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Asia Travelogue, part 5
(Shigatse)
The bus ride from
would take while in
I won’t tell you it was the bus of the damned or that it was a metal box of
misfortunate; rather, I will describe the trip and let you supply your own
metaphor.
As usual, there was no air conditioning, but lots of smokers. The bus was
oversold, so when we left
aisle. Nonetheless, along the way, we would continue to stop at little
villages or in the middle of nowhere and take on more passengers--mostly
Tibetan peasants--who had no choice but to sit on the floor. The roof
was already loaded down with luggage and boxes, so the inside of the bus
continued to fill up with sacks of potatoes, propane canisters, and
satchels made out of Yak stomachs. At least no livestock was brought
on-board.
Thankfully, I had a seat, but it was not a seat built for a westerner. My
knees soon became sore from being jammed up against the back of the seat in
front of me. Because of the rough road, sleeping would have been
difficult, but it was the bus driver’s incessant honking that made it
impossible. He would honk if there was any vehicle or pedestrian anywhere
in or near the road. Sometimes he would honk at people standing on their
porch just in case they were thinking about the road. It was the loudest
bus horn I had ever heard. I eventually decided that the horn must have
been mounted on the INSIDE of the bus.
Shigatse is only 192 miles west of
hours. Shigatse is the second largest city in
road connecting it with
lanes. Instead, it looked more like an
became too narrow for more than one vehicle. For the first half hour,
there was pavement, but as we climbed further into the mountains, more and
more of it had either been washed away or buried beneath several layers of
mud. Because it was the rainy season, the road was often completely
submerged in water. At one point, we drove through two feet of fast-moving
water for what must have been 150 yards. Such daring feats would have been
impossible in northeast
in thick gumbo mud. As it was, there was at least one instance where the
bus got stuck and all the men, including myself, had to get out and push.
At other times, we had to sit on the roadside for as long as half an hour
while we waited for a vehicle in front of us to be extracted from the mud.
On the return trip, we rode on a bus that was missing a radiator cap.
Consequently, the diesel engine would periodically overheat and require
more water be added to the radiator. Access to the radiator and engine was
through a trap door to the right of the bus driver inside the bus. On top
of the trap door was a cushion on which sat my backpack and a Chinese
soldier in full uniform. I sat directly behind the driver. Once every
half hour, we would repeat the same routine: The bus driver would pull
over; the conductor would fill up a bucket with ditch water; the soldier
would slide over and I would lift up my backpack; the conductor would raise
the trap door and pour water into the radiator; he would then pour water
over the running engine resulting in water and steam being sprayed on my
legs.
The view out the window was interesting, but it was not the
envisioned in my head. The road traced the edge of the
which is wide and dirty like the
It is fed by rain and snow runoff from the surrounding mountains. It is
devoid of fish, so there are no fishing boats. In fact, the only boats we
saw were a few ferryboats used to carry livestock from one side of the
river to the other.
As long as we were moving west, we were climbing higher into the mountains.
We could go for miles without seeing a tree. There were no birds or
wildlife of any kind. There was enough grass to give the hillsides and
valleys a green tint, but when you got up close, you could see that the
grass consisted of nothing more than clumps interspersed with rocks. But
then we would go past a green barley field that looked thick enough to
support a stage dive. I don’t know how Tibetans manage to grow such lush
grain fields on rocky soil that can barely support grass. That barley is
used to brew
Because it was raining almost daily and there was so little vegetation, the
mountains and hillsides were fractured with small streams and waterfalls
that looked as if they would soon eat the terrain into a barren moonscape.
Every so often we would pass a bulldozer working to remove the remnants of
the latest rockslide from the road. I had expected to see nomads in the
countryside, but it seemed as though the people were staying put and the
land itself was doing the moving beneath their feet.
Between
consisted of nothing more than a clump of houses made from bricks of mud.
Each village appeared to contain no more than a hundred Tibetans. The bus
stopped at one “village” that consisted of three houses far from any other
civilization. A group of grimy Tibetan men had gathered where they knew
the bus would stop. There were no women to be seen. I feared that the men
intended to get on the bus, which was already busting at the seams. But
instead of the men getting on, a somewhat attractive Chinese girl got off.
She was nicely dressed and stood out from the rest of the bus passengers.
It seemed like a very odd place for a girl like that to be getting off, but
I soon understood. The Tibetan men were grinning and staring, but not
saying anything. As the bus pulled away, I saw a couple of men touch the
girl’s shoulder and hair. She slapped their hands away as the rest of the
men began crowding in around her. I felt like we had just dropped a bunny
into an alligator pond.
At other times, we might go ten miles without seeing any houses or any
signs of life whatsoever, and then I would notice a solitary man standing
on a steep hillside a quarter of a mile away, staring back at us. He
might be with a couple of cows or a small herd of goats. We would then go
for another ten miles without seeing so much as a dirt path. It would be a
mystery as to where the man came from and how he keeps from going insane.
Keep in mind that we were in the most populated section of
are areas the size of
single road. This is one place where the PRC should feel safe in relaxing
its one-child policy. In fact, I believe that one of the incentives the
PRC uses to entice Chinese citizens to relocate to
have more than one child. So why did I see an SUV bearing the emblem of
the United Nations Population Fund near the Gonkar
Airport in one of the
most sparsely populated countries in the world? When you view human beings
as a cancer on the planet, I guess one Tibetan every twenty miles is one
Tibetan too many.
After the six-hour bus ride, Shigatse looked very
inviting. It has a
population of about 40,000. Because of its proximity to
of the first towns in
January 1628, when two Portuguese Jesuit missionaries arrived. The town
contains an old quarter made up of traditional Tibetan dwellings and narrow
alleyways, but most of it has taken on the same modern appearance as
Still, we preferred Shigatse to
fewer beggars. We spent several days in Shigatse as
we plotted our next
move.
On our second day, we ate at what we would later refer to as the Fly
Restaurant. This is a good point to describe the typical restaurant that
we frequented during our travels. In choosing a restaurant, the number one
goal was to find the cheapest place in town. Consequently, Alan would
refuse to eat at any restaurant that used any English words on its sign.
That was an indication that it was trying to attract tourists and therefore
would be overpriced. In fact, some restaurants had two menus -- the
English version containing much higher prices for the same food found on
the Chinese version. Preferably, the restaurant would not have a sign of
any kind. The only evidence of it being a restaurant would be the site of
a wok inside.
The restaurant around the corner from Mike’s apartment in
typical. It contained only three walls, which were made of concrete and
covered in grease and grime. The storefront was completely open to the
street, so there was no door. It was approximately 200 square feet in
size. There were three tables, a refrigerator, and a wok. There was a
small, bathroom-sized sink in the corner. However, there was no hot water,
which meant that the dishes were most likely washed in cold water. Propped
against one of the walls was a bamboo ladder. It led to a small loft area
above the tables where I could see a small cot and a toothbrush in a coffee
cup. It seemed that the restaurant also served as the chef’s residence.
After closing in the evenings, he would push the tables against the wall
and place a large metal pan in the center of the floor. As we walked by,
we could see him sitting in the pan, in his underwear, bathing himself. I
wondered whether that was the same pan he used to wash our dishes, but I
didn’t really want to know the answer.
There was nothing unusual about this. When walking the streets at night,
we would quite often see people bathing themselves in washtubs on the
sidewalk. In
sleep. After ten o’clock, we had to be careful where we stepped because
the sidewalks would be scattered with people sleeping in their underwear.
We might spend half an hour wandering the streets and winding our way down
alleyways in search of the cheapest restaurant, but that was only step one
in the process of finding food. Step two was the bargaining process. In
meals. This became EXTREMELY frustrating. We would go through the same
routine at almost every restaurant. Before sitting down, Alan would ask to
see a menu. One of the workers would pour us a cup of tea to get us to
stay, but we would consciously avoid touching it. Alan and Jane would pick
out a couple of menu items and ask for the price. When told, Alan would
grimace and then offer a much lower price that would be refused. He would
then ask if they could prepare a smaller dish for two RMB less than what
they were asking. This would be accepted or, as happened quite often, we
would leave. Sometimes the bargaining would go on for five minutes while I
’m standing there listening to my stomach growl. We would go through all
of this in order to save two or three RMB. How much is two RMB? About
twenty-four cents.
However, if we did not attempt to bargain, then the manager would smell
blood in the water. In Red China, making a purchase is not treated as a
willing seller and a willing buyer coming together for the purpose of
maximizing the wealth of each. Instead, it is a battle. The seller views
the customer as the enemy. The seller’s objective is to cheat him out of
as much of his money as possible. (For example, one restaurant tried to
add a “napkin fee” to our bill.) The customer then must act as a goalie
who is on constant guard to block every attempt to
swindle him. This
attitude can be better understood when you remember that this is a society
where the people are accustomed to their government leaders and party
officials making their money through bribes and graft. Still, as long as
the Chinese businessman views the customer as an adversary, I don’t think
there is any danger of Red China becoming the next economic superpower that
some people fear.
The Fly Restaurant was worse than most of the restaurants we frequented.
It had four walls, but instead of a door, it had a curtain that was badly
stained and discolored. The inside looked like someone’s din. There were
four tables, which were actually short coffee tables. The seats were small
couches covered with colorful blankets dotted with cigarette burns. We
were the only customers, which is a bad indicator all on its own. There
must have been at least twenty flies circling (no squares) above our heads,
hence the name. Another curtain in the center of the rear wall was
partially drawn back, revealing a bit of the kitchen. It contained a
dual-burner propane stove. Beside the stove was a cot. It appeared that
the owner and her daughter had been sleeping on it when we walked in. The
woman still seemed sleepy when she took our order.
The most disturbing part was the actual food preparation. I watched the
woman come out of the kitchen and walk to the television stand. From a
wooden cabinet beneath the television, she retrieved a metal bowl that was
obviously covered in dried blood. She then took the bowl back to the
kitchen where she used it for cutting up our pork. When she was done, she
returned the bowl to the wooden cabinet. I then understand why the flies
seemed to be such big television fans.
After we finished our meal, we noticed that some Tibetan customers who had
come in after us were drinking something we couldn’t identify. They told
us it was traditional Tibetan tea. One of the reasons we chose to eat at
the Fly Restaurant was that it was run by Tibetans and therefore we thought
we would get to sample genuine Tibetan food. So, Alan ordered a cup of the
Tibetan tea. In actuality, it was some type of heavy cream with just a
splash of tea. It looked and tasted like a cup of melted butter. I only
had a teeny tiny sip, but Alan insisted on drinking a third of a cup. He
would regret that decision later. Fortunately, he was carrying toilet
paper in his pocket.
I am afraid that if I say no more about the food in
you will be left with the wrong impression, so I’ll focus on the positive
for a moment. The food was actually one of the best aspects of the trip.
Although most of the restaurants were a bit lacking when it came to
ambience and simple cleanliness, they made up for it with the quality of
the food.
Alan repeatedly made the claim that the food is so superior to the Chinese
food in
far, but most of the food I ate was much better than any of the numerous
Chinese meals I’ve had in
the ingredients. Most of the restaurants are located near the market area
where the cooks buy their vegetables each morning. Those vegetables were
probably growing in a field somewhere on the edge of town just a few hours
earlier. The cook places the fresh ingredients on a rack inside the
restaurant. (These ingredients might include live creatures such as crabs
or a mesh bag filled with frogs.) Rather than asking for a named dish, we
would simply pick out which vegetables we wanted and the cook would then
fry them in a wok along with a chosen meat. I was rarely disappointed with
the result. We managed to find some places that would do this for as
little as 3 RMB per plate, which is about $.36. Rice and tea was usually
free. I should also point out that I never became ill, unless you count my
feinting spell.
Everywhere we went, there were sidewalk carts selling all types of freshly
prepared eats -- everything from peanut brittle to steamed dumplings. There
were many items for which there are no English words. Every day I would
try something I’d never seen before; I never knew what might be simmering
around the next corner. Because there was so much competition among street
vendors, the prices were pretty well established and there was no need for
haggling. The food was so cheap that, in my mind, it was practically free.
We stayed in several different hotels in Shigatse. The
first two had no
showers. We then moved to the Tin Zin, which had a
community shower that
would have hot water for a few hours each night when they would fire up the
wood-fueled boiler. The next day, however, Alan and Jane both insisted on
repacking and moving to one of the hotels without showers. That way, we
could save 5 RMB a piece, which is about $.60. I thought about offering
Alan and Jane $.60 each if they would allow me the luxury of staying
someplace with a shower two nights in a row, but I knew I wouldn’t be able
to live with the look of disgust that Alan would surely give me for
throwing my money around like that.
One of the hotels we stayed at in Shigatse was across
the street from
Tashilhunpo Monastery. It was founded in 1447 by Gendun Drup, a disciple
of Tsongkhapa’s, who was subsequently recognized as
the First Dalai Lama.
During the time of the Fifth Dalai Lama, the position of Panchen
Lama was
recognized. After the Dalai Lama, the Panchen Lama is
effectively the
highest spiritual authority in Tibetan Buddhism. Whereas the Dalai Lama
has traditionally resided in the
has resided in Tashilhunpo Monastery in Shigatse.
The Dalai Lama fled to
Shigatse and thus remained in the hands of the Red
Chinese until his death
in 1989. The question of who has the right to recognize the new
reincarnation of the Panchen Lama came to a head in
1995 when two Panchen
Lamas were proclaimed: one who was chosen by the Dalai Lama and one chosen
by the Red Chinese. This conflict has led to the disappearance of the boy
who was chosen by the Dalai Lama. Some people now consider him the world’s
youngest political prisoner.
Tashilhunpo is not as impressive as the
worth seeing. It consists of a line of red buildings of varying height
topped with gleaming, golden rooftops. In front of them is a mass of
single-story white monastic dwellings. A high wall surrounds the complex.
Alan and I were unwilling to pay any more admissions to see a bunch of
pagan statues, so we stayed on the outside of the wall. We followed the
circumambulation path along with several pilgrims. The path contained
dozens of prayer wheels, carved rock inscriptions, and the occasional small
shrine.
The most time-consuming activity in Shigatse was
devising a way to get
closer to
unfortunately, necessitated the assistance of C.I.T.S., the state-owned
travel agency. Each time you read “C.I.T.S.”, you should imagine me
scowling in disgust.
The first obstacle was the need for additional travel permits. By law,
foreigners must obtain special permits before traveling any further west
than Shigatse. In practice, of course, you only need
a permit if you
happen to run into a government checkpoint. Alan was in favor of forgoing
the purchase of permits and simply hope that we
wouldn’t encounter any
checkpoints. We talked to a Japanese traveler who had tried this and had
ended up being returned to Shigatse in handcuffs.
This did not dissuade
Alan, but I did not feel that saving the price of a travel permit was worth
being arrested on foreign soil by communist soldiers. My guidebook
suggested that it was possible to sneak past the checkpoints in the dark of
night by going cross-country. I found that option unappealing, as well. I
was not Chuck Norris trying to rescue POW’s; I was a tourist wanting a
snapshot of Everest.
The police issue the permits, so we went to the police station to purchase
permits. That’s logical, right? Well, first you must understand that the
police in Shigatse are a far cry from the courteous
police I encountered in
only saw three officers. Behind the counter, I noticed a cot. I can
assure you, its purpose was not to allow the police to be on call 24-hours
a day. More likely, it was for naps when the police became too bored with
all that law and order stuff.
One of the officers who was awake agreed to answer our questions regarding
the travel permits. Yes, the police issue travel
permits. The official
price is 50 RMB apiece. No, you cannot purchase a travel permit from the
police for 50 RMB. The story as to why not, would keep changing;
ultimately, we learned that the police would issue the permits only to
C.I.T.S. Therefore, we would have to use C.I.T.S. to purchase our tickets.
If we rented a jeep from them, the price would be 50 RMB. However, if we
did NOT rent a jeep, then the price would be 150 RMB. It didn’t require
much pondering to figure out that this price escalation allowed the
government to receive 50, the C.I.T.S. workers to receive 50, and the
police to receive 50. So everyone would be happy.
However, the initial story was that we needed to obtain a paper from a
travel agent and then return to the police station. By a not-so-amazing
coincidence, one of the C.I.T.S. workers just happened to be sitting in the
police station. He offered to sell us what we needed, but we told him we
would look for a better deal elsewhere. He grinned and shrugged. What we
did not yet know was that C.I.T.S. was the only travel agency in town.
Later, we returned to the police station only to find it deserted. We
would learn than the police are on lunch break every day from noon until
four o’clock. I am not joking. I only hope that the criminals of Shigatse
require the same four hours for their own feeding.
For the next two days, C.I.T.S. gave us the runaround. Ultimately, we gave
in and agreed to purchase two permits for 150 RMB a piece. (The police had
told us that Jane would also need a permit, but that turned out to be
another lie.) The C.I.T.S. guys then told us we would also need to give
them a deposit of 100 RMB. Naturally, I asked what the deposit was for.
We were not taking anything of theirs that needed to be returned, and we
had already paid them for the permits. They didn’t have a real answer;
they just insisted that we must leave a deposit. They then admitted that
people who are going on to
leave a deposit. “Fine,” Alan said. “We have decided we are going to
would be issued one-way permits that would not allow us to return to
Shigatse. Our response to that was, “Yeah, right. Whatever you say.” We
paid them 300 RMB for the permits and left our passports with them. They
told us that we should return that afternoon after the police return from
their four-hour lunch in order to pick up our permits.
The other obstacle was finding a jeep. Again, the only place renting jeeps
was the C.I.T.S. office. They quoted us a lower price than we had been
quoted in
couple who was also looking for a jeep, so we agreed that the five of us would
travel together. We took turns checking with C.I.T.S. to see if any jeeps
had arrived. Finally, we decided we couldn’t wait any longer. That’s when
we decided to purchase the triple-priced travel permits and once again head
west by bus.
