SNEAKING INTO AND ESCAPING OUT OF TIBET

Traveling use to be like breathing for me.  Life and death.  All or nothing.  Driven, right down to my cells, to immerse as much as possible in foreign and unknown lands.  I craved exploring other cultures.  But not from a tourist point of view.  I wanted to be in it, breath it.  Understand it.  Walk in the shoes as a local.  This meant staying in locals’ homes, hitchhiking sometimes, eating in off-the-beaten-path family kitchens.  And never taking TOURS!

I was fortunate to grow up in a family that loved to travel.  My dad passed on the addiction to me very early in life, with my first passport at the age of three, and a summer excursion to Salzburg, Austria.  I absorbed his sense of adventure as my first memories were formed.  Holding his hand walking along a mountain path to the famed Salt Mines.  Feeling the temperature quickly dropping as we climbed down into the drippy walled caves, thick with the smell of salt.  Every moment was exciting.

Over the years we traveled regularly.  I was thrilled by each exploration.  But not by my dad’s methods and  traveling style.  On the road with him meant getting up at 6am, on a tour bus by 7am, and getting shuffled in and out of cultural institutions all day long.  On longer trips museums, churches, even zoo’s all blurred together.  It was almost like watching it all on tv.  Because it was all about looking at the the culture from the comfort of a bus, with a guide that spoke my language, and an itinerary that was planned from morning to night.  No challenge.  No discomfort.  No true learning…

I took a different approach once I was out on my own in the world.  Engage.  Dive deep.  Get lost.  Discover what awaits.   All on my terms.  Even if it means breaking the rules…

High on my list was going to Tibet.  Fascinated by the calming energy in monasteries, and the teachings of Buddhism, and curious by the grandeur and wealth of palaces, this area had a lot to offer.

Willing to go the distance with me and embrace an out of the ordinary honeymoon, my new husband Michael and I arrived to Chengdu in China’s Sichuan province, the jumping off point to reach Tibet.  The new millennium had just began, and though internet existed at this time, it was not easily accessible in this part of the world.  So I was traveling with my trusty “Lonely Planet” companion in book form, offering insights and tips from other explorers, including the ex-pat hot spot in town!

It was a bustling bar,  packed with languages from all over the world.  Hearing English being spoken with so many different accents was comforting.

The owner, Paul from Australia, was a lively bloke with all the best information and the connections to back it up…

“I want to get to Tibet.  How do I do it?”

Paul laughs.  “You go with an organized tour.  That’s the only way in.  The Chinese keep a close eye on everyone.  No individual travelers are allowed at this time.  They want to control what everyone sees and does.”

“But what if I don’t want to take a tour.  I’ve heard there are other ways.”

“There are other ways, but it’s risky.  Just take a tour.”

“I don’t want to take a tour.  I met other travelers who have gotten in on their own.”

“I really suggest a tour.  It’s much easier.”

“Not interested…” I persist.

Reluctantly he offers, “I can give you some suggestions.  But you didn’t hear it from me.”

I leave the bar with a plan to buy a permit to Tibet on the black market. 

The next morning we walk into a legitimate looking travel office.  “Good morning.”

The desk official just stares at me.  Very few people here speak English.  This guy is not one of them.

Sliding forward a piece of paper written for me in Mandarin requesting our permits, I tentatively state “Tibet.”  “I want to go to Tibet.”

Dismissively waving me away, he goes back to his work.  I don’t budge.  “I want to go to Tibet.” And I push the piece of paper in front of him again.

He spits out some loud fast commands over his shoulder and another man invites me into his office.  On a piece of paper he writes a number with a dollar sign.

OK!  Now we are getting somewhere.  I hope….

I hand over the cash…. Pretty cheap with the exchange rate.  Worth the chance. 

He takes the money and waves me away. 

“When should I come back?” 

Blank stare.

I point to my watch and turn my palms up in a questioning gesture.

He points to a calendar on the wall.  Three days later.

I want this.  I can wait.

Three days of playing ping pong in the large popular community halls passes quickly.  Michael and I return to the friendly office, with my cherished paper request.

The clerk ignores me.  I insistently push my note forward demanding her help.  She pushes it back and points for us to sit on the bench.  We wait.  And wait.  And wait.  Angry, tired, and cold I charge back to the counter demanding attention.   The woman raises her voice yelling annoyed responses in Mandarin.

I barge past her into the office with the gentleman who took our money.  He waves me away, shaking his head. 

Frustration builds. “No what?  You need more time?  You couldn’t get it?  You need more money? What?”

He angrily assaults me with a slew of random undecipherable statements and waves me away again.

“What about my money!”  He joins his colleagues in the outer office, and the room fills with laughter. 

Dejected, disappointed and empty handed, we squeeze around the group and slip out.

Now what. 

At the ex-pat bar I ask around.  “Do you know anything about black market permits to Tibet?” “Do you know anyone who’s been to Tibet?” 

The faithful traveler network connects us with Chris, an American, and his Mandarin speaking girlfriend Ruthie.  Score!  Someone to help us communicate!!

The next several days leads to more dismissive waving.  More waiting.  More money exchanged.  More yelling.  And another dead end.

Ruthie let them have it.  Mostly in mandarin, but some English phrases slipped in… “You lying cowards.  Your actions are disgraceful!”

She did learn something useful though.  If we get student ID’s, there is another path to get the coveted permits.

ID’s are easy on the black market.  And they look great.  Here we go.  Round 3.

It takes 2 weeks, more cash, and more arguing, but it happens.  We get them.  I have a permit and tickets to Llasa in my hands.

It’s a short flight on a small plane.  We are given detailed instructions what to say once we land.  A guide and driver is supposed to be meeting us.  All part of the pre-paid plan.  He will take us to our hotel and from that point on we are on our own.

Getting off the flight, the landscape is mesmerizing.  Barren.  Striking.  There is a chill.   We are at 11,000 feet.  I feel it.  Lightness in my head.  My heart pounding. 

Or is that fear?  Thoughts begin to race….

Will they stop us at the border?  Is our permit actually legitimate? Why did I trust them?  Where’s the guy?  Will he be here to meet us?  OMG, this is crazy…

I hand over my passport, acting cool on the outside.  Sweating.

The guard hard eyes us.  Looks around.  Asks where we are going.  I push forward the already written paper of our destination.  An eternity of cold silence passes.  We are admitted.

We made it.  We are in Tibet.  Acting like we know where we are going, we stride out of the tiny terminal hoping someone recognizes and rescues us.  Someone does.  He approaches us with confidence, and we are whisked away to the the heart of the city and our digs for the next 5 days. 

It worked.  Play by play.  Perfectly.   But that luck did not stay with us…

We soon meet other lone travelers and join them to explore Llasa, shopping in the markets full of prayer wheels, cymbals and colorful fabric covered in Buddhist scriptures.  The stalls are busy.  Around us women carry babies strapped to their backs with cloth, their braided hair woven with turquoise stones, browsing next to men wearing tall fur hats or satin gold and maroon head pieces.  Stopping to take in the scene, tiny squares of thin pink paper fall all around me, dropped from a nearby window.  A practice, we learn, which offers blessings and good fortune.

As we walk, quiet conversations unfold in the street with Tibetan locals about the political landscape and the religious oppression they feel.  We were warned never to mention the name of the forbidden exiled Tibetan religious leader, so we are cautious.  Many times we are asked if we have any pictures of him.  Sometimes it feels like desperation from a true follower, sometimes like a trap leading directly to an arrest.  We walk that line carefully, nervously.

I drink it all up.  Llasa is everything I dreamed of..  learning of life in Tibet while in Tibet.

Venturing out to the mountain monastery of Ganden, filled with monks in deep Burgundy robes, we are invited to drink stinky salty warm Yak butter tea (ugh!) on the rooftop.  They are curious about our home countries, asking many questions, but also eager to share their stories about their plight and why their numbers are dwindling.  We stray back into this dangerous conversation territory.

At dinner, resident Fulbright scholar and ex-pat Jim, stuns us by his surprising alignment with the Chinese.   His belief is that it’s necessary to break down the wealth of the religious empire to remove the poverty of the peasants.  To him, the occupation is ‘necessary for forward movement’.  And ‘forward movement,’ the infrastructure of building roads and schools, is essential to ‘civilize’ the country.

An intense debate arises amongst the table full of travelers from different places in the world.  Opposing ideologies battling over colonization and the stripping of peoples right to religious and cultural freedoms.  I absolutely love this part of traveling.  The spontaneous passionate sharing of ideas from perspectives outside of my own, stimulating new directions of thought.

Seeking a peaceful end to the day, we join the line of religious worshippers at Jokhang temple to spin the prayer wheels lining the courtyard.   Hundreds of candles made from yak milk fill the space both with light, and a thick aroma of wild animal.  Yaks provide most staples here, milk, butter, and coats for warmth.  And though incredibly useful, this dense overwhelming stench carried by the candles I will not easily forget.

We climb to the rooftop overlooking the pilgrims prostrating in devotional worship at the main entrance.  Reflecting on the day’s experiences, we settle down to take in the sky filling with stars.

Our time here passed quickly, and now we must figure out how to get out of Tibet.  Connecting with some other travelers who were also headed for Nepal, we decide to team up and forge our way to the border together.  Safer in numbers…

Back to the black market…  and dropping cash on permits, a plan, and people to make it happen.    We pool our money and get everything in place.

It’s a gorgeous drive through the dramatic Tibetan landscape with our driver who speaks very little English, a friendly couple Kas from England and Natsui from Japan, and the single guy Raphael from Uruguay.

We coast along passing glaciers, frozen waterfalls and more temples.  Arriving in Tibet’s second largest city Shigatse, we are stopped at an unexpected military checkout.

Opening the window, the driver hands over our 5 passports for inspection.  Looking up into our jeep at our tentative faces, the guard flicks through the pages.  Heated words pour out of his mouth.  Our driver defensively throws back more heated words.  Then our car turns around back into the city without our passports.

Raphael bursts out, “What the hell?”  He starts intensely tapping the shoulder of the driver.  “Where are you going?  We have to get our passports!!”  The driver continues without saying anything or even reacting to Raphael’s outburst.

The rest of us sit still, quiet.  Fear and stress building up inside us.

Coming to a stop, we park in front of an ominous dark building.  The driver gets out, suggesting we follow him. 

Approaching the counter, our driver steps to the side offering little help.

“Our passports were taken at that checkpoint!”  We proclaim with maybe a little too much energy and accusation.  Again the waving.  Waving.  Dismissive annoying waving.  The man walks away.  Replaced by another man with a similarly blank expression.

“Our passports were taken, we need…”

“Yes.” He says in English.  “You have no permit to continue.”

“We do.  We have permits.”

“No.  You only have permit to Shigatse. No permit for more.  You must stay.”

“We paid for permits to the border.”

“You can not go.  No permit.  You must stay.”

“What about our passports??”

“We keep passports.  You no permit.”

Tensions rise.  It’s getting late.  We need to find a place to stay, but hotels don’t want to admit us without our passports. 

I never realized the intimacy I felt with my passport before.  It is a part of me.  My safety blanket.  My connection to freedom.  My only way home.  I miss it.  I am scared without it.

Everyone is on edge.  We eventually get a place, but sleep is not our friend and morning is slow to come.

Anxiously we rush back to the government offices begging for our passports. 

“You go to Llasa.”

“No we are leaving Tibet.  We go to the border.”

“You go to Llasa now.”

“What about our passports?”

The stack is carelessly tossed across the counter.  We grab them up like starving children.  So thankful to have that vital piece of myself back with me, I immediately tuck it into my security pouch hidden under my clothes, far away from anyone else’s easy access.

And that was it.  Back in the jeep, our driver drove us back to Llasa.  That asshole agency didn’t provide all the necessary paperwork.  We were scrambling now.  How are we going to get out?  How much cash does everyone have?  We couldn’t get any money back. 

Our travel buddies were unsure whether to try again.  Maybe flying was better??  Easier? 

I was set.  I wanted to go by land.  Because the other big bucket list dream item was going to Everest basecamp and I wasn’t giving it up.  I was not leaving Tibet without seeing Everest up close and in person!

The team decided to stick together and hire another company, another driver and another jeep.  And this time we made sure we had multiple permits that took us all the way to the border.  Lesson learned.

We breezed through Shigatse.   All in order.  Waved good bye to that check point. 

This time we have the added benefit that the driver speaks some English.  Of course that cost extra, but well worth it.

“How far to Everest base camp” I ask.  Excited to see the epic mountain of so many stories.

“No Everest.”

“Yes.  Everest.  We told your company, we are stopping at Everest.  We paid extra to go to Everest.”

“Can’t go.  Road is blocked.”

Scammers…  Always an excuse.  I’ve dealt with plenty of scammers in my day.  Being half Punjabi and traveling to India on multiple occasions I’ve heard the “road is blocked” scenario countless times from drivers with their own agendas to pocket money, or make extra cash by delivering unsuspecting tourists to undesired locations.

“Really???  No one said anything about a road being blocked.   Let’s go.”

Raphael speaks up. “Let’s just go to the border and get out of here.  I’m ready to leave Tibet.”

“Raphael.  We all agreed.  I really want to go.  I’ve always wanted to go to basecamp.  This may be my one and only chance.”

The gentle couple stay quiet.  Again tensions rise.

Eagerly insisting, I am relentless. “I’ve come a long way.  I’m going to basecamp.”

“You are not alone.  We are all in this together.  I say we go on.  The driver says we can’t go,” Raphael pushes back equally emphatic.

“He’s lying.  He just doesn’t want to.”

“Why?  Why would he lie?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe he’s pocketing the extra gas money.  Let’s just go and see.”

The other three in the jeep stay quiet, not comfortable adding to the escalating emotions in our packed vehicle.

I was not going to back down.  I had a dream and I was going to get it.  It was life and death for me.  It was breath.  It hurt my body to think we would just drive by without even trying.  After all the efforts to get here.  I couldn’t back down.  There was no part of my being that could just let that go.

Aggressively arguing with the driver, he eventually agrees to take the side trip off the highway.  The road is bumpy but passable.  There is no road block.  He had lied.

We arrive at Rongbuk Monastery.   The driver stops, refusing to go further.   From here, we go on foot.

It is a beautiful clear day.  Towering in front of us, the majestic Everest.  It is breathtaking.  Histories of famous climbers fill my head. 

Base camp is 5 miles ahead.  I can’t wait to be there.  To feel the energy of that powerful place where so many people have stood, about to face the formidable test to reach the top of the mountain.

Raphael, though still angry at my disregard for his wishes, grabs his camera and starts out ahead of us at a quick pace.

Kas and Natsui choose to stay at the monastery, relax and drink tea.

Michael and I start out on the hike.  Crossing an icy stream, we are joined by a herd of mule deer.  The light is sharp.  The air crisp.  We have gained some elevation since Llasa.  Now at 16,400 feet breathing is thin and walking a little more labored.  But with a little extra effort we get to base camp.

Raphael has set up his camera on a small tripod on the edge of the basin.  We excitedly run the last 100 yards to the top of the ridge.

It is not the season.  There are no people.  No tents.  But plenty of energy.  I can imagine what it’s like.  I practically feel it.  There isn’t much to see at the empty camp, but I’m happy I’m here.   We sit in the stillness and take it all in.

Making some quick adjustments, Raphael’s camera tips over hitting the hard ground.  Irritated, he packs up and with a curt nod walks past us back towards the monastery.

As the cold wind picks up, we soak up one last look.

Standing to go, Michael crumbles to his knees. 

With no awareness that anything could be wrong I stare blankly, frozen.  My reaction slowed from the altitude.

Trying to get up, he walks a few steps and collapses to the ground.

“I’m so tired,” he breathes out.

“We have to get back.  We can rest when we get back.  You’ll be fine,” I encourage.

Watching this strong physically fit man crumble stuns me.  He walks a few steps and rests.  I take his bag.  He walks a few more steps.  Rests.  It seems endless.  Exhausting.

My mind wanders.  I turn to realize he’s no longer next to me.  He’s flat on the ground.  Saying something.  I can’t understand.

“What, what did you say?  What are you saying?”  I get down on the ground next to him.

“When the green field is yellow, the cow comes.”

WHAT!?? What’s he talking about?  OH shit!  What is happening?  My heart is racing.

“Something in the woods.  I remember.  Hidden in the woods.”

“Michael.  You have to get up.  We have to keep going.”

Some words gurgle out.  I can’t understand them at all. 

“Please!” I pull on his arm.  He’s a big man.  I can’t budge him.

“I’m so tired.  I just want to lay here.”

NO.  This is not happening.  “No, you have to get up.  Get up.  GET UP.”

He drifts in and out of lucidity as more gibberish pours out of his mouth.  I pull at him.  He’s just too heavy.  There’s no way.  I can’t carry him. 

Struggling to figure out what to do…. Comes “Lean on me.  We can do this.”

Together we get him to his feet, draping his body over me like a blanket, his arms fall over my shoulders.  We walk step by step.  Hunched over sharing his weight as best I can. 

Moving very slowly.  Inching down the path, hours pass.  What should be a 2 hour walk is an eternity.  We both lay down on the cold hard rocky ground for rest breaks gathering every bit of strength.

Finally we come around a corner and see the monastery and the car.  My extremely frustrated bordering on furious travel companions rush over and help Michael to the car.

The young couple is traveling with canisters of oxygen.  Of course.  The quiet, well prepared ones.  Without a beat, they have grabbed them and Michael is drinking it up like water in the desert.

Ridden with guilt and overwhelmed with fear, I burst into apologies.

“I’m so sorry.  I’m so sorry.  I’m so sorry.  I shouldn’t have dragged us all out here.  Is he going to be alright??  Is he OK?”

No one says anything.  No one really knows.  Altitude sickness is dangerous.

“We should get going.”  Raphael suggests.

It has gotten late.  Dusk is setting in and we are still on the rocky road far from the highway.   

The driver is really mad.  He stops at a little house along the side of the road.  He goes in alone.  Waiting in the car, we are all silent.  Michael has begun to look like himself again, but like he ran a marathon with no water and no training.

The driver comes to get us.  Inside, the kind family offers us something to drink.  Relieved but still guilty, I clutch with enormous zeal and appreciation the warm yak tea I previously thought disgusting.  The lovely Tibetan family feeds us and offers for us to stay.  We are grateful.

With the morning sun, we thank our gracious hosts, and start the final push towards Nepal, and our exit from Tibet.

Back on the highway, we are sailing towards our freedom.  Out from the weight of a military oppressed state, where it is difficult to trust anyone, and on to the refreshing and relaxing free-spirited Katmandu.

Feeling optimistic, the previous day’s trials behind us now, the mood in the car is upbeat.   As we chat about what we will do tomorrow, eat tomorrow, where our travels will take us next, the car slows to a complete stop.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

The driver simply says “No gas.”

“Come on!! We paid for gas to get us to the border!”  The driver just shrugs.

Not that it matters.  We are surrounded by extraordinary nature.  No mini-marts or gas pumps in sight.   Nothing in sight, but barren tundra.  No vehicles, no people.

“How far are we from the border?”

He points to the to the top of the hill on the road ahead of us.  “Down from there.”

The driver just sits.  No solutions.  No help.  It’s clear.  There’s only one way.  The rest of us get out the jeep, open all the windows and start pushing. 

I’m worried about Michael.  “Get back in the car.  We can do this.”  He ignores me.  He knows we need him.

We push.  We push.  We push.

Tibet won’t let us go easily.  It’s holding on with all its strength.  Last surge, up the last incline.

Our team of 5, panting, puffing, wheezing and winded, we push to the peak and hop in for the coast down to the border town Zhangmu.  Last leg.  We are close.

The road is narrow, cut into the side of the mountain.  Icy and slippery in the cold temperatures.  Looking out the window becomes harrowing.  A strange mumbling sound emerges from the driver.

Is he chanting??  We exchange looks.  The driver is audibly praying.  He is scared.  Looking over the edge, dead vehicles litter the ravine below.  Busses, cars, strewn about, decaying with time.  I shift my body to face in.  I can’t bear it.  We all silently start chanting to ourselves.

The car slips on the ice and we skid.  The driver corrects quickly, shifting the coasting car away from the edge.  Raphael bursts out laughing.  A fierce cackling laugh born of fear and absurdity.

The Englishman speaks.  A rare moment.  “Shut up!  What are you laughing about?”

We coast to a gentle stop, taking a break from the drive and switch around seats.  Those on the outside moving inside.  Needing a break.

Finally we drift into the colorful hillside town.  It’s a series of steep switchbacks. We can see the border below.  The car stops again.  The driver is done.  That’s it. 

OK.  This is the easy part.  Tossing our packs on our backs, we walk the rest of the way to freedom.   

I no longer have that same fire to explore at all costs.  Into dangerous circumstances, and possible arrest.  Willing to blindly risk the well being of myself and others.  I can hardly recognize that desperate desire to experience everything, at the possible cost of everything.  Looking back it’s like a movie from a different time, with a different star. 

Is it the loss of youthful innocence?  Innocence that doesn’t see consequences?  That feels invincible.  When all things are possible, not because they are, but because one doesn’t know they aren’t.

As the years pass, it’s difficult to hold onto that concept.  I know I’m not invincible.  I would make different decisions now about traversing a military governed foreign land by purchasing black market permits.  But  I want to hold the deeper truth of those days.  Sometimes I pushed too hard.  But it was a life without limits.  Releasing the barriers in my mind, made the path possible.   Continuing to take each step towards the destination will eventually get you there.  And getting there is worth it.