Tibet (IV)

Richard W. Frank

Tibet (IV)

The sunrise over Everest has to be seen to be believed. National Geographic got nuthin' on this. Rejuvenated by the spectacle I set off early for the two hour walk up to base camp (5,220m). There I met New Yorker Robert Anderson and several sherpas who had recently arrived for an unprecedented winter ascent of the North Col for the millennium. Energized by his tale I was determined to see if I could make it a bit farther towards Advanced Base Camp, and Robert sent me off with some hints and admonitions. I skirted the east side of the Rhongphu glacier and bouldered my way up to one of the most awe-inspiring views in this world. The snow was pervasive and hard going. After much gasping I reached around the corner to the East Rhongphu and Camp 1. I had come far enough for that day. I sat down for lunch half blinded by the sun and then scampered (gasped) back. Robert had no one really to talk to, so we sat down for an afternoon of tea, biscuits, and mountain talk. I tried to act like I knew what I was talking about. It was a shock to hear of legend Alex Lowe's death on nearby Shisha Pangma where Robert had been guiding.

On to Tibet (V)

Random door in Jokhang Temple

A week down the road from Lhasa I arrived at the small village of Tingri where I caught my first sight of Mt. Everest. That unforgettable pyramid of black granite gave me a chill down my spine as she sat impassively 100km away in the afternoon sun. Another dream realized. I quickly stocked up on fruit, veggies, and instant noodles (still addicted to MSG, I guess) and set off the next morning for Everest Base Camp. This late in the season it was darn cold and no other trekkers were foolish enough to be heading out to the heart of the Himalayas. Even the Land Cruiser groups had pretty much stopped braving the 70km road over the 5,100m Pang-la to EBC.

"Everyone's stoopid but me"-Homer Simpson

With the white peaks of Gyachung, Everest, and Cho Oyu to orientate me, I started out with a light heart and a heavy pack. Reality soon set in as my hip belt buckle after eight years of faithful service chose this day to shatter in the predawn cold. After indulging in a rather lengthy and creative length of profanity (which if it ever had a place it was then), I flipped off the useless bit of plastic and sat down on a rock to think. Heck, I worked on boats for years and learned my share of knots; surely I can work something out. Munching on a mandarin, I came to a decision, resolutely tied a granny knot in the strap and set off letting my shoulders do the work. Two days and 75km later I stumbled into Rongphu Monastery, the highest in the world, at the foot of Everest eating Aleve like M&Ms and suffering from the flu. Thank God no one saw me trying to be hard-core. All this became irrelevant as I gazed at the magnificent north face that filled my picture window. Damn! I was the only westerner there to entertain 29 monks and nuns wintering over. Piece of cake. By then I had my repertoire of songs and dance down pat. They even asked for an encore of "No Scrubs." After numerous cups of tea, lengthy discussion of my boots and inability to stay in tune, I was able to pass out.

Back to World Trip #2

Back to Tibet (III)

It took a week of gorging and washing in Lhasa before I felt that I could face the road and Dong Fengs again. I never did tire of visiting monasteries which surprised this little nonbeliever. I was amazed at the level to which Buddhism permeated every facet of Tibetan life. The locals were sincere with a dedication that I found naive but to be respected. In such a hard land to scrape out an existence I could see how a religion that preached suffering as the nature of life found fertile ground here. The Tashilhunpo, the Gyantse Kumbum, the Samye gompa-all were "exotic" as could be with lazy dogs, chanting monks, cymbals and drums, impossibly intricate butter sculptures, the fierce protector deities Mahakala and Hayagriva scaring me half to death, and a billion gold Buddhas and Bodhisattvas. Most buildings while impressive had been allowed to be rebuilt by the Chinese more interested in tourist dollars than making up for the Cultural Revolution.

"You know, of course, that religion is poison."-Mao to the 14th Dalai Lama, 1956.

The Barkor in front of the Jokhang temple

I went to check that the gas tank was intact, turned off the ignition, and went back in the cab for my daypack and water bottle. I then managed to extricate my Dana from under several sacks that had landed on it. I dropped my bags on the other side of the road and to my surprise nothing had been broken. Good juju. I took several pictures of the dead Dong Feng as Carreras searched the river for the wheels several hundred meters up the road. After getting visual proof of our little mishap, I had had quite enough adventure and was determined to get to Lhasa one way or another to make that call, so I hitched the rest of the way with a rubbernecking trucker.

At 1:45am I was dropped in front of the Potala. My month in Western Tibet was over and I collapsed in bed way too tired to take a desperately needed shower. The next morning after calling my mom I gave away the Y100 I was going to give my ride in order to earn back a bit of the luck I had used the night before. I need as much good karma as I can get.

Dana is under there somewhere

The fat young monk in the right passenger seat had finally dozed off with fatigue from chanting all day, and the Carreras to my left had also shut up after twelve constant hours sharing Tibet's greatest atonal hits with me (as all Tibetan drivers seem obliged to do). Semi-conscious I was counting down the km markers to the lights in the distance. I suddenly heard a loud explosion and the truck lurched to the right. My first thought after 3000km in these trucks was "Oh, jeez, another flat." Carreras had been speeding along at 70kph and ill-advisedly jammed on the brakes. Sickeningly, time slowed down as we spun 180 degrees, tipped over, and slammed into the mountainside on the left. The monk caught the broken glass from his window, I landed on his cellulite, and the scrawny Carreras bounced on me shielding me from the glass from his window. We lay there for awhile in shock looking out into the darkness through where the windshield had so recently been. We crawled out the hole and stood around making sure that we were alright (amazingly so). Carreras, Friar Tuck, and I stared at the axel where both of the right rear tires had blown off simultaneously. This is not supposed to happen.