On the Road, Kathmandu to Lhasa, to View Mount Everest | By Michael J. Ybarra - WSJ.com
Along the Friendship Highway, Tibet
My eight-hour bus ride was into its 14th hour. We were stalled in traffic outside of Kathmandu on the eve of a Maoist-led general strike that would shut down Nepal's capital for an entire week.
I jumped out and waved down a motorcycle rider who was slowly weaving through the tangled skein of buses and trucks. I offered him money for a ride.
"Not everything is about money," he said.
I could smell the beer on his breath.
"Where are you from?" he asked.
"America," I said.
"Hop on, American," he said.
I was racing back to town—so I could spend another five days on a bus. Actually, I was going to spend five days crossing the Friendship Highway, the just-about-completed road that links Kathmandu to Lhasa—the highest paved highway in the world. Most of the journey would be above 11,800 feet, and three passes would top 16,400 feet—almost 600 feet higher than the summit of Mont Blanc.
And it's the only road in the world with a view of Mount Everest. When people find out I climb, they usually ask me two questions: Have I ever climbed Everest? Do I want to?
No, I say. At 29,029 feet, Everest may be the tallest peak in the world, but it's a lumpy, visually unappealing mountain, not technically challenging, and crowded with people lured by its fame as much as anything else. Still, I was keen on seeing Everest—from a distance.
But first I had to get back to Kathmandu, which I did with just a few hours to spare thanks to my new motorcyclist friend. Early the next morning I met up with the group I was going with to Tibet.
View Full Image
Associated Press
In search of an appropriate vantage point from which to view Mt. Everest.
China doesn't allow individuals to travel in Tibet—officially known as the Tibet Autonomous Region. Visitors must join group tours, carefully limiting their time in the region. Mine had about 25 people, mostly backpackers in their early 20s.
For several hours our bus followed the bubbling Bhote Kosi (literally River from Tibet) north toward the border. At the border we crossed the Friendship Bridge into Tibet—China's idea of friendship apparently requiring you to leave one bus, then hike uphill for half an hour to another. Not to mention confiscating your guidebook. China bans Lonely Planet guides because of a map representing Tibet as a separate country.
Some of our group tore the covers off their books, others tried hiding them. Several were found and, after some wrangling, the owners ripped the map out and got their books through. A friend had a Nepal trekking guide seized because it contained a photo of the Dalai Lama.
On the new bus, the difference in roads was instantly noticeable. The pavement was smooth and wide, traffic almost nonexistent.
The road climbed toward the Tibetan plateau, the Bhote Kosi snaking through a canyon hundreds of feet below. Then we hit the final section of the road yet to be paved. The driver told us to get out and walk while he maneuvered the bus over a mud track hugging the cliff side. We walked about half a mile. A local bus full of passengers bumped by.
"Why didn't they have to get out?" one of my fellow travelers asked our guide.
"We have lots of Tibetans," he replied, "but foreigners are expensive."
Well after dark, we reached Neylam, a sad, dirty Chinese town where we spent the night in a guesthouse.
I had been looking forward to the next day when we would reach Lalungla, a pass at 16,400 feet, which on a clear day offers views of five of the world's highest mountains, including Everest. But the pass was shrouded in clouds when we reached it, brightly colored prayer flags the only thing visible in the softly falling snow.
On the other side, the road dropped into an immense valley, barren hills ringing the horizon. It was all sky and dun-colored earth. We passed small settlements now and then, dirt farmers riding the edge of the road in yak-carts or ancient tractors. Once in a while a Land Cruiser sped by.
That night we stopped in Latse, another characterless city. I walked to a small monastery at the edge of town. I poked my head into the temple. A half-dozen red-robed monks were sitting on cushions. Several were drinking Coke. One was talking on a cellphone. They motioned me in. I folded my legs onto a cushion, looking around at the candles burning in dishes of yak butter, painted thangkas hanging on the walls, piles of Buddhist scripture tied in neat stacks on a table. A monk offered me a bottle of water.
Outside a mountain goat was eating my shoes. When I picked up the shoes, the goat butted me with its huge curlers. A monk chased it away.
On the third day we reached the city of Shigaste, home of the Panchen Lama, where the Tashilumpo Monastery crawls up the hill at the edge of town. After walking through the lovely temples, I set off to hike the khora, or pilgrimage circuit, that circles the monastery clockwise. The path was full of pilgrims, some turning small hand-held prayer wheels, others spinning the large, stationary prayer wheels lining the trail.
After two more days and almost 450 miles of driving, we dropped from the Karo Pass at 16,568 feet and rolled into the wide valley holding Lhasa. The two-lane highway became four, and suddenly there were other vehicles on the road. We entered the city, which has swelled to 250,000 people. The road grew to six lanes, flanked by ugly new buildings—a typical sprawling Chinese city despite being at 11,450 feet. "China Dream," beamed a huge billboard in English. "China Pride."
"My romantic dreams of Lhasa just died," said my friend Andre.
Many visitors feel that way. The Potala Palace, perched on a hillside at the edge of town, still dominates the skyline, although the Chinese have turned the Dalai Lama's former residence into a museum with the few remaining monks forced to dress in street clothes.
The old town area surrounding the Jokhang Temple, the holiest shrine in Tibet, still buzzes with pilgrims. Yet an outer circle of Chinese troops in riot gear is a constant reminder of how tightly Beijing circumscribes Tibet's freedom.
One day I went to the Sera monastery outside of town. I skipped the tour bus back and set off on my own khora, following a dusty path up a hill behind the monastery. The only other pilgrims were two Tibetan women in high heels and floppy hats. Numerous spur trails branched off higher into the hills and I had trouble following the proper path. One of the women noticed.
"Hello," she chirped, pointing me back to the right way. Several other times they stopped to wait and direct me. I began to think of them as my personal Bodhisattvas, Buddhas who have attained enlightenment but opt to stay on earth to help others.
To Buddhists, the harder the journey, the greater the merit one earns. I began to think my idea of seeing Everest from a road was too facile. A great mountain, even one I don't want to climb, deserves better.
Unexpectedly, I finally did get to see Everest. On my flight leaving Lhasa, I found myself on the wrong side of the plane, so I snuck into an open window seat in first class. And there it was: Just a bump on a ridge—but what a ridge. Everest and its satellite peaks rose above a sea of clouds like an island, into a cobalt blue sky, a plume of snow blowing off its summit like a flag. Its bulk was impressive. I began to look for climbing lines.
Then I got kicked out of the seat. It seamed a fitting departure from Tibet.
Mr. Ybarra is The Journal's extreme-sports correspondent.
My eight-hour bus ride was into its 14th hour. We were stalled in traffic outside of Kathmandu on the eve of a Maoist-led general strike that would shut down Nepal's capital for an entire week.
I jumped out and waved down a motorcycle rider who was slowly weaving through the tangled skein of buses and trucks. I offered him money for a ride.
"Not everything is about money," he said.
I could smell the beer on his breath.
"Where are you from?" he asked.
"America," I said.
"Hop on, American," he said.
I was racing back to town—so I could spend another five days on a bus. Actually, I was going to spend five days crossing the Friendship Highway, the just-about-completed road that links Kathmandu to Lhasa—the highest paved highway in the world. Most of the journey would be above 11,800 feet, and three passes would top 16,400 feet—almost 600 feet higher than the summit of Mont Blanc.
And it's the only road in the world with a view of Mount Everest. When people find out I climb, they usually ask me two questions: Have I ever climbed Everest? Do I want to?
No, I say. At 29,029 feet, Everest may be the tallest peak in the world, but it's a lumpy, visually unappealing mountain, not technically challenging, and crowded with people lured by its fame as much as anything else. Still, I was keen on seeing Everest—from a distance.
But first I had to get back to Kathmandu, which I did with just a few hours to spare thanks to my new motorcyclist friend. Early the next morning I met up with the group I was going with to Tibet.
View Full Image
Associated Press
In search of an appropriate vantage point from which to view Mt. Everest.
China doesn't allow individuals to travel in Tibet—officially known as the Tibet Autonomous Region. Visitors must join group tours, carefully limiting their time in the region. Mine had about 25 people, mostly backpackers in their early 20s.
For several hours our bus followed the bubbling Bhote Kosi (literally River from Tibet) north toward the border. At the border we crossed the Friendship Bridge into Tibet—China's idea of friendship apparently requiring you to leave one bus, then hike uphill for half an hour to another. Not to mention confiscating your guidebook. China bans Lonely Planet guides because of a map representing Tibet as a separate country.
Some of our group tore the covers off their books, others tried hiding them. Several were found and, after some wrangling, the owners ripped the map out and got their books through. A friend had a Nepal trekking guide seized because it contained a photo of the Dalai Lama.
On the new bus, the difference in roads was instantly noticeable. The pavement was smooth and wide, traffic almost nonexistent.
The road climbed toward the Tibetan plateau, the Bhote Kosi snaking through a canyon hundreds of feet below. Then we hit the final section of the road yet to be paved. The driver told us to get out and walk while he maneuvered the bus over a mud track hugging the cliff side. We walked about half a mile. A local bus full of passengers bumped by.
"Why didn't they have to get out?" one of my fellow travelers asked our guide.
"We have lots of Tibetans," he replied, "but foreigners are expensive."
Well after dark, we reached Neylam, a sad, dirty Chinese town where we spent the night in a guesthouse.
I had been looking forward to the next day when we would reach Lalungla, a pass at 16,400 feet, which on a clear day offers views of five of the world's highest mountains, including Everest. But the pass was shrouded in clouds when we reached it, brightly colored prayer flags the only thing visible in the softly falling snow.
On the other side, the road dropped into an immense valley, barren hills ringing the horizon. It was all sky and dun-colored earth. We passed small settlements now and then, dirt farmers riding the edge of the road in yak-carts or ancient tractors. Once in a while a Land Cruiser sped by.
That night we stopped in Latse, another characterless city. I walked to a small monastery at the edge of town. I poked my head into the temple. A half-dozen red-robed monks were sitting on cushions. Several were drinking Coke. One was talking on a cellphone. They motioned me in. I folded my legs onto a cushion, looking around at the candles burning in dishes of yak butter, painted thangkas hanging on the walls, piles of Buddhist scripture tied in neat stacks on a table. A monk offered me a bottle of water.
Outside a mountain goat was eating my shoes. When I picked up the shoes, the goat butted me with its huge curlers. A monk chased it away.
On the third day we reached the city of Shigaste, home of the Panchen Lama, where the Tashilumpo Monastery crawls up the hill at the edge of town. After walking through the lovely temples, I set off to hike the khora, or pilgrimage circuit, that circles the monastery clockwise. The path was full of pilgrims, some turning small hand-held prayer wheels, others spinning the large, stationary prayer wheels lining the trail.
After two more days and almost 450 miles of driving, we dropped from the Karo Pass at 16,568 feet and rolled into the wide valley holding Lhasa. The two-lane highway became four, and suddenly there were other vehicles on the road. We entered the city, which has swelled to 250,000 people. The road grew to six lanes, flanked by ugly new buildings—a typical sprawling Chinese city despite being at 11,450 feet. "China Dream," beamed a huge billboard in English. "China Pride."
"My romantic dreams of Lhasa just died," said my friend Andre.
Many visitors feel that way. The Potala Palace, perched on a hillside at the edge of town, still dominates the skyline, although the Chinese have turned the Dalai Lama's former residence into a museum with the few remaining monks forced to dress in street clothes.
The old town area surrounding the Jokhang Temple, the holiest shrine in Tibet, still buzzes with pilgrims. Yet an outer circle of Chinese troops in riot gear is a constant reminder of how tightly Beijing circumscribes Tibet's freedom.
One day I went to the Sera monastery outside of town. I skipped the tour bus back and set off on my own khora, following a dusty path up a hill behind the monastery. The only other pilgrims were two Tibetan women in high heels and floppy hats. Numerous spur trails branched off higher into the hills and I had trouble following the proper path. One of the women noticed.
"Hello," she chirped, pointing me back to the right way. Several other times they stopped to wait and direct me. I began to think of them as my personal Bodhisattvas, Buddhas who have attained enlightenment but opt to stay on earth to help others.
To Buddhists, the harder the journey, the greater the merit one earns. I began to think my idea of seeing Everest from a road was too facile. A great mountain, even one I don't want to climb, deserves better.
Unexpectedly, I finally did get to see Everest. On my flight leaving Lhasa, I found myself on the wrong side of the plane, so I snuck into an open window seat in first class. And there it was: Just a bump on a ridge—but what a ridge. Everest and its satellite peaks rose above a sea of clouds like an island, into a cobalt blue sky, a plume of snow blowing off its summit like a flag. Its bulk was impressive. I began to look for climbing lines.
Then I got kicked out of the seat. It seamed a fitting departure from Tibet.
Mr. Ybarra is The Journal's extreme-sports correspondent.
