Prayer flags at a high pass on the road to Lhasa

From the Chengdu Gonzo Field Office

(continued)

By Freeman Anthony

The next day is a dusty one to Lhasa. Tashi Gompa takes us past Yamsto Lake, the most holy lake in Tibet, which the Chinese are slowly draining to make hydropower. At a high pass between the lake and the river valley that will lead us to Lhasa, Tashi stops at a small Tibetian encampment and purchases a roll of prayer flags. Tashi, Simon and I string these over the road cut, along with countless others. These prayers will flutter away into the Tibetan landscape for years in our absence. From here we descend into the Kyichu River valley and on to the tourist mayhem of Lhasa.

A young Han Chinese girl in Lhasa marketplace

I'm saddened to think of what Lhasa must once have been. We pack into the hotel, say our goodbyes to our maniacal, yet fully likable drivers and look for Internet, food and knick-knacks. First on the hit list is the Potala palace, amongst throngs of Chinese tourists, with its CCTV security, glassed in Buddhas, and uptight museum style intimacy.

Gilded tower at the Jhokang in Lhasa

The interior courtyard of the Jhokang,
the spiritual centre of Tibetan Buddhism

Monk carrying Buddhist scriptures outside
the Dearing Monastery near Lhasa

A few monasteries out of town provide glimpses into the daily monk routine of crackling religious debates, food preparation over massive earthen fireplaces, and chanting in the grand assembly hall. The sights and sounds are fantastic and evoke all manner of awe and wonder in my brain, even surrounded as I am by multicolored Gore-Tex and big black cameras. I learn to appriciate the solitude of our journey here.

I had planned to do some trekking near Lhasa, but after more than a week at high altitude, as I view factory painted Chinese signboards over Tibetan artifact shops, I want out. I don't want to see any more signs of the dilution of this truly unique culture.

Pilgrim at the Potala Palace in Lhasa

On the third morning in Lhasa, all the team except myself are off to Kathmandu via plane, so we get the final photo at 7 a.m. with Tesring, exchange e-mails, and go our own ways. I stroll around for the morning, happy to be free of a predetermined itinerary, and visit the bus station to sort out my next move.

Stairway in a Lhasa restaurant

The next bus to Chendu leaves at 4 p.m., with none for three days afterwards. That decides it. I'm off. I buy the ticket and stow my gear in the back row. It's a sleeper, and by some miracle, I've been given the fourth out of five seats along the back bottom level, so I'm in line with the aisle and can stretch my legs out. I've got a rambunctious young monk to my right and a hardened security guard on my left. No English here at all. Tesring had suggested I go by air, but that doesn't work with my overland trip concept. Thirty hours later and halfway there, I would rethink this position.

In the back of the bus with bunkmates

In the back of the bus with Xian Zhou, a young Buddhist monk
from the Chengdu area returning from training in Lhasa

The first 20 hours are needed just to get off the plateau to Golmud on a shattered roadway alongside large tankers and the occasional small farm vehicle. All along the roadway, the recently completed Golmud/Lhasa railroad is visable within a kilometer or two, yet still not an option for passenger travel. Our bus trip includes three breakdowns and a two-hour stop at a police checkpoint, where my papers get the least attention of anyone. We stop every six hours or so for breaks and eat once a day in grotty little mess halls with bleak cluttered courtyards, with no signage to indicate that food, hygienic or otherwise, can be purchased within. The gate is usually locked behind the bus, as well, to add to the mystique.

The routine begins to center on getting the westerner drunk and making me eat food that gets progressively more spicy as we get closer to the Sichuan Province. Both rice wine and Piju (beer) are forced upon me, the whole affair laced with cigarettes. I try to start with my Chinese lessons, but they don't seem to clue into my repetition as an attempt to say something correctly, finding it a source of great humor instead.

Outside an inconspicuous dining hall late at night

After the 60-ish hour ride, my ride became the Bus of Doom, my nemesis, whenever I am forced back on the thing and must tuck myself into my 30-centimeter-wide berth.

We pull into Chengdu on a typically hazy morning, and I'm in a serene state, knowing I'll soon be stationary. By 10 a.m. I'm at the Rongcheng Hotel, savoring modern conveniences and trying to forget about my messed up back muscles. Time to reclaim my "vacation" with ice cream, a straight-razor shave, and a back rub.

Disembarking from the Bus of Doom in Chengdu