The trucker’s mate had a sword

by Rupert Wolfe Murray | 14 Apr, 2019 | Journeys

The next morning I set off early and within an hour reached the massive turquoise lake I had seen from the hilltop the previous day. Some time later an old truck rattled past and ground to a halt ahead. It had big rounded wings at the front, in the pre-war style, and a windscreen made up of two separate panes. It was probably based on a German design from the 1930s. One of the travellers had told me that the Russians had stolen entire factories from Eastern Germany after the Second World War, sent them into Russia by train and, in some cases, passed them onto the Chinese. Was that why pre-war German truck designs seemed to be the order of the day in Tibet?

A tough-looking Tibetan jumped out of the truck and sauntered over to me. He was dressed like a warrior from a children’s fairy tale book: strange boots, tribal hat, black cloak and a big sword strapped to his waist.

– Lhasa, he said with a smile, pointing east.

– Yes, I go to Lhasa.

– Twenty yuan.

– Twenty yuan? I said with a sense of shock. Two quid! I could fly for that price. I knew this was what they charged foreigners and was far higher than locals paid.

– Five yuan, I offered. The warrior laughed as if I had told a hilarious joke, then started acting out how good the truck was and what a great driver his friend is. The driver wandered over and stood there meekly. Unlike most truckers, this pair weren’t in a hurry.

– Fifteen yuan, they offered, making it clear this was their final price. I walked off in disgust, in the direction of Lhasa. Some minutes later the truck appeared alongside, going at walking pace, and the grinning warrior stuck his head out the window and shouted:

– Ten yuan.

Having strapped my rucksack onto the top of the vast pile they were carrying in the back, I took the seat by the window, admired the lake and felt quite at home, as if I had earned my place among them. The Khampa took on the role of court jester and a good atmosphere soon developed. He kept telling me he was a Khampa as if I should know what this was and be in awe of him. The more I shrugged in incomprehension the more he tried to explain. When I took out my map he jabbed at the eastern part of Tibet and kept repeating Kham! with a look of pride. Aha, the penny dropped: Kham is a region and the Khampa are a people! From the way he was talking I guessed that Khampas look down on the rest of Tibetans and I wondered if they were similar to the Sikhs of India, a proud warrior people who live in the Punjab and don’t think much of the rest of the population. It was obvious that the Khampa couldn’t drive but he had put himself in charge of the truck and the Tibetan driver.

At the end of the big lake the road started climbing and I looked up and saw that it went up for mile after mile and that we had to cross a massive mountain pass, bigger than anything I had crossed thus far. I wondered if this overloaded heap would make it but one of the great things about hitching is that you don’t need to worry about the reliability of what the Americans would call your ride. If it breaks down you just get out and walk. I was heading to Lhasa and I was grateful if any vehicle – truck, jeep, tractor or cart – could take me just some of the distance. Getting a lift was doubly satisfying because I would be moving in the right direction and getting a rest. Just before we started the long climb we stopped by the lake and the Khampa strode down to the waterside with a bucket, filled it up and poured it into the truck’s radiator. Clouds of steam rose from the engine. I started to skim stones and wondered why the lake looked so ordinary from close up but when seen from afar it had an incredible turquoise colour. I took the bucket from the Khampa, filled it up and drank as much of the gritty water as I could, assuming there would be no water up the mountain.

The engine started with a roar and a cloud of exhaust smoke, the gears were crunched into first – and we were off. A few minutes after starting the long climb the engine stalled and we ground to a halt. We all got out. The driver lifted the bonnet, swearing continually, and studied the engine with a look of fury. I realised that the carburettor was the guilty party and I watched in fascination as the driver gave it the kiss of life: he took a swig of petrol from a filthy bottle he had in the cab and squirted the fuel inside a thin fuel pipe he had disconnected. I could see the carburettor filling up with yellow fuel and clear bits of saliva. I felt sick at the sight of this and took a swig from the bucket that was hanging from the side of the truck and still had some water in it. I offered some to the driver but he wouldn’t drink. He stank of petrol for the rest of the day.

An hour later we were on the move again, chugging upwards. It took half a day to reach the mountain pass and the view of the turquoise lake, and the bottomless drop below us became ever more spectacular. At the top we stopped for a leak and then began the steep, twisted descent. Surely he was going too fast? Did the brakes work? Would I be able to leap out if disaster struck? What about my rucksack? Suddenly a truck appeared in front of us, in the middle of the road. The driver reacted quickly, showing none of the sickening panic that was welling up inside me, and veered towards the abyss. I closed my eyes and waited for the plunge, and then opened them and everything was back to normal. Joy surged within me after this brush with death. I was alive!

When we reached the valley floor we drove alongside a huge river. I looked at my pocket atlas and identified the Tsangpo, which flows all the way across Tibet, getting bigger all the time, and finally drops down into northern India where it becomes the Brahmaputra River. This mighty river goes through Bangladesh, joins the Ganges and empties into the Bay of Bengal.

It was evening and we stopped at a roadside shack that served food. The Khampa ordered something to eat from the Chinese cook, who threw her hands towards heaven and launched into a tirade. I didn’t need to know Chinese to understand her message: no food. The Khampa went into the kitchen and entered into a shouting match with her. Five minutes later he emerged triumphant, carrying a tray full of strange looking biscuits. They were greasy, rock-solid and sugary and he insisted that I eat. I tried one but it was so vile that I couldn’t get it down. Further discussions followed and it was decided that I would sleep on a grimy bench in the cafe, for a cost of five yuan, and they would sleep in the truck. I wondered if they would sneak off in the night but I was too tired to care.

The following day the road became real asphalt for the first time since I had entered the country, and it felt strange not hearing the endless rattling sound of truck on gravel and the rhythm of constant bumps. Presumably we were getting near to Lhasa, the capital of Tibet. There were scores of villages, cultivated fields and military bases. At one point we passed a new bridge, guarded by a soldier in green, standing motionless by his little sentry box. The Khampa started acting out an aeroplane and pointing over the bridge; presumably an airport was located across the river. The closer we got to Lhasa the more miserable I felt; I didn’t want to end this journey. I had got used to being with people like this and I liked them, I wasn’t ready for a big city and I had no idea what I would do when I got there. Maybe I would just keep going onwards to Shanghai? But shouldn’t I see more of Tibet? The weather was warm but cloudy and I dozed in the truck, feeling like a schoolboy in the morning, saying to his mother: just a few minutes more.

Now that we were on luxurious asphalt the truck had picked up speed. Lhasa was approaching fast and my companions seemed pleased with the prospect. I was missing the wilderness and wishing I had spent more time in it, wondering what I would need in terms of equipment if I were ever to go back. Suddenly the Khampa shouted, pointed towards the left and the driver turned off the main road and bumped along a gravel track towards the foot of a huge mountain. The Khampa became animated as he was trying to explain where we were going, but I understood nothing.

The truck parked in front of a huge monastery that was surrounded by a high whitewashed wall. The Khampa hurried me out of the cab and insisted I follow him into the compound. The driver stayed where he was, pulled his cap over his eyes, leaned back and seemed to fall asleep in an instant. The atmosphere inside the high wall felt strangely intimate and quite different to how it was outside. Young monks stood around in purple robes and shaved heads. They had grins on their faces and were far more welcoming than I had imagined they would be. We entered the main building to the sound of monks chanting and I noticed the musky smell from hundreds of butter lamps. I fell into step behind the Khampa and watched him perform a series of rituals – kneeling and chanting and touching his brow on the floor – in a way that was practised and natural. Gone was the happy-go-lucky persona I had come to know in the cab, the bandit-warrior image he projected. Here was a gentle, warm and spiritual person. Some of the monks seemed to know him and they offered him some strange-looking cakes. The Khampa introduced me with a sense of pride and soothing words of welcome were said. I felt that I was being blessed.

Back at the truck the Khampa gave me one of the cakes and I tasted it. Yuk! I could taste sour milk and the dusty barley flour the Tibetans eat, and it had a disgusting sticky texture. But it seemed disrespectful to reject such an offering, after all it came from a holy man in a monastery, and the Khampa seemed to be enjoying them. When his back was turned I threw mine into the dusty roadside. We woke up the driver, hopped back in and drove back to the main road and the river that seemed to follow it everywhere. My companions were humming with pleasure, unable to contain their glee and I supposed that Lhasa was their hometown.

Suddenly the Khampa shouted Lhasa and pointed ahead, but I couldn’t see anything: just a narrow plain and surrounding mountains. Then I started to notice ugly, low concrete buildings everywhere and vast numbers of soldiers. Lots of questions came to me: Is this city populated by soldiers? Do they live in those concrete bunkers? Isn’t there an old part to this city? As if in answer to my question I could see an old building, a huge white building, sitting on top of a little hill. Potala! Potala! shouted the Khampa, pointing to the vast white palace that stands over the whole city, an image that seems to be on the cover of every guidebook to Tibet. It didn’t look so impressive from where I was sitting; there were too many featureless new buildings cluttering up the foreground.

We drove into the centre of what looked like a very ordinary little town and the truck stopped. The Khampa put his two hands to his ear, bent his head to indicate sleep and pointed down a side street. He was obviously saying that’s where the hotels are for you foreigners. This is where you get out. I didn’t want to go but neither of them looked too sad at the idea. I handed over some banknotes, got out and said goodbye glumly. The truck drove forward, unusual in that it didn’t produce any dust, and I walked around the unimpressive centre looking for somewhere to stay. Eventually I ran into some bronzed westerners who pointed me towards what they called the Guest House Ghetto, where I reluctantly settled in with a crowd of Hong Kong Chinese, Japanese and western travellers.

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).