At The Border Between Nepal and Tibet

In which the author, Mohammed Al Harthi, decides he has no choice but to do as he’s told, after joining a group tour and being press-ganged into a minibus. From my authorized translation of “Katmandu’s Ocean,” a travelogue of the Himalaya.

***

By Mohammed Al Harthi

After realizing my long-nursed dream of free flight, it was time to return from Pokhara to Katmandu on Buddha Airlines.  I got word from Mr. Sunam that he had reserved me a space on a group tour leaving Katmandu for Tibet on October 15, 2013.

I had put down a five-hundred-dollar deposit before my trip to Pokhara, with the understanding that Sunam would receive the balance of a thousand dollars before I left for Tibet. Five hundred dollars was the cost of the return flight, inclusive of the fee for the “statement of historic journey” expectorated from the vestibules of the Chinese embassy in Katmandu.

The outbound plane ticket was expensive, and it was difficult to get a confirmed reservation on China Airlines, which flew three times a week between Katmandu and Lhasa.  Sunam assured me it would all be fine.

All this was during the Hindu holidays, including the final holiday of the series, Talu, which  begins with Dashain and ends with Tihar, the Festival of Lights.

Government and commercial offices close in Nepal for ten days during Dashain, and five days during Tihar --  which I hoped to experience on my return from Tibet, as Katmandu would be lit with thousands of candles half the size of the palm of one’s hand, against a sky filled with fireworks. 

Three days before the trip, I paid the remaining 1000 dollars to Sunam.

He told he wouldn’t be in the office due to the holiday.

“But not to worry!” he said cheerily.

“My assistant Ashram will give you your passport and the official crossing documents, along with the plane ticket, the day before.”

I would hear a lot of “don’t worrys” in the following hours.

The trouble began as soon as Sunam disappeared from his office.  When I tried to reach him the morning of October 14, his assistant told me that due to a delay at the Chinese embassy, I would need to present all my papers for examination that evening.

After spending the afternoon hovering in Darbar Square and the bustling Tshtrabati Square, I returned in the evening to be told by Sunam’s assistant that I must instead present my papers, not that evening, but the following morning. And to be ready at quarter past six in the hotel foyer.  I was sure there must have been some mistake, but I surrendered to circumstance, and went to bed early, after packing my suitcase.

**

I got up around 4, took a hot shower, and ordered a chai masala and biscuit from room service. I paid my bill and left my large suitcase in the hotel storage, which gave me a receipt.  I sat in the lobby, waiting for the shadowy person who would take me to the place where my travel cohort was gathering, and about which I knew nothing — not even their nationalities or how many of them there were. 

6:45 and Godot had not yet come.  At 7:05, I heard a man speak my name at reception. I suggested I might be the person he was looking for. He asked for my papers.  I handed him my passport, itinerary, and copy of the declaration of passage (i.e., the non-visa). I asked him about the return airline ticket.

“The office didn’t say anything about a plane ticket, Sir.  You must contact the agency that arranged the trip.” He meant Sunam’s office, which was definitely closed at that hour.

As I pondered the idea of finding a car or tourist van, or even a rental car, to take me back to Sunam’s office and start over, the boy grabbed a motorcycle that had been parked in the outside lot and told me to sit in back.

“What about my suitcase?” I protested.

“Don’t worry,” the young man said, flippantly. “The place is not far from the café where the other travelers are gathered. You can carry it behind your back.”

This was an inauspicious beginning to the trip, and I was frustrated. But I surrendered, like a child, to the reality of the situation.

I hung my backpack behind my back, as the bike shot off with through the streets of Katmandu for ten minutes, towards another hotel. Just as we arrived in front of the gate, the young man told me to go in and tell someone I was part of the Tibet group.   

I sat on one of the seats inside. A waiter came to ask if I was, indeed, with the Tibet group.  “I’ll bring you breakfast,” he said, decisively.  

I ate by myself, as people mingled around me and randomly introduced themselves.

I did not initiate any conversation, waiting instead for someone to come absorb me into the group.  Finally, out of nowhere appeared a young Nepalese-- no more than a child.

“My name is Tubla, and I will be your guide as far as the border.” He asked the group to follow him on foot, as the minibus couldn’t enter the narrow street. I followed him, and I said:

“Excuse me, I am also part of the group going to Tibet.”

He responded with a cool, “Yeah? Join the queue.”

One of the travelers heard me and introduced himself:

“I am Thomas from Germany, and this is my girlfriend, Christine. There was a third. I gathered his name was Miguel, and that he was from Peru.  

 “Mohamed. From Oman,” I said perfunctorily, as the guide herded us quickly, like sheep outfitted with backpacks. We entered an alley where we turned right to cross the street, and then climbed into to a minibus parked there.

**

The border was a three-hour drive from the hotel. As we approached, Tubla said we’d have to leave the bus and get on another one, this one with a Tibetan guide, once we crossed into Chinese-controlled territory. 

        The road from the border post to Katmandu was windy, and cut through a lush green area, bewitched with little villages hanging off the two valleys into whose depths the Himalaya waterfalls pour. I counted:  We were 11 male tourists and one female.

Apart from Thomas, his girlfriend and Miguel the elderly Peruvian, I didn’t know any of their names. Most of them I suspected were European, except a woman in her fifties who, at first, I thought was Indian, and a winsome girl who spoke wonderful English. I guessed from her features the young woman was from either Singapore or Hong Kong, but I during the crossing I would discover she was Taiwanese.

The road twisted as it climbed. The driver purposefully slowed down so we could absorb the bewitching views that unfolded through the wide glass windows and hijacked our eyes and our cameras until we arrived at the border post. A that point our guide bolted from his seat near the driver moved to the center of the minibus and demanded our close attention.

“The Chinese customs officers rely on the names as written exactly on his list,” he said. “So you need to line up in the same order. The officers will check your passports but will not stamp them.”  

He continued.  “The statement of travel does not mean you are officially crossing the border into the People’s Republic of China. It just says you are making a limited stop to enter a part of Tibet for a tour, to visit its temples and landmarks, in the company of a Tibetan guide who is the only one authorized to lead the prearranged program.”

“Does any one of you have a copy of the Lonely Planet Guide?” he asked.

“Yes. We have one,” someone said cheerily.

Tubla’s response: “The Lonely Planet Guide is absolutely prohibited in Tibet.

You must leave it here in the minibus. If you return to Katmandu with us, you will get it back then.” 

There were a few angry grumbles from the group.

“Why is that?” some asked.

Someone explained the book contained pictures of the Dalai Lama, and statements that many Tibetans consider themselves occupied by China, which does not recognize the Dalai Lama’s authority.

The Chinese authorities didn’t want to see these views expressed anywhere, though statements like this are very common in English-language books about Tibet – including Seven Years in Tibet, which the Chinese also consider contraband. 

 “We must tell you these things before we get to the border. They will blame us if you’ve hidden banned books. So please do not embarrass us. Please do not embarrass yourselves. The Chinese do not make any exceptions, or allowances. As you will see, the military is what counts in this area.”

As I got up, I observed someone with a Lonely Planet or one of the other offending items handing it to the Nepalese Guide -- clearly with some heartbreak. 

“I am sure that you all are more or less sane,” Tubla said, “And that none of you would be stupid enough to try to bring with you one of the “Free Tibet” T-shirts they sell on the streets of Katmandu – and in most European capitals.” 

“If they search your luggage and find one of these,” he said, “you’ll be facing a trial -- and maybe even a dark prison cell.  And trust me — your European passports and your embassies in Beijing will be no use to you.” 

A dead silence lingered over the group after the guide’s stern lecture, before the German and Spanish speakers – who seemed to dominate the group – launched into a lively discussion.  Some of the Spanish speakers repeated the words “Israel” and “Palestine.”