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THE STARS LOOK DOWN

Sunrise on the Mt Kailash Kora

In the corner of a cold classroom that smells mildly of dust, disinfectant and generations of small boys, there is a globe. A short, blond, slightly scruffy student lingers after the bell and stares intently at the colors, implied topography. He caresses the surface seeking out names made familiar by his fathers travels in the navy; Penang, Jakarta, Hong Kong, Peking, a list as long as a summers day, the Far East, the Orient, Asia. In the late 1970’s with The United States and the Soviet Union gripped in their no win cold war, even a small boy has a world view. A globe, the most simple, yet profound visualization of our planet, allowing us to walk in space and dream, to share the view as the stars look down.

Thirty years later, as I sit in my office, the first cold fingers of winter gripping the Mountain View from my window, there is no globe in the dusty corner, only Google Earth. The satellite images hold the same allure, and I zoom over valleys shaped by glaciers or canyons eroded by rivers; the small, blond, slightly scruffy boy lives on. Each name is an invitation, a possibility, a few letters in a simple font representing billions of lives, the orange arteries of roads bringing life and trade. And across the Asian Subcontinent the gigantic, smiling face of the Himalaya. To the South, a mass of humanity toils, tills, threshes and harvests the red soil of India, the terraced valleys of Nepal and the flood plain of the Brahmaputra River, Bangladesh. To the North, isolated, remote, cold and alone is Tibet. Only one orange line bisects this vast landscape, connecting Golmud in the north to Ngari in the west, a mere 2158km, about the same as Houston to Los Angeles; one road and a lot of empty wilderness.

Or so it seems at first sight; covering an area of roughly 2.5 million square kilometers at an average elevation of 4500m, with a population density of a little fewer than 2 people per square kilometer, that leaves an awful lot of empty space, ideal for wildlife. And Tibet is home to more large animals than its neighbors. Bear, Wolf, Antelope, Deer and Tibetan Ass. The diminutive Pica peppers the permafrost with its burrows and these provide homes and shelter for Snowfinches and the charismatic Groundpecker, which in turn sustain a healthy population of Falcons and Eagles. It is a harsh and unforgiving environment, but, as always, wildlife survives.

Tibetan Fox

We, on the other hand, struggle at altitude. Even though we live at 2400m across the mountains in Yunnan Province, we take sensible precautions when it comes to acclimatization. We pack our 4×4 with gear and after a late lunch at home; make the leisurely three-hour drive northwest to Zhongdian at 3200m. A night here gets us ready for the 90-minute flight to Lhasa and a couple of nights at 3650m. The Tibetan Capital is changing fast; factories and an industrial zone are growing like weeds on the outskirts and older buildings are being replaced by shopping malls downtown. Only around the Jokhang Temple and the Barkhor markets does the spirit live on. Of course, the Potala Palace, undeniably Tibetan, still looms over the now landscaped parks to its north and the wide street below. With some good friends in town we sit around drinking tea most of the days and eating as often as we can; dehydration and lack of appetite are fast tracks to altitude sickness so eating and drinking keeps us healthy and help pass the time while our red blood cell count rises. The air is thin yet crystal clear; and even with eyes closed, the smell of Juniper smoke and Yak Butter tell you you’re in Lhasa.

Our trip to Tibet this time is a mission, a quest, and a vision to be realized. For some time I have been aware that our ability to articulate ourselves in our photographs has evolved in line with the technology available to us. From the birth of Landscape Photography with black and white large format cameras, through graduated neutral density filters to seriously sensitive mega pixels in the most recent digital cameras.  Our cameras are tools allowing us to speak in light. The high altitude, clear skies and complete lack of light pollution create the most perfect circumstances for night photography, and I wanted to photograph the Milky Way over Mount Kailash in the far west of the Tibetan Plateau. Mount Kailash, one of the world’s holiest mountains, the abode of Shiva and according to Tibetan Buddhism, the seat of all spiritual power.

But Mount Kailash and the adjacent Lake Mansarovar are a long way from Lhasa, four days on roads of unknown condition. Past experience led us to only one conclusion; we needed our own car and driver. New regulations insist an official guide accompanies foreigners, so Mr. Karma was added our little group, and we were four. The Landcruiser that pulled up outside our hotel at 6am had seen better days, but driver Mima enthused, saying he would take this car anywhere in Tibet on his own with no fear, we were appeased.

The early start ensured we avoided the tedious road-blocks, security checks and passport control on the road south of Lhasa and we raced along a bumpy road lined with trees, bare mountains of rock and dust rising above us as dawn came gradually.  We stopped in Shigatse for an early lunch and my permit to continue towards Tingri and the Everest region. The food was good with a heavy influence from Nepal and India, vegetable Pakora and Dal washed down with Lassi, my no beer above 3800m policy helping to prevent dehydration. We take a walk around the massive Tashilhunpo Monastery, alone but for a few pilgrims spinning the prayer wheels on their peregrination. The contrast between the whitewashed walls and the cobalt sky are so indicative of the region. As with all monasteries the color scheme of white, red and gold reflecting the status of the occupants; the gold colored levels set aside for the Lamas.

Within an hour of leaving Shigatse we cross the 4000m barrier and stay there for the next two weeks. The landscape is mellow, a wide river having created an extensive agricultural zone between its banks and the mountains and every inch is being harvested. The growing season is short and the farmers have to make do with what they can dry and store over the winter. It is oddly incongruous though to see such lush habitat at this altitude.  Every age group is represented and they all work to bring in the ripe crops, children under 5 carry bushels of wheat and the grey-hairs man the tractors, or horse pulled carts. Every hour takes us farther from our perception of civilization, signs of modern life appear less often and seem increasingly out of place, stout compounds of mud and straw brick, prayer flags of green, red, blue, yellow and white representing the five elements adorn juniper branches on the roofs, ecstatically extending prayers to heaven in the constant wind.

Mount Everest & Cho Oyu from Old Tingri

The road is remarkably good and virtually deserted, but for ancient archaic trucks that vomit diesel smoke as they labor up the slightest incline and their water-cooled brakes leave a slick residue as they career downhill. Our car also labors as we cross our first 5000m Pass, the combustion of the engine so much less efficient in the even thinner air. We stop to take photographs of our first snow-capped peaks, a shark’s tooth of ice and rock rising above the dun-colored hillsides. I smile as I write those lines, as even these small hills are over 6000m. As a youth climbing in the Scottish Highlands, getting above 1400m was a cause for giddy elation. Late monsoon cloud build up in the afternoon cheating us of our view from the Everest viewpoint and we continued downhill through arid terrain to New Tingri, where we checked into a small courtyard motel. This place is new and has great facilities, much welcomed, but I am feeling the effects of the 4400m-altitude, lethargic and have no appetite. I watch as Juanli eats in a dubious Chinese Restaurant, oily vegetables and plain, hard rice. I have a coke, happy for the caffeine fix and nibble a few dry biscuits. Some climbers bound for Everest laze around the compound drinking beers and teasing the waitresses, language creating no barriers in this universal game. We take to our bed early and get a good sleep before waking for another early start and a long drive to Saga.

We had to be up early to get across to Old Tingri and another Everest viewpoint for sunrise, our guide and driver waking up to the realization that we may be slightly different clients from the norm, but there was minimal protest, for now, although we did have to persuade them to visit the teahouse AFTER we had shot the sunrise. Everest only just pops its top over the horizon and isn’t as spectacular as Cho Oyu that dominates the valley. This is the 6^th highest peak in the world at a staggering 8201m. The sky is really clear; only a slight dusty haze that eventually catches a little color, but sadly, a plain sunrise. As I jump around trying to warm my feet, laughing with pure joy at the spectacular scenery, I reflect on many other dawns I have experienced around the world, especially in the tropics, where the sun heaves itself into the thick air in an apathetic manner, burning red with fire. Here, watching from 4400m, the sun comes over the horizon in sudden and powerful violence, instant light, power and intent; day has arrived.  Conditions do occasionally come together for those fortunate to be in the right place and time, usually during the summer monsoon when there is more moisture in the air, and on the rare days when the mountains are not wreathed in mist.

Sunrise over Cho Oyu

Mima and Karma knock endlessly on the solid wooden door replete with big, iron hinges until a dazed and sleepy girl opens it a crack, she grunts in recognition at these two seasoned travelers and we enter the big room that radiates out from the central hearth/stove. A basket filled with dry Yak dung provides the fuel and the fire is soon rekindled and water put on to boil. Eventually, tea and noodles arrive and we fill up, glad of the warmth, it had been -12C outside. Beyond the door, Tingri wakes up, although the local dogs still lay in the trash at the roadside, tired from another night of prowling, scavenging and other, more amorous pursuits. Tibetan dogs can be big, and vicious, they are there to protect their masters’ property, but without chains or kennels, they roam free after dark and can attack. The town is dry and dusty and lacks charm; the road out seems a good choice.

From here the plateau extends to the horizons, dotted with the same, rolling hills typical of the area. Geologically the place looks like a trash can, rocks of different types lie in haphazard strata, twisted and broken. The relentless force of the Indian Tectonic Plate pushing into the Eurasian Plate to the north has wrecked the landscape like cars in a breakers yard. The Himalaya are being pushed into the thin air even as I write, a fem millimeters at a time, but all the while, ice, wind, snow and cold wear them down. I shout for Mima to stop and once again dive out the car to make my way across another featureless expanse of grass. The clouds are casting shadows across a distant hillside, a couple of Tibetan goat herders are watching their flocks and Everest stands tall on the horizon, all quite intoxicating. Juanli joins me with her camera and we stand quietly taking it all in while our two guides have a smoke. No noise, but the wind in the grass, fluffy clouds blast overhead in a violent jet stream, silence for thought, reality clean and untarnished, ready to be lived in.

The Tibetan Plateau

After years of traveling to exotic places, I relish these moments of clarity; I feel small, humble and quite lovingly calm. Tibet strips you naked; no room for pretensions or ego, just id. To the south, the Himalaya stalk the border with Nepal and I can’t imagine what sense of adventure takes people to these high summits, I know my limits and am certain I don’t have what it takes to go there. But in a way, I smile at that too, as an arrogant youth that’s the sort of thing I would have aspired to, to conquer, to win. Now, into my 40’s, a little longer in tooth and shorter in hair, I am happy to look at them and be amazed.

We continue west with the peaks on our left into the afternoon, and then, as the Friendship Highway swings away to climb the horizon and drop to Katmandu and another reality, the tarmac ends and we are on dirt, rock and dust. As part of the development of Tibet the road from Lhasa to Ali in the west is being upgraded and made into tarmac. In typical Chinese style, where manpower and cost are of no consequence, the whole 1400km section is being done at the same time; we subsequently enter the longest section of road works on the planet. “Good” sections were rough, the underlying base on which the final road would be laid, “bad” sections consisted of any path you could find through the loose sand, gravel and occasionally churned up mud. Good sections rarely lasted more than a few hundred meters and really bad sections were all too frequent. Progress was slow, bumpy and dusty, even with the windows closed everything became coated in a fine layer and our eyes itched in the dry air. The first signs of soar throats occurred and the inevitability of a high altitude cold loomed in the near future; at altitude you don’t get better, you just get used to it. We stopped the night in Saga, the starting point of the long haul west to Kailash, on the map it looks like nothing, but it would be 48 long, bumpy hours before the azure water of Lake Mansarovar would reward our eyes with color other than brown.

Cyclist on Friendship Highway

Compared to yesterday, the road today is worse, we’re often buried up to the axle, wheels spinning in the sand, when we do pick up speed on a good section, the car is fish-tailing on the ball bearing sized rocks. Adrenalin turns to apathy and eventually contempt. The scenery, which before was enthralling and had us open-eyed with wonder, becomes monotonous, the desire to arrive is burning and all-encompassing. After an all day drive and 290km we roll into Payang, a single story oasis of dust in an island of sand. Large Tibetan dogs wander the streets menacingly, and hard, weatherworn locals smoke on street corners. It is an intimidating town. We check into a basic guesthouse, a tatty U-shaped building in a small walled compound on the edge of town, a toilet block in the corner can be sensed long before you enter and a little bit of local knowledge goes a long way; it’s best to “go” in the morning, when the days excrement has frozen over night! There is no electricity, a small generator is sparked up at 9pm for a short while for no apparent reason, as it’s been dark since just after eight. We share a slender sagging mattress in our sleeping bags with the blankets draped over the top until I have to pee and dress quietly to walk across the yard, dodging sleeping dogs that wake in panic and snap at me in the dark. Looking up I am greeted with the most dazzling skies I can remember, not since we used to join my father at sea had I seen so many stars, and the Milky Way, half of my quest, sweeping over the horizon in a glittering arc.

Knowing that this was an opportunity to learn, I quickly went and set up my gear; Nikon D700 and a 24-70 f2.8 lens on my Gitzo Tripod and RRS BH55 head; a reliable and sturdy combination. Knowing I had to keep my shutter speed below 25 seconds to negate potential motion of the stars, I wanted points, not trails, I adjusted all the other settings to meet that goal: 20 seconds at f2.8 and 2000 ISO gave me a nice exposure and color. I was completely enthralled and went inside to get Juanli to come and take a look, and we shared another special moment together under the stars with the hounds of hell baying outside the locked gate of our sanctuary.

Namunani at sunset from Darchen

Another day of pothole rodeo comes to an end at a high pass swathed in prayer flags, to our left Mt Gurla Mandata or Namunani in Tibetan towers over the blue lake Mansarovar, and on our right, in the distance, the distinctive pyramid of Mt Kailash. Even from afar it has a powerful presence, instantly recognizable from the scores of images I have viewed in preparation for the trip, all of a sudden fatigue vanishes and we have a game on. I’ve been keeping my eye on the moonrise times and tell Juanli that I want to push straight for the mountain and start our Kora in the morning, rather than spend a couple of days at the lake resting and acclimatizing. I am itching to get up there, but the prospect of a 57km hike over a 5600m pass is a little daunting, I’ve never been that high before and some anxiety I hope is normal. We blast through Huoer, which is similar to Payang but with a lake view, and drive straight to Darchen, a small Tibetan Hamlet comprising a few grey houses, basic accommodation and restaurants. Its existence relies on the pilgrims who make the trip every year to pray, do their Koras and worship the holiest of peaks. After dinner and a stunning sunset over Namunani I talk to an American tour leader who brings generally elderly clients to the mountain every year, he has had to descend with one woman who, even on horseback was suffering from the altitude and descent was the only option, she looked pale and weak as she tottered back from the outhouse, having to pause for breath on the level pathway.

Mt Kailash from Huoer

Our guide Karma takes off to procure the services of a Sherpa for the morning and with anticipation we pack our gear for a pre-dawn start. Mima is to stay behind, but Karma will do the Kora with us. I feel fit, acclimatized and ready to take some photographs. It’s worth mentioning here, that sunrise is at 08:23am, with all clocks in China set to Beijing time for the administrators’ convenience, the single time zone plays havoc as we head west. Also, when I say we’re acclimated, I mean that we don’t have any headaches, nausea or other altitude symptoms, we are not running around like spring chickens or likely to break any world records.

The Sherpa arrives and we get introduced, he looks to be over sixty, but that means nothing up here. Karma had specified we limit our load to 15 kilo and we were meticulous in harvesting our gear to keep within that limit, my own pack was close to that and Juanli had her camera and lenses in her own pack too. I was a little indignant when Karma added his water bottles and sleeping bag to the pack and ended up carrying nothing of his own except a stout walking stick. None-the-less we set off at a decent pace and made our way through the sleeping town, alone on the trail in the dim light, no other pilgrims venturing out to join us. Just a Mexican Wave of barking dogs from every doorway as we pace up the middle of the grey road. The Kora is always clockwise, unless you are of Bon Faith, in which case it is an anti-clockwise route, and as we were with Tibetans, it was clockwise for us and we traverse the scrubby hillside and climb gradually up to a promontory bedecked in prayer flags and a stunning view of Kailash and across the flat valley to Namunani. We paused for some images and a breath of air, as we found even a slight incline could reduce us to breathlessness after only a dozen paces. Juanli has been here before and knew there was no point in arriving at the accommodation early, we’d just sit around until sunset and do nothing, and she suggested we just amble and take our time. The other two had their own agenda and clearly wanted to get up to the tents at 5200m as quickly as possible.

Juanli and Namunani at the start of the Kailash Kora

All went well, Juanli and I strolling through the incredible valley, immense cliffs towering on both sides and small Stuppa and shrines dotting the way. We drank our water supply, knowing even more acutely the dangers of dehydration up here. I look up and our guide and porter are nowhere to be seen, we have no water as our spare is in his pack. I am angry, Juanli is flagging in the late morning heat and I feel our guide has acted irresponsibly. The path is rough and rising steeply, but I realize I have to catch up or we will soon be in bad shape, so I shoulder my pack and start to run up the trail. I have to stop often to catch my breath, but soon enough see the others in the distance, moving steadily about a kilometer away. I dig in and continue running, but a loose rock turns my left leg and I feel a stab of pain in my knee. I catch up and probably give Karma about the amount of shit he deserved and retrieved my water bottle and run back down the trail to let Juanli drink.

We push on towards lunch time and stop at some tents where my knee soon starts to protest and swell, but I know that up is the only option and Juanli and I set off ahead of the others knowing they will catch up soon enough. Sadly, within a few hundred meters the pain in my left knee gets to the “bad” stage and I have to stop. We have no medical kit with us (bad) and I end up strapping it with a silk Tibetan scarf I was given in Lhasa. Whilst it kept my kneecap in place it didn’t stop the pain, and the last 5 km up to the rest house was tough going.

Juanli and I had a small stone room with a few beds crammed in it and we settled down in our sleeping bags to wait it out until sunset. A small rat or a big mouse glared at me from under my wife’s bed, looking somewhat indignant we hadn’t dropped any food on the floor, and eventually restlessness forced me out and up the hill for a view of Mt Kailash. I found going up painful, but oddly, down wasn’t so bad, as long as I hopped. There was no cloud, but a strong and persistent wind was blowing through the valley, which I knew could cause problems when we tried to shoot after dark, any vibration during a 20-30 second exposure is guaranteed trouble. We were staying in a low, stone block with tiny windows facing the peak, around us, temporary tents accommodating the Tibetan pilgrims who materialized during the afternoon. In one of these I discovered some Danish guys drinking noisily to the dismay of the stoic serving women.  As dusk fell, Yak herders came into the settlement with their beasts and began tethering them to logs, and setting up their own small tents where they could find level ground. By nightfall a small village had sprung up, but it was well ordered and tranquil, the Danes having succumbed to their brews.

At 21:30 I got ready, thermals under layers, topped with a down jacket and Gortex trousers, thermal boots, gloves and a hat; it was cold and the wind chill was fierce, I found a sheltered spot in the lee of a building and started to shoot. The shutter opened for 20 seconds and then the camera shut down for a further 20 seconds to apply it noise-canceling algorithms and then in the darkness the viewfinder flares and displays the image. I am happy, the peak shines in the dark, illuminated by a 4-day-old moon, and the stars are on fire, aglow in the ivory black sky.

Witnessing the mountain and the Galactic rim under moonlight was simply incredible, I hoped the images could start to convey some of those feelings and in the quiet calm of night, thoughts of faith, purpose and life were inevitable. And in that place I smiled again and said quietly to myself, “I have lived a lifetime today.”

We shoot for half an hour, Juanli doing a traditional star-trail image, while I let the D700 work its magic, then I do a short 30 minute trail as well and retire to bed. A fitful sleep at 17500 is a good sleep and we were ready at 06:30 to shoot again. My knee had swollen in the night and I knew the full Kora was not possible, retreat the way we had come up was the only option, and it was still 20km out.

And maybe that’s the point, suffering gives us perspective; you earn the good times by enduring the bad. To stand with my wife in this place, under Kailash, unclimbed, worshipped and holy, even divine, is to share the ultimate in companionship. We went there together and we came back with a memory, not only recorded in pixels on a CF card, but also deep inside us. For a few days I felt an immense sense of failure for not completing the Kora, but as we battered our way back to Lhasa I came to live with that too. The good cancels out the bad, and we were there, in that special place, as the stars looked down.

The Stars Look Down