The Hotel on the Roof of the World (29 page)

‘At that time he went there, nearby here to build a bridge. There was a tablet. You know “tablet”? There is a cattle joining with a girl. You know “join”? Joining each other. Yes joining.'

‘A monk?' asked Barba, now more confused than ever.

‘No, no, a cattle,' affirmed the translator. ‘A cattle on a mud tablet. Yes it was made of mud. But this was destroyed in the Cultural Revolution. But now we don't know. But we will solve this mystery on the side of the bridge. The bridge built by his leadership. Yes, by his leadership! But first we will see the pee of a pig.'

The mystery of the missing mud tablet remained unsolved, as there was no mention of it the next morning and instead of questioning villagers on its possible whereabouts, we set off on horseback towards a rounded mountain at the head of the Lunggro valley.

‘Today we are going to see the pee of a pig!' Mr Tsang's translator repeated, as he jolted uneasily in his saddle.

‘What pig?' Barba enquired.

‘Yes, really, a pig! Some people say it is the pee of a pig that comes out of the mountain every two hours!' laughed Mr Tsang's translator. Fortunately, Jig Me had spoken to the monk at the monastery and took up the story to explain to us where we were going.

‘The mountain is called “Dorje Pamu”, the pig goddess, protector of the Buddhist faith. We can go into a series of caves at the top of the mountain and actually go inside Dorje Pamu – which is very holy. Some people say that these caves are her intestines and that the rush of water coming out at the bottom of the mountain every two hours is her pee.' Jig Me smiled. ‘Who knows?' he continued, ‘it is also said that the longevity Buddha is inside the caves and that when he makes his offerings, his cup overflows and this is what runs out at the bottom of the mountain.'

Our ponies laboured on up the valley, passing herds of yak as they picked their way across the gentian-covered slopes. Silver birch trees lined the side of the valley to our left and juniper bushes and scrub berberis to our right. After two hours we arrived at the famous spot where the water – or, depending on your beliefs, Dorje Pamu pee or longevity Buddha offerings – came out of the mountain. A water- (pee/offerings) driven prayer wheel the size of a man whirred around continually, sending its prayer-filled contents to the mountain goddess above.

We left the ponies to graze, and climbed up the precarious route on the rock face to the mouth of the pig, disturbing red-billed choughs and a wallcreeper, which flew off down the valley, flashing its crimson wings to us as it went. Pot-holing had never been high on my list of ‘must try' sports and I was about to have my worst fears confirmed. Squeezing through a hole the size of a slim body, I found myself in a tight corridor which turned first to the right, then left, then back to the right, then to the left again. By this time it was pitch dark, I was completely disorientated and all I could feel was the damp, cold rock pressing against both sides of my body and the breath of the person who had entered the cave after me on the back of my neck. The air was moist and musty but with the unmistakable smell of yak butter. Groping in the darkness at the next turn, I found that the cave had opened up a bit and I stumbled into a slimy wooden ladder. Climbing the ladder led to a series of three iron chains which you could use to pull yourself up steep slopes to some slightly larger chambers. Hearing voices ahead of us, Dorje lit his cigarette lighter. This revealed a precipitous drop a few inches away to our right, down which we would all have fallen – presumably deep into the pig goddess' lower intestine – if Dorje had not lit up. The flame went out and I pressed my body as hard as I could against the clammy wall of the cave, where I remained frozen rigid in the terrifying grip of claustrophobia. Everything seemed close around me – everything
was
close around me: rock, dampness, people. Yet more people shouted instructions and yelps I could not understand, and above all there was darkness. Pitch darkness. With vision completely lost, my other senses were working in overdrive. I could hear every clang of the iron chains as yet another one of our party pulled themselves up the slope. Chinese voices behind me. Tibetan voices ahead of me. And the voices of strangers deeper inside the cave – how could this be possible? I could feel every trickle of water running over my hands as I gripped on to the rock face, my fingernails desperately seeking out tiny fissures to cling on to. I began to feel nauseous, although I was never quite sure if this was due to fear or the unholy smell that hung in the air.

Dorje lit up again. The tiny flame flickered in the damp air casting light and shadows around the narrow cavern. The voices ahead turned out to be from an elderly Tibetan lady carrying a kettle and a one-armed monk wearing original Roy Orbison shades. Not very practical eyewear for pot-holing, although as it was completely dark I suppose it did not really affect his ability to get around. It turned out that they were on pilgrimage to see the longevity Buddha. We wished them well, and abseiled back down the iron chains, through the intestines of Dorje Pamu and back to the relief of fresh air, space and daylight. I made a mental note that pot-holing and Mr Alec were never going to cross paths again.

Barba had sensibly remained outside the cave and he chuckled as our ponies set off back down the valley. I said nothing.

We spent the night in Chinese barracks in Jang Da and continued our drive the next day through pine forests until we reached a narrow dirt track which took us to the shores of an incredible lake. The water was even more blue than the turquoise of Lake Yamdrok. We stopped to look out at a monastery built on a small island, set amongst the deep green of untouched pine forest with high jagged hills above and snow-capped mountains in the distance. A monk beckoned to us from the monastery and was soon rowing out to meet us on the monastery's ferry boat. It is one of the most beautiful locations I have ever seen. The two-storey monastery is framed by the brilliant blue of the lake's water and the green of the pine trees 360 degrees around it. Perhaps it was just the contrast to my pot-holing experience in the bowels of Dorje Pamu but it did seem that I had visited hell and heaven in the same day. Above all it was the serenity of the place that hit me. There was no sound apart from the splashing of the ferry boat. No pollution, nothing man-made but the beauty of the monastery. It was worth becoming Buddhist for this very moment. However, we learnt that Tso Song Gompa had not always been so tranquil. The monastery had been razed to the ground on several occasions. Firstly by the Mongols and most recently by the Red Guard during the Cultural Revolution. Mr Tsang knew nothing about that. He had been too busy building bridges. The monk who showed us around was just twenty-seven; young to be a Kushok (the head monk). He pointed to a footprint in a rock on the island and told us how this had been created by a Bodhisattva who had seen two Kongpo men fighting on the other side of the lake and had leapt across to separate them. Apparently he had also left a footprint where he had landed. If we cared to stay on for a few days and walk around the lake he would show it to us. There was nothing I would have liked better but Mr Tsang insisted that we continue with our tour. There were still bridges to be visited. Reluctantly we left the Kushok of Tso Song Gongpa and headed for the town of Ba Yi.

Here was a town with a difference. There was nothing and no one Tibetan in sight. No monks, no monasteries, no Tibetan houses. Instead green-clad Chinese soldiers filled lines of karaoke bars and noodle shops. Ugly, characterless buildings, so typical of modern Lhasa, filled a flat valley floor.

‘This is Ba Yi,' said Mr Tsang's translator. ‘You know what is Ba Yi?' he asked.

‘This town is Ba Yi', I replied.

‘Yes this is Ba Yi. But do you know what is Ba Yi?' he continued. I thought I had answered that one so Barba had a go, clearly starting to get annoyed.

‘Is this Ba Yi?! Have we reached Ba Yi!? Is this miserable crap hole Ba Yi!?' he spluttered.

‘But what is Ba Yi?' Mr Tsang's translator continued irritatingly, unaware that Barba was on the verge of breaking point. All the warning signs were there: the uncontrollable shaking, the hand running through the hair, the staring eyes, the fixed grimace. Mr Tsang's translator will never know just how close he was to experiencing at first hand the wrath of the human volcano as he saved himself in the nick of time by explaining to us what ‘Ba Yi' means: ‘“Ba” is “eight” and “Yi” is “one”. So “Ba Yi” is “eight one” which means “August the first”. This is the day the Chinese army was founded. So this town is named in honour of that day.'

In addition to sparing himself from an explosion from Barba, his sentence had finally explained why the area was crawling with green uniforms. This town was basically a giant army barracks, housing a large part of the PLA contingent in Tibet. We spent the night in an army hostel, eating familiar Chinese spam. The next morning, after a breakfast spent chasing shiny peanuts around a bowl with a pair of chopsticks, we set off on a day trip to see what Mr Tsang's translator had described as a ‘great marvel'.

On the way we overtook lumber lorries carting Tibet's freshly cut forests down the road to China. We stopped to see a gnarled old tree, surrounded by a broken concrete fence, which Mr Tsang proudly declared was the ‘oldest tree in the world' having survived 1,500 years. Presumably the concrete fence was to indicate that this tree should be spared the chainsaw, or possibly that it was too old to be of any use.

Continuing eastwards, through the new Chinese towns, we came across a group of Tibetans blocking the road. They were prostrating, just as many do at the gates of the Johkhang Temple in Lhasa or around the Barkhor, but here they were prostrating in the middle of the road. We stopped to ask them where they were going. Jig Me translated.

‘Lhasa!' he called out. ‘They are going like this all the way to Lhasa!'

They had been an astounding eight months on the road and reckoned it would take another six to reach Lhasa. I thought of suggesting that we offered them a lift – we would be back in two days – but decided that the offer would probably not be appropriate. We gave a donation to their travel funds and carried on to what had been described as Mr Tsang's ‘marvel'. The ‘marvel' that we had been travelling all day to reach turned out to be Mr Tsang's favourite bridge. A large slab of red-painted concrete stood embedded in the riverbank by the bridge. The paint was flaking off but cast into the concrete and still clearly visible after forty years were the Chinese characters proclaiming ‘Long Live Chairman Mao'. It had been a day filled with nostalgia for Mr Tsang.

‘Yes,' confirmed the translator, ‘this was one of the finest of his bridges. A masterpiece helping our Tibetan comrades.'

Barba and I were not overly impressed and were quite thankful to return. We passed through a village inhabited by the Menba. We were told that the Menba are a Tibetan ‘minority' who do not ride horses as the hills are too steep so have to walk everywhere. Mr Tsang told us how they dig holes in the ground with a machete to plant crops and afterwards burn everything to the ground. I asked about the Glak-lo Nagpo but no one had ever heard of them. The Menba's village was a rather ugly stretch concrete ribbon development with the most outstanding feature being an enormous concrete toilet. Another great leap forward in the modernisation of Tibet which I imagine must have been greatly appreciated by the lucky Menba.

That evening in Ba Yi, Mr Tsang asked for our views on the area and the prospects for developing tourism. We advised that Ba Yi was not the most exciting town to visit for Westerners who have come to Tibet essentially to see Tibetans and Tibetan culture rather than ugly Chinese imports. But we did say that the lake was one of the most beautiful areas of Tibet and definitely worth considering opening up. It would, however, have to be very carefully and sensitively managed, using all the principals of sustainable tourism with the construction of discrete accommodation that was environmentally friendly and in keeping with Tibetan culture and values. The lake would be perfect for ‘green' tourism activities such as trekking, or for those seeking a retreat for a few days. We stressed that it would have to be small numbers, low impact and above all, sustainable. The area around the lake could be declared a nature reserve. Visitor numbers could be controlled and the serenity of Tsong Tso monastery on the island must be maintained by ensuring that it does not become overrun with tourists.

‘Ah, that is a pity,' said Mr Tsang through his translator, ‘it will not be possible. We are going to build a power station at the end of the lake and raise its height by fifteen metres. The island and monastery will disappear.' That rather put an end to our conversation and we returned to Lhasa depressed.

Back at the hotel we found that work on the swimming pool had been progressing smoothly without Barba's constant supervision. The concrete lining had dried and the first tiles were being placed on the walls. Barba was pleased and went off to the Coffee Shop, calling for Bonnetti to make him some decent Italian food. I called in to the Sales Office to see Conny and check the occupancy forecasts for the next few days. As we looked through the papers I was suddenly hit by a jolt. I looked up at Conny. She too had the same experience. Something had happened, something electrifying. Something that I had never felt before. Tashi burst in the door.