We were a great curiosity to the Chinese and while waiting it was necessary to adjust to the Chinese way of doing things. The toilets were around the back of any low wall but in China there is always somebody peering at you, and somebody else had always been there before you. It was a squalid and filthy border crossing point.
We were all to take our papers and possessions declaring valuables and any literature into the customs hall. In there, forms had to be filled, and in the turmoil nothing was checked but the forms were stamped by surly, runny nosed, uniformed Chinese women suffering from hypothermia. Occasionally immaculately dressed officers, their uniforms similar to Nationalist Army Officers of the 1940’s, equipped with leather trench coats and boots came, peered at us, through mirrored sunglasses perched between elegant moustaches and officious peeked caps. The runny nosed customs officials wore cotton tunics and plimsolls.
Finally, after all the waiting during which time we had boiled enough water for two cups of tea each, a white and a blue Toyota Land Cruiser arrived bearing your guides. Small flurries of snow descended with them. The guides appeared concerned and worked their way along the length of our column stopping at Stewart’s Mercedes and crouching, obviously concerned. They came to us and did the same but we knew they were not paying homage. We suddenly recognised one of them from our previous drive through China. It was Mr Qu, the first Chinese climber to have scaled Everest and a tough man.
He greeted us having recognised the car and gave us a present of some Chinese biscuits to have with the tea which he spotted sitting on the Bentley’s dashboard table. His colleagues were worrying him about the Bentley’s ground clearance but Qu calmed them telling them how well we had performed in the very same car in the Gobi two years previously. They moved on down the line, we could only think that they did not know what we had already been through and that nothing in our experience, could be worse. We were wrong. They knew more than us. The road to Kashgar was a riverbed and we had to get down it before the rains and in the dark.
The border town was left behind with hooting and waving at the cold, miserable looking and bemused Chinese. Once into the open country, surrounded by mountains and heavy cloud we were enchanted. The land all around was grassed and finely mown, like a golf course, by the nibbling of the abundant live stock. The local inhabitants cheered and waved. We all responded hooting and waving and we threw postcards printed with our route out of the window. These they scrambled over like fine prizes.
The road was good, narrow and freshly tarmaced billiard table smooth. The blue Toyota with Qu and a very pretty young Chinese girl called Liu were up front driven by a non english speaking Chinese of great personality. While at the back and behind our Land Rover back-up wagon was the other Chinese vehicle carrying a secret service agent from Peking whom we all called Danny. He was dressed as an ordinary policeman and stood just short of 6 feet. His humble rank and smiling countenance was given away on few occasions. Once during an argument in an hotel with the manager and accountant, he resolved the problem in our favour using less than two words. On another more serious occasion his Peking authority saved two of our people from a long spell in captivity. If roads, were blocked, by pedestrians, lorries or animals, Danny would appear and the blocked road would be cleared instantly. With him travelled an intellectual and gentle Chinese, a young man we called John. We all liked him immensely for his personality and Italianate good looks.
Darkness descends rapidly in the mountains and although we had been worrying, we decided the road to Kashgar was going to be pleasant with the only reservation being that we would have to travel in a column and we would certainly arrive after nightfall.
Having decided upon our fate and Sue having plugged in the kettle again for yet more tea we noticed the road surface becoming a little rough then, after taking a severe bend, we saw cars ahead of us braking and the white Toyota pulling abruptly off the road. The other vehicles, with David Inns driving a white Discovery at the front, followed off the road and into the riverbed. The road had been running down through a valley along by a small river. At the point where we parted from the road it had widened to about a quarter of a mile made up of large and small polished oval stones. In the centre of this ran several rivulets, but our way was picked out by the Chinese driver, the best that could be had but it was slow going and very bumpy. Heavy rains rushing down from the mountains had swollen the river and washed away the remainder of the road along which we had been travelling.
Incredulous and slightly angry we wondered why the Chinese were leading us down this route. But one travels hopefully and we hoped the river had only washed away a small section but we were wrong. It had washed away almost the entire road between the border and the very outskirts of Kashgar. The evening was promising us a night of torment, anxiety and endurance.
To add to our concern we had been forbidden to take any photographs until we reached Kashgar. The light was bad but we did steal a few, as we thought nobody would ever believe that such a route could be driven over by a car such as ours. The weather was holding off and however slowly, we were descending. Dramatic changes in the clouds above as they slowly rumbled round the peaks warned us that we should proceed as quickly as possible The Bentley didn’t like this road. With the rear shocks useless it bounced badly but with Nan driving the Mercedes and Stewart sick, from every kind of stomach complaint, our progress was slow. The “Woody” was behind together with the V.W. Microbus. Jonathan driving the G-Wagen was immediately behind and sometime in the last stages of dusk our convoy became split into two. We were in the vanguard and sat close on the Mercedes’ tail. We ascended the road for brief intervals which brought our spirits back but after no more than three to five minutes we were descending a little escarpment into the river bed again. It was miserable.
As we drove down the mountains the river bed gave way to sand, mud and sharp stones. At one point our column stopped in a canyon and we wondered why. Suddenly a loud explosion a couple of hundred yards ahead to our left took place. It was a road working gang blasting the mountainside 10 or 20 feet above the river bed attempting to make a new road. After the deafening report, the billowing dust and the stench of cordite, fine pebbles rained down and landed with a pit-a-patter on our Webasto sun roof.
Lower yet and it seemed the road only worsened, the sand seemed to be formed into three foot high ridges about 20 to 30 feet apart and we continuously negotiated these obstacles to the dread sound of scraping, rattling and banging from underneath. We thank God and the clever sump, gearbox, and rear axle guards that we got through that night. Malcolm told me later how he watched the back of the Bentley sending showers of sparks into the cold night air as it trundled downward.
As is often the case just when we had decided that we, and that includes the Bentley, had had enough we saw a line of poplar trees ahead. This indicated a straight road. It had been getting warmer and we had been unable to open the windows as the cars in front had been whipping up so much sand. We were stifling but we knew that we were off the mountain. Relief came slowly. Our headlight beams were clear and the Mercedes was pulling away. We were on a hard, flat, straight, tarmaced road which was lined by the poplar trees, whose light grey bark reflected back at us. A real road. The ordeal of entering China was over. We were soon in the ancient market city, that crossroads of the ancient traders. The very link between the real East and the West, between Mongolia and India. Our hotel, formerly the British Resident’s home, enjoyed by the great explorers of the 19th century and Sven Heddin and Peter Flemming of the early 20th century. It was well past midnight as we drove through the once opulent gates and parked in the courtyard. Having got to our room, with its tubular iron beds and quarry tile walled shower, we adjusted the mosquito nets and after showering and making tea collapsed on the beds. We had two nights in Kashgar and the next morning would be taken up by a seminar held by the Chinese police instructing us on how to drive. Some of the instructions and the direct translation brought gales of laughter and some sniggering. It was funny and after being issued with our Chinese licenses we were to go off some considerable distance out of town, to refuel. As we all went back to our cars, surly and slick Kashgaries mingled among us offering good rates of exchange. By some strange coincidence the hotel bank had no money so we were forced to commit one of the most grievous crimes against which not ten minutes ago we had been clearly warned and the money was changed blatantly in front of officials.
We drove off in convoy, led by the police vehicle, out of town to a compound where we could get petrol. I clearly remember the drive there, the refueling, and the return journey, because it finally brought destruction to our lovely, powerful and reliable 6 cylinder engine. The engine fired up well enough and the charging problem had been overcome. One cell had been faulty in the battery and Jack the Farmer had loaned us his spare. We drove smoothly and after refueling were corralled for the return journey. It was hot and the engine began to miss. I blipped the throttle a few times and the engine ran smooth and then suddenly a very audible tapping, began. On revving more the tapping ceased, but on the way back to the hotel the tapping became a banging and the noise reflected loudly off the walls as we passed buildings. I was worried.
The engine had been rebuilt over 45,000 miles ago and having stripped it again prior to our departure we could find no discernible wear, only slightly criticizing the Syntron X oil for not having let the pistons and bores bed in properly. We declared the engine having the appearance of having done only 500 miles, despite the London to Peking journey in 1990 and, three major rallies and numerous Continental holidays.
Back in the hotel car park I introduced the noise to Andy Tatlow of our back-up wagon. He was a Rolls-Royce trained mechanic and had seen the car perform faultlessly on the London to Peking run. He was most concerned, he thought a cam follower was breaking up on the exhaust side. He thought the cam shaft lobe might be breaking up also. He said he would work on it in the afternoon when the engine had cooled down.
Confident in Rolls-Royce engineering, it is generally understood that there were two great engines built by RR for motorcars, the Silver Ghost engine and the B60 which powered our Continental; certainly after 1965 the precision and reliability not to mention styling had all but gone. We went down to the market with a group of others and in that Babylonian environment we soon forgot about a mere tapping in a Bentley engine.
Kashgar is in China, but its Muslem antecedents, its Turkic peoples, its bazaars, its animals and the pungent spices all mixed up with oriental odours and noises give you the feeling that it belongs to another country, another century.
It was all there, the hundreds of little shops, 6 ft. deep and 9 ft. wide, all competing, and strangely down the same road all selling exactly the same range of goods. It was under the hot sun down such a road that I spent 25p on a cap. They were all the same, both the shops and the caps and even the prices, so you bought because of the personality of the shopkeeper. We meandered through these lanes in wonder, as ancient crafts were performed before our very eyes as a matter of routine, not as a tourist attraction. Beautifully turned wooden cribs were being made for babies, copper pots and kettles were being beaten into shape, tin smiths were making all kinds of cooking equipment, silversmiths making jewellery, spice merchants weighing cloves. At a junction we took mint tea on a first floor verandah with Joe Sullivan and Nikki. We were able to look down on the biblical scene below. The elegant, wealthy merchant sitting erect on a black stallion, trotting through the crowd; the old wizened father with two young sons pulling a reluctant heavily laden donkey train through the maelstrom. Our hearts bled for the donkeys, with their sad dewy eyes and dainty little legs, for the way that the Muslem Chinese treated them. These sad and tough little creatures were beaten appallingly, unnecessarily and somehow maliciously. It took considerable self restraint not to intervene. We all gave them affection where we could. But beneath the veneer of the fairy tale setting harshness, wickedness and cruelty permeates all levels of society as we found out on our return to the hotel.
Sue and I, Peter and Heather negotiated with the donkey cart drivers and for a small sum their lovely little donkeys pulling flat back simple carts, no more than a board placed on a wooden axle between two rusty wheels, would convey us without complaint.
On this board two of us would sit and the driver would get the donkey skipping along. It was a wonderful means of transportation. Somehow better than a Bentley even though rough splinters penetrated my trousers. But pulling up at the gates of our hotel the first donkey driver was severely beaten by one of the police guards at the gate. The policeman beat him and ripped the shirt from his back, he held him and sent his donkey and cart panicking back downhill. We showed our displeasure and tried to find out what had caused this but to no avail. One was aware that the Authority was always Han Chinese, and that the Kashgaries, Moslems to a man, were Uighurs and underlings. The Authorities were not respected and like any colonising power they had to remind their subjects from time to time who was the boss. We were soon to leave Kashgar.
Andy had the bonnet open and declared that he had found the cause; an ill fitting felt air filter element which was also slightly moth eaten had caused fine sand to be packed around the inside of the carburetor mouths and slides. This, he declared, had entered the engine, passed between the valves and their guides, the sand had caused some inlet valves not to close properly. All evidence of sand was removed and light oil was pumped into the carburettor mouths and with the engine turning at 1500 rpm and smoke belching from the exhaust pipe the noise subsided. We would run on a two stroke Mixture for about 200 miles: the engine returned to its silent powerful self.
The Taklamakan Desert which literally translated means “go in, no come out;”
is one of the most dangerous and inhospitable regions on earth. It is both excessively hot in the summer and viciously cold in the winter and suffers travellers only occasionally. The little red road on our map told us we were going to travel quite comfortably around the southern perimeter and below the northern foothills of the Himalayas. The various stopping points would offer Spartan accommodation and simple food and we were eager to know this desert.
Driving along well tarmacked roads forever lined with poplar trees and smiling Uigor people we were happy, relaxed and content. The weather was warm—not hot. Shortly a drama developed with the Ford V8 Woody. The most serious scraping sounds were coming from his differential. It was decided a bearing had collapsed and that he would be better to put the car on a flat back Chinese lorry to Goilmud, and from there fly out new parts: this meant that the “Woody” would not be going to Lhasa.
The desert road was remarkable for its sudden change of surface. Smooth fresh black tarmac alternated with wash-board and rough stone road which in turn would give way to extremely fast wide smooth and loose broken stone surface which with a little dressing looked as if it could be turned into good motorways. And yet again and on other days and under a ferocious sun, the road would be broken and washed out leaving little ravines, large potholes, great semi circular detours and average speeds of 5 mph.
Some days with only 160 miles to go we would start in bright sun stopping with our friends to make coffee, taking endless photographs, messing about in general knowing there may be only 60 miles to go from noon, but that 60 miles was always torture. Physical torture for the Bentley, mental torture for us and we would arrive, somehow, after dark completely exhausted.
The desert did not inspire everyone, but its subtlety of colour from fawn to lilac under marbled skies with far off hills and mountains fascinated us as did the wildlife, principally of predator birds. Stopping the car to make morning coffee or afternoon tea always seemed to attract a fairly strong wind and we constantly discussed the lack of sand which we all associate with a desert. On the contrary we seemed to be driving through a giant demolition site with great rocks, boulders and sharp flints relieved only by the most formidable thorny and spiky plant life. This was not a desert to go idly rambling in. We had read of the Bucca Buran which means “black storm” where in the middle of the day the desert sky takes on the appearance of night and a raging sand storm of razor sharp particles scour the desert surface and everything that stands in its way.
These storms had recently been and had carried lots of rain in their wake down from the Himalayas and it was these that had been responsible for destroying the greater part of our desert road. This was pioneering motoring, and we travelled with anxiety as a constant companion.
The Chinese with us were fewer in number and much more relaxed than on the 1990 London to Peking Motor Challenge, letting us drive individually and not in convoy as before. We were thinking we would never see sand when we came upon a dune and realised that this slippery surface would require new tricks. Our recce report had warned us of sand drifts. We had imagined a tarmac road and maybe 20 ft. of sand 1 or 2 inches deep bisecting it. On some stretches the rough road was only indicated by deep rutted tracks in the sand and the sand may have built up several feet thick for hundreds of yards in places. Now, the ground clearance on a Bentley Continental is slight and once the under-belly became stuck, the sheer weight and stiction made it a very difficult machine to extract. Especially as the sand was so fine that it turned into a fog as the wheels churned. The technique therefore was simply to keep moving. Once having seen the drift, take a good fast run at it and steer the wheels of one side onto the highest ridge and do not fall into the ruts left by the lorries otherwise the Bentley would belly out.
There is a feeling almost of ecstasy to be driving in a Bentley in the heat of the desert with the windows shut, the sun roof open and the air conditioning refreshing the atmosphere, B.B.C. World Service relaying an old story and being miles away from civilisation, with plenty of water and tea making equipment on board. Thus we found ourselves on the sandy desert road between Hotan and Quiemu, storming the sand drifts.
Sometimes it was like a contest. Before us a sand dune 20 or 30 feet high and the road going up and over it and our little party parked back waiting in turn to take a choice of several tracks. When our turn came we would pull away and quickly change into second and then floor the accelerator pushing the Bentley through a sea of sand. The relief on the other side of the dune was wonderful and the Bentley never complained. This sort of driving prevailed all day today, the 8th September 1992, until somewhere in the afternoon there was the smell of burning rubber and then the cessation of the Alpine cool jet stream followed by the ignition warning light glowing bright. We had to traverse another long drift and then we stopped to examine the problem. Inspection under the bonnet revealed the engine was ticking over and the fan was not turning so we switched off the engine. It was obvious what had gone wrong. The 6 pully belts were jumbled up like spaghetti. Sand had come through the radiator, been trapped in the V of the pulley and pushed the belts in all directions. The result was chaos, but in fact no real damage other than to the belts.
Sue made tea, Jonathan offered his tool kit, Don Saunders from the big Chevrolet took over the mechanical responsibilities and after burning himself and coping with slipping spanners barked the memorable quotable phrase “Gawd, if I had known I was gonna hafta work on this turkey again I’da brought my set of adjustable pipe wrenches”. Don, from Seattle had done a little work on Hero during the 1990 trip near Bukhara when the power steering pump bearing had failed.
By the time we had fitted just two belts, power steering and alternator/water pump, it was getting towards the end of the day and the beginning of the twilight hour that signals caution to the desert traveller. We decided that without enough belts fitted the Bentley must not charge any more drifts, but that Jonathan and Malcolm in the G-Wagon would lead and Don and Bonita in the big Chevvy would follow. Tied together like a train our desert caravan would go carefully and steadily and with about 50 miles we knew we would have to drive through a moonless desert night across a treacherous desert track.
The going down of the sun seemed to happen without our noticing and our little train worked well with the largest strain being put upon Jonathan and Malcolm leading. They had the telegraph poles as guides and every dip in the sand could have indicated a little ravine or a giant pothole and their position as leaders was not an enviable one. But we continued like this for several hours until on a very hilly area of dunes we came to a fork and took the left as it looked most recently worn. There are no junctions in this desert. Just one road. The fork was in fact a detour as a bridge over a wadi had become too dangerous. The track was deeply rutted and in the Bentley’s headlights we watched the G-Wagon slither and spin until it was grounded despite its 4 wheel drive. Luckily we were not bellied out and Don was also in a good position so we reversed and pulled the G-Wagon clear. We now uncoupled and each car would charge down this dune keeping its wheels away from the lorry ruts in the sand. Off went the G-Wagon and when the dust had settled we saw in our headlight beams that he had made a fine job and was sitting on the hard down below. With a nervous quiver we realised we must not mess this one up and in low gear No. 2 we followed the G-Wagon’s tracks and hoped the one water pump/alternator belt would take the revs. It was a success. We had spun our wheels and slithered without stopping through the sand to the bottom. The belt was also intact. Don followed in the Big Chevvy with his 4 wheel drive and V8 power propelling him effortlessly downward.
We had now done with the sand and were back again with the stones and driving in echelon with less than 20 miles to go we travelled under an indigo sky and the brightest most luminous stars we had ever seen. Several traumas befell Jonathan and Malcolm as they were leading. On one occasion they disappeared completely from view where the road had opened having been washed away. But their tough Benz G-Wagon and their own stamina saw them through though we could hear the swearing and cursing above the roar of the engine.
Sometime before midnight we could see hazard flashers blinking in the distance. We immediately thought somebody had conked-out. But when we finally arrived we were all greeted by Peter and Heather who had driven back into the desert, in “Dettol” their silver Range Rover, worrying on our behalf and then led us out of the desert into the little town of Hotan and to our rough but welcoming hotel where they promised us cold beer and a cold shower followed by hard bed. But it all sounded good and we will never forget them for their concern and the emotion it engendered.
Though we arrived late we knew that there were others trapped in the desert behind us including the Volkswagen Microbus, Mercedes Benz Saloon and various 4-wheel drives and the back-up wagon. We heard that they spent the night in the desert having lit a fire and guarded against the cold with a dreadful tasting Chinese brandy.
We were cleaning the car next morning when the back-up wagon arrived and Andy quickly fitted all the belts from our spare supply. We then found our exhaust pipe was cracked and after refueling we had this welded. After a late start we got underway to take the mountain road to Ronyang. This road became a cross to bear for many of us but especially for Ed driving a Range Rover Vogue. Many of us had picked up contaminated fuel and Hero was forced to stop 19 times that day to drain out a thick, black, gritty liquid from the fuel system and this coupled with more river bed driving brought back the pioneering motorists’ vocabulary. Here we found Nikki and Crispin stranded on the river bed with the Lada Jeep. All their shocks had gone and a major chassis item had collapsed. They were waiting for the back-up wagon and we heard later that the Lada was too far gone and was abandoned then and there. We were now driving on roads through mountain passes which made the Alps look like hills.
On these roads we met only one donkey train heavily laden going ahead of their masters, protected by two intelligent dogs.
Having finally cleared the fuel problem we set out the following day in bitter cold heading for Mangnai where we spent most of the day driving on high plateaux through salt lakes in icy conditions across the most atrocious washboard road so far. The drumming vibrated all sorts of screws from all sorts of places and at one stage the steering column had a half an inch of up and down movement. We were late as usual but not the last as we had again passed the V.W. conked-out this time with a faulty generator. We could do nothing and he had to wait for the back-up wagon. As the twilight fell we passed a lime factory which had the appearance of an early James Bond film set. There was an eerie green wash to the sky, arc lamps and control towers stood out on a snow white field of salt, as did the factory and the poorly dressed labour force shambling about pulling barrows and heavy equipment in the bitter cold. We pushed on down to Mangnai where we were supposed to be camping in Yurts that night. On arrival and after refuelling in the most perishing cold wind
a small revolt took place against the Chinese. Nobody wanted to drive a further ninety minutes to the camp site having just seen an unoccupied relatively modern hotel. The rebellion had its way and soon we were sleeping the day’s cares away.
The following morning, leaving for Golmud on a good tarmac road we passed our would-be camp site of the night before. It was a rubbish tip littered with dead dogs and all manner of household refuse. We pressed on to Golmud. The roads were generally good and scenic but as we drew closer we had to pass through a salt desert which was under half an inch of water
which highly corrosive mixture was being applied liberally to the entire car. The heavy lorries which are the principal users of this road had pushed great undulations into the road and one had to tack from left to right for about 20 miles in order to try to straighten out the sick making roller coaster ride. When we finally arrived at our hotel all the cars were covered in a thick layer of salt deposited in great clumps, hanging from the undersides like ice. There was no hose pipe the Chinese driver washed our Bentley by dipping a bucket into a filthy fountain in front of the hotel and sloshing it down until the salt had gone.
Golmud is about 12,000 ft. above sea level and we would have to climb an 18,000 ft. pass before dropping down to the hospitable and fertile plain of Lhasa at 14,000 ft.
To describe the road up to Tibet would require the talents of a gifted writer, but for the most part it can be likened to driving lengthways up a corkscrew, not round its threads.
The road undulates, so aggressively that a car directly in front can immediately disappear from view, and it has tricks as well which often caught us.
After a bad session of undulations the road might grow better and relatively flat for a quarter of a mile or so during which time you bring your speed up and then suddenly it drops away without warning so that the nose of the car falls sharply and buries itself into the hard surface of the next upturn. Very distressing indeed.
We now had no shock absorbers at the front nor at the rear, our front number plate was bent back and ground severely, the exhaust pipe and rear over-riders were similarly ground away. None of the cars enjoyed this road but our Hero with its long length and overhangs suffered most.
We had two stops on the way to Lhasa, the first being Tuotuo Heyan and the second being Nagqu. At Tuotuo Heyan we were appalled by the standard of the guest house which resembled a single storey prison block
let off into cells with an outside latrine which men of the Burma Road might have recognised. We had no stomach for such facilities.
We were glad to be off the road at Tuotuo Heyan and wondered why those that had arrived earlier were not resting. There were two reasons. Firstly there was the centrally controlled lighting switch which would not be turned on until late dusk and secondly we were at about 16,500 ft. and lying down can bring on the most terrible malady for some people, altitude sickness, particularly for those stressed or exhausted, which really included all of us. We had been given, on departing Gulmud, oxygen pillows to suck on should the need arise. The doctor was brought in for a couple of people and most people wandered about in a very dicky state.
Nobody was sorry to leave Tuotuo Heyan at 5.50 the next morning before dawn although the road continued on up and grew worse. The Bentley was enjoying things as far as the motor was concerned. While the modern diesels were belching black smoke and the latest fuel injected computer controlled petrol engines were gasping, the sturdy B60-6 cylinder cruised on effortlessly when the surface permitted.
The knocking first experienced at Kashgar came and went but since its first appearance we were now burning petrol heavily and the exhaust pipe colour was sooty where it had always been light biscuit. Things were wrong but Hero tried not to show it: the simple remedy was to adjust the carburetors mixture by turning the mixture screw on each by half a turn per 1,000ft of elevation.
Nothing could have been worse than Tuotuo Heyan except Nagqu and our hotel there precipitated the end of Don Saunders and Bonita, driving the Chevrolet Suburban Early travellers’ tales from China always reflect on the filth, squalor and stench. This remote colony, Tibet, was no exception and the excreta daubed shower rooms were too much for Don and Bonita. They would fly out at Lhasa leaving the Chevrolet to Caroline and Nikki who had abandoned their Lada in the river bed road before Ronyang.
We were still at altitude and some people were feeling poorly, Sue and I took to our room and boiled our own food as we had been doing for most of the Chinese journey, and after two Aspirins and strong tea we climbed into our own sleeping bags to awaken to the most beautiful dawn, Lhasa was in our sights.
The road improved, with masses of Chinese military transport using it before it dropped down into the most beautiful valley straddling a river which we knew would soon lead to the Forbidden City, the Kingdom on the Roof of the World, the repository of an ancient religion and set of customs unique to our planet.
Golden corn, white flat topped rustic cottages of primitive yet sturdy architecture dotted the valley.
Rushing clear rivers (Tsangpo-the Brahmaputra starts here), willow green fields and black yaks pulling ploughs driven by smiling Tibetans with shiny mahogany skins. All these scenes now rushed by but it was the Potala that called us. We were soon in Lhasa with its ribbon stripped Chinese shops and heavy military presence along with its Tibetans, monks and of course its dogs. The road running in front of the Potala is home to cheap Chinese shops but on the opposite pavement Tibetans butcher Yaks and sell great chunks of yak meat from grimy tarpaulins spread on the dusty pavement.
Our hotel was a sort of paradise now, a low quality Holiday Inn with an oxygen tap to suck on by each bed. We washed, ate and rushed off to glimpse the Potala and we were not disappointed.
The unique architecture and the sheer massiveness beggars anything that Europe can offer. Even India with its great fortresses and palaces cannot hold a candle to it. It must rank with the Pyramids or the Great Wall of China for its dinosaur proportions, but more so for the intricacy which combined with simplicity and size make it seem to dominate the very Himalayas themselves.
We had three days in Lhasa taking rickshaws to the various monasteries and bazaars and all too quickly we would have to descend again retracing our steps to Golmud through the horrors of Nagqu and Tuotuo Heyan.
The three days’ respite for the Bentley gave Andy and Richard a chance to sort out a problem and to change the oil. On the way up we hit a large boulder which had bent the track rod and then it continued under the car and had dented the flywheel cover.
The track rod had been bent straight but the flywheel cover grated all the way to Lhasa.
Andy and Richard removed it and reshaped it, adjusted the brakes and declared the shock absorbers useless. We had a farewell dinner of roast lamb, roast potatoes, mint sauce and Chinese beer at the top table of the Holiday Inn restaurant for the friends of the Bentley. Eleven of us dined from endless trays until we were gorged and only when we were satisfied Peter, the Swiss Maitre d’hotel, brought out the chefs, three Tibetans with an average age exceeding 3 score and 10. These had served in the Potala. One had been a slave cook to the Dhali Lhama, the other two had been kitchen slaves principally concerned with washing up. They were happy men and regretted the passing of power to China.
The road down actually involved going up and at around 18,000 ft. Jonathan became seriously ill with altitude sickness. There is really only one cure for it and that is get back to a low altitude. He was therefore driven in a rush to Golmud by Richard, the mechanic, in the Saab. That must have been a very tough ordeal. The way down to Golmud seemed far worse than we remembered from only four days before. The hotels could not have been worse, but the road certainly seemed so
and about 50 miles from Golmud a strange knocking started in our steering. We waited for the back-up crew after crossing a very bad stretch of rough road. They found a nut had vibrated off the power steering ram and after a clever bodge we were rolling again with the steering feeling good. Within half an hour the tyres were squealing on the bends, but we drove on to our hotel at Golmud and the next morning the engineers found that the front chassis cross member had cracked and was gaping like an alligator’s open jaw. This they welded at the hotel and after another two days of rest we were heading for Xian and then down through China to Nanning to cross the border into Vietnam at Pingxiang
The parts had arrived at Golmud for “Woody” and the mechanics started to work on the differential immediately. It was found however that though Roger had flown out bearings, crown wheel and pinion and sundry items, all that was wrong was a broken rivet rattling around inside the propeller shaft. Great argumentative debate had taken place over the use and charge of the hotel’s welding equipment for the Bentley’s front chassis member. I intervened to find Italianate, John our Chinese interpretor and guide haranguing over a 25p rental charge for using the welding equipment. John was disgusted at such a high charge but there was nothing I could do to intervene. Richard did a magnificent welding job
and as we knew, this time for sure, that we were finished with bad roads we felt very confident the Bentley would now make it. We had harboured other thoughts often.
In glorious sunlight we left Golmud heading around the Taklamaken on excellent tarmac roads up to Xian. “Woody” followed us and it was wonderful to see Roger and Crispin Forster back at the wheel of their tough, old estate wagon.
The sky was light blue with mauve clouds and there was a great expanse of coarse grey sandy desert to our left and to the right sandstone mountains eroded by centuries of vicious winds. With the sun setting in the west the sandstone escarpments took on a vast range of colours within the red spectrum.
We had travelled on the northern road around the Taklamaken in 1990 and were soon to meet our old tracks and then head across east to Xian.
Arrival at Xian became, rather like the previous occasion, a complicated affair. Firstly we would refuel on one side of the city. Then in pitch black trying to avoid pot holes, pedestrians, pavements and butterfly bicyclists of which China has millions, drive to our hotel on the other side. The Chinese cyclist cannot or will not consider that anything can travel faster than his lazily peddled single speed bicycle. The consequences of this thinking are that the cyclist will abruptly turn across the road without looking. He will push his bicycle into the road and then scramble on. Then “he” maybe a “she” and the she or he may have a dozen geese tied up in pannier baskets or several cwts. of cabbages aboard.
Anyhow we all arrived at China’s very best hotel The Golden Flower without incident despite all the hazards. It rained throughout our stay and as we had seen the Terracotta Warriors and the Great Goose Pagoda we concentrated on the down town areas in which you see everything you expect to see except for pigtailed men, more’s the pity.
Leaving Xian we were amazed at how badly the road had worn since our last visit and we passed the V.W. Microbus broken down and later Ed’s Range Rover stuck up with filthy fuel again. They were waiting for Richard and Andy in the back-up wagon. As we got on we came into the domain of the giant steam locomotives which still service a sector of China.
These locomotives were the only trains in China in 1990 and now we would be seeing the very last in active passenger and goods service. The snorting black monsters from another age made us feel sad at how quickly China was changing. The roads also, almost motorway quality, from Wuhan were another sign of the times. We had seen them under construction and they were now in full use.
Three nights since our passing the breakdowns outside Xian the missing three vehicles, the Range Rover, the V.W. and the Land Rover back-up wagon plus the police escort joined us at Yueyang with an ugly tale of misadventure.
Not being able to overcome the problems of the V.W. at the roadside the mechanics had towed it back to Xian and The Golden Flower Hotel. They worked on both vehicles and decided to spend two nights there and after consulting the map found they would be able to cut a corner and join us at Yueyang by cutting out Wuhan where we would stay two nights. Wuhan was no loss to them and we had wondered why we were incarcerated there for two nights: Wuhan is referred to as the oven of China by the locals!
After fixing both vehicles and accompanied in a separate vehicle by Danny the secret service agent, a Chinese driver and Italianate John, they set off on their proposed route. The V.W. could not gain speed beyond 15 mph and was delivering a white vapour trail behind it. To add to its problems it was consuming petrol at the rate of 5 miles to the gallon. More work was required on the roadside until it was found that the air filter was totally blocked with a concrete-like sediment. To make-up time now they took an even more devious route over terrible roads in a densely populated region. During a relatively slow crawl through a heavily peopled market the Land Rover a box bodied 130 long wheel base model had caught a Chinese man’s head with its extended door mirrors. Angered by his injury he jumped onto the running board of the moving vehicle, reached in and hit Andy the mechanic who retaliated punching the Chinese in the face which caused him to fall back slithering underneath the twin back wheels of the vehicle. Great consternation and pandemonium ensued with a wild crowd and the swift arrival of armed police. Our people, drivers and mechanics were taken to the police cells while the injured man was roughly manhandled off to a hospital.
Secret service agent, Dan, had everything sorted out quickly and their release was swift. They drove off into the night very carefully. They were all glad to rejoin our party on the banks of the Yangtze, and later in conversation with Italianate John it became obvious that after suffering a ruptured liver and certain other internal injuries, death was expected for the injured man. I showed concern but as John told me the Chinese do not hold the same values for human life as we do: the injured man would soon be flown to Hong Kong as “a spare parts man!!”
After passing through Guilin where we had two days, one of which was given over to cycling and photographing this most picturesque, green and under-populated part of China
we left for Nanning and the border with Vietnam which we would cross on the 8th October at Pingxiang.
Our last night in the hilly region of the border country between these two ancient rivals was a very happy one. The old colonial style tropical hotel had an abundant supply of good iced Tsing-Tao Chinese beer. We noticed how prosperous the southern region of China had become. In our last hotel at Nanning we had seen a double glazed Mercedes while the Peugeots and Volkswagens jostled with the Nissans and Toyotas. China was rapidly changing.
Early next morning a daredevil race between Jonathan in the G-Wagen, our old trusty city banker friend, and us to be the first into Vietnam occurred. It was sheer lunacy and it was fast, but once we were ahead we took all the road by constantly swerving from left to right blocking his path. To goad him even more we would wave him on and then swing abruptly in front of him and give him the heartiest of thumbs-up. His face was tense even angry but we were determined and on one occasion let Heather join this boisterous and reckless moment of madness. But wonderful driver though she was, Jonathan outsmarted her though not us and so were the first to cross from China to Vietnam. We said good-bye to the lovely Liu, John, Dan and Qu, we told them how much we wanted to come back again and with lumps in our throats we trundled downhill through no man’s land and became the first Western motorists to drive from China into Vietnam.