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Bryan Stumpf's China Journal |
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Six Days in
Tibet My Tibet trip was August 2nd-August 8th. But before the trip, Yaping and I were required to attend a seminar to learn the health risks of traveling in Tibet. At the seminar, we met the other members of our tour group; there would be 17 altogether - 13 Chinese, 3 Japanese, and one American – me. The seminar focused on altitude sickness - the most common ailment for tourists in Tibet. When 10,000 feet above sea level, the oxygen is so thin that people experience headaches, dizziness, and nausea. At 20,000 feet, the oxygen is so thin your lungs will rattle, your brain cells will die at an extremely fast rate, and altitude sickness can be fatal. Fortunately, we wouldn’t be any higher than 15,000 feet. Just to put things in perspective: the Lhasa Airport would be the lowest point of our whole trip, yet the landing strip is at a higher elevation than any mountain in the Rockies, Appalachians, or Adirondacks. Though Everest is considered the “rooftop of the world,” we would in places only 3000 meters lower than Everest’s summit. The main way to avoid altitude sickness is allowing your body to acclimate to the reduced oxygen on the first few days. Once we arrived at the Lhasa Airport on the morning of August 2nd, we would spend our entire first day in Tibet just resting and avoiding any physical exertion. And there were other heath risks - there can also be extreme temperatures at such high elevations. During the summer, the nights would be cold, but not so cold as to cause hypothermia. The bigger risk in the summer would be the sun’s intensity during the day. Tibet’s high altitude and the atmosphere allow the sun’s radiation to strike the area with unusual intensity. We would need extra-strength sunblock. With all of these precautions laid out on the table, Yaping asked me one last time, “Are you sure you’re ready for this kind of trip?” My reply to this question was always the same: “Definitely.” Our group had a four-hour flight from Shanghai to Lhasa, with a layover in Chengdu. Along the way, Yaping and I saw a few celebrities. During our lay-over, we saw the Uzbekistan soccer team returning home from the Asian Cup finals. And when we arrived at the Lhasa Airport, Yaping recognized a famous singer from Tibet. Though I didn’t know the singer myself, I helped Yaping notice her. When we walked into the airport’s lobby, I noticed a Tibetan holding what looked like a big white sheet. I pointed out the sheet to Yaping, and just then, the singer walked into the lobby and the Tibetan placed the sheet on the woman’s shoulders. Yaping immediately got really excited seeing the singer; and then, she explained that the white sheet was a “hada scarf.” Tibetans adorn important people hada with scarves as a greeting or a sign of high appreciation, kind of like leis in Hawaii. Yaping wanted the singer’s autograph, but was too shy to ask. After about 10 minutes of my encouragement, Yaping finally sidled up to the singer and requested her signature. I made sure to snap a few pictures of the two standing together. Yaping was perfectly giddy after the whole experience. Once we found our tour group and were led to our bus, we too were adorned with hada scarves. By the end of the trip, I’d acquire four hada scarves altogether. After the whole group had gathered on the bus, the tour guide first of all promised we would have an adventure in Tibet. But then, he said our first adventure would be enduring the first symptoms of altitude sickness, which would occur within the next two-four hours. Lhasa’s airport was the highest airport in the world, and our blood was already carrying a third less oxygen than at sea level The actual city of Lhasa was a 90 minute ride from the airport, and we’d be riding higher and higher into the mountains the whole way. Once we settled into our Lhasa hotel, we had the remainder of the day to rest and wander the city. At first, I thought I would escape the symptoms of altitude sickness. Yet I learned that travel agents do not tell you the whole truth about altitude sickness. The truth is - no one can escape altitude sickness. You WILL get it - there’s no question about that. The only question is to what degree the symptoms will affect you. In our group, most people just experienced mild dizziness and headaches, but others were bed-ridden for days. Fortunately, I’d just have mild dizziness and headaches throughout the trip. But my first twelve hours of altitude sickness, my period of adjustment, was painless. In fact, I felt great, euphoric even – and as it turns out, euphoria is a common symptom in your first hours of thinned oxygen. For those twelve hours, I felt a little loopy and lightheaded, like someone left the valve open on a tank of laughing gas. Everything was floating and the sun was happy. I wandered away from the group an few times. Yaping had to jingle her keys or dangle something shiny to lure me back to the group. During this episode, Yaping took a few pictures of me – I have a look of pleasant befuddlement on my face. And while in this state, I wrote three pages in my journal, yet none of it makes sense – it’s mostly rambling about being taunted by panda bears in pointy hats. Our tour guide reminded us repeatedly that the more painful symptoms of altitude sickness could be avoided if we simply moved slowly. When I was about 9 years old, I broke my wrist. At the hospital, when the doctor had to set my bones back together, he gave me the choice of A) knocking me unconscious or B) just making me drowsy. Since choice A meant staying overnight at the hospital, I went with B. The reason I’m mentioning this – there was one side effect with choosing B. If I tried to exert myself too much under induced drowsiness, I would immediately get nauseous and dizzy. Well, this was exactly the same situation with altitude sickness – you can avoid the common symptoms of dizziness, headaches, and nausea as long as you do not exert yourself too much. So I tried to keep myself at a sloth-like pace for the first day. This wasn’t easy. Especially since, during my 12-hour period of adjustment to the less oxygen, I was prone to laughing fits. It wouldn’t take much to get me giggling – just remembering something funny my father once said could make me double over with laughter. And laughter, unfortunately, exerts energy. After our first day of wandering the city, I discovered our hotel gift shop sold cans of oxygen. They were the size of a typical spray can - you connect a little plastic tube to the nozzle at the top, then stick the end of the tube up your nose. I didn’t buy one on my first night in Lhasa, but I would end up buying one eventually. After I settled into my room, a nurse stopped by to check on me. Apparently, the hotel had its own nurse that checked every room at night to see if anybody had succumbed to any of the life-threatening symptoms of altitude sickness. She had hypodermic needles and I.V.s for anyone who needed them. Fortunately, I was healthy enough to decline her medical assistance. That first night, I spent a lot of time just looking out my hotel window. The euphoria had worn off, so there was a sobering, sharp-edged clarity to the view. The moon was full and the mountains surrounding Lhasa were nicely backlit. Looking to my right, I could see a silhouette of Potala Palace - we would be visiting this home of the exiled Dalai Lama the next day. Another symptom of altitude sickness is insomnia – I was frequently reminded of this throughout my first night in Lhasa.
One positive upshot of my sleepless night was seeing the sunrise from behind the Potala Palace. In actuality, being awake for the summer sunrise in Tibet is no great feat - the sun rises at 7:30 am. China doesn’t have time zones like in America – so even though the sun rises in Shanghai at 5:30am, it rises in Tibet at 7:30am. And even though the sun sets in Shanghai at 7:30pm, it sets in Tibet at 9:30pm. Yaping and I had breakfast and prepped for the day of sightseeing around Lhasa. The morning air was clean, cool, and crisp – a nice departure from the sweltering temps of Shanghai. As we cruised around the city, it was clear that, in Lhasa, elevation is everything – what you find here and what you don’t find here is all due to its extremely high altitude. It is one of the few cities in the world, with a population of more than 470,000 without a single McDonalds or Starbucks. Lhasa, and indeed all of Tibet, remains practically untouched by Western culture. Though you may hear murmurings of Tibet being a place of pilgrimage for millions around the world, there really aren’t steady streams of tourists flocking to the area. Tourist dollars do flow into Lhasa, but not enough to sustain restaurant and hotel franchises. Too many tourists are warded off by the risks of altitude sickness. Along our way to Potala Place, our guide introduced several points of interest. He used a microphone to amplify his voice, but the mic was stuck on echo effect – it made him sound like he was trapped in the 4th dimension. I couldn’t really listen anyways since he was talking in Chinese. It didn’t matter - I was transfixed by the streets of Lhasa. They seemed so much wider than the streets of Shanghai – mostly because they lacked Shanghai’s excessive car traffic and pedestrians. It seemed the only vehicles on the road were the occasional SUV and bus transporting tourists. When we arrived at Potala Palace, we had to wait about 30 minutes while our guide sought permission from Chinese military officers for our visit. Apparently, the Chinese government has particular restrictions on who is allowed and who is not allowed to visit the palace. It appeared as though foreigners with money are welcome, but Tibetan Buddhists looking for a place to worship are not welcome. While we waited, I spoke with another tourist - a high school teacher from San Francisco. We both commiserated about all of the roadblocks and misdirection the Chinese government places around Tibet, especially around Buddhist temples. He said, “The Chinese have turned this place into Disneyland.” He also mentioned how image of the Potala Palace is used as a logo for Chinese products like beer and yak jerky. Before our group entered the palace, our guide pointed out the spinning prayer buckets near the entrance. The Buddhists can wordlessly recite prayers just by spinning these “buckets.” Dozens of the buckets, positioned right next to each other, lined the sidewalks. We saw crowds of Tibetans walk by the buckets, giving a spin to each bucket as they walked by. Our tour guide explained that since the Chinese restricted Tibetan entry the palace, the locals of Lhasa usually walk a circuit around the palace every morning. You could see a worn path on the ground around the perimeter of the palace. Spinning the buckets is part of their journey. And when the Lhasa Buddhists reach the front of the palace, they will do sidewalk supplications - they lay down on the sidewalk and pray facing the palace. Once our group was given permission to enter, we bought our tickets and walked through the temple’s turnstiles. The inside of Potala Palace has a subterranean feel to it. There were few wide-open spaces, very little natural light, and plenty of opportunities to bump your head. But every inch of the palace is incredibly ornate. Every wall, ceiling, and floor seemed to have some sort of intricate pattern, print, or design. Even corners, eaves, rafters, and stabilizing beams had more patterns and designs than they seemed to deserve. As we walked through the palace, we would commonly see monks sitting in dark corners or hidden away in cramped and unlit alcoves. The Buddhists looked glum, and the Chinese guards seemed to outnumber them. There was a sense of mournfulness about the place. The current Dalai Lama, the fourteenth, installed in 1940, has been self-exiled in India since 1959. His absence from Potala Palace appeared devastating. There are several reasons for the Dalai Lama’s self-exile. In 1950, Communist China announced it would “liberate” Tibet. They considered the feudalism of Tibet as evidence of its need for a more modernized government. The Chinese abolished Tibet’s government and started reordering its society. During the 1950s, agricultural reforms resulted in mass starvation for the Tibetans. In the 1960s, the Cultural Revolution’s Red Guards arrived in Lhasa and began the systematic destruction of cultural and religious monuments. In the 1970s, the Dalai Lama sent envoys into Tibet to gather facts about the Chinese occupation. They returned with a catalogue of 1.2 million deaths, 6254 monasteries destroyed, 100,000 Tibetans in labor camps, and extensive deforestation. In the early 1980s, financial incentives were offered to the Chinese to immigrate into Tibet. Today, with hundreds of thousands of Chinese living and working in Tibet, there is the concern that Tibetans will become a minority in their own country. Yet all through the decades, the Chinese government has trumpeted its responsibility in the modernization and economic stabilization of Tibet. As a tourist in Tibet, there was a difficult truth that I had to accept: without modern development by the Chinese, I probably would not have been able to fly into Lhasa’s airport or ride down the paved roads of Tibet. As I walked through Potala Palace, I never stopped thinking about what a rare opportunity it was to see the ancient artifacts of Tibetan culture – especially when it seemed the Tibetan culture was slowly being assimilated into Chinese culture. The most impressive artifacts from the palace’s history were the Dalai Lama graves. The Lama graves looked like upturned tambourines, with the bulbous part at the bottom. Though sky burials are common in Tibet, the Lamas were mummified and placed in these tombs. (A sky burial, for those who don’t know, is offering a corpse to scavenging birds to be devoured.) We also walked by huge stacks of ancient Buddhist scrolls. They were raised off the floor and stabilized by four-foot high arches. Buddhists believe that if you pass under these arches, you will take in the knowledge of the scrolls without actually reading them. I bet my literature students at Highline would love to have these arches for each assigned text. We also walked through the vacant office and living quarters of the Dalai Lama, and then walked up to the open area at the top of the palace. Since the palace is right in the heart of Lhasa, and one of the tallest structures in the city, the view was amazing. From this height, you could see how the city is totally encircled by immense mountains. And the sky that day was the bluest sky I had seen in my whole time in China. And the clouds were huge, intensely white cotton balls. After the palace-top viewing, it was time to head to our second destination. We walked down the many steps to the palace’s ground level, and found the large metal doors of the exit. Getting through the doors was an ordeal, but it also could be considered symbolic: Chinese guards were holding the doors closed as a large crowd of Tibetans tried to enter from the other side. Since the guards feared a Tibetan might try to sneak in, they only opened the metal doors wide enough for Yaping and me to squeeze through. Once through the doors, we had to then squeeze our way through the large crowd. Our next destination was Jokhang Palace. For some reason, this Buddhist temple required less Chinese policing than Potala Palace. The monks here were noticeably more at ease. Here we saw more Buddhists reclining in parts of the temple, and spinning their handheld prayer wheels. And due to the fewer Chinese restrictions, Jokhang was the most visited Buddhist shrine in Tibet. There’s a popular legend about Jokhang – some say the aquatic aspects of the legend suggest Arthurian overtones. According to the legend, during 600s the Tibetan king tossed a ring from his finger and swore he would build a Buddhist temple wherever it landed. When the ring landed in a lake, many believed it was a sign that the temple was not to be built. But then, witnesses claimed a small Buddhist altar rose from the middle of the lake. The lake was soon filled in and Jokhang built on the spot where the altar rose. When you visit Jokhang, you can find the altar that catalyzed its construction in its southeast corner. After Jokhang, we then were off to dinner. For all of our lunches and dinners in Lhasa, we went to the same restaurant. Apparently, our guide considered it one of the few “clean” restaurants in the city. After dinner, it was time to rest up for the next day’s long bus ride to Nam-tso Lake - the highest saltwater lake in the world. It rained sometime early Tuesday morning. July-August is rainy season in Tibet – and supposedly it only rains at night in Lhasa. This turned out to be true. The next four days of the trip were filled with blue skies, cotton ball clouds, and sunshine. And for brief periods at night, rained lashed against our hotel windows.
When we boarded the bus the next morning, I beheld an unusual sight. On the monitor at the front of the bus, the driver had chosen to show a video of half-naked girls gyrating and pole-dancing to a song with a techno beat. It just seemed like an unusual choice for a tour of a spiritual place like Tibet. And what made the video choice even more unusual - Yaping explained to me the song was about Chairman Mao. Yaping was actually a little upset by the sight half-naked girls dancing to a Chairman Mao song. We were on the road before sunrise. The sky was gray and the dark green mountains were blanketed in thick fog. As the sun started to rise, the sky became purple, then magenta, and the fog around the mountains thinned to a mist. Tibet reminded me of Alaska – though people continually attempt to modernize the environment, nature remains very much in control. Along the road, nature seemed to thwart every human development – roads were made impassable because of landslides, pavement was washed away by the flood water - just like I had seen in Alaska. Our bus frequently had to drive over debris from landsides and several traffic signs warned of narrow lanes due to one half of the road having been washed downstream. Tibet also reminded me of North Wales – sheep graze freely and the landscape abounds with them. You can find sheep everywhere - climbing hills, perched on cliffs, grazing at summits. Unlike North Wales, you often find the sheep browsing along with yaks. As we drove through Tibet, the landscape was often specked white with sheep or specked blacked with yaks. And oftentimes, the yaks and sheep were in the road, along the road, or crossing the road. It makes you wonder how farmers determine whose animal belongs to whom. Sometimes you see a shepherd herding a particular flock, but for the most part, the yaks and sheep don’t seem to have any obvious markings. The sheep in North Wales were color-coded – circles of red or blue or green were spray painted on their butts. Along our northern route to Nam-tso Lake, we were always surrounded by mountains. The first thing you think to yourself is, “Wow, these mountains are really, really high.” But then your second thought is, “Then again, Tibet’s typical ‘ground level’ is already averaging 15,000 feet above sea level.” Once you get used to the dizzying heights of the peaks, the second thing you notice is the various textures of the mountains. Some mountains are just barren rocky crags, other mountains are all green, and some are so high that they have perpetually frosted tops. And along the first leg of the route, we followed a surging river propelled by flood water. The water was flowing so fast, surging so powerfully past its stony banks, it looked angry. And dotted along the landscapes were black tents – the homes of the Tibetans. The tents, made of woven black yak-hair, are about the size of a U-Haul, but house an entire family. The homes are rarely grouped together, making you believe that each Tibetan has perhaps staked out his/her own patch of mountainside. And I doubt there are any territorial disputes – there is more than enough land to go around. But more importantly, Tibetans are the most generous, bighearted, and jovial people I have seen in my travels. Though outsiders may consider their living condition one of squalor, and the environment inhospitable, Tibetans are a truly buoyant people. As we drove by tents near the roadside, families would emerge from their homes just to wave, “hello.” And whenever I brandished my camera, they’d smile for a picture. In some places I’ve traveled, outsiders are often viewed with contempt, but Tibetans seemed to welcome outsiders with open arms. It’s true that some Tibetans may request a monetary donation after a snapshot, but offering the money feels more like an expression of “thank-you,” than a debt owed. Unlike Americans, Tibetans aren’t preoccupied with possessions and a fast-paced lifestyle. You’d frequently see them trying to flag down our bus down for a ride. But curiously, a fairly large number of families owned pool tables. In fact, pool seems very popular in Tibet. You’d be driving past dilapidated brick homes, yet in the front yard you’d see a pool table. About two hours from Lhasa, we veered off the road onto a very bumpy dirt road. I remember thinking to myself, “I wonder why we need to take this detour.” After about 30 more minutes on the bumpy road, I realized it wasn’t a detour. We’d be riding this road for the next two hours in order to get to Nam-tso Lake. It wasn’t just bumpy the whole way - it was rattle-the-teeth-right-out-of-your-head bumpy. Many on the bus just laid back in their seats and tried to endure, but I remained enthralled by the landscape. We were riding on a beautifully barren plateau - totally untouched by communication lines or TV towers. Though it was picturesque, with runnel-cut meadows and rock outcroppings, its vastness made it almost uninviting and inhospitable to humans, like a lunar landscape. The ride was so bumpy, there wasn’t much else you could do besides try to take pictures. You can’t read, you can’t write in your journal – you even have a hard time talking. Along this ride, Yaping was having her worst bout of altitude sickness. Actually, a lot of people were realizing that altitude sickness was no joke. One of our group members had been bed-ridden for two days. One couple came down with a fever and had to get some injections from the hotel nurse. Another couple became overly fatigued and dehydrated and needed the I.V. from the nurse. A few people vomited, or at least, only a few people admitted to it. And I think all of us suffered from insomnia. Yaping laid back in her seat and kept her eyes closed. Once in a while, she’d mention her suffering. She would say, “I’ll never recommend this place to my parents.” I’d say, “Why?” And she’d say, “The Suffering!” A few moments later, she’d say, “I’ll never recommend this place to my sisters.” I’d say, “Why?” And she’d say, “The Suffering!” She ended up needing one of the two emergency bags of oxygen stowed away on the bus. In those first few days in Tibet, there was no escaping the altitude sickness symptoms. Yaping and I would often compare symptoms - she’d say, “I’ve got a headache, what do you got?” Luckily, my only symptom was a slight, yet lingering headache, which seemed mild compared to Yaping’s suffering. Finally, we made it to Nam-tso Lake. People shuffled out of the bus, mumbling profanities at the bus for being more of a torture chamber than a means of travel. There were a scattering of Tibetans and tourists on the lakeshore, but we definitely felt that we had come to an area where few outsiders tread. Yaping and I walked over to some Tibetans with a small herd of yaks by the lakeshore. I asked Yaping to inquire about the purpose of the yaks. A Tibetan explained that for only 3 yuan, I could sit on a yak. And for 5 yuan, the yak would carry me into the lake, stand knee-deep in water, and pose for pictures. I couldn’t pass up such a deal. I chose a white, sedate-looking yak. Its handler helped me mount the saddle. Then, the handler nudged the resentful beast into foot-deep, cold lake water. I posed on the saddle while Yaping snapped a few pictures from the shore. For those unfamiliar with yaks, they are as hairy as sheepdogs, as bemused-looking as Holsteins, and as graceful as moose. The yak’s handler insisted that I hold onto the saddle at all times. Luckily, the yak lumbered out of the lake with me still clinging to its saddle. Of course, I asked the handler if his yak had a name. The man only laughed and said that the yak was a beast of burden, not a pet. The Tibetans thrive on these animals. Not only is the yak’s hair woven into tents and clothing, but yak meat is a staple in the Tibetan diet. Also, yak milk is used in various foods and drinks, and as wax for candles. Most of the rooms in Potala Palace and Jokhang Palace were lighted by burning wicks in brass urns filled with yak butter. And as we were discovering in Nam-tso Lake, yaks could also be used for milking money from tourists. After only about 45 minutes at the lake, we were back on the bus for our 6-hour ride back to Lhasa. It was at this point in the trip that I drew an important conclusion about our package tour: If you are one who usually sleeps or tries to sleeps in between destinations, then this tour would be disappointing. If you are someone who gazes out the window during long rides, then this tour would be amazing. Fortunately, I’m the latter. But unfortunately, it seemed everyone else on the tour was the former. On the ride back, I borrowed Yaping’s digital camera and searched for good shots along the route. I was sticking my head out the window, waving to Tibetans, and shouting “Hello” to the ones close enough to hear me. Though I was loving every minute of the ride, I’d look around the bus and see people either sleeping, trying to sleep, sucking on oxygen bottles, or praying they’d survive the trip. At the end of the ride - and in the following days – many in our tour group would complain that we were riding long distances to see less than spectacular locations. But since I stayed awake to enjoy the scenery en route, I didn’t share this complaint. Soon after descending from Nam-tso Lake’s plateau, we made a brief stop at the Yanbajin Geothermal Hot Springs. The hot springs were set up like a resort. There were several cabanas with indoor hot tubs and one big outdoor pool. Yaping and I chose the outdoor pool so that our pictures could have mountains in the background. Though a few naked 8-year-olds snuck into our shots, I can assure you all the adults wore appropriate attire. After a relaxing dip in the hot springs, we sped off to our last stop for the day - a traditional Tibetan village. It was basically a tourist trap - the mayor of the town greeted us wearing traditional Tibetan clothes. Then the mayor, a boisterous man with a barrel-chest and a Snidely Whiplash moustache, led us to the various artisans of the town. We saw townsfolk making Tibetan knives and incense. And we saw buildings where yak dung was used as both a building material and a decoration. And finally we were led to a banquet hall where we were to eat authentic Tibetan food and watch authentic Tibetan entertainment. The buffet table had every part of the yak available. For beverages, they served a tea made with yak milk. They also served a liquor that the yak was also somehow responsible for. After we partook of the buffet and then sat at tables around a large stage, the authentic Tibetan entertainment began. The mayor walked onstage to sing and dance a little two-step number. For the next song, he was joined by what looked like his sons and daughters. Then, they introduced an old woman who wanted to sing and dance for us – she was also barrel-chested and wore a hada scarf around her neck. The mayor announced that the woman, probably his grandmother, had just celebrated her 85th birthday. The woman had a wonderful voice and was actually quite light on her feet. Though I sat in the corner of the stage, the old woman directed most of her singing and dancing at me. And after her number, she gave me her hada scarf and shook my hand. She then shook hands with the rest of the audience. Yaping nudged me and winked, “She likes you.” After a few more song and dance numbers, one of the daughters walked to the middle of the stage with a microphone and asked if anyone from the audience wanted to sing a song. Though I assumed the girl would be teaching an audience member to sing a traditional Tibetan song, I jokingly said to Yaping, “Imagine someone gets up there and starts singing a pop song like ‘I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.’” To my surprise, this is exactly what the daughter was suggesting. But since most people were as unclear as me about her invitation, our tour guide stepped onstage to sing a popular song from Northwest China that he knew by heart. After his song, he then gave the microphone to a young woman in the audience. She tried to sing a Chinese song that sounded like Whitney Houston’s, “I Will Always Love You,” yet most of the song was out of her range. I thought to myself, that’s clever ruse – invite tourists to a night of Tibetan entertainment, and then, for most of the night, have the tourists sing to each other. After the young woman finished her song, she walked over to me. I sat frozen for a moment. She offered me the microphone. I just shook my head, trying to saying, “No, thank you” in Chinese. But the woman persisted and said, in hesitant English, “We are eager to hear you sing an English song.” I looked to Yaping for help, but she only said, “Just sing one song.” Finally, I caved and grabbed the microphone. I stayed in my seat for a moment while the audience waited patiently me for me to take center stage. I thought to myself, “What should I sing?” I ran through my mental catalog of songs I knew all the lyrics for. I could only think of the 20 or so songs that I sing while playing guitar – but here, I would have to sing the song a capella. Yaping suggested I sing “Puff the Magic Dragon.” I shook my head, thinking, “no way.” It would be too embarrassing to sing any songs about dragons. And I also didn’t want to sing any songs about falling in love – this meant mentally crossing off about half the songs in my catalog. I also decided not to sing any songs that were out of my singing range - this meant mentally crossing off practically all the remaining songs in my catalog. Finally, I decided on an old Van Morrison song about growing up in Ireland. I reluctantly took center stage, the audience hushed, and I just stood there for a moment. I had doubts about my song choice. One verse in the song was about eating jelly rolls, and another verse was about getting drunk. But it was the only song I could think of in which I was positive I knew every word. And so I sang. The words came out little weak at first, but after a while, I got my rhythm. By the second verse, I was belting out the words like Pavarotti. By the third verse, I couldn’t help but do a little showboating – pointing and winking at the female members of the audience. And when I finished the song, I topped it all off with a few break-dance moves. The good-natured audience clapped – I think they felt sorry for me. They must have been thinking, “The poor American boy can only sing off-key about eating jelly rolls and getting drunk.” The show ended with one more performance with the 85 year-old-woman. Before leaving, I posed for a picture with the old woman. When I got the picture developed after the trip, I noticed, as a playful gesture, the woman had stuck her tongue out at the camera.
On Wednesday morning, I was finally conquered by Tibetan food. I woke up around 3am feeling not quite right. I laid in bed feeling sick and feverish for most of the morning. I was scared I would need the hotel nurse to stick me with hypodermic needles and I.V.s - I really wanted to avoid any kind of medical assistance while in China. I kept thinking to myself, “Only 10 days left in China and I get sick.” I felt like those cops in the movies who always get shot with only three days left to retirement. Luckily, our bus wouldn’t be leaving until 9am. Until then, I tried to get my strength back. Though, I wasn’t quite in back in the saddle by 9am, I boarded the bus with a handful of chewable Pepto Bismol, a bottle of water, and a can of oxygen. Luckily, there wouldn’t be any bumpy roads on this day’s ride. For most of the morning, I just lay still in my seat and watched the scenery stream by. Seeing the scenery actually did wonders for my health. It brightened my mood. But I also cradled my bottle of oxygen the whole morning. When we stopped for lunch, I only had a bowl of rice. Though I was still visibly ill, one of the Chinese men offered me a beer. At first, I thought that he was joking - before the trip there had been many warnings about consuming alcohol at Tibet’s elevation. But then again, he was the same man who needed I.V.s from the hotel nurse on the first night, yet continued to consume large amounts of 150-proof Chinese liquor at every meal. Clearly, this man wasn’t one to take precautions with his health. He reminded me of the many tourists I had seen smoking in Tibet, puffing away even as they were gasping for the little oxygen that was available. Yaping ended up drinking my beer since it would be considered shameful to decline the man's hospitality. For the rest of the day, we visited a tall rock in the middle of a river and then we visited a lake. The lake was the same clear green color of Nam-tso Lake, but smaller. Yaping and I rode a wooden boat to an island in the middle of the lake, but there wasn’t much to see or do on the island. Clearly, it was another day that was more about the journey, and less about the destinations. The destinations may not add up to much, but if you stayed awake during the bus ride, there were many incredible sights to behold. By evening, when we arrived at our hotel in the Yarlung Valley, I was feeling fit as a fiddle. But once I settled into my hotel room, I started feeling ill again – only because the room smelled like tar, the kind you plug holes in the roof with. I tried to fall asleep as soon as possible, just so this hotel would soon be but a memory.
By 7am the next morning, we were on the road for the 7-hour ride back to Lhasa. It was one long day of bus riding, with only a few stops along the way. Within three hours of arriving at Lhasa, I noticed the elevation markers along the road were showing 5000 meters. (In Tibet, instead of mile markers posted along the road, there are elevation markers.) The elevation kept rising until we stopped at the highest point of our tour: 5840 meters – that’s only about 3000 meters lower than Everest. Yaping and I got off the bus to take pictures of the view – we moved very slowly to avoid exerting ourselves. We took a few pictures next to a marble marker that authenticated the extreme elevation. I took a moment to look up and face the blue sky. This would probably be the closest to the clouds as I would ever be – without an airplane roof over my head. Finally arriving in Lhasa, we booked our hotel rooms and then went to a restaurant for our last dinner in Tibet. Looking at the weary faces around the table, it felt as though we had returned from Everest. I rose my glass and made a toast, “To surviving Tibet.” Yaping translated, and we all clinked glasses and drank our beverages to the dregs.
In order to make our 10am flight, our bus departed the hotel before sunrise. All along the 2-hour ride, I watched the sky turn from gray to brilliant slivers of purple and pink. By the time we reached airport, the sky returned to the unbelievable blue that we had become familiar with in Tibet. At the beginning of our trip, our tour guide promised we would have an adventure, and that’s exactly what we got. Out of all of my travels in China, Tibet was the most challenging. Though the landscape was spectacular, the people were gracious, and the spirituality was enlightening, we also had to suffer through moments of pain, discomfort, and dread. I once read a Newsweek article that claimed that wealthy travelers, the ones who travel in luxury, actually miss out on that feeling of euphoria regular travelers get when they return home after a long, challenging trip. When Yaping and I finally arrived back in Shanghai, I found this opinion to be true – we had survived the challenges of Tibet and we felt victorious. And I looked forward to quietly reminiscing about my survival in Tibet whenever life slowed down at home in the U.S.
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