"Everyone gets a picture," I said. "Now you have a nice portrait of the Dalai Lama. You are very happy, right?"—they laughed, hearing me jabber in English—"And you want to help us. Now let's straighten that axle, and get the wheel on, and push this goddamned car back onto the road. Get some ropes and hitch it up"—they were laughing and nodding—"and push us over there, because Nga Lhasa la drogi yin, and if I don't I am going to be very annoyed. What do you say?"
They all said "Ya, ya!" and set to work.
It took less than half an hour for them to fix the wheel and dig out the car, and then, with eight of us pushing and Mr. Fu gunning the engine, we flopped and struggled until the car was back on the road. As the wheels spun and everyone became covered with dust, I thought: I love these people.
Afterwards they showed me little pictures of the Dalai Lama and the Panchen Lama on the sun visors in the cabs of their trucks.
"Dalai Lama, Dalai Lama," they chanted.
Mr. Fu thanked them in Chinese. It meant that he had to swallow his pride to do that. They didn't care. They laughed at him and waved him away.
It was now early afternoon. It had all been a shock, and yet I was encouraged because we had survived it. It seemed miraculous that we were still alive. But Mr. Fu said nothing. When we set off again, he seemed both dazed and frenzied. His glasses had broken in the crash, and I could see that he was wild-eyed. He was also very dirty. Miss Sun was sniffing, whimpering softly.
The car was in miserable shape. It looked the way I felt. I was surprised that it had restarted; I was amazed that its four wheels were turning. That is another way of saying that it seemed logical to me, a few minutes after we set off again, that a great screeching came from the back axle. It was the sort of sound that made me think that the car was about to burst apart.
We stopped. We jacked up the car. We took a back wheel off to have a closer look. The brakes were twisted, and pieces of metal were protruding into the rim. At low speeds this made a clackety-clack, and faster it rose to a shriek. There was no way to fix it. We put the wheel back on, and while Mr. Fu tightened the nuts, I looked around. I had never in my life seen such light—the sky was like a radiant sea; and at every edge of this blasted desert with its leathery plants were strange gray hills and snowy peaks. We were on the plateau. It was a world I had never seen before—of emptiness and wind-scoured rocks and dense light. I thought: If I have to be stranded anywhere, this is the place I want it to be. I was filled with joy at the thought of being abandoned there, at the edge of the Tibetan Plateau.
"I think it is heating up," Mr. Fu said, after he had driven a hundred yards down the road.
He was breathing hard and noisily through his nose. He slammed on the brakes, ran around to the back wheel and spat on the rim. It wasn't frustration. It was his way of determining how hot the hub was.
He remained kneeling by the back wheel, his head bowed.
"Are you all right, Mr. Fu?"
He stood up and staggered, and then he grinned horribly at me. He seemed manic. He yelled that he was fine, and it was obvious from the way he said it that he wasn't.
"It is very high here!" he cried. There was dust on his face. His hair was bristly. His color had changed, too. He looked ashen.
After that, we kept stopping. The wheel noise was dreadful. But that was not the worst of it. Mr. Fu's driving changed. Usually he went fast—and then I told him clearly to slow down. (No one will ever make me sit still in a speeding car again, I thought: I will always protest.) Mr. Fu's overcareful slow driving unnerved me almost as much as his reckless driving.
This did not last long. We came to a pass that linked the Tanggula Shan with the Kunlun Shan. It was a Chinese belief that in a valley nearby there was a trickle that rose and became the great brown torrent that ended in Shanghai, the Great River that only foreigners know as the Yangtze. The river is one of the few geographical features that the Chinese are genuinely mystical about. But they are not unusual in that. Most people are bewitched by big rivers.
This pass was just under 17,000 feet. Mr. Fu stopped the car, and I got out and looked at a stone tablet that gave the altitude and mentioned the mountains. The air was thin, I was a bit breathless, but the landscape was dazzling—the soft contours of the plateau, and the long folded stretches of snow, like beautiful gowns laid out all over the countryside, a gigantic version of the way Indians set out their laundry to dry. I was so captivated by the magnificence of the place I didn't mind the discomfort of the altitude.
"Look at the mountains, Mr. Fu."
"I don't feel well," he said, not looking up. "It's the height."
He rubbed his eyes. Miss Sun was still whimpering. Would she scream in a minute?
I got in and Mr. Fu drove fifty yards. His driving had worsened. He was in the wrong gear, the gearbox was hiccuping; and still the rear wheel made its hideous ratcheting.
Without warning, he stopped in the middle of the road and gasped, "I cannot drive any more!"
He wasn't kidding. He looked ill. He kept rubbing his eyes.
"I can't see! I can't breathe!"
Miss Sun burst into tears.
I thought: Oh, shit.
"What do you want to do?" I asked.
He shook his head. He was too ill to contemplate the question.
I did not want to hurt his pride, especially here at a high altitude, so I said carefully, "I know how to drive a car."
"You do?" He blinked. He was very thin. He looked like a starving hamster.
"Yes, yes," I said.
He gladly got into the back. Miss Sun hardly acknowledged the fact that I was now sitting beside her. I took the wheel and off we went. In the past few hours the ridiculous little Nipponese car had been reduced to a jalopy. It was dented; it made a racket; it smoked; and the most telling of its jalopy features was that it sagged to one side—whether it was a broken spring or a cracked axle I didn't know. It had received a mortal blow, but it was still limping along. I had to hold tight to the steering wheel. The sick car kept trying to steer itself into the ditch on the right-hand side of the road.
Mr. Fu was asleep. This cycle of frenzy and fatigue was something I had seen before in China. It seemed a Chinese way of living: working very hard, with tremendous concentration or else flailing arms, and then stopping suddenly and going to sleep. Often in trains, two chattering and gesticulating people would crap out and begin to snore like bullfrogs.
I could see in the rearview mirror that Mr. Fu's color had changed, the sallowness had replaced his papery look of fear and illness. In sleep he looked calmer, and he had a bold snore. Miss Sun, too, was asleep. I pushed in Beethoven's Symphony No. 6 and continued towards Lhasa. I liked this. I liked listening to music. I liked the fact that the other passengers were asleep. I loved the look of Tibet. I might have died back there on the road; but I was alive. It was wonderful to be alive and doing the driving.
The road was oddly straight—few curves, no mountainside stretches, none of the alpine circling and hairpin bends I had expected. I had to force myself to keep my eyes on the road, because I kept wanting to look at the surrounding landscape. I was driving in a dry snow-flecked desert that was quite flat, and the snowy peaks at the edge were like the heads and shoulders of giant druids showing around an immense table. In the distance the mountains were vast and black, rather frightening, with sharp cliffs and flinty-looking slopes. But the road was even. It was innocent looking. No other vehicles appeared on it. It occurred to me that a person could easily travel down this Tibetan road on a bicycle, and I began to plan a trip that involved riding a bike around Tibet.
There were no people here that I could see. But there were yaks grazing on some of the hillsides—presumably the herds of the nomadic tent-dwelling Tibetans who were said to roam this part of the province. The yaks were black and brown, and some had white patches. They were ornamented with ribbons in their long hair, and they all had lovely tails, as thick as any horse's. In some places, herds of Tibetan gazelles g
razed near the road.
Mr. Fu slept on, but Miss Sun woke up, and before I could change the cassette, she slipped in one of her own. It was the sound track of an Indian movie, in Hindi; but the title song was in English.
I am a disco dancer!
I am a disco dancer!
This imbecilic chant was repeated interminably with twangling from an electric guitar.
"That is Indian music," I said. "Do you like it?"
"I love it," Miss Sun said.
"Do you understand the words?"
"No," she said. "But it sounds nice."
It sounded awful. I kept driving. I had no idea where we were, but it hardly mattered. There was only one road. The accident had made me cautious. I was averaging about fifty miles an hour. And the car was making such ominous noises I thought that if I went any faster it would fly apart. Mr. Fu woke up, but he showed no inclination to drive. I was glad of that, because it was glorious to be bouncing down this Tibetan road in full sunshine, past the yaks and the gazelles, with mountains all around.
At about four we were almost out of gas. Mr. Fu said he had spare gas in the trunk, in big cans, but just as I noticed the gas gauge, we approached a small settlement.
"Stop here," Mr. Fu said.
He directed me to a shack, which turned out to be a gas station—old-fashioned gas nozzles on long hoses. It was, like all gas stations in Tibet, run by the People's Liberation Army.
"We should get the tire fixed, too."
Mr. Fu said, "No. They don't fix tires."
In Xining I had asked Mr. Fu to bring two spares. He had brought one, and it was being used. So we were traveling without a spare.
"Where will we get the tire fixed?"
He pointed vaguely down the road, towards Lhasa. It meant he didn't have the slightest idea.
I walked over to the soldier filling the tank.
"Where are we?"
"This is Wudaoliang."
Names look so grand on a map. But this place hardly justified being on a map. How could a gas station, some barracks and a barbed-wire fence even deserve a name? And the name was bad news, because Wudaoliang was not even halfway to our destination, which was Amdo.
As if to make the moment operatic, the weather suddenly changed. A wind sprang up, clouds tumbled across the sun, and the day grew very dark and cold. My map was flapping against the car roof. It would be night soon.
"When will we get to Amdo, Mr. Fu?"
"About six o'clock."
Wrong, of course. Mr. Fu's calculations were wildly inaccurate. I had stopped believing that he had ever been on this road before. It was possible that my map was misleading—it had shown roads that didn't exist, and settlements that were no more than ruins and blowing sand.
Mr. Fu had no map. He had a scrap of paper with seven towns scribbled on it, the stops between Golmud and Lhasa. The scrap of paper had become filthy from his repeatedly consulting it. He consulted it again.
"The next town is Yanshiping."
We set off. I drove; Mr. Fu dozed.
Miss Sun played "I am a disco dancer."
After an hour we passed a hut, some yaks and a ferocious dog.
"Yanshiping?"
"No."
In the fading light and freezing air this plateau no longer seemed romantic. "This country makes the Gobi seem fertile in comparison," a French traveler once wrote. It was true. Moonscape is the word most often applied to such a place; but this was beyond a moonscape—it was another universe entirely.
There were more settlements ahead. They were all small and all the same: huts with stained whitewashed square walls, flat roofs, and red, blue and green pennants and flags with mantras written on them, flying from propped-up bush branches. As these prayer flags flapped, so the mantras reverberated in the air, and grace abounded around them. There were more yaks, more fierce dogs.
"Yanshiping?"
"No."
It was nearly dark when we came to it. Yanshiping was twenty houses standing in mud on a curve in the road. There were children and dogs, yaks and goats. Several of the dogs were the biggest and fiercest I had ever seen in my life. They were Tibetan mastiffs—their Tibetan name means simply "watchdog." They lollopped and slavered and barked horribly.
"There is nowhere to stay here," Mr. Fu said, before I could ask—I was slowing down.
"What's the next town?"
He produced his filthy scrap of paper.
"Amdo. There is a hotel at Amdo."
"How far is Amdo?"
He was silent. He didn't know. After a moment, he said, "A few hours."
"Hotel" is a nice word, but China had taught me to distrust it. The more usual Chinese expression was "guest house." It was the sort of place I could never identify properly. It was a hospital, a madhouse, a house, a school, a prison. It was seldom a hotel. But, whatever, I longed to be there. It was now seven-thirty. We had been on the road for ten hours.
We continued in the dark. It was snowier here, higher and colder, on a winding road that was icy in places. There was another pass, choked with ice that never melts at any time in the year because of the altitude, another 17,000 footer.
Mr. Fu woke and saw the snow.
"Road! Watch the road!" he yelled. "Lu! Lu! Looooooo!"
The altitude put him to sleep, but each time he woke he became a terrible nag. I began to think that perhaps many Chinese in authority were nags and bores. He kept telling me to watch the road, because he was frightened. I wanted to say, You almost got us killed, Jack, but to save his face I didn't.
I often mistook the lights of distant trucks on the far side of this defile for the lights of Amdo. There was no vegetation at this altitude, and the freezing air was clear. In the darkness I saw these pinpricks of light.
"Is that Amdo?"
"Watch the road!" Mr. Fu's voice from the backseat set my teeth on edge. "Lu! Loooo!"
His nervousness made him nag. He was the passenger. I was the chauffeur. They were both in the backseat now—he and Miss Sun—she was whimpering still, he was chattering. "Keep your eyes on the road," he was saying. "Watch the road! That's not Amdo—it's a truck!"
Now and then he would tap me on the shoulder and cry, "Toilet!"
That was the greatest euphemism of all. It was usually Miss Sun who needed to have a slash. I watched her totter to the roadside and creep into a ditch, and there just out of the wind—and it was too dark even for the yaks to see her—she found relief.
Three more hours passed in this way. I wondered whether we might not be better off just pulling off the road and sleeping in the car. Midnight on the Tibetan Plateau, in the darkness and ice and wind, was not a good time to be driving. But the problem was the narrowness of the road. There was nowhere to pull off. There was a ditch on either side. If we stopped we would be rammed by one of the big army trucks that traveled by night.
I was glad we were still going. Why didn't the back wheel fall off? Why was the axle still screaming? Why didn't we get a flat tire? After all, we were traveling without a spare. Nothing bad happened. The moon came out from behind a cloud and showed me a snowy mountainside and the black pit of a valley beside the road.
I glanced at it and almost immediately Mr. Fu yelled at me.
Towards midnight I saw the sign saying Amdo. In the darkness it seemed a bleak and dangerous place. I did not know then that it would look much worse in daylight.
"We are staying at the army camp," Mr. Fu said.
To save face, Mr. Fu changed places with me and drove the last twenty feet to the sentry post. Then he got out and argued with the sentry.
He returned to the car trembling.
"They are full," he said.
"What now?"
"The guest house."
Miss Sun was sobbing quietly.
We drove across a rocky field. There was no road. We came to a boarded-up house, but before we could get out, a mastiff bounded into the car lights. It had a big square head and a meaty tongue, and it was slavering and b
arking. It was as big as a pony, something like the Hound of the Baskervilles, but vastly more sinister.
"Are you getting out?"
"No," Mr. Fu said, hoarse with fear.
Beyond the crazed and leaping dog there were yaks sleeping, standing up.
Mr. Fu kept driving across this rocky hillside, pretending he was on a road. Was he trying to prove something, after hours of yelling in the backseat?
There were more dogs. I could take the yak-meat diet; I could understand why the Tibetans didn't wash; I found the cold and the high altitude just about bearable; I could negotiate the roads. But I could not stand those fierce dogs. I was not angry or impatient. I was scared shitless.
"There is a guest house," Mr. Fu said, grinning at some dim lights ahead.
It was a dirty two-story building with bars on the windows. I guessed it was a prison, but that was all right. We checked for dogs, and while Miss Sun threw up next to the car, we went inside. A Tibetan sat on a ragged quilt on the floor, gnawing raw flesh off a yak bone. He was black with dirt, his hair was matted, he was barefoot in spite of the cold. He looked exactly like a cannibal, tearing shreds of red meat off a shank.
"We need a room," Mr. Fu said in Chinese.
The Tibetan laughed and said there was no room. He chewed with his mouth open, showing his teeth, and then with aggressive hospitality he pushed the bone into my face and demanded I take a bite.
I took out my "List of Useful Tibetan Phrases."
"Hello. I am not hungry," I said in Tibetan. "My name is Paul. What is your name? I am from America. Where are you from?"
"Bod," the cannibal said, giving me the Tibetan name for Tibet. He was grinning at my gloves. I was cold—it was way below freezing in this room. He gestured for me to sit with him on his quilt, and in the same motion he waved Mr. Fu away.
It is a Tibetan belief that all Tibetans are descended from a sexually insatiable ogress who had six children after copulating with a submissive monkey. It is just a pretty tale, of course; but looking at this man it was easy to see how the myth might have originated.