From this dusty cinderblock town we would start the kora the next day. But first we’d spend the night at the official government guesthouse for foreigners.
Darchen Guesthouse
The Chinese evidently have a terror of people, especially foreigners, wandering around aimlessly in their country. We passed several military outposts on the way out, and at each one we had to show our passports and official permits allowing us to be in specific places at specific times. The locals fared little better. Basically, you had to have papers on you at all times proving that you had permission to be where you happened to be.
We had permission to be at the Darchen guesthouse, and though I was prepared by my guide books for the worst, it was actually the best non-tent lodging we had on the whole trip. Even the pit toilets were the finest we had seen.
But believe me, that’s not saying much.
The South Face of Mt. Kailas
Still recovering from my recent afflictions, I decided to accompany Richard on a photographic expedition up into the hills above the town, just to stretch my legs after our long, sedentary drive, and hopefully get a few shots of Kailas without the cloud cover that had obscured its peak since we first saw it. We didn’t succeed with the clouds, though we did get some great shots of the massive Gurla Mandata mountain to the south. But it was very helpful to walk in the thin air and get an idea of what faced us in the next three days. I felt surprisingly good.
Gurla Mandata
The next morning we gathered out in the courtyard with our daypacks. Well, seven of us did. Heidi, Massimo, all but one of the princes, Mr. Dondh, and Mrs. Tundulkar decided to stay in Darchen. Mr. Tundulkar and Guilianna were going to be riding yaks, and the rest of us would try it on foot, though all of us took the precaution of hiring shared emergency backup yaks in case the going got too tough.
Praveen, the lone prince to start the walk had also taken the precaution of hiring a young Tibetan woman as a porter to carry his daypack and cameras.
It was one of those times when two cultures share bumpy common ground. My guess is, almost any western male would be distressed to some degree by the idea of hiring a, what, maybe twenty year-old woman, to carry his stuff in a big sack hanging off of a tump line across her forehead. (Though it must be said that most of us seem to have little problem with the idea that our wives should forever be cleaning the toilets for us.) But Praveen didn’t betray any discomfort with his porter, if he had any. Indeed, he walked along a few steps in front of her in his black and white Nike track suit, his hands clasped behind him, and since he couldn’t speak Tibetan, he’d occasionally try to point to whatever object he wanted at the time; food, water, his camera, no, not that one, the video camera, and she would put down her bag and dig it out for him.
She was unflaggingly cheerful, often singing as she walked along with that big sack on her back, and always ready to do whatever Praveen requested. At rest stops, she’d sometimes curl up into a ball to try to catch a nap. But as soon as Praveen stood up, she’d hoist up the bag and trudge along, six feet behind him.
The eight of us, and the yak team that was carrying all of the tents, stoves, food, etc., began walking along a dirt road to the west. We crested a low ridge and descended into the Lha-Chu valley. At this point the peaks in front of it obscured the mountain, but as we climbed to the north, we began to catch glimpses of it.
Kailas is a pyramid-shaped mountain with four distinct faces, each spectacularly beautiful in its own way. We were only going to see three sides—the east face is only visible if you do a little extracurricular hiking on the third day—and by late morning we stopped at a spot where we could see the south and west faces towering above us. We all just sort of sat there, staring at it. There it was. We had finally started.
The group thinned out along the trail, the yak train fell far behind, and so I elected to climb a bit up the west side of the valley to visit one of the first monasteries on the kora restored after the cultural revolution, and maybe eat my bag lunch up there.
Choku Monastery
It took me about an hour to reach the monastery, but the climb was worth it because of the views of the mountain and the valley stretching up to the north. One of the monks unlocked the assembly room for me, and I was amazed to find so much beauty and artistry in the room, especially in such a remote and desolate place.
After lunch I walked back down and soon caught up with the front of our group. Praveen and his porter pretty much took the lead, Claire was usually close behind, Richard and I sort of fell in together, leap-frogging each other as we stopped to take photos from time to time. And Gregg, who at this time was still pretty sick, brought up the rear. That is, if you don’t count Guilianna, Mr. Tundulkar, and Willi, who I hoped also had decided to ride a yak.
A Yak Skull Mani
By late afternoon Praveen, Claire and I had pretty much left the others behind, though all three of us were by then fairly exhausted by the thin air. We had been above 14,000 ft. since we got onto the Tibetan plateau. But now we were pushing 17,000 ft. The temperature was dropping and the wind was coming up. We knew we were supposed to spend the night near the Diraphuk monastery, but we didn’t really know how far up the valley we’d have to go to reach it, nor where exactly the Sherpas intended to pitch camp.
When we spied the monastery on other side of the river, we decided to hunker down out of the wind behind a small rock wall connected to the nearby guesthouse, to escape the wind, and wait for the others.
Most stupidly, all of us had decided to leave our cold-weather gear with the yak train, figuring that we wouldn’t need it until camp. This was the first time any of us had ever felt the need to estimate the average speed of your typical laden yak, and we overshot the mark some.
We really needed that stuff now, and the yaks could have been hours behind us for all we knew. We hadn’t seen them since we made the turn north up the Lha-Chu valley. Fortunately I had my fleece jacket and shell with me. But the cold wind was gusting, and it swirled around us behind the rock wall, chilling us thoroughly. Within an hour it became obvious that we’d be at risk for hypothermia if the yak train didn’t show soon, or we couldn’t find better shelter.
The North Face of Mt. Kailas
The guesthouse was the obvious destination, and we shivered over there to see if they might let us into one of the rooms. Another group’s Tibetan guides were gracious enough to share their room with us for a while, and we settled in on the concrete floor and tried to warm ourselves. Soon Richard and then Gregg straggled in too. But it would be another two and a half hours before the yaks finally showed up. If the guesthouse hadn’t been there, the six of us might have been in some serious difficulty. I decided to keep all of my cold weather clothes in my day pack from then on.
Hunkered Down in the Lha-Chu Guesthouse
We had dinner in our tents that night as a hail storm pelted them. I put on every stitch of clothing I had with me and actually fell into a deep sleep. Total exhaustion will do that.
The next morning the trail climbed steeply up to Drolma La. The last 1000 feet were particularly difficult, and even those riding yaks were forced to get off and walk the final bit. But by 12:30 I was on the top, and with great relief I sat down to eat my lunch, take pictures, and watch the Tibetans and Hindus (and some Bons, who walk the mountain counter-clockwise) perform various rituals. Most of the Buddhists brought along paper prayers—small slips of paper with prayers stamped on them—to scatter in the wind in big handfuls.
Drolma La
I thought that was a pretty good idea, so I tore a slip of paper out of my notebook, scribbled a prayer on it, shredded it, and tossed it into the Tibetan jet stream.
Soon Praveen, his porter, and Richard joined me up there, and we men slapped each other’s backs and took pictures with each other’s cameras, and Praveen’s porter spread out his food and water for him on her plaid shawl.
Claire, Gregg and Willie had decided to ride the emergency backup yaks on this day, and so were far behind. When they hadn’t showed in an hour, I decided to get moving on down the other side and out of the wind. According to our schedule, we still had about 12 miles to walk.
The way down into the Zhong-Chu valley was steep, and we were pelted with small hailstones all the way down. By the time we finally made it down to the wide center of the valley, one of the Sherpas caught up with us and told us to stop and wait there for the others. It turns out that you can’t ride the yaks down a trail that steep either, so we were going to have to hunker down again and wait for the others to make it on foot from the top of the pass. Fortunately, this time I was prepared, and I found a good sheltered spot and curled up.
It would be several hours before all but Mr. Tundulkar made it down. But he had a Sherpa with him, so after waiting too long to make our intended destination for the night, it was decided to keep walking for about an hour and then pitch camp at a flat spot near the river.
Our Camp
Mr. Tundulkar and his Sherpa finally made it to camp that night at 10:30, long after we had been served soup in our tents and some of us had already gone off to sleep, including me.
The next morning he was the first to leave, though he was soon overtaken as he slowly ambled along. He had determination, you had to give him that. But I wondered whether he’d make it all the way back to Darchen. Apparently he had fallen off of his yak the first day, and now was adamantly refusing to get back on one. Willie too was looking worn out, and it seemed the pass had taken more out them than they had expected.
Actually, I’m not sure Mr. Tundulkar had any expectations of any sort at all. At least he didn’t seem to have done any research into the physical requirements for this pilgrimage. And as I mentioned previously, he appeared to have only the most tenuous grasp on reality.
On the drive out he was extremely eager to see the Brahmaputra River, or the Yalung Tsangpo, as it’s called while it’s still in Tibet. We passed it on the second day, but for days after, if we came within sight of almost any sizeable river, he’d ask, is that the Brahmaputra? No, Baphu (that was the name he preferred to be called—I believe it means father in Hindi), we passed it two days ago. But then, later that same day: Is that the Brahmaputra? No Baphu. . .
In Darchen, where we all took a vote against trying to complete the kora in two days, and decided to risk the fine back at the border (and Massimo’s return ticket), Mr. Tundulkar announced earnestly that we could make the drive back in two days, so the time spent on the kora was not a problem. When it was pointed out to him that it had taken us six days to reach Kailas, this news didn’t seem to preclude the two-day scenario in the least, as far as he was concerned. With God, anything is possible, he assured us.
Yes, but Baphu, there’s that whole probability thing. . .
Anyway, those sorts of things came out of his mouth at regular intervals. Most of the time we’d all look at him and wait for him to realize that what he had just said was even more bizarre than the last pronouncement, but he never wavered. His was the only rational reality. The rest of us were all from the planet Twando.
So we set out on the third morning to visit the Milarepa cave and Zutrulphuk monastery before ending the kora back in Darchen. Milarepa was a mystic Tibetan monk in the 11th century who spent 12 years in a cave here meditating and eating nettle soup, and according to Tibetan Buddhist belief, achieved enlightenment in a single lifetime. He is often pictured green because of all of that nettle soup, and the artwork and statuary representing him always shows him with his hand cupped to his right ear, listening to the sound of the universe. Or to put it into western terms, the echoes of the Big Bang.
There was a lot of renovation going on at the monastery, and the cave was officially closed to outsiders, so I went away a little disappointed. But I knew that I only had a few more hours of walking to go, and I would have completed the kora, wiping away the sins of a lifetime, according to most Tibetan Buddhists.
And I must say that I think that’s a fine idea.
As I approached the end of the valley, Massimo appeared around a bend. He was feeling good enough to come meet us on the trail, and seemed to be in a much happier mood. Soon we saw Heidi, who wanted to know how Willi was doing. We hadn’t seen him since early morning, and so couldn’t really tell her anything other than that we were pretty sure that he’d be able to make it out OK.
Around the last bend we saw the Land Cruisers and truck waiting for us at the end of the trail. Mrs. Tundulkar was there, waiting for Baphu, and the Sherpas gave us plates of, you guessed it, lentils and rice for lunch.
The others started straggling in, first Gregg, then Guilianna, then Willi. But Mr. Tundulkar did not appear around the final bend. Mrs. Tundulkar sat on the ground in the shade of one of the Land Cruisers and stared up the trail. We all waited and stared. The hours ticked by. In the end it was decided that the other Land Cruisers and the truck would proceed to the campsite by the lake, and we’d wait for Baphu.
Finally, three and a half hours after Willi made it in, Mr. Tundulkar came into view. I had been sitting there on the rocky ground in the cold, blowing dust for most of the afternoon, and I think that’s about when I began seriously losing patience with Mr. Tundulkar.
It didn’t really surface until the next morning, when Mr. Tundulkar wanted to go out to the shore to fill up a couple of 5-liter jugs with water from Lake Manasarovar.
Now, this was our second visit to the lake, and on the previous visit, he wanted to go get some lake water the morning we departed, but Nima told him he should have fetched it the previous evening, and that we couldn’t take the time now.
So when we arrived back at the lake the night after we finished the kora, I asked him if he was going to go get his water tonight. Oh yes, right away, he said.
But sure enough, the next morning, just as we were all packed up and ready to head back on the long road to Kathmandu, he announced that he needed our driver to take us out to the lake shore so he could fetch his water. The driver clearly didn’t want to drive us out onto the sand dunes separating us from the lake, nor try to cross the shallow marsh right at its edge. I can’t say that I was too enthusiastic about the idea either. We had a bitch of a drive ahead of us—this time we weren’t at all deluded—and I just wanted to get on with it.
But Nima just threw up his hands, told us to catch up with the rest of them when we were done, and took off.
So our driver rolled his eyes, we all piled in, and we headed toward the shore. Of course we got stuck in the sand immediately, but our driver did a deft four-wheel extraction, and got us backed out onto solid ground again.
The driver turned around to us and made it plain with one look that he wasn’t trying that sand again. Having no choice but to walk, Mr. Tundulkar, his wife, and Mr. Dondh made the slow, halting journey across the sand, probed their way cautiously through the marsh, and made it to the shore. There Mr. Tundulkar tried to dip the bottles into the lake, but quickly discovered that his shoes were getting soaked. So he sat down and removed his shoes and socks, carefully rolled up each pant leg, and waded out again to fill the bottles.
When at last he had finished, he came back to the shore, handed one bottle to Mr. Dondh and one to his wife, and picking up his wet shoes and socks, started making his way slowly back through the marsh and the sand toward the car. Mr. Dondh followed close behind. But Mrs. Tundulkar, who had trouble walking on flat, hard, level ground, was still gingerly edging her way through the marsh carrying her jug of water. Mr. Dondh never once looked back to see how she was doing.
Perhaps this is where my supply of patience evaporated.
I just lost it. When he approached the car, I hissed at him: Is there anything else you’d like to do to make us any later?
He was stunned. I do not understand you, he protested.
Yesterday, you made us wait for three and a half hours. Now you’ve made us late again, when you could have filled those bottles last night!
No, no! Nima said he was going to fill them for us last night, and he did not do this!
I was having none of that. I pointed out to him how many chances he had had to fetch water without inconveniencing anyone else, but he had waited until the last minute.
We were standing there shouting at each other while Mrs. Tundulkar, seeing her husband assaulted by this barbarian from the west, struggled toward us across the sand.
It was embarrassing. I turned away and got into the car and fumed all morning while getting pogoed around in the back seat.
I apologized to him a couple of days later. He was gracious.
Life is short.
So, we started back. The roads were the same, and catatonia set in much faster this time. Fortunately for me, I had about 40 hours of my favorite music with me, so I plugged in my ear buds and had at least a partial escape. Willi and Heidi were deprived of my company while we were driving, but I wasn’t finding much of anything neat these days anyway.
Most of us started deteriorating physically again on the drive back. Constantly being tossed about and the exhaustion from the kora had left most of us with overwhelmed immune systems. The cars smelled of soiled underwear, diesel oil, and dirty socks. The sun moved too slowly across the sky.
The Long Drive Back
When we reached Paryang on the end of the first day, a minor rebellion started over whether we’d stay again at the squalid guesthouse, or head outside of town and find a camping spot. It was unanimous, no one wanted to stay at the guesthouse. So Nima drove us just outside of town right next to a mosquito-infested drainage pond and told us we’d be camping there for the night.
Hoo boy. Did the shit ever hit the fan then! Civility was forgotten. Threats were shouted. Fists were pounded, Fingers were pointed. And in the end we all piled back in the cars and continued heading east.
Nima told us that there would be no water east of Paryang, and he was right. It was 40 kilometers later, and well after sunset, when we finally stopped at a stagnant pond in the middle of a yak bog to spend the night.
I decided to skip dinner and breakfast at that camp. No matter how long they boiled that water, I wasn’t going to ingest any of it. I made do with some bottled water, a couple of energy bars I had slipped into my duffel bag before departing the U. S. , and some emergency chocolate rations my sister-in-law Patty had given me. Ah, comfort food.
The drive from there was pretty much the same as the drive out had been, rough, tedious, and unrelenting. But by the end of the fourth day we had reached Nyalam, and spent our last night in Tibet night at a flophouse/hotel there. The town also had international telephone service of a sort, and I managed to get through to Vilma for two, brief, interrupted, one-minute conversations. She sounded as happy to hear my voice as I was to hear hers.
The next day we crossed back into Nepal in the morning, but it was well after dark before we made it back to Kathmandu because of delays caused by landslides on the main road.
That night back at the Hotel Nirvana garden I had my first shower and shave in 15 days, and I scrubbed every millimeter of my skin raw.
Mt Kailas
So now I’m back in Kathmandu. I have a few days to kill before I fly off to Calcutta, and then take the train to Darjeeling, so my plan is to relax, perhaps do a bit of shopping and sightseeing. But mainly I just have to recover a bit. I have put my 45-year-old body through the ringer.
I can’t say the trek had very much of a spiritual component for me, at least in the traditional sense. But my sense of spirituality doesn’t really have much to do with religion, or dogma. In fact my sense of spirituality pretty much begins and ends with wandering around alone aimlessly outdoors and thinking about stuff. Being among Tibetans, walking around Kailas, and even the drive out there and back have affected me in ways that are awfully hard for me to describe right now, and will probably manifest themselves in all sorts of strange ways over the next months and years.
It’s not something I think I ever want to do again—at least not until they pave the roads or put in an airstrip in Darchen. But it’s kind of like a scar, or a spot on your shin where you chipped the bone as a kid. You feel it every now and then and remember. And just what it is that you remember tells all.
Oh, and one more thing; if I never have to eat another lentil for the rest of my life, well, let’s just say that I won’t miss them.
Sssnnnnnnnrrrrrrrrkkkkk, ccccchhhhhhhtttttt, ptoooo!