Beyond Base Camp

A gust of wind brings cold, stale air from the border—where I imagine an armed Chinese patrol officer—down into the valley, but it halts obediently at the walls of the city. Over the horizon, the Tibetan culture is being monitored, censored, and silenced, but from the front step of my teahouse, I can see it with flying colors. The blues, greens, reds, and yellows of the prayer flags flap through the alleys, the smell of Tsampa is in the air, and the chanting of prayer fills the city streets.
As I look around I begin to wonder where I am. My visa and permit say that I am in Nepal; but I haven’t heard a language other than Tibetan in days. As the presence of the Chinese Government grows south of the border, three countries – China, Tibet and Nepal – play tug-of-war in my head and near the border. As I contemplate the uniqueness of this once-forbidden kingdom, I try to compare Lo Monthang to other cities in the world. Images of skyscrapers, and subways, and rush hour race through my head and I conclude that my personal experience cannot relate to Lo Monthang in the slightest.
The chattering of a prayer wall refocuses my attention on the untouched Tibetan culture within the walls. As I lose myself in the rhythmic world around me, I imagine the exact scene before me thousands of years ago.
From the steps I glance down the narrow cobblestone road to meet the sound of thunder rumbling towards me. Suddenly a man races around the corner waving a large stick and screaming, though the poise on his face suggests that nothing is out of the ordinary. Seconds later the sound of thunder follows him around the corner and I see a fleet of cows racing through the streets. Before I have time to think, 3 more men round the bend followed by a stampede of horses. The narrow cobblestone street is covered by the fast-moving crowd of herders and herded alike, and in moments, the entire city seems to be in motion. Whistles blow, shouts echo, and whips flog various rear-ends until the entire village livestock is rushing through the streets. I race to a second floor window and peer out to where I can see the entrance of the city. Beyond the gate, the streamline swarm of animals disseminates across the wide plains. After what seems like hours, herds thin out and the straggling calves limp away until all that’s left is scattered dung and settling dust. Tenzin, my friend, nudges me and smiles, “in Lo Monthang we have rush hour.”