Nepal and Tibet

The first part of our journey takes us back along the good, sealed road towards the airport. Eventually though, we turn off the road and head for the hills! Immediately we begin to climb. Bitumen gives way to gravel. The road narrows and we wind up and up over the roughest road we have ever encountered. We are heading towards the snow that we could see from the hotel. I hang on tightly to the handgrip over the door. I try not to close my eyes as the scenery is spectacular but when our driver tries to pass another vehicle on a blind bend, when the road looks only wide enough for one vehicle and there is a sheer drop down beside the road into the valley, I just have to. I await the disaster but nothing happens. I gingerly open my eyes to find that we have successfully overtaken the vehicle and to see our driver giggling at me in the back seat through the rear vision mirror. I pray that there are no more vehicles to pass and that the road soon grows wider. My prayers are not answered. Soon, however, there is some reprieve from the nerves because we reach our first pass and therefore our first photo stop of the journey. The pass is Kamba La. We have already reached 4 488 metres and considering, Mt Everest is 8 848 metres, we are about half as high as the world's greatest mountain. In comparison, Mt Kosciusko, Australia's highest peak, stands at 2230 metres, just a baby.

From Kamba La, the view is spectacular because we look down onto Yamdrok Tso. Way down in the valley below, the lake coils its turquoise waters around the base of the mountains. It is regarded, by the Tibetans, as a holy lake. For the Chinese it is the site of their new hydroelectric power station.

In all countries of the world, the locals try to make a business of providing photo opportunities for tourists. For a price, they allow you to take photos of themselves dressed up to the nines in their traditional garb, their children and their animals. This place is no different. Here at Kamba La are nomads with their yaks decorated in all their finery, charging a price for anyone willing to sit on the yak for a photo shoot. Why deny them this? They have so little opportunity or means with which to make money so many people, including Robert, sit astride a huge beast to have a photo taken. What a colourful shot with Yamdrok Tso in the background. The yaks' saddlecloths are woven with a traditional design in bright colours. They have even woven red wool into the long fringes of the yaks and placed something like a pom-pom onto the end of each horn.

We continue to wind our way up and down, around and around and the scenery is spectacular in every direction. Soon we arrive at the snow. By this time we have climbed to Karo La, at a height of 5 045 metres. We stop at the Nojin Kangstang Glacier, which, in today's bright sunlight, is almost blinding. Amazingly it is still not really cold. When are we going to need all those winter clothes we have packed? Here on the pass is a group of yak herders. Their tents are set up not far from the road. The tents are woven from a deep brown, coarse fabric spun from yak hair. The families are smiling and welcoming. They want to have their photos taken because, of course, that means more money. I do not mind paying for photos because they are probably the best souvenirs of a trip you can have.

It is here that I need to use a toilet for the first time on the drive. We know that we have to find somewhere private just anywhere along the sides of the road and "go" the way the locals do but, here on this rocky mountainside, there is not a bush or tree for miles. I spot a pile of yak dung. It's about two metres high. The herders collect yak dung and store it in intricately built piles, to dry out so that they can use it for fuel. This, to me, seems the only place I could squat in private. From my hiding place, I am in full view of a herders' tent but I would rather bare myself to them, than to my group of travelling companions. Once executed, the whole idea of squatting in nature does not horrify me so much because, it sure smells a whole lot better behind the pile of yak dung than in some of the so-called toilets we have used in the cities.

I see a little boy clinging to his mother's skirts. I delve into my bag and bring out a small bottle of bubble mix and a bubble-blowing wand, which I have brought from home, because it is a good way to play with children without needing language. I squat down beside him and start blowing bubbles. His eyes grow as big as saucers. At first he appears almost frightened. I am not surprised. These kids may never have seen soap. Their faces and clothes tell me that! The adults are as curious as the kids. They come in for a closer look. When I eventually hand the remaining detergent and wand to the little boy, the mother snatches it out of his hands and sits on a rock, where she happily blows bubbles, quite oblivious of the fact that the gift was meant for her son. As we leave, the little boy is still looking longingly at the bubbles, which drift off the mountainside.

Our drivers stop at a wonderful spot for us to have a picnic lunch. We have green grass, beautiful wildflowers, a bubbling brook, blue sky and peaceful isolation. What more could we ask for? We have a large thermos of boiling water in each vehicle, so there is plenty of water for tea, coffee, or instant noodles. Robert and I feast on corn cakes, spread with salmon, followed by a piece of fruit and all this washed down with a cup of tea. Robert sees a potentially, great photo in a flock of sheep, which are grazing nearby and he clicks away knowing that these photos will be good. Mind you, the sheep scatter so I suppose the shepherd, who is sitting nearby, is probably cursing him as he gets up to gather them back together again.

The road finally drops down into a beautiful valley of flowering canola and lush, green barley crops. The road is once again flat and we soon arrive in Gyantse. We have driven only 254 kilometres but Lhasa seems a lifetime away. Gyantse is a town, which has not yet come under the influence of the Chinese to any great extent. It is still very Tibetan and therefore, very backward. This is probably because the Chinese will not put any money into it. The streets are not paved. They are just a jumble of rocks and potholes. The place is very untidy and rundown looking. As in many Tibetan areas, men congregate around the outdoor pool tables. These pool tables, which remain out in the open, provide the locals with much of their entertainment. I have read that it is very hard to pot a ball because the tables are so warped.

On our arrival, we notice that the most outstanding landmark is the Gyantse Dzong. This is the 14th century fort, which rises quite majestically behind the town and which would require a very steep climb if one felt inclined to visit. We think it looks just great from where we are and decide to keep it that way. Much of it is in ruins but work is currently proceeding on its restoration. We book into our hotel for the night, the Gyantse Hotel, which is very nice, clean and modern. What a lovely surprise! We do not expect to have such luxury once outside the cities. For the first time I actually have a hairdryer, which is something I am not used to doing without.