First view of the Potala, over the busy streets of modern-day Lhasa
May 07, 2005
Yamdrok-Tso
We’d been encouraged to agree to a side-trip to Yamdrok-Tso – one of Tibet’s four holy lakes. It sounded like a worthy cause and, I for one, was keen to see some more of the less-travelled Tibet that we’d so far avoided. The only drawback to this out-of-the-way diversion was the ridiculously early start at 3.30am. The anti-biotics (and my tender care, of course) had just about gotten Edd through the worst of his stomach troubles and he was able to hurriedly sling his stuff into his bag to run downstairs in time for our proposed departure. We were then forced to put up with the almost comical situation of the entire party (not to mention several other tour groups staying at the same hotel) being held up because the bus driver had been too lazy to replace one of his headlamp bulbs the previous night. Eventually, I managed to create enough space for the Landcruisers to slip past the front of the bus and down the narrow driveway. Unfortunately our driver, being a Buddhist monk, felt obliged to help out the bus driver – despite the alcohol stench on his breath, which indicated his reason for not previously fixing the light. We eventually roared off well after 4am, leaving the bus far behind and with little chance of depositing its passengers at the lake in time for sunrise. We soon began to climb steeply and as the air outside began to cool, we were grateful once again for the luxury of warmth from the heaters. Soon it began to snow and the conditions really deteriorated with poor visibility, slippery surface and difficulties defining the road from the verge. As our driver calmly took his time and made proper use of the 4-WD, Annie’s Landcruiser screamed past, throwing up flurries of slush and careened off over the brow of the hill. I wasn’t in the least surprised, ten minutes later, to come upon the rusty old heap, slewed across the road with its front wheels in the ditch. With some effort (and unskilled pedal-work from the kamikaze idiot) my driver and I finally managed to push them back onto the road and, happily jumped back into the warm comfort of our own vehicle. I could see that our driver’s opinion of his colleague was about as high as mine and I really felt for Annie and her companions, with the twisting, mountain roads ahead and a further 2 hours until daylight. At some point, it also occurred to me that the bus – somewhere behind – would have no chance of covering the terrain we were crossing and I hoped their (probably still drunk!) driver would have the good sense to turn back and use the perfectly safe, far shorter Friennship Highway to complete their journey to Lhasa. The journey seemed endless and I was frequently lulled to sleep by the rocking motion of the cab and the soothing warm air inside. We got to the lake at around 6am, an hour ahead of sunrise but this huge, scorpion-shaped body of water is encircled by foothills and, in the background, 7000m high mountains. If we wanted to get a decent view of the sunrise, we would have to travel nearly halfway around the lake on the rutted, potholed track, negotiating ditches and barricades and putting the 4-WD pretensions of the Landcruiser to fullest test. She passed with flying colours, as did our driver and we arrived at an East-facing vantage point with the glow of imminent sunrise, lightening the sky and sparking life in the silent, mirror-surface of the lake. Not long after the sun crawled above the horizon (making little difference to the gelid air, on account of the numerous clouds behind which it immediately hid), we were disappointed to learn that we’d have to leave soon and at high speed. The major selling point of the lake is its beautiful shade of deep turquoise that can be seen as the sun shines down from a decent elevation. It was, as yet, too early for the waters to give off anything other than reflection with the angle of the sun so low. We’d hoped to stick around for a while, allowing the sun to rise, in order to get some shots of the lake in all its glory. Instead, we were being forced to ship out, as our driver had been informed that the Chinese Red Army was due to be performing manoeuvres in the area after 8am…and if we got caught in front of an oncoming convoy, we could be sat there for several hours, waiting for them to trundle by.
Our detour became even longer, just a little further down the road as we spotted a landslip and stranded lorry away up the hill. There was already a long line of goods vehicles and a bus stuck behind, unable to reverse, and we were forced to retrace our steps to the lakeshore and follow it right back to our point of inception. From there we took the Kamba-La pass through the encircling mountains and finally rejoined the highway on the Southern side of the Yarlung Tsanpo (Brahmaputra River) valley.
We were all bloody starving by this point (having been up for 7 hours and with only the paltriest of breakfasts back in Gyantse. We persuaded Drives to pull in at a roadside café and also managed to purchase some munchies from a nearby shop. At a more reasonable altitude and with the requisite caffeine and sugar inside, I remained awake for the rest of the journey, eager to get my first glimpses of the legendary city of Lhasa. I had, of course, allowed my excitement to get the better of me in a country so overrun with Chinese industry and architecture. My first glimpses, inevitably, were of smoke stacks and concrete blocks and I was also staggered by the size of modern-day Lhasa. By the time the Potala Palace came into view, looking down majestically over the sprawling city, I’d lost a good deal of my excitement – but it was still an impressive sight, that invited exploration and I regained some of my enthusiasm at the prospect. Our original hotel (the one that had been booked for us) seemed to be an awfully long way from any of the action and also didn’t really look all that nice. We decamped to the thick of the action on the Barkhor kora, literally yards from the main entrance of the Jokhang Temple – the spiritual centre of Lhasa and all Tibet. Not only was our new hotel right in the heart of the remnants of the old Tibetan quarter but it was also of a very high standard and staffed by friendly, useful people. I immediately put some laundry in and Edd and I checked into our comfortably decorated room. Everybody else seemed a little tired from the early start and Edd, of course, was still feeling weak from his stomach problems. I left them all to catch up on some kip and wandered off to find a restaurant called Tashi 1, reputed home of the most delectable cheesecake. This cheesecake was supposed to be so good that the authors of the most recent Lonely Planet had listed it in there top 10 of Tibet’s attractions. On the strength of such a recommendation, having seen some of the most breathtaking scenery and impressive monasteries, I assumed that the cheesecake would be utterly magnificent. Disappointingly (was there too great an expectation, I wonder?) magnificent it was not! Perhaps I’d been spoilt by the excellent cheesecakes on offer at Kathmandu’s Road House Café or Café Mitra; or it could have been that the LP author had spent so long in Tibet’s haute-cuisine-devoid hinterlands, that the cheesecake appeared to taste good by comparison; or maybe, just maybe, the author’s objectivity had been compromised by the warm, friendly nature of the waiting staff, who more than made up for the crappiness of the cheesecake. Another bonus was the discovery of Annie (equally disappointed by the cheesecake!), who would have been unable to find us after our hotel switch and I made plans to meet her in the evening, once the others had dragged themselves out of bed.
I spent a little time wandering around the Bharkor, inspecting the many stalls for signs of trinkets to take back as souvenirs or gifts. I also made forays into a few of the high-end ‘tourist shops’ lining the circuit, often swiftly departing after being hounded by too many over-eager shop assistants. I was determined to bring some authentic Tibetan crafts home with me (even though the Thangkas and carvings in Kathmandu are often of far higher quality and available at more competitive prices) but on this initial exploration I didn’t see anything that really caught my eye…and I didn’t have the patience to put up with the haranguing assistants until I too had caught up on some sleep. I headed back to the hotel and dropped off for an hour or so until it was time to go out to meet Annie. I roused the others out of bed and we made for the agreed rendez-vous with plenty of time to spare, although there was no sign of her. Annie was looking for people to share the cost of a landcruiser to make a trip out of Lhasa into Tibet’s interior and had spent the afternoon scouring the notice-boards in the tourist hotels, looking at the adverts placed there by other travellers. When she eventually arrived, she looked a little tired and disheartened, having been unable to find anyone with similar plans to herself. I ordered a bottle of beer to share in commiseration and the other three, having missed out on the delights of the Tashi cheesecake, ordered burgers to satisfy their hunger pangs.
On a recommendation (this one not from the LP!), Annie was keen to try out the restaurant at the Yak Hotel for dinner. We walked 5 minutes up the road to get there and discovered that the attached bar upstairs played half-decent music and a decent, lively atmosphere. While the bar service hovered somewhere between glacial and non-existent, the food and waitresses from the restaurant were both excellent and Annie and I tucked into the Lhasa Beer, with Tim on the cocktails and spirits and Edd, wisely, taking it easy. Not long after we’d finished eating, a large, noisy party of Europeans came in and our bar service dried up altogether as they failed to cope with demand. We decided to take a stroll and try to find another watering hole to see us through the rest of the night and, as luck would have it, there was a nice-looking bar, decorated with contemporary Tibetan art, just across the street from the Yak. Even more fortuitous was the unusually varied and high-quality range of beers on offer. In my wildest dreams, I never could have imagined that I’d end up getting lashed on Belgian Trappiste Beer in Lhasa…but that’s exactly what happened after I discovered Chimay and Duvel on the menu and decided that Tim would benefit from an education in European beer-making. We enjoyed an excellent evening, becoming gradually more raucous as the powerful brews took their toll (Chimay weighs in with 6.5% abv…Duvel with 8.5%!) and the bartenders eyes grew wider with every call of ‘Chimay!’ as we drained our glasses. We were the last to leave, shortly before midnight and we staggered out onto totally deserted streets. Reluctant for the night to end so soon, I suggested we all decamp back to our hotel and keep the party going. Of course, we were unable to get hold of any more alcohol by this time and instead of continuing our boozy revelry, Tim, Kat and Edd ended up yakking in one room, while Annie and I chatted in the other. Even in my tipsy, uninhibited state, I was still able to refrain from making my feelings more obvious – mainly on account of the fact that I hadn’t told her about Anna. While, practically, it would make little difference, I was aware of the fact that I wanted to be totally honest with Annie…and this really didn’t seem like the right time to be telling her that I’d been seeing a different Canadian girl (with a similar name) in Kathmandu. When Edd came back to go to sleep, I walked Annie back to her hotel and we parted, chastely, with plans to meet up in the morning so that she could join us with Dorje, looking around the Jokhang and the Sera Monastery.
Our detour became even longer, just a little further down the road as we spotted a landslip and stranded lorry away up the hill. There was already a long line of goods vehicles and a bus stuck behind, unable to reverse, and we were forced to retrace our steps to the lakeshore and follow it right back to our point of inception. From there we took the Kamba-La pass through the encircling mountains and finally rejoined the highway on the Southern side of the Yarlung Tsanpo (Brahmaputra River) valley.
We were all bloody starving by this point (having been up for 7 hours and with only the paltriest of breakfasts back in Gyantse. We persuaded Drives to pull in at a roadside café and also managed to purchase some munchies from a nearby shop. At a more reasonable altitude and with the requisite caffeine and sugar inside, I remained awake for the rest of the journey, eager to get my first glimpses of the legendary city of Lhasa. I had, of course, allowed my excitement to get the better of me in a country so overrun with Chinese industry and architecture. My first glimpses, inevitably, were of smoke stacks and concrete blocks and I was also staggered by the size of modern-day Lhasa. By the time the Potala Palace came into view, looking down majestically over the sprawling city, I’d lost a good deal of my excitement – but it was still an impressive sight, that invited exploration and I regained some of my enthusiasm at the prospect. Our original hotel (the one that had been booked for us) seemed to be an awfully long way from any of the action and also didn’t really look all that nice. We decamped to the thick of the action on the Barkhor kora, literally yards from the main entrance of the Jokhang Temple – the spiritual centre of Lhasa and all Tibet. Not only was our new hotel right in the heart of the remnants of the old Tibetan quarter but it was also of a very high standard and staffed by friendly, useful people. I immediately put some laundry in and Edd and I checked into our comfortably decorated room. Everybody else seemed a little tired from the early start and Edd, of course, was still feeling weak from his stomach problems. I left them all to catch up on some kip and wandered off to find a restaurant called Tashi 1, reputed home of the most delectable cheesecake. This cheesecake was supposed to be so good that the authors of the most recent Lonely Planet had listed it in there top 10 of Tibet’s attractions. On the strength of such a recommendation, having seen some of the most breathtaking scenery and impressive monasteries, I assumed that the cheesecake would be utterly magnificent. Disappointingly (was there too great an expectation, I wonder?) magnificent it was not! Perhaps I’d been spoilt by the excellent cheesecakes on offer at Kathmandu’s Road House Café or Café Mitra; or it could have been that the LP author had spent so long in Tibet’s haute-cuisine-devoid hinterlands, that the cheesecake appeared to taste good by comparison; or maybe, just maybe, the author’s objectivity had been compromised by the warm, friendly nature of the waiting staff, who more than made up for the crappiness of the cheesecake. Another bonus was the discovery of Annie (equally disappointed by the cheesecake!), who would have been unable to find us after our hotel switch and I made plans to meet her in the evening, once the others had dragged themselves out of bed.
I spent a little time wandering around the Bharkor, inspecting the many stalls for signs of trinkets to take back as souvenirs or gifts. I also made forays into a few of the high-end ‘tourist shops’ lining the circuit, often swiftly departing after being hounded by too many over-eager shop assistants. I was determined to bring some authentic Tibetan crafts home with me (even though the Thangkas and carvings in Kathmandu are often of far higher quality and available at more competitive prices) but on this initial exploration I didn’t see anything that really caught my eye…and I didn’t have the patience to put up with the haranguing assistants until I too had caught up on some sleep. I headed back to the hotel and dropped off for an hour or so until it was time to go out to meet Annie. I roused the others out of bed and we made for the agreed rendez-vous with plenty of time to spare, although there was no sign of her. Annie was looking for people to share the cost of a landcruiser to make a trip out of Lhasa into Tibet’s interior and had spent the afternoon scouring the notice-boards in the tourist hotels, looking at the adverts placed there by other travellers. When she eventually arrived, she looked a little tired and disheartened, having been unable to find anyone with similar plans to herself. I ordered a bottle of beer to share in commiseration and the other three, having missed out on the delights of the Tashi cheesecake, ordered burgers to satisfy their hunger pangs.
On a recommendation (this one not from the LP!), Annie was keen to try out the restaurant at the Yak Hotel for dinner. We walked 5 minutes up the road to get there and discovered that the attached bar upstairs played half-decent music and a decent, lively atmosphere. While the bar service hovered somewhere between glacial and non-existent, the food and waitresses from the restaurant were both excellent and Annie and I tucked into the Lhasa Beer, with Tim on the cocktails and spirits and Edd, wisely, taking it easy. Not long after we’d finished eating, a large, noisy party of Europeans came in and our bar service dried up altogether as they failed to cope with demand. We decided to take a stroll and try to find another watering hole to see us through the rest of the night and, as luck would have it, there was a nice-looking bar, decorated with contemporary Tibetan art, just across the street from the Yak. Even more fortuitous was the unusually varied and high-quality range of beers on offer. In my wildest dreams, I never could have imagined that I’d end up getting lashed on Belgian Trappiste Beer in Lhasa…but that’s exactly what happened after I discovered Chimay and Duvel on the menu and decided that Tim would benefit from an education in European beer-making. We enjoyed an excellent evening, becoming gradually more raucous as the powerful brews took their toll (Chimay weighs in with 6.5% abv…Duvel with 8.5%!) and the bartenders eyes grew wider with every call of ‘Chimay!’ as we drained our glasses. We were the last to leave, shortly before midnight and we staggered out onto totally deserted streets. Reluctant for the night to end so soon, I suggested we all decamp back to our hotel and keep the party going. Of course, we were unable to get hold of any more alcohol by this time and instead of continuing our boozy revelry, Tim, Kat and Edd ended up yakking in one room, while Annie and I chatted in the other. Even in my tipsy, uninhibited state, I was still able to refrain from making my feelings more obvious – mainly on account of the fact that I hadn’t told her about Anna. While, practically, it would make little difference, I was aware of the fact that I wanted to be totally honest with Annie…and this really didn’t seem like the right time to be telling her that I’d been seeing a different Canadian girl (with a similar name) in Kathmandu. When Edd came back to go to sleep, I walked Annie back to her hotel and we parted, chastely, with plans to meet up in the morning so that she could join us with Dorje, looking around the Jokhang and the Sera Monastery.
May 06, 2005
Gyantse
With less than 100km to get to the next stop-over in Gyantse, we had a little time to relax in the morning and didn’t have to rush off down the road. We’d hoped to catch the traditional market, whose empty stalls we’d passed on the way up to Tashilhunpo the previous afternoon – but we were disappointed to find it resolutely empty and looking likely to remain that way. Kat and Annie went off to look at the garish, gold offerings in the Chinese jewellery shops and I decided to go off in search of food, drink and underpants after I’d discovered that I’d contrived to leave most of my fresh kegs in Kathmandu. The situation was not yet critical but I’d be forced to use the laundry service at our hotel in Lhasa immediately on arrival if I wanted to survive without resorting to turning them inside out for an extra day’s wear. Even in a big town like Shigatse, it would seem that there is nobody selling underpants. I got around my lack of Mandarin by simply tugging out the waist-band of my boxers to demonstrate what I required. In virtually every shop I went to, I received stony stares and solemn head-shaking – although one youngish shop assistant did get a fit of the giggles and had to hide her face behind a demure hand. I’d not had much hope of finding anything in natural fibres or in my size anyway so I wasn’t overly disappointed. I just hoped that our hotel in Lhasa was of a decent enough standard to be able to do my laundry on the same day. It might have been useful to have Kat around (she’d studied Mandarin), particularly when I finally found and ATM that accepted Visa: the stupid thing greeted me in English with the name it had just read off my card…and then proceeded to fill the screen with a jumble of Chinese characters from which I was supposed to select one of three choices.
Up until this point, I hadn’t realised just how different my trip to Tibet was in comparison with my other travels. Totally over-awed by the natural beauty of her landscapes and the incredible Buddhist symbolism and architecture, I’d only just realised that, at all times, we’d been either on the road or walking around with Dorje. We weren’t travelling so much as being led around by the hand: everything was pre-arranged for our (most of the time!) comfort and we’d rarely been left to fend for ourselves for even a minute. In real terms, our tour had barely scratched the surface of Tibet. While my walk around the unattractive Chinese shopping district had been neither aesthetically pleasing, nor productive, I still felt like I’d done something good – getting away from the itinerary, if only for half an hour had made me realise just how artificial our trip through Tibet really was. None of this had occurred to me in Kathamandu as ‘going to Tibet’ had been something that Edd and I had both been considering and then had decided on quite early on in our stays. We’d both known we were going to be pushed for time as Tibet hadn’t been a definite part of our original plans: Edd was due to meet his best friend to go travelling in India and I had been heading for India and then a volunteer position in Malawi, before the whole issue of PGCE interviews made my schedule even tighter. When Kathleen (another Mondochallenge volunteer) had given a recommendation for the 8-day trip she’d bought through Mahendra, we’d jumped on this easy option as a means of having all the bureaucratic and logistical problems dealt with by someone else. As I walked back to the hotel, empty-handed, I realised that I’d need to come back to Tibet again (this time for the full month of the visa) if I truly wanted to understand the place and really see beneath the thin, Chinese-polished veneer. However, I had no regrets about coming on this 8-day sight-seeing tour because I’d already been introduced to the beauty of the Tibetan plateau and seen some small part of the country’s great Buddhist tradition. Indeed it was surely these tasters that would encourage me to return, someday, and truly explore this mysterious country.
With these thoughts in mind, I barely registered the trip to Gyantse. The road was now permanently tarmac and the still-beautiful scenery was being more and more frequently interrupted by settlements, characterised by the ugly, concrete blocks, so favoured by the Chinese. Often, these shiny, incongruous lumps would sit pristinely amidst dusty dumps, with the majority of local Tibetans still performing basic agriculture and with little or no sign of a cash economy. I saw field after field being ploughed by wizened, bent-backed farmers with a pair of yak or a single, bone-weary pony and I’d have loved to have been able to pull over and talk to these people about their lives and their thoughts on the Chinese regime. It seemed to me that any benefits of central government and communism were not being felt by these people, less than 200km from the city of Lhasa. I don’t suppose the Tibetan people worked any less hard when they were just a nation of crop farmers and nomadic herders – but at least it was a free Tibet in which they lived…and they were at least free to roam where they wished and practice their beliefs as they wished. I found myself suddenly saddened by the way Tibet appears to have been forgotten about by the rest of the world. I remember many Student Union’s at home having rooms or buildings incorporating ‘Free Tibet’ into their name…and, at the time, not having a clue what any of it was about. Now, seeing the stoically-endured poverty of this peace-loving nation, I wanted to know why Tibet had been left to rot under the Chinese. I think the simple reason is that people don’t feel the need to look at something they can’t really see. The Chinese will happily claim that they have done much for Tibet: installing infrastructure such as tarmac roads and hydro-electric power; building accommodation for the impoverished; and introducing modern farming techniques. However, what they don’t broadcast is the way that they suppress freedom of speech and freedom of expression in a deeply spiritual country. Yet, because everybody’s afraid of upsetting the big, bad China-wolf (or, locally, because they want the leftovers after he’s finished with the three little pigs) the world’s powerful nations choose to turn a blind eye to the latter and congratulate him on the former. Naturally, I’m sure if you had asked Tibetans in 1950 if they wanted any of these modern ‘improvements’ in exchange for their freedom, they would have given a resounding ‘No!’ – and yet, to the lasting shame of, in particular, my own country and India, Tibet was abandoned and left to fend for herself.
As if to jolt me from these maudlin thoughts, Gyantse suddenly reared up from the surrounding plains – the huge, dominating presence of the impressive Dzong (fort) reminding me of the strength and durability of the Tibetan people, sitting on its high, rocky seat and overseeing the town in much the same manner as it must have done for the last seven centuries. It reminded me that some things never change and I’m sure that the indomitable spirit of the Tibetan people will be there, waiting, when China’s communist star finally falls.
Our accommodation at the Canda hotel was easily the best yet - nothing imaginative or particularly outstanding but certainly the equal of your average 4-star business hotel in Europe. The beds were decidedly comfortable and the bathrooms were pristine, tastefully decorated and well stocked with toiletries. Even the staff smiled and had a generally friendly demeanour, although the manageress did have a particularly piercing voice and an unfortunate habit of using it at high volume during all hours of the day or night.
We found lunch in the Tashi Restaurant, which again lacked inspiration but was perfectly filling. Edd professed to feeling unwell and wasn’t really feeling like eating, nor did he seem interested in the walk up to Pelkor Chode Monastery, sitting in the old town under the protective shadow of the Dzong. Just before the rest of us headed out, he got a nasty attack of the squits and we both agreed it’d be a good idea if he stayed in and took it easy.
Annie, Kat, Tim and I joined the rest of Annie’s car and a couple of the bus passengers to walk up to the monastery. For some reason the altitude really seemed to be getting to me and the 2km walk, past the impressive berg of the Dzong, taxed me, despite our leisurely pace. A ridiculous Chinese monument (probably celebrating some fictitious aspect of the ‘great people’s’ revolution) looked distinctly out of place at the gateway up to the ancient fortress – but we’d already learnt how ‘sensitive’ the Chinese were to the local population. By contrast, the entrance to the monastery was in the heart of the town’s old, surviving Tibetan district and a lot more gentle on the eye.
The grounds and assembly hall of the monastery were not especially impressive on the exterior – particularly after the grandeur of Tashilhunpo. However, the monastery far more impressive features, including some superb artwork as well as the spectacular Gyantse Kumbum. The Kumbum is the largest chorten in Tibet and its beautiful construction of concentric tiers has particular tantric significance. Standing over 35m tall and crowned with a golden dome, it houses thousands of religious statues, murals and thangkas (‘kumbum’ literally means ‘100,000 images’) and it’s hard to believe that this feat of engineering was constructed as long ago as the early 15th century. I really was just too tired to climb the stairs inside, particularly when I realised I wouldn’t be able to take my camera up to the roof and, in the end, I decided to rest in the shade of a tree, waiting for the others to come back out.
Inside the dingy assembly hall of the monastery we were able to view some fabulously detailed thangkas – some of them obviously centuries old. Every inch of the walls seemed to be draped with their distinctive, bright colours or, failing that, decorated with ornate and intricate murals, depicting various forms of Buddha or revered disciples. It was a pity that the lighting (mainly from butter lamps) was so dim, although, in retrospect I suppose this would probably help to preserve the brightness of the colours. In some of the lesser chapels we found shelf upon shelf, stacked high with wooden-bound, handwritten Tibetan Buddhist teachings and there was a definite sense of the monastic scholarship that would have characterised the place when it was the central focus of the 15 separate monasteries that filled the enclosure. Now, of course, with only puppet monks, the place is merely a memory of its former greatness.
Back outside in the bright sunshine, I immediately found my eye drawn to the powerful presence of the Dzong and regretted feeling so weak that I wouldn’t be able to inspect it at closer quarters (this would have involved a long walk up the side of its 200m high pedestal of rock). Looking back into the monastery compound, encircled by a high red wall running from the gate and around the rocky escarpment to the rear, a large, incongruously slender edifice seemed to balance precariously on the steep slopes. The Thangka Wall is well over 50m high and is used to hang a massive Thangka painting during the annual local festival. If it were anywhere else in the world, its huge white face would have been used long ago to project pictures of scantily clad women, extolling the virtues of some men’s magazine. In Gyantse it merely stood, unadorned and empty like some kind of memorial to the monastery’s lost inhabitants.
Outside the monastery gates was a motley collection of trestle tables, populated by local vendors in traditional Tibetan dress. They were mostly selling similar garish, chunky jewellery to that I’d seen in Namche Bazaar and there was nothing to draw the eye beyond the colourful excitement of the people themselves. Back at the hotel, I found Edd in a bad way, curled up in bed, shivering and generally feeling quite sorry for himself. I went straight back out to try and find a pharmacy that sold pharmaceuticals (as opposed to Chinese herbal remedies) and, at the third attempt, I even found one who used decent enough sign language to make himself understood. I managed to get hold of some Cipro and some rehydration powders and jogged back to practice my bedside manner for Edd as I’d done for Don, just a month previously. Our tour was on a pretty tight schedule and, as there was no question of leaving Edd behind, we were all hoping he might be better by morning so that we could continue on to Lhasa as planned. Feeling that I’d done everything that I could, I went back to find an internet café I’d spotted on my travels and managed, frustratingly slowly, to plough through my inbox. I was slightly disturbed to read a message from Anna in Kathmandu, to say that she’d booked herself on the same rafting trip as me and hoped I didn’t mind. Truth be told, I did mind as I’d thought a couple of times that she was getting too close for comfort, considering that we lived on opposite sides of the Atlantic Ocean. She had mostly been a great deal of fun to hang out with but I’d started to get the impression that she wanted more from me than I felt able to give her and I’d come to the conclusion that the sooner I put an end to things, the better it would be for both of us. I can’t deny that my growing interest in Annie might have affected my frame of mind but the fact remains that Anna was starting to worry me…and that never makes the basis for any kind of relationship.
I spent the evening in the hotel restaurant with Annie (avoiding the bedroom with Edd’s unpleasant odours), looking at more pictures on the laptop and generally just getting to know her better. Our thoughts turned also to the following day and the culmination of our road-trip to Lhasa and she was obviously excited about the prospect of arriving there and finally getting to see the legendary Potala Palace – traditional seat of the Dalai Lama.
Up until this point, I hadn’t realised just how different my trip to Tibet was in comparison with my other travels. Totally over-awed by the natural beauty of her landscapes and the incredible Buddhist symbolism and architecture, I’d only just realised that, at all times, we’d been either on the road or walking around with Dorje. We weren’t travelling so much as being led around by the hand: everything was pre-arranged for our (most of the time!) comfort and we’d rarely been left to fend for ourselves for even a minute. In real terms, our tour had barely scratched the surface of Tibet. While my walk around the unattractive Chinese shopping district had been neither aesthetically pleasing, nor productive, I still felt like I’d done something good – getting away from the itinerary, if only for half an hour had made me realise just how artificial our trip through Tibet really was. None of this had occurred to me in Kathamandu as ‘going to Tibet’ had been something that Edd and I had both been considering and then had decided on quite early on in our stays. We’d both known we were going to be pushed for time as Tibet hadn’t been a definite part of our original plans: Edd was due to meet his best friend to go travelling in India and I had been heading for India and then a volunteer position in Malawi, before the whole issue of PGCE interviews made my schedule even tighter. When Kathleen (another Mondochallenge volunteer) had given a recommendation for the 8-day trip she’d bought through Mahendra, we’d jumped on this easy option as a means of having all the bureaucratic and logistical problems dealt with by someone else. As I walked back to the hotel, empty-handed, I realised that I’d need to come back to Tibet again (this time for the full month of the visa) if I truly wanted to understand the place and really see beneath the thin, Chinese-polished veneer. However, I had no regrets about coming on this 8-day sight-seeing tour because I’d already been introduced to the beauty of the Tibetan plateau and seen some small part of the country’s great Buddhist tradition. Indeed it was surely these tasters that would encourage me to return, someday, and truly explore this mysterious country.
With these thoughts in mind, I barely registered the trip to Gyantse. The road was now permanently tarmac and the still-beautiful scenery was being more and more frequently interrupted by settlements, characterised by the ugly, concrete blocks, so favoured by the Chinese. Often, these shiny, incongruous lumps would sit pristinely amidst dusty dumps, with the majority of local Tibetans still performing basic agriculture and with little or no sign of a cash economy. I saw field after field being ploughed by wizened, bent-backed farmers with a pair of yak or a single, bone-weary pony and I’d have loved to have been able to pull over and talk to these people about their lives and their thoughts on the Chinese regime. It seemed to me that any benefits of central government and communism were not being felt by these people, less than 200km from the city of Lhasa. I don’t suppose the Tibetan people worked any less hard when they were just a nation of crop farmers and nomadic herders – but at least it was a free Tibet in which they lived…and they were at least free to roam where they wished and practice their beliefs as they wished. I found myself suddenly saddened by the way Tibet appears to have been forgotten about by the rest of the world. I remember many Student Union’s at home having rooms or buildings incorporating ‘Free Tibet’ into their name…and, at the time, not having a clue what any of it was about. Now, seeing the stoically-endured poverty of this peace-loving nation, I wanted to know why Tibet had been left to rot under the Chinese. I think the simple reason is that people don’t feel the need to look at something they can’t really see. The Chinese will happily claim that they have done much for Tibet: installing infrastructure such as tarmac roads and hydro-electric power; building accommodation for the impoverished; and introducing modern farming techniques. However, what they don’t broadcast is the way that they suppress freedom of speech and freedom of expression in a deeply spiritual country. Yet, because everybody’s afraid of upsetting the big, bad China-wolf (or, locally, because they want the leftovers after he’s finished with the three little pigs) the world’s powerful nations choose to turn a blind eye to the latter and congratulate him on the former. Naturally, I’m sure if you had asked Tibetans in 1950 if they wanted any of these modern ‘improvements’ in exchange for their freedom, they would have given a resounding ‘No!’ – and yet, to the lasting shame of, in particular, my own country and India, Tibet was abandoned and left to fend for herself.
As if to jolt me from these maudlin thoughts, Gyantse suddenly reared up from the surrounding plains – the huge, dominating presence of the impressive Dzong (fort) reminding me of the strength and durability of the Tibetan people, sitting on its high, rocky seat and overseeing the town in much the same manner as it must have done for the last seven centuries. It reminded me that some things never change and I’m sure that the indomitable spirit of the Tibetan people will be there, waiting, when China’s communist star finally falls.
Our accommodation at the Canda hotel was easily the best yet - nothing imaginative or particularly outstanding but certainly the equal of your average 4-star business hotel in Europe. The beds were decidedly comfortable and the bathrooms were pristine, tastefully decorated and well stocked with toiletries. Even the staff smiled and had a generally friendly demeanour, although the manageress did have a particularly piercing voice and an unfortunate habit of using it at high volume during all hours of the day or night.
We found lunch in the Tashi Restaurant, which again lacked inspiration but was perfectly filling. Edd professed to feeling unwell and wasn’t really feeling like eating, nor did he seem interested in the walk up to Pelkor Chode Monastery, sitting in the old town under the protective shadow of the Dzong. Just before the rest of us headed out, he got a nasty attack of the squits and we both agreed it’d be a good idea if he stayed in and took it easy.
Annie, Kat, Tim and I joined the rest of Annie’s car and a couple of the bus passengers to walk up to the monastery. For some reason the altitude really seemed to be getting to me and the 2km walk, past the impressive berg of the Dzong, taxed me, despite our leisurely pace. A ridiculous Chinese monument (probably celebrating some fictitious aspect of the ‘great people’s’ revolution) looked distinctly out of place at the gateway up to the ancient fortress – but we’d already learnt how ‘sensitive’ the Chinese were to the local population. By contrast, the entrance to the monastery was in the heart of the town’s old, surviving Tibetan district and a lot more gentle on the eye.
The grounds and assembly hall of the monastery were not especially impressive on the exterior – particularly after the grandeur of Tashilhunpo. However, the monastery far more impressive features, including some superb artwork as well as the spectacular Gyantse Kumbum. The Kumbum is the largest chorten in Tibet and its beautiful construction of concentric tiers has particular tantric significance. Standing over 35m tall and crowned with a golden dome, it houses thousands of religious statues, murals and thangkas (‘kumbum’ literally means ‘100,000 images’) and it’s hard to believe that this feat of engineering was constructed as long ago as the early 15th century. I really was just too tired to climb the stairs inside, particularly when I realised I wouldn’t be able to take my camera up to the roof and, in the end, I decided to rest in the shade of a tree, waiting for the others to come back out.
Inside the dingy assembly hall of the monastery we were able to view some fabulously detailed thangkas – some of them obviously centuries old. Every inch of the walls seemed to be draped with their distinctive, bright colours or, failing that, decorated with ornate and intricate murals, depicting various forms of Buddha or revered disciples. It was a pity that the lighting (mainly from butter lamps) was so dim, although, in retrospect I suppose this would probably help to preserve the brightness of the colours. In some of the lesser chapels we found shelf upon shelf, stacked high with wooden-bound, handwritten Tibetan Buddhist teachings and there was a definite sense of the monastic scholarship that would have characterised the place when it was the central focus of the 15 separate monasteries that filled the enclosure. Now, of course, with only puppet monks, the place is merely a memory of its former greatness.
Back outside in the bright sunshine, I immediately found my eye drawn to the powerful presence of the Dzong and regretted feeling so weak that I wouldn’t be able to inspect it at closer quarters (this would have involved a long walk up the side of its 200m high pedestal of rock). Looking back into the monastery compound, encircled by a high red wall running from the gate and around the rocky escarpment to the rear, a large, incongruously slender edifice seemed to balance precariously on the steep slopes. The Thangka Wall is well over 50m high and is used to hang a massive Thangka painting during the annual local festival. If it were anywhere else in the world, its huge white face would have been used long ago to project pictures of scantily clad women, extolling the virtues of some men’s magazine. In Gyantse it merely stood, unadorned and empty like some kind of memorial to the monastery’s lost inhabitants.
Outside the monastery gates was a motley collection of trestle tables, populated by local vendors in traditional Tibetan dress. They were mostly selling similar garish, chunky jewellery to that I’d seen in Namche Bazaar and there was nothing to draw the eye beyond the colourful excitement of the people themselves. Back at the hotel, I found Edd in a bad way, curled up in bed, shivering and generally feeling quite sorry for himself. I went straight back out to try and find a pharmacy that sold pharmaceuticals (as opposed to Chinese herbal remedies) and, at the third attempt, I even found one who used decent enough sign language to make himself understood. I managed to get hold of some Cipro and some rehydration powders and jogged back to practice my bedside manner for Edd as I’d done for Don, just a month previously. Our tour was on a pretty tight schedule and, as there was no question of leaving Edd behind, we were all hoping he might be better by morning so that we could continue on to Lhasa as planned. Feeling that I’d done everything that I could, I went back to find an internet café I’d spotted on my travels and managed, frustratingly slowly, to plough through my inbox. I was slightly disturbed to read a message from Anna in Kathmandu, to say that she’d booked herself on the same rafting trip as me and hoped I didn’t mind. Truth be told, I did mind as I’d thought a couple of times that she was getting too close for comfort, considering that we lived on opposite sides of the Atlantic Ocean. She had mostly been a great deal of fun to hang out with but I’d started to get the impression that she wanted more from me than I felt able to give her and I’d come to the conclusion that the sooner I put an end to things, the better it would be for both of us. I can’t deny that my growing interest in Annie might have affected my frame of mind but the fact remains that Anna was starting to worry me…and that never makes the basis for any kind of relationship.
I spent the evening in the hotel restaurant with Annie (avoiding the bedroom with Edd’s unpleasant odours), looking at more pictures on the laptop and generally just getting to know her better. Our thoughts turned also to the following day and the culmination of our road-trip to Lhasa and she was obviously excited about the prospect of arriving there and finally getting to see the legendary Potala Palace – traditional seat of the Dalai Lama.
May 05, 2005
Tashilhunpo Monastery
The previous day’s clear skies were noticeably absent but not missed as the clouds, scudding across the sky before a high wind, seemed to add another dimension to the snow-capped scenery. There would be a little less distance to cover and the road was soon to improve as we headed towards Shigatse, Tibet’s second city and the home of Tashilhunpo Monastery. We arrived in the early afternoon and had plenty of time to relax in our comparatively luxurious rooms before heading out to take a look around this impressive seat of the Panchen Lama – second only to the Dalai Lama in the Buddhist chain of command. The Manasarovar Hotel was the first taste of modern comfort we’d had since leaving Nepal and, while the bathroom could have done with retiling and the shower replacing, we had comfortable beds and hot running water to look forward to in the evening. We sauntered down the busy main street of the Chinese district (more hideous concrete monstrosities) to find Greasy Joe’s, where we were to discover the first decent food of our trip for a very satisfactory lunch. I managed a very palatable pork in black bean sauce and a couple of Lhasa Beer’s (shared with Annie, of course) before we headed back to the hotel to pick up Dorje for our tour round the monastery. The walk there passed through the more picturesque Tibetan quarter, with beautifully painted shopfronts and lively music blaring from one or two colourful-looking bars and we made a plan to stop for a beer or two on the way back to the hotel.
The Panchen Lama has been given special significance since the great fifth Dalai Lama proclaimed that his teacher (then abbot of Tashilhunpo) was an incarnation of Amithaba – a deification of Buddha’s faculty of perfect perception and cognition. Tibetan Buddhism has a great history of incarnate lamas – known as trulku – becoming the figurehead of the various monastic dynasties (including, most obviously, the Dalai Lama himself). After this endorsement from the fifth Dalai Lama (credited as the chief unifier and greatest leader of Tibet’s clerical governance) Tashilhunpo, under the Panchen Lama, became the second most powerful seat behind the Dalai Lama in Lhasa. Inevitably, over the centuries, there have been power struggles and political manoeuvrings between the two, influenced strongly by outside powers (such as the Mongols and the Chinese) wishing to gain a hand in Tibetan affairs. More recently, the 10th Panchen Lama was accused of being a puppet of the oppressive Chinese until he returned to Tibet and, seeing the appalling treatment of his countrymen at the hands of Mao’s henchman, turned against the authorities and called for a ‘Free Tibet’. Ever grateful for free speech and anti-establishment thinking, the Chinese promptly threw him in prison and spent 14 years abusing and torturing him, whilst aggressively assassinating his character to the outside world. After his release in 1978 he was less outspoken against the authorities but continued to raise Tibetan issues at the highest level in Chinese government and, by the time he died in 1989, he was considered to be a hero by the Tibetan people. There has been much controversy since his death surrounding the new incarnation of the Panchen Lama – hand-picked by the Chinese and kept under house-arrest in Beijing, away from the influence of senior Tibetan clerics. As we toured the magnificent grounds of the monastery, Dorje explained in whispered tones, that many Tibetans suspect the Chinese government poisoned the tenth Panchen Lama and that the eleventh is merely a puppet, who nobody has any respect for. This was clearly evident in the way that many of the local pilgrims pointed with their fingers at the photo of the current incumbent – something that we’d learnt (from observing our driver), was a sign of deep disrespect.
The altitude was still taking its toll on our group as we meandered slowly through the walled town of the monastery. The narrow alleys and cobbled pavements gave the place an air of undeniable antiquity and we learnt that some of the buildings, having survived the cultural revolution, had stood there since the 15th century. Most impressive were the chapel of Jampa, housing a 26metre golden image of Buddha, and the beautiful Kelsang Temple – the centrepiece of the monastery and focus for all religious and festival activities. Many of the rest of the buildings were built to house the tomb chortens of the previous incarnations of the Panchen Lama – although, only that of the fourth had survived destruction by the Chinese. We saw many red-robed monks going about there business and they seemed to lend the place and aura of authenticity and activity. However, once safely outside, Dorje informed us of the sham – and the reason for his earlier caution. Tashilhunpo – like most of the monasteries in Tibet, it would seem – is no longer allowed to function as a true place of monastic study and religious activity. Virtually all of the monks we had seen inside were paid actors, who would go home to a house in the city, once the monastery closed its gates at 5pm. It seems the Chinese have come to realise the tourist draw of Tibet’s great Buddhist heritage and, while they don’t want the clerical leaders to gather any kind of significant power-base, they are quite happy to allow foreign visitors to accept the façade of religious autonomy in Tibet. Many of these actors, according to Dorje, spy on tour guides and foreign tourists and report back to the local authorities if they observe any ‘reactionary’ behaviour – e.g. distribution of pictures of the current Dalai Lama. Dorje seemed genuinely fearful of being questioned if he was caught discussing these matters with us and I, for one, believe that China’s pretence at preserving human rights is only that.
We’d all been in awe at the grandeur and great antiquity of the monastery’s beautifully ornate buildings and were much saddened to hear of the losses sustained under the Chinese – not to mention the continued oppression of this peaceful nation’s beliefs. I found an even greater respect for Dorje, braving the threat of imprisonment to give us the truth of his country’s situation, and a growing admiration for the Tibetan people, clinging tenaciously, yet peacefully, to their beliefs – despite the poverty and oppression so many have become accustomed to under the Chinese.
We adjourned to a bar for a few beers to mull over these thoughts, before heading back to Greasy Joe’s for a tasty dinner (sweet and sour pork for me) and returning to the hotel to an early bedtime.
The Panchen Lama has been given special significance since the great fifth Dalai Lama proclaimed that his teacher (then abbot of Tashilhunpo) was an incarnation of Amithaba – a deification of Buddha’s faculty of perfect perception and cognition. Tibetan Buddhism has a great history of incarnate lamas – known as trulku – becoming the figurehead of the various monastic dynasties (including, most obviously, the Dalai Lama himself). After this endorsement from the fifth Dalai Lama (credited as the chief unifier and greatest leader of Tibet’s clerical governance) Tashilhunpo, under the Panchen Lama, became the second most powerful seat behind the Dalai Lama in Lhasa. Inevitably, over the centuries, there have been power struggles and political manoeuvrings between the two, influenced strongly by outside powers (such as the Mongols and the Chinese) wishing to gain a hand in Tibetan affairs. More recently, the 10th Panchen Lama was accused of being a puppet of the oppressive Chinese until he returned to Tibet and, seeing the appalling treatment of his countrymen at the hands of Mao’s henchman, turned against the authorities and called for a ‘Free Tibet’. Ever grateful for free speech and anti-establishment thinking, the Chinese promptly threw him in prison and spent 14 years abusing and torturing him, whilst aggressively assassinating his character to the outside world. After his release in 1978 he was less outspoken against the authorities but continued to raise Tibetan issues at the highest level in Chinese government and, by the time he died in 1989, he was considered to be a hero by the Tibetan people. There has been much controversy since his death surrounding the new incarnation of the Panchen Lama – hand-picked by the Chinese and kept under house-arrest in Beijing, away from the influence of senior Tibetan clerics. As we toured the magnificent grounds of the monastery, Dorje explained in whispered tones, that many Tibetans suspect the Chinese government poisoned the tenth Panchen Lama and that the eleventh is merely a puppet, who nobody has any respect for. This was clearly evident in the way that many of the local pilgrims pointed with their fingers at the photo of the current incumbent – something that we’d learnt (from observing our driver), was a sign of deep disrespect.
The altitude was still taking its toll on our group as we meandered slowly through the walled town of the monastery. The narrow alleys and cobbled pavements gave the place an air of undeniable antiquity and we learnt that some of the buildings, having survived the cultural revolution, had stood there since the 15th century. Most impressive were the chapel of Jampa, housing a 26metre golden image of Buddha, and the beautiful Kelsang Temple – the centrepiece of the monastery and focus for all religious and festival activities. Many of the rest of the buildings were built to house the tomb chortens of the previous incarnations of the Panchen Lama – although, only that of the fourth had survived destruction by the Chinese. We saw many red-robed monks going about there business and they seemed to lend the place and aura of authenticity and activity. However, once safely outside, Dorje informed us of the sham – and the reason for his earlier caution. Tashilhunpo – like most of the monasteries in Tibet, it would seem – is no longer allowed to function as a true place of monastic study and religious activity. Virtually all of the monks we had seen inside were paid actors, who would go home to a house in the city, once the monastery closed its gates at 5pm. It seems the Chinese have come to realise the tourist draw of Tibet’s great Buddhist heritage and, while they don’t want the clerical leaders to gather any kind of significant power-base, they are quite happy to allow foreign visitors to accept the façade of religious autonomy in Tibet. Many of these actors, according to Dorje, spy on tour guides and foreign tourists and report back to the local authorities if they observe any ‘reactionary’ behaviour – e.g. distribution of pictures of the current Dalai Lama. Dorje seemed genuinely fearful of being questioned if he was caught discussing these matters with us and I, for one, believe that China’s pretence at preserving human rights is only that.
We’d all been in awe at the grandeur and great antiquity of the monastery’s beautifully ornate buildings and were much saddened to hear of the losses sustained under the Chinese – not to mention the continued oppression of this peaceful nation’s beliefs. I found an even greater respect for Dorje, braving the threat of imprisonment to give us the truth of his country’s situation, and a growing admiration for the Tibetan people, clinging tenaciously, yet peacefully, to their beliefs – despite the poverty and oppression so many have become accustomed to under the Chinese.
We adjourned to a bar for a few beers to mull over these thoughts, before heading back to Greasy Joe’s for a tasty dinner (sweet and sour pork for me) and returning to the hotel to an early bedtime.
May 04, 2005
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