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LIVING ON THE ROOF OF THE WORLD; TALES FROM TIBET by Alister Benn

In this article I intend to cover the experience of living in Lhasa, traveling in Tibet and photography; it is not a forum of opinion on politics or religion. Statistics used are for the Tibetan Autonomous Region.

In February 2007 I was away on business for 2 weeks, by the time I was heading back to China my wife had moved house; at least she told me where! Over the previous year Juanli had spent some time in Lhasa, made a few friends and was increasingly fascinated by the culture, landscape and lifestyle. I am a follower of the “Happy wife, happy life” school, and as I am not tied to a particular location with work, if I have photographic opportunities, a fast Internet connection and an airport, I’m usually happy. Over the phone from my hotel room in Jakarta she was happily chatting about a small apartment she’d rented and planning my return: another new home!

The previous summer, the railway line to Lhasa had opened and we decided that was the most suitable way to travel, as opposed to flying straight up to 3650m (12000 feet). We met in Beijing and after a couple of days feasting at our favorite restaurants and stocking up on a few supplies, we headed through the congested traffic to the cities west railway station. In preparation for the 46-hour journey, like us, most of our fellow travelers were burdened down with bags of food and copious luggage. The waiting hall was just a mass of people, mostly Chinese, a few fur-clad Tibetans and a sprinkling of “foreigners.”

Having spend nearly a decade living in China, I am totally used to being referred to as a foreigner, or gui lao; ghost man!

We had been unable to secure soft-sleeper berths, but the hard-sleepers are still very comfortable. About 30 minutes before the set departure time the human conglomerate begins to shuffle forward, attempting to keep track of bags, babies and food! The inevitable queue-less anarchy kicks in, but everyone stays “cool”; personal space is an alien concept in this over-crowded country. We pause to sign medical disclaimers, absolving the railway company of responsibility for any health problems caused by the journey across the worlds’ highest plateau.

At 8:30pm precisely the train pulls out of the station, relative calm prevails as everyone settles into their own little space for the next two days. Hard-sleeper carriages have a narrow walkway along one side, tiny tables jut from the wall beside the windows, and opposite these is an alcove containing 6 bunk beds; three on each side. The lowest are the most desirable, as they have the most headroom and you can sit comfortably, or snooze wrapped in a thick comforter. The middle bunks have barely enough headroom to lie down, and if you’re on the top level your nose isn’t far from the ceiling. Of course, as bottom bunk inhabitants, you have to be prepared for anyone else to sit there too and it can get a little cramped!

In the darkness, the flashy new train trundles out through the seemingly endless western suburbs of Beijing. Train travel in China is joyous; military style punctuality coupled with a detachment from the landscape and culture, allowing for quiet observation. I crack open a beer and sit watching the bright lights flashing by; ranks of new apartment complexes border the tracks, looming over the make shift shacks of migrant workers, barely inches from the speeding train. About 10pm the lights are dimmed and I insert some earplugs (never travel in China without them.) I finish my beer and I’m soon asleep, lulled like a baby by the gentle rocking of our progress.

The first night takes us southwest, and at dawn we are pulling into Xi-an; famous for the terracotta armies of Qin Shi Huang, the first Emperor of unified China in the 2^nd century BC. The rest of the day is spent heading northwest, across a vast agricultural zone indistinguishable from most of eastern China, as if the hand of man has in some way touched every square meter. As our first 24 hours comes to an end, we pull into Xining.

In Mandarin Chinese “Xi” means “west” and is pronounced “she”

“she-ning, she-an” etc.

No matter where in the world, arriving in a new city by train late in the evening is always a little intimidating. Stations are rarely in the most salubrious neighborhoods; subsequently my first impressions of the capital of Qinghai Province were less that enthused. The population demographic had also shifted, from predominantly Han, to Muslim Chinese; men wearing white taqiyah scull caps and the women veiled, but with their faces open and smiling. The large elaborate Dongguan Mosque looms before the dimming sky, the call to prayer echoing from tall minarets.

After perhaps 30 minutes in the station, we pull out again and there is a tangible feeling of anticipation; the Tibetan Plateau lies ahead and sleep comes less easily, despite the beer induced lethargy. I do eventually drift into a deep sleep, but in the darkness I awake; stationary, I conclude we’ve arrived in Golmud.

Like Timbuktu, Alice Springs or the South Pole, Golmud has always held a certain fixation with me, and I was a little excited to be here. Having read “From Heaven Lake” by Vikram Seth in the early 1980’s while still a student, I recalled his adventured in Qinghai and his own journey to Lhasa. The town is a frontier; formerly the last chance to turn around before the perilous journey on a terrible road: the railway has changed that now. The Qinghai-Tibetan Railway opened on the 1^st July 2006 and is an engineering marvel; 1142km from Golmud to Lhasa, 80% of it above 4000m and reaching a dizzy 5072m (16640 feet), at it’s highest point.

I sleep again; at 3:30am there is little activity in Golmud.

Juanli and I are both awake early; the merest suggestion of dawn, snow-covered peaks silhouetted against a crystal sky. The track skirts the hillside and we circumnavigate a wide valley in a slow, rising arc; the scenery is intimidating and alluring. Within an hour all eyes are pressed against the windows, we’ve crossed a geological dividing line and are on the Plateau itself, apparently featureless, endless, snow-covered, wind-swept and beautiful. We notice the hiss coming from vents in the carriage walls; they are pumping Oxygen in to alleviate the effects of altitude. Still, there is still a crisp thin-ness to the air.

The feeling of being a helpless tourist is palpable; so utterly dependent on the life support system of the train: heat, foot, oxygen and company. I know that out there death would come quickly: dehydration, hypoxia, hypothermia, starvation, and a cold lonely end. We speed past herds of Tibetan Deer, Ass and Antelope; marveling at their adaptation to such extreme conditions; then, thick haired and solid, Yak. These huge beasts are the bone, sinew, wool and flesh of Tibet, families wealth is measured in the size of their herds; nomadic lives revolve around the animals journey from summer to winter pastures.

The Tibetan Autonomous Region covers an area of 1.23 million Km², roughly the same as France, Germany and the United Kingdom combined, but while c208 million people inhabit those three countries, a mere 3 million live in Tibet. On the Plateau itself, temperatures drop to -40C, the average elevation is 4500m and precipitation comes mainly from hailstorms. It has been called “the third pole” and for good reason, it is a truly brutal and hostile place. For 10 hours we travel on; the terrain changes little. Late in the afternoon we stop at the Tanggula Pass for half an hour, the highest point of the trip. Deep snow lies all around; Horned Larks feed around the platform on windblown seeds, a Tibetan dressed in warm, Yak-haired clothes and boots stairs in the window, smiling and curious. A long, carved knife in an ornate silver scabbard hangs from his waist, his skin dark and the texture of cured leather. I disembark for a short while, 5072m being the highest I had ever been; it was cold. A bitter wind blows spindrift into my eyes, the dryness of the air stinging my nostrils; I don’t linger long before heading back inside to open a beer! Pitiful really.

Soon enough, we head on again, leaving the nomads to their plateau; we slowly descend and at 4300m pass a series of salt lakes; large, shallow, fringed by glaciated peaks and seemingly alive with bird-life. I spot Common Merganser, Ruddy Shelduck and some Great-crested Grebes; Eagles, Buzzards and Falcons are numerous on the ubiquitous power line posts. A Golden Eagle lazily launches itself from its convenient perch, covers a kilometer in a few seconds of effortless glide, and, talons extended, lands on a Pika. These stocky relatives of Rabbits live in large colonies over much of the Plateau and are a vital food supply for birds of prey and the strange square-headed Tibetan Fox.

However captivating the scenery and wildlife, after two days on a train, the urge to get off grows until impatience becomes the most pervasive feeling. The lowering sun casts long shadows across the snowy plains, golden Alpenglow illuminates the peaks rising above; it’s beautiful and I snap away some shots. But, we want to get to Lhasa, and we glance at our watches as often as we do the views.

I would say most people have preconceptions about Lhasa: The hidden city, place of the gods, the center of Tibetan Buddhism and the Potala Palace. From what I had read, I certainly expected something, mysterious, mountainous, or mystical. My first view however, was of modern, industrial suburbs, freshly paved roads, a well-contained river and power lines. There are mountains, but they only guard well-irrigated fields that fill the wide valley in which Lhasa lies. But there in the distance, the last rays of the evening sun gleaming from its golden roof, is the Potala; from here it looks smaller than I had expected, but I am pleased with my first glimpse.

The train slows to walking pace, and then stops altogether on the edge of the city. We wait for perhaps 25 minutes and then trundle on, just so we can arrive bang on time; punctuality doesn’t always leave one with a sweet taste. However, the relief when we disembark is still nice. Lhasa station is so new one expects to turn a corner and still find the wrapping paper; a product of the massive financial investment the city has received over the last few years; gleaming glass and tall, vaulted ceilings of carved wood; all quite incongruous.

We hang around for twenty minutes waiting for a friend to pick us up in their Jeep; eventually they arrive and I get breathless lifting our gear into the back. The city is at an altitude of 3650m, meaning there is only about 65% of the oxygen available as at sea level; simple things like walking upstairs or carrying a bag can seem like huge tasks. For the first couple of days we sit around in little cafes, drinking endless cups of tea; dehydration is a killer at altitude and a primary cause of altitude sickness. Learning to slow down and reduce my expectations of what can be achieved in a day has to be re-evaluated; it’s life changing.

Our little apartment was on the second floor in a secluded compound in the northeast of town; it has no view, but the deepest blue skies above. We had shipped a couple of Trek mountain bikes from Beijing, and thankfully the city is pretty flat, as I soon found speeding about, as I had at sea level, quickly tired me out. But, over those first few days, we did manage to explore the city. Lhasa has a quirky mix of styles; old and new, Chinese and Tibetan: broad boulevards lined with trees, modern shops and supermarkets, even fast food outlets. It is all too easy to forget where you are, then you turn a corner and there it is, the Potala Palace. A remarkable site, towering as it does on the top of Marpo Ri, the Red Hill, 1000 feet above the streets below. A seat of meditation has been there since the 7^th century AD, however, the current palace was constructed between 1645-1694.

The other fascinating area to walk around and photograph is the The Barkhor and Jokhang Temple; narrow streets, markets, stalls selling everything from tourist junk to antiques; and the ubiquitous smell of Yak-butter and Juniper smoke. Tourists wander the streets in awe; the thin air undoubtedly ads a level of otherworldliness to the experience, add to that the devotions of the many pilgrims and it’s really very humbling. Juanli spoke to some who had walked for a year to get to Lhasa, every step punctuated by a full body prostration; blocks of wood strapped to their knees and hands offer some protection, but it is still unbelievable. On arriving in Lhasa, many then make circumnavigations of the whole city culminating in days of prostrations in front of the Potala or Jokhang.

Before moving to Tibet, I had been hugely inspired by Galen Rowells’ image of the rainbow over the Potala. In preparation, I’d spent a few weeks pouring over satellite images of the city, checking GPS locations and lunar and solar prediction software to calculate possible “shooting angles”. I wanted to capture something of that same spirit I felt in Galens image. However, Lhasa has developed almost beyond recognition since the mid 1980’s, and getting clean views of the Palace is virtually impossible.

On the 4^th of March at 5am the alarm went off beside the bed and I forced myself out of bed into the cold air. Still many hours before dawn, we packed our gear and put on our entire wardrobes of thermal and down gear, and cycle out into the dark streets. From the northeast side there is a great view of the “back” of the Potala, and it was here I set up my tripod and unpacked my camera. I knew the full moon was going to set behind the palace, and I was hopeful for some interesting shots. What I wasn’t aware of though, was there was going to be a lunar eclipse. We were so lucky to be in the right place at the right time, and I was happy with the images.

We soon moved to a larger house and bought a 4×4, which was liberating; we made regular trips up to Nam Tso Lake and other surrounding areas, “discovering” some excellent bird-life and challenging scenery. At the time though, my “day job” was taking me out the country on a regular basis, so I always seemed to be in transit; I’d get a few weeks at home, then off to Indonesia or the Middle East for ten days, then back again. Every time I’d get back to Lhasa I’d have to acclimatize again and take it easier than I would have perhaps liked.

SANDGROUSE AND SANDTRAPS

Just after midnight on the 7^th of April, we set out from the house, heading for Nam Tso. The streets are still busy with taxis and Landcruisers; Lhasa is quite a party town. We’ve had a few hours sleep and the chaotic driving of others keeps me on my toes. Soon though, we’re out of town and alone. Four valleys converge at Lhasa, and the road narrows rapidly as we leave the main basin. It’s a good road though and we make good time; the police roadblocks are closed and we don’t stop. Ordinarily it is necessary to report at each of these stations and register; if you arrive at the next station too soon, they know you’ve been speeding and a stiff fine is payable on the spot. We continue north and “up”; everywhere from Lhasa is up! We rapidly climb to 4500m and the road flattens off for a while as we pass Yangpachen and then finally arrive in Damxung, where we leave the main road and head into higher ground.

In October 2008 a 6.6 earthquake destroyed large parts of Damxung.

The last 40km to the lake are on a very narrow road over a very high pass at c5200m. Snow lies deep beside the road and despite our acclimatization we feel a little dizzy. Over the previous months I’ve scouted out the area well and know of rough 4×4-only tracks that crisscross this arid plain at 4800m. The lake is still partially frozen, deep sections of ice thrust up by the wind-induced waves. I find the ‘road” I’m looking for and we skirt around the base of the incongruous peak that rises beside us, it’s not good, but we get to the lakeshore as the sky slowly lightens in the east.

As is common during this season there isn’t a cloud in the sky; in another 8 weeks the monsoon will surge from the south and dump many meters of snow on the Himalaya, very little of that moisture invades Tibet, but clouds do build up and tease with threats of rain: only in mid summer do occasional cloudbursts relieve the arid soil. It is the barrier of the Himalaya that created this frozen desert, the massive mountains forming what is known as a “rain shadow.”

We park the Jeep on a gentle slope, dropping a few meters to the edge of the frozen lake; it is dead still and dead quiet: no wind, no gentle morning chorus of singing birds. The Earth holds its breath in anticipation of the first warming rays of sun; it’s profoundly beautiful, and at these times I feel so fortunate; standing in places where very few foreigners can drive on their own, most resorting to day trips from Lhasa. Moments of reflection and beauty are juxtaposed with altitude-induced apathy; time and time again up here I struggle to get my gear together and actually shoot. The frozen air saps the body of energy, desire to get back in the truck and be warm is strong; the motivation to shoot is weak!

Having driven 4 hours to get up here though, I do get my act together, wrapping in down jacket and over-trousers, however, operating the camera requires bare fingers and they freeze. I work close to the lakeshore, trying, in some small way, to capture the magnificence of the vista. It’s a tough assignment; the landscape is vast, intimidating, and menacingly huge. In the many trips I have made to Nam Tso I am not convinced I really captured that essence; cold and three dimensions can be implied with technique, but oxygen deprivation and mild hypothermia are hard to pull off in an image!

We do however enjoy a most serene sunrise, not grand, flashy or showy, but subtle, somehow classy. I climb the slight incline to the 4×4 and am instantly breathless, just a few steps and my heart pounds in my chest. During the winter there is only 50% of the oxygen up here as in the summer, when the increased humidity holds more molecules. Getting back into the car, we drive around the lakeshore, off-road and out there; ducks and geese can be seen further out on open water. I’ve brought up the 600mm lens, as the plan was to shoot the dawn landscapes, then attempt to track down the illusive birdlife of this area, rarely photographed; rarely seen!

With no vegetation more significant than short grass, most of the birds are well camouflaged; variations on a color scheme of creams, browns and tans. Occasional Horned Larks flit in front of the car and are quite approachable; our path follows the contours of the terrain, judging what the car can and cannot negotiate. By late morning we’re in the middle of nowhere, featureless plateau stretches a kilometer to the lakeshore in one direction and to the horizon in the others; we are alone. Suddenly, about 200m away I notice movement on the ground, a flock of large birds is scurrying over the grass, feeding actively. I check with binoculars and am delighted to see about 40 Tibetan Sandgrouse; a true high altitude enigma. The light is fantastic, the birds are completely tame and I have a 600mm lens with me; never was there a better opportunity to get shots of this amazing species.

I become engrossed in a photographic game of cat and mouse; checking the direction of light, noticing they favor feeding into the strengthening wind, and pre-empting which way they will go. A shallow, dried up riverbed lies between the birds and us, no problem for our high-clearance 4×4 and I drive on. The rocks give way to gravel then loose sand and I find we’re getting stuck. I rev the engine and the wheels spin, digging us in up to the axles, more stuck. I’m perplexed as this should be no problem for our car, but I look down and see we were only in two-wheel drive and what would have been no problem for four-wheel drive is now a big problem. Ironically a smile crosses my lips, as I find it quite amusing and set about getting us out. We dig out the back wheels with our hands, the semi-frozen ground proving quite stubborn; once a gentle slope has been excavated, we line it with jackets and larger stones to provide some traction and I get in and try to reverse out; unsuccessfully, we’re still buried too deep.

There are some nomads’ tents at the head of the valley, about 10km away and we’re not relishing the thought of walking out for help, but resign ourselves to the only option. As we set off across the nothingness, we’ve gone no more than a few hundred meters when we see on the horizon three figures on horseback, they’re heading our way, mirages in the dust. Trusting to fate we sit in the truck and wait. In a short while they ride up; three Tibetans with high cheeks, flowing shoulder-length black hair and guns. If we were going to get robbed, they were three of the best-looking bandits ever! However, they were clearly aware of our predicament and were willing to help push us out, the only matter open to discussion though was the price? They were asking for 100 reminbi each, at the time about US$12; $36 to get out of this potentially awful situation seemed fair to me, but not to Juanli, she pushed her hair back over her ears and haggled! As our saviors were about to turn around and ride off a deal was struck; they dismounted and pushed us out in a few moments and we handed over 180rmb.

We tracked the Sandgrouse for another hour or so, careful to avoid treacherous depressions filled with more of the soft stuff. All this adventure and it isn’t even lunchtime yet!

Exploring this region is simultaneously exhilarating and scary; little mishaps like we’d just experienced can be life-threatening, but they add a buzz lasting years; just writing this brings it all back and I am once again living life. In the afternoon we were once again “off-road” skirting a ridge overlooking the lake, but perhaps 40m above it. I was intrigued by great arcs of snow sweeping across the hillside, sculpted into insane spires by the UV. Again, I unpacked my gear and tried to capture an image that did it justice.

It was a long ride home that night, but happy to be back down at under 4000m, relative comfort.

For the year we had a home there, it was an endless stream of extreme events; every trip out to locations where maps were basic at best, never quite knowing where we were, or where we were going; adventures. But living at that altitude fulltime is demanding on the body and the mind; it is a hostile and unforgiving land. Tibetans are a tough breed, ruddy-cheeked and hardy; like the Deer, Antelope and Yak, they have adapted to their environment, eking out an existence at the edge of possibility. I am only too aware of my inadequacy to survive in those conditions, let alone trying to record images that convey those emotions.