Devil for a Day

There are to devils in this story. One of them is me. The other is the Chinese police - the Public Service Bureau - the PSB.

Tibet seems the least likely place to run into devils (let alone become one) given that this is a country dotted with monasteries. Worshipers can be seen everywhere twirling prayer wheels, endlessly prostrating themselves at temple doors, and pressing their heads and bodies against carved and painted images of Buddha that adorn boulders along pilgrimage circuits (called koras) high above monastery roofs. Rows of prayer flags wave in the breeze, and mantras, mumbled by pilgrims, serve as an almost constant hum in the air.

John and I have walked three koras around three monasteries so far (leaving out the bowing and prostrating). I hope that these pilgrimages (done as a means to gain merit in the next reincarnation) will wipe out the sin which gained me my devilish horns.

Tibetan monasteries are fascinating places. Their architecture alone left us both in awe. The Potala palace in Lhasa towers above the city like an isolated sentry. Once active and alive, housing Dalai Lamas since the 5th Dalai (for which it was built), it now sits virtually empty - a museum of small chapels, tombs, meditation chambers, thrones, and assembly hall. Like other monasteries, the Potala has a dark, almost eerie feel. It's smell is a combination of wet plaster, ash, burning butter (from the numerous butter lamps in each room) and incense. Pilgrims who come here (mostly old ladies clad heavily in Tibetan jewelry and with plated hair woven with yarn) say prayers and bow to the detailed statues of Buddha, and ceremoniously add a dab of butter to each lamp. Watching the pilgrims was as interesting as seeing the paintings, the enormous stupa tombs, and walking up and down the almost vertical ladders between levels and corridors.

Our pilgrimages around monasteries in Lhasa all went well. It was at the monastery in Zhongdian that I actually grew my horns. I wandered into the monastery kitchen (why not, it seemed like an interesting place). I was immediately (no, faster than that) dragged out. A monk latched onto my arm and pulled me to the entrance. He pointed frantically at the sign above the door and when he finally released me, put his two fingers to his head like horns and hissed.

The sign was in Chinese. How was I to know that it said 'no women allowed'. I hadn't read that far in my guide book on monastery etiquette. I was dubbed a devil for the day.

So in Lhasa, in addition to trying to acclimate to higher altitudes by choosing the outer koras, high in the hills, above the Deprung and Sera monasteries, I was secretly trying to undo the sins of my wrongful entry. To be sure I was fully purged, I walked the Jokhang kora twice. This is the most holy, most active, and most revered religious structure in Tibet. I walked one kora along the roof, looking down at rows of prayer wheels, and one kora at ground level, spinning each wheels as I passed by it. All the while, I hummed my special mantra (in a deep trancelike voice), one that I had heard so often on the streets of Tibet "Hallow, money".

Thus feeling purged of my sin, I felt safe to leave Lhasa for Shigatse (Tibet's second largest city). It was a six hour bus ride, a ride typical of others we had taken in China. Too many people were crammed on board, people sat in the aisles. They spit, they smoked, they elbowed us. sunflower seeds littered the floor, along with cigarette butts and wrappers. Everything else went out the window. There were numerous stops - to pee, to eat, to wash the bus (don't ask), to pick up more passengers (God knows how they fit). The lady behind me kept closing my window. I kept opening it (I had to breathe) - a constant battle.

Then, the crem-de-la-crem of all annoyances - the bus driver turned on the radio (at an earsplitting level). I stood up immediately and hollered to the front. "Hello, Hello. TURN THAT THING OFF!!" I held my palms to my ears to help accent my point. "Those damn foreigners," the locals must have been thinking.

I knew they couldn't understand a word that I said, but my pantomime must have worked (or the shock of my voice) for the music ended abruptly. "And, while I've got your attention," I added. "Would everyone STOP smoking!" I could feel my horns sprouting again.

The second devil in my story, more appropriately deserves the title. This would be the Chinese Police (the PSB). I believe their mission in life is to make life hell for travelers. (I'm surprised they don't have a plaque to that effect hanging in their office. Maybe they do and I just can't read it.)

The Chinese require all travelers to Tibet to obtain a permit (TTB), actually a bribe to be allowed to travel independently. Although to obtain this permit, you must first be a part of a group. Once you have this permit and have gotten into Tibet, you need to arrange travel permits within Tibet since 'officially' only Lhasa and Shigatse prefectures are 'open' to travel. The problem comes in getting these other permits.

We walked into the Shigatse PSB office. Unlike other travelers we'd met, we were going to do this all above board. No sneaking around checkpoints with the hopes of not being caught. This proved to be a big mistake. Honesty is perhaps not the best policy when dealing with the PSB.

"Where are you going?" the Policeman asked in perfect English.

We pointed to our guide book and pronounced the names of the places along the four day hike we had planned starting near Shalu. The policeman shook his head. "Those areas are off limits, closed to foreigners." He explained how this was for our own protection.

Well then, we would forget the hike and head straight for the Everest region. John had talked with other travelers just yesterday who said that yes, the PSB was indeed issuing personal permits to the Everest area.

"Absolutely not!" came the reply to our inquiry. "We do not issue personal permits. You must be part of a tour group. Where is your tour group?"

His next request was not promising. "Let me see your permit to be in Tibet." We obliged. "And your passports." We obliged again. "And the name of your hotel. And the travel agent who issued you this permit." This was not going well.

"This permit expires today," the PSB officer said waving it at us. "This permit allows you access to Lhasa, Shigatse, Gyantse, and the Nepal border only," he went on. "it is no good after midnight tonight. Surely you knew that."

Surely we didn't. The entire document was in Chinese. The officer started to write - our names, our passport numbers, our permit number. There was a lot of Chinese scribble that I did not take as a good sign. "When you have a jeep, a driver and a guide you can come back for a seven day permit," he said. Without argument we left.

Had we just exposed ourselves? Should we have kept a lower profile? Would our names and passport numbers be issued over an ABP to all PSB offices in Tibet? There was no hope now of sneaking to Everest by public bus and by hitching rides. They could be waiting for us. And staying in Shigatse seemed risky too. The PSB could, if they wanted to, issue fines of between 200 and 500 yuan ($63) per person per day for being without a permit. That a permit wasn't required in Shigatse was inconsequential. Who could we appeal too? The PSB knew where we were staying - one of the nicest hotels in town - to him that probably smelled of of deep pockets.

This was just peachy. Jeep trips to Nepal were expensive; and with a driver we would have a fixed itinerary. We wouldn't have time to hike.

"So much for being on the up-and-up," I said after we were well away from the building. "I think we just shot ourselves in the foot." If the PSB needed to set an example for other travelers, I was afraid we were it.

At the hotel room, John read from the guide book a Chinese saying: "With one monkey in the way, not even 10,000 men can pass."

"Make that one devil in the way," I said. "One very big devil."