’s aggressive driving style finally caught up with us.Half an hour out of Gyantse our rear axle snapped. Clunk, thatwas that, so it seemed!

Luckily we ground to a dusty halt close toa roadside village, so Mr Wu swung intoaction. While he made arrangements for aChinese lorry to take us on to Shigatse,we enjoyed the spontaneous opportunityto mingle with the villagers.

It felt a little awkward at first, a bit like agroup of earthlings unexpectedly bumpinginto a group of Martians. We had ourbright, tidy, western clothes, shinny cam-eras, recently shampooed hair and whitefaces. They had their ragged, dust cov-ered jackets, babies slung onto theirbacks, disheveled, matted hair and windburned, leather faces.

But we all shared one universal trait, curiosity. Initial barriersdissolved and soon little clusters of villagers followed each of thegroup’s every move. One of my wealthy American colleaguesmade the naive gesture of giving one of the tenacious littlechildren some money. Predictably, the crowd went wild, every-one trying to get their own personal handout. For a few momentsI thought it would all end in tears and when the crowd eventuallycalmed down I was quite relieved. At least my group had learntthe price of playing God.

As the minutes passed into hours, the villagers started to driftaway. This gave me an opportunity to take some photographsand also to sit quietly next to a roadside cobbler, watching hisearthen, yet nimble fingers at work.

Eventually a lorry arrived and Tibetan style, packed into its opentray, we rumbled our way into Shigatse. It was lateafternoon, but there was still sufficient daylight for me toexplore the scarce remains of the once mighty, fifteenthcentury Samdup-tse Dzong, as well as the flea marketand narrow alley ways at its base.

Luckily one of my group members joined me. He proved to be agood companion as we negotiated the narrow alleyways leadingindirectly to the foot of the Dzong, because we needed oneanother to watch the other’s back. If the rubble strewn paths andopen sewers didn’t get us, the savage hounds lurking aroundevery blind corner and in every low doorway probably would. Itwas quite un-nerving and, on several occasions, we had to hurlrocks at advancing packs of vicious mongrels before finallyreaching the trail leading up to the ruined Dzong.

Shigatse



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I had heard tails about the savagery of Tibet’s canine population.Huge, fearless Tibetan Mastiffs guarded their master’s tents onthe wide expanses of the plateau, but meeting them in heavilypopulated areas was an unpleasant surprise to me.

The exertion and anxious moments were worth it when wereached the top. Before us, on a flat plain, lay a tranquilpanorama giving no hint of theunpleasant surprises lurking inthe many alleyways below.Bathed in golden, evening lightwere the whitewashed, low levelhouses and shops of the 40,000people of Shigatse. The cityglowed in the soft light, beauti-fully complimented by a band ofreddish gold hills behind.

As the sun sank, the vast bulk ofthe ruined Dzong asserted itsshadow on the town, a timelyque for us to make a hastydescent. Neither of us relishedthe prospect of picking our wayback through those inhospitablealleyways in the dark.

The main reason for our journey to Shigatse was to visit thecream, brown and ochre coloured monastic city of Tashillunpo.Built in 1447, Tashillunpo is the official seat of the PanchenLama, head of the Gelukpa or Yellow Hat Buddhist sect. Thisspiritual leader, claimed by some to be a reincarnation of theDalai Lama’s tutor is, in the eyes of Tibetans, second only to theDalai Lama.

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The day we explored the wonders of Tashillunpo it happened tobe the anniversary of the death of the first Dalai Lama. Ourtiming was fortunate, as it meant we were able to see the gompaat its liveliest. Tibetan pilgrims were everywhere, busily drapingdelicate, white scarves in homage to multitudes of Deities.

The most impressive deity washoused in the Hall of theMaitreya. Meaning Buddha ofthe future, Maitreya is seated ona lotus and plated in 10,050ounces of solid gold. He is thelargest statue of Buddha in Tibet,standing 27 metres tall, withthree metre long ears. Asidefrom his gigantic size, the dimlylit, ancient chamber encasinghim added to the mysticism I feltthere. Going by the hushedtones and wide eyes of the pil-grims, it appeared that they felt ittoo. In many respects, he em-bodied the same spiritually mov-ing qualities that the Himalayanmountains do.

I came upon another smaller chamber, filled by maroon robed,chanting monks. The hypnotic hum of their chanting rose andfell. I imagined what it must be like inside a beehive and feltsomehow envious that I didn’t also belong to such a closeknitfraternity as the monks appeared to enjoy.

The main entrance to Tashillunpo Monastery, Shigatse



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Outside the many chambers, pilgrims dutifully made their wayaround meritorious circuits, within the complex itself and thenoutside the walls of Tashillunpo. Some were satisfied simply towalk, as they caressed rosaries and rhythmically spun portableprayer wheels, known in Tibet as Khor-lo. Others prostrated theirway around the grueling outer circuit, which led them high ontothe ridge above Tashillunpo and over towardsthe ruined Dzong. Such religious devotion hasnever ceased to amaze me.

We came upon a large courtyard surrounded bylavishly decorated frontages. At one side a Ti-betan orchestra played. To my western ears itsounded more like a mysterious concoction ofthunder clashes, from large cymbals, and boom-ing whale flatulence, from two very long horns.Monks sporting ceremonial garb danced in slowmotion to the strange music, waving longswords this way and that. The Tibetan audienceseemed entranced, no doubt following someancient tale as it unfolded in the dance. For me,the pace was too slow and, in my ignorance, themovements held no significance.

We departed for Lhasa around midday. Mr Wuhad done well, successfully arranging the overnight dispatch,from Lhasa, of a replacement mini coach. Pemba seemedunmoved, indicating that replacement vehicles may have been aregular occurrence for him.

By the central route, we sped along tarsealed roading beside thesurging waters of the Tsangpo River. Valley walls soared abovefor much of the journey, until we reached the broad expanse ofthe Kyichu valley on our final approach to Lhasa.

The highlight of this leg was the opportunity to observe modernday Tibetan fishing techniques in action. As we passed a widesection of the Tsangpo, we were startled by a loud thud. Out onthe milky, turquoise surface of the river floated a small yak skinboat containing two enterprising Tibetans. The thud had been asubmerged stick of dynamite exploding and, as we got over the

shock of it, the ‘fishermen’casually went about har-vesting their catch.

Tracing the west wall ofthe Kyichu valley, werounded a bend and sud-denly, there before us inthe distance, stood a ma-jestic edifice. There wasno mistaking the Potala.Despite the absence ofthe Dalai Lama himself,his official winter palacecontinued to watch overhis kingdom’s largest city,as it has since 1643. As ifreaching to the heavens,it stood as an architec-

tural testimony to the indomitable spirit of the Tibetan people.

I had grandiose preconceptions about what the Potala would belike. Seeing the real thing for the first time, I wasn’t disappointed.The building is on a grand scale, 13 floors together reachingnearly 120 metres in height, more than 1,000 rooms, 10,000alters and 200,000 Buddhist statues. The almost sheer, creamand burnt ochre walls, gilded rooves, and huge, tangled clustersof prayer flags could not fail to impress.

A pilgrim at Tashillunpo At a festival at Tashillunpo



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Just as the Dalai Lama is Tibet’s equivalent to the Pope, so thePotala in Tibet can be likened to the Vatican in Italy. Potala isderived from the Sanskrit word ‘Bodala’, meaning Buddha’smountain, signifying just how sacred this place of Tibetan wor-ship is. The People’s Liberation Army shelled it during the 1959uprising, but even the Chinese realized what a treasure thebuilding is and put a stop to the destruction before itwas irreparable.

Lhasa, situated at 3,683 metres, has variously beenboth the religious and political centre of Tibet. Itspopulation of 150,000 makes it by far the largest cityin Tibet, but less than a third of those living in Lhasaare Tibetans. Consequently, a large part of the city ischaracterless Chinese concrete. There is a Tibetanquarter centred on the Barkhor Bazaar, which I wasitching to explore. I hoped that Mr Wu would give us alittle slack the next day when we were scheduled tocall there.

We checked into the Lhasa Holiday Inn at dusk. Thestandards in this hotel were a great deal better thanour first encounter with Chinese accommodation backin Zetang so, from a third level balcony with beer inhand, I struggled to come to terms with the dramaticcontrast between my own cocooned luxury and therealities of life outside the hotel walls. Historical ac-counts by people like the English explorer Manning, Younghus-band and Lowell Thomas Junior all make reference to thesqualor in the streets of Lhasa. Many of those shoddy streetsspread before me then, but I found it difficult to drag my gazeaway from the Potala, which loomed up directly ahead. When thelast rays of the sun had gone, I slipped back to the centrallyheated comfort of my room to watch Rambo, first blood.

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Next morning began auspiciously. Whether it was due to arrivingin the holy city, to having witnessed Rambo’s super humancarnage the previous evening, or simply to coincidence, mydigestive tract ended its four day strike.

Feeling considerably more comfortable, I was shepherdedacross to the Potala by Mr Wu. The Buddha’s Mountain wasswarming with pilgrims. Although it was intriguing to look behindthe mighty walls at what was contained in the many assemblyhalls, meditation chambers, shrines, chapels, mausoleums andprivate apartments, I found that pilgrim watching was even moreentertaining. They came from all over Tibet, an astoundinglydiverse group, all sharing one common, unshakable devotion.

The magnificent Potala



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Some of the most notable types of pilgrims weretrendy Lhasa urbanites, wearing an amusingblend of western and Tibetan clothes; swarthy,dust-caked peasants; volatile Khampas, easilydistinguished by red or black twine braided intotheir hair and by the prominently displayed dag-gers under their belts; Golok nomads from Qinghaiprovince, distinguished by the Golok women withwaist length, yak butter smeared, plaited hair; andmonks, representing all the main Tibetan Buddhistsects from all over the plateau.

Inside the Potala our group might have beeninvisible. In competition with the sights offered inthe Dalai Lama’s official residence, we held nointerest for the pilgrims. Here was another reas-suring indication of how strong a Tibetan’s faithwas.

That afternoon we visited the true heart of Lhasa.Known as the Barkhor, this is a bazaar shapedroughly as an octagon, with the most holy gompain Tibet, the Jokhang, located at its centre. There-fore, the bazaar has become one of the mostcolourful pilgrim circuits in Tibet.

Before 1949, traditional, three leveled Tibetanhousing totally surrounded the Barkhor. Narrowalleyways weaved towards it from all directions.The Barkhor and, more specifically, the Jokhangappeared suddenly and dramatically. Today, it isstill possible to experience this sensation on fivesides of the octagon, but not at the most spectacular front sideof the Jokhang, where a wide concrete courtyard has been laid.

Although this courtyard is not a part of Lhasa asTibetans had created it, it has nevertheless be-come a colourful, usually happy, gathering place.My first sighting of the Jokhang was still a mostmemorable one. Before me, a sea of Tibetanswent about their business to a backdrop of creamand rust brown walls and gleaming decorativeroofing. The same diverse mix of pilgrims that Ihad enjoyed watching up in the Potala now wan-dered about, while merchants and beggars ca-joled them, artisans entertained them, touristsphotographed them and Chinese soldiers quietlyoversaw them.

I joined the throng, marveling atthe sheer variety of sights andsounds. Eventually I reached thefront of the Jokhang but, evenbefore I got there, I could hear astrange scuffing sound. It wasthe sound of scores of pilgrimsprostrating on the stone floorbefore the huge main entranceto the Jokhang. I stood watchingthis for 30 minutes or more, dur-ing which time most of the pros-trators continued their deliberaterhythm unabated. The huge flatstones forming the floor hadbeen rubbed silky smooth, likeriver boulders. My mind boggledat the thought of how many pros-trations it had taken over thecenturies to achieve this.

Pilgrims queinginside the Potala

The courtyard at the frontof the Jokhang



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From the courtyard, people funneled off to the left, moving in aclockwise direction, around the Barkhor. The entire circuit waslined with markets, little shops, street vendors and prayer wheelstations. On sale were curios and ornaments, carpets, turquoise,coral, silver and other jewelry, daggers, animal skins, yak meatand other edibles such as yak cheese and yogurt, prayer flags,ceremonial scarves, khor-lo, thankas, clothing, Tibetan reme-dies, even Dalai Lamaphotographs, in fact any-thing a pilgrim could pos-sibly want.

It took more than twohours to circumnavigatemy way twice aroundwhat I guessed to beabout a one kilometrecircuit. I might havetaken longer if I hadn’tbeen obliged to meet therest of the group outsidethe main entrance of theJokhang.

At the agreed time, MrWu diligently gatheredtogether his little flock and ushered us past many prostratingpilgrims into the gloom of the Jokhang. We were met by a verycharming, bald, old monk who spoke passable English. In hiscrimson robe he led us past long banks of golden prayer wheels,into the main chamber on the ground level. We were the onlynon residents in the gompa, so enjoyed plenty of space to movearound.

The Jokhang was founded in 650 by Songtsen Gampo, who wasinstrumental in establishing Buddhism in Tibet. Throughout itshistory, the Jokhang has always played a significant role. Unlikeother Tibetan gompas, the Jokhang is used by all Buddhistsects, making it a spiritual centre for all Tibetans. It has, at times,been a centre for various different sects as well. During the 1959uprising, Tibetan freedom fighters used the gompa as a refuge,

mistakenly believingthat the Chinese wouldnot have the gall to at-tack it.

Although the Chinesehave imposed strictrules on what themonks are permitted tolet tourists do insidetheir gompas, our monkwas clearly more con-cerned about giving usthe best insight hecould about theJokhang. In typicallyhospitable Tibetan stylehe answered our ques-tions, permitted us to

take photographs and let us explore the many chambers on fourlevels. There were 20 chapels on the ground level alone, dedi-cated to deities, saints and kings. Leading us to a small chapelat the back of the ground level, he unlocked the heavy, wroughtiron, chain curtain that barred our entry. Inside, surrounded byextravagant ornamentation, precious jewels and protectivedeities, was the Jowo Sakyamuni, most revered of all statues ofBuddha in Tibet.

The Barkhor is a great place to meet some of the many colourful characters of Tibet



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Although it is uncertain whether the statue is original, or had tobe replicated following the handiwork of the Red Guards, its auraremained. The Sakyamuni is 1.7 metres tall, a statue of theBuddha at twelve years of age. Said to be one of only threestatues crafted of the first Buddha while he was alive, the statueis beautiful, covered in gold and inlaid with many preciousstones. It is believed that PrincessBhrikuti Devi brought the statue from herNepalese home in the seventh centurywhen she traveled to Tibet to marrySongtsen Gampo.

Apart from the Sakyamuni’s obvious fas-cination, the whole gompa oozed charac-ter and mystique. The exquisite frescoes,carved architraves and columns, statuesand thankas were delicate, yet seemedas much a part of the harsh Tibetanplateau as anything else. With the ab-sence of pilgrims, the dim light of count-less yak butter lamps gave the illusionthat the Jokhang lacked life, but a torch beam confirmed thatTibetans have used bright, vibrant colours since the ancienttimes when they applied them to the interior of the Jokhang.

I explored my way up through the levels, eventually findingmyself out on a huge flat roof. In contrast to the interior cham-bers, the roof was bathed in bright sunlight, which glinted offmultitudes of gilded friezes, cornices, statues and roofing panels.Even more enchanting was the spectacle spread out directlybelow me outside the main entrance. The sound of cloth rubbingon stone amplified upwards, accentuating the deliberate effortsof the prostrators. From my vantage point they were oblivious tomy presence, perfect circumstances for a photographer.

By gazing outwards, I could take in the whole courtyard, many ofthe houses in the Tibetan quarter, which reached a maximum ofthree levels in deference to the four leveled Jokhang and, in thedistance directly ahead, an unimpeded view of the magnificentPotala. The omnipresent reddish gold hills and alpine blue skyprovided the perfect backdrop. I stayed there as long as I could,

relishing the ambience and ponder-ing about how similar my view couldbe to that enjoyed by the angels inheaven.

That evening, well meaning Mr Wutook us to a “genuine” Tibetanrestaurant. Here I encountered yetanother irony. The food and sur-roundings didn’t seem very Tibetanat all, but Dave, another member ofmy group, and I did end up sharinga genuine Chinese frontiersman’sexperience.

Dave was the eternal joker comeparty animal. Action at our table hadall but died out so Dave had gotten

himself into an hilarious sign language conversation with a groupof stolid looking Chinese soldiers. He couldn’t speak any Man-darin, they couldn’t speak any English, but they all seemed to beengrossed. Dave kept them entertained for some time, butthere’s only so much that can be done with sign language. Hewas struggling, but clearly wasn’t ready to retire. “Hey, Pete,come over here and meet some friends of mine.” The fatefulwords had been uttered, I complied and, for the next few hoursDave and I took on the might of China in an orgy of drinking, armwrestling, Indian leg wrestling and knuckle bashing contests.

The sacred Jowo Sakyamuni,housed inside the inner-mostchamber of the Jokhang



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We actually fared quite well, against the odds you might say and,in the finish, we all parted the best of friends. The soldiersceremoniously presented each of us with a people’s fountainpen, which I later found didn’t work, then gave us a militaryescort back to the Holiday Inn, in the cab of one of their lorries.

I felt strangely emotional when we saidfarewell. I felt like I should hate them forwhat they represented in Tibet, but thatwas quite impossible because they hadbeen very warm acquaintances, just abunch of young men seeking fun andcompanionship, like Dave and I. I consid-ered the notion about soldiers being justpawns of politicians. Could that excusethem for the brutality so many of themhad committed in Tibet? In my drunkenstate it was all too hard, so I went to bed.

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On our last full day in Shangri La we ventured outside centralLhasa. Spread over a large area up on a hillside west of the city,lay the monastic city of Drepung. Founded in 1416 as a Gelukpamonastery, it became the largest monastery in the world - in itsheyday housing 10,000 monks. Although now being rebuiltfollowing the Chinese invasion, only 400 monks lived in whatremained of the once gigantic complex.

I found the cavernous, soot coated kitchen particularly interest-ing. Monks stood on tables, pumping long staffs in and out ofgiant butter tea churns. The colourful rock paintings on thehillside high above the buildings were also memorable, as wasthe view back towards Lhasa.

In the afternoon we visited the Tibetan Medical college of Lhasa.Although Tibet is still in the dark ages in some respects, this cannot be said about their medical prowess. However, it follows avery different approach to Western medicine. Tibetan medicinefocuses on energy flows, seeking to treat causes of illnesses

rather than their symptoms. Herbalremedies and acupuncture alsoplay an important part. The medicalcollege housed a huge range ofelaborate medical thankas, outlin-ing Tibetan medical theories andapproaches.

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Next morning, at breakfast on theday of our departure from Tibet, Imet a Frenchman who had spenttwo months in Tibet in 1985 when,for a time, the Chinese permittedindependent tourists to enter. Thatdoor closed again in 1987 whenTibetans staged another uprising.

At first, he surprised me by explaining that Tibet seemed more‘Tibetan’ now than when he first visited. But when I thoughtabout my own preconceptions about Tibet under Chinese occu-pation, I had to agree that Tibetan culture was more prevalentthan I’d expected too. This realization consoled me as we set offfor a last look around the Barkhor before our departure forGonggar airport.

Making butter tea in the kitchenat Drepung Monastery



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Despite the beautiful clear morning, for some reason the atmo-sphere in the Barkhor had completely changed. Chinese soldiersmarched around briskly in squads, any Tibetans about no longerbeamed big smiles, or sought to sell things to us and theatmosphere was electric. Mr Wu explained quietly that itwas soon to be the anniversary of the 1987 uprising andthe Chinese were not about to tolerate any nonsense.

Being there in the Barkhor enabled me to more vividlyimagine how I would feel if uninvited foreigners hadbrutally forced their way into New Zealand and, oncethere, ran about with guns telling me what to do and howto behave. I felt outraged but, under the circumstances, Iwould have been naive and foolish to show any form ofprotest.

I hope at least that the words and images on these pageswill help more people to form their own sympatheticopinions about the plight of the Tibetan people, therebyadding weight to the growing international opposition tothe Chinese occupation of Tibet.

Our return flight to Kathmandu was just as beautiful asour outbound leg the week before, crystal clear weatherand calm conditions. Strange then that, when we arrivedback at Kathmandu airport, I met several long facedWesterners who all told the same tale of woe, their flightto Gonggar airport had been cancelled “due to badweather”. Maybe so, but these unfortunates all made acommon wrong assumption, that Mother Nature was toblame. The official line would have been more accurate ifit had read “due to bad political weather”. I realized thenhow lucky our group had been, how privileged we were tohave been given a glimpse of the forbidden land.

The Tibetan people have been molded by thousands of yearsliving in a unique, isolated and hostile environment. By westernstandards they are technologically and economically backward,

but it is now widelyaccepted that theyare spiritually and in-tellectually ad-vanced, in terms ofreligion andmedicine.

Tibetans have learntto live in synchro-nization with nature.To them the Chineseoccupation, althoughcatastrophically bru-tal and far reaching,is but a blip in theiramazing story. It ap-pears that it will takemore than Chinesepersecution, igno-rance and arroganceto snuff out theirspirit. Tibetansseemed to me to em-body, in human form,the heart and soul ofthe Himalaya. I hadbeen privileged to geta glimpse of thatsoul.

Symbols of Tibetan faith - prayer flags in the BarkhorBelow, an example of the devastation following Chinese

occupation - ruins at Drepung Monastery



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Tibet’s isolation, whilst opening a door for the red guards to flood throughin 1949, may in the end be their ultimate route to cultural and spiritualsurvival. Motivated by concern for the survival of the Tibetan people andtheir unique culture, the West is finally speaking out against the Chineseoccupation. Yet, a much subtler, but potentially far greater threat to thesurvival of unique cultures is westernization itself.

The processes of industrialization, modernization, urbanization, con-sumerism and democracy have fundamentally altered cultures all over theworld, to the extent that they are barely recognizable as distinct culturesanymore. Will this be the final irony in the story of Tibet’s struggle forsurvival, as Tibetan refugees, forced from their homeland, gain exposureto the material comforts and notions of the west, ultimately losing theirown faith in the process?

Tibet is a unique treasure of nature and of mankind,struggling to survive against daunting odds. Theirdevotion and tenacity have forced a shift in China’sstance, which appears to soften as the years pass.But it is not the Chinese who hold the only key toTibet’s survival.

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Plenty to contemplate fromthe roof of the Jokhang

Where is Tibet’sroad leading?



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tibet against the odds - occasional climber · from tibet tours and travels, our host and made some...

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