It's on the Meter

by Paul Archer

  Johno had told Matt about 'the lists', but he didn't believe us. That was until I saw him looking at the car with broken suspension, dodgy steering and no lights, but its entire contents strewn around midway through a spring clean, with a puzzled look on his face.

  'There's so much to be done… why has Leigh asked me to scrunch up tin foil and clean the rust off the chrome of the side walls so they shine? We're about to drive over the bloody Himalayas!'

  We were on the eve of the next leg of the trip – China, which was always a vastly expensive but necessary part of the trip. Myanmar was closed to vehicles, so we would be spending over £4,000 on visas, paperwork and guides to pass through the country. Not that we weren't looking forward to China, it was just that we were loath to have to use a guide for the first time on the trip. However, with no knowledge of the Chinese government system and even less Mandarin between us, it would be impossible to do it without help.

  Because of this, none of us had researched China very much. In fact, in all honesty a part of us probably doubted we would ever get this far, so our research of anywhere on the trip past Iran was imperfect. However, to get to China, first we had to pass through Tibet – and to get to Tibet we had to drive the Friendship Highway.

  For me, the Friendship Highway that connects Kathmandu in Nepal to Lhasa, the capital of Tibet, was one of the sections of the trip I'd been looking forward to the most. It carves its way through the 23,000-foot peaks of the Himalayas before gliding across the expanses of the Tibetan Plateau, finally terminating in the relatively lush farmlands around the capital city of Lhasa. And now, against all the odds, we had actually managed to get Hannah this far.

  We couldn't wait to start.

  CHAPTER 33

  CLIMBING EVEREST

  We said our goodbyes to Craig again and followed the road out of Kathmandu, ascending through pleasant hills and small villages in stunning weather. Finally out of the sweltering heat of Iran, Pakistan and India, it was sunny but comfortable, reminiscent of the ideal British summer's day. We had received word that the mudslides were nearly cleared and there would be no rain for a few days. Conditions weren't perfect, but we decided to give it a go.

  Busy buses and small cars occasionally passed us, but the surroundings were otherwise peaceful and the road was quiet. The soft hills gradually transitioned into high mountains partitioned by sheer valleys, the thin road precariously clutching to their sides. We had heard that landslides meant this road could be impassable for weeks, even months. Two-wheel drive vehicles were out of the question in the wet season and four-wheel drives unreliable at best. Calculating that Hannah would do just fine (basing this on nothing in the slightest, other than the fact we couldn't turn around now), we decided to push on, having no idea what lay ahead.

  We passed a few flatbed trucks loaded with mud-splattered earthmovers, returning battered and bruised from the landslideclearing front line. Reaching the first rockfall, it became clear how the road could be shut for weeks on end – half the mountain seemed to have crashed down, taking everything with it. This was obviously an old slide, as a new 'road' had been carved into the embankment. Deep grooves showed where bigger, more appropriate vehicles had negotiated the track. Gunning the engine to gain speed, I tried to balance on the ridges between the ruts as the rear wheels fishtailed to and fro on the slick surface and the lads shouted for, 'More beans!'

  Splashing through a stream, the tyres gained purchase as the mud turned to gravel and we were soon back on the relative solidity of the potholed, concrete road.

  This scene would repeat itself throughout the day, sometimes with added vehicles coming the other way and sometimes resulting in Hannah getting stuck in the mud, and everyone having to get out and push, losing multiple flip-flops along the way.

  On top of a foundation of unstable, wet mud was not the most reassuring place to be.

  As I slowed for a turn, a battered old coach appeared. It wasn't going to stop for us, instead subscribing to the time-tested technique of using the horn instead of the brakes. We couldn't back up, as it would mean sliding down the big hill, or worse.

  We were stuck.

  Everybody was shouting in different languages, trying to take control. Beyond the bus the road widened enough to pass, but he refused to back up. He edged forward and it became clear he was going to push past whether we moved or not. I reversed the cab a few feet, and then slammed the whole car forward, embedding the bumper into the muddy embankment on the non-chasm side of the road.

  The coach managed to pass, its wheels churning through the mud just inches from the edge, before sliding dangerously out of control down the hill. Our tiny wheels, however, were well and truly stuck. Everyone got out to push, cursing the monsoon for its lack of sympathy.

  We traversed muddy pass after muddy pass, landslide after landslide. It was getting dark and our makeshift motorbike headlights were doing a poor job of illumination. Just before pitch-blackness covered us, the track became a well-sealed road. Within a few minutes we could see the lights of the border town of Kodari. Triumphant, we soared towards it, jubilant at having managed the pass successfully – albeit with a few helpful pushes and a trail of flip-flops in our wake.

  Finding a cheap hotel, the team celebrated with our final Indian curry dish and slept soundly with the gentle thunder of the Bhote Kosi River in the background – the official boundary to the most populous country in the world.

  A large bridge marked the border with China, the previous two having been washed away in floods. Bored-looking guards on little red platforms stood to attention for the handful of people who passed. Squat Nepali women, swaddled in thick cloaks, trekked back and forth across the bridge, carrying burdens three times their size. Because no trucks are allowed through this border, porters carry all commerce between the countries. The contents of a Nepali truck would be unloaded into bags secured by a strap around the women's foreheads. The women would go through a scanner to confirm they weren't transporting nuclear weapons and then lug the cargo to a waiting truck on the other side. On the return journey, slyly tucked into their shawls, were bottles of cheap whisky to be sold on the black market in Nepal.

  To drive a foreign vehicle in China, it is a legal requirement to have a guide with you at all times. The reason for this is slightly unclear, but China is not a place where you will find an abundance of reasonable answers. Our guide would meet us at the border with the paperwork, all organised by an agent. With no idea what to expect, we only knew his name was Fred and that we would be spending the next 25 days in very close proximity.

  We were all quite nervous about meeting the compulsory guide who we had paid through the nose for and would be covering thousands of miles with. My biggest worry was that with us three strapping lads plus Matt already in the car we would now have to potentially squeeze a shuai jiao wrestler in there, too. I sincerely hoped he would be a little fella.

  We stood around amongst the huge sacks of flour being ferried around and tried to spy our guide through the automatic gates and rows of guards.

  After a while we saw a tiny Chinese woman with a backpack and folder waving frantically at us with a grin. She looked like a lot of fun and would definitely be able to fit in the space in the back seat; could it be that she was our guide, Fred?

  No, no it couldn't.

  After a quick chat we found that she was waiting for someone else, but she did agree to go back through the border and find our guy. Before long we had met Fred Jin – a middle-aged man wearing a fleece, walking boots and a floppy sunhat, clutching a wad of papers, who was at least six foot tall – and crossed the border into Tibet, or as he swiftly corrected us, the People's Republic of China.

  There was only one road out and it disappeared in a cloudbank as it switchbacked up the side of a cliff. Shrouded in clouds, we quickly lost sight of the border as Hannah's tired diesel heart was urged further into the thinning air.

  We were pleased to discover that China has lots of good quality Youth Hoste
l Association hostels spread throughout its four million square miles, and that one of them was located in the first town we came to.

  I was less pleased to find out that the Chinese have a strange habit of making toilets with no doors. I discovered this when I knocked on Fred's room door and he yelled for me to come in then looked almost as surprised as I was when I marched in and came face to face with him, pants around ankles. I felt like knowing each other for five hours (or a lifetime for that matter) wasn't long enough to find ourselves in these circumstances.

  The next morning, from our hotel at 5,500 feet we climbed up the seemingly never-ending mountain hairpins and on to the Tibetan plateau. The road was truly amazing; a magnificent feat of engineering far from the landslide-strewn track we had been told to expect. As we chugged higher and higher we appreciated the views, snatched through the gaps in the clouds, down into the lush valleys, but Hannah didn't feel the same way.

  Passing 12,000 feet the car started to feel more sluggish than usual and began to belch out thick black smoke. The highest point on the Friendship Highway was about 16,000 feet and I was really starting to worry: if we were struggling now, with 4,000 feet of oxygen-starved air still to go, how would we ever make it over one of the highest roads in the world and into the rest of China?

  Somehow Hannah crawled up the slopes and we crested the pass at around 16,800 feet, all five of us feeling a little weird from the altitude as we stepped out to breathe in the crisp mountain air amid the flapping prayer flags and yak bones.

  Tibet is a very poor place, but the road we were driving on was brand new and smoother than anything we had experienced since we left Iran. Built as an example of Chinese superiority, it cuts through some incredibly inhospitable and remote areas, and bears a stark contrast to the rest of the country. Tibetan people live in traditional abodes built with rough stone and topped with red roofs. Each had a perimeter wall with ornately decorated ends, on which piles of yak dung – used as heating and cooking fuel – dried in the sun.

  The people – their hardy, warm faces, wrinkled by years of driving winds, sun, and tough living – stared as we drove through. Their wise, laughing eyes were a world away from the Chinese – most of whom were pedantic officials and bored young conscripts in oversized uniforms, with their helmets resting low over their young, hairless faces.

  The road wound with racetrack-perfect arcs between the small hills that rose from the plateau as hamlets appeared and disappeared. We reached the hotel Fred recommended at dusk – a launch pad for Everest Base Camp. Lined up outside were eight new Land Cruisers and entering the restaurant was like walking into a North Face convention: the room was crowded with middleaged wealthy men whose beer guts strained at their gilets, as they discussed the extortionate amounts they had paid to fly in and be driven to the top of the world. The rooms were triple our usual budget, but as it was the only place for miles I negotiated cheaper accommodations in the workers' quarters – much to Fred's annoyance.

  We chatted with a few beer guts about the next leg of our journey, driving Hannah to Base Camp. They all looked at us with concern, each one of them repeating that the 65-mile track is just not possible in a two-wheel-drive car. Young, foolish, reckless, and with little point of reference other than the knowledge that we had managed to get this far, we decided we'd give it a go anyway.

  Long before sunrise we stripped the car of luggage, spares and camping gear, leaving the extra weight in the hotel yard, and set off. The sun crested the distant peaks, revealing a table-flat plateau. We were in a huge bowl, surrounded by the world's tallest mountains. The sun, low and yellow, streamed through, bouncing off lakes and silhouetting the small Tibetan bungalows.

  The first 40 miles continued on the stunning Friendship Highway, and the sight of the low sun reflecting off the pools of standing water amidst the high meadows kept us wide awake.

  At the turn off to Mt Qomolangma (Everest's Chinese name), Fred assured us it would take only two hours to get to Base Camp. The road turned to heavily rutted dirt as it wound up lazy hairpins on a meadowed hillside. We presumed Everest would be on the other side of the hill, but no. As the altimeter rose steadily, 14,000 feet turning to 16,000, Hannah's engine strained in the thin air. Johno revved her engine, pumping more and more fuel into her oxygen-starved cylinders, which was only to be pumped back out in thick clouds of smoke. Progress was slow.

  After Fred's two, incredibly bumpy, promised hours we had only covered 12 miles, and were forced to reconsider our plans. We figured if this kept up it would take us all day just to get there, not to mention returning. Disheartened, we cursed every Land Cruiser that zoomed past us at twice our speed and with half our shakiness.

  Our spirits were buoyed into continuing at the top of the first peak as we surveyed the epic mountain range spread out before us. With 50 miles to go we were certain Everest must be one of the big ones directly ahead of us.

  'Is that it?' Matt asked.

  'Erm… I'm not sure.'

  'What does it look like?'

  'Ummm, like a big triangle I guess…'

  In a small village in the next valley I went in search of water. When the tap I scouted didn't work, an elderly lady (though she could have only been in her 40s, it was impossible to tell) offered help and invited me into her house. Inside, the main area had the feeling of a farm building; mud floor and ancient farm equipment piled against the walls. In the living room, every inch of wall was covered in decorative murals. Furniture, crafted from crudely cut wood, was made beautiful by intricate carvings. The woman didn't speak English, nor did I speak Tibetan, but the water bottles in my hands made it clear. She led me to a giant bowl covered in wood. Ladling fresh clear Himalayan water into the bottles, she gave a toothless, maternal smile.

  As we arrived at the lower slopes of Everest, the four-wheel drives from the hotel were already on their way back. Tussock grass gave way to a scree valley with a few bitterly cold concrete and stone buildings. To reduce air pollution, we found that no vehicles were allowed to Base Camp apart from the pricey government tour buses. We pleaded with the official, 'just for a picture' and 'we've driven all the way from England for this', to no avail. We paid the overpriced fee, piled in, and sped off to do the last three miles on the bus in a thick cloud of fumes. At the top we found that the no-car rule was strictly enforced: unless, of course, you were affiliated with 'the ruling party', in which case your Land Cruiser apparently doesn't emit pollution and you can just drive yourself up.

  We'd managed to drive Hannah, a wholly unsuitable London black cab, to one of the highest points in the world. And as much of a dump as Base Camp was (we dodged mini cyclones of used toilet paper and sanitary towels while taking our pictures), and even if the summit was completely obscured by cloud, we were jubilant.

  CHAPTER 34

  THANK YOU, HELLO AND DIESEL

  By the time we reached the bottom, the new headlights had almost fallen off, the fuel cap was missing, the reverse light was gone and we'd sheared our Nepali backyard welds on the body mounts. Fred huffed sulkily as another Land Cruiser steamed past in a cloud of dust, chastising us for refusing to hire a four-wheel drive. We limped back to the hotel 18 hours after leaving. We were exhausted.

  The next morning, with a breakfast of dumplings and tea inside of him, Fred was in considerably better spirits as we drove to the next town.

  Since Georgia, the three of us had had a long-running joke about finding a McDonald's, our sacred Internet connection spot. Now we decided to bring Fred and Matt in on the joke.

  'Will there be a Maccy D's, Freddyboy?'

  'A Mack Eeh Dez?'

  'You know, McDonald's.'

  'Oh yes, very big town. Definitely McDonald's.'

  Instead we found a small completely McDonald's-free town, but the joke had been set.

  Based on previous experiences in Russia, our car was quite a large target for police checks, and seeing as we had over 4,000 miles to cover in China and that none of us had a fond des
ire to complete a term of hard labour in Inner Mongolia, we decided that it would be best to at least attempt the official Chinese driving test and try to get the correct licences.

  We had heard mixed things about the test, ranging from, 'Don't bother with it, just bribe your way out of any document checks,' to 'It's a two-hour written test with a hundred questions and a 90 per cent pass mark. And it's in Mandarin and you're not allowed a translator.'

  We turned up at the police station in the late afternoon. Paul was quickly scooted off for an inspection of the car while Leigh and I nervously awaited the dreaded test.