The road goes ever on

We were roused early and it was still dark outside (don’t forget that for the same latitude as Nepal, China’s over two hours ahead, meaning it’s still dark at 8am) which made us all-the-more bleary-eyed. Kat had not slept well and I was relieved to hear it hadn’t been my snoring that had kept her awake. Apparently I’d only commenced a slight snuffle shortly before waking and I wondered if my massive weight-loss from my Himalayan exertions had produced more benefits than fitting into my clothes more easily. Breakfast was an uninspiring omelette with bread but it was fresh and hot and it looked safe enough – particularly as we had no idea where our next meal would be, let alone its quality.
Once on the road, we continued steeply upwards as we headed to the very roof of the world. Less than 50km away we’d pass through the Tong La and Lalung La passes (at 5120 and 5124m respectively) and the scenery along the way went from the concrete squalor of Nyalam to the majestic, sweeping vistas of the high desert and blue sky. Coming from a country where it’s ‘mostly cloudy’ (as Ian McGaskill might have said), I’d never have thought it was possible to see so much crystalline, pristine atmosphere, hemming in the horizon for as far as the eye could see. Before long, the high-intensity of the sun was extracting the moisture of the previous day’s rain to form light, feathery clouds but my indelible memory will be of that deep, perfect blue. At first the foreground to this azure canvas was a steadily growing succession of rounded dune-like hummocks, which began to give way to sky-tearing, needle-points of snow and ice, shimmering in the morning sunlight. To be amid mountains of this stature, whilst cocooned in the comfort of our hi-lux 4-WD, was very surreal after the physical discomfort of walking into the Himalaya. The journey to the mountain pass was punctuated only by the clicking of camera shutters and the awed mutterings of ‘Wow!’ as we all agreed that the discomforts of the previous 24 hours were more than recompensed by sights around us.
We finally arrived on level ground and Drives parked up to let us look around, take photos and answer calls of nature. In every direction, as far as the eye could see, was an endless expanse of nothingness: no sign of human habitation, nor animals grazing, no traffic on our lonely road (until the second Landcruiser clanked up) and no indication whatsoever that there was civilisation in any direction. Beautiful as the high deserts of Tibet may be to the visitor, they offer scant comfort in their inhospitable vastness. There’s very little natural shelter, a dearth of grazing for herds and only the poorest game for even the keenest-eyed hunter. Many people will imagine that Tibet’s wilderness is not only sparse in this manner but also viciously cold. However, this is not the case. While daily temperature extremes can differ by almost as much as 30˚C (not unusual in a desert environment) and high winds can penetrate even thick clothing, the temperatures throughout most of the Tibetan plateau are actually reasonably mild. It is only in the depths of the coldest winters that temperatures drop below -10˚C (not so different from Blighty). Of course, if you find yourself a 1000m or so higher whilst attempting to climb Everest or Cho Oyu, then temperatures really will plummet…but then your average Tibetan is more concerned with eking out an existence after the privations of the Chinese, than he is with climbing mountains for fun. Dorje, our guide, had – at our insistence – jumped into the spare seat of our Land Cruiser that morning because we’d reasoned that it didn’t make sense for the guide to be in the slowest vehicle. He was 100% true-blue Tibetan and, over the coming days, was to give us an inside view on the dirty tricks and paranoia of the Beijing administration. For the time being, he contented himself (and us) by naming some of the not-too-distant peaks that were drawing our admiration. Eventually, the bus gasped and wheezed its way into view, a long time after we’d picked up the asthmatic sounds of its approach. The bus wasn’t the only thing suffering on the thin air – we had all noticed our own shortness of breath and Kat, particularly, had a splitting headache. None of us was feeling top notch and I was having to rein in my movements to curb my oxygen-hungry muscles’ huge appetite. I knew already that, only 9 days after topping out at 5535m on Kala Pattar, my body had accustomed itself to the thick, rich air of the lowlands. While I didn’t get any of the nastier symptoms like Kat and Tim, I still found myself short of breath and prone to lethargy right up until our penultimate day in Lhasa.
We were soon on our way again, riding the potholes and sand-traps of the unmettled road and leaving great plumes of dust in our wake. We passed the occasional Tibetan settlement with their squat, functional, fortress-like buildings. The tiny windows, looking in on dim interiors, were clearly designed to minimize heat loss and cut down on draughts in this place of high winds and cold, clear nights. The roofs were covered in a deep layer of wood, acting as both extra insulation and emergency fuel in the event of deep snows. Even the most basic of abodes had proudly painted window frames and eaves and the walls had all been white-washed relatively recently – a far cry from the hideous, stained, drabness of the Chinese architecture in Nyalam and Zhangmu. Occasionally along the way we would pass a family in pony and trap or, in the distance, spot robed and hatted riders, chasing the horizon on small, but sturdy looking, horses. Mile after mile passed by unhurriedly, the sheer scale of the landscape taking its time to slip by and, after taking a long northward loop, we were eventually heading due south, into the bright glare of the sun and towards the broken horizon of the highest place on Earth. From a great distance we were fortunate to catch views of Everest and Lhotse, naked of clouds and sitting loftily in the sky. Everest’s unmistakable black pyramid, from this angle, clearly jutting above her surrounding companions was clearly visible to the naked eye but not yet near enough for photography. We urged Drives to hurry on to a point where we could loose off a few shots before the gathering clouds concealed her but, unfortunately, by the time we rounded a series of hills hugging the final bend in the road, she was already shrouded in darkness. I was unfazed, having already attained clear views from much closer but I sensed that the others were a little disappointed. Shortly afterwards we pulled into the one-horse town of Tingri and stopped for lunch. The place was filthy and the poverty of the local people evident in the crowd of dirty, begging children that surrounded our Land Cruiser as we parked up. The inside of the inn wasn’t much better and, while they couldn’t follow us inside, our newly-acquired entourage contented themselves with staring at us through the grimy windows. When Annie and the rest of her crew pulled in, they were disappointed and angry to discover that we’d passed within view of Everest. Despite Dorje’s request, their driver had failed to point out the distant peak and they’d sailed right by without the slightest idea about what they were missing. Lunch was a grim affair (our plentiful leftovers were handed out by the landlord in well-practised fashion to the grubby horde outside), washed down with the compulsory Lhasa Beers (shared with Annie) – but we did discover that chocolate was on the list of things that the Chinese seem to do well and I gobbled down several pieces of smooth, creamy luxury, before taking some supplies for the road. Kat had kindly donated biscuits and sweets to the rest of us along the way but I didn’t want to eat all her supplies…at least, not yet!
We were still only half way to our stopover in Lhatse, on account of the poor quality of the road and having to wait for the bus. The miles passed in a soporific stupor, brought on by a full stomach, beer, altitude and a warm sun streaming through the window. We stopped a couple more times to allow Kat to run to the toilet, from where she would invariably return with a pained expression and a few choice words about the state of the facilities. We’d been warned of the ‘basicness’ of the Tibetan hole-in-the-ground and I wasn’t surprised to hear that Kat, fresh off the plane from Oz, was a little appalled at the local hygiene concepts.
A few kilometres outside Lhatse, we were treated to the smooth, silent pleasures of two-lane tarmac. Even in our luxury vehicle, the constant dull roar of crunching gravel and the occasional jarring pothole had become an integral part of the journey – to suddenly be gliding along on this Chinese-built highway was a great novelty and we were all wide awake as we coasted into an unattractive, highly-industrialised conurbation. Lhatse is not a place to fall in love with but a testament to the unimaginative and un-aesthetic style of communist architecture. Our hotel – a vast improvement on the previous night’s accommodation, was still nothing to write home about. Edd and I did, however, have a television in our room and, while there was no running water and we were forced to use a putrid, long drop at the end of the corridor, there was at least a large thermos of hot water and enamelled basins with which to perform a rudimentary flannel-wash.
We ate uninspiring food, served with the greatest reluctance in the hotel restaurant by a staff that had obviously never heard of ‘Service with a Smile’. After dinner, I’d promised Annie to let her download some pictures from her camera onto my laptop so that she could inspect them and decide which ones to delete (her memory card was approaching its limit). We sat and chatted about our treks and the places we’d enjoyed in Cambodia and Laos and, the more I learnt about her, the more I liked her. She was open and extremely expressive and seemed to enjoy the same innocent delight in her adventures that had characterised so much of my trip for me. As well as being vivacious and attractive she also had the keen intelligence that I look for in my friends…and, despite the lovely Anna back in Kathmandu, I could feel myself becoming strongly attracted. Eventually, the long miles and altitude took their toll and it was time for Edd and I to hit the hay. Annie toddled off to her 4-bed dorm (with the other passengers in her car) and I dropped gratefully into my too-short bed and promptly fell asleep.