Fear and loathing- Part 3. Xian to Chengdu and beyond

Back in Xian, Gesar and I arranged another train ride; this time in a south-westerly direction, another 1000km plus journey and a seventeen hour train ride to Chengdu in Sichuan Province, the home of all that really spicy Chinese food you eat at your local restaurant. This reminds me of a quick aside, the whole time Gesar and I were in China, we were struck by the poor quality and taste of the food. I remember eating Bao in Xian, a kind of bread dumpling usually filled with meat or a vegetable, and the look on Gesar’s face after he bit into it, and spat out half. A quick look at the contents showed us the bun was stuffed with green tea leaves. Ugh! My stomach still twinges from the memory. Why such poor food you ask? Well, you have to thank the Helmsman* for that. One of his most brilliant moves during the Cultural Revolution was getting rid of any kind of family lineage of skilled workers or trades people, so that meant doctors, teachers, successful businessmen and your average Chinese cook. Obviously they were still in short supply in 1991….

Anyway, back to the story. A different hotel, another travel agent, and tickets were purchased for the train. We had already lost a week with our aborted entry from the north, and didn’t want to sit around some dank proletarian hotel any longer than we needed to.

Let’s go! This time, there were limited train seats, so we were going the lowest class available. A brief description is necessary. Trains in India may have a bad reputation, but this train in China certainly could challenge that theory. The seating was arranged in benches to fit three, facing each other. To say 'seating' is a complement and mere flattery, they were more like church pews similar to the ones I experienced as a boy during my obviously failed Catholic Christian upbringing. No padding, bare wood, seventeen hours, you get the picture.

The train was packed to the gills. Stuff was everywhere, people getting on and off, similar to any train journey in India. Most of our neighbors had the prerequisite glass jars full of tea, hot water readily available on the platform.

Public brawling, Chinese style-Now before I tell this next event, I want you to understand that the People’s Republic trains attempt to leave on time, without fail, barring major catastrophe like the world ending or something similar. As we were sitting there waiting for takeoff, a couple of rowdy types in front of us started to argue. Again, any kind of argument in China at that time was considered entertainment, so everyone craned their heads to watch. Suddenly, right before our very eyes, one guy grabs this big glass tea jar and rams it into the face of the other, and fists, blood, glass fragments, people and belongings started flying everywhere. G and I looked on in disbelief with mouths agape. The fellow on the receiving end of the glass jar was staggering down the isle, screaming, blood spurting profusely, all over the other passengers as the other fellow chased him, ultimately restrained by some other men. Now, as all this is going on, the train is pulling out of the station, and already off the platform. The injured man and his accompanying party screamed for a train guard, pulling frantically on the emergency stop handle. He came eventually after a few minutes, and they pleaded with him to stop the train and let the man off. The victim was obviously in need of urgent medical attention, and blood was still flowing from him copiously. There pleading was in vain: the guardsman just stood there and repeated, ‘mao, mao’ or ‘no, no.’ The train just kept going until the first stop 45 minutes later. Trains in China just don’t stop.

Chengdu and Pewa Tulku

Well, what do I remember of the journey on the train after that? Not much I can tell you! Oh, cans of the same soft drink taste differently depending on which part of China you are in; I distinctly remember extra fizz in the can when we pulled into one station near another nuclear power plant…….

Early the next day we arrived in the famous city of Chengdu and set about finding our contact there- Pewa Tulku. After a little searching around this Chinese and obviously Tibetan inhabited neighborhood, we were led by a man that was clearly an ex-monk to a little house. As we approached, a kindly old man dressed as a lama, hair pulled up on top of his head like a yogi, wearing worn disheveled yogi robes came limping towards us with a huge smile and pools of tears in his eyes. The feeling I had right then was like a child watching an old Lassie movie- my heart wanted to explode at the sight of his utter devotion.

Gesar’s previous incarnation had been Pewa Tulku’s teacher, and the look in this man’s eyes was enough to fuel at least 100,000 prostrations. He was so happy; he giggled and laughed at us and fired away in rapid Tibetan. Gesar blessed him, not wanting to, but forced to by the old man placing Gesar’s hands on his head. Here we were, standing in the street, people starting to watch from windows and unfinished laundry now as the old man tried to do prostrations on the road in front of him, displaying his unswerving belief that Gesar was without a doubt his teacher, reborn.

Drinking copious amounts of sweet milk tea and eating Tibetan pastries in his little apartment, Gesar recounted the story of our adventure in Xining, occasionally acting out the part of various characters in the police station. Pewa tulku just giggled, laughed and smiled and smiled and smiled. Remember no-one spoke English, so we had to make do in Tibetan. Pewa tulku recommended a hotel to stay in while he sorted out how we were going to get into Tibet, and set off with us to the hotel. Walking to a taxi, it was clear to me from the derogatory looks that the nearby Chinese people gave us that Pewa tulku was often derided by his Chinese neighbors. I for one and I think I can safely speak for Gesar when I say that we couldn’t have been more proud to be with him that day. For the first time in many days, we felt safe.

Around Chengdu and the story of the born-again Chinese travel guide.
Pewa Tulku took us to a hotel in the middle of town found on the bank of a rather large river, the Jinjiang, I think a tributary of the Yangste River. I just remembered the name- Traffic Hotel! I can remember quite vividly remember the amount of garbage that I saw floating past in the river during our brief sojourn there, including the carcass of a rather bloated, recently deceased pig that eased effortlessly with the slowly moving current. How romantic. The hotel was nice enough, and the views quite spectacular. The hotel was next to a primary school, which announced its presence several times a day by loud speaker and the noise of children marching around the playground listening to patriotic music and words of patriotic encouragement from their teacher. In fact, to us they seemed to do about as much marching about as they did study!

In front of the hotel was a Chinese-only night club, big sign on the door, and a small pleasant little outdoor café, right next to the river and some weeping willows.

There were some other westerners about, lolling around the café and sharing their experiences. Some were teachers living in the town, and obviously the cafe was a quite respite from the toils of their work, where pancakes, coffee and locally made snacks could be had.

Pewa Tulku has settled us in, and hobbled off back to his house. It was plain to us that he had rather a great deal of difficulty in getting around, but he took off undaunted. I remember hearing something about him being severely beaten by the Chinese at some point. Most, if not all of the lamas we met on our trip had spent long years in jail, and Pewa Tulku was no exception. With a smile, he told us he would send for us in a few days, and was soon gone into the thick foot traffic that coated the busy street.

I remember people in Chengdu- people, lots of them, everywhere. The streets were packed with little stalls doing business, and men and women wearing their non-descript blues and greys, in typical Chairman Mao fashion. There was a busy lane right next to the hotel and the café, so we decided to sit there, eat, and watch the world go by. Finding an empty table we nodded a brief greeting to another westerner and Englishman, instant friends by exchanged glances and a smile. We had barely sat down when the owner of the café approached us, not to take our order but to introduce himself with a booming english voice and start pitching his various business interests. His name was Mister Chin, not only did he run the café he also has a small tourism company on the side. What I had first though to be a menu tucked under his arm was in fact a menu of all the different tours he had to offer, after all, business first right? Within a minute and one seemingly long sentence, he had introduced himself as a proud official born-again communist catholic and christian, and proceeded to confirm the fact that he had indeed gone to church that very morning and was feeling really, and I mean really, really good. Gesar and I sat there while he went through his business menu; a trip to the Chinese opera, the Buddhist statues nearby, and various places of interest. Due to our own superlative business skills, recently honed in India with many a taxi driver, we rebuffed his overtures and settled with some pancakes and coffee. Yet, I could tell by his face that he was the type that didn’t give up easily, and would be back later, either to clinch some kind of tour deal with us, or convert us both to Christianity by his shining example.

Our English friend told us that Mr. Chin was that heavy handed with everybody, and advised us to blow him off. We got the update on the town, and proceeded to spend a lazy afternoon inidle chit chat with the ever wandering customers. Hey, we had hot running water! Showers were taken all ‘round, and we returned in turn to sit and watch the slow meandering river and constant flow of people cluttering the bridge to the other side.

The afternoon was punctured by two incidents, the arrival of a meter and a half long rainbow snake that shot at high speed under the outdoor café tables, eagerly chased by a rapidly gathering crown and a cook probably from the local snake restaurant, just down the lane, hatchet in hand. The second was the constant interruptions by Mr. Chin, who regaled us with his christian exploits and the obvious pride in being a member of the ‘Official Communist Party Christian Catholic Church’. Our English friend interjected to ask him a question. ‘Mr. Chin, I notice that out front of the church there is a rather large cross.’ ‘Yes, we are very proud of that cross. It represents Jesus,’ says our resident Mr. Knowledgeable. ‘Well then, maybe you can explain to us, what’s that bloody great big red star doing smack on the middle of it?’ At this point, G and I couldn’t keep a straight face, and burst out laughing. We had sat down with a possible member of the Monty Python crew, expressing himself in that typical British dry sense of humor.

That got rid of Mr. Chin for a couple of hours, and the rest of that day and evening was spent meeting various other western wanderers and tourists, sharing their adventures, and of those who had attempted, of their ill-fated attempts to get into Eastern Tibet from Chengdu.

Chinese black-market, and Tibetan invasion plan #2.

Early in the third day, a Tibetan man came knocking on our hotel door to take us to see Pewa tulku. We were taken to one of the houses of his students, a lovely Chinese family that gave us this enormous feeding. After the meal was over, Pewa tuku told us our plans.

He had arranged by his connections with the local Chinese black-market

1. A Chinese police jeep to drive us into Tibet
2. AChinese police officer to drive us
3. A young Tibetan monk since neither G or I spoke a word of Chinese (who spoke no English) was going to escort us and act as translator between us and the driver.

We were ecstatic, but then I asked how much this was going to cost. Pewa Tulku said it was going to cost a cool $5000 US, payable immediately. Well, needless to say that we didn’t have that kind of cash on us, especially if I was to have emergency funds in case something went wrong (as I had feeling it would). A look of concern crossed Pewa tulku’s face briefly, then he said that never mind, he would find the money and we could pay him back later. We must get to Tibet. We were smart enough to realize that Pewa tulku would have to put himself us as guarantor with the Chinese black-market reps, and we also knew what would happen were we to default.

Gesar and I weren’t sure if we wanted to get there that badly, considering the grief we had gone through to raise money from the American sangha for Gesar to come and study with Rinpoche in the first place. But the suddenly wrathful look on the tulku’s face convinced us that we better just agree with what he said. Suddenly the smiles were back again.

We would worry about the money when we were back in India. Off we went to prepare- Gesar and I both acquired Chubas for the very cold journey ahead of us. These are the traditional Tibetan dress, long and generally thick, rough material to keep you warm in the high altitude. We had our requisite Chairman Mao hats to cover our heads if need be, and a few extra socks and sweaters.

We were told to be ready early the next morning as we had nothing to lose. The journey would take about three days of hard driving; we were instructed to sleep well that night.

Of course, we hardly slept- it was going to happen! It was a combined feeling of intense anticipation and absolute fear that wracked my discursive thoughts that night.

On our way.

The next morning we were ready at five o’clock as we had been instructed. We left a lot of belongings at the hotel; only take what was absolutely necessary. Our Tibetan friend drove us over to the Chinese people’s house, where sure enough sat a Beijing Chinese police jeep, a Chinese policeman and a little Tibetan monk. Introductions were done, a way good bye and good luck from Pewa tulku and we were on our way. I sat in the back, trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible in the early morning traffic as we navigated our way out of the still sleepy town, and pointed the jeep west, towards Tibet and our destiny.

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* The late great Chairman Mao