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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781908646187 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Eye Books |
| Publication date: | 04/15/2011 |
| Series: | Eye Classics |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 270 |
| File size: | 399 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Touching Tibet
By Niema Ash
Eye Books Ltd
Copyright © 2011 Niema AshAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-908646-18-7
CHAPTER 1
Entering Tibet
Twenty minutes before landing, the clouds part like a heavy grey curtain heralding a drama to reveal a spectacular scene – the Himalayas. The sky is lit by sunshine, the blue laced with delicate white clouds. The mountains are magnificent: snow-capped summits, creased with purple shadows, glinting with frozen lakes, etched with glaciers. Rugged peaks jut through the clouds, piercing the fragile webbing with a powerful thrust. It's a stunning vision – awesome, grand. Amongst these mountains lies Tibet, inaccessible.
I am totally entranced by the miracle which allows me to float above the Himalayas, delighting in the nuances of colour and texture, when suddenly the small Chinese aircraft dives through the mountains and plummets into a gorge, wrenched from the splendid panorama in the heavens. The mountain walls, hung with ice, loom steeply, tight against the plane, obliterating the sun. The floor far below is a dark desert, with sand rising into strangely sculpted dunes like alien gravestones, creating a death valley. The valley curves and the plane leans sharply and swerves around the side of a mountain like a racing car rounding a bend on two wheels. Hunched against the possibility of wings scraping against rock, I suck in my breath, cold on my teeth, as we dip through the precipices into a frigid moonscape. Flying at high altitude, the mountains were superb, majestically aloof. Now, deep in their midst, they are desolate and frightening.
The landing is terrifying. It's as though the pilot is on a kamikaze mission. Abruptly, we plunge deeper into the mountains. A river with a shoreline of rock appears beneath us. We are falling fast toward the river. There is nowhere to land. I'm glued rigid against the window as we drop lower and lower, sweeping through crevasses with cold blue hearts, skimming over the river, engines screaming. We are so close I can see ripples on the water. It seems certain we will hurl ourselves into the river or smash into the mountains. My body is clenched like a vice, braced for the inevitable, when suddenly, magically, a thin ribbon of runway appears at the base of the mountains. With engines roaring, we glide to a stop. The pilot receives a standing ovation.
We disembark from the modern plane with its reassuring comforts into the disturbing landscape. A few yards from the plane the runway returns to the sand dunes, as though it never existed. There is no trace of welcome. No airport buildings, nothing to greet us except the bare mountains and several buses squatting in the sand.
I take a last look at the shining plane and follow the other passengers into the sand. Tim, Doune and myself were the only Westerners on the plane; the other passengers were Chinese. We had been travelling together in China for several weeks when we discovered Tibet was suddenly opened to individual travellers. The miracle had happened. We made an instant decision to go, and to go quickly before the Chinese authorities, who control Tibet, changed their minds. There is only one way to get to Lhasa quickly: by air from Chengdu, a town in the province of Sichuan. We took a train to Chengdu, and from there the first available plane to Lhasa, operated by CAAC, the National Chinese Airway.
I had always longed to visit Tibet, a yearning fired by the lure of the unattainable; Tibet was a forbidden kingdom, with no foreigner allowed entry. Once, in Nepal, I made a pilgrimage to the border, obsessed with getting even a glimpse of Tibet. That glimpse was the most anyone could hope for. Until the twentieth century, so little was known about Tibet that most maps left it blank. The mysteries of the remote mountain kingdom were kept jealously intact. For over a century, no foreigner was allowed to enter the city of Lhasa's holy domain. Now I am on my way there. The trauma of the entry suddenly enhances the privilege.
Chinese buses are always packed, and in the desperate struggle to get on board, the usual courtesy shown to foreign guests vanishes. Boarding a bus is the only belligerent activity I have witnessed in China. All aggression is saved for this moment. Now the moment has arrived. The Chinese swing into action in a frenzied outbreak of pushing and shoving, which causes the gentle, soft-spoken Doune to shout, "Animals! You're behaving like animals!" The Chinese take no notice.
Tim is more convincing. After two months in India, he has refined the skill of "push and shove" into an art. Tim is a master shover. Being a powerful six foot two helps; his featherweight competitors barely reach his shoulder. Releasing a martial arts scream which stuns the opposition, he claims the entrance and the choice seats. Doune and I recede from the fray, and after the others have squeezed on the bus, we enter, like ladies. Everyone is finally seated and the bus is about to pull away when Doune begins to look around frantically. "Where are the bags? They haven't put the bags on the bus."
"I'm sure they'll meet us in Lhasa," Tim says reassuringly. "Nobody else seems worried."
We have to assume that somehow our baggage will appear in Lhasa. In any case, there is no one to consult. The aircraft staff didn't bother leaving the plane. I can't blame them. This isn't exactly an ideal place for "R & R".
The Lhasa bus is old and worn, but more comfortable than it looks. We settle into the thinly padded purple seats. I am secretly pleased. Purple is my favourite colour. Almost everything I have with me is a shade of purple. A good omen. It's nine am, a lovely June morning, warm and sunny. We begin to relax. About half a mile from the landing strip we see several wooden huts with a stream of people leaving them, carrying luggage, heading for our plane and Chengdu. Later, we learn that they have spent the night there. Anyone leaving Lhasa by plane must spend the night by the runway. We soon discover why. The road from the airport to Lhasa is totally unpredictable, only partially paved, with roadworks in progress and inevitable long waits. With exceptional luck, the trip should take about two and a half hours, but can easily take seven or eight. Our luck is average, and the trip takes five hours on a dusty road strewn with rocks, holes and ditches. The landscape is parched and inhospitable, with a few stark villages set among the barren mountains. There is nothing green. The only colour comes from prayer flags on the roofs of huts, torn bits of rags impaled on twigs. What a bitter place to live.
Bumping along in the hot bus, I muse on my obsession with Tibet. Did it begin years ago when I first saw a picture of the Potala Palace? That image became permanently etched in my imagination, the symbol of my travel dreams. I was not alone – I had never met a traveller whose eyes did not light up at the mention of Tibet. Yet I had never met anyone who had actually been there. I knew nothing about Tibet, its history or its culture, and my travel information was limited to a few sentences hastily uttered during a chance encounter. The last day I was in Chengdu, I was lunching alone in the hotel dining room. Several Americans were at the next table and I overheard one of them saying he had just returned from Tibet. I was hungry for information.
"I'd like to help you, but I must run," he said. "I have to meet this Swedish chick in the bar," he added, with a gratuitous wink. However, he did manage to say, "You can't get permission to go anywhere outside of Lhasa, and Lhasa gets boring after three days – absolutely no nightlife. And, oh yes, don't forget to take surgical masks; it can get very dusty." (This last bit of advice was to prove invaluable.) Then he mumbled something about the Number One Chinese Guesthouse being the best place to stay because it was sanitary and hygienic. I decided to avoid it. He started to leave, then suddenly turned back as though he had forgotten something especially important. "If you want to blow your mind, go to the sky burial."
"The what?" I asked, but he'd already rushed off.
I try to console myself for my ignorance. Perhaps it's an advantage that I know so little about Tibet. I can see it with a freshness untainted by expectations. A lurch jolts me out of my speculations as the bus stops abruptly. Roadworks. We line the roadside and watch the workers smashing rocks with sledgehammers. After more than an hour, I grow restless and wander away toward the mountains. In just minutes, the road, bus and passengers are swallowed by the landscape. I find myself alone in a valley of twisted rocks – tombstones in an alien cemetery. The silence is like eternity. I creep carefully among the boulders, conscious of their hostility, feeling soft and vulnerable as they graze my skin. I am the only living thing trapped in a soundless universe unchanged since creation.
I shudder as though someone has walked over my grave. Hurriedly, as if pursued by ghosts, I retrace my steps, startled by the voices of the passengers squatting by the roadside. I enter the bus tentative and silent.
As we approach Lhasa we begin to see foliage, meadows, trees, flowers. I drink in the moisture, nourished by the green life. Then, in the distance, I see golden domes shining in the barren hills: the Potala, with its miracle of smooth, rounded shapes rising in the blue sky, glowing like a vision. After the harsh mountain peaks tearing at the heavens like broken claws, the domes are a welcoming embrace, a circle of comfort. Then, suddenly, the full force of the Potala Palace. As though aware of the impact, the bus slows down.
Brilliantly etched in sunshine, a powerful structure of white, red and gold dominates the mountains. The image is so intense that for a moment my eyes shut tight as though encountering a dazzling light. But as I succumb to the sense of wonder, an unexpected surge of joy sweeps through me. It is more than the excitement of finally seeing something I've imagined for so long. It is an exhilaration, an elation, beyond the scope of reason.
I am not a religious person. I subscribe to no church. I have never been on a spiritual quest. Yet I am aware that I am entering an unexplored spiritual realm. I feel like the Wandering Jew first glimpsing the Wailing Wall, or the Arab pilgrim finally entering Mecca. Instinctively, I know that the Tibetans have some special secret to survive the unsparing Himalayas and create from bare rock this Potala Palace. I know too that I will have to experience both extremes to understand that secret, to fathom any of the mysteries of this mythic mountain kingdom. I have no idea how I will do this, but the possibility excites me. Travellers make lucky things happen. I hold the image of the Potala carefully, closing my eyes to preserve it, as the bus moves on into the Forbidden City.
CHAPTER 2In Lhasa
I say nothing to Tim and Doune. Not yet. In any case, there is no time. Within minutes, my spiritual reflections come to an abrupt end. The magic and the mystery vanish as we are unceremoniously ejected outside the CAAC office and plunged into the uninspired ordeal of baggage arrangements.
The CAAC office is a large, bare room with people milling about. There are no facilities of any kind. I watch enviously as fellow passengers disappear into waiting arms. No one expects us. Our bags are nowhere in evidence. We search inside and outside for some clue to their whereabouts. "Perhaps the bags are on one of the other buses," Doune suggests, always hopeful. We wait until the last bus arrives and the last passenger disappears, but there is still no sign of our bags. Our twenty word vocabulary, so far at the "neehow" (hello) stage, gets us nowhere. Finally, Chinese phrase book in hand, I approach a man wearing a tarnished badge, who looks vaguely official. He smiles and I am encouraged. I find the perfect phrase under "travel by air," sub-section "airports." It reads, "Where are my bags?" I point enthusiastically to the Chinese version. The man shrugs his shoulders, still smiling. Tim takes the book and thumps his finger in staccato beats under "Where are my bags?" indicating he means business. The man looks bewildered. Suddenly, we realise he is Tibetan and doesn't read Chinese. He has, however, understood that Tim is in earnest, and hurries off obligingly in search of assistance.
He returns with a young, efficient-looking Chinese lady. Assisted by the phrase book, I make another attempt. "Where are my bags?" I point, trying to convey a sense of urgency. She nods with crisp understanding. Thumbing through my book, her eyes light up as she points to a word. Relieved, I peer at the word. It translates as "tomorrow".
My face squeezes into a perplexed grimace as I mutter "tomorrow" to Tim and Doune who are anxiously following the procedure. "She can't mean 'tomorrow'," Doune moans.
"That's exactly what she means."
"Give it another go," Doune urges.
I repeat the process from the beginning, and again the answer comes up "tomorrow".
Conceding defeat, I hand the book to Doune. "You try. Maybe your Chinese is better than mine."
With infinite patience perfected by her travels in the East, Doune (assisted by Tim, who is far less patient) begins the tedious process of search-and-point in an attempt to extract more information. The Chinese lady is coolly polite. She's had enough of us by now, and is anxious to end the interview.
I collapse on the floor, suddenly worn out. My psyche has been fragmented like a kaleidoscope, shaken by the day's turmoil of emotions and events; my body is shattered by the altitude. Lhasa is on a high plateau 12,000 feet above sea level. The air is extremely thin, and, for the newly arrived, exhaustion comes easily.
Finally, Doune relays the news. "Our bags are not here. We have to come back tomorrow to get them," she sighs.
"I don't believe it," I say, believing it at once.
She thanks the Chinese lady and the Tibetan man, for whom the charade has been riveting, even if incomprehensible.
"Thanks for what?" I ask wearily. "Why didn't anyone tell us? What will we do without our bags? Doesn't it get cold at night? We have nothing to wear. What about toothbrushes? Soap? Look at us, we're covered in dust." Increasingly forlorn, I recite the hopeless litany, knowing there are no responses.
Tim and Doune join me on the floor, disheartened. We are feeling lost and more than a little faded – drained by excitement, altitude, fatigue and now no bags. We've been awake since four am. It's one of the less exotic travel adventures. There follows some moments of replenishing silence during which the disjointed fragments of my brain slowly knit. "Never mind our bags," I say, with renewed optimism.
"We'll get them tomorrow. It's better that way. At this point I couldn't carry a handkerchief. The amazing thing is that we've made it to Lhasa. We're actually here." For a moment, overcome by exhaustion and frustration, I had forgotten to give thanks for being in Tibet.
"You're absolutely right," Doune agrees. "We're in Lhasa, and that's what really matters. I'm over the moon." But in truth, it's difficult to be over the moon, or even under it, while breathing thin air.
The ever-practical Tim is already studying a map drawn for him by a traveller he met who suggested we stay in a Tibetan guest house called the Banak Shol. "I've got it together," he announces. "No point hanging around; let's get out of here."
Standing up feels like a day's work. The Banak Shol is in the old part of Lhasa, a long walk from the CAAC building, which is in the new Chinese section. We make our way, too tired to talk, intent only upon getting there. As I struggle to keep pace with Tim and Doune, their legs much longer than mine, I make a point of looking only straight ahead, not wanting to spoil my first impressions with an unreceptive mood.
We arrive dusty, hot and faint from lack of oxygen, but the sight of the Banak Shol revives us. Like the embrace of an old friend, it bestows an immediate welcome. Unlike hotels in China which are often vast and formal, built by the Russians with Western conveniences, this guesthouse is small and primitive, and although there is nothing Western or modern about it, it has a familiar comforting feel. A boy of about fourteen, squatting by the open doorway, greets us with a friendly smile. "Room?" He enquires. We nod enthusiastically.
"You speak English?" I ask, delighted by even the possibility of verbal exchange.
"A leetle," he says.
He shakes hands with each of us and the matter is settled. There are no forms to fill, no hassle with tourist currency, none of the usual Chinese formality. Grateful, we follow him upstairs to our rooms. "This is definitely where the Tibetans stay," Tim observes, obviously pleased. I admire his ability to communicate. I can hardly breathe, let alone speak, my heart thumping wildly as I climb the two flights of stairs. We walk along a balcony which runs the length of the building. And in spite of my thumping heart, the sight of the mountains, sparkling with patches of snow, brings a flash of pleasure. I make a mental note to take a more leisurely delight in them once we are settled.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Touching Tibet by Niema Ash. Copyright © 2011 Niema Ash. Excerpted by permission of Eye Books Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
Acknowledgements,Foreword,
Introduction,
Entering Tibet,
In Lhasa,
Tim, Doune and Niema: Freak Show in China,
The Banak Shol: Medieval Guesthouse,
Old Lhasa,
New Lhasa: Pascal, Ian and Jaye,
The Sky Burial,
Tashi,
Outside the Potala,
Celebrating the Buddha's Birthday,
Inside the Potala,
Trip to Nagarze,
Pema,
Sera Monastery,
Reincarnation and the Dalai Lama,
The Mani Stone,
Leaving Lhasa,
Leaving Tibet,
Back in China,
The Brothers: A Tibetan Tale,
Epilogue,
Important Dates,
Key Issues,