When a Billion Chinese Jump (6 page)

“Aren’t we Chinese great? They said it couldn’t be done. And yet, we’ve not only done it, we’ve done it ahead of plan. No other country in the world could do this. Chinese people are so clever.”

We were two hours, several beers, and half a roasted duck into a journey along the world’s highest railway, the 1,900-kilometer line from Xining to Lhasa, the capital of Tibet. But my patriotic conversation partner, Wang Qiang, was just warming up on his favorite subject: China’s engineering prowess.

“The new track follows the highway built by our soldiers in the 1950s. The terrain is so harsh that three of them died for every kilometer of road. You have to admire their spirit. But now, we’ve built the railway without the loss of a single life. Isn’t China great?”

Wang, a stout and ruddy power-plant worker from Hunan, was in the bunk two below mine. He was as keen to demonstrate the conviviality of China as he was to wax lyrical about the country’s strength. As well as cracking open a bottle of beer and sharing his food, he offered a packet of Dongfanghong cigarettes—”I smoke these because it was Mao’s favorite brand”—and travel advice about the province we were passing through. “Actually there isn’t much trouble in Qinghai. It’s full of police and soldiers, but we have very good public order.”

Wang was one of about sixty passengers squeezed into a “hard sleeper” carriage as our overnight train rattled toward the sunset, passing a half-visible rainbow, the world’s largest saltwater lake, hillsides quilted with yellow rapeseed and the occasional white Tibetan yurt.

With a couple of hours left until lights out, my fellow travelers were looking for ways to kill time and forget the cramped and smoky conditions of our shared compartment. Some played cards, others sang with their children, a curious few chatted with a Tibetan monk. And when that entertainment ran out, several attempted to talk to me, the only Western face in the carriage.

They were engagingly friendly. A family from Xining poured a pot of instant noodles and offered sightseeing tips. A policeman who often traveled the route explained why the door to the “hard-seating-class carriage” was kept locked. Two young sightseers from Hong Kong shared their herbal remedies for altitude sickness and talked enviously about the pioneering character of the mainland.

“There is an amazing can-do spirit in China these days,” said Susan Hong, a math teacher from the former British colony. “We used to have a bit of that in Hong Kong. But now we are so conservative compared to the mainland. Anything seems possible in China these days. It’s very exciting.”

But there was a dark side. As I got ready to turn in, Wang qualified the level of his friendliness. “I am happy to share food and drink with you. We are friends with all countries now, except Japan. If you were Japanese I would not share my food with you. And I would not let you sleep in the bunk above me.”

A little drunk, he repeated the threat for the third time as I clambered up to my bed. It was almost the highest I had ever slept—both from the floor, which was about two meters below my third-tier bunk, and from sea level.

Perhaps it was the lack of oxygen or the frequent patrols by ticket inspectors, but I had trouble getting to sleep. My mind raced back across the contrasting impressions of the previous few hours: the warmth of my fellow passengers, the sometimes alarming nationalism of Wang, and the can-do spirit that had impressed the tourists from Hong Kong. Behind was Han China, the materialistic, modernizing, go-getting world of Wang. Ahead was Lhasa, the capital of what was once arguably the most spiritual, traditional, and remote land on the planet. In the former, nature was there to be conquered. In the latter, it was there to be worshipped. In my muzzy-headed state, the journey started to feel like something more than a simple ride along a track. It was a trip back in time, tracing human development in reverse. Or so it felt.

Brits should be cautious about high places. We are not used to them. Ben Nevis, at 1,433 meters the tallest mountain in Britain, would be a minor foothill in the Himalayas. Up on the roof of the world, it is all too easy to misjudge scale, to forget the sudden changes in the weather that occur that close to the clouds, and to be confused by the tricks that the mind and the body play when deprived of the usual amount of oxygen.

My background reading suggested that the rarefied air could go even further to a man’s head when it was mixed with a desire for power. In 1903–4, Major Francis Younghusband, one of the most intriguing and ignominious figures in British imperial history, led a military mission into Tibet that turned into an invasion. Based in India, he was supposed to settle a border dispute near Sikkim. Instead, he marched 2,200 troops all the way to Lhasa, crushing any sign of opposition on the way. A museum in Gyantse depicts the massacre that took place there when Younghusband’s Maxim guns and cavalry mowed down 700 monks in four minutes. The Tibetans, who were armed with nothing more than muskets and boulders, were cut down by bullets and swords even after they turned their backs and attempted to flee.
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Even for imperial-era London, Younghusband’s actions were considered excessive, as was the harsh indemnity that he imposed on the Dalai Lama. The terms were eased, but Britain maintained a presence in Tibet until 1947. Younghusband’s “invasion” was to be Britain’s last colonial adventure in Asia.

For the forty-year-old major, it was a turning point. The awe-inspiring sight of the Potala Palace, temples, and monasteries in Lhasa mixed with remorse in his oxygen-starved brain and set him suddenly on a spiritual
quest. The experience, he wrote, “thrilled through me with overpowering intensity … Never again could I think evil, or ever be at enmity with any man. That single hour on leaving Lhasa was worth all the rest of a lifetime.” After a period wandering the mountains and leading an ascetic life, he returned to Britain, helped found the World Council of Faiths, espoused the creation of a new religion, and advocated a doctrine of mystical beliefs and free love.
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Younghusband fascinated and appalled me. In conquering Tibet with a tiny army, he reached the peak of the British Empire and his own military career. On the way up, he was a hero; on the way down, a villain. Little wonder that he looked for an alternative direction with esoteric mysticism. The more I read about him, the more compelling was his story. A classically repressed Victorian with an imperial superiority complex as full as his walrus mustache, he was at various times a journalist, a guru, a war criminal, and a Great Game spy.

He was also a British version of the indomitable old man in Yugong Yishan. In his youth, Younghusband was the first European to travel overland from Beijing to India, en route crossing the Gobi Desert and the Himalayas. Toward the end of his life, he organized some of the first expeditions up Mount Everest. In between he attempted to explore the psychic realm, claimed there were extraterrestrial beings on a planet called Altair, and heretically called for a replacement religion for “puny and childish Christianity.”

Judged by today’s standards, Younghusband was an arrogant jingoist, who wrote in 1898 of “John Chinaman” failing to be a “perfect animal” and Indian Baltis as “a patient, docile, good-natured race whom one can hardly respect, but whom one cannot help liking in a compassionate, pitying way.”
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His value system was based upon power: Superior races exploited nature. Inferior ones were condemned by their failure to do the same.

It was a common view at the height of the British Empire, where like all colonialists of the era and many Chinese today, the justification for conquest was civilization: the living standards of “less advanced” people would be raised slightly as partial compensation for stealing their natural resources. In Younghusband’s philosophy this was an ethical imperative, as the epigraph to this chapter attests.

The self-righteousness of those who plunder resources continues today.

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When it opened in 2006, the railway across the roof of the world was hailed by China as a means of improving the living standards of remote, undeveloped Tibet. Supporters of the Dalai Lama, the exiled spiritual leader of the region, condemned it as a political tool, a weapon of cultural genocide, and a means to suck natural resources from the Himalayas.
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The Sky Train is indisputably a triumph of engineering. At its maximum altitude in the Tanggula Pass, the track runs 5,072 meters above sea level, higher than Europe’s greatest peak, Mont Blanc, and more than 200 meters above the Peruvian railway in the Andes, which was previously the world’s most elevated track. Building a railway through this terrain required the blasting and building of seven tunnels and 286 bridges.

China’s statistics are always mind-boggling and often unreliable, but they serve as the scripture of China’s materialism, evidence of the powerful gospel of “Scientific Development.” So was the speed at which the track was laid, three years ahead of the original seven-year schedule. For the disciples of the economic miracle, it was proof that China was overtaking the United States.

Like many other Chinese modern megaprojects, the Golmud-Lhasa railway is a realization of the dream of the ultimate mountain-moving man, Mao Zedong. As early as 1950, the chairman sent engineers to Tibet to look into the construction of a railway, and in 1973 he announced the project to the outside world.
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Construction began the following year on the first part of the route from Xining, the provincial capital of Qinghai Province, to Golmud, the garrison town in China’s wild west. After it was completed in 1984, the engineers were stuck. For the next twenty years, this was the route to nowhere. Flanked by mountains, Golmud appeared as much of a dead end as the ocean.

It had been thought that no one could build a line any farther across the Tibetan Plateau, certainly not all the way to Tibet. It was too bleak, too cold, too high, too oxygen-starved. Even the best Swiss tunneling engineers concluded that it was impossible to bore through the rock and ice of the Kunlun mountain range. And if that was not impassable enough, even the flats were filled with perils. A meter or so below the surface was a layer of permafrost. Above that, a layer of ice that expanded or melted
according to the season and time of day. How could tracks be laid on such an unstable surface? And how could a regular service be run in an area plagued by sandstorms in the summer and blizzards in the winter?

As the great train traveler and writer Paul Theroux notes in
Riding the Iron Rooster,
these obstacles protected the former Himalayan kingdom of Tibet from modernity:

The main reason Tibet is so undeveloped and un-Chinese—and so thoroughly old-fangled and pleasant—is that it is the one great place in China that the railway has not reached. The Kunlun Range is a guarantee that the railway will never get to Lhasa. That is probably a good thing. I thought I liked railways until I saw Tibet, and then I realized that I liked wilderness much more.
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That was written in 1988. Less than two decades later those protective barriers were falling, though Tibet was still more inaccessible than almost anywhere else on earth. A World Bank study located the planet’s most remote place in Tibet. The region was also home to much of the last 10 percent of the planet that was not within a 48-hour car, train, or speedboat ride of a city. The advent of the Sky Train will change that.
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The railway was a meeting of opposites. On one side was the heir of Mao’s legacy, Hu Jintao, the engineer-president who preached a philosophy of “Scientific Development.” When he opened the track, he celebrated it as a symbol of national progress and unity that would help to improve life in Tibet and draw it closer to the rest of China. On the other was the Dalai Lama, the political monk who advocated a philosophy of compassion and conservation. He warned that Tibet was threatened by cultural genocide as the railway brought more Han settlers, tourists, and businessmen. His support for development was tempered by his Buddhist concerns about the natural environment: “The world grows smaller and smaller, more and more interdependent … today more than ever before life must be characterised by a sense of universal responsibility, not only nation to nation and human to human, but also human to other forms of life.”
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In the Western world, the train has been the subject of much hypocrisy. The British in India, the French in Africa, and the European settlers in North America built railway lines to subjugate indigenous populations, but when China did the same thing in Tibet, it was pilloried. This may be
because of the strategic importance of the Himalayas. As early as 1889, another mustached British colonial, the writer Rudyard Kipling, noted with alarm: “What will happen when China really wakes up, runs a line from Shanghai to Lhasa … and really works and controls her own gun-factories and arsenals?”
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The fact that Beijing has now done exactly that shows how global power has shifted.

Orientalist fantasies often reached absurd levels in Tibet. Adolf Hitler sent an expedition there in search of paranormal powers to strengthen the Third Reich and to make contact with the mythical kingdom of Shambala. More recently, a host of Hollywood stars have seen in Tibet the spiritual core missing from their homes in California. Steven Seagal was named a reincarnated lama, but he is far from alone in being mocked for an obsession with “Shangri-La-La Land.”

Tibet has not always been associated with peace, spirituality, and remoteness. It once boasted an extensive empire that stretched through much of central Asia. At other times, it was invaded by Mongols, Manchus, Dzungars from Xinjiang, and Gurkhas from Nepal, and its leaders built alliances with Arabs, Turks, Indians, and Chinese. The first Europeans, a group of Portuguese missionaries, arrived in 1624. Buddhism was not native to the region; it was introduced either via China or Nepal or directly from India. Neither were monks necessarily peace-loving—the “Dobdobs” were the most famous of many bands of warriors based in monasteries that once fought for control of territory—nor are they necessarily any less tempted by money and power. Before 1959, 95 percent of the land was concentrated in the hands of 5 percent of the theocracy. Tibetan scholars have never claimed their land was Shangri-La.
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