Tea in Heinrich Harrer’s house – podcast

by Rupert Wolfe Murray | 26 Apr, 2019 | Journeys

This is chapter 27 from the eBook version of Tibet memoir. Podcast above, text version below. Hope you like it. 

I was surprised that they let me back into the Pemba truck stop and even more surprised when they gave me my own room. It wasn’t a room, more of a glorified corridor – a tiny space, enough for two beds and a sticky patch of floor that allowed constant passage to the people staying in the big dorm next door – but it felt great to have my own space. If the Tibetans saw me lying on the bed and reading they would grab the book, look at the cover for a few seconds, toss it back and laugh. Their rude behaviour didn’t bother me as something significant had taken place: I had been accepted by them.

I had to deal with my priorities: getting a new visa and a job. The visa issue was starting to get worrying but there was no shortage of foreign travellers who were happy to advise. The visa extension procedure was laughably simple; all you had to do was go down to the PSB (Public Security Bureau), sit under a tin roof while they stared dumbly at your form, pay five yuan and get a big, wet square stamp in your passport that said One Month Extension. The green-clad policeman – overbearingly formal, bored out of his brains and speaking pidgin English – told me that I could get two more extensions.

Next stage was to find a job. Although the atmosphere in Lhasa was both laid-back and dynamic, it wasn’t the sort of place you could hustle for a job. It seemed that only three foreigners were working in Tibet at the time and two of them, Roger and Isabella at the Travellers’ Co-op, were presumably not approved by the Beijing bureaucracy. Considering my chances of getting hired were almost nil, I tried my most unlikely skill first: restoration work. It seemed worth a try. I had heard that the monasteries were being rebuilt and repainted – slowly, lovingly and voluntarily by local Tibetans – why couldn’t I join in?

I racked my brain for someone who could help and remembered Robert Morse, the sixty-year old son of an American missionary whom I’d recently met at the Travellers’ Co-op. He had offered to help me and I sought him out and asked if he had any relevant contacts. He reluctantly admitted that he knew the Minister of Culture and promised to introduce me if I met him the next day at noon.

– But remember, he said, bring a bike – it’s the ubiquitous form of transport in Lhasa.

The next day a friendly Chinese waiter reluctantly lent me his old bike. It was ruggedly built and, having been used to transport sacks of flour, was covered with white dust. I met with Morse as agreed but he didn’t say a word. I wondered if he was annoyed at being dragged out on this pointless search for a job? I didn’t dwell on it. We bypassed the crowded maze in the old centre and cycled along the new Chinese road, wide and deserted, to the south. The rainy season had ended and I wallowed in weather that felt just perfect. The sky was a deep blue azure and the sharp sunlight was an inspiration. However hot the sunshine became the air was always cold. I had read in one of the guidebooks that in Tibet you can get sunburn and frostbite at the same time.

That’s the university, said Morse, breaking his silence, and we turned off, went down a windy road, passed a long wall and there we were – in front of the minister’s house. It stood in a yard, behind a big wooden gate, and didn’t look very impressive. For a long time I had wanted to see inside a high-class Tibetan house. Nobody answered our banging, so we stood in the dust and talked. Robert Morse was well-proportioned, smiling and old – one of those people who embodied the Buddhist ideal of harmlessness. He beckoned me to the wooden gate and spoke in conspiratorial whispers:

– See the house in there? Look through this crack.

– Yeah.

– It was built by Heinrich Harrer, you know who I mean? The Austrian who lived here during the war and wrote Seven Years in Tibet.

– Hmm. I didn’t want to admit that this was one of the many books on Tibet that I hadn’t read.

– He lived here for years and planted a lovely garden.

I was wondering if this was really true. Morse struck me as rather eccentric, the sort of person who could make up stories like this. Then we heard a noise and the wooden gate was opening. A lovely old Tibetan woman’s face appeared. Morse spoke to her in fluent Mandarin:

– We’ve come to see the minister.

– The minister? Here?

– Yes, he invited us here.

– Well you can come in and have some tea but he’s not here. He may come tomorrow. He doesn’t live here anymore. He’s moved into that new block by the Post Office, the block where the government officials live.

As we were led through the garden I noticed a flash of unusual colours and a wealth of flowers and shrubs. I realised that I hadn’t seen any flowers since I came to Tibet. In the house I greedily absorbed all the impressive details: polished wooden floor, unusual icons on the wall, colourful hand-made rugs, wide wooden windows through which you could see climbing flowers, an intimate little porch where, I imagined, Mr Harrer would sit and write his diary.

A servant appeared and placed little ceramic bowls in front of us and filled them with golden-coloured tea. It was similar to the salty, greasy tea I had drunk on the plateau but in this environment it tasted totally different – smoother and more refined. Biscuits and snacks were offered to us and as soon as we had eaten and drunk our bowls were refilled. They kept insisting we have more. This was done with charm and exuberance. The old lady and her servant seemed delighted to have foreign visitors and I was pleasing them by wolfing down everything they put in front of us. Leaving was complicated as Morse had to implore and explain that we were required elsewhere, that we didn’t want to detain her any longer but were eternally grateful for her generosity and hospitality. We slowly retreated towards the door, walking backwards and repeatedly saying

– Thank you so much. You are the best hostess in Lhasa. We will be back soon.

The following afternoon Robert Morse didn’t show up at our meeting place – I assumed he was well and truly fed up with helping me – and so I went to the minister’s house on my own. The chance of seeing that house again, and its enchanting garden, overcame my sense of doubt about getting a job and the weather was too perfect to worry about work. The grandmother took me in and kept me full of tea, an excellent substitute for lunch, while I flicked through ancient copies of National Geographic. Then a small man with bright, sharp features appeared. He spoke some English and introduced himself as the brother of the minister. I explained what I was looking for and he shot off on his bike, in search of his brother. I sat around contentedly, watching the afternoon drift by. After a small meal of deliciously fried shredded meat and vegetables, and more tea, the minister himself appeared, on his bike, puffing from the exertion of cycling home in a hurry.

I had always assumed that government ministers were fat, pompous and had big jowls from too many boozy dinners. The man who stood in front of me was slim, unassuming, good looking and in his mid-thirties. He was full of warmth, friendliness and interest in my quest. He asked about me, my past, my interests, my plans – in a mixture of basic Tibetan, which I was still struggling with, and monosyllabic English. He was genuinely interested in my idea of working in a monastery and his bright face seemed to be searching for possibilities, opportunities. His response was negative in the most positive way possible; honest about my slim chances and yet hopeful for the future. He said they desperately needed to restore more monasteries and the best scenario would be if I could organise a restoration project at a national level, and get funding from a donor. Although I had no idea about how to go about such a task I was deeply encouraged by the meeting. It gradually became clear that he didn’t really have much influence at the Ministry of Culture – where the main priority was to open up more sites for the visiting foreigners – and all he could really offer was advice.

We exchanged addresses – I used the Travellers’ Co-op as mine – and agreed to meet up again in the New Year when mural painting and restoration projects would be taking place in certain Buddhist monasteries. I was impressed that this man had put so much time and thought into helping me with friendly advice. It didn’t matter that I would almost certainly not be in Tibet the following spring – how could I get a visa for that long? – but what was important was that I had been welcomed into a Tibetan home and treated with such respect. I wondered how I could repay it. The old lady and the brother came out into the yard and, in the warm evening sun, they warmly said goodbye. I slowly cycled back to the Pemba, treasuring my good fortune at having met these people.

Even though the Pemba was a dump, I appreciated it as a crash course in Tibetan culture and language. I was learning new words every day, making a fool of myself when practising them in the teahouse, something  I could never do in front of other travellers as I would feel a horrible sense of embarrassment. It felt fine when the Tibetans would laugh and mock when I tried to speak their language – it made the exercise fun – but if I tried to speak Tibetan or Chinese in the presence of foreigners they would become analytical, ask about grammar and tones, about which I knew nothing, and I would just close down. My way of learning languages was not approved, but it was really working.

The Pemba had been an ideal place to immerse myself with Tibetans but the honeymoon was over: travellers had discovered it and they had obviously worked out that the fat manager’s protestations, that foreigners are forbidden, was nothing but bluster and hot air. I bumped into an energetic American couple I had last seen by their tent at Lake Namtso and there were two strange Englishwomen who were making cheesecake which they would then sell to other travellers. Their salesman was Jake, an emaciated Englishman who was full of strange wisdom and stories of travelling around India. Although their presence was annoying – I felt they had invaded my private space – I did appreciate the travellers for the fresh information they sometimes had. They were a far better source than the guidebooks, which were okay for maps, photos, basic words and historical background but out of date when it came to what was going on and how to get around.

I got talking to an American:

– Have you been to Samye Monastery?

– No, I replied.

– Check it out man, it’s awesome. It was totally trashed by the Chinese during the Cultural Revolution – you know about the Cultural Revolution I guess?

– Er, yeah, I heard about it.

– They sure trashed it, man. Now it’s being renovated by Tibetans. Totally awesome project. You can go in and see them painting mandalas.

– What’s a mandala?

– Man, you really don’t know nothing do you? A mandala is an intricate icon painting thing. Religious, Buddhist. You’ll see.

– How do I get there?

– Best way is to walk. It takes five or six days from here, over those mountains to the south. We hitched back and got a truck.

– Do you think I could get a job there?

– A job? You outta your mind?

#

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). To see feedback to the paperback edition, click here.

You can’t get a job here! Podcast

by Rupert Wolfe Murray | 25 Apr, 2019 | Journeys

This is chapter 26 from my memoir 9 Months in Tibet. If you click on the thing above you can hear me reading it — it takes less that four minutes — or you can read the text below (or you can go back to what you were doing before). As always, I’d really appreciate a comment (below) even if you think it’s pure, unmitigated, self-obsessed bullshit.

As if in a dream I got off the bus in the outskirts and walked into Lhasa. I had started to get used to life in the wilderness and coming back to a big town felt alien. I felt real appreciation for what we normally take for granted: food, running water and a bed. My top priority was food: I hadn’t had a proper meal in a week and the thought made my mouth water.

Many months before I had heard about Jill Kluge, a girl from England who worked in Hong Kong and had just got a job at the new Holiday Inn in Lhasa – a big, white, American looking spread called Lhasa Hotel. I stood outside it, wondering if they would let me in considering that I hadn’t washed in a week, was covered in dust and had the hairdo and beard of a tramp. There were scores of Toyota Landcruisers and smart minibuses in front of the hotel and to my surprise nobody challenged me when I wandered in and stood in the lobby, gaping. The guests all looked smart and wealthy and some wore trekking gear as if they were heading into the mountains, but their boots and trousers looked brand new and unused. I asked about Jill Kluge who was, to my surprise, in the hotel. She was running the restaurant and seemed delighted to meet a fellow Brit. She bought me a Yak Burger with all the trimmings. As my taste buds were running wild with new sensations, we talked:

– You know where I found your name? I asked

– No.

– In Vienna. I was working on a restoration project in a historic building which had been emptied out. One day I explored the palace and found an empty office. There was a telephone in the room and to my surprise it had a dialling tone. I immediately thought who can I call? and I remembered Matthew.

– How do you know Matthew?

– I don’t. My brother Kim was at school with him at the Edinburgh Academy and he gave me his number in Hong Kong.

– You called him in Hong Kong?

– Yes, and he replied. We must have talked for half an hour. I told him I planned to hitchhike to Shanghai and he told me about you, your schooldays together in Edinburgh, your work in Hong Kong with Holiday Inn and this new job in Lhasa. I never thought I’d make it here so I didn’t think much more about it at the time. I wrote down your name in my diary, and here I am.

– You’re hitching to Shanghai? How long will you stay in Tibet?

– Not sure. My visa will run out soon. I was hoping to get a job here but…

– A job? Here? Not much chance of that I can tell you. You wouldn’t believe what a palaver it was for me to get this job. I applied for it in Hong Kong, got interviewed and accepted there, but then it was months and months before my application was approved by the bureaucracy in Beijing. The Chinese are very wary about hiring foreigners, each hire needs to be approved by a ministry in Beijing and they like to hire people abroad, not on the ground. And they’re very fussy about having the right academic qualifications.

– Hmm. You know what? That little story makes me all the more determined to get a job in Tibet.

– Well good luck to you. And you’re always welcome here. Fancy another Yak Burger?

– Yes please! I’ve never tasted anything like it before.

#

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). To see feedback to the paperback edition, click here.

A three dog attack — PODCAST

by Rupert Wolfe Murray | 22 Apr, 2019 | Journeys

This is my second podcast. I got some encouraging feedback to my first podcast and decided to do another one from my Tibet memoir.

I’d be so grateful if you would leave a comment under here. Feedback from readers of this blog feels so valuable and encouraging.

You can see from the title that this chapter is about being attacked by Tibetan dogs and it was so frightening that I can still remember it vividly. If you want to hear about it just click on the player thing above.

There are some other interesting bits in this chapter and I want to share with you the ending, in text form, which is about getting a bus — but even doing that in Tibet was a dramatic adventure:

By now the sun had risen and I knew that the bus was supposed to leave well before dawn. I went to the bus stop just in case and, to my surprise, it was still there. A crowd was there for the same reason as me – to get to Lhasa – and more people were arriving every minute. There was no way all of us would fit into the small, battered, dust-covered old banger that they had surrounded. After some time the driver and conductress appeared, and the crowd opened up a gap for them to pass through. The conductress stood in the bus doorway like a colossus, shouting aggressively at the crowd, trying to prevent us from storming the bus, while letting on a select few. Grinding noises could be heard as the driver tried to nurse the old engine to life. The crowd pulsated impatiently, we were all desperate to get on board. I had an advantage compared to the Tibetans: I only had a rucksack and wasn’t carrying large numbers of cumbersome bags.

I managed to push past the conductress, as she was shouting at someone else, and get on board. She turned to me with a face of fury, screamed and pointed at the door, but I had already settled down in the first chair I had experienced in a week and I knew she couldn’t leave her post at the door, as it would give the mob instant access. She could shout as much as she liked, I wasn’t going anywhere unless they hauled me out and I reckoned it would take at least two of them. We left in a storm of curses and banging fists on the window and I thrust some notes in the harridan’s grimy fingers. Grateful that she didn’t heave me out at first stop, I appreciated that bus journey more than any other I can remember – sitting in a comfortable chair and moving along at the same time. What a miracle! Waves of heat from the engine wafted over us and I slept all the way to Lhasa.

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).

My first podcast – what do you think?

by Rupert Wolfe Murray | 8 Apr, 2019 | Journeys

Click on the player above to hear chapter 17 from 9 Months in Tibet, read my me.

I’ve been posting short chapters from my Tibet book onto this blog, and recently a friend suggested I post a podcast version instead.

“But I hate the sound of my own voice,” I replied, curling up in horror at the idea of hearing myself. I’d love to do an audio book of 9 Months in Tibet but I need an actor who has a slight Scottish accent, like me, but none of the nauseating tones that come out of my mouth.

Jason persisted, reminded me how easy it was and that I could download stuff to improve sound quality. My inner critics were shouting now (“It will be shit…people will hate you even more…”). But I ignored them and eventually saw it as a challenge. I became determined to do it.

And here you have it – Chapter 17 from 9 Months in Tibet in audio/podcast version.

Technically it was really easy to do – I just talked into my little recording device for about 12 minutes – and it was much more enjoyable than I had expected. And, having faced down my own inner critics, I feel a sense of satisfaction; like a kid who has stood up to the schoolyard bully.

Will I do any more podcasts? That’s up to you.

If you listen to it please leave a comment, even one word (“Great… So-so… Crap…”) Feedback is one of the things that keeps me writing. The other is an inner drive to just do it as I have so many stories to tell.

My inclination is to curl up into a ball, feel sorry for myself and imagine the day when I get approached by a production company with a flash actor to read my story. But thinking like this is pathetic and I need to be more pro-active; and do the audio book myself.

If you’re still reading this – please leave a comment under this article. Thanks.