Scenes from a World Tour
by Claude Marthaler

Tibet
On the inhospitable Tibetan plateau, between twelve and fifteen thousand feet, I met amazing groups of pilgrims who covered hundreds of miles by sliding along on their stomachs. Feet in bits of old car tyres, hands protected by planks of wood, lying on leather aprons, these Tibetans dredged their way along the road, chanting.

One man in particular will always stick in my mind as the epitome of spiritualised travel. I was cycling alone in the clutches of yet another sandstorm, dragging myself along at maybe five miles an hour. I suddenly became aware of a lame figure ahead of me. This small, stooped silhouette was moving even slower than myself. As I drew near I dropped my bike and ran towards him. Without thinking we grabbed on another and hugged with a strange mutual intensity.

Chen Yin Chao was a Chinese Buddhist. He carried almost nothing with him: a gallon of water, some food. As he lit himself a cigarette I observed his incredibly long fingernails. My gaze continued downward where it halted abruptly on his running shoes. He was born with his feet facing backwards, rotated 180 degrees. Despite this, he had walked more than 25,000 miles, one turn of the Earth's belly. I offered this miracle man a cup of tea, but the cold sandstorm forced us back to our feet and onwards with our respective journeys. I continued in search of shelter from the ferocious mixture of land and sky that was raging about me.

Soon a small commune of roadmen appeared. Prayer flags were flapping in the empty courtyard. I tried the first door. A group of Tibetans brought me inside and served up steaming salt-butter tea. As I slowly warmed up, I tried to explain that a man was coming on foot from very far. From time to time, we would go outside to scan the swirling horizon. After three hours, someone spotted what seemed to be a human figure. I pulled on some extra clothes and sprinted out to Chen. He looked completely exhausted as I helped him back to the commune. Once settled in front of the fire, he passed around an old newspaper clipping about the start of his journey. He intended to continue his spiritual journey for another five years. After some time he requested a bucket of warm water for his tired feet. With the removal of his shoes, the Tibetans grew suddenly silent, a deep respect resounding within the walls of the commune. Chen had the shining presence of a Yogi. A unique moment in our lives.

On another occasion I come to a monastery atop a steep hill, a scaled-down Potala Palace. A group of monks motion to me "Come on... come on." A few come down to help me push up my bike. I go through a stone passage and find myself in a monastic compound dark enough to please the devil himself. A huge cauldron sits atop a mud firepit that uses halves of trees for fuel. Water is boiling over, waiting to be ladled. This kitchen makes all things and all thoughts seem bigger. So much smoke and steam.

The monks seat me at a wooden table and feed me rice. They keep serving me salt-butter tea until my bladder is ready to burst. Their eyes, beneath heads of stubble hair, observe me closely, as the firelight reflects off their friendly faces. Three cats wind themselves around their tails and bed down near the fire. Some monks finger Tibetan rosaries with one hand while counting donation money with the other. I excuse myself to go and release the tea. Standing over a wooden toilet seat, I see the river 200 metres below, reflecting the moon. The atmosphere of deep silence would shatter from a single word.

Next morning, the smiling monks wake me after their prayers. Into my hands they press a great bag of tsampa, a roasted barley-flour. They include a plastic bag with enough yak butter to grease my shoes and bicycle chain until I reach Japan. A monk uses an axe to chop a huge piece of smoked meat on a tree stump and hands it to me. I take a stack of photos of the Dalai Lama from my saddle bags. After so many miles, they stick together from too many rain-soaked rides. It doesn't seem to matter to the head Lama. He accepts them reverently from me and bundles them gently with a holy scarf.

Nepal: travelling with a holy man
My last day in Kathmandu. One of those bright days, when everything seems possible. My bike, 'the Yak', is a true beast of burden, packed with spare tyres, Nepalese peanut butter, Chinese noodle soups, Tibetan tsampa, cereals and probably the last loaf of bread for months. I'm heading for the rough Tibetan plateau towards Lhasa. On the infamous 'Freak Street' I meet Baba Laxmangiri. He is a travelling holy man, a rolling Sadnu. He floats above his Indian Hero. Two plastic roses, and two bare feet. No tools, no camping gear. Just a bright body and a flowing aura. After a few cups of tea we take the Northern road together. At the first foothill, he turns back, but his blessing stays with me.

India: nothing is truly solid
Sudden winds, curtains of rain; every five miles or so I stop to dislodge the lumps of India that have made a pilgrimage to my mudguards. I peer though the murkiness, looking for landmarks, people, even the road. Nothing, except the spirit of welcoming friendship that supports me when I am at my heaviest. Even the poorest household offers warm hospitality. Food, shelter, tea.

Xinjiang, China. A crowd in the desert
Thousands of Oughouir people are planting poplar trees, to fight desertification. With an irony that will please eco-warriors everywhere, the land is reclaiming the road.. But here, the road is a lifeline, so the whole community is out, labouring under the relentless sun and under the inflexible orders of a Chinese officer. Ten thousand holes, ten thousand saplings and one crazy foreigner. As soon as I'm spotted they down tools and trees and swarm to me. As I climb out of the frenzy onto a nearby cart hundreds more are coming -- I can scarcely believe this is the desert.

Kashgar, Xinjiang, China
I've been told that continents are like humans: there is a relationship between the generations. If Asia is a grandmother, Europe is a mother and America a daughter.