On the Roof of the World – A journey through Tibet

The water was smooth, the engine thumped like a huge heartbeat. We were gliding across the brown silk of the river towards the distant bank, and the hugeness of it all stunned us into silent respect. We hunkered further down into the flat-bottomed boat powered by a tractor engine, and gazed out at the emptiness of the plain. Barely a tree, no cars, not even another boat. No people, no buildings, just barren land, sky, and river.

It is impossible to prepare yourself for standing, breathless from the altitude, on the shore of the Brahmaputra river. In the distance, pinnacles tower towards heaven. You are on the top of the world, and you know it. It is like no place else on our globe. Your heart pounds in your chest, your nose and mouth dry from the lack of moisture in the air, and you try to suck in great gulps of oxygen, to no avail. There simply isn’t enough of the stuff to satisfy your lungs. It isn’t easy, but it is enthralling. So enthralling, in fact, that you know you will never be the same again. Tibet is truly a once-in-a-lifetime experience. And despite a natural nervousness about coping, it is an experience anyone of any age and in reasonable health can enjoy. In our group almost everyone was retired.

Most itineraries start from Lhasa, then lead to Kathmandu in Nepal by road. Correction, by land – you couldn’t call the route over the high Tibetan plateau a road. You spend hours rising slowly on a winding track, to stop and look back at the starting point, still visible far below.

Distant monasteries perch on impossibly sheer peaks, coloured prayer flags flutter in the wind, the scent of juniper burns in stone sacrificial ovens, and the chanting of maroon-robed, shaven-headed monks hums in the ears like the buzz of human bees.

Butter tea is disgusting, made from rancid yak butter mixed with strong black tea, and Tibetans love it. These shy people look naïve, yet they are as tough as old boots. Perhaps it’s the tea. Their cheeks are scarlet, as if someone has given them a hard slap: the sun’s rays beat down mercilessly through unpolluted skies.

The Potala Palace, erstwhile symbol of mystery and spiritualism, rises from the flatness of wide Chinese boulevards where once there were Tibetan cobblestones. Giant prayer wheels rotate, monks sit on heavily embroidered cushions. Hanging brocades and Buddha images fill the walls. Monotone chanting, sweet scents and pure peace will sooth you as you gaze at the Dalai Lama’s throne.

Tibetan Buddhism is a way of life. It permeates every moment of every day. Pilgrims march to Lhasa for weeks, their hair matted, their skin wizened, in order to visit the Jokhang temple, where they line up outside the walls and prostrate themselves hundreds of times each day. They begin by standing, then fall to their knees, slide forward until they are flat on the ground, push back into a kneeling position, then rise again to repeat the whole procedure seconds later. For protection they wear thick aprons and wooden blocks strapped onto their hands. In the thin air I couldn’t even manage one prostration. And they do this all day long, from dawn to dusk, barely stopping to chew on some tsampa - powdered barley porridge mixed with butter tea.

Inside the temple, lit by hundreds of tiny flickering butter lamps, queues shuffle in silence to pay their respect to Lord Buddha, offering money and prayers, each face euphoric. The monks’ chant gives way only to the tinkling of a bell or the clash of a cymbal before starting again from a low hum. I have never been anywhere so moving. It is one of those places you are unwilling to leave, where you feel your soul belongs, where everything is right with the world and tears of happiness move the very core of your being. Whatever Tibetan Buddhism is for those pilgrims, it is whole and complete.

The Jokhang is situated in the Barkhor, a marketplace which is also a place of pilgrimage. You walk around the market square in a clockwise direction, thereby coming closer to nirvana, the ultimate state of bliss, with each circumambulation. You can buy miniature prayer wheels to spin as you walk, each spin causing the paper prayer inside to shake, thus adding even more to your heavenly total.

At Sera monastery dozens of young monks engage in philosophical debates, clapping their hands loudly each time they make a point, frequently accompanying it by a loud ‘Ha!’ and a broad grin of triumph.

As well as supplies of snacks and drinks for the journey over the plateau, you will need dust masks for the dirt stirred up by vehicles as you clatter over piles of rubble, past road workers, people stooped in fields sowing poplar saplings and barley, or working yak-drawn ploughs. All of them are Tibetan – the Chinese don’t do the physical work, just the commercial. Nomads wrapped in yak hair blankets and sheepskins, their feet clad in felt boots, sit by the roadside, at least three hours’ walk from their yurt.

Tibetans have no idea how to serve food. You order, then wait for an hour when everything is brought out all at once – starter, main course and pudding – and placed before you with a happy grin. Or not at all, when you have to rely on the generosity of your companions whose order did arrive.

At a deserted-looking building next to Rongbuk monastery, you will be greeted by half a dozen robed monks, wrapped in thick blankets against the biting cold, and given a supper of vegetable soup, yak steaks and noodles. You’re stymied in Tibet if you don’t like yak.

You may suffer sore nostrils, cracked lips, and headaches. You may hear your heart beating as you continually try to sigh, just to suck in more air. You may not sleep well for several nights and siestas are vital, to restore enough energy to keep going. But you don’t come here for the comfort.

After a breakfast of tsampa, plod through the snow to Everest Base Camp: the stuff of imagination, not reality, for most of us. When you place your prayer flag on the cairn at the highest place on the planet that most of us ever go, you will feel an exhilaration that has nothing to do with breathlessness and much to do with deep satisfaction. You can also ride in a horse-drawn cart through the eerie lunar landscape; but the walk is physically easy, with almost no elevation. The path winds through rocks and sheer cliffs, patches of frozen snow and rubble. Pretty it isn’t. Sensational it is. When you raise your eyes to see that famous triangular peak soaring in front of you, you’ll be trembling with excitement.

When you visit timeless Tibet and its loving people in their peaceful land up in the heavens, surrounded by earth’s highest mountains, you will be forever changed.

By Travel Writer, Maureen Moss

Ex business woman and languages teacher Maureen Moss, now living and working in publishing (www.librosinternational.com) on the Costa Blanca.
Many years travelling and leading tours in over sixty countries. Three children, one grand daughter aged ten.
Writing includes Nepal Traveller magazine, Guernsey Evening Press, The Leader newspaper, Retirement Today and The New Coastal Press. Some articles translated into Esperanto for annual publication.
Passionate about global communication and cooperation; subscribe to Wanderlust and The New Internationalist magazines.

People and Places

and see the article HORACE