Himalaya (2004)

by Michael Palin

  We arrive at Chinese immigration as it is about to close, and it’s only pressure from our local hosts that stops us having to spend the night in the vehicles. We’re allowed to take an overnight bag and walk up to the hotel, but everything else must be locked in the cars overnight.

  Later: Room 505 of the Bai Ma Hotel, Xangmu. TV but no heating. Communal lavatory and bathroom down the passage. Single strip light, thin, inadequate curtains that are no match for the street lamps outside, and windows that seem specifically designed to funnel jets of cold air into the room.

  This basic hotel, which we’re assured is the best in town, is saved by its small, warm and cheerful dining room. Over momos (traditional Tibetan shell-shaped dumplings), stir-fry and Budweiser brewed in Wuhan, we meet up with Nina Huang Fan, our Chinese production assistant from Beijing, Mr Yang, the man the Chinese have sent to keep an eye on us, and Migmar, the soft-spoken young Tibetan, who still seems traumatized by the events on Friendship Bridge.

  We’re joined by Mr Tse Xiu, who is someone high up in the Foreign Relations Ministry of the Tibetan Autonomous Region. He speaks with quiet authority, but not in English, unfortunately. When his message is relayed to us it’s not exactly heartening. Everest Base Camp, which we are scheduled to reach in 48 hours, is presently suffering from strong winds and temperatures down to -25degC (-13degF) at night. He advises us to make the best of a hot shower tonight, as there will be no more creature comforts for a while.

  Have showered in a trickle of tepid water and am writing this with a blanket around me and wondering just how much colder it’s going to get.

  Partridge and mountain peaks. A romantic image of home comes to life in a truck painter’s yard in Peshawar.

  PAKISTAN

  At the Khyber Pass. The Grand Trunk Road (to the right) winds into Afghanistan.

  Gunsmith, Darra, North-West Frontier.

  Dental Alley, aka Qissa Khwani Bazaar, Peshawar. Abdul Wahid (bottom) thinks the whole head might have to come off.

  Palatial hospitality at Chateau Fatehjang.

  At Prince Malik’s travelling pavilion I meet an exjockey, on the left. The sport cost him an arm.

  Bull-racing near Taxila.

  At Rumbur. Kalash girls, barley field, dry-stone wall, traditional costume, modern foot.

  Threading our way through the Hindu Kush. The rugged route out of the Kalash valleys.

  Chitral.With Siraj Ul-Mulk at a madrassa (a religious school) in the mosque his grandfather built.

  A boy recites the Koran, which he must learn by heart.

  No lie-in when the band’s around. Early-morning music heralds the start of the Polo Festival at the Shandur Pass.

  Winning combination. Truc and Bulbul Jan.

  Pakistanis are cricket mad, even at 10,000 feet (3050 m).

  Solving the world’s problems with Imran Khan. His dog’s heard it all before.

  At Rawalpindi, crossing the most famous road in the subcontinent. First laid across north India some five hundred years ago.

  My first taste of the high life. Dropping off at Concordia, where great glaciers meet K2 at three miles above sea level.

  Street cleaners in Rawalpindi take a photo break. In the background, Shaan Shahid, Lollywood heart-throb, dominates the billboards.

  Prayers at the 330-year-old Badshahi Mosque, Lahore.

  My night with the stars. Shaan Shahid (left), and other top Pakistani thesps, on set at the Bari Studios, Lahore.

  Who is the fairest of them all? Last-minute checks at Bari Studios.

  Unblocking the fountains. Shalimar Gardens, Lahore.

  Buffalo-assisted lawnmower, Shalimar Gardens.

  Wagah border crossing. A red-letter day for the local porters as the BBC leaves Pakistan.

  Pakistan’s Punjabi Rangers strut their stuff at the border.

  With their Indian counterparts, they prepare for competitive flag-lowering.

  INDIA

  Ablutions in the Amrit Sarover, the ‘pool of nectar’, at the Golden Temple, Amritsar.

  With two guardians of the temple. Their robes and spears symbolize the dual nature of the Sikhs: service and defence.

  Kalka, Himachal Pradesh (Himalaya Province). The public pump still has a vital role in Indian life. And the railways are the biggest single employer in the world.

  First glimpse of the scale of Shimla, 7260 feet (2213 m) above sea level. Provincial capital of Himachal Pradesh.

  Aboard the Himalayan Queen on the 57-mile run from Kalka to Shimla.

  The Vice-Regal Lodge at Shimla.

  Keeping out of the sun or keeping out of the book? Shy ladies on the Ridge at Shimla.

  On the road to Dharamsala. Our well-hennaed driver, ‘Red’, and a lunch bristling with green chillies.

  Country life in Himachal Pradesh. Rich land, poor farmers.

  Bulrush fields hide the river south of Dharamsala.

  Tibet in India. Hanging prayer flags out near the Lhagyal Ri temple at McLeodganj.

  At the Tibet Medical and Astrology Centre. I learn from Phurbu Tsering that I was an elephant in my previous life.

  Surely the most approachable of all world leaders, the Dalai Lama is a powerful man, totally lacking the trappings, or the presumptions, of the powerful.

  Mr Gulam Butt, proprietor of Clermont Houseboats through thick and thin times, runs through a lists of previous guests, including Nelson Rockefeller and George Harrison.

  The Kashmir Martyrs’ Graveyard, one of many for those Muslims who’ve died fighting, or because of fighting, for freedom from India.

  The remains of the Greenway Hotel, Srinagar, destroyed by the Indian army after Islamic militants holed up there.

  A selection of the famous and once much sought-after houseboats of Srinagar.

  NEPAL

  Hindu Nepal. In Patan’s Durbar Square stone elephants, carved 380 years ago, guard the entrance to Shiva’s temple.

  Kathmandu. In the grounds of the Royal Palace, the great and good of Nepal stand in line for the royal tika.

  Before it all went wrong. Adrian Griffith talks to the galla, the recruiting officer, prior to addressing the village in fluent Nepali.

  Some of the 251 would-be Gurkhas start stretching the sinews. Only 44 will get to the next stage of testing.

  Crossing the cable bridge at Dopali, having been forced to abandon Gurkha recruiting after Maoist guerrillas abducted Adrian and other senior officers.

  The steep, stone steps out of Chomrung. They look helpful, but became slow torture.

  Machhapuchhre, ‘Fish Tail Mountain’, is looking in much better shape than I am, as Wongchu (who has twice climbed Everest) hangs patiently behind me.

  A mug of garlic soup as the afternoon mist comes down over Machhapuchhre, the sacred mountain they say has never been climbed.

  A doorway in Patan shows the fine design and craftsmanship of the Newari people.

  Durbar Square, Patan. Kunder Dixit, urbane, resourceful editor of the Nepali Times. A man does puja, a ritual offering to the gods at Krishna Mandir.

  The view that makes it all worthwhile. The Annapurna Sanctuary, a 360-degree panorama with nine summits reaching 23,000 feet (7000 m).

  With Pratima on a bridge over the Bagmati River at Pashupatinath, the most important Hindu temple complex in Nepal.

  Male members of the family lay a deceased relative on the funeral pyre at the cremation ghats at Pashupatinath.

  Sadhus, itinerants who have renounced all worldly possessions and dedicated their life to lord Shiva, at Pashupatinath.

  The world’s most sociable hermits. These sadhus will do anything for you, including their Roy Wood and Wizzard impersonation.

  Prayer flags flutter from the huge stupa at Boudhanath, the most important Buddhist site in Kathmandu and heart of the city’s Tibetan community.

  Women are prominent in Nepali rural life. In the Himalayan foothills, a woman carries home scrub for cattle feed.

  Shopkeeper in crimson sari on the road to the Tibetan bor
der.

  TIBET

  Road-sweeping gang takes a breather in Nyalam.

  A circle dance takes shape in a village on the way to Everest Base Camp. These folk get-togethers are an important time for matchmaking.

  Man of the plateau. Sheepskin coat, earring and extended sleeves instead of gloves.

  Chomolungma, ‘Goddess Mother of the Earth’. The best name westerners could come up with for the world’s highest mountain was Everest.

  Everest Base Camp, just before Sunday lunch.

  Tashilempo Monastery, Shigatse: boys are sent away to monasteries from the age of six, emulating the traditional English boarding-school approach to education.

  The magnificent Potala Palace in Lhasa.

  Walking with Migmar in the Barkor, one of the few areas of Lhasa where the traditional Tibetan houses are still preserved. In the foreground, a prostrating pilgrim.

  Am I right? Monk makes his point in ritual debating at the Sera monastery.

  Images of the gatekeepers, and other treasures, behind the altar in the Drepung Monastery, outside Lhasa.

  Makeshift lutes.

  The essence of bleakness. The grey, windswept waters of holy Namtso Lake, 15,500 feet (4570 m) above sea level. Prayer flags show that pilgrims come from all over Tibet to make the 18-day walk around it, or shorter walks around these towering rocks at Tashidor.

  Yak herding on the summer pastures of Qinghai province.

  Yak husbandry continued.

  Sonam the yak farmer prepares a calf for shearing.

  Meeting monks at the Festival. Later they inveigled me into a game of football.

  Well-restored chortens at Gyanak Mani. They are symbolic of steps to enlightenment.

  Tall in the saddle. Feet of horsemanship by the Kampas.

  YUNNAN, CHINA

  In Tiger Leaping Gorge. Behind me, Li Yuan, who we christened Mr Nice Man on account of his ineffable patience, leads the donkeys, keeps an eye on me and carries the sound boom.

  Message in a bottle. Mr Feng’s connection with the outside world.

  The end of Tiger Leaping Gorge. The Yangtze below me has fallen 700 feet (213 m) in a series of 21 lethal rapids. I’ve walked 20 miles along the edge of a cliff and I’m going to bed.

  Luoshi, Sichuan. The jetty of Namu’s hotel.

  Namu’s aunt is more concerned with hospitality than the interview.

  Namu, the nicest narcissist.

  Auto-rickshaw delivers me to Dr Ho’s clinic.

  The Famous Dr Ho in trademark white coat.

  Mrs Ho in the traditional costume of the Naxi, a minority people of Yunnan.

  Xuan Ke, Lijiang’s local hero, takes his place in the front row of the Naxi Music Orchestra.

  Sweet, beautifully played flute solo brings the concert to an end. Painted on the wall behind are black-necked cranes, a rare and sacred Himalayan bird.

  Trainee snake charmer? No, local man shopping for walking stick.

  Dongba checks the instructions during purification ritual.

  Kunming, China. Girls in tribal costumes compare umbrella-opening techniques at the Yunnan Nationalities Villages.

  Elephant basketball at the Nationalities Villages.

  Nagaland. An old warrior, with fern accoutrements.

  NAGALAND AND ASSAM

  Belly up. Konyak Naga head-hunter outdoes me in stomach decoration. Nor are my Paul Smith belt and Craghopper trousers any match for his hornbill feather, wild boar’s teeth and neck-chain showing he’s taken five heads.

  Shingwong translates the words of the chief of Longwa Village, on my right, as we talk to him in his hut. This picture has a distinctly period flavour. Hard to believe from the look of the place that most of them here are baptized Christians.

  With the morning shift at Tipong Mine, near Digboi, Assam.

  Safety is the big issue at Tipong. I suppose they could start by giving them overalls.

  With Manoj Jalan (on leading elephant) in his Mancotta Estate.

  Never saw anything like this on my bike rides in Sheffield. Mishing fisherwomen put their catch down their cleavage.

  The monastery (satra) on Majuli Island.With Jadab Burah (right) and his older roommate Lila Ram. Because of vows of purity they would have to wash themselves completely after touching anything in the room that I’d touched.

  Jumbo football at the 2nd Kaziranga Elephant Festival.

  One of the great experiences of my travelling life.Washing an elephant at Kaziranga National Park. I’d never made an elephant rumble with pleasure before.

  BHUTAN

  Gantey village.With Dasho Benji, wearing traditional kho, on the lookout for elusive black-necked cranes.

  Successful sighting. Rare black-necked cranes on the wing.

  Evidence of the cult of Drupka Kunley, the ‘divine madman’, on a house in Gantey village. Painted penises are believed to ward off evil spirits.

  Workmen take a teabreak at the Gantey gompa (monastery), which is being refitted. Quite slowly.

  The extraordinary precipice on which Takstang is perched.

  Doje and I visit Choni Dorje, poet and yak farmer, who has lived up here for 82 years. He sings me his ode to the yak, which made him a national celebrity.

  The pageantry of the Paro tsechu. Opening day dances in the courtyard of the dzong.

  BANGLADESH

  The gravel banks of the Pijain River.

  The engaging Abdul Rahman, who became a poultry magnate in the Midlands before returning to Bangladesh to build homes for his family.

  Toilets that have travelled the world. Nothing is wasted at the ship-breaking yards near Chittagong.

  The bane and bounty of Bangladesh. Millions of tonnes of Himalayan water combine with the heaviest monsoons in the world to make the landscape both fertile and fragile.

  A very few of the estimated 700,000 bicycle rickshaws in Dhaka, Bangladesh’s capital.

  In downtown Dhaka it’s quicker to deliver by hand, or shoulder, or head.

  Mission accomplished.With the help of the Ganges and the Brahmaputra I’m swept out into the Bay of Bengal, along with millions of tonnes of mud that was once Himalaya.

  Saga Platoon (with apologies to young Peter Meakin) meets the Dalai Lama. (left to right) Roger Mills, Thingy, DL, Nigel Meakin, Peter Meakin, Vanessa Courtney, Basil Pao, John Pritchard.

  With (right to left) John-Paul Davidson, Nawang Dorjee Sherpa and son, and Wongchu Sherpa, at the Yak and Yeti Hotel, Kathmandu.

  Tibet

  Day Fifty Nine : Xangmu to Tingri

  Xangmu high street, quiet as the grave when we arrived, erupts into life at night. Sounds of shouting, drilling, thumping and banging drift, unhampered, through tightly closed windows and into my head. I pull all the blankets off the unoccupied bed next to me, curl up in a foetal ball and hope it will all just go away. It doesn’t. It gets worse. The hissing, clunking, industrial sounds seem to be augmented by flashes and crackles. Can someone really be spot-welding out there at 12.15? The prospect of how exhausted I’ll feel in the morning keeps me awake for at least another hour.

  Wake at eight, but it’s still pitch dark. In fact, it doesn’t begin to get light for another half-hour. The government of China, in their wisdom, decreed that the whole country, wider than the United States, should have only one time zone. The further west you are the later daybreak comes.

  The street outside, apart from the frequent clearing of throats and whistling of spittle, is quiet again this morning. I can find no satisfactory explanation for the nocturnal activity other than that Xangmu is a frontier town and frontier towns have a life of their own. We walk down the hill to resume the customs procedures.