PRAISE FORTHE FRIENDSHIP HIGHWAY
'The Friendship Highway is no simple travelogue, but reaches out to become a powerful and deeply movingaccount of the predicament of the people of Tibet.'
Neil Ansell
'A hard-hitting account, showing what lies beneath the surface of modern-day Tibet Charlie Carroll gives thisstory the voice it deserves.'
Alec Le Sueur
'Charlie Carroll has woven a flawless narrative out of a very complex subject In simple language, it exploresthe Tibet mystery, a country that is at the core of our being like no other. Evocative, provocative and veryreadable.'
Naomi Levine
'The Friendship Highway is another gripping, emotive tale from Charlie Carroll. Beautifully written, it tells of notonly the author's brave journey into Tibet but also the ongoing, heart-rending plight of its people. A must foranyone with even an inkling of interest into this mystical Himalayan kingdom.'
Antonia Bolingbroke-Kent
THE FRIENDSHIP HIGHWAY
Copyright Charlie Carroll, 2014
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, nor transmitted, nor translated into a machine language, without the written permission of the publishers.
Charlie Carroll has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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Note from the Author
To protect the identities of all the Tibetans and Chinese who candidly spoke to me during my journey, and to prevent any possible incarceration which could result from their admissions to a writer, all names in this book have been changed.
At the time of my journey, 1 was worth approximately 10 yuan.
The Tibetan chapter titles are simply the phonetic spelling of the numbers one to fifteen ascending in the Tibetan language.
For my father
Barrie
Contents
chig
Lobsang felt his mother's fingers curl around his skinny bicep as she gently shook his arm. He kept his eyes closed. It was customary for her to wake him for school in this way each morning, and customary for him to pretend he was still asleep. The rules of the game stated that his mother would shake him four times, repeat his name twice and then walk away from his bed to shout: 'Father! Our Lobsang has died in the night. We had better get a new Lobsang.' This was the child's cue to fling back his yak-hair blanket, leap to his feet and announce: 'I fooled you!' Then his mother would kiss him, the game would be over, and the new day would begin.
Once, he jumped from his bed and said: 'I fooled you! But get the new Lobsang so he can go to school for me.' His mother did not kiss him that morning, and he understood that he had broken the game's rules. From then on, he stuck to them religiously.
This time, it was his mother who was breaking the rules. She had shaken his arm a full eight times and repeated his name at least five. Then she said something unexpected: 'Lobsang, you must open your eyes, Lobsang.'
This he did, if only to reprimand her over her disrespect for their morning ritual, but the words stuck in his throat when he felt the cold outside his blanket. It was still early March, he knew that, but this was not a morning temperature. This cold meant something was wrong. Instead of reproaching his mother, he asked a simple: 'Why?'
'Later,' his mother said, stroking his forehead. 'Now, you must do what I say. No complaints.'
'OK!' he grinned, suddenly excited because he knew what his mother was up to. He leapt from the bed and performed a little dance on the floor to make his mother smile. She did not.
'Not so loud!' she whispered.
With pantomime-steps, he tiptoed across the room. 'Not so loud!' he whispered back, giggling at his impression and at his mother for trying to surprise him in this way. It was all too obvious. He grabbed at her hand and pulled her ear down towards his mouth. 'Are we going on a pilgrimage?' he breathed.
Lobsang's mother smiled at her youngest son. 'Yes,' she said. 'We're going on the best kind of pilgrimage. We're going to see Dorje.'
Dorje! For all Lobsang's guesswork, he had never supposed a visit to his eldest brother would be the surprise. He adored Dorje and had thrown tantrum after tantrum when his brother had left over a year ago. When the outbursts had not worked, Lobsang came to understand that he could only bring Dorje back by being good. And this he had been really good for a whole year. Now he was going to get his reward.
His mother led him out of their small house. A gigantic truck sat on the street with its lights off but its engine running. Following his mother's gestures, Lobsang climbed into the back of the truck and picked his way through the crates, boxes and bags to find in a corner his sister, Jamyang, and his brother, Chogyal. Jamyang held out her arms and Lobsang tripped into them.
'We're going on a pilgrimage to see Dorje!' he said.
'I know,' Jamyang replied, but she did not smile.
Chogyal said nothing and did not look at Lobsang as their mother and father climbed into the truck and sat with them. Their father took a thin but large cotton sheet from one of the crates and pulled it over them all. Lobsang felt disappointed that his father was coming on the pilgrimage (he had often wished that Dorje was his real father), but he at least seemed to know how to get the truck to start and stop. One bang of his fist on the wall behind them was enough to get the truck rolling; another brought it to a quick halt.
'Remember,' his mother told him as they bumped slowly out and along the streets of Lhasa. 'You must do what I say.'
Lobsang pressed his hands together in a gesture of prayer, bowed his head, and grinned. 'What must I do, mother?' he called above the roar of the engine.
She smiled back at him, reached out one hand and stroked his forehead. 'For now? Sleep.'
He felt aggrieved. Sleep? He had just woken up!
