The turquoise lake

by Rupert Wolfe Murray | 12 Apr, 2019 | Journeys

The next day I walked out of Gyantse in the direction of Lhasa. After a few hours I came across a scruffy old bus that was full of Tibetans and parked by the roadside. I stuck my head in the door, pointed eastwards and said Lhasa. They nodded and so I climbed aboard. The Chinese driver demanded twenty yuan and I grudgingly paid, assuming this would get me all the way to Lhasa. Later on we pulled in at a run-down concrete truck stop at the side of a lake and trooped inside to get some food. The place was in uproar. There was a shouting match going on between the Chinese cooks and the Tibetan clientele. My fellow passengers immediately joined in the fray and the noise increased. I sat down and waited, wondering what all the fuss was about. When things had calmed down I went into the kitchen, ordered some food and was given what looked like grass fried in grease. It was disgusting, inedible, and I too became an angry supplicant, demanding my money back. Back at the bus the driver refused to let me back on board. My rucksack had been flung into the dust and he was preparing to leave. There was nothing I could do, nothing I could say. I’d been ripped off and this made me even more furious. I wandered back to the truck stop, feeling lost, angry and demotivated. Hmm, they have rooms here, I thought. I will get myself a little room and read from my book Siddartha. That should be relaxing.

Later on that evening I wrote a letter to Bettina in Vienna: Tibet is too hard. I want to come home. See you soon. I was feeling lonely and miserable and sorry for myself. Time to go for a walk, through this village with no name and maybe up a hill. I passed an official building with a huge red banner showing stylised images of the revolution: sunrise, stars, tractors, abundant harvest, strong handsome peasants and a feeling of hope. I walked up the nearest hill and found a curious network of sticks at the top, each one adorned with scores of little flags with strange symbols on them. I remembered the annoying Englishman from the truck telling me that the Tibetans put their prayers into little flags, place them in a windy place, usually on top of hills and mountains, and believe the winds carry the prayers up to heaven. That made sense, as much sense as believing in an old man with a white beard living in the clouds.

The view from the top was stunning – a long and thin turquoise lake out of which steep mountains rose, topped by dark pointed peaks. Huge black crows were circling above ominously. I could feel my anger and frustration and loneliness being lifted up and carried away by the wind.

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This is an extract from 9 Months in Tibet — the eBook — which will be published soon. If you’d like to reserve a copy just email me at wolfemurray@gmail.com (or post a short comment under this article).

Cities in the wilderness

by Rupert Wolfe Murray | 10 Apr, 2019 | Journeys

It was another day of walking and there were very few vehicles; about one truck every hour, none of which even slowed down. Storm clouds approached, the temperature dropped and I was walking up a long, seemingly endless hill. Rain had started to pour down and the wind blew hard and drove the rain into every part of my clothing. I stared back down the mountain, willing a vehicle to come this way. Any vehicle! As if in answer to my prayers I realised that something was chugging slowly up the road. Eventually an old tractor appeared and the driver gave me a look of sympathy. He was going so slowly that I easily jumped in the back and sat silently with three other Tibetan men. We ground our way up a high pass. At the top the tractor stopped, turned off the engine and the Tibetan men went over to a pile of stones by the side of the road and offered it blessings.

The tractor wouldn’t start. The driver tried the ignition, we all had a go with a crank handle but nothing would get the engine to start. We then tried pushing it but it was too heavy to move. There was no shelter anywhere from the wind and rain and I realised that if I didn’t get moving I would freeze to death. So I said goodbye to my glum companions, grabbed my soaking rucksack and started walking down the other side of the mountain. The next valley was rocky and deserted but it felt good to be on the move. Just when I was getting into my rhythm the tractor reappeared and the men in the trailer waved triumphantly. I jumped back on and we bumped along for what seemed like an eternity, through vast open spaces, mountain ranges, some containing ruined monasteries, and new colours that had been highlighted by the rain. There was no talking in that freezing trailer but when we stopped at a quarry, where they lit a fire and made tea, I felt that they appreciated my presence. The feeling was mutual. In darkness they dropped me in a big town.

Shigatse is an ancient Tibetan town that has become a Chinese garrison. I checked into a big green, concrete hotel and met a tall Australian in the lobby who told me he was on his way to the Holy Mountain, pointing to the west and assuming that I knew what he was on about. I didn’t and was too tired to listen. I just wanted a real bed, a real mattress, real sheets. By the next morning I was wallowing in luxury and got up late, washed my socks, went out and ate delicious Chinese food on the street and then visited the big monastery that dominates the town. I noticed the strange smells, the atmosphere, and looked at huge statues with red faces, but didn’t have the energy to take it all in. I went back to that wonderful bed to build up some energy for hitching the next day.

The key to hitching is energy. If you have the energy it’s easy to cope with the walking, the standing around for hours and the constant rejection by thousands of heartless drivers. Without energy I just couldn’t do it. Hitching out of Shigatse was easy as there were more vehicles than I had seen in all of Tibet: tractors and trailers going to a nearby quarry, hundreds of cheery horsemen, some of them pulling trailers, all of them smoking and dressed in black, and the odd truck. I jumped in the back of a slow-moving tractor filled with boys with shovels. After a few minutes they gesticulated that I should get out (which I had no intention of doing) and then I saw why – they turned off the main road and into a quarry. Soon after I got a lift in an old Toyota Landcruiser and haggled hard with the Chinese driver to take me to the next city, Gyantse, for five yuan (50p). He offered to take me all the way to Lhasa for another five yuan but I decided to check out Gyantse. When we arrived in the evening he dropped me outside a rough tourist hostel and said he would be back to pick me up in the morning. I never saw him again.

The hostel was newly-built but it had been ravaged by the elements and looked shabby. It had a big concrete courtyard at the back that was full of broken vehicles, building materials and other junk. I could smell the low toilet building on one side of the courtyard. A surly Chinese family demanded money, took me upstairs to a balcony that led to a large, crowded and dingy dormitory. I noticed the windows were unusually big for this country, where local houses seem to have no windows at all, but the curtains were thin and grimy. All the beds but one were taken by foreign travellers.

There was a good buzz in the room. The centre of attention was a tanned Chinese American girl and her Danish boyfriend. They told good stories, were popular with everyone, and were having a good laugh with a group of hippies from Holland. They welcomed me into the discussion. They were laughing about the two Englishman who were camping on the balcony, just outside the door:

– What’s so funny about those English guys? I asked.

– They’re crazy, said one of the Dutch hippies. They come to a hostel, pay for a bed and then sleep on the balcony. I think they just want to show us how tough they are and what good camping equipment they have.

– Maybe they got a discount, I said.

– No, explained the Chinese American girl. I talked to them. They’re loaded. The one with the aristocratic Brit accent is an officer with the Ghurkhas and the other one is a stockbroker in Hong Kong. They’re doing this fake camping thing so they can tell their buddies back home: I went camping in Tibet.

That evening we stood on the other end of the balcony, watching the stars over the wave-like formation of hills. The friendly American girl was talking about her plans for the next trip to Tibet which would be by horseback (I asked her if she had ever done anything like this before and she said she’d ridden a donkey on a Mexican beach). A small Tibetan man joined us and asked endless questions; this was the first Tibetan I had met who spoke good English. All the travellers had been to Lhasa and one of them, the Dane, had spent four months there:

– What did you do for four months? I asked.

– It takes that long to get to know the place.

– Really? I get bored of a town pretty fast, unless I get a job. Maybe I’ll get a job in Lhasa.

– You can’t get a job in Lhasa. The only foreigners who work there are at the Lhasa Hotel, which is run by the American company Holiday Inn. That was part of some high-level government deal. You can’t just rock up and get a job.

– I know, that’s why I’m heading to Shanghai.

– What are you going to do there?

– Teach English.

– Aha, that’s possible. I guess you’ve already arranged it?

– No, I replied, feeling slightly embarrassed that I had arranged nothing in advance. What kept me going was a blind, dumb faith that things would turn out well.

The next day, before leaving, I had a quick look at Gyantse Monastery. It looked small on the outside but was vast inside. The inner walls were painted with big faces of black demons, creatures that Tibetans believe protect them from evil, and Buddhist statues everywhere. The place was deserted and there were marks of desecration everywhere, holes in the wall that looked like they had been made with pick axes or bullets. The town was dominated by a small fortress that sits on top of a low hill, but I didn’t have the energy to visit it. It was time to hitch to Lhasa.

A big group of Italians, who had been staying in another room, had assembled in the yard, awaiting their transport. They seemed rather like the Italians I had seen at the border: noisy, well-dressed and unable to hire a bus. Some time later a flat-bed truck turned up with a canvas-covered back and a Chinese driver. The Italians seemed delighted even though the truck was dusty and they were in fashionable clothes. Once they were all loaded, the Chinese driver sealed the back of the truck (was it illegal to pick up foreigners?) and got in the cab. He was joined by two cheery Italians who took the other front seats. Just before the truck pulled out an old Tibetan man ambled over to the cab and stared blankly at the Italian passengers. The nearest Italian thought this was amusing and he leaned out and pinched the old man’s cheek between thumb and forefinger and declared in a loud voice:

– Ciao bello.

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This is an extract from 9 Months in Tibet — the eBook — which will be published soon. If you’d like to reserve a copy just email me at wolfemurray@gmail.com (or post a short comment under this article).

I wanted to weep and scream with joy

by Rupert Wolfe Murray | 6 Apr, 2019 | Journeys

The plateau stretched out across vast distances, with each horizon serrated by mountains. It was an uninhabited desert, alive with colours and strange sounds made by the wind, much more inspiring than the rather static photographs one sees in the National Geographic magazine.

The village I had been left in was a small collection of low-slung mud buildings, ideally suited to resist the wind and dust. You couldn’t actually see any houses as they were all surrounded by walls which, I guessed, act as a wind, dust and snow barrier. I could see goats and children and assumed I could scrounge a cup of tea, or some water. A barefoot child ran up to me and then dashed off in terror after I made a gesture meaning drink. He came back with a crowd of noisy kids and a strange mime act followed: me pretending to drink and the kids screaming with laughter. They were filthy, dressed in rags and scraps of animal furs but they looked happy, fit and healthy. Eventually they realised what I wanted and two of their members were sent racing off across the dust. A woman appeared carrying a gourd. She was wearing a long leather coat, with fur on the inside, belted at the waist. Her face was dark brown, filthy and weather-beaten but her teeth looked perfect. She passed me the gourd and I sucked at it desperately while the kids clapped and screamed with joy. It contained sour goat’s milk and felt like the best thing I had ever drunk in my life. I felt invigorated. I thanked them in Chinese and walked on. The kids followed me for about a mile down the long dusty road.

The land was empty as far as the eye could see. Every hundred yards stood a wooden telegraph pole and the wire stretching between them made strange humming noises in the wind. It felt like someone was trying to talk to me in a language I didn’t understand. I examined an ancient stone wall by the side of road and compared it to the ones I knew from the lowlands of Scotland. This wall was made up of large round stones, as if from a river or sea, not like in Scotland where stones for drystone dykes are dug from the earth. I got so lost in these thoughts that I almost missed the truck that was approaching. Then the roar and dust cloud was upon me. The truck was slowing down. What joy! I ran along the road, waving to the driver – who took one look at me and accelerated. But he had slowed down just enough for me to race after him, grab the tailgate and get into the back of the truck. I lay face down enjoying a moment of rest, grateful to be moving, enjoying the comfort of a wooden floor. And then I felt a hand on my arm. I looked up and saw a row of western faces.

They asked the usual questions:

– Where are you from? Where are you going? My answers were short and simple:

– Scotland and Shanghai!

It felt strange being able to talk normally with people who could understand me and I wasn’t sure I liked it. The more time I spent in the wilderness the less I felt the need to talk, and the more I felt the power of silence. On my right was the guy who had touched my arm and helped me up. He was from Denmark and his face was tanned from travelling. He looked kind and had a blonde moustache. He seemed to be with the thin Englishman with a red face, clutching his camera and staring out of the open back of the flat-bed truck. The Englishman didn’t want to miss anything and kept taking photos. On the other side of the truck sat an emaciated-looking Australian who seemed to be staring at the spare tyre. He was the only one who seemed unimpressed with the spectacular view that was unfolding behind us, as if to say this is nothing! You should see the places I’ve been to! The wooden floor became uncomfortable and we all stood up for long periods with slightly bent legs, in the surfing position, trying to absorb the bumps, chatting like a group of commuters on the train into London.

The sun was going down and the evening light illuminated the dust cloud behind us with flashes of gold. The road started climbing again and we continued uphill for hours. The Englishman told us that soon we would reach nineteen thousand feet and I wondered why these travellers feel the need to know all sorts of facts and figures before they go anywhere. I could feel the altitude fiddling with my brain. Despite the headache I felt a wild freedom welling up inside me. I wanted to cry, to weep and scream with joy – all at the same time. By the time we reached the high pass I was slumped over an oil drum, fast asleep.

There was no movement and the stillness woke me from a deep, dreamless sleep. The truck was empty. I looked outside and saw them standing in a group talking with the driver and looking at the sun going down on a jagged horizon. The air was incredibly clear and you could see for miles. I jumped down and wandered over. The young Tibetan driver and his mate were animated and friendly and it was difficult to imagine that they had been quite happy to leave me by the side of the road earlier on.

– That’s Mount Everest over there, said the Dane, pointing to a ridge of mountains on the distant horizon. It looked impressive but it was hard to make out which one was the biggest as they all looked roughly the same size. I looked again and saw that one was slightly bigger than the others. That was the tallest mountain in the world?

– Chomolangma, said the driver with a smile.

– That’s the Tibetan word for Mount Everest, said the Englishman. To the Tibetans it’s a holy mountain.

There was a pause and I was glad to see nobody was encouraging this annoying Brit to spout any more of his schoolteacher-ish knowledge.

– He says we should take photos, said the Englishman, who took another. There was no way I was going back to the truck, to rummage through my bag, find my camera and waste a precious shot on a vast plateau like this – even though the colours were rather incredible. I had a crappy camera and only one film; I wanted to remember the feelings on this trip, not rely on photos to remember what happened.

– I only have black and white film I said, feeling as if I had to justify myself.

– The driver’s inviting you into the front, said the Australian with a trace of resentment. He lets us all ride in the front for a bit. Go for it mate!

Now I understood why nobody seemed to want the front seat: there was so little space between the dashboard and seat that your legs were constantly crushed. It reminded me of a story I had heard about the Russian T34 tank that was built in huge numbers during the Second World War. Apparently the Soviets saved huge amounts of steel by building the tank for small people and, so the story went, the Russians only recruited short people for the tank brigades. I wondered if the same designer had worked on this truck.

Darkness fell with surprising speed. Blackness spread out in every direction. I leaned forward, looked out through the grimy windscreen and saw that the sky was lit up by bright stars. The driver was talking to me in Tibetan and pointing up, but I couldn’t understand a word. The stars shone so brightly that I wondered if they were the same stars that we sometimes saw at home. They had to be, but these ones looked so much bigger and brighter. They seemed to illuminate the ground in the same way that moonlight would.

I decided to make friends with the driver and his mate so I rolled them a cigarette. Soon the cab filled with Dutch tobacco smoke and it seemed more cosy. They were chatty and I started to practice some Tibetan words with them. After much confusion I worked out that Dro is the Tibetan word for go. I pronounced it again and again, raising a few laughs from the driver’s mate, and eventually found the right tone. As we ploughed on into the night I worked out how to say: Lhasa. Go. You. Me.

We drove on and on through the night and I realised the driver wasn’t going to stop. My headache was getting worse and I felt exhausted too. I couldn’t cope with any more Tibetan words or jokes I didn’t get. Why didn’t the driver feel tired? He had been driving all day but he just seemed to get more cheery. We stopped a few times in the wilderness to get out, stretch our legs, have a pee and stare up at the sky. The Ozzie was getting restless and said I had been in the front for long enough; I came out of that warm cocoon and he jumped in. In the back I noticed the others had brought out puffy down jackets and Arctic sleeping bags and were looking very snug. I had nothing but a hat, a thin jacket and the plastic sheet I had picked up at the border. I started to freeze.

At the next stop an old woman wrapped in rags emerged from a low mud building. She was carrying a metal flask and she handed us each a hot cup of tea. The driver gave us all a packet of Chinese noodles and we dissolved them in the tea and ate greedily. Nothing had ever tasted better! Then I realised that I needed to stop, to get some sleep, to try and deal with my pounding headache. I told the Dane that I wasn’t going any further with them and he seemed disappointed, as if to say: don’t leave the cosy protection of the gang. I gestured to the driver, pointed to the mud buildings and indicated sleep. He understood, shouted what sounded like orders to the old woman and she disappeared into the darkness. There was a flurry of activity: parting greetings, headlights spearing the blackness, a roar of engine and the build-up of their dust cloud. I was left standing alone by the side of the road, hoping the old woman hadn’t barred her gate and left me to freeze. A few minutes later she re-appeared with another cup of tea, led me inside her low, dark, smoky abode and pointed to an ancient metal bed covered with a filthy carpet that would serve as my cover. I was so tired and in such pain from the headache that lying down on a surface that wasn’t bouncing up and down was pure unadulterated pleasure. I lay there with a smile on my face, trying to work out what the appalling smell coming from the carpet was and thinking that I really needed to get one of those high-tech sleeping bags. But none of this was important and within minutes I was fast asleep.

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This is an extract from 9 Months in Tibet — the eBook — which will be published soon. If you’d like to reserve a copy just email me at wolfemurray@gmail.com (or post a short comment under this article).

Hitching into Tibet

by Rupert Wolfe Murray | 4 Apr, 2019 | Journeys

The road from Khasa was surfaced with gravel and clung to the gorge precariously. Soon it became clear why there was no traffic: as I walked along I could hear boulders crashing down from the forested gorge above, bouncing over the road and plunging into the abyss below. It was still pouring with rain but the little square of plastic I had bought from the Tamang porters was keeping me dry and happy. After a few hours a Chinese man bounced along in an old car and gave me a lift. He was middle-aged, friendly and the seats were covered in some sort of carpeting. Even though he was only going for a few miles it was wonderful to relax in a comfortable chair. Our conversation consisted of single words:

– You? America? He said. America good! You go?

– Me? I replied. I go Shanghai!

– China! He concluded with disgust. No good! No money!

We finally reached the top of the gorge. On a nearby hillside was a miserable settlement of low houses huddling from the wind. The driver indicated that this was where I had to get out. I happily complied, grateful for the lift. I waved goodbye and to my outrage noticed that he didn’t turn off into the village at all, but drove on towards Lhasa. The swine! He just wanted to get rid of me. Maybe I should have offered him money. I walked on.

Hours later I saw a tiny shack by the side of the road – a tea shop – and went in. The tables and stools were so small, and so low to the ground, that it looked like a kindergarten. I sat down on a stool that wasn’t much bigger than a cigarette pack and looked at the big, pretty, round-faced Tibetan girl who was standing over me. She looked nervous and kept saying momo which I assumed was the Tibetan word for steamed dumplings. Tea and momos were the only thing she had on offer, apart from hot chili sauce. They were delicious, invigorating and cheap.

Back on the road I was starting to feel light-headed because of the altitude. The colours were changing: in the gorge it had been dark green, brown and grey but now the predominant colour was yellow, the sort of browny yellow you associate with the desert, or lions. The air was incredibly dry and dusty. There were no people around, no settlements, no cars, no animals. I was feeling optimistic and not at all lonely.

Suddenly a Tibetan man on horseback appeared. He looked weather-beaten and far bigger than the pony he was riding. He looked at me with interest, jumped off his pony and came over to sniff me out. He made appreciating noises about my rucksack, my sunglasses and my boots, smiled broadly and then indicated his stirrups, boots and hats.  Would I like to swap? He took my sunglasses, put them on and squealed with delight as the whole landscape changed colour. He moved towards his horse and I was sure he was going to shoot off with my specs, so I grabbed them back and we wrestled and laughed like a pair of teenagers. As he rode off with a wave I was struck with the harmlessness of the incident – if this had happened in a western city it could easily have turned violent. I walked on.

Am I on the right road to Lhasa? I thought. Surely there should be more traffic on the main road from Kathmandu to Lhasa?

I hadn’t actually asked anyone if this was the right road but it was the only one leading out of Khasa so it had to be. I trudged on, enjoying the atmosphere, talking to myself and not caring where I was going. Some time later I noticed a dust cloud in the distance, coming up the road behind me, and then a small new minibus appeared. I stuck out my thumb. If there’s one thing I learned from hitchhiking it’s that the more expensive the vehicle, and the better dressed the occupants, the less likely you are to get a lift. To my amazement, the minibus stopped some distance in front of me and I raced up to it. But something was wrong: a kind-looking Tibetan man was blocking the door:

– I’m sorry, he said, in good English, but we can’t give you a lift.

– But didn’t you stop for me?

– No. Driver have problem. You cannot come on bus. This is private bus, hired by Japanese tourists. I am guide and translator.

I pushed onto the step of the bus and looked at them: waxwork models, expressionless. They didn’t seem to notice me and I realised this was an opportunity; they weren’t objecting to my presence. They were probably embarrassed by the incident but didn’t want to speak out. I knew how to exploit this.

– I go to next village, I said to the guide, staying fixed in the door frame.

– There are so many empty seats, I continued with as much charm as I could muster, moving inside another fraction.

– Okay, at next village you get out, said the guide unhappily. I jumped on and gratefully dumped my rucksack. The bus moved off and I found a seat near the Japanese tourists, appreciating the luxury for every minute that I could.

– Where you from? I said to the nearest Japanese. No response, not even a glance in my direction.

– You from Tokyo? I asked again cheerfully, not caring if they replied or not.

– I’d like to go to Tokyo. I continued. Nice place.

At the next village I watched the minibus disappear into the horizon, followed by its faithful cloud of dust, I realised that the landscape had changed again: I had passed through the mountains and reached an endless plain. Much of Tibet is a flat country, a high plateau, with mountain ranges around the edges. The unique thing about this plateau is its height – thousands of metres above sea level – no wonder they call it the roof of the world. India also is relatively flat, with the Himalayas along the north and a range of hills running through the centre. I remembered my geography teacher saying:

– India crashed into Tibet and the impact formed the Himalayas. The Himalayas are a barrier between the two plateaus. Wolfe Murray, boy! Are you awake? What plateaus are we talking about here?

– Er, um. I’m not sure sir.

– Stupid boy! Never pays attention. I’ve been talking about India, which is more or less a flat country, a plateau, which crashed into Tibet, which is also a plateau.

– And what mountain range was formed by the impact?

– Er…um…not sure.

– I don’t know why I bother. Does anyone listen to me? The Himalayas, boy! Have you heard of the Himalayas?

– Er, yes Sir. Highest mountains in the world.

– Sometimes I don’t know why I bother.

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This is an extract from 9 Months in Tibet — the eBook — which will be published soon. If you’d like to reserve a copy just email me at wolfemurray@gmail.com (or post a short comment under this article).