Everest Base Camp (Part 2)

The second half of the ride is harder than the first, not because the road itself has become harder or that the bike has suddenly become more recalcitrant. It’s tiredness creeping in, the lack of sleep over the past two nights is starting to take an effect, that and the wash boarding, the endless wash boarding is beginning to take its toll.

When large 4X4s continuously use a piece of dirt road, the road yields to the resonant frequency of the 4×4’s suspension, creating a uniform, rhythmic, corrugated wash boarded surface to the road. Further 4×4 use exacerbates this problem as the road is now feeding back the resonant frequency into the vehicles suspension, which has a further effect of the road…….

The result on my poor Chang was a medium frequency, uncontrollable shake, the suspension crashed around underneath me, completely unable to prevent any of the crashing and jarring being fed into me. I was becoming exhausted – we were steadily climbing to the 5250 m height of Everest Base Camp – show any weakness to the altitude and it is merciless.

In my tired and oxygen deprived brain, I began to long for a modern bike, a KTM or something similar, with huge suspension travel and the power to accelerate over the wash board, when the front wheel goes light and the bike begins to float over the ruts, I would get to my bed in about a third of the time the poor old Chang is taking. A more positive take on the Chang is that I was by now going so slowly that a crash would almost certainly just have me rolling off into the dirt – probably, the peace from the endless crashing would be a relief, allowing me to fall asleep exactly where I fell.

This thought also put my KTM fantasy into perspective a crash at far higher speed could be more problematic – the nearest western hospital is probably Shanghai 5 000 km away. Kathmandu is much closer and has, by all account, a good hospital, being closer may not be much help though, the route is blocked by the Himalayas.

I wondered at the wisdom of building a monastery in such an inhospitable, one is tempted to say god forsaken, place.

At around 10 km from Base camp, we pass a monastery, claimed to be, and I have no argument with this, the highest monastery in the world. It was a crude mud brick building, which had once been painted white. The usual Tibetan prayer flags, frayed and faded by the sun, were flapping in the wind – now blowing at near gale force and cold, bitingly cold. The forecast was for -6C at night, but it felt colder, the wind cut into every part of exposed skin.

I wondered at the wisdom of building a monastery in such an inhospitable, one is tempted to say god forsaken, place. But, maybe that’s the point; to build one in a more conducive spot may have seemed less devout.

I would like to say much more about the last 10 km, my final approach to Everest, but all I remember is cold, tiredness also, but mostly cold. Everest base camp arrived suddenly I just remember riding in and lining my Chang up with the other three.

There was great whooping and cheering, high fives, handshakes and hugs. Actually there wasn’t. All I and everyone else wanted was to get out of the wind, and the cold, and the dust. I’ll be honest; I was disappointed with my reaction to being here as well!

Tibetan tents are the most homely, comforting and inviting places I have ever been in. You walk in and it’s instant peace, instant warmth and very possibly instant Karma.

Thick, heavy and made of closely knitted yaks’ wool, Tibetan tents are astonishing! They have the cossetting comfort and warmth of a well-loved duvet and they generate the same feelings of security, solidity and permanence that you expect of a room at the Savoy.

We were invited into this warm palatial tent, warm because the yak dung stove in the centre was working flat out. We were gestured to sit on carpet covered sofas and given copious amounts of tea. I was just allowing myself the thought of well that’s it were here, when our Chinese fixer, downed his tea and said “hurry last bus leaves soon!”

As a nation, China amazes, irritates and simply dumbfounds in equal measure, even to the point where you’re not sure exactly which emotion you’re experiencing or indeed should be.

“Micmar, I thought we were at Everest base camp”.

“Yes, yes we are. But the best views of the mountain are 4.5 km away at the very top of the valley – and there’s a bus!”

Mount Everest is a sensitive border region with Nepal, it’s a border therefore sensitive, goes the Chinese logic.

Mount Everest is a sensitive border region with Nepal, it’s a border therefore sensitive, goes the Chinese logic. The Chinese military won’t allow personal vehicles to be taken up to the head of the valley for that reason. However, they do lay on a fleet of small rugged busses for the sole purpose of ferrying all the visitors who wish to make the trip to the foot of the mountain.

“And bring your passport!” shouted Micmar.

This being China, you don’t question such requests. I really didn’t want to leave the warmth, and peace of the tent, but being stoic and dismissing such thought as unworthy, I put on my full motorcycling kit (apart from the helmet so as not to look too silly) and got on the bus.

The bus stopped at a military check point where we were ushered inside for passport and permit checks. This being China, and this being a military region, I was, as usual, unsure as to exactly what emotion I should be feeling at the overt stupidity of this pantomime.

“I appreciate that this is a border, but have you not noticed that it is arguably one of the world’s most secure borders, barred as it is by an 8000 m mountain, several in fact?”

Everybody thinks this, and everybody is wise enough not to say it.

The head of the valley is flat bottomed, no more than 600 m wide, its end is barred by Everest. I walk toward a small hillock in the centre of the valley; it’s only about 10 m high but takes most of my remaining strength to climb it.

When I get to the top I do as most visitors do, I take a few photographs of Everest.

Then I sit. Without really intending to we’d caught the last bus of the day so there were far fewer visitors than there usually would be on that hillock. It’s only now that it begins to filter through my brain, maybe it’s lack of oxygen, maybe tiredness, maybe I’m a bit slow on the uptake, whatever it is, I now suddenly become very aware of where I am and what I’m seeing. That is Mount Everest, this is me.

This is me, that is Mount Everest.

There’s no one in front of me. I have a completely uninterrupted view. And I sit. And I stare.

Everest Base Camp (Part 1)

I left Shigadse hospital with mixed emotions. The ride to Everest base camp was meant to be the highlight of the trip. In all honesty, I still expected it to be that, but the journey was not meant to start with Nick and Jon being driven off in a Land Cruiser, Nick through altitude sickness and Jon on sick duty. Not crashing my motorcycle into the back of an ash cart, would have also helped to give the big day a more auspicious feel as well.

Still, we were on our way to Everest. The first twenty kilometres were on tarmac and easy, it was a bright sunny day, a little cold, but the forecast predicated a high of 10 C, so excellent motorcycling weather. The rhythm of the ride arrived early; the absolute shock of riding in such a foreign place has disappeared, replaced by a pleasant familiarity with the alien landscape.

The entrance to Everest National Park, or Choumolounga National Park to use the Tibetan name is guarded by a military check point, it is after all a border region with Nepal, and China is sensitive over such matters, indeed the sensitivity of the Chinese over many such matters cannot be overstated.

Once through the barrier, the road turned to dirt, obviously well used, mostly by Land Cruisers – the 4 x 4 of choice, and by small, rugged tour buses. I’ve ridden off road before, although never anything like this distance and it was also on a modern moto-cross machine.

The scenery has become extreme, it’s dry, dusty, barren, oxygen starved and UV blasted, barely a living thing grows……..

The road narrowed and started to wind back on itself in a series of switch backs as it snaked its way to the top of our first 5 000 m pass, actually at around 5 300 m it was higher than Everest Base camp. The scenery has become extreme, it’s dry, dusty, barren, oxygen starved and UV blasted, barely a living thing grows here. I really don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere so harsh and unfriendly to life.

We stop on the top of the pass for photographs, interviews with the film crew and coffee. I really enjoyed that ride up to the pass, only about 20km or so, but it was fabulous. The Chang is a hard bike to ride, ordinarily on an off road bike one stands on the foot pegs, with your body held quite fluid. Your legs act in conjunction with the bikes suspension to absorb the bumps. Steering is accomplished, not by violently wresting the bars in the direction you want to go but by subtle shifts of body weight and smooth small movements of the bars. The much greater power output of a modern bike also assists the control by allowing the back wheel to be slid through a corner.

On the Chang, none of these techniques are available to you. You sit bolt upright on the seat, the bike crashes around underneath you as the pre-war suspension soon gives up the un-equal struggle of attempting to absorb the rocks, stones, ruts and pot holes of a Tibetan dirt road. The jarring and crashing is fed into your body through your arms, legs and through you poor bottom. A Chang needs to be steered through the turns, great sweeping movements are required, clearly leaning your body weight isn’t going to work as its got a third wheel. And its heavy work – the bars require a great deal of effort.

Achieving the top of the pass is, however, worth that effort. I park my bike in the full view of Mount Everest and several of her surrounding 8 000 m peaks. It is I that is view of them, to put it the other way around seems inappropriate, sacrilegious even. I sit on my Chang looking out over the view and attempt to take in what I’m looking at, it’s so alien that it takes a conscious thought process to evaluate exactly what I’m looking at – that or my brain is addled by the lack of oxygen. Micmar, our Chinese fixer, hands me a cup of coffee, it’s boiling but, bizarrely, not hot. At this altitude water boils at only around 83C. Coffee has always been part of my wake up routine; here it’s a more poignant ‘wake up’ – a wake-up to the reality of where I am.

I don’t want to leave this pass; I know I’ll probably never be as high again

I don’t want to leave this pass; I know I’ll probably never be as high again. I know I’ll never see such a view again and quite frankly, after riding such an inappropriate motorcycle to this height, to ride down to the valley floor seems so anticlimactic. The ride down is less dramatic than the ride up, taking about thirty kilometres to descend from the pass so there are fewer and less extreme switch backs. At ‘only’ about 4 000 m the valley bottom is more friendly to life, there is more greenery, if you look hard enough, and even the occasional yak. Our lunch time stop is in a small village, which appears to have no name.

It lies about halfway along the route to Everest base camp. Perhaps it has no name because; perhaps it’s not a real ‘official’ village. It seems to be desperately poor, a collection of mud brick houses, a litter strewn stream and a restaurant! A restaurant like no other I have ever been in. Mud brick built and Yak dung heated. The owner appears to be a wealthy man, wealthy that is in comparison to his fellow villages. It appears that it was he who realised the potential of selling food to the passing ‘big nose’ tourists as they ply their way to Everest Base Camp.

A short word on Chinese food may be helpful here. The Chinese, and please pardon my sweeping generalisations here, tend to make some very nice rice based dishes, egg fried rice being a particularly nourishing and readily available staple. Noodles too are popular, wholesome and plentiful, a ubiquitous staple that never fails to disappoint. I tend to favour the bowls of noodles that don’t contain the pork, because, well meat in China can be a little, inconsistent. It’s here with the meat that were come to the nub of Chinese cooking. Meat dishes, from my experience in China, tend to have some rather lovely sauces, however Chinese butchery skills tend to be, err how’s best to put this, rudimentary.

Chicken tends to get served in three forms; chicken that’s been hit with an axe, chicken that’s been run over with a truck and exploded chicken. And if like me, you’re not a fluent Chinese reader then there’s no way of knowing which form of chicken you will receive in your choice of dish.

Here in Tibet, where yak is popular and may I add, quite delicious, the butchery followS the same basic tenants as for the chicken, although obviously on a much larger scale. I once ordered a yak curry which the menu described as ‘yak that’s been hit by the Shanghai to Nanjing express, served in a light and creamy butter masala sauce’. Now I wouldn’t swear to that being an exact literal translation of the menu, but I feel I’ve caught the gist of it.

After my egg fried rice and several cups of Yak butter tea, I go outside to take some photographs before we re-commence the ride. I feel so sorry for the donkeys and mules that spend their working lives in harness, hauling improbable loads at impossible altitudes and doing so with extraordinary compliance and patience. I can’t help being reminded of ‘Boxer’ the cart horse in Animal Farm, who worked himself to death because he believed that it was the right thing to do. Orwell may have known the human condition, but he also knew animals as well.

It’s time to go, we have a further 50 kilometres to go horizontally, and one and a quarter vertically.

Mark arrived in Kathmandu on Tuesday (8th May) and we flew to Doha, Qatar the following evening. A five hour “overnight” stop in a swish hotel and we were off on the early morning flight to Athens on Thursday morning. We booked a hotel at the airport on arrival, received with the ever cheerful “it’s very easy to find from the station”. We lugged our bags into the  relevant bus and proceeded into town, sadly with no basis to identify the relevant station.  Sometime into the journey we randomly disembarked the bus and took a taxi to the hotel.

The next day we ordered a taxi to the offices of ITC, who we believe had shipment of our bikes. Fifteen kilometres or so in a taxi and we were dropped at an unlikely location – a sort of lorry park with loading bays. A lap around the building revealed some small offices inside, one of which turned out to be ITC. We arrived about 8.45 – there was no one there. Some girls in a neighbouring office ventured that maybe we could expect someone to be there by 9.15.

This proved to be near enough accurate and a helpful girl offered us coffee and water when she arrived. Friendly though she was it was little comfort to learn that the bikes were not here – they were about 30 kilometres away and the location was “complicated” to find. We ordered a taxi and were given the telephone of Nikos who would talk our taxi driver in. It was indeed complicated and there were long and occasionally incredulous exchanges between the taxi driver and Nikos. Eventually we arrived at the “NAF” warehouse and the two splendid crates that held our steeds were revealed. Two guys helped us unpack – essentially smashing the crate apart with a hammer. The bikes were largely intact – top boxes needed to be re-attached and some fuel located. Both bikes started and we headed back to the hotel to pack.

In honesty Mark’s packing is better than mine. My bike looks like someone has stacked two oversize bags on the back seat; ungainly at best, precarious at worst. We set off in the afternoon heading north east towards the Aegean sea. First impressions of Greece are favourable. It doesn’t look like a country on its arse. It has no Government and is in danger of defaulting on Government payments if it doesn’t negotiate a bailout and yet there is an everyday normality about everything. The Greek people are kind and friendly.

We spent 3 nights in Greece, gradually winding our way towards the Turkish border. Some lovely sea views, with picturesque hills inland to complete the vista. We reached the Turkish border on Sunday. There was an immediate problem – they wanted to see the log book for my bike. It was at home. You need to buy green card insurance at the border and for this you need to produce your log book. A standoff ensued. Eventually it was decided they could issue the green card if I produced the chassis number. This was eventually located on the frame, where it was unreadable. It was carefully peeled off and offered up.  The Green Card document was issued and we entered Turkey after some delay.

M*A*S*H’ed, Trashed and Crashed (Part 3)

As we had arranged the previous night, our driver and Jon collected me from the hospital at eight the following morning. It was too early for Nick to be discharged as the doctor wouldn’t be available until nine, so Jon took my place as ‘Nick-nurse’ while I went back to the hotel for a shower and some breakfast.

After a night of oxygen, sound sleep and his medication, Nick was looking so much better, we knew of course that these improvements would only be short lived if we couldn’t get him to lower altitudes. Kathmandu was about 500 km away – about twelve hours away by Land Cruiser or around twice that by Chang. The situation that we were in was that we did have a Chang, but not a Land Cruiser. Now at the risk of turning this blog into a public thank you forum, I would like to thank, Greg and Darryl, our Aussie film crew, for giving up their Land Cruiser to get Nick to Kathmandu – they piled their mountain of expensive hardware into the back of our flat-bed truck, to free up their Land Cruiser for the dash to Nepal and lower altitudes. Guys, you were brilliant, thank you so much.

I found it a great relief to be eating breakfast in the hotel, knowing that Nick was better and. To be brutally honest, it was a relief to be out of that hospital. We arranged to meet up again back at the hospital, so that Nick could be formally discharged, placed in the Land Cruiser and taken immediately to Kathmandu. The film crew wanted footage of the departure and the goodbyes.

Before I explain what happened next, I need a little scene setting, or if you prefer my attempt at making excuses. The truth is I was shattered, absolutely dog tired and exhausted. I don’t want to appear churlish here, but I was so looking forward to a night in that lovely Shigadse hotel, a soft warm bed to catch up with my lost sleep.

…….which offered the all comfort and softness of a mortician’s slab covered with a millimetre of household dust……..

The hospital, was not contusive to a good night’s sleep, it wasn’t just the bed which offered the all comfort and softness of a mortician’s slab covered with a millimetre of household dust for padding, it probably wasn’t the constant interruption of the nurse flicking the light so that she could see to change Nick’s drip or adjust his oxygen supply and it probably wasn’t even the discomfort. Lying in a foreign hospital five thousand miles from home, does make your mind wander. You wonder about the wisdom of this trip, what the consequences could be and the unpalatable truth that there are, and will always be, things that are outside your control, the random throw of the dice, the laws of probability.

Lying in a foreign hospital five thousand miles from home, does make your mind wander.

Demons, however, cannot face the bright light of day, certainly not the brilliance of a Tibetan sky in spring sunshine, and a good breakfast certainly put pay to any lingering doubts. I was back on the bike and ready for anything, my tiredness had disappeared.

I’m not sure how I became separated from the rest of the group, but we set off from the hotel for the hospital, I was toward the end of the group. The traffic was a little heavy in Shigadse certainly, but nothing too serious, certainly not up to the usual standards of Chinese city organised madness. The group swung left across three streams of oncoming traffic, not as suicidal as you might think, Chinese drivers expect this sort of thing and give way, or swerve around you. For some reason I misjudged it and hesitated. The group sped off leaving me behind three streams of now considerably faster moving oncoming traffic. I would have to wait for them to pass. By the time I set off again the rest of the group had disappeared, but hey, no problem I knew where the hospital was, I had after all been there before.

I was keen to catch up with the group because I wanted to arrive at the hospital with the others as the film crew were planning on filming us arriving together. I found myself following an ashcart and started planning my overtake. When the ashcart suddenly slowed, a glance over my left shoulder showed a car about to overtake both me and the ash cart. Hardly a problem – I’m on a bike. Slam open the throttle and accelerate hard through the closing gap.

Then there was a Bang!

For an instant my brain wondered what could possibly have made such a noise, then the side car lifted. It probably only lifted a foot or so into the air but it felt considerable more. I’d slammed the side car into the back of the ash cart. In that split second decision to overtake I’d forgotten that I wasn’t on a solo motorbike! I was at least a metre wider that I’m normally used to. It was a serious error of judgement. Tiredness? Altitude? Simply getting flustered about losing the group? The truth is I really don’t know, but I took it as a serious wake up call. I’d have to up my game and concentrate more on what I was doing.

It also crosseed my mind to wonder what reception I’d receive, arriving late at the hospital, with a heavily dented sidecar, so I must give Peter, all due credit for his friendly reassurances, that, it was only metal that I dented and that he was thankful that I wasn’t hurt, so thank you Peter, that gesture really was appreciated.

The goodbyes were a somewhat stilted affair; I was very conscious that my every move was being filmed as we loaded Nick and Jon into the Land Cruiser for the long haul to Kathmandu. And then there was one, I thought as we headed out from The Shigadse hospital, 120 km to go, 100 of which will be off road. Next stop, Everest Base Camp.

M*A*S*H’ed, Trashed and Crashed (Part 2).

Shigadse is very roughly half way between Lhasa and Kathmandu so it’s very tempting to think of it as the half-way point on the journey. Shigadse is also the jumping off point for the journey to Everest Base Camp, so in terms of the physical effort required; it’s far from the half – way point.

The ride from Gyantse to Shigadse was tiring, it’s not that far, 230 km or so, but the slow speed of the Chang and the lack of sleep are beginning to tell on me a little. If the only effect that the altitude is having on me is a lack of sleep then, it’s hardly a problem. For Nick, things are not looking better; indeed he finds himself ‘demoted’ further, from the sidecar to the truck.

Shigadse is a sizeable town which boasts, easily the best hotel that we’ve stayed at so far and, far more importantly, a hospital. Hospitals are not the same throughout the world, I think that is the best way I can put it. Nick was received promptly upon arrival and the doctor, luckily spoke a little English, which was of course a great help. We were then directed to a small ward with two beds in it, the first bed was occupied by a Chinese man receiving oxygen and quite obviously in some distress. A nurse directed Nick to the second bed, where he too was given oxygen.

Let me now set the scene for you. I do not intend this as a criticism of the medical staff of the hospital in any way, far from it, the medical attention Nick received was excellent. He was diagnosed swiftly and accurately and he was medicated appropriately. If anything the conditions that the doctors and nurses work under, emphasises their commitment and skill rather that detracting from it.

I used the word ward to describe the room; this may have given the wrong impression. The room was small, no more than two metres wide, it was dirty, the carpet on the floor was threadbare and deeply stained, there was litter strewn everywhere. The walls had once been painted a dark green colour; this was now peeling and flaking off in large swathes. The beds were unchanged from patient to patient and bore the stains of their former occupiers. Standing against one wall was the medical cabinet, un-locked, as the lock appeared to have been broken for some time.

Our driver, a helpful and curious man at the best of times, but also, so it appeared a little naive in matters medical, picked up a sealed syringe from the cupboard and started to idly play with it. Collectively, mine and Jon’s Chinese is about up to ‘hello’ and ‘thank you’, although I believe Jon can also say ‘left’ and ‘right’; the point being that our abilities fell far short of being able to explain the importance of not damaging the packaging to avoid the syringe becoming contaminated.

…………………………was placed a screaming, hysterical, hyperventilating Chinese girl….

Imagine now if you will, a scene from M*A*S*H and the resulting, inevitable, chaos that occurs when the helicopters arrive bringing in the wounded, now hold that image in your mind and you will have some idea of the scene that follows; because into this small, cramped, dirty ward, with both beds being occupied by two men obviously in distress and being fed oxygen was placed a screaming, hysterical, hyperventilating Chinese girl of about 14 years of age and two of her very supportive and, thankfully, sensible friends.

The doctor decided, that in order to confirm her diagnosis an x-ray would be required, this was swiftly arranged and a wheelchair was provided to transport Nick from the MASH unit to the radiography department. Chinese hospitals don’t have porters, it’s up to the relatives to transport the patients around from department to department, we were lucky as our Chinese fixer was still with us and volunteered to do the pushing. It may have only been a short distance 300 m at the most but it was uphill, it would have been a little strenuous at sea level, but at 4000 m, I‘m not sure I would have made it. Micmar – you have my eternal thanks.

The radiography suite was equipped with all the very latest equipment, it was clean and looked very modern, which was, of course, all very reassuring, we felt that we were in safe competent hands. The radiographer directed us to take Nick into the x-ray room and place him on the bed, while she retired into her shielded operations room. Placing Nick onto the bed of the huge x-ray machine was very straight forward as the machine adopts a vertical aspect to get patients on and off. When the patient is secure and comfortable, it begins its slow rotation to a horizontal aspect for the x-ray to be taken.

I have no medical knowledge, so what happened next may well be standard European procedure, but I’m guessing not. We waited to make sure that Nick was comfortable on his rotating machine before we left the room and closed the huge shielded doors. Actually that’s what we intended to do, but no sooner had the machine reached its horizontal plane, it started to rotate slowly back the other way, with the radiographer appearing at the door smiling and saying “all done”. When we came to pay for the x-ray we were told “30 yuan”.

“Is that just for Nick or for all three of us?” quipped Jon.

Nick was diagnosed with an oedema. He would have to stay in overnight, be kept on oxygen and be drip fed saline solution and penicillin. Before the doctor finished her explanation, it had become evident that Nick’s Himalayan adventure was over – he would have to be taken to lower altitudes, preferably by tomorrow morning.

We were just saying our goodnights to Nick when the doctor interjected with, ”No, no not possible, one of you must stay in with him”. Apparently the hospital, in common with many Chinese hospitals, has only one nurse on overnight. She is obviously kept so busy administering medication to all the patients in her ward that she couldn’t possibly monitor an individual; that was the job of a relative.

Jon and I both knew the full implications of the evenings events; Jon spoke first “Mark this is not negotiable, it’s your trip, you stay in overnight with Nick, I’ll accompany Nick to the lower altitude of Kathmandu”.

This blog is my public thank you to Jon. It would be me that would have the opportunity to get to Everest Base Camp, the other two would miss out.

Jon, thank you so much for that. I don’t think you will ever know how much I appreciated that gesture.

The hyperventilating girl had to be sedated.

If after reading this, there is anyone who still thinks that publically funded healthcare is not the best solution, please leave your email address in the blog’s comment area and I shall email you the iphone pictures that I took in the hospital. They are not suitable for the blog.

The ride from Lhasa was truly fabulous. I’m beginning to forgive the Chang all it’s, let’s be generous, it’s foibles. The sky is blue, and there’s snow on the surrounding peaks, the road is straight, level and beautifully smooth – the easiest of easy riding. There are times when I have to pinch myself to make sure that I’m not dreaming. This really is me, with my two brothers riding my motorcycle through Tibet, China

I’m passing fields being ploughed by Yaks hauling wooden ploughs. I’m riding past peasant farmers dressed in their traditional Tibetan costume, men, women and children carrying hoes and shovels and rakes. They’re about to spend a day in the fields, I’m on a motorcycling holiday. I’m having trouble believing that it’s me doing this. Me, really me! I’m not Lawrence of Arabia or Alan Wicker, or even come to think of it Judith Chalmers! I want to stop and smack my head on the petrol tank to make sure I’m not dreaming.

Me, really me! I’m not Lawrence of Arabia or Alan Wicker, or even come to think of it Judith Chalmers!

The ride over our first 5000m pass brings home the enormity of the Tibetan Plateau. The road winds and twists and turns, climbing steadily for kilometre after kilometre, the view is, to use that rather overworked word, awesome; in the sense that it fills one with awe. Not just the scale of the landscape – there’s no pass in Europe anywhere near this height, but the stark brutality of the landscape. The Tibetan Plateau is a desert. There doesn’t appear to be a drop of greenery anywhere, it’s parched, dry and barren. Due to the altitude, the soil is bathed in harsh UV light. And the wind. The wind is such a constant feature, sometimes at gale force, sometimes a little less, but it’s always there, blowing the soil in dust clouds to sweep across the plateau. The wind dries your skin, blows choking dust into your lungs and eyes, and sucks, not just the moisture from your body, but the very life out of you. It’s your constant companion – your every waking hour companion.

Our first night above 4 500 m was spent in a Guest House in Nangadse, a high, dusty, run down and very poor village. The Guest house lacked any form of heating, hot water or indeed come to that cold water! It, needless to say, lacked any form of sanitation or at least it lacked anything that the normal usage of the word sanitation would conjure up. It was, shall we say basic. The owners of the business were clearly struggling to make ends meet, despite being a favourite stop for the truck drivers that ply this route across Tibet. The lady that showed me to mine and Nick’s room was very pleasant and provided us with a thermos flask of hot water and a plastic bowl to wash in.

The Guest house lacked any form of heating, hot water or indeed come to that cold water!

After spendin the night above 4 500m we all awoke tired, from lack of sleep, hung-over from lack of oxygen and, quite frankly, feeling none too good. Nick appeared to be suffering more than most. Although he was bright and perky, or at least as bright and perky as the rest of us, he had difficulty coordinating movements, especially so when walking. The decision was made that Nick should travel in Jon’s sidecar until we reached lower altitudes and he felt better.

The journey to Gyantse was made in beautiful bright sunshine, a fabulous ride, although we were getting more and more concerned about Nick. Riding behind Jon, it appeared for all the world that Jon was attempting to smuggle a cadaver across Tibet by dressing it in motorcycling attire! Nick’s head rolled and flopped about, its movements exaggerated by the weight of his helmet. It was clear that he wasn’t just dozing, but very deeply asleep.

By the time we got to the night’s accommodation, a rather splendid hotel and all the more welcome after the previous night’s accommodation, Nick was decidedly worse. His movements becoming more and more uncoordinated; slightly slurred speech and a staggering rolling walk, Nick appeared quite unperturbed by these symptoms, possibly because for those suffering from anoxia, diagnosing your own symptoms is unreliable or whether it was mere familiarity with the symptoms of a good Saturday night on the town – impossible to say. However Jon and I were sufficiently concerned to take him to a doctor. Nick was diagnosed with ‘altitude sickness’, no surprises there, and was prescribed various pills, potions, some phials of glucose injection (to be drunk) and an aerosol can of oxygen.

The Gyantse Hotel was exceptionally comfortable, and despite the altitude I slept rather well. Nick also slept rather well – suspiciously well.

Lhasa

I’m liking Lhasa much more this afternoon than I did this morning. You see Lhasa is high, we all knew that. I know that it’s 3 500m above sea level as my Lonely Planet guide told me so. I was also aware that most people have some difficulties adapting to the altitude. So I expected ‘some difficulties’. However what I didn’t expect was such fitful night’s sleep – despite being tired from the flight from Shanghai and the cumulative effect of the three night’s sleep deprivation that comes from sleeping on a sofa.

At altitude for the first time, you fall asleep in the usual manner, whereupon your breathing falls into its normal pattern that it uses for the more familiar lower altitudes where there’s nearly twice as much oxygen in the air than there is in Lhasa. The result; you wake up in a panic struggling and gasping for breath.

Altitude sickness can be a ‘little like a hangover’ I remember reading in my guide book. Technically correct advice as the feeling was ‘a little like a hangover’, in the same sense as the Boy Scouts are a little like the SAS. I awoke with my head feeling that I’d fallen asleep wearing my crash helmet, which miraculously had shrunk to half its size during the night. My shoulders and arm ached, I was nauseous and disorientated. The walk to the breakfast hall exhausted me as much as the smell of breakfast cooking nauseated me. A hangover to match this could only happen if you’d imbibed enough alcohol to fell an elephant.

………………..the feeling was ‘a little like a hangover’, in the same sense as the Boy Scouts are a little like the SAS.

The three of us, myself, Nick and Jon (please read my previous blog, Shanghai Surprise for the reason why there’s now all three of us) flew into Lhasa from Shanghai at 4:00 pm on Wednesday. Followed by a day to acclimatise and explore the Potala Palace and, for me, my first ride on the Chang Jang. Enough has been written about the Chang Jang on this blog so no further details are really necessary from me, except that I like to add that it’s exactly as you’d expect a vehicle that was designed 75 years ago to be like. I can’t really comment on the brakes – it barely has any. The Chang, like all motorcycles has two brakes.

…………..changing gear requires similar levels of effort to that which would be required to kick start a Boeing.

However on a Chang the rear brake does very little and the front brake does nothing at all. The steering likewise; requires brute force, not to steer it, but merely to dissuade it from shooting off in all the random directions that it chooses – several times a minute. That leaves the gears; suffice to say that changing gear requires similar levels of effort to that which would be required to kick start a Boeing.

Still, I successfully completed a two kilometre ride – once round the car park, into a petrol station and back to the hotel, just 1200 to go, oh and Lhasa is the lowest place I’ll be for the next 10 days – Everest base camp is 1800 m higher!

It’s beginning to dawn on me what I’ve let myself in for.

Shanghai never disappoints. After an absence of three years I wander around Pudong, wide eyed, with my neck craned skywards exactly the same as I did the first time I came here.

I’m in Shanghai at stage one of the Big Bike Trip, with a day free, so while my brother Nick has elected a foot massage; I’m electing to use mine. We arrived yesterday and tomorrow we’ll me meeting Peter Klein, our fixer for our motorcycle ride in Tibet, but today is all mine and what better way to spend it than to get reacquainted with Pudong? Pudong is downtown Shanghai, Flash Gordon’s city of the future, China’s breath-taking stance on modernism.

After a period of unsettled weather, today is beautiful, the sun is shining, the sky is blue and Pudong’s sci-fi skyline sparkles in spring sunshine. My taxi driver dropped me off at the Huang Po River ferry terminal. The view of Pudong from the ferry is well worth the 20p that the ticket cost me.

…………Pudong’s sci-fi skyline sparkles in spring sunshine.

Crossing the Huang Po River to the opposite side from Pudong takes you to the Bund, formerly under Portuguese influence; it’s one of the few remaining old parts of Shanghai. The Bund was closed for renovation when I was last here, so I was keen to see what modern go-ahead China had made of it.

The ferry I’d chosen for the crossing was strangely quiet, just myself, an elderly Chinese gentleman and an exasperated woman of around thirty who appeared to be taking her two elderly and decidedly cantankerous parents for a day out. Alighting on the opposite bank was an eerily quiet and civilized affair. Normally getting off the ferry is a little like standing on the starting grid of a 125 cc motorcycle race, as dozens of mopeds and scooters jostle for position to be the first to reach the loading ramp.

I elected to turn left after a gentle stroll off the ferry, the Bund now has many new tourist developments the first that I came to were the Cool Harbour and the City Beach. The Cool Harbour was worth a visit, a peaceful inner city court yard with fountains surrounded by cafes and restaurants. The architecture – a curious mixture of imperialist China and Disney theme park.

I can’t comment on the City Beach – it hardly seemed worth the £5 cover price to get in (although in all fairness, I should point out that this did include ‘a free, small, soft drink’). I know this because it said so under the sign that said ‘no defecating, urinating or spitting!
I could have spent much more time exploring The Bund, but it’ll have to wait ‘til next time as I was keen to get back to Pudong and its temples to consumerism. Pudong’s shopping malls have a cathedral air to them, as if communism has found religion. I singled out the Apple Store for my attention, I needed to send a few emails and Apple Stores are good for this the world over, and you also get the latest of Apple’s fabulous products to send them from.

The Apple Store is entirely underground, it’s enhance heralded by a 10 m tall cylindrical tall glass tower, no words on it just a discreet Apple logo which has an ethereal presence, suspended in the centre of the tower. Inside it’s like any Apple Store the world over, except bigger, and with more products on display, and more staff. A top Mac Book Pro costs around three and a half times the average monthly Shanghai wage, yet this stuff is selling. Apple; the epitome of American cool and sophistication, in what we called Red China when I was a child. Shanghai surprises. I also tried to log on to my Facebook account; it was, as you’d expect, barred, which I found oddly re-assuring.
For the evening we’d arranged to go for a few drinks and a meal – Myself, Nick and Jon, the three brothers and some of Jon’s mates. Finding Guinness in a Shanghai bar is hardly a surprise, there’s no shortage of the stuff no matter where you are in the world.

The restaurant – if judged by its surprise value alone didn’t disappoint; chickens’ hearts, sea urchin and pigs’ intestine were cooked before your very eyes on a charcoal burner in the middle of the table.
Actually this is less of a surprise than you’d imagine as Jon did the ordering. Incidentally if you’re wondering what pigs’ intestine tastes like, close your eyes briefly and imagine. Yes, you’ve got it! That’s exactly what pigs’ intestine tastes like. So no surprises there.
The biggest surprise was left for later. After the restaurant we returned to the bar for a few more beers. Sitting at an outside table on a warm Shanghai night, Jon calmly leans back on his chair and announces ‘oh, by the way, I’m coming with you!’

‘No you’re not’ we replied.

‘Yes, yes I am’

‘No! Get away Jon ‘

This went on for a quite a while, before the truth of the situation was finally accepted. Jon was actually coming with us! The biggest Shanghai surprise of all, and yet somehow the moment had been lost!

Sunday 6th May 2012 – Technically all elements of riding from Lhasa, Tibet to Kathmandu, Nepal have been accomplished. Sort of.

Jon and I have been in Kathmandu since 1st May. John left last night to fly back to Shanghai. Mark has ridden to Everest base camp on a Chang Jiang 750 and is now in a truck headed back to Lhasa. The road into Nepal was apparently blocked by a landslide. He is going to try and get a flight to Kathmandu on Tuesday. We have flights to Doha, Qatar on Wednesday evening, with an onward flight to Athens on Thursday morning. The bikes are apparently en route to Athens. We need to be in Istanbul by Tuesday 15th May.  What could go wrong

Kathmandu has been restful and fun. Very different from Tibet. Although dusty, it is green and luscious, and has water and, above all, oxygen. Exploring has been on foot – lots of narrow, bustling market streets, ever accompanied with the horns of motorbikes and cars. The food has been good – inevitably curry, but largely vegetable-based dishes. Everywhere there are people.

We watched a Hindu cremation, with the body burnt on the banks of the river. Apparently it is only the belly button that remains after the body is burnt. Two to three hours to cremate a body, with women taking longer than men. On the plus side, none of the Crew brothers provided the corpse, so by that measure alone, the trip has not been a complete failure .

The final night in Lhasa saw Jon, Bernd and I opt to go for a massage. We received directions to a place nearby. It was an unlikely-looking office building, with smartly turned out security guards at the main gate. The main guard confirmed that we were in the right place and proceeded to show us to the lift. His diligence extended to accompanying us to the correct floor and showing us into a large room, with an enormous bed, with handrails fixed on the ceiling above it.

We were duly provided with pyjamas and lay prostate across the bed, like over-sized infants. We each had a masseuse, who would walk on our backs, partially supporting her weight using the guide rails. When lying face-down it’s hard to figure out exactly who is doing what to who. It was an odd, somewhat surreal, experience. It was good-natured and fun, with much banter between the girls. On occasions you would be able to move your head sufficiently to be able to gather what was going on. The clearest image of all was the smartly-attired security guard sitting at the end of the bed, still watching proceedings intently.

Friday 27th April saw the motley crew of five Chang Jiangs. one 4*4 for filming and one support truck depart Lhasa. If I say so myself, we did it with some style. The Chang Jiangs’  rode in formation past the Dalai Lama’s Potala Palace, completely blocking the road. There was a cacophony of horns, bemused looks, curiosity and goodwill. Greg and Darrell rushing around with cameras on tripods, as if on a film set. Fortunately the police only gave us passing attention. Peter had been unable to get Mark and I Chinese driving licences.

On the outskirts of Lhasa Pete tied a Tibetan scarf to the crash barrier at the  side of the road in memory of the guy who died on last year’s trip. He had drifted wide on an uneven piece of road and hit an oncoming truck head-on. His wife, in the sidecar, was seriously injured.

As the town faded we climbed the first 5,000 meter pass – more than three miles above sea level in old money. The CJ’s climbed the twisty mountain road without difficulty despite the altitude.   I felt surprisingly good – the constant ‘altitude headache’ had faded – and the stunning views made it easy to forget day-to-day maladies.

The exact chronology of events over the next few days remain confused in my mind. At some point I started falling over – unable to co-ordinate or judge things properly. This concerned others more than it concerned me. I remember being taken to a doctor at Gyantse and being prescribed a selection of pills and potions. These do not appear to have had the desired effect and it was resolved that I would visit the hospital at Shigatse, as this was the last place en route where there would be suitable medical facilities.

The doctor attached a probe to my finger which produced a reading of something like 34 – it should be 95 she explained. She put me on Oxygen, explained that I had pulmonary oedema and would need a chest X-ray. Sunday 29th April was spent in hospital – with a drip-feed of antibiotics to accompany my oxygen feed. Mark drew the short-straw and had to stay the night with me; there was only one nurse to cover the entire hospital at night it was explained.

The nurse did pop in periodically during the night to top up the antibiotics in the drip system, and to adjust the oxygen feed. Peeing was more problematic. I was provided with a small container but the size was evidently based upon the presumably smaller-bladdered Tibetan patient. I was in no position to go looking for a toilet, which regrettably, only left the ‘empty it out of the window’ option. Even this dignifies proceedings, as it omits the overspill from the capacity issue. Once in full flow it is all but impossible to stop.

Morning came with a medical note and strict instructions that I would need to be taken to lower altitude. Jon it was resolved would accompany me and a driver and head towards the Nepalese border. By 10.30 at night this was achieved and we spent Monday 30th April in the wet border town of Nyalam.

Tuesday 1st May – we headed first thing to the border and customs. One immediate problem was there was now only two of the Welsh contingent on the paperwork and the border guards require the full three brothers to process us. Jon was insistent on the ‘medical emergency’ story but points out to me that my failure to keep falling over is casting doubt on its credibility. I compromise with ‘assisted walking’ from our driver and the act is deemed good enough for us to pass immigration.

We bid farewell to our driver who heads back to re-join the main group and find ourselves a new Indian driver to take us to Kathmandu. Walking across the bridge at the border the scenery is green and spectacular, with water running in deep gulley’s beneath us. The atmosphere is chaotic and vibrant – people are washing themselves at the roadside. Three hours or so later we arrive in the bustle of Kathmandu.