I spent early September- late October of 1995 in Tibet.

I traveled around Lhasa visiting various monasteries. Sera, Drepung, Ganden and the Tsurphu Monastery, home to the Karmapa rinoche.

I prayed at each one for my baby brother’s departed soul.

Michael had died of AIDS that summer.

I especially liked the Jokhang.

There was no place holier on Earth.

Michael would have liked it.

He was spiritual in many ways and in my free time I taught English to monks and workers.

The People’s Army were a big presence in Lhasa, but no Chinese soldiers were allowed inside the Jokhang.

The female cadres were good fun atop the Potala.

They never carried guns.

The men had AK47s.

The ARs had no ammo.

At the end of October my Chinese visa neared expiration.

The Friendship Highway to Kathmandu had been reopened after work crews had finally cleared a gigantic landslide covering a section of the Friendship Highway connecting China and Nepal.

It was time to say, “Kha-leh phe.” to Lhasa.

My English class sang me farewell.

Their choice was SAILING by Christopher Cross.

I thought, “What a silly song.”

Somehow dust got in my eyes and I wished my students well through a shimmer of tears.

Lhasa had been good for my soul.

I hoped my baby brother glowed in its holiness somewhere in the cosmos.

The next day I boarded a bus to Shigatze.

It was the last big town before the border.

I spent a day visiting the ancient monasteries.

I even climbed to the dzong.

The fortress was in ruins.

The Chinese had destroyed most everything Tibetan during the Cultural Revolution as had others like the Brisih and Mongols.

The next day I detoured off the main road to Gyantze.

In 1968 the Gang of Four had sent the Red Guard here to cleanse Tibet of the Old Ways. They obliterated the Jokhang and every other temple to obliterate the Four Olds ‘old ideas’, ‘old culture’, ‘old customs’, and ‘old habits’. Buildings are stone. Souls are eternal.

The Tibetans were in the process of rebuilding the main stupa of Gyantze.

The inn at Gyantze was horrible. The noodles were greasy. The beer luke warm. Fleas ran rampant in the beds and the flies buzzed through the cracked windows of the dormitary. Every bed was overbooked. I slept about five hours and woke to a brilliant blue dawn.

The morning bus returned to Shigatze.

It truly was civilization after Gyantze, although packs of dogs roamed the alleys.

The Tibetans have a joke about these dogs.

Why do you need two sticks to go to the toilet?
One to stick in the ground and hold onto and the second to fight off the dogs.

They were vicious creatures far from Man’s best friend.

The paved highway ended at Shigatze. No buses ran to Nepal. I hitched a ride from a van heading to pick up backpackers in Khailash, the holy mountain. I gave the driver $20. Two other westerners were in the back. They were semi-conscious. High-altitude sickness. We grunted hello. Tsering was very happy with three westerners as his cargo and we set off south.

The high Tibetan plateau was like the surface of Mars.

No water.

No people.

Only dirt.

The dust plumes of transport trucks were the only sign of man.

We saw one every hour or two.

That afternoon dropped into a canyon.

Tsering pointed to the opposite slope.

“Landslide.”

It was a mile across.

Workers cleared a road with eyes checking up the hill for tumbling boulders.

“You walk. I drive van with dead pepople. “He pointed back to the comatose backpakers. I wondered if they were high on opium. None of my business. Tsering motioned for me to walk. “No problem.”

A large stone rolled down the slope. Workers scattered for safety. I ran to the end of the slide.

It was a bad road, but better after the landslide

After that road climbed into the high plateau.

15,000

16,000

The tourists barely moved. They were barely breathing.

North of Lhatze the van became mired in mud.
A Tibetan herder’s horse hauled it clear.

Tibet was open to the sky.

My brother’s soul was in the heavens.

I prayed for his happiness in the Here-Beyond.

He would remain thirty-five forever.

China National Highway 219 split off to Mount Kailash.

I asked Tsering how was the road.”

“Very bad. Very dusty.”

“Really.” My eyeballs were grated red by the road dirt.

“Yes, # 1 bad.” Tsering’s eyes were red too.

We said good-bye.

Another van approached the t-intersection. Dorge was headed to the border. $20. I jumped in, the only passsenger. The others were Tibetans returning to India after a long pilgrimage to Lhasa.

This was the Roof of the World.

We passed a French bicyclist struggling uphill.

I shouted out the window, “Do you want a ride?”

“Non, merci.”

I collapsed into my seat.

The road rose higher and higher.

After Tingri I spotted a giant snow mass to the south.

It was miles away.

“Chomolungma,” said Tsering in reverence.

“Everest.”

“Yes, to the West. Miyolangsangma, the Goddess of Inexhaustible Giving, lives on its peak.”

I offered a prayer to her for Michael.

The icy summits of the Himalayas filled the southern horizon.

I had Tsering stop for a minute at the top of the Yakrushong Pass, 16,000 feet.

“Not long.”

He was on a tight schedule.

I said a prayer for my younger brother.

We rose to 16,900 feet.

My words were few. Even to me.

The wind carried them to the swirl of Himalayan peaks.

The sun descended to the West.

We drove down to the border and arrived at Zhangmu in the dead of night.

I could breathe easy for the first time in a month. The tourists

Trees lined the valley.

I gave Dorge another $10.

We drank beer for an hour and then went to sleep.

It had been a long day.

In the morning Dorge was gone with his backpackers

I crossed the border. My passport had two days left on my visa. I boarded a bus to Nepal.

Tibet was behind me.

The Araniko Highway was good. I had heard that a restaurant served pizza in Kathmandu. My baby brother liked it with extra cheese. Tears dropped from my eyes. It wasn’t from dust. I was back in the modern world.

ps the pizza was so-so, but it was pizza.

pps This was first written in 2014 New York.