10 Short Stories

ISOBEL COOK

September 2000. Chengdu, China.

The flight had arrived almost an hour ago. I was getting anxious, as it seemed too long for an airport that did not seem that busy. It was getting a little dark and I still had not seen Isobel Cook.

I knew very well how she would be like; saddled with a lot of bags and of course a bicycle.

That was my very first meeting with Isobel to start my very first major overseas cycling expedition. We had met months earlier through the forum of a travel magazine. We were both looking for a partner to cycle the Lhasa-Katmandu Highway, which at 950km long is also the longest downhill in the world with the highest pass at 5220m and several others around that altitude.

It had been part of my planning to look for a partner living far from the equator for I had not much experience with cold climates. That decision proved to be a good move on my part, which later became an experience that I would dearly appreciate until this day. Chengdu was to be the first Chinese city for the 2 of us. The very first impression of the city was that almost everyone was spitting and doing pretty well catapulting the discharge a marvelous distance. To make ourselves feel localized, we started emulating the locals but ended up with mixed successes.

Days later, we flew into Lhasa where I almost immediately had altitude sickness that saw me lose sleep and appetite for several days. Isobel was luckier and so could spend her days exploring the capital while I did short walks and basically rested a lot for acclimatizing.

My Acute Mountain Sickness soon disappeared and we did a trial ride to the Ganden Monastery where I swore that I would not ride the 7km or so of switchbacks to get to the monastery again, even if someone had offered me a million dollars. That was my very first encounter with climbing switchbacks! Not a pleasant one though.

Back in Lhasa, we rested for couple of days before riding out in early October 2000.

Gyatsola will always be the highlight of the ride. We had struggled for close to 12 hours before we were finished with the endless switchbacks to reach the crest of the mountain pass, 5220m, at roughly 7pm. The sun was already dropping below the horizon and the wind condition was bad. I managed to have a picture of me taken with the prayer flags that decorated the crest of the pass, just like all passes in Buddhist Tibet, before clocking 8km/h on the downhill. The wind was that awful. I remember my watch registering 3 Degrees Celsius.

Hunting for a suitable campsite became urgent but the barren and windswept landscape did nothing to help us. Just then, we saw a sheep pen, which had been constructed with rocks to keep the nomads' herd in and (partially) the wind out. That looked the most promising in the entire environment.

We were about to start pitching our tent when a pair of nomads emerged from their yak-skin tent to gesture us in a manner that I had deciphered (wrongly) as a sign that we should not be camping there. It was saddening to say the least.

Before we could even take in a second breath, I began to read the motion as an invite into their tent. Wind chilled and tired, getting into the huge tent proved an immediate respite. There was a fire, fuelled by yak dung going on and a steaming pot of soup was boiling above it.

We were then beckoned to bring out our mugs where we were given servings from the pot. It felt so good. Perhaps, it was the Tibetans' hospitality not to leave their guests' mug filling below the brim as every sip we took would bring on another scoop! Our mugs were always full as we speculated the contents of the soup while exchanging friendly glances and smiles as we could not communicate.

The Tibetans in all probability must have known of our hunger which they promptly responded by bringing over a sack of tsampa from a corner of the tent.

As I had not had tsampa before, I speedily got out my plate to receive the barley flour, which was served together with the soup. I hope the locals had not read my expressions that reflected how un-palatable the tsampa was. Reminiscing the moment, I had probably embarrassed my hosts in a rude way. Seeing that we were slow putting the tsampa into us, the Tibetans surprised us by offering us a huge chunk of dried lamb from a sack (also) lying somewhere in the huge tent. The meat looked air dried after the animal was slaughtered as there were dark (blood) stains. It was another offer that did not come across as succulent.

The evening concluded with the nomads offering me their thick blankets; they had probably seen me shivering inside my thin sleeping bag. I had not slept above 5000m before this. That cold night, my face was wet from the snow that had come into the tent from the opening at the apex of our A-frame accommodation. It was the first time I had had snow.

The following morning, our water bottles that had been left on our bikes outside the tent had frozen. It had been my coldest experience and would serve me years later as an invaluable lesson.

We then had breakfast together with the Tibetans. You must be giggling now, I think, YES, we had tsampa again! We bade farewell to the twins to the known fact that we would have more downhills than ups from here. The longest downhill in the world was to begin some distance away from Gyatsola. We had been looking forward to it.