Patrick Woodhead - The Cloud Maker (2010)

‘How did it go with the visas?’

‘I will show you.’ Sonam rummaged around in the small leather briefcase he was holding and produced two sheaves of paper. The Chinese governmental seal was stamped boldly at the head of each.

‘I have just finished getting you and your companion on a group visa for Tibet. I was unsure what occupation to fill in and so therefore have put “employee”.’ He gave Luca a sideways glance. ‘I hope this is satisfactory?’

Luca grinned. ‘You’re a genius, Sonam. That’s brilliantly vague.’

He nodded. ‘There is, however, a small problem. This permit is only valid in two weeks’ time. We have had many restrictions on numbers entering Tibet and, I am regretting to say, there are no sooner visas available.’

Luca’s smile dimmed.

‘Two weeks? You’re kidding me?’

Sonam shook his head gravely. ‘And the permits will only allow you on the standard route back to Nepal. Each night, you must be checking with the local police station, right up until the Friendship Bridge.’

Luca stared at the sheaves of paper, his thoughts racing. The expedition was supposed to last four weeks in total. Even that was more than Bill could afford. If Luca told him they would have to kick their heels in Kathmandu for another fortnight, Bill would be on the first plane home.

‘We’ve got to get round this, Sonam. This is Kathmandu. Everything has its price.’

‘This is indeed Kathmandu, Mr Matthews,’ Sonam said, beginning to sound stressed, ‘but we are standing in the middle of the Chinese Embassy. They would take my licence if they thought I was trying to bribe . . .’

‘OK, let’s be calm about this,’ Luca interjected, leading him by the arm over to a corner of the waiting room. ‘Use one of the touts out in Thamel to get the permits for you. They’re all bloody crooks anyway.’

‘Mr Matthews,’ Sonam said, eyes widening and looking even more worried, ‘it is not that I don’t want to help. It is just . . .’

Luca raised his hands, gesturing for Sonam to calm down again. One of the officials glanced over at them from behind the large marble desk at the back of the main room.

‘Look, Sonam,’ Luca said, lowering his voice further. ‘You know as well as I do that if I go and pay off one of the touts, they’ll fleece me for every damn’ dollar I have. I know what a big favour this is, but we just can’t wait two weeks.’

Sonam’s eyes darted nervously to the security guard standing by the main entrance. His expression became grave, a deep vertical crease furrowing his forehead. He inhaled slowly before eventually nodding his head.

‘I will see what can be done,’ he said softly. ‘But it will be more expensive.’

‘Thank you, Sonam.’

Luca reached into his trouser pocket, surreptitiously pulling out a tight wad of notes wrapped together with a twisted elastic band. The notes were torn and filthy, having passed through thousands of different hands on their journey through the markets. Taking Sonam’s arm, Luca gently placed the bundle in the palm of his hand.

‘There should be plenty there. Whatever you don’t use, you can keep.’

Shooting another worried glance at the security guard, Sonam quickly placed the money in the side pocket of his suit jacket, his cheeks flushing.

‘When I said I would help, I did not mean you should be handing me money in the middle of the Embassy!’ he hissed. ‘Let us leave now and I will send news later.’

Out on the steps of the building, Luca offered him his hand. ‘Don’t worry, Sonam, this will all work out fine.’

Sonam slowly shook his head. ‘Mr Matthews, I just hope you are not getting yourself into trouble. The Chinese are not to be messed with.’ Buttoning his jacket, he walked down the steps and started back in the direction of Thamel.

Luca watched him dodge round a cow lying in the gutter and then turned his gaze back across the street. A gaggle of grubby children had collected around the taxi. Bill was leaning out of the window, in the middle of folding a piece of scrap paper into a leaping frog. Luca walked up to the car and lifted one of the children out of the way.

‘Excuse me,’ he said to the child’s curious, upturned face. ‘Bill, we’re done. Let’s get out of here.’

He signalled to the taxi driver and the car rattled into life. Bill quickly handed the half finished frog to one of the young girls then reached into his pocket to produce a bundle of filthy rupee notes. At the sight of the money, the children all started shouting. Thin brown arms shot through the window and he started cramming notes into each open hand. The children’s excited faces pressed against the glass of the driver’s door and only stopped pushing forward when Bill leaned back and turned out his pockets to show that they were empty.

‘No more, no more,’ he shouted, and put his hands together in the traditional Nepalese salute. ‘ Namaste! ’

As the taxi pulled away to join the main flow of the traffic, the children all put their hands together, their echoing cries of ‘ Namaste! ’ soon drowned out by the noise of a car backfiring somewhere down the street.

‘Good way to start a riot,’ Luca said, looking over his shoulder at his friend.

‘I know, but the little buggers have to eat, don’t they?’

There was silence as they both turned to stare out of their respective windows. As they passed under the mass of overhead banners and edged further into the narrow, crowded streets of Thamel, Luca thought back to Sonam again and wondered if he had done the right thing. If there were two things that kept the city of Kathmandu moving, they were bribery and gossip. The problem was that one tended to lead to the other.

‘Everything OK with the permits?’ Bill asked, leaning forward between the front seats.

‘No worries,’ Luca said, flashing him a reassuring smile. ‘Picking them up later at the hotel.’

‘Great. So no problems at all?’

‘Like I said, everything’s sorted.’

Luca bent forward and rummaged in a small leather bag at his feet. He picked out a rolled up piece of photocopied paper, a little battered round the edges. Swivelling round, he handed it over to Bill so that it partly uncurled, showing the corner of a pyramid-shaped mountain, intricately illustrated.

‘Let’s go for a pint at Sam’s. There are a few other things you should know about this mountain.’

Chapter 17

It is said that a giant ogress lies under the land of Tibet, held hostage by some rather clever urban planning. Like Gulliver and his Lilliputian captors, temples were constructed over the giant’s limbs, pinning her to the earth and preventing her from wreaking devastation throughout the holy land.

Over the heart of the beast was built the Jokhang – greatest of all the Buddhist temples.

Having ditched their bags at a hostel and taken showers, Luca and Bill now stood looking through a crack in the Jokhang’s giant, gilded doors. In the chalky evening light, the gentle sound of chanting rolled around the temple.

Both men watched mesmerised as men, women and children brought their hands together above their heads and, with eyes screwed tight shut and hands clasped together, lay flat on the ground, extending their arms towards the Buddha within. Without order or symmetry they stood up and repeated the process, again and again, for hours at a time. To prevent them from wearing down the skin on their hands, small bits of cardboard were tied around their palms. Like a million crickets rubbing their back legs together, a rasping noise bounced and echoed off the stone walls.

‘Amazing,’ murmured Bill. ‘To have such belief.’

‘Isn’t it?’ agreed Luca, his eyes following the constant flow of movement.