We were recklessly speeding along the highway on our way to Shangri-La in the van we had hired. It had misted most of the day and the roads were slick. But it didn’t seem to trouble our driver; even as we whizzed by a sedan that had overturned on one of the mountain curves, he kept on at his steady pace. Time was money, I suppose.
The van window was down the whole time so that I could vainly attempt to capture photos of the magnificent blurs streaking by. The driver un-surreptitiously flipped on the heater and I glanced over, noticing for the first time how how chilly it was getting inside the van. Shangri-La (or as it’s locally pronounced, Shangri-li-la) sits above 10,000 ft.
To maintain the obvious educational prowess of this blog, I’ll just mention that Shangri-La is perched near Tibet. It’s real name is Zhongdian but the government changed the name to match James Hilton’s description for purposes that seem largely touristic. Looking at the landscape, one can see the temptation.
Luckily, we’d brought jackets for the elevation. Unluckily, half of our clothes were still wet from hiking in the rainy gorge. Surely, we figured, they’d dry out in Shangri-La. It was raining when we arrived. This ordinarily wouldn’t have been an issue except that our room didn’t have any ventilation – the windows didn’t even open. So the steam from the shower (that is, when the water worked) would just hang over the room like a threatening cloud.
That humidity coupled with the cold meant that everything felt wet. The damp even laughed in the face of my hairdryer. But a least the bed had an electric blanket to protect us from the fog that settled over our bed.
Kevin, the owner of Kevin’s Trekker Inn where we were staying was a nice guy who spoke good English but always seemed over busied. I saw him fairly often since I spent a fair amount time during those four days in the office/restaurant typing away on my laptop. The rest of the city was an interesting mix of touristy shops pretending to be traditional (in the old section) and real people actually being traditional (in the new section).
We’re not quite authentic enough to turn our noses up at tourist shops, so we took our time wandering around the charred remains of the old section (partially burned earlier that year) where James got himself a cozy yak wool jacket from a fellow whose accent and appearance seemed slightly west and south of China.
“I grew up in Lhasa but attended school in Mussoouri,” he said. I smiled because I’d been there the summer before my senior year of University and we chatted for a while about the most important things: the surely grey monkeys that lurk about the mountains and snatch whatever interesting objects you happen to be carrying. The rustle of a plastic bag would attract herds of moneys from the surrounding trees. Then they’d perch and wait for an opening, all the while watching with wide rusty eyes. In short, we didn’t have so much to talk about but the shop was neat.
The newer section of town, meanwhile, had plenty of outdoor shops all selling the same line of coats, backpacks, and pants while the street venders sold odd little cones of what we guessed was yak cheese. Either that or ear wax.
Shangri-La was our rest time and we had great big leisurely plans to rent a moto and putz around. But like I mentioned previously, James was tragically struck down with a stomach affliction on the first day. We could blame a lot of things but we chose to blame a Sichuan restaurant.
It was a little uninhabited place that served us a fancy platter of leftover animal parts. So with James feeling ill our leisure was mostly bound to the hostel…until the 17th, when my cabin fever drove me out into the wilderness, or at least, the highway. After a nice curry lunch (perks of being near India) I rented a bike for $6.50 and peddled away, camera bag slung over my shoulder and phone strapped to the handlebars as a GPS. I didn’t spend too long in town – perhaps because there were a few guys washing cars that seemed intent on washing my bike as I rode past.
I did have an idea of where I was going…but I’m not sure if I ever got there. I certainly never found the old monastery. It didn’t really matter. I was doing what I enjoyed – riding around, exploring landscapes, talking things over with myself, taking photos of said landscapes, and scouting out the things people drop along the road. It isn’t just Americans who don’t bother to stoop for a penny; I’ve found coins along the roads of every country I’ve been too – except maybe Singapore but I think that’s because it is probably illegal.
I did have an idea of where I was going…but I’m not sure if I ever got there. I certainly never found the old monastery. It didn’t really matter. I was doing what I enjoyed – riding around, exploring landscapes, talking things over with myself, taking photos of said landscapes, and scouting out the things people drop along the road. It isn’t just Americans who don’t bother to stoop for a penny; I’ve found coins along the roads of every country I’ve been too – except maybe Singapore but I think that’s because it is probably illegal.
On this prosperous ride I found 3 hats and a nice wrench. Hats I understand: the wind probably blows them off. Single shoes are a stretch but I suppose they could fall off when riding a moto (which doesn’t explain all the shoes scattered about American highways). But then I noticed about 3 pairs of pants… I do not see how pants are casually lost along the highway without the person noticing or bothering to retrieve them. Of course, I didn’t retrieve them either so they are probably still there if you’re curious.
After a few miles the breeze had cooled my cabin fever and I set about to finding good shots. The road wound steadily uphill past a succession of traditional houses (Naxi or Tibetan) and the bright green fields which surrounded them. I rode past several ladies working the fields. They were gathering vegetables into the huge baskets strapped to their backs.
The highway was excellent – a combination of the smooth pavement and light traffic. There were a few other bikers and the occasional stray yak on the road. There was a place tourists could ride little horses – a few lively kids had one cornered and were trying to push each other onto it. They yelled to me when they saw me with my camera…I don’t know what they said so I just smiled and took their picture.
I always want to take portraits but I’m reluctant because I know that I don’t enjoy people taking my photo just because I’m a foreigner. It’s a bind. Consequently, I don’t get many portraits. I did, however, take several unashamed shots of a guy who’d lost his horse and was chasing it around the pasture. He must’ve been a worker there because when he finally caught the animal he flew into a rage and beat it with the reins. I think the horse had the bigger laugh though since the man lost both his shoes in the mud.
I always want to take portraits but I’m reluctant because I know that I don’t enjoy people taking my photo just because I’m a foreigner. It’s a bind. Consequently, I don’t get many portraits. I did, however, take several unashamed shots of a guy who’d lost his horse and was chasing it around the pasture. He must’ve been a worker there because when he finally caught the animal he flew into a rage and beat it with the reins. I think the horse had the bigger laugh though since the man lost both his shoes in the mud.
Well, I just kept riding my bike and before I knew what I was getting into I was too far up a 4 mile hill to turn back. Little kids yelled “hello,” Chinese tourists shot selfies along the road, and large yaks watched disinterestedly as I peddled past. At the top of the hill I found a little housing establishment, I guess you could call it. A lady in traditional clothing stood outside a short wooden shack as dusty brown chickens darted about and a herder brought his yaks up the road.
A particularly large male snorted at me offensively so I took its picture. It was well into the afternoon but before I turned my bike around, I paused to check my elevation and was surprised to see it read 11,800ft. I felt instantly better about all the huffing and puffing on the way up. I had gone about 11 miles so far, down 787 ft, up 1774 ft, and now it was time to do it in reverse. Thankfully, the upside to any hill is going down it and I shot past the yaks at 36mph on my way back to the hostel.
A particularly large male snorted at me offensively so I took its picture. It was well into the afternoon but before I turned my bike around, I paused to check my elevation and was surprised to see it read 11,800ft. I felt instantly better about all the huffing and puffing on the way up. I had gone about 11 miles so far, down 787 ft, up 1774 ft, and now it was time to do it in reverse. Thankfully, the upside to any hill is going down it and I shot past the yaks at 36mph on my way back to the hostel.
Trip Log, Aug.14, 2014.