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Meltdown in Tibet

China's Reckless Destruction of Ecosystems from the Highlands of Tibet to the Deltas of Asia

Palgrave Macmillan

Rafting the Drigung

What on Earth Are China's Engineers Getting Up To?

There are things you take for granted in Tibet: magnificent snowcaps, powerful gushing rivers, hearty nomads, yaks grazing the grasslands under vast open skies. I never imagined I would have to write the following lines: Tibetans have experienced waves of genocide since the 1950s. Now they are facing ecocide—the reckless destruction of their fragile high-altitude environment.

The Himalayan snowcaps are in meltdown mode due to climate change—accelerated by a rain of black soot from massive burning of coal and other fossil fuels in both China and India. The mighty rivers of Tibet are being dammed by Chinese engineering consortiums to feed the mainland's relentless quest for power. There are plans to divert water from some major rivers sourced in Tibet to feed China's desperate thirst for clean water. The grasslands of Tibet are being usurped by desert—partly due to climate change, but mostly due to the shortsighted Chinese policy of forcibly removing Tibetan nomads from the grasslands and settling them in concrete hovels. Even yaks—the iconic creatures of Tibet—are vanishing from central Tibet: the yaks are sent to slaughterhouses when nomads are settled. There is high demand for yak meat among wealthy Chinese.

When I first reached Tibet in 1985, little of this was apparent—at least, not at the sites where foreign "big-noses" were allowed to go and sniff around. This has all come to pass in a few short decades, unfolding right before my eyes. After Tibet opened up to individual travelers, I entered overland with an assignment to write a guidebook. It was published in 1986 by Lonely Planet—the first-ever English guidebook to modern Tibet. In the 1980s, 1990s, and the 2000s, I traveled all over the Tibetan world—and central Tibet itself—in the course of gathering research material, later for the British publisher Bradt Travel Guides.

In 2005, I traveled to Tibet not only to update the Bradt guidebook, but also to work on a story about the new railway arriving in Lhasa and its potential impact on Tibetans. I did some firsthand railway research, taking pictures of the new line and its bridges and tunnels. But I fell into a much bigger story—a black hole of a story—about dam building in Tibet. In fact, I stumbled into a story about impending disaster for Tibet and beyond.

So let me be your guide on a very different journey in Meltdown in Tibet, as we take in the glaciers, moraines, grasslands, sacred mountains, and lakes of Tibet—and roll on past railway tracks, dams, and mining sites. Meltdown in Tibet is an alternative guide—a guide to disaster, a personal take on environmental issues in Tibet based on my observations on the ground and on a mountain of research.

This book is about looming water crisis in Asia—and about looming environmental chaos in Tibet, India, and Asia. I believe looming will almost certainly translate to real because absolutely nothing is being done to stop China's wholesale destruction of the rivers, forests, mountains, and grasslands of Tibet.

China's official response to environmental degradation in Tibet repeatedly blames everything on climate change (which, it should be pointed out, is largely sparked by humans). For Tibetans, this is not about climate change, it's about the climate of fear that prevails—ruthless Chinese repression that renders Tibetans powerless to do anything to stop the reckless destruction of their sacred land. At the time of this writing, there have been more than 130 self-immolations by Tibetans since 2009—with over 100 deaths resulting. Tibetans have set themselves on fire in the ultimate act of desperation to protest what is happening to their land and their culture.

* * *

August 2005: my introduction to the tremendous power of the rivers of Tibet comes via a rafting ride on the Drigung River, a few hours' drive from Lhasa. This is a baptism fueled by pure adrenaline, a baptism that raises lots of questions—and gets me going on research.

Feeling rather ridiculous—decked out in a flashy wetsuit, rubber booties, lifejacket, and helmet—I waddle over to the big blue raft. All the gear is in the interests of warmth and waterproofing—and safety. Georgia gives us a briefing on what to do if ejected from the craft (don't try and tie a rescue rope around your neck). Georgia, from Australia, is conducting safety rescue courses for the Tibetan rafting trainees. She's our safety kayaker on this day trip, scouting rapids ahead and trolling for any body that happens to be floating past.

Instructions over, we turn to face the river itself, which is swollen by monsoon rains—definitely moody—frothy and foaming in parts. No room for error here. From this point, rapids are class III and IV—and our lives are in the hands of Captain Ram. Ram is a bearded young Nepalese with long hair tied back in a ponytail, and a warped sense of humor. Happily, Ram has ten years of white-water rafting and kayaking experience on rivers in Nepal. He gives us a briefing on when to paddle forward, backward, stop, jump to the left side of the boat, jump to the right.

There are not many rivers in the world where you can raft above 13,000 feet. In Tibet, most terrain starts at this elevation, and it's all uphill from there. I check my watch: the altitude at the put-in point is 13,400 feet.

We push off into the swirling Drigung Chu, nerves on edge. The majestic landscape flashes by in a blur—not much time to take it in when your energy is concentrated on remaining glued to the raft. But you feel the raw power of the river as no onlooker can. And you begin to realize that rivers are not all that simple—a point emphasized by the menacing waves crashing around your head. Rafters have more specific lingo for them: standing waves, pillow waves, eddies, seams, and drops—and deadly "holes."

On the river today are two matching inflatable blue rafts, both with a Nepalese Captain Ram at the helm. They provide a sort of stereo rafting effect for those with altitude-induced illusions. Injected into this is a dose of high spirits created by competitiveness among rafters—broadsiding boats, and drenching occupants by batting paddles on the surface. In the rafts: a couple from Germany, two Swiss guys, a brother and sister from the United States, a Dutchman, a Tibetan woman. I have missed most names, but remember the nationalities. Apart from high water, there's a lot of adrenaline floating around. The symphony of first-time rafters: high-pitched yelps, yahooing, and the occasional scream as waves crash over the bows, drenching all in frigid water. A good deal of the vocalizing emanates from Lodol, the young Tibetan woman on board next to me. She's on the lam: everybody at work has been told she's taken a day off to deal with family problems—and lord knows what she has told her family, as they would surely fear for her safety.

I'm trying to figure out if Captain Ram is bent on deliberately steering us into troubled waters at times to increase the excitement. In any case, he's a wizard at reading the river—looking for the best line through the rapids, steering clear of submerged rocks—and avoiding "holes" (like the spin-cycle of a washing machine, only much magnified) that can flip a small craft. Forward! Forward! yells Ram, urgently at one point. That translates as Fast forward! I think. There's no special command for Jump out of your skin!—which could easily be applied when we reach a spot with barely enough space for the raft to squeeze through. It's a kind of gate formed by rocks, so our raft has to be very precise. But we pull it off. Everybody good? inquires Ram. He calls for a group high-five with upright paddles.

Woman overboard! We have lost the college student from Virginia, along with the Dutchman—both swept out of the raft by a freak wave. But they are soon back with us, all in one piece though somewhat shaken. To the rescue is Phuntsok, the Tibetan trainee rafter aboard. In a few more seasons, he should be able to take over the helm from experienced rafters like Ram. Tibetan trainees have to overcome cultural taboos about fast-flowing rivers—normally places to stay well away from because they are associated with drowning. There is no tradition of pleasure boating in Tibet. Tibetans don't spend any time on rivers, they don't fish, and they look down on the boatmen who ply traditional yak-skin coracles at river crossings.

In calmer waters, we finally relax on the paddle and take in the scenery. And wave at Tibetans lining the banks. Some wave back, others just stare, openmouthed. Foreigners are alien enough, but ones dressed in colored wetsuits and helmets must surely appear quite bizarre. When we stop for lunch at the river's edge, curious Tibetans edge closer—not so shy.

On the Drigung, you get to experience just how powerful Tibet's rivers are. The rafting gives you a huge adrenalin hit. I'm on a euphoric high that stays with me for the rest of the day. But lunchtime conversation takes a surprising turn. The rafting guides are not talking about first descents, they're talking about last descents. The Drigung River is the site of the first commercial rafting trip in Tibet, only started a few years back. But the run may soon be inaccessible; dam building could block the river, according to one guide.

After lunch, we resume the rafting descent: more bouts of being heaved around and showered in freezing water. This alternates with more tranquil stretches where I even relax enough to indulge in bird spotting: I sight a hoopoe, an exotic-looking bird with a spiky orange crest and black-and-white wings.

All too soon, the wild ride comes to an end. The gear is stowed away. The rafts are deflated, rolled up, and packed onto a minibus. We help ourselves to mugs of hot tea, which is good because my fingers are numb from the icy Drigung waters. And yet while most of me feels numb, my brain is exceedingly clear and calm. I have survived the ride.

But something leaves a bad taste. At the tail end of the rafting run, we passed a small dam under construction. The guides mentioned there's a much bigger one downstream on the Drigung. Hydro megaprojects are popping up all over, one guide said, to supply the Chinese industrial ventures with power. Chinese engineers want to bore tunnels to divert rivers from Tibet to the north and east, to supply water-starved Chinese cities. That sticks in my head. The water diversion, the dams, the huge tunnels. What on earth are China's engineers getting up to?

This new information surprises me. As a guidebook writer I have traveled to the Tibetan world numerous times, and have read everything I could lay my hands on. But this is the first time I have heard of dam building in Tibet. And yet it makes sense: Tibet has very powerful rivers, with the potential to generate huge amounts of hydropower. The more I dwell on this, the more I am convinced I should get cracking and research it—and relay this news to others.

* * *

And so I start delving into the engineering puzzle. Delving is perhaps not the word I am looking for: it sounds too casual. Gathering any kind of research on Tibet is extremely difficult because there's a virtual blackout on media in Tibet. It is an information black hole. Information doesn't get in, information doesn't get out. Foreign journalists are refused entry to Tibet; a select few manage to make it there on brief, carefully orchestrated tours where every step is monitored by Chinese minders.

And gathering information can be a risky business in China. Information disappears, along with the messenger. Anything to do with Tibet is classified top secret by Chinese authorities. Therefore, getting information out of? Tibet is regarded as "leaking state secrets." For Tibetans, the penalty for being accused of this could be years in jail, though it is never specified what these state secrets are. Reporting a protest by Tibetans via e-mail or on the phone amounts to leaking state secrets. And to cover all bases, there are other absurd accusations such as "splitting the motherland" or "spreading rumors."

The Party definitely does not like criticism. The immediate reaction to any criticism is to silence the critic. Facebook, YouTube, and Twitter are banned in China. It gets worse in Tibet. In a restive place like Aba in eastern Tibet, Internet access is either sporadic or it completely vanishes. This is not a technical problem: it is because of Aba's rebellious citizens. The police and propaganda department in Aba appear to have functioning Internet connections. In other parts of this region, monasteries have been raided and satellite dishes seized. Police routinely go through cell phones looking for forbidden images such as the Tibetan flag or a picture of the Dalai Lama. Finding such items is justification for arrest and imprisonment.

Pre-1950 Tibet was run by the strangest form of government ever devised: a theocracy ruled by a lineage of reincarnate Dalai Lamas. After the Chinese takeover, Tibetans were told their former masters were parasites, and that the way forward lay with socialism introduced by the Chinese Communist Party. Happy smiling Tibetans are depicted in posters and propaganda as living in a Maoist socialist paradise where all their needs have been taken care of by the benevolent CCP. But it seems that Tibet has gone from theocracy to "thugocracy"—a term coined by veteran journalist Paul Mooney to describe the Chinese leadership, which qualifies for the dubious distinction of being the longest-lasting repressive regime in modern history.

In 2013, and also in 2012 and 2011, China spent more on its budget for internal security than it did on its defense budget for external security. For 2013, the military defense budget was announced at 740.6 billion yuan ($119 billion) while domestic security spending was allocated at 769.1 billion yuan ($124 billion).

Chinese authorities spend extraordinary amounts of money on surveillance equipment, and on weapons and riot gear for China's vast network of official and undercover police and paramilitary forces. Huge amounts are dedicated to maintaining an elaborate complex of jails and prison labor camps. This is intended to keep the nation's people in check as discontent mounts over issues such as corruption, illegal land-grabs, inequality, and pollution. Government-backed studies indicate that the number of officially reported "mass incidents" of unrest across China skyrocketed from 8,700 in 1993 to around 90,000 in 2010 (those figures could actually be much higher).

Ethnic unrest is particularly treated with brute force. Indeed, some ethnic groups such as Uighurs and Tibetans have been accused of "terrorism" by Chinese authorities. Protests in Tibet are dealt with by People's Liberation Army (PLA) troops and paramilitary forces in overwhelming numbers, armed to the teeth. For Tibetans, their homeland has become a place of great sadness and little hope—a psychological black hole, a downward spiral of feeling helpless and desperate. For Tibetan nomads, it is a black hole with little prospect of employment.

* * *

First come the tunnels. The first thing that caught my attention when I stepped off the plane in Gongkar in 2005 and caught a taxi to Lhasa was a huge tunnel that had not been there on my previous visit. The entrance was painted with Tibetan auspicious motifs—rainbows and black-necked cranes.

I whipped out my video camera and pointed it at the front windscreen, thinking that this tunnel would finish in a matter of seconds. It didn't. It went on and on, boring through an entire mountain—quite a feat of engineering. Galashan Tunnel turned out to be 8,028 feet long. It was built to shave an hour off the trip from the airport to downtown Lhasa. But was this tunnel really necessary? It saved time, but at what cost to the environment? For Tibetans, with their belief in deities resident in mountains, such tunneling could well be seen as defilement of their land. For me, it's symbolic of something else: Tunnel Vision, a one-sided view of problem-solving.

Chinese engineers are the most advanced moles in the world now. They have the most advanced tunneling technology. Tunnels boring through mountains, diversion tunnels for dam building, tunnels for mineral extraction. The 710-mile railway from Golmud to Lhasa bores through some 18 miles of tunnels, including the world's highest tunnel, Fenghuoshan, at 16,093 feet. The train crests two 16,400-foot passes and crosses more than 400 bridges, running past more than 30 stations before reaching Lhasa.

The railway line got under way in 2001 and was completed in 2005 (becoming fully operational in 2006) at a cost of $4.1 billion. In fact, over a four-year period, the railway racked up bills that surpass the entire budget spent in Tibet on education and health care since it was invaded by China in 1950. Obviously, the railway was not built for philanthropic purposes. Later, Beijing admitted that mining was a major factor in the decision to build the railway and that the income and benefits from mining would easily cover the cost of building it. Mining is not possible without the railway, which allows for shipping minerals economically.

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Excerpted from Meltdown in Tibet by Michael Buckley. Copyright © 2014 Michael Buckley. Excerpted by permission of Palgrave Macmillan.
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