Our first obstacle was adapting to the Chinese style of negotiation and their perception of the truth. We would soon learn that time-honored Judea-Christian notions of veracity had little relevance in this part of China. Time after time, we would negotiate for transportation, set a price, and abruptly learn at the halfway point of our journey that the Chinese had renegotiated the contract, setting a higher price. We became involved in such a dispute in the Taklamakan desert of central Xinjiang. This area is over 500 feet below sea level and averaged temperatures of well over 110 degrees in July, while we were there. It wasn't much fun sitting on the stone steps of a mosque haggling over prices with your Chinese purveyors in such conditions! Inevitably we lost, paying a much higher price for services we thought we had already purchased.

Misrepresentations in the Western sense were also often made because of our host's desire to please. It seems to be a Western Chinese affectation to say what the visitor wishes to hear. For instance, if you ask whether a vehicle is four-wheel drive, which is what you will surely need to travel 590 kilometers on some of the roughest roads in the world, they will invariably answer, "yes." Only much later after your vehicle has failed to surmount a steep, muddy hill will you learn that the four-wheel drive mechanism exists but it is inoperable and was so from the very start of your journey. Other instances abound. In a hotel in Borjing, half way between Urumchi and our destination, we complained that our towels and sheets appeared soiled, evidently not having been changed since the last visitor. The house worker agreed to change them. When we returned two hours later they were still soiled. When we informed the hotel director, he responded, "Well what do you expect? They are more clean than they are dirty; that is, they are mostly clean, aren't they?" Such unanswerable questions leave little opportunity for debate.

A certain sense of anxiety was soon beginning to overcome us, especially when an elegantly dressed Japanese businessman approached us in Urumchi and politely asked, "What are you doing here?" I responded that we were bound for northern Xinjiang on the Russian border to climb a peak. He hesitated, looked at me quizzically and said, "No one goes there; save at least 50% of all of your energy just to get out alive." I asked him what he meant. He responded that if we got into any trouble or were injured, no help would be available. We would have to do our own rescue. He wished us luck but didn't think that we would ever achieve our goal. How right he was!

We finally arrived at our base camp at Hanas Lake after a two-day bone crushing, teeth rattling ride. En route the battery cable broke, the engine caught fire, the fan belt snapped, we had three flat tires, we ran out of gas twice, and during a torrential downpour, we discovered that the wiper blades did not work. We also learned that the four-wheel drive system was not functional, resulting in our getting stuck many times. As a big storm was brewing in the northwest over Kyrgyzstan, we wondered how we would ever manage our return journey.

Not long after arrival at base camp we learned, much to our dismay, that gadfly Chinese American activist, Harry Wu, had been arrested approximately 500 miles to the southwest on the Pakistan border. This untimely event spurred Chinese People's Army personnel to even greater suspicion of Americans in such a highly strategic area (there was Soviet-Chinese fighting here in the 1960's and 1970's) which until only recently, had been closed to all visitors, Chinese and foreigner alike. When we tried to take an exploratory trip across the roaring river that separated us from our mountain, we were held immobile for more than a day because of endless nitpicking over our special travel permit. At one point, a People's Army officer tried to extort us for additional fees, arguing that our permit was fraudulent. After our civilian Chinese liaison officer screamed at him for nearly a half-hour, he finally relented and gave us permission to go. By that time our delicately balanced schedule had been totally disrupted and there was no way we would ever be able to climb our mountain. Besides, the weather had worsened and a climb would have been impossible even under the most ideal of political conditions. It was then, though, that the real discomfort began.

Imagine the following scene, if you will. A five or six year old fattened sheep dragged by its neck with a rope to a big boiling pot with a roaring fire underneath. Before your eyes, two Cossack herdsmen string the sheep up by its back legs, slit its throat, skin it, and throw the remainder into the boiling pot, all within about five minutes. Two hours later this boiled sheep is placed upon a wooden stretcher and ported into the Hanas Lake dining hall. Some Cossack and Uighar tribesmen are sitting at a round table where the remains are placed. The chieftain immediately dips into an eye socket with his bare hands, pulling out one of the eyeballs, swallowing it whole. Somebody nearby, as if by the dictates of some ancient ritual, shovels out the remaining eye and repeats the chieftain's gesture. Then several others dip into the two half skulls of the sheep, withdrawing steamed brains. At that point all hell broke loose. The remaining ten or so members of the clan descended upon the carcass, ripping at it with their bare hands, eating fat, (of which our late lamented, elderly Ovis Bovidae seemed to be principally composed), gristle and as much of the bone as they could possibly masticate and digest. Indigestible pieces are thrown upon the floor so that moments later the dining area was literally strewn with large chunks of inedible remains. Several days' accumulation of discarded sheep parts persuaded the more squeamish of us to decline the Epicurean delights of the dining hall and take to the woods to eat whatever non-animal American junk food we could scrounge. Within four days, I had lost over eight pounds.

The trip back to Urumchi was treacherous. The route followed one of the most dangerous and tumultuous rivers I have ever seen. The narrow dirt road, barely wide enough for our vehicle, followed the sinuous banks of the river approximately 300 feet above. At times the riverside tires literally extended two or three inches over the edge of the road. As it had been raining for several days, the road was also very muddy and slippery. At one place our wheezing (allegedly four-wheel drive) jeep sank up to its hubcaps. Our skeletons would have been found there in the spring except for the fact that a party of 15 Chinese came by and we all picked the vehicle up and by brute force, carried it to firmer ground. In a country where there are 1.2 billion people, pure brute, human labor often comes in handy. Our Japanese friend in Urumchi had not been entirely correct in his assessment of help in remote Xinjiang.

Tibet, our second destination, would be a Sunday stroll in the park compared to northwest Xinjiang, although it was not without its own peculiar set of challenges. The most striking feature of Lhasa, the capital city, was the overwhelming presence of the Red Chinese. Soldiers were everywhere and every business on the main street seemed owned by Han Chinese. When I asked Temba (our Tibetan guide whose father had been killed by the Chinese in the Cultural Revolution) why there were no Tibetan merchants along the main street, he answered that it was impossible to compete with the Chinese who were colonizing Tibet by the thousands and were officially subsidized by Beijing. He sarcastically referred to this colonization as the establishment of "Han plantations." The Chinese, however, argue that they have held hegemony over Tibet since the 17th century and have every right to be there. Tibetans disagree and fervently demand their autonomy that they claim as a birthright since the time of Fifth Dalai Lama (1641). In the late 1980s the conflict came to such a head that hundreds, if not thousands, of Tibetans were killed in an insurrection.

"Tibetans tell you, however, that most of the monks in charge are puppets of the Chinese and merely accede to the wishes of their conquerors. Thus there is only the appearance of true religious freedom, they argue...."A manifestation of the ever increasing tensions between the Chinese and Tibetans was the fact that the second largest city in Tibet, Shigatse, had been closed to travel. The reason was that the Chinese government had scotched the appointment of a new Panchen Lama whom the bishops of the Tashi Lumpo monastery had just selected as the Lama's reincarnation. The Red Chinese had evidently kidnapped the appointed God incarnate and substituted their own, whom they had just recently discovered and installed upon the throne. Meanwhile, the local monks of Shigatse have become increasingly restless. As of December 1995, the area was still closed to foreign travel. Since the Tibetans cannot even appoint their own Panchen Lama, it remains to be seen whether there will be further bloodshed. Tibetans I talked to believe it is inevitable.

Somehow Lhasa did not seem like the mysterious city I had imagined when I first read about it as a freshman at the University of California in 1950. In the bowels of the Doe Library I opened musty old volumes on Tibet that literally smelled of yak butter and pungent incense. These books now seem more real than an actual tour through the famous Potala, the historic palace of the exiled Dalai Lama. The Chinese claim that they have restored the palace and allow complete religious freedom. Tibetans tell you, however, that most of the monks in charge are puppets of the Chinese and merely accede to the wishes of their conquerors. Thus, there is only the appearance of true religious freedom, they argue. Although yak butter still burned in the votive offerings and chang or fermented holy water was plentifully displayed in basins, very few worshipers seemed present. Most of the people there, were obviously foreign tourists from whom the Chinese reap usurious profit. There are still monks loyal to the Dalai Lama in these holy places and monasteries but their numbers have been reduced to less than a third their former strength.

Now, when I see a bumper sticker that reads "Free Tibet", I no longer ask "Free from what?" About ten minutes with the beatific Dalai Lama, winner of the 1989 Nobel Peace prize, would, I am convinced, assure even the most bitter cynic that a monastic, feudal theocracy under God priests and lamas is preferable to servitude under Chinese hegemony.

Om mani padme hume.

Om mani padme hume.

—Jim Jenner, Living the Life with MountainZone.com