Spokes and Dust

LEATHERFOOT He looked at the bikes. They were covered in a layer of light brown dirt. It was the same dirt that covered the hills to the sides, and the vast Tibetan plateau that stretched to the horizon and ended at the incredible blue sky. His two companions were covered in a layer of the dirt too, as was Dogi himself. It was a physical blending with the earth. Then came the rumbling noise, and as the truck passed, it kicked up so much dust that his nose couldn’t filter it anymore, and the grit seeped into the back of his mouth. Dogi chuckled, thinking it didn’t mix too badly with the residual oil that still coated the inside of his cheeks after drinking the Yak Butter Tea. And, as the rumble faded, the deep silence returned, only to be broken a few moments later by the next wave of wind. It gusted strongly enough that Dogi stumbled. It always seemed to be blowing in their faces. Dogi’s mind drifted back with the wind. Back past Lhasa, Kathmandu, India and Thailand. It drifted all the way back to Japan, and the time he first met Leatherfoot.  It was a lovely autumn day when a small group of friends, and friends of friends were meandering along a beaten path under a canopy of trees along the east side of a small river. The forest trail was on the way to a waterfall somewhere in rural Japan in a prefecture known as Gunma. It is a side of Japan that most who have never been there are unaware of. Perhaps it is a side that a great many of the Japanese urbanites from the huge cities are unaware of themselves. Situated near one of the many small villages that dot the valleys carved through the mountainous areas of Japan, it is a natural environment, and the air is fresh and clean. For Dogi, his girlfriend Kat, and the rest of the lot, it represented a welcome respite from breathing the smog and exhale of the millions of people from the concrete jungle of Tokyo. Nicknamed Dogi by his girlfriend, they had been living together in Yokohama, an extension of the huge city of Tokyo, for over a year. It had been an enjoyable year. Dogi was enthusiastic about teaching English at a small private school, and about exploring the vastly different Japanese language and culture. He would spend a lot of his free time wandering the neighborhoods, chatting with locals, playing with kids and observing diverse life go by. He couldn’t help but find human nature fascinating, comparing and contrasting thoughts that he previously held with behaviours he witnessed. Yet, as someone who grew up with a lot of exposure to the outdoors in his homeland of Canada, the lack of fresh air and solitude wore on him heavily at times. supply shops to consider the food options for trekking. At first, we find nothing beyond the usual fare, until we make one excellent new discovery. Chinese Army Cookies! This is no joke. Try to picture a super compressed short bread cookie, the size of a chocolate bar, stuffed in a single plastic wrapper! They are dense and shockingly weighty for their size. Being reasonably priced, we buy one to try. Short bread indeed! Except without much sugar or butter, and ten times the density, but it’s reasonably tasty. It does suck the moisture out of the mouth, though not nearly to the extent of tsampa, and the weight to size to energy ratio for trekking seems ideal. At the very least, it will be a change from nuts and crackers. The more we explore Tingri, the more appealing it is to us. Beyond the main road, there are no signs of anything Chinese. The roadways, pathways, and alleys are a rough combination of stone and hard dirt, with a smattering of larger rocks and boulders, and several muck puddles. They are plied only by foot and cart. Motorized vehicles do not come off the main highway. The houses are what we have become accustomed to, being square or rectangular with whitewash walls, blue and brownish red trim and some decorative stripes. The roofs are flat, as usual, and rimmed with the short walls. The corners of most buildings have a bouquet of tattered prayer flags sticking out of them. Everywhere are piles and stacks of dried or drying shaped mud bricks and cow patties. Once you add in the chickens, cows, yaks, dogs, children and other locals, you have a scene that is purely Tibetan. The sounds come only from the wind, the animals, and the voices of the people, and the air is tainted only by dust kicked up by the breeze, if anything at all. As we reach the southern end of the town, we can see across a huge flat expanse of land. The dominant colour, as always, is brown, but the tiny grasses and scrub brush are trying their hardest to make an appearance. The grazing sheep and bovines, however, don’t make their lives any easier. Mixed into the landscape are some irrigation canals, and fields of fist sized stones that add a dappling of white. Way in the background, the foothills obscure the lower halves of the mountains, but the mighty peaks in their majestic coats of white and grey reach out to the bold blue sky. From this distance, they are inviting. Most of the rest of the afternoon has been spent enjoying the coolness of our room. For the sake of air circulation, we have left the door only a slight crack open, which we were hoping would also leave us our privacy for a while. Yet, as we awaken from short naps, and are resting and talking, we suddenly find ourselves not alone. Once again, we have a visitor. This time, it is a middle aged Tibetan man standing inside our doorway. He just opened the door and came in, and now stands and stares at us blankly. Can you imagine this? Someone just comes into your guesthouse room uninvited and stays! As usual, there is no threat of violence or even theft. He is obviously here purely out of curiosity. After eating, I drift in and out of a light sleep, until the door opens and a Tibetan man comes in. We can also see a boy standing outside the doorway. We are nervous, figuring they might be shocked, or angry or scared, but there is no panic. They seem perfectly at ease with our presence. Good. I need more rest and go back to napping on the dusty floor. Kat and Leatherfoot finally tell me I have to get up. It’s time to go, but suddenly, we find ourselves in a state of confusion. As we are about to walk away, the man stops us and begins to motion what looks like a horsey whipping action. Maybe he’s offering us a ride as far as Lunja, the next, and last town along the trek to Base Camp. So, we’ve left the hut and come to the side of the small river near the horse and cart, but we wait … and we wait. We go through the sign language a couple of more times, and there does seem to be understanding, but no action. Both the father and son are just kind of coming and going, and looking at us once in a while. They seem unusually agitated. “M o n e y” “Money?” Why the young boy took so long to say this we don’t know. Maybe, he just remembered the word, or maybe, they were nervous to ask or fretted about whether or not to charge us. He could have said “Yuan” or showed us a coin or a bill, but perhaps they have neither. Of course, after the first free ride, it never crossed our minds to offer, but then, they were on their way and took us only a short distance. This will be a special trip, and much further. It makes perfect sense. Once the money thing is out in the open, everyone is able to relax, and we have a short bargaining process which is done in good faith. Finally, we are on our way.