It was with a mix of dread and anticipation that I stepped off our All Nippon Airways flight into the heat of Beijing three days ago. Last time I was here we were five days away from starting the Peking to Paris rally. This time is different, Beijing is but prelude to the fugue of a very special journey. We are off to the wilds of Tibet heading by car into the most remote western and north central regions of the Tibetan Plateau, seeking to get as close as we can to the heart of this special country before it is stilled forever by encroaching China-ization.
On our 45-day Istanbul Calcutta drive in 2011 we spent five days motoring through Tibet. As we went through border formalities departing China and entering Nepal, I mostly was relieved to be done with the searing altitude headache that had wrapped itself around my forehead days earlier and been squeezing my brain like an overly-tightened cinch ever since. I was never quite sure whether that headache, and the persistent tingling that had invaded my fingertips, gums and the soles of my feet, were the result of altitude, or the drugs I was taking to help me adjust to the altitude. Mostly I was joyous to be leaving the strict constraints of driving in China, where overhead cameras enforce a 25mph speed limit over stretches of pavement as smooth as a baby’s bottom and as empty as a new diaper! Never had the potholed, cacophonous chaos of Nepalese and Indian roads been so freeing.
To my surprise given how short a time we were in the region, Tibet has stayed in my consciousness, and so it was with genuine pleasure that I informed our friend Paul that we would accept an invitation to join the trip to Tibet he was organizing if he would only issue one. Paul, in a fit of politeness, or perhaps having forgotten just how grumpy a traveller I can be at times, did just that.
And so we arrived in Beijing after the usual cripplingly long flight that left me shaped like an airplane seat and despairing of ever completing any Pilates exercises again. After the initial sweating in panicky deja vu which I mention above, I have felt fully at peace. For one, I am a seasoned road warrior now. Though I haven’t totaled the number of miles we’ve driven since 2007, it must be pushing 50-60,000. There isn’t a whole lot about long days of driving that I haven’t experienced. Or, to put this another way, I’m more competent at self-soothing, more skilled at avoiding mind-dramas about awful things that may happen. At least not until it seems possible they will. Happen.
There’s another, even better reason for my present state of happiness. I’ve had nothing to do with the organization of this journey. That honor goes to Paul, whom we met on the long drive from Istanbul to Calcutta two years ago. Paul is a master at creating interesting road adventures. You can read more about our anticipated route here. Other than packing my own suitcases, in case they asked me about that at the airport, I’ve been delighted to leave everything in his capable hands.
We are sharing this journey with a handful of other adventurers. There’s Martin, who walks so fast he probably could have beat the plane from Beijing to Lhasa. While I am staggering up a short, gentle incline to a slope-side monastery in the rarefied air of Mt. Kailash he plans to run a 50km route. No doubt he’ll beat us there. Martin’s wife Sabrina, and their daughter Magdalene are on for the drive, too. Also along is David, who is so imbued with all things oceanic that I can only admire his fortitude bearing up for weeks in a land-locked country. We are all already quite compatible travelers.
Bernard and I found Lhasa even less Tibetan than two years back. There’s a big ferris wheel and amusement park near the entrance of the city. Garish lights have been installed in the plaza across from Potala Palace where, in the evening, music blared from loudspeakers and Chinese visitors line danced to the tunes, executing restrained hops, shuffles and arm swings to the beat. I joined in one dance, adding my own out of sync gyrations to the mix. It was fun. But somehow it felt unseemly.
We easily retraced our steps from two years ago to find Jokhang Temple and wander the market streets, dodging pilgrims twirling prayer wheels or prostrating themselves on the cobbles with a chant and a clack of handheld blocks. Eager to start my forays in adventurous eating, we stopped at a stall where a small circle of men stood around one seated with a broad flat grass basket on his lap. Piled on it with slender 2-inch long, rippled beige sticks, which he shook up, down and around. Peering closer I realized they were dried caterpillars. I’ve never had dried caterpillar. Have you?
I took a proffered caterpillar, inspected its belly, then gingerly bit its head off. I imagined it would be crunchy on the outside and pleasingly squishy on the inside, like a soft caramel in a crackly chocolate skin. As for taste, that’s what I was here in to find out! The men stared at me, their looks changing from amused to horrified as I thoughtfully chewed the little head. I tried to smile, but didn’t want to insult them by appearing flippant, so changed my expression to contemplative, hoping to show my connoisseurship in all things larva.
I have to say there’s nothing distinguished about dried caterpillar. It tastes just like it looks: pale, wan and dry. The more I chewed the more agitated the vendors became, finally grabbing a calculator and jabbing in some numbers. The number 100 appeared on the screen, then was rapidly changed to 400. They wanted to charge us over $70 for one never-to-be-butterfly. Bernard offered them 10 yuan. This nearly provoked a riot and expressions became threateningly severe. The men moved closer, frowns gathered like rain clouds during the monsoon and were just as black. We finally compromised on $25, I stuck the headless desiccated stub in my pocket and we walked off. Only later did I learn that it wasn’t even a real caterpillar, it was a fungus, prized (naturally) for its medicinal purposes. A hundred grams of the stuff sells for $900.
After these two welcome days of acclimatization at 11,450 feet, we start our drive tomorrow. Our first course of business is a return to Rongbuk and Everest base camp. Fingers crossed we’ll be blessed with sparkling clear skies as we were two years ago. I’ll be writing dispatches along the way, but doubt I’ll be able to send anything for the first five days or so. Be prepared for a deluge of photos and news once I get to a place where internet is viable.
