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Tribal Trekking
Our time in Luang Nam Tha began with a blast from the past. We shared a bus ride with a couple named Nick and Amelia from London and immediately recognised the body language of England’s capital. We chatted away about shared experiences and admired Nick’s dreadlocks, which had been seventeen years in the making. Although sporting diametrically opposed hairstyles, we held a common employment history. We both stand as refugees of the television industry, Nick having worked at a post production house named the Farm, not far from my previous workplace in Soho. He had also spent time as a DJ on pirate radio station Origin FM, most likely in direct competition for listeners with my show on Rude FM. We were joined by a German woman who had a portable ’exercise hula hoop’, a fat busting workout which, upon demonstration, gained rapturous applause from the locals at the bus stop. Her ample breasts were no doubt the cause for many late departures that day. I would like to offer a fair portrayal of her Glaswegian friend, but I couldn’t understand a word she said.
Unfortunately none of these characters were to join us on the wonderful trek we undertook in the area. We were however joined by a conscientious Chilean, Martin, an eccentric Aussie named Jorge and two wonderfully dead pan Canadians named Mari-eve and Amalie, both from Quebec. We all met in the office of ’Jungle Eco Tours’ and spontaneously decided to do the three day ‘Jungle Trek’ together, a decision which would keep the cost down to 750,000 Laos Kip each. One becomes a millionaire at every ATM withdrawal in Laos with every transaction becoming a laughable game of count the zeros, but after some tough maths this price came to roughly £65 each.
We were assigned our guide the next morning, a charming young local named Hak. Our first stop was the local market for supplies, though Hazell wasn’t keen to linger after being greeted by locals huddled around a fire barbequing a rat. A quick purchase of mossie repellent and back to the car. We began walking from a small village where we met our other assistants, two female porters and another well built Lao man who had been watching too much Rambo. 
We were followed to the river by two giggling girls who fell into complete hysterics as we attempted to cross the river on a highly unstable wooden vessel. We all managed to stay afloat and our trek began in earnest on the opposite bank.
We walked for a couple of hours through the dense greenery, all enjoying the soft heat and fresh air. We were particularly satisfied with the fact there was only a faint trail and we most certainly required a guide to lead us through the dense jungle. Lunch time soon arrived and our guides first laid a picturesque banana leaf table, soon to be adorned with the ubiquitous lumps of Laos ’sticky rice’, vegetables and omelette. 
After taking my fill, I was attracted to the hillsides behind us which were billowing smoke. Huge plumes of dark grey and black stretched far into the distance; a pyromaniacs fantasy unfolded, precipitated by a single old lady brandishing a flame. I felt a sudden connection to Linus the self proclaimed pyromaniac from Finland we had met in Darjeeling. Slash and burn agriculture is the norm in these parts, though we were informed by Hak later that within the protected ‘Nam Tha National Park’ area, it is not strictly legal. Nonetheless the locals continue to farm the land as they have always done, preparing the area for rice growing season.
We crossed a number of rivers and streams during the afternoon and, feeling brave and indolent, I neglected to cover my bare feet with flip flops. Our female porters doubled over in laughter as I slipped and teetered my way across stream, while they carried cooking equipment casually on their heads. Despite my shortcomings, we arrived at ’jungle camp number one’ before sundown. It was a fantastic spot nestled next to a river and before the sun went down we all jumped in, intentionally this time, to relieve ourselves of the days sweat. 
Our lodgings had been constructed by locals for our benefit and they would receive a portion of our payment for the trek. It was a basic wooden affair that certainly wouldn’t keep the bears out, but it was home for the night.
We all chatted around the camp fire as dinner was prepared, and once again I was glad to be a vegetarian as the others chewed their way through some tough buffalo meat. Furthermore, our very own Rambo had stripped down to his pants in the dark, donned a head torch and spear combination, and waded into the river to catch breakfast. He returned half an hour later, Y-fronts bulging with minute fresh water fish, all delicately arranged on an icy bed of shrivelled testicles; certainly not a retail tactic favoured by mongers elsewhere in the world. With this image etched in our minds, we fell asleep in our sleeping bags to a cacophony of noise from the jungle’s permanent residents.
We were woken at sunrise by cockerels and tucked into breakfast. I couldn’t stop grinning as the non-vegetarians tucked into an extra fishy opener for the day. At least they were provided with a sachet of Nescafe 3in1 to wash it all down with.
The second day was the toughest of the three, a rewarding uphill climb through dense bamboo jungle, which according to Hak had caused a previous trekking group of French hikers to cry. Our guides expertly plucked young, white bamboo shoots from the ground, which are soft and succulent and were to be cooked for dinner. This amazingly versatile plant has many uses in the jungle, a point proven as our guides lopped down sections of the more mature variety and constructed a table for our lunch on the spot. Our sweaty garments lured a swarm of wasps into our vicinity and poor Martin was stung while chewing on his buffalo.
We stopped to admire the views across the valley during the afternoon and I also learnt a little more about Hak’s background. My favourite aspect of hiring a guide is learning about their culture, though Hazell claims I interrogate rather than converse. Either way Hak was happy to oblige and informed me he is from a tribe named the Tai Dam, or ’Black Tai’, an ethnic group originating from Vietnam. Confusingly, ‘Tai’ in this instance doesn’t relate to Thailand, but a distinct demographic of South East Asians who have been displaced many times by warfare. ‘Black’ refers to the traditional headdress and skirts worn by female members of the tribe. Hak explained Tai Dam members are ’animist spirit’ in religious terms, and it is believed that the spirits of the deceased live on. Shrines are erected for parents who have passed away and food is offered to them every ten years. We particularly admired the attitude of our trekking company towards local tribes; their aim is to preserve traditional cultures while distributing profits from tourism fairly between participating communities.
On this basis we arrived at ’jungle camp number two’ on the second night, built by another group of locals. The wasps had also joined us so the distinct lack of walls was a pressing concern. Before dark Hazell and I ventured down to the fresh water spring to shower. We were both a little self conscious and cold as we stripped down to our birthday suits, but in the end thoroughly enjoyed a naked shower in the jungle. 
Another sticky rice based dinner slipped down nicely before we all huddled around the camp fire and watched a storm move in. I woke in the night to a crash of thunder and a wet sleeping bag. The rain was torrential and a flash of lightning illuminated the leaking rafters above our heads, between which Rambo was swinging, banana leaves in hand, attempting to patch up the holes. What a man.
The third day of trekking saw us emerge from the tightly packed trees and encounter a cultural highlight. We arrived at a hillside that had been completely stripped of greenery, leaving only dry clay earth. The mounds were dotted with a few houses and tribal villagers looked on inquisitively as we came into view. The impact was instantaneous and we were transported hundreds of years into the past. We made our way self consciously through the incredible landscape, stopping in the centre of the dwelling to observe two small huts on stilts. These tiny abodes are built to house one 14 year old girl, Hak explained. Upon reaching this age, girls in the village sleep in one of these huts until a male selects her for marriage.
The inhabitants of the village had only seen foreign faces for the first time four months previously, so we were a little uneasy as we attempted to interact. Hak assisted and soon we were taking photos and laughing together. The older residents were enchanted to see their faces in the digital camera screens. Hak instructed us not to give cash, though none of the villagers asked, as it encourages begging in the future. A much healthier model is promoted by his company, whereby a proportion of our payment is given to the inhabitants we met.
From the village we descended further and I spent the afternoon falling over and enjoying the transition into a landscape of rice fields. As the warm sun dipped we arrived at our destination village, greeted with a ‘sabaidee!’ from the locals. As we waited for a lift back to our guest houses, a small girl played hide and seek with us, clearly enjoying the attention. She knew how to strike a pose. The whole group agreed the trek had been fantastic and worth every penny. Most importantly it had endeared us fully to the Lao people and their fascinating country.
A Shy Giant
My mind was awash with thoughts in anticipation of viewing the Earth’s highest peak. We were soon to be met by a spectacle of enormous stature in both reputation and physicality. I felt like a child about to meet my boyhood hero; shy and unsure of how to act in the presence of a superior. The group were all excited and a restless sense of ‘are we there yet?’ pervaded. I wondered if repeated ‘business’ visits to the mountain reduced its impact upon the tour guides; either way, it certainly beats a desk job. As we progressed the Chinese checkpoints began to increase, and every few miles Tenzin had to jump out and present our passports and the relevent permits. Not even Tibetans are allowed to move freely, and in areas such as this and at Mount Kailash in the West, they too are required to present paperwork to the stern Chinese guards. Elsewhere in the country, the traditionally free roaming Nomads are given designated areas to set up camp, their movement restricted by beaurocracy.
The mountain has long been named Qomolangma in Tibetan, and was only named ‘Everest’, more recently in 1856. It was prescribed by Andrew Waugh, surveyor general of India, in honour of his predecessor Sir George Everest. Everest himself would have preferred the use of the native name, but at the time it was questionably claimed that no such name existed. Whatever label is used, the peak standing at 8850 metres above sea level has for many years attracted huge crowds. As we pulled into the Nomad settlement just below Base Camp, it became clear we would have to wait a little longer to catch a glimpse of the summit. Cloud filled the valley and Tenzin pointed into the distance and told us we would climb this last section later in the day. Rows of Nomad tents set up in the valley during tourist season, and ours was boldly named ‘The English Hotel’. Though slightly less ‘authentic’ than our previous nomad experience, the large tent was homely and well run. As we slurped tea, the nomad in charge sprinkled water from a watering can onto the carpeted floor, and then stooped to inspect the results. ‘What’s he doing?’, we asked. ‘He’s cleaning the floor’, Tenzin replied. ‘Oh…right. Of course.’ Two bowls of noodles and one rock fall later, the cloud dispersed slightly and we began the final ascent to base camp.
It is possible to get a bus for the last stretch, but we decided to walk and within an hour we arrived at a very understated gathering of military huts. The Base Camp marker proclaimed we stood at an altitude of 5200 metres above sea level, and the huge Chinese flag proclaimed, ‘No Fucking About’. Tenzin gave us firm guidelines; we were only to stand on the mound and no national flags were to be planted. I asked what would happen if I raised a Tibetan flag, to which he laughed and said, ‘I’d end up in jail’. Point taken. I was however permitted to don the colours of the greatest football team in existence, and slip snuggly into the perennial stereotype of an English male abroad.
At the top of the mound, one is still a considerable distance away from the mountain itself, but the human sense of scale gets a little warped in front of the Himalayas. A vast, moon like plain stretches out in front, and a few brave souls ventured out, only to be quickly reprimanded by the Chinese authorities. At this point there is little else to do apart from sit and stare in awe. Light bounces off the snow covered mountain side, and the view is dazzling to the eye. I made an attempt to erect a pile of prayer stones, as is the tradition in Tibet, while everyone sat patiently and hoped the cloud at the summit would clear. Hope it transpired, held insufficient force to change the climate. We tried to convince ourselves that more of the mountain was coming into view, but today was not our day. A friend we met at a later date explained she encountered similar conditions with her tour group. However, her tour guide had instructed them to perform weather chants in order to encourage the clouds to clear. Even though the climate had remained poor for many days, within minutes of performing the ritual, the summit of Everest revealed itself. Alas, our lack of chanting left us with an obscured view, and as we went to sleep that night under layers of Tibetan blankets, we kept everything crossed in hope of a clear morning.
I woke early to see the sun rise, eager to be greeted by the wonderfully lucid Mount Qomolangma. I raced outside the tent, and to my surprise I was met by a vista of thick snow. My initial reaction to snow is ‘Yay, snow’, but then I looked up the valley and realised the main attraction was again hidden from view. I strolled around the campsite enjoying the crisp air and witnessed the condition of those who had clearly had a rough night. Most were Chinese who had ascended too quickly; the altitude induced vomit was flowing freely. Hazell and I wanted to send post cards from the highest post office in the world, but unfortunately it was closed. Tenzin told us the post man had been up all night drinking, singing and playing cards, so presumably was now in bed nursing a hangover. The winds of Karma had spoken, and it was not our time to see the summit of the mountain or send a postcard, so soon after breakfast we left. Everest is going nowhere, and we vowed we would return one day and trek to the first camp on the mountain.
Our driver then proved he was worth his fee as we took a short cut towards the Nepalese border. We bounced and clattered our heads against the roof of the four wheel drive; I was hugely impressed he was able to navigate within a terrain containing little that could be classed as a ‘road’. It was fantastic to be in the snow coated Himalayas, only us and the highest peaks nature has ever produced, at least that is what we thought. Appearing on the horizon two black specks came running towards us, and before long these specks were banging on our windows eager for us to give them goodies. This is obviously a regular occurence and the driver was prepared with a full bag of sweets. He offered me the bag to share with the children, but out of sheer instinct I ate one first. We then filled the hats of the two boys while they looked bemused as we took photos. As I knelt next to them I felt embarrassed at the complaints I make about comparatively small discomforts. I returned to the warmth of a four wheel drive car, and they returned to a freezing cold tent.
The remainder of the drive down the Friendship Highway was a beautiful transition from white snow to lush greenery. We stayed overnight in the border town, an interesting blend of Chinese, Tibetan and Nepalese; I was struck first by the wonderfully colourful Nepalese trucks which seem to be a source of pride for their drivers. That night the food poisoning which eventually turned me veggie reared its ugly head. While squatting in pain I pleaded, ‘A Western toilet, a Western toilet, my kingdom for a Western toilet.’ Shakespeare must have turned in his grave. The following morning my condition was variable and certainly not helped by the crowds at the border crossing; hundreds of over eager sperm in transit, desperate to be the one lucky entrant into the ovum of Nepal. Every conceivable position was employed to encourage conception; the scene was a veritable Karma Sutra of queue jumping. I took a break in the toilet while back in the ‘queue’, Hazell was shoved over onto her front and shouted at by a Chinese official. A long power cut later and we eventually broke free onto the Nepalese side, where we said goodbye to our guide Tenzin and headed for the immigration office.
I was feeling mixed emotions on crossing the border. I was reluctant to leave one of the most incredible countries in the world, but at the same time filled with gratitude for having been given the opportunity to experience its wonders. Make no mistake, Tibet is an occupied country and should be treated as such by the rest of the world. For Hazell and I, it has captured our hearts and minds and we are now fully aware of the importance of helping Tibet and its people keep their culture alive. I just had to get over this food poisoning first. This show of gratitude began by tipping our tour guide generously; as it turns out a little too generously. We miscalculated and left ourselves without enough money to purchase our Nepalese visas. Some shrewd negotiations ensued, and eventually we supplemented our Chinese Yen with some of Joe’s ’emergency Dollars’ and offered it to the official behind the desk. ‘Oh go on then….’, he replied. We had definitely arrived in Nepal.
Trekking Tibet
Perched high in the mountain region of Eastern Tibet, 3,600m above sea level with a scattering of lifeless Tibetan plains below, Ganden Monastery is one of the most important Buddhist monasteries of Tibet. Built in 1409 by Lama Tsongkhapa, Ganden is the founding monastery of the Gelugpa sect of Tibetan Buddhism (the sect of which the Dali Lamas officially belong to). Our four day trek through the unknown Tibetan wilderness would start here and end at another important Buddhist Monastery, Samye; the first ever Buddhist monastery to be built in Tibet.
We were supposed to spend the night in Ganden monastery but this wasn’t to be. Under Chinese occupation it is now common in Tibet for foreigners to be refused permission to stay in monasteries or places that may be politically sensitive. This is a consequence of Chinese communist rule and seemed to clash robustly with the accommodating attitude of the Tibetan people of which we had experienced thus far. The monks of Ganden would have been pleased to see us stay and to practice their English, but unfortunately the resident monastery police have the last word. The monastery itself was beautiful; constructed in a small village layout with colourful Tibetan artwork being repainted on the walls and Buddhist scripts being printed with thick wooden blocks. Ganden had been completely destroyed in the Chinese “cultural revolution” and work was still going on to restore it to its original demur. The one major change in structure was the over-bearing police station being built into the monastery compounds.
As we were not allowed to stay at the monastery guest house we decided to camp outside. Carl and I would share a tent, Erik and Jo would have a single one each, and Tenzin, our guide would sleep in the cooking tent. It soon became apparent that no-one had checked the tents before we departed. The “cooking tent” was more like a child’s play tent with no room to cook, no ventilation and a plastic floor. Erik’s tent was missing some essential parts, and Carl and I were given a pink summer tent with a hole in the roof. Although we were pleased with the colour we doubted whether this or any of the tents would stand even a spot of rain.
Our theory was soon put to the test. At around 6pm, after a clear and sunny day, the thunder clouds began to appear. I was in the cooking tent with Tenzin preparing vegetables when the rain started. And it wasn’t just a spot of rain, it was hard monsoon rain that shook the tent and started to seep in through the floor and the ceiling. Tenzin and I abandoned dinner and planned to go to another tent to keep dry. I opened our pink tent and there was Carl sitting in his red condom like poncho attempting to cover his camera with plastic bags. Our stuff was thoroughly soaked. “Get me out of here” he shouted, “there’s a f**king hole in the roof”. As I rescued Carl from the clutches of the pink tent, the rain turned to huge pounding hail that made us dance around as if stepping on hot stones. Joe and Erik were in similar positions. We all ran around in the thundering hail trying to find the driest place to sit. After realising that this dry place we were searching for did not exist, we decided to retreat to the Nomad tent camped about 100 meters below us and hope that they’d take us in.
Being the friendly folk that they are, the Nomads not only invited us all into their strong dry(ish) yak hair tent but also gave us plenty of tea, hearty food and a fire to huddle around. They offered us blankets and continually filled up our cups and plates, laughing slightly at our failed attempt to camp in the Tibetan plateau; to them this was simply life. Tenzin called the tour company we had booked the tents through (Windhorse tours – don’t use them) and demanded that someone pick us up and take us back to Lhasa where we could get some proper tents. We had to wait hours to be picked up but were glad to be going somewhere where we could get hot showers. We waited in the Nomad tent with the Nomads who were only too happy to talk to us through Tenzin, although the conversation was rather ‘more tea’ heavy. That was until what can only be described as a hybrid Tiger-Cat emerged from under a big pile of blankets. It was definitely a cat but the size of a Tiger cub with some Tiger like markings. Our fascination with the Tiger-Cat entertained the Nomads and Tenzin, especially when we asked its name and found out that the cat was as old as Joe (18). Turns out they don’t name their pets in Tibet.
After a night in a dorm room at the Yak hotel and purchasing some high fashion water proof trousers, we set off again for our trek well equipped with better, storm proof tents. At the start of our trek we met our Yak man Taqwo, his son Basansirin and his four pack yaks that would accompany us on our trek. We set off from Ganden Monastery around midday and climbed high into the grassy hills. Stupidly Carl and I had packed our waterproof trousers and of course it started to rain again. Once again we got drenched, but Carl’s spirit was given a boost when he found a fully intact Snickers bar on the floor. He nobly asked if anyone had dropped it, holding it out in front of him. We all shook our heads and he smiled with glee, but the young yak boy held his hand out thinking that Carl had just offered him the chocolate bar. Carl tried to explain to Basansirin that he was not offering the chocolate, but the boy spoke no English and just laughed along with the rest of us at Carl’s attempt to keep chocolate from a child. Finally he had to give in, he handed over the chocolate, raised his fists to the sky and cursed his lack of Tibetan.
As we approached the camp the rain subsided and the warm sun shone down on us. We had ascended to 4,600 meters and were all a little light headed. Our new tents were much better, ours even had a porch and the cooking tent was huge. Tenzin and I once again started to prepare the vegetables for dinner. Everyone pitched in and we made a vegetable chilly and rice that went down well. That night we saw people being carried down past our camp on horses; they were trekkers forced to come down due to altitude sickness. Tenzin was worried as Carl was feeling a little altitude sick himself but luckily by the morning it had subsided.
After a cold night at camp we packed up our things and set off early for the 5,300m pass. As Carl was still feeling a little dodgy Taqwo offered to carry his backpack. As we climbed higher and higher the grass dispersed into patches and the terrain turned to rock. Close to the pass we stopped for a lunch of Tibetan bread, jam and peanut butter. Turning around we could see right down into the green valleys and the small Tibetan villages far below. This made us all feel a little dizzy so we were glad when a cloud came along to obscure the vista. From the spot where we stopped for lunch it was a steep one hour climb up to the rocky pass. I managed somehow to keep up with the Tibetans which prompted Taqwo to keep squeezing my muscles really hard (too hard) and saying ‘good, good’. He then pointed to the boys below us and said a Tibetan word which I decided to translate as ‘gay’.
At the top of the pass there was a small Buddhist monument decorated with the colourful and enchanting Tibetan prayer flags. Over the pass sat a picturesque valley composed of rocks above, greenery below and a turquoise fresh water lake in the distance. It was a long slow descent which took us over another pass and down to the fresh grass where we would camp at 4,800m, next to a serene stream and in the chilling shadows of the dominating mountains. As we set up our tent I started to feel dizzy and very nauseous, like I’d drunk a litre of vodka (again). I put this brief spell of altitude sickness down to my foolish thinking that I could keep up with Tibetans, who are accustomed to the high altitudes. Two hours later the second stage of the hangover kicked in as I very suddenly regained what little colour I had and found myself very hungry. I started to suspect that I had in fact been drunk. We piled into the cooking tent and ate a feast of instant noodles.
That night Carl and I awoke thinking that it was morning already as a faint light appeared through our blue tent. It was actually 3am. We both got out of the tent to go to the toilet and we noticed the light was coming from the stars. The sky was completely clear and the bright rocks above created a misty sea of moonlight that engulfed our surroundings. It was the best toilet trip ever.
We woke from an extremely cold night to find our tents covered with a thin layer of ice, but the clear sky from the night remained. As we cooked breakfast the shadows of the mountains retracted and the approaching sun melted away the ice. The trek started off with another climb to another high pass. Once again the Yak man cheerfully donned Carl’s backpack and off we went. We were joined by a group of Chinese trekkers who had camped near us the night before. Despite the obvious tensions between Tibet and China, the Tibetans were as friendly with them as they were with us and when we stopped to take in the scenic mountain lakes we all shared snacks with each other.
Todays trek took us through an unimaginable variety of expansive terrains. We travelled down through the rocky mountains into valleys full of serene lakes and small clear water rivers . We travelled down further to lower altitudes where plants flourished and trees began to dominate the mountainous landscape. Tenzin had informed us the previous night that we would today pass through a small forest where brown bears resided. He told us the story of young Tibetan boy who had sadly been killed by a bear approximately a year ago, and about the more recent event of a man whose face was violently ripped off by a bear, both in this area. Surprisingly the man had escaped with his life and was currently recovering in hospital. The Tibetan explanation is thus; when a bear spots a human it gets embarrassed about being a bear in front of a superior human. To save their embarrassment the bears therefore must remove the human’s face. All embarrassment will then subside. Phew. Tenzin assured us that the brown bears only came out at night but this didn’t really settle my nerves, especially when Carl insisted on stopping to photograph a yak fight.
We were given two choices, we could either camp in the forest area (with the bears) or walk a further hour to the Yarlung Valley where we may be able to purchase chocolates from a local shop. We decided to take the latter option. The scenery changed again as we emerged from the trees and found ourselves on a small dirt track passing a scattering of traditional Tibetan houses along the way. Our campsite for the night was just outside the small village of Yarlung which was once the epicentre of Tibetan life before the government moved to Lhasa. Now all that existed was a village of about ten houses with a small temple set high up in the surrounding mountains. I set up camp while Carl paddled in the nearby river. When he returned I ventured out behind a bush for a wee. There was a horse in the way and as I tried to navigate around it I fell into some stinking sinking mud. I dramatically struggled free, much to the amusement of the horse, but was unable to retrieve my flip-flop from the mud’s grasp. I returned looking more than a little dirty, with only one shoe on and I still needed a wee. Inexplicably, Carl found this incredibly funny and along with Erik he conducted a ceremony for me to dispose of my other favourite flip-flop.
We wanted to trek all the way to Samye Monastery but the night before Tenzin had informed us that the Taqwo, Basansirin and the yaks had to go back, and a truck was coming to pick up us and all our equipment and drive us the two hours or so to Samye. This had all previously been arranged by the tour company (Windhorse tours – don’t use them) and Tenzin was surprised that we hadn’t been informed about it.
I awoke in the morning to find that in the night Carl had produced a Carl pat inexplicably close to our tent. Although we could have attributed it to a nearby grazing animal I thought it best he cover it with a rock. After we’d packed away our things a tractor with a trailer arrived to pick us up. We piled our stuff and ourselves into the trailer and off we went. It was a bumpy but scenic ride down a small dirt road and through numerous Tibetan villages. The local people would call out ‘Tashi Dele’ and wave frantically at the sight of Westerners. After a while the landscape turned golden with sand covered mountains and dunes to each side of the road. In the distance the golden roof of Samye Monastery appeared bathed in sunlight. As we drew closer the dirt road turned to concrete and small shops and restaurants started to form roads around us. We knew we were back in civilisation when on our way into Samye village we were approached by Tibetan salesmen attempting to sell us carpets, bracelets, daggers and more.
Samye village looked like a small town set up for tourists with Samye Monastery as the main and only attraction. There was just one problem, and that was the distinct lack of tourists. Many shops and restaurants were boarded up and the streets were rife with stray dogs. The Samye Monastery compound was bigger than the town itself. Inside were many small residencies, numerous small temples and four colourful stupas whose buddha eyes crept up over the trees. The centre piece was a large temple composed of three stories; one level was decorated in Chinese style Buddhist architecture, another the colourful Tibetan style and another in the Indian style. It was here that in the year 791 a great debate took place that would determine the course of Tibetan Buddhism. Tibet at this time housed both the Chinese Hvashang Buddhist tradition and the Indian Mahayana/Vajrayana tradition. The Indian tradition prevailed and Mahayana Buddhism is still the dominant type of Buddhism in Tibet today. As we were repeatedly told by Tenzin throughout the trip, compassion and kindness are the two most important aspects of Mahayana Buddhism. We’d experienced this first hand on our trek; the nomads who took us in and fed us, Taqwo who carried Carl’s backpack everyday and Tenzin who’d share all he had with us, cook with us and help us to put up and dismantle our tents. The Tibetan landscapes and important monasteries are fascinating, but it’s the Tibetan people who will stay vivid in our memories for their various acts of kindness and the compassion they demonstrate in their daily lives.
The Cockmans Go Forth 