by Jeffrey Vonk
Steve pushes a guard aside and sees chance to open the shutters. I run outside and jump on my motorcycle to park it behind the gate of the bank. Behind a small bulge, I get the shock of my life when a uniformed man grabs his Uzi! I am still not a fan of machine guns, especially when they are pointed at me! Okay better not here, I think to myself. Fortunately, he does not chase me, or worse. Probably deluded by the shock I decide to park in the bank itself, I do not claim that my actions make any sense here. Arriving at the front of the building, Steve is still struggling with the guard. Full throttle I bounce up the three steps at the entrance and pulling the break I park with a 90-degree angle and squeaking tires that actually leave a mark on the large floor tiles of imitation marble. Rubbery smells arise. Steve throws me his keys and quickly I jump on his motorcycle too. Bouncing up the steps, I feel like Tom Cruise as I have to duck due to the shutters already lowering again. By the time I park the second bike, the shutters are sealed shut and we find ourselves locked inside. An ill-considered choice for people already illegal in the region. The manager yells while he seems both angry and afraid at the same time. Considering that he is coming from such a different culture, we both have this feeling in common.
Wound up as we are, we mean business though. About an hour of heavy negotiations pass by, now we’re more or less waiting to get arrested. They probably just keep us talking until the police arrives to handcuff us and carry us away, never to be seen again.
Then a remarkable thing happens. The police does get involved, however not in the manner you might expect. Somewhere in a nearby university, two English students were apprehended by the officers and escorted to the bank. Well what do you know? They deliver us our own translators! Hats off for the students who are trying to pull some serious strings but just like our attempts, it ends unsuccessfully. Hours later we are outside again, sitting on the sidewalk having failed miserably with zero money in our pockets, yet by a miracle we are still grateful for our freedom and our lives. What the hell were we thinking?
* * *
With the sun already resting behind the mountains, the temperature is dropping fast. Shaking off the city’s dust, we leave the rest of the journey to chance, staying here will only be counterproductive. In the next thousand miles we’ll have to press our luck. Troubled thoughts eclipse the scenic view on snowy peaks. We have convinced ourselves that the bending dirt roads most likely take us towards a certain death. Nothing can be further from the truth. Truly, somebody from above must be watching over us. A group of youth is blocking the road ahead, yet upon inspection, they start decorating our bikes with fresh flowers. If that isn’t crazy enough they bless us with a plastic bag filled with food, which we gladly receive. What are the chances of that happening when we needed it most? There is also meat inside that does not require a refrigerator; it simply won’t go bad at these altitudes.
Driving for a few hours the hands of time reach midnight. By now, it’s so cold that we are literally emptying our backpacks on the lane, in search of more clothes to wear. Millions of stars are twinkling down upon us, showing the way where inconsistent roadmaps fail. The moonlight is bright enough to light up surrounding summits, even in the far distance, no photo could capture the splendor but the view remains immortalized in my memory. Meanwhile the roads begin to freeze, making it dangerous to drive.
For a while already we are on the lookout for a decent place to sleep, yet nothing presents itself. Climbing in low gear, we pull over on the top of a large hill, shivering uncontrollably. Close-by houses from yak manure and straw give us hope, it is always better to set up camp near any type of civilization. Strong winds make it nearly impossible to get the tents erected, they are not even up for ten minutes and it already starts to snow – adding fire to the fuel so to speak. We are too tired to eat but too hungry to sleep. Do you know that feeling? Knowing myself, sleep will flee on an empty stomach so I make a fire and we enjoy the food from the plastic bag given to us. Somehow free food tastes better too. When my eyelids finally close, they stay that way until the very morning. Exhaustion is beginning to embrace us. While I’m entangled in this epic campaign in the middle of nowhere I think of back home, where today they are celebrating Liberation Day.
Morning light reveals a white Shangri-La. A thick blanket of snow has changed the scenery completely; as far as the eye can see there are colossal mountains all around. Our own tents have turned into miniature snowy mountains, covered in only one night. From one of the nearby huts a girl shows herself and to our surprise she beckons us to come over. Without thinking twice, we drop whatever we have in our hands and blindly follow her into the hut, where things are cozy and warm with a fireplace going on. A framed picture of a young Dalai Lama decorates the mantelpiece. This area is so removed from modern society that I wonder whether they are aware that he is an old man now. Another girl enters the house. Steve and I look at each other and get all kinds of wholly inappropriate fantasies. That dream immediately goes down the drain when the girl pulls a few-weeks-old baby from beneath a pile of blankets that is lying next to me on a wooden bench. “Good thing I didn’t sit there!” I lark about. When we seek permission to take pictures, they shyly refuse at first. Thirty minutes later, when they are adorned in traditional robes and odd-looking jewelry in their hair, they are ready to be eternalized. In this day and age where we take photography for granted, due to our abundance of technology, it still holds meaning to them. In fact, they take great pride in it. We are almost moved to tears to see them making such an effort. Another example of how the West with striving progressiveness assassinated romance. Sometimes I really wonder if I was born like five generations too late.
Asking whether we are hungry they serve us white bowls with dry flower. Impatient as we are we take a spoon, directly coughing a cloud of flower as a result. The girls make fun of us and rightly so. To complete the meal, they pour something best described as a brown goo in our bowls. We have heard tales about this local delicacy; it has to be yak butter tea. A solid lump of butter is added as a finishing touch. My whole body rejects it from the first mouthful, yet regardless how disgusting it is, I keep on eating in order not to offend the girls’ culture. Ten minutes pass before I have to excuse myself. Drinking hot melted butter on a more or less empty stomach is not a good idea. Hastily I look for a hidden place in the open fields. Even before I find a private spot, I vomit half of it out, and the other half sprays out of my behind with pants down my ankles. Close call. Thanks to the alarming noises in my bowels I am just in time to unbuckle my pants. This is how I donate it back to nature – undoubtedly the most atrocious thing I ever ate. After this minor incident, we thank them for their hospitality and go our way. Other residents of the mini village have woken up by now, their curiosity along with them. Though helping us to pack our stuff is well intended, they do more damage than good. Not being familiar with the equipment they cause everything to be twisted and crooked.
Growing in life experiences, we almost forget that we are completely broke. The only reason we are able to drive our dirt bikes is because of the compassion from passers-by, willing to fill up our tanks with gasoline for free. If it were not for this unprecedented kindness, we would probably be stranded. Meanwhile we switched to the Friendship Highway for our own benefit and luckily our decision is paying off. This road honors its name due to the saviors providing the necessary aid. With the jerry can filled we are good to go, except for our bellies that remain empty. What is left of our rations consists of biscuits and dry noodles. At one point, we’re almost getting used to it. Standard free tea everywhere has us stop frequently at road side cafeterias, at least in populated areas. In the more remote ones we survive by drinking from creeks and puddles.
On one of these challenging nights we are exhausted to the core. We do not even bother to set up the tents and only roll out our sleeping bags. Our wish to sleep in until daybreak is not granted because a group of kids has spotted these two white devils. Shy but on guard, they close in on us. With the
ir tiny backpacks and adorable crimson cheeks, they are huggable. All of them make a poor and dirty impression. Unfortunately we have nothing to give them except for a handshake and smile, and who knows, perhaps for the moment that is enough. When a large truck passes, they suddenly start chasing it, shouting their little lungs out. As it heeds to the sharp voices and slows down, they open the tailgate to climb in while giving each other a hand and count themselves lucky. Today they won’t have to walk all the way to school.
Random Jeeps spoil us once more with free gasoline and we saddle up. Our Chinese motorcycles are nothing less than cool looking, but nothing more either. Every other day they break down. Having to tighten the chain is a continuing issue, bits and pieces are held together by duct tape, and when my exhaust pipe starts making an awful sound we find some bolts rattled out, the beginning of sorrows. To our advantage, no matter how small a village, no matter how remote, there are always at least twenty mechanics around – or people presenting themselves as such.
All this time the chilly breezes are acceptable due to the warmth of the intense sun. Confiner forests have the sweetest aromas almost putting us into a trance. All that green, accompanied by the marvellous sight of herds of yaks grazing the steppe grass, where it is not uncommon to spot wild horses mingle among them. The continent of Asia at its finest. After gaining miles we make progress, occasionally driving through rivers and over conspicuous suspension bridges, which can be nerve wrecking. To say we are defying death is an exaggeration, but I bet other people would beg to differ. Odometers turn overtime when motion comes to a sudden halt. Sandy dirt roads are offended by my incursion, my intrusion leads me to be thrown out of balance, perhaps a revenge from the sandy roads for having disturbed their everlasting lonesomeness. I guess it was always inevitable – I come to fall! Thanks to my moderate speed and a little bit of luck there is no harm done. Not this time.
When hostile roads finally intersperse to pavement we are held from gaining serious miles. A string of traffic blocks both lanes. Driving in between cars and trucks we make it to the front, wondering what the deal is. Policemen are raising hands signaling us to stop. As if we could drive on if we wanted to as heavy roadworks are in full progress. Huge machines are tarmacking new lanes. Our young lives have so much to learn still as it only takes half an hour for us to grow impatient. I spot a narrow access next to the yellow machines and a steep embankment. Covertly I consult Steve about the opportune dilemma – not without risk. It does not take long before boldness overtakes our stirred, eager hearts. The handlebar being the widest item I turn my left mirror inside, increasing my space. When starting the engines, the bystanders assume that we will turn around. Well-trained officers however are watching every move we make, yet in spite of their attentiveness they can’t prevent what happens next. We’re back at pushing our luck to the limit. My heart pounding in my chest I go full throttle through the narrow access, alongside the steamy machine that will finish me instantly may it swerve. Seeing that it works out, my friend gives gas until he’s on my tail. Police are running back and forth, frustrated for they are beaten, standing empty handed with no chance of chasing the escaped convicts. Their cars are too heavy for the soft tarmac anyway. Our motorcycles are light enough to soar above the soft road surface. There we go, driving as the first ones ever on a brand-new paved road in rural Tibet! With no fear of getting caught either as for weeks roadworks have been terrorizing the neighborhood, which is why we have not met a soul for dozens of kilometers.
When finally we do meet a soul, it is the beautiful one of a woman named Wei. She is willing to exchange our foreign money into local currency, saving our asses. When we run into her later that day, she even buys us dinner. Most people would not do this for their own family, yet she chooses to trust these two strangers. People like her make the world go round. At least, if it actually was, but you get the point.
Snow has turned into ice, everything is frozen. Only the sun makes the bitterness humane. Strings of Lung Ta’s flap in the strong winds, often attached to Buddhist shrines, the white stupas majestic in their element. Square prayer flags in blue, yellow and red are called wind horses. When seeing their glory you know that you have accomplished something. A few high-passes above the five thousand meters mark, the altitude attacks us in full armor. It frustrates me to the bone that our engines just cannot get enough power due to the altitude. Steadily the rocky mountains give way to colossal sand dunes mixed with dark and light colors.
Passing the last ridge a huge anomaly appears in the hazy distance. Our helmets removed and engines turned off we gaze at the mirage in the valley. Checking the road map we don’t find any evidence of the massive blueprint the desert presents us. Descending the hills until we make it to the edge, our jaws drop. This is no ordinary city: high construction, big apartments, factories, houses and complete shopping malls, no windows and all grey from concrete. Everything is just thrown up! Streets are empty, not even a single vehicle around, and not a soul in a city which could hold tens of thousands, more likely a hundred thousand. I am shocked. Driving through silent blocks sends shivers down my spine.
Can the rumors be true? I’ve heard them speak about projects of unbelievable proportions, namely forty-seven new airports, endless tunnel systems, underground bunkers, twelve new dams the size of the Hoover Dam and eleven new cities such as the one we are baffled by at this very moment. In two years’ time the entire country is being renovated. This will be China’s big chance to show competing nations that they are no longer a third world country. The insane amount of workforce to be summoned, better yet slave labor, is unsurpassed. In all the craziness of the ghost town, we actually come across a previously much needed Bank of China. Peering through the windows, we spot an ATM still wrapped up. The question remains, who is going to populate this city?
A mere sixty kilometers away from our destination and the fulfilment of a boy’s dream, the struggle continues. My bike throws the towel in. Really? Is this the right moment for mechanical failure? Instinctively we check the gasoline and change the spark plug. This is not my day. Even the stickers I placed on my handlebar, reading lucky seven, have turned their backs on me. Out of pure vexation I throw my helmet to the ground and kick my bike repeatedly, as we have done many times in the past weeks. This causes several items to bend. During one of the helmet-throwing incidents, it accidentally changes direction and we actually have to hike a small valley to recover it. At last, we discover a jackscrew missing from the kickstand. Just so you know, these models are fitted with a mechanism that when you pull the kickstand out, the engine automatically shuts off. Now the system thinks it is out while still in. Of course, the jackscrew is nowhere to be found. As a temporary solution I twist another screw out of a random place that I think I won’t be needing. Let’s hope I’m right.
Before reaching the capital we are to face our final enemy: a beast of an approaching sandstorm. Intolerable hoary deserts bring forth violent winds with a mixture of dry sand and rain, which are somehow not intermingling. Nonetheless, it is a powerful demon devouring anything in its way. Not knowing the strength and anger of the dark storm we don’t seek shelter, not that there is any. Charging from the side I can barely get a grip on the handlebar. Gusts of wind make us tilt siding against it, whilst we try our best not to fall. We are literally hanging in there, no pun intended. By the time our motorcycles drive straight the monster is behind us. We snap pictures and are relieved that we are still alive to see another day. The universe accommodates us with new pavement to enjoy, probably as compensation. As we are the only ones around we drive side by side. While we are both accelerating, my blood starts coursing rapidly through my veins. Surely not without reason, the view through inanimate trees announces the finish line. Excitement has us cheering and laughing, arms raised in midair.
With the last clouds dissolving the stomach butterflies increase. The feeling can best be compared with being in love, or worthy of reward, a victor even. Bright light from above illuminates
the sacred hill with beguiling white walls and lofty burgundy rooftops, little square windows and huge banners. There she is in all her glory, the cradle of mystical wisdom: the Potala Palace! Without any form of coordination, we race through the city toward our bounty which is elevated above all else. Bumping up the sidewalk, we park straight in front of the awe-inspiring structure. We jump up and down, we hug and repeatedly shout: “We made it!” Passers-by take pictures of us and we ask them if they’re willing to do the same with our own cameras. Conveniently looking away, I prevent people from seeing some tears of release and happiness roll down my cheeks. This voyage of privations counts three thousand kilometers so far, from Chengdu to Lhasa, almost all of it off-road. Straight through an area of which its very existence is being disputed. Except for Mister Tang, at present we are the only ones in the world who have managed to do this. After not having showered for a while we are smelly, hairy, feral and repulsive, yet overjoyed in our hearts. With the help of other vehicles, I travelled about twenty thousand kilometers overland. Quite the accomplishment. We did the impossible and proved the scoffers wrong. In the last weeks Jeffrey Vonk and Stephen Nagy wrote history, up until the final day.
* * *
China, including the stolen province of Tibet, is the country where they eat rice with chop sticks, where children walk about without pants so they can shit wherever they please – which they do by the way – and where girls who reckon themselves artists perform half naked at kids shows. It is also the country where they eat anything with a pulse, where you are not allowed to stop during a traffic accident to help your fellow compatriot, and where burping, slurping and smacking during eating is accepted as normal.
Lhasa is built in a valley of the mighty Himalayan range on a height of well over three and a half kilometers. Not too high, but it is for someone living most of his life beneath sea level. While panting for breath with a pounding headache we finally arrive at a hostel. Having a bathroom is a delight. Sure, the toilet itself is still just a hole in the floor, but having a door is nice for a change. By now, we are almost accustomed to public toilets, often shared. Imagine doing number two, squatting down above a hole with no dividers allowing you some privacy. Apparently, it is very intriguing to watch a white dude taking a crap.