The top of the world is the place there is nothing taller than you. We're going from Lhasa to the outskirt with Nepal. We are twenty travelers who leased a transport, and among us there is additionally a polio with props. The last pass we crossed was 5220 meters, and there was the standard hill of rocks with many Tibetan banners waving in the breeze.
We will burn through five days on the transport - we were told before leaving - with diners extremely distant from each other. The gathering pioneer is an American and instructs us to sort out ourselves for good on the grounds that the following stop will be following seventeen hours. By then we simply need to purchase a couple of packs of bread rolls to the Chinese armed force shelter in which an officer is guarding the land and offers scones.
The air, obviously, is thin, the environment is substantial notwithstanding the softness we feel, and we're ungainly, clumsy in developments, wrapped in our yak fleece coats and walk, when stop to extend our legs and piss, similar to zombies, as though we were on the moon. Something is missing, and for this situation it's not simply gravity. In any case, it's decent.
The inaccessible scene demonstrates little pinnacles, which are the most astounding on the planet, yet from that stature, they're not in the least incredible. Indeed, even Mount Everest saw from over 4000 is an excellent mountain, however positively not a colossal, or a mammoth one. From that point it's just 4,000 meters high, alongside all others pretty much a similar elevation.
The sky is vast and during the evening is as dark as the darkest pitch and populated by billions of amazingly splendid and throbbing stars. Never observed a wonder such as this; they're similar to light openings on the dull foundation of the enormous theater. The voyage isn't so natural and in the meantime even not exceptionally wonderful, absolutely in light of the fact that it's tiring. It's tiring to inhale, to stroll, to relate with others in the gathering. It's tiring realizing that we'll land following quite a while of shaking on this transport running over streets of stones and shakes, bobbing safe amidst a void landscape; exhaust above and inside.
I'm not upbeat. I'm not despondent. I'm not solid and not debilitated; not quick, nor moderate. It's the climate of I'm not; an inclination that infests everything, outside, inside, myself, as well as other people. It's hard. Everything is lovely, completely wonderful, yet in the meantime totally at the point of confinement of my continuance. Not for human. I see it according to my kindred explorers. That is a position of shake, thin air, dark sky and shining stars. I'm happy I'm doing it; I wouldn't have ever experienced such an inclination anyplace else, yet I don't know whether I need to attempt it again or notwithstanding coming back to Tibet.
Following five days we get to the fringe with Nepal. The fringe check point is more than two hours of confounding plunge amidst tea manors worked by Indians. At last we can see ladies dressed as ladies, men dressed as men and young men and young ladies who grin, play, work, and take a gander at us with wonder. They take a gander at this gathering of twenty, including a polio, descending from the most noteworthy mountains to land at a fringe post in which there is literally nothing.
In the wake of passing the movement and traditions, which are only two fighters remaining outside a vacant corner, we go down much further until the primary town, everything by walking, all at bewildering plunge, all amidst clean, excellent, verdant tea manors. At the town there is nobody and nothing, only a truck conveying concrete packs stationary amidst the earth street, sitting tight for us to get on and bring down to Kathmandu. So it is. That truck was sent from God. I ponder what web of occasions, predeterminations, things, and all inclusive flow ensured that we in the end got down to Kathmandu.
We will burn through five days on the transport - we were told before leaving - with diners extremely distant from each other. The gathering pioneer is an American and instructs us to sort out ourselves for good on the grounds that the following stop will be following seventeen hours. By then we simply need to purchase a couple of packs of bread rolls to the Chinese armed force shelter in which an officer is guarding the land and offers scones.
The air, obviously, is thin, the environment is substantial notwithstanding the softness we feel, and we're ungainly, clumsy in developments, wrapped in our yak fleece coats and walk, when stop to extend our legs and piss, similar to zombies, as though we were on the moon. Something is missing, and for this situation it's not simply gravity. In any case, it's decent.
The inaccessible scene demonstrates little pinnacles, which are the most astounding on the planet, yet from that stature, they're not in the least incredible. Indeed, even Mount Everest saw from over 4000 is an excellent mountain, however positively not a colossal, or a mammoth one. From that point it's just 4,000 meters high, alongside all others pretty much a similar elevation.
The sky is vast and during the evening is as dark as the darkest pitch and populated by billions of amazingly splendid and throbbing stars. Never observed a wonder such as this; they're similar to light openings on the dull foundation of the enormous theater. The voyage isn't so natural and in the meantime even not exceptionally wonderful, absolutely in light of the fact that it's tiring. It's tiring to inhale, to stroll, to relate with others in the gathering. It's tiring realizing that we'll land following quite a while of shaking on this transport running over streets of stones and shakes, bobbing safe amidst a void landscape; exhaust above and inside.
I'm not upbeat. I'm not despondent. I'm not solid and not debilitated; not quick, nor moderate. It's the climate of I'm not; an inclination that infests everything, outside, inside, myself, as well as other people. It's hard. Everything is lovely, completely wonderful, yet in the meantime totally at the point of confinement of my continuance. Not for human. I see it according to my kindred explorers. That is a position of shake, thin air, dark sky and shining stars. I'm happy I'm doing it; I wouldn't have ever experienced such an inclination anyplace else, yet I don't know whether I need to attempt it again or notwithstanding coming back to Tibet.
Following five days we get to the fringe with Nepal. The fringe check point is more than two hours of confounding plunge amidst tea manors worked by Indians. At last we can see ladies dressed as ladies, men dressed as men and young men and young ladies who grin, play, work, and take a gander at us with wonder. They take a gander at this gathering of twenty, including a polio, descending from the most noteworthy mountains to land at a fringe post in which there is literally nothing.
In the wake of passing the movement and traditions, which are only two fighters remaining outside a vacant corner, we go down much further until the primary town, everything by walking, all at bewildering plunge, all amidst clean, excellent, verdant tea manors. At the town there is nobody and nothing, only a truck conveying concrete packs stationary amidst the earth street, sitting tight for us to get on and bring down to Kathmandu. So it is. That truck was sent from God. I ponder what web of occasions, predeterminations, things, and all inclusive flow ensured that we in the end got down to Kathmandu.
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