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Overland to Llasa

A Cure for Fear of Flying

Joyce Dalton

The flight from Llasa, Tibet to Kathmandu, Nepal took one hour. The overland journey from Kathmandu to Llasa took five grueling days, accompanied by dust, altitude sickness, landslides, detours which made the dirt and rock main route seem like a freeway, “rest stops” so abominable a field became infinitely preferable, and narrow mountain roads where vistas were unobstructed by guard rails. Fear of driving soon put fear of flying in perspective.

With ample air service to Llasa, why did the 19 members of my group opt for the road trip? Qualms about flying over the Himalayas didn’t factor in. An overland seemed exciting, adventurous, culturally enriching, the sort of experience serious travelers seek. While the tour operator had warned it would not be an easy trip, the implications of that advisory were never spelled out. We discovered a good many of them the first day.

Day One

Early in the morning, we set out from Kathmandu full of grand expectations for our first glimpse of the “roof of the world.” Although several of us had visited other Himalayan lands, Tibet assumed almost mythical status in our imaginations. Even the news that a rockslide lay ahead barely tempered our enthusiasm. After all, the border was only 71 miles away and how long could a two-mile walk over the slide take?

Lush green mountains, rice paddies, prayer flags and waterfalls kept our eyes pealed toward the windows. In good time, we reached the Friendship Bridge connecting Nepal and Tibet. As we walked over the bridge (the end of the line for our Nepalese bus), a light rain fell. The Chinese police barely looked at our passports (China has occupied Tibet since 1951).

Our introduction to travel Tibetan-style began immediately as we were hauled up into he enclosed back of a waiting truck. Like third world convicts, we stood squashed against one another or the truck’s metal sides, searching in vain for something to grip as we bounced over the dirt road.

A long line of immobile trucks, akin to Manhattan gridlock, signaled the landslide. The masses of people trudging along in both directions could have maintained the illusion were it not for the boxed TV sets roped to most walkers’ backs. For the locals, the slide meant good business as they hauled cargo from trucks on one side of the blockage to waiting vehicles on the other.

Soon, the less hardy found even more lucrative work, pushing and pulling tourists over rocks, through mud and icy water run-offs, and across a narrow footbridge. With barely room to squeeze out of the way of the TV carriers, it was hard to imagine a road had once run through this chaotic mass of rocks, boulders, dirt and water. At one point, loud cries and a rumbling noise forced everyone to scurry precariously or huddle in silent panic against the cliff. A boulder had broken loose high above and was hurtling down the mountain toward us. By sheer luck or divine providence, it stopped short of its goal, lodging against some larger obstructions. An hour and a half later, exhausted from the trek and altitude, we saw a familiar line of trucks and knew the end was in sight. Or so we thought.

After the truck and trek, having a seat on a bus seemed the height of luxury. However, such comfort was not to last as yet another slide waited. Once again, we trudged through rain, water and mud, but luckily, the distance and difficulty weren’t as grave since this time, the hands keeping us upright belonged to kids.

Our mood was not improved by being hoisted into the back of another truck, squashed even closer together as baggage and two oil drums took up a good part of the space. For nearly an hour, the driver played with a reluctant motor while, to add insult to injury, a caravan of Land Rovers whisked a group of Japanese tourists around us. At last, the engine caught and the truck bounced, slipped, skidded and spewed fumes for the five miles to Zhangmu.

More than 12 hours after leaving Kathmandu, we pulled up to a closed immigration station. Eventually, a policewoman arrived and revved up the X-ray before freeing us to pull our bags up the street to the hotel. A horde of moneychangers blocked the entrance (an especially attractive one roamed the restaurant accompanied by a policeman) while the thought of bed and a shower overcame even the damp smell permeating the guest rooms. The shower turned out to be wishful thinking. It existed, but cold water on a chilly, rainy night wasn’t what we had in mind.

Some time around midnight, I realized my coat, once looped through the straps of my backpack, was missing and a combination of rain and sweat had caused the ink on my passport’s stamps to run over the pages. Two days later, I discovered a still-living leech on a sock.

Day Two

After breakfast, it was back to the immigration post, where we lined up in the rain for passport check before boarding the Chinese bus in which we would be encased for most of our waking hours over the next four days. Baggage occupied the few extra seats, space between rows resembled coach class on a plane, and there were no seat pockets, overhead rack, air conditioning or decent springs. Fumes, however, were plentiful.

Our goal was Shegar, 156 miles northeast along the Friendship Highway, a misnomer if ever there was one, since “friendship” is not the word most Tibetans would choose to describe their relationship to China and “highway” implies a paved road, not to mention a fast one. Our speed, meanwhile, seldom exceeded 30 mph as we wound around one mountain after another, crossing two passes in excess of 16,500 ft. Though it would be more poetic to say the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Buddhist prayer flags strung about the passes “fluttered in gentle mountain breezes,” in truth, they flapped violently in winds that threatened to p them to shreds.

Tibet’s scenery is truly spectacular. “Just as I imagined,” my seatmate commented. Low bushes boasted small purple flowers and water run-offs tumbled down the slopes and across our path. A couple led a yak along the road. With no house, let alone community, in sight, where they had been or were going was beyond guessing.

Gradually, tree-clad mountains gave way to barren, but even more dramatic, ones. Here and there, farmers stood behind plows pulled by yaks, as they tended plots of potatoes and barley. Occasional clusters of whitish-gray houses sported windows outlined in black, red or blue and walls etched with sun and moon symbols. Cloths with Buddhist signs hung before doorways and neat stacks of dung patties formed low ledges atop the roofs. Prayer flags waved from poles at each corner.

The condition of our bus, coupled with the condition of the road, guaranteed that any planned sightseeing en route was impossible. Today, we bypassed some cave dwellings. Even so, it was 4:30 by the time we reached our lunch stop, a traditional village place with an iron stove in the center and covered benches and low tables along three walls. If we had been less tired and the food better, it might have seemed charming. Extremely basic motel-type rooms and an outdoor earthen pit toilet stood behind the restaurant. Amazingly, our leader took a vote on whether to overnight here or continue on. Even more amazingly, three voted to stay. Fortunately, this was far from a majority and in another hour, we reached Shegar, which turned out to be a good-sized town complete with streetlights, a very welcome sight.

I had barely lain down when my heart started pounding, breaths came in gasps, my entire body began shaking and nausea overwhelmed me. Sick in Shegar seemed a Dantesque ring of hell.

Day Three

Despite my worst fears, I lived to see morning. After dragging my bags and myself to the lobby, I found two others had passed a similar night. It was then we learned that oxygen pillows were available, for a fee, at reception. We made a sorry sight, half-sitting, half-lying on the vinyl sofas holding what looked like blue beach pillows and sucking oxygen through a tube. We had all, by the way, been taking Diamox, which supposedly prevents altitude sickness.

Being left in Shegar was unthinkable, so we dragged ourselves into the bus for the 154-mile, 10-or-so-hour-trip to Shigatse. A caravan of yaks and traditionally garbed people had those with energy hopping from the bus for . Early on, we learned that even the most remote stop meant kids and adults appearing from nowhere, hands outstretched, repeating incessantly, “Hello, hello, money, money” in English. Yes, they’re poor and yes, it’s the fault of tourists who came before, but the loss of dignity is pathetic and their persistence, annoying.

For us “sickies,” just getting on and off the bus for pee stops was exhausting. Perhaps now is a good time to ruminate on our changing attitudes toward this function. Normal rest stops aren’t part of the Tibet scene and village toilets are unspeakable; however, the lack of habitation means few vehicles to disturb foreign squatters. The first day or two, we searched for a bush or rock. Then, one person held a raincoat in front of several others. By the third day, it didn’t matter --- behind the bus, in front of the bus, any old place.

We crossed 16,738 ft. Gyatso-la Pass. A vote was taken on whether or not to detour to 13th century Sakya monastery. Although the three days had produced no sightseeing, only one or two voted yes. Once again, it was too late and we were too tired. As usual, it was dark when we pulled into Shigatse. “Another 12-hour day,” one person muttered, “just like my job.” The parking lot was filled with Land Rovers and tourists whose speedier vehicles had deposited them at the hotel with time to clean up and take a stroll around town. At least half of us skipped dinner in favor of sleep and a shower, hot this time.

Day Four

Since Shigatse and our next overnight, Gyantse, are part of the regular tourist circuit, we anticipated a better road (wrong) and an easier day (also wrong). By now, most of the group had succumbed to altitude sickness, respiratory problems or colds.

After depleting the hotel’s supply of canned oxygen (the containers resembled aerosol hair sprays), we visited 15th century Tashilhunpo monastery before leaving town.

Set against a mountain, the monastery, seat of the Panchen Lamas, is a multi-structured complex of shrines housing a staggering collection of Buddha images, including one room with 1,000 small figures, each different, painted on the walls.

The 59-mile drive took more than five hours as detours and detours of detours forced our bus off the main road. Sometimes more than one dirt track presented itself. With no signs, which one take was always a question. More than once, we got out as the driver struggled through deep ruts; one took part of our rear bumper. Some detours took us through the narrow streets of villages where our bus barely missed brushing against the gray walls of houses. Regrettably, time was of the essence so good stroll-and-photography ops were missed. As evening fell, horse-drawn wagons stacked high with hay became silhouetted across the river. The thought of switching vehicles crossed a few minds.

While the Hotel Gyantse presented a typically dreary Socialist exterior, the rooms in the Tibetan wing were totally charming. Couches, which doubled as beds, were covered with heavy woven carpets and pillows of equally bright design. They stood around a large Oriental style table painted red with floral designs in gold, green and blue. The dresser and end tables, also red, sported scenes of mountains, birds and flowers. A shocking pink phone, a make-up mirror and the trip’s first hair dryer added to the new fixtures in the bath. An unexpected, but welcome way to end the day.

Day Five

After a visit to 15th century Pelkhor Chode monastery, followed by the trip’s best lunch, it was on to Llasa, the capital, 161 miles northeast. Again, the number of miles meant nothing while the condition of roads and vehicles meant everything. The first glitch involved roadwork. Passengerless, our bus plowed through water, then over mounds of earth piled up by a nearby bulldozer. Of course, such hazards were mere play for Land Rovers, whose occupants must have wondered what manner of tourists stood watching them jealously.

The worst was yet to come. At yet another diversion, we sat outside in high altitude sun for close to an hour while our bus sat in mud halfway up its wheels. Though all along the main road, signposts count off the kilometers to Beijing, nary a marking directs motorists to the proper detour track. Our driver chose the wrong one, so we waited while other vehicles, whose drivers were obviously more familiar with the options, passed us by without a glance or offer of help.

From 17,056 ft. Karo-La Pass, we descended into the Llasa valley. Eleven hours after leaving Gyantse, we pulled up to our final hotel, the Sangbala, which claimed our first elevator plus a great location in the old section, a block from the Barkhor bazaar and the Jokhang temple. Through my room’s window, I gazed to my heart’s content at the truly splendid Potala Palace, happy to be exactly where I was, but filled with a renewed respect for the marvel of flight.

Images by Joyce Dalton

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