In 1992, Brandon Wilson and his wife set off to become the first Westerners to walk an ancient pilgrimage trail from Lhasa, Tibet to Kathmandu.  What began as an adventure soon turned into a fight for survival while providing an intimate look at a swiftly vanishing culture.

Yak Butter Blues:  A Tibetan Trek of Faith
Chapter 1 - Part 3
by Brandon Wilson

The staff at CSWA was surprisingly cooperative and more than surprised that two Americans were serious about trekking through Tibet.

"Your timing is fortunate.  Most fortunate," the slight supervisor pronounced, sizing us up with wide-eyed curiosity.  "You see, the border officially opened just yesterday."

"Yesterday?" I thought.  "What incredible luck!"

"However," he continued, "it is only open from the Tibetan side.  You must first fly to Lhasa on our mandatory five-day tour."

Cheryl and I shot each other incredulous looks.  Grins started to surface as we thought, "Hey, we can deal with that."

"Afterwards, you can continue on your own."

On our own?  We nearly leapt from his sofa.  Then, reluctant to let him glimpse our explosive, hallelujah-excitement, we calmly asked that one question, one last time.

"Has this ever been done before?"

The pensive supervisor hesitated only a second, assuring us, "No.  To my knowledge, no Western couple has ever walked from Lhasa to Kathmandu.”"

"There, we’ve heard it three times," I thought.  "It must be true.  But does that only mean that no one's been so mad?"

"It just hasn't been possible," he added, de-emphasizing our luck.  "The border's been closed many years now."

Although he promised to send our request to the Chinese Embassy, we remained skeptical that they would issue visas for the sixty days we needed.  Or that they'd allow two unsupervised Americans free rein to trek across "their" Tibet.  That was unheard of.

I could just hear them chuckling, "Americans want to trek through the Himalayas this time of year?  Wa ha ha!  Imagine them trying to talk with Tibetans?  Wa ha ha ha!  Or find a hotel? Impossible!"

Then, as if to allay all those unspoken fears, a displaced Tibetan clerk secretively shared something with us, a truth which eased our minds.

"Why worry?" he asked, with a cryptic smile.  "If it is meant to be, if Lord Buddha wills it, it will be."

And so it was.  One telephone call, a change in policy one day earlier, the unlikely consent of a few officials, and suddenly it was willed.

It was pure synchronicity.  If we had never stumbled into that Tibetan shop, or had arrived in Kathmandu one week earlier, or never dared to chase our outlandish dream, our lives would be different now.

But as the Tibetans would say, it was our karma.

© 2005 Brandon Wilson

See more about Yak Butter Blues in the Asia East Bookstore.

Pilgrim's Tales:  Yak Butter Blues

In 1992, Brandon Wilson and his wife set off to become the first Westerners to walk an ancient pilgrimage trail from Lhasa, Tibet to Kathmandu.  What began as an adventure soon turned into a fight for survival while providing an intimate look at a swiftly vanishing culture.

Yak Butter Blues:  A Tibetan Trek of Faith
Chapter 1 - Part 2
by Brandon Wilson

It’s easy to forget the subtleties of a place like Kathmandu.  But, like meeting an old lover on the street, those exhilarating sensations and musky memories quickly stir and reawaken.

It begins with an on-rush of a dozen desperate urchins with their frantic curbside hustle, screeching, “Taxi, Misstah! Taxi, Sir?”  Then there’s the ritual cramming of two size ten bags into a size five trunk.  Once loaded, those taxis take off and swarm with all the frenzy and heated determination of wasps in a jar.  Incessant bleats, peals and joy buzzer rasps of ten thousand horns punctuate fits of starts, stops and swerves.

It’s an intricate ballet.  Motorized tuk-tuks, hand-pulled rickshaws and dilapidated Datsuns careen down crowded streets, blaring at gawking tourists, persistent hawkers and wayward cows.  They follow a well-practiced weave, fake and swerve through an orchestra of sheer chaos and overpowering odors.  All that’s missing is a conductor’s baton to direct the symphony of shit.

"'Official trekking season' attracts those
who dream of Himalayan quests, like vultures
to an African road kill."

"Official trekking season" attracts those who dream of Himalayan quests, like vultures to an African road kill.  The French roam murky alleys, narrowly skirting ambushes by mock-gracious merchants.  Brits scour streets in search of legendary cakes, while Americans suck cold brews to tunes from pizza joint jukeboxes.

As if that wasn’t already enough to throw the typical traveler off balance, a two-week Nepalese religious festival added to the madness.  Dasain, the most lavish of Hindu holidays, spilled frenzied throngs into already undulating streets.

During our last visit after a month spent roasting in Rajasthan’s summer desert, Kathmandu was an oasis fulfilling fantasies of food, comfort and relaxation.  Yet, even then she was enigmatic.  Her face changed like masks in a Balinese barong:  one moment beautiful and enchanting, the next bizarre and revolting.

Unfortunately since then, fame aged her more than centuries past, and her virginal innocence, an honest wanderer’s welcome, was deflowered.

We were saddened by the loss, but this time Kathmandu was just a staging area.  Its score of trekking supply shops, groceries, banks and one-star (or falling-star) hotels only promised to hasten our departure.  We needed all the help we could get since everything was uncertain. All except our steadfast determination.

"Right now," I thought, "we don’t even know they’ll allow us into Tibet.  Will they issue visas? Will the border be open for independent travelers?  Will we just waltz right on through?  Or will we be forced to fly to Lhasa, join a tour and escape into Tibet unfettered and alone?"

"All we can do is have faith," I kept reminding myself.  Yet, at that point in my life, the concept of faith was abstract to me, ethereal, best relegated to love, religion and the life hereafter.

N.D.’s travel agency was set among a hundred other one-person shops in Kathmandu’s teeming Thamel district.  We approached it reluctantly since after flying halfway around the world we arrived to find our hotel hopelessly filled.  He had never reserved our room.  Still, he was our only contact.  Perhaps our last hope.

Anxiously we peered through the grimy glass door to a chubby fellow scrutinizing a newspaper, spread like a crab-fest tablecloth across his desk.  As we entered, he casually cocked one eye from under an American baseball cap in our direction.  Mumbling a disinterested "Namaste," he immediately returned to his reading.

Unwilling to let him off the hook that easily, we returned his traditional Nepalese greeting then pulled up chairs, encircling his desk and closing in for the kill.

"Narayan suggested we see you when we arrived."

"Ah, yes," he sputtered, slurping milky mint tea.  "He was just here a week ago."

"And he telexed last month," Cheryl reminded, "asking you to reserve a room for us at the hotel across the street."

"Hmm, don’t remember any telex."  Glancing up from his paper, he half-heartedly grabbed a tattered notebook from the shelf and lazily leafed through it.  "No. No telex here…"

"Anyway," I interrupted, careful not to antagonize him, "we’re planning a special trip and your brother thought you could help."

N.D. grinned while his head bobbed back and forth in that unmistakable Nepalese wobble—like a plastic dog in the rear window of a ’65 Chevy.

"Not to worry," he chirped, already mentally tallying commission from another lucrative Nepal trek. "I will try."

At this mere mention of business, our host sent the "boy" scurrying for more tea then leaned back with a confident smirk.

"Can we speak frankly?" I whispered, after turning to confirm the door was closed.

Our plans had been shrouded in secrecy since that first meeting.  Narayan’s hushed tones and wary glances made it seem like Chinese spies lurked right beneath his desk.  Since then, we were extremely cautious about sharing our plan with anyone for fear the Chinese would catch wind and refuse us entry.

"Of c-c-course," he stuttered, now becoming intrigued by his mysterious strangers.

Exasperated by our labored ritual, Cheryl impatiently blurted out, "We want to go to Tibet."

"We want to fly to Lhasa," I added, "then, trek back to Kathmandu."

"Trek back?" he clucked, shaking his head. "Nooo… Impossible!"

After traveling so far, I refused to accept impossible as an excuse anymore.

"Why? Buddhist pilgrims have done it for centuries."

"But no Western couple ever has that I know of," he replied, snickering at the prospect. "Do you know how far it is?"

"Over a thousand kilometers (621 miles)," Cheryl deadpanned, used to that tired old argument.

"Yes and it’s a long way between villages," he reminded us, as cautious or frightened as his brother.

"We know," my partner assured him, "but we have plenty of dehydrated food."

I nodded in agreement, although plenty was certainly stretching it.  Actually, hoping to lessen the weight in our packs, we had foil packets for ten meager meals.

"And we have maps, too," I added, having picked up the "very latest" showing the thin, ragged route from Kathmandu to Lhasa.  Although the kid hawking them on the street promised it was "just five-days old," I had my doubts since travelers are expected to be mighty gullible in Kathmandu.

"Hey, maybe we can buy a yak or burro in Lhasa," Cheryl suggested, figuring that hiking that far was hard enough without lugging forty-pound packs.  "Or we can even hire a guide to lead us from one village to the next."

Although N.D. was fascinated, his practical nature (or daily experience with the Chinese) warned him that our scheme was pure craziness.  It took several glasses of creamy tea to finally convince him it was worth at least one phone call to China’s "official" travel agent.  One call and he could prove us wrong and get rid of us and get back to his newspaper.

"One call and he could
prove us wrong and get rid of us and get
back to his newspaper."

As he slowly dialed the number, I almost stopped him.  Reluctant to reveal our plans, especially to the Chinese, I was afraid we’d never get in.  "It’s still not too late to hop an organized tour," I figured, "then disappear into the Himalayas."  But to be honest, I wasn’t anxious to run into some overzealous, pubescent Chinese soldier waving an Uzi, eager to shoot "spies."

While all those doubts crossed my mind, N.D. reached the airline office.  Although neither of us speaks Nepali, it was easy to decipher his conversation with China South West Airlines.

"I have a couple who wants to trek from Lhasa to Kathmandu," he started.  Then in a patronizing tone, he snickered, "I told them it was impossible, but…" He suddenly stopped.

Our hearts raced.  Were we finished?  Did they just flatly refuse?

"Yes, they know they’ll have to book a Lhasa tour, but…What?  You’ll consider it?"

Stunned, he shot us a quizzical glance.  Then he apologetically blubbered, "Why, yes, yes, I’ll send them over right away."

© 2005 Brandon Wilson

Look for the continuation of the first chapter of Brandon Wilson's award-winning book in an upcoming entry in Asia East.

See more about Yak Butter Blues in the Asia East Bookstore.

Pilgrim's Tales:  Yak Butter Blues

In 1992, Brandon Wilson and his wife set off to become the first Westerners to walk an ancient pilgrimage trail from Lhasa, Tibet to Kathmandu.  What began as an adventure soon turned into a fight for survival while providing an intimate look at a swiftly vanishing culture.

Yak Butter Blues:  A Tibetan Trek of Faith
Chapter 1 - Part 1, condensed
by Brandon Wilson

It all started innocently enough.  Sure, my wife Cheryl and I had heard about "Shangri-La," that hidden Himalayan paradise.  Who hadn't grown up with the legend?  Then, one snowy morning, snuggled deep in a cozy leather armchair beside the library's crackling fire, I became intrigued while reading about an ancient trail once walked by pilgrims from Kathmandu, Nepal to Lhasa, Tibet, home of the Dalai Lamas.

According to this account no foreigners had seen the "forbidden" city until 1903.  Borders were sealed after the 1950 Chinese invasion until 1979, only opening for brief periods since.

At that time only 1200 foreigners had ever seen Lhasa, let alone the rest of Tibet, and half of those were with an English army campaign.  Most of the others were on more recent, tightly controlled Chinese propaganda tours.

Considering all that, I thought that maybe no Westerner had ever trekked this unexplored path.  That was the challenge that initially convinced me to write to the Chinese authorities. The same motivator that has sent other madmen traipsing off to some of the highest, least traveled, most remote corners of a shrinking planet.

Other folks I guess might have been content to stay in Colorado, especially at that time of year.  After all, it was a cloudless afternoon.  The type of day where the spruce trees, God's own sweet air fresheners, scent the rarefied air with a promise of perennial hope.  Besides, who could have guessed such a simple action as opening a mailbox could change one's life forever?

Tearing open an envelope, not from the embassy but from China's "authorized" travel agent, I eagerly read, "It is impossible to independently travel from Kathmandu into Tibetan Province, nor from Lhasa into Nepal on foot.  As far as we know, it is impossible to get the permit to stay in Tibet for 60 or 90 days on your own.  It is impossible to buy local food or find simple guesthouses every 300 km., let alone 30-km.  You could hardly come across a soul within a couple of days, if you go on foot." It warned, "No maps of China or Tibet are available...The temperature in Tibet, in November, is below zero.  Snowstorms and avalanches are not uncommon then and there...Conditions in those high and deep mountains of Tibet are beyond your imaginations."

"Conditions in those
high and deep mountains of Tibet
are beyond your imaginations."

I was thrilled.  Its string of impossibilities just made me more determined, especially their bullheaded insistence that it couldn't be done.  Still, we prepared for the worse. 

"Look, if the Chinese refuse to give us visas," I cautioned Cheryl, my naive accomplice, "we'll be forced to sneak in or bribe our way across the border from Nepal.  We'll have to hide in the mountains and slip from village to village."

Plus, I neglected to add, rely on the kindness of strangers.

By the time we'd committed to the challenge, there was so little time to prepare for something so unknown.  We feverishly scoured bookshops and found a Lonely Planet Tibet Guide. But the book contained no topographical maps, no details on food or shelter, and it was anyone's guess what the Communists would do if they caught us without papers.

Then, unexpectedly, doors began to open.  One day, while ambling through the trendy university town of Boulder, we spotted a slip of a cluttered shop.  Thinking we might find crucial answers, or at least preview some tasty souvenirs, we stepped inside.  Narayan, the owner, greeted our arrival like long-lost friends and, in the finest Nepalese tradition, led us into his office with a flourish.

Staring across a disheveled wooden desk, the gregarious fellow began, "So, you want to go trekking in Nepal?"  Obviously that was why most people visited him.

"No," I explained.  "Actually, we want to go from Kathmandu to Lhasa."

"No problem," he chirped in his singsong Nepali accent.  "The Chinese organize tours.  We can put you in touch.  Or," he suggested with a grin, "you'll have a very good time hiking Nepal with us."

"No, you don't understand," I elaborated.  "We want to trek from Kathmandu to Lhasa...on the pilgrim's trail."

Shocked, he shook his head as if we'd suggested a trip to a far-off planet.  "Why, that's over 600 miles!  That's impossible."

I tensed.  "There's that word again," I thought.

"Impossible?  Why?"

Furtively, he glanced around the cubicle, as if it might be bugged.  "Because the Chinese will never allow it," he whispered, as though sharing a forbidden secret.  "They insist on selling organized tours from Kathmandu to Lhasa.  Five- or seven-day tours.  The border's been closed to independent travelers for years."

"You sure? We'd hoped there was a change with all this détente stuff."

While he adamantly shook his head, I focused on a map thrown across his desk.  Then it dawned on me.

"Wait a second!  What if we come in from the other direction?  From Lhasa to Kathmandu?"

As my suggestion began to register, he smirked at its utter lunacy.  "Well, you'd still have to go to Kathmandu and join a Chinese group tour, then fly to Lhasa..."

Nodding, I walked him through our far-fetched scheme.

"Right...and..."

"And then what?  Disappear?" he asked.

We shot him Cheshire-cat grins.  "Melt into the crowds.  Vanish."

Intrigued, he affectionately stroked his bushy mustache.  "It just might be possible..."

"Look, it'll be close to winter," I reminded him.  "They'd never suspect anyone would be crazy enough to take off over the Himalayas at that time of year!"

Neither could Cheryl, but she cautiously joined in our tag team lunacy.

"Sure.  If anyone stops us we'll invent some excuse.  'Hey, we just got separated from our group.'"

"They'll probably figure you'd head to Beijing or Hong Kong anyway," he chuckled, caught up in our gambit.

"What's the chance of hiring a guide in Lhasa?" I wondered, far from thrilled at the prospect of getting lost.  "Can we find someone to lead us back to Kathmandu?"

"Doubtful.  Maybe you'll find a Nepali eager to return there," he suggested, intently leaning forward in his chair.  "But never a Tibetan.  They're reluctant to travel farther than the next village."

"But never a Tibetan.
They're reluctant to travel farther
than the next village."

"What about visas?"

"You can get them faster in Kathmandu."

"Say, can we buy a yak or horse in Lhasa?" my partner asked, nervously twisting her long, auburn hair.

Narayan was incredulous.  "You really want to do this like Tibetans, don't you?"  Our stares told him we were dead serious.

"Well, maybe you can find one in the Barkhor Market," he suggested.  "But don't count on it."

After an hour, we had more questions than answers.  Still, I was hesitant to leave so much, virtually our lives, to chance if we could possibly avoid it.

"Isn't there anyone in Kathmandu we can talk to?  Someone with contacts?"

A terrified look flashed across the Nepali's eyes.  "Don't tell a soul what you're doing," he warned.  "You don't know who you can trust!"  Then, he reconsidered.  Leaning across the desk, he confided, "On second thought, talk to my brother.  His travel agency's in Thamel. That's all I can suggest."

Grateful, we stood to go, but he offered one last kernel of wisdom.

"Look, you two, I don't think this has ever been done before, and there must be more than one good reason why."

Those last, simple words sealed our fate.  The chance to become among the first Westerners to capture a bit of history, while beating the Chinese at their own bureaucratic game, convinced us.  We'd give it our best shot.

Looking back, we should have taken a year to plan for our harrowing journey.  There was equipment to buy, test and break in; food and supplies to order; maps to study; lives to put in order; physical conditioning to achieve.  But we knew if we were to complete our trek before the ominous November snows, we had only three months to prepare.

© 2005 Brandon Wilson

Look for the continuation of the first chapter of Brandon Wilson's award-winning book in an upcoming entry in Asia East.

See more about Yak Butter Blues in the Asia East Bookstore.

Pilgrim's Tales:  Yak Butter Blues

In 1992, Brandon Wilson and his wife set off to become the first Westerners to walk an ancient pilgrimage trail from Lhasa, Tibet to Kathmandu.  What began as an adventure soon turned into a fight for survival while providing an intimate look at a swiftly vanishing culture.

Yak Butter Blues:  A Tibetan Trek of Faith
Introduction
by Brandon Wilson

The wind kicks up again.  A vast, desolate swath of sand stretches for miles, days in any direction.  We are insignificant:  insects trudging across the desert.  Meager possessions are slung across a patient horse's back.  Once-strong bodies buckle under the pervasive wind.  We bend double, choking on dust.  Sand invades every pore.  Pus seeps into stiff socks from sores pocking our feet.  Hopelessness, undeniable hunger and unquenchable thirst fill us with a gnawing rage.

For hours or days hatred sustains us.  Hatred of self.  Each other.  The inadequacy of our bodies. The forsaken land we vowed to cross, a ground that consumes our very souls.

Maybe we approached the journey all wrong from the very start, gulping in its challenge in one gigantic breath, like diving headfirst off a cliff into some mirrored pool of unknown depth.  It was bound to be a great adventure, we argued, a chance to prove something to ourselves – especially to those who vowed it couldn’t be done.

But any Western sense of toughing things out, of muscling our way across a land as complex as utter darkness, soon fell by the wayside like exhausted matchsticks.

Survival has somehow become mysteriously linked with the uneasy idea of letting go. Perhaps it always has been.  But leaps of faith have never given me much personal comfort. Still, this is Tibet; it's unsettling, yet reassuring.

"When life is bleakest,
magic appears, tenuous at first.  It's a strange,
exhilarating force, a peace."

When life is bleakest, magic appears, tenuous at first.  It's a strange, exhilarating force, a peace.  Obstacles vanish and hurdles disappear.  We find water where there is none. Someone arrives out of nowhere offering shelter.  Another shares his meager food.  Another, his love.

At those moments we have a gnawing suspicion that there is something more to our thousand kilometer trek, something more than just two weary travelers tracing an ancient pilgrim's path from Lhasa to Kathmandu across the Himalayas.

And that sense of greater purpose, more than any personal tenacity or courage, ultimately keeps us moving.

© 2005 Brandon Wilson

Look for the first chapter of Bradon Wilson's award-winning book in an upcoming entry in  Asia East.

See more about Yak Butter Blues in the Asia East Bookstore.

Pilgrim's Tales:  Yak Butter Blues