When Dreams Become Reality, Then Become Hell: Traveling to Tibet in 1987

“At 6,000 m (more than 19,500 ft.) above sea level, the Tibetan Plateau is both remote and hard to reach.”

—the BBC

So I had always dreamed of reaching the “the roof of the world,” Tibet. I finally made it there in 1987, which turned out to be an inauspicious year to go. I had nightmares almost every night in Tibet, perhaps inspired by the tension between the Chinese soldiers and the Tibetans in every town, in every gathering—not to mention the halcion I was taking to sleep in high altitudes (since then, the drug halcion was reported to sometimes cause suicidal, homicidal, and psychotic behavior—but more about that later).

I should also point out that in Tibet there were often rats in my room, my hair had turned orange, and yak tea seemed to often have hair in it (not mine). Also, I could feel my molar implants slowly rotting (both of them), which seemed to be a perfect symbol of my journey.

The initial shock: crossing the border 

Today it is possible to fly in to Lhasa. The closest international airport is in Chengdu, and from there the flight to Lhasa takes about two and a half hours.

But in the winter of 1987, the “easiest” and least expensive way was to go overland through Nepal. A car had taken us from Kathmandu, the capital of Nepal, to the small town of Kodari on the Nepalese border. We were going to walk across the border to the town of Zhangmu in Tibet and then make our way to Lhasa, about 480 miles away. Unlike most of Tibet, Zhangmu has a subtropical climate, with dense vegetation and waterfalls from the melting snow on the mountains. Roads here were often closed because of rock and mudslides (and about 28 years after we crossed the town was hit by earthquakes—and largely destroyed—so my nightmares were not unwarranted).

The day that we entered Tibet I had to cross an expanse with rocks and boulders barreling down. I replayed the scene in my head the entire time I was in Tibet, knowing that I had to make the journey again in the opposite direction. In some ways, the terror I felt lasted throughout my time in Tibet, coloring many things I experienced along the way, though, thankfully, not all.

My secret garden

I had dreamed of going to Tibet from the time I was a little girl. I remember being moved to read and watch anything I could get my hands on about Tibet, first in encyclopedias, and then in newspapers, magazines and documentaries. I was 10 years old when I first saw footage of a young Dalai Lama escaping Tibet in 1958, eight years after the Chinese sent 40,000 troops to invade the country. The story was horrifying to me; Shangri-La was being invaded by people bent on destroying a unique and beautiful culture.

Years later, a friend bought me the book Everest: The West Ridge (1965), written by Tom Hornbein. I never wanted to climb Everest—or any other mountain—but I was endlessly fascinated by stories and photographs of the Himalayas and about the first ascent of Everest via the West Ridge, one of the deadliest ways to the summit. I was further inspired when, in 1975, I attended a performance of the Tibetan exile opera company, under the patronage of the Dalai Lama in India. By then I had already become a solo traveler and had visited countries in South and Central America and Europe. I decided that I would travel to see several Tibetan communities in exile in northern India.

Tibetan exile communities

I set out for India in the late 1970s, where I made my way to the old hill stations of Dharamsala and Darjeeling, both in the Himalayan foothills. I visited McLeod Ganj, near Dharamsala in Himachal Pradesh, where the Tibetan government in exile was established. I saw people from many countries paying their respects to the Dalai Lama, along with remnants of the exiled community. In Darjeeling, West Bengal, I listened to Tibetan children singing Christmas carols in the streets. A major activity was watching the clouds rolling in to cover the surrounding mountains…and then watching them roll out. It was breathtaking, but I had still not made it to Tibet.

A trekker and a slow walker join forces

It would take ten more years before I would jump in, largely because I met a woman in New York City who was friends with someone who had trekked in the Himalayas several times. Roxanne, as I’ll call her, was younger than I, in great shape, and a fearless and experienced traveler. We met and decided to travel together. While I was accustomed to traveling on my own, I was thrilled that I would be with someone so experienced, since trekking was a concept that was entirely alien to me (I walked).

We planned to set out for Kathmandu in February of 1987. As for many of my travels, I made an effort to learn the language of the place I was visiting. I contacted a Tibetan monk who lived on the upper west side of Manhattan. Although he was sure that I was a quick learner, it turned out that most of what I learned I was parroting and would soon forget. (I did learn to say, “You are very pretty” in Tibetan, which I would use to amuse the people I met throughout the trip—he later said that no one would have ever used that phrase in Tibet, but he could see how it broke the ice). I remember old men and woman falling over with laughter when I tried to speak Tibetan; I laughed with them.

The misadventures continues

More in the next episode of my journey to Tibet, featuring tales of paranoia about stolen food, a bar in Lhasa with a mural of Sylvester Stallone as Rambo, the radiant smiles of Tibetans, the dark corners of Potala palace, circumambulating Barkhor square, tension in the streets of Lhasa, the impressive Tashilumpo monastery in Shigatse, the 10,000 murals in the Palcho monastery in Gyantse, and my tale of getting out of Tibet, chased by dogs. I’ll also cover the strange aftermath of my journey, especially the encounter between my orange-haired self and Parisian airport security

Your handy guide to travel in Tibet; too bad I didn’t have this 32 years ago.