This road was built by people who want to hurt me. Because it refuses to descend... The cold rain sprays my body: I'm trembling with chill fear. Because after an hour of wet head wind, I've only lost a few hundred metres of altitude. Finally, I see some yurts far below. I sail into the next vale.

Above me, the mountains age quickly, their black mantles frosted with veils of ceaseless time. The Earth offers no measure for our meagre human proportion, does it? We move too quickly to pause and reflect or even understand anything: we are made of a nature much larger and more drawn-out than we can ever clearly see in ourselves. Our sensation of the vast infinitude of true reality is hidden from us, reduced to a paltry conversation, a physical theory, a philosophic mood... But truly to perceive the awe that nature inevitably inspires - what awakening does that take? The barriers must fall away. Perception is not a pure perception if you are thinking about what you are seeing, or supposed to be seeing. What you see - is. You see through fear like you live without a plan. If you need to will it, it may not happen the way you want it to be: you need to experience the feeling purely, and yet with no more compulsion than decision. Here, we discover that the wisdom of vision is to be free of will power. The illusion of "will" is to make ourselves believe that we can make everything work as we imagine it "must" become... But not all things in our world are like that: some things you move and make, but only things of material and progress. Other qualities and experiences are simply another part of reality altogether, and must be evoked or invoked, and so - perceived... Second sight comes to you without asking for it: you may not notice it at first - but your mind is available to apprehend and articulate realities outside your body and brain, and sometimes, in the future... To see is a kind of immediate experience - for lack of a lexicon - an open window. We would hope that deeper visionary consciousness is larger than the often minute verities and capitulations of second sight: yet external attunement and precognitive sensitivity are perhaps essential for inspiring knowledge of larger cosmologic, ontological and epistemic truths.

Whenever we know something before words are spoken and before the reality is met, such an event informs the understanding by means of one particular type of "visionary consciousness," which is after all merely a name that barely compasses the experience... To see a real thing, person or event can be a picture, or it can flow into your spontaneous conversation. For those who have this second sight, it's a genuine experience, not madness, delusion or a dream...

The end of war begins at the heart of our understanding. To worship fear is to prepare for wars that nobody need fight. In the past, to fight was purely to fight for the master's wealth. In the modern time, to fight is to suffer from delusions about freedom, and sometimes, to defend against the delusions of insane men. Unfortunately, even in this ultramodern time, we still cling fast to the right of others to own our minds and hearts; we call this dumb sacrifice "having political and religious convictions." We have illusions, of course, yet precisely just as the whole idea of a nation is absolutely unreal - yet how effective it is! The state is the most remarkable tool for social recognizance that we have ever invented! For to prepare for war and to tax our loyalties along with our faith is always to hold up as social ideals the very men who can afford (and pretend) to believe that their property is the same thing as a political ideal like democracy and freedom. It does not matter that our models and ideals of democracy aren't always very accurate, and in fact, are more often misrepresentative and fraudulent, nor does it make any difference that many of our socioeconomic models have little to do with real freedom at all; it matters little that nobody understands the lies of democracy - especially so long as the shareholders can go on to make a profit from poverty, so long as material possessions evict soulful sensations even as science relieves pain, so long as the social duty for buying love with marriage inhibits realizing sexual pleasure, ha, ha, and of course, so long as the ugly fact prevails that most innocent and peace-loving people have no choice in the matter of who makes or does not make war - we shall go on killing each other... While servants always have outnumbered their masters, that hasn't mattered very much, has it? Why, I wonder? The mystique of the master is his accumulation of wealth and power, masked, always masked by a myth that has nothing to do with the actual experience of anyone - servant or master - although that myth pretends to equate our service with our freedom, and always and most significantly, that myth of freedom proposes the delusion that we must equate human rights with the "right" (or hope) to own property... What a lot of shit people pretend to believe in!

The power over others that we wield by means of material reality, this is a dangerous duel, yet also like a dance... This power is too often bereft of enlightenment, and brutalizes the weak and innocent; all the gracefulness we wish for is annihilated by the contradictions of our failure, which in its most grotesque manifestation, is exactly like killing other people in the name of religion. But obviously, we never actually kill because of convictions, but we kill only from material greed and the disappointed hopes associated with suffering the insecurity inspired by our idiotic beliefs and silly convictions! We need not admit that these vicious circles of neurotic obsession are misspent and mistaken. But always remember that we prefer passions to rational capacities: we are ruled not by careful reflection, but by blind certainties. We are humans: forced by insecurity to enjoy competition more than cooperation. Skeptical, level-headed and concerned individuals earn small respect because we seem boring and apparently non-committal. Ultimately, it takes a hard bit of persuasion to exchange passion for reflection. Only after we begin to think will true freedom finally dispose of crafty cruelty and hypocritical intolerance.

Yet we always have a good reason to kill other people. But we don't need to kill other people. Belief in war continues to equate freedom with a false demand, the subjugation of a servant to a master, in the name of a fake political ideal like democracy, righteousness and god, or communism and a national dream. Human civilization has not had a chance to grow up into the true freedom of brother and sisterhood. Maybe we never will. We cannot escape the failure of civilization until we master emotional reactions. Emotions cause war: jealousy, lack of empathy and all the short-sighted fears which cannot think. The accumulated hatred of generations is shared by people who are perpetually prevented from seeing, knowing and loving one another... Art abounds with illustrations of human weakness: Romeo and Juliet is a play; one of its themes represents the failure to make peace, and this weakness shows us the spiritual anguish that accompanies the collapse of civilization, along with the need for rejuvenation, which follows from thwarted love.

Wealthy democratic nations manufacture and sell the ideals of warfare and the citizens of these nations continue to live prosperously; in the same breath, countless unlucky people suffer from impervious political regimes, spiritual dearth and extreme physical deprivation - every day of their lives. For most people alive today, life on Earth feels like a hopeless frustration: and these poor folk are obliged to continue killing each other at the same time as they must remain deeply indebted to the wealthy democracies for the privilege of doing so... It's a cruel, stupid circle, isn't it?

...the road drops. I'm so cold! A tight left bends in front of me. Here's a Nomad tent, like a miracle in my favor. I get off and make attention getting sounds outside... "Hello?" I sweep aside the sodden tent flap. A young family gets on their feet. Father, mother and a little girl. They're surprised to see me, but prove themselves human by taking me in. I feel so relieved that they don't mind having me. I'm fortunate. Their iron stove is brightly stoked. I go out again to collect my things. I make myself as comfortable as possible and take off all my wet clothes. I sit by the stove on a sheepskin. The Nomads watch me, between household duties. I offer them snacks, especially to their cute girl, so wide-eyed. It appears she's never seen anyone like me before. The lady of the yurt busies herself with the kids. What's that? She unwraps her infant who is all tied up in a bundle of cloth. The child can't get cold in that swaddling, but he can't move a muscle, either.

The woman is busy and the man is idle. He glances at me and cranes his ear, listening for something happening outside - the herd of goats. He's got a whole lot of livestock out there, at least 80... Now and then, he rushes outside and shouts, "Shyaaa, shhyaaaa!" at the skittish creatures. This admonition prevents the animals from running away up the mountain. He's got to keep an eye on them all the time! Sometimes he simply shouts, "Shhyaaa!" through the tent wall.

The lady is busy, always moving about, making the fire bright with a fresh chunk of dung. Her fellow sits by me, rolling a cigarette made of the same yellow and green granules smoked in Xinjiang. He puts the spicy stuff in coarse paper then lights up. It takes some time for him to offer me one... We share some more food. I give them some of my store bought foods, while they give me some staples: tasty goat cheese and fresh yogurt. Yogurt is called "sho" in Tibetan language. It's the tastiest snack I've eaten in a long while: a teaspoon of sugar and rice all mixed with yogurt.

Evening comes quickly now. Woman and man laugh at the small wax candle I proffer. The family has a much more effective way to rid the night of darkness: a cloth wick soaked in a puddle of oil. The tiny lamp pops into a brilliant yellow flame giving plenty of light. I feed the kids more tidbits: peanuts, some cookies, a wiener and some noodles with hot water.

This family is well supplied with victuals: there's a leg of cured mutton and some big sacks are filled with goat cheese, grains and there's a sack full of smoking stock. They're not starving. I'm sure they are a little wealthy, especially with all those goats outside! I'm dry, thankfully. Supremely at ease, the tent is cozy and the food, hot. Enough to get sleepy. The mother puts the babes in bed. Again, I get the overt suggestion from the Nomad fellow - partly from jest, yet seemingly sincere - that I should consider sleeping with his wife. It appears that he's going outside to watch the goats all night... I laugh off the idea as usual. This is definitely a set social pattern, and I remember again that polygamy is supposed to be an old custom for Tibetans. But I'm too exhausted to think of sex. The night hugs my slumber as the fire's warmth enfolds me. I unfurl my sleeping bag on the sheepskin. My wet things are above, dry on the stove, slung over the tent lines. Pleased and pacified, I have no questions to ask of myself or anyone else...

I curl up to sleep. The Nomad man disappears outside to sleep in the sleet - to watch the goats! I don't know how he does it. The windy night reverbs through the porous wool of the tiny yurt. Even despite the storm, my sleep is slept in silence. In the morning, I see the Nomad really has slept outside - on a mattress of hides and beneath a heap of coats. The young family watches me collect my things and then sees me off. I feel that they look a bit apprehensive, as if they won't believe their eyes, like I'm not really here, that it's good I'm going away. Then again, maybe I always feel that way in a foreign country, watched by people who appear to have little in common with my thoughts...

Then I notice something. I left my raincoat hanging overhead all night to dry. While unpacking last night, I placed my money belt inside the pouch of my raincoat. So, it was in the open all night. Opening my money belt for a quick look, I see that 600 of yesterday's 1400 yuan are missing. What can I do but look at the people in front of me? Neither husband nor wife show the slightest sign of acknowledging the fact that I've obviously discovered my loss, even as I search all my various pockets and finally stop suddenly, self-conscious and almost embarrassed. I think various thoughts that do not explain the theft, and my limited experience of the world suggests that my perspective on things is very different from the Nomads. However, I do not ask them if they've taken my cash. Concealing desperation, I stand my ground against panic. It isn't easy to leave without putting up a fight. But I can't see any reason to fight, much less demand anything from these poor people. My main pain is thinking I that I have only 800 yuan cash to reach Zhigatse, a very distant place.

All I do before I go is to look at the folks again, pausing to gaze momentarily into their eyes. I feel as if I can share the challenging little smirk on the Nomad lady's face. But the man looks tough as dried meat: he'd stand his ground, no doubt. So, I cross the sand to the road beyond their damp campsite. The man mutters something between his teeth that sounds like English, "You don't belong here." Something really possesses him, opposing my subtle trespass across the stolen land of Tibet...

So I go. I'm free to give them some money, why not? I have enough. Nothing's easier than letting them have it. I ride straight into passing time. My feelings of shock and cowardice disappear... I feel the release and freedom of solitude again. Can I draw some new ideas from the whole experience? I know these people are poor. They have no opportunity to earn anything aside from tending to goats... Like a pretty black shop girl turned rap-singer, or a fisherman out of fish - not a lot of choices to be had. Some guy will always come round to steal the cash. So, maybe I've done a good thing - not putting up a fight - and given her some back.

They see a world completely unlike the one I carry in my mind. This journey across the void is no wilderness to them: it's their home. Any attempt to second-guess the Nomad's thoughts about me will lead almost nowhere. I see everything through the thick veil of my predisposition, which I feel isn't sensitive enough, laden as I am with heavy assumptions about everything... How could I know what they think before, and after, taking my money? The poor can't afford much morality about money. Such questions as trouble my conscience - aren't they imaginary - so much froth upon the surface of vanity? Doesn't that kind of dubious speculation about right and wrong only happen because people like me have leisure and time enough to waste on inventing morality and prejudice in the beginning? Of course, all human beings are capable of reflection, and I can remember as I ride away, that the thieving woman's expression contained no small measure of vindictive amusement and mischievous self-pleasure. She knew she was doing something "wrong," but she didn't much care about that. Because - she knew I could afford it. Who knows what she told her old man? For all I know, she just told him that she'd turned the trick after all...

The woman didn't need to hate me for being a coward or anything complicated like that. She only wanted my money. I didn't bother with putting up a fight, but I didn't try bedding her, either. I can't stop seeing her suppressed tension - that saucy, frightened smirk in her knowledge - mocking me - yet grateful and devil-may-care. You know, everyone is really very deep when it comes to seeing each other's hearts. It was her husband who scared me, built like a brick shithouse, standing absolutely stock-still and glaring, waiting for me to shove off... So, maybe he stole back in to take my money as we slept. I'll never know and don't want to. I'm guilty, since it was really my fault I left my lousy little money hanging there.

Yet another pass blooms into the sky ahead, rising above this web of narrow vales. Crawling over, basically, I've ridden back towards the main valley I left at the village of Namru last week. But this junction is several kilometres east of Namru. A milestone etches the Chinese names for Ali and Purang. I ride east, toward the latter destination. The rain is no more and the road soon passes "Bao-Er" army base. The scene appears very quiet; not so many soldiers are posted to this isolated spot. I don't want anybody to see me here, so I keep going silently over the escarpment to the river.

The road pursues a creek vale. It's very lovely, and I clip rapidly over a smooth clay road. The area is quite populated. The folks are oblivious to the mixed emotions I'm suffering. Naturally, I imagine they know I've been robbed, so they must be smiling because they're laughing at me. I persuade myself that forgiveness is the only way. It's just vain embarrassment, because nobody would believe I didn't mind being robbed: these hidden feelings are impossible to share or explain.

I've passed three encampments of Nomads. The tents are arrayed neatly along the roadway: they've placed themselves in close proximity to the road, perhaps to satisfy their curiosity and to make trading with truckers more convenient. All of them smile and seem tickled to see me alive. I'm a big joke to them: what in the world am I doing here? As the day dwindles, I pass one last camp with several tents - almost a village.

I find a green place to camp. The grass is soft and the creek giggles... No rain. I'm happy again. As I set up my tent, three groups of Nomads come strolling by. Each group of three families has ten or twenty yaks and a few ponies. They don't stop, but wander slowly on. Some people walk with the yaks. Their young boys ride ponies, sitting upon finely decorated festive saddles. The adults walk. Everyone is well-dressed. It's a summer pilgrimage, returning from Kailash, a whole hamlet on the move. The adults grin, as amused as ever. Only the boys on their ponies, who ride up for a close look at me; they alone seem more serious today.

Morning brings a big shock. Something is amiss with my rear wheel. A spoke has snapped behind the freewheel sprocket. Since I haven't the proper tool to remove that gear, I can't slip in a new spoke! This is a trauma for me. I know the wheel will go out of kilter: it's only a matter of two days before it will be impossible to ride! Maybe I can make Mount Kailash and then get a lift. The wheel holds up to Montser, an impoverished Tibetan village whose populace is said to labor in nearby coal mines. A Chinese guy from Sichuan keeps a cafe and cooks me a pleasant lunch of noodles.

I quite like being silent, drinking my beer and smoking a cigarette. The people here know nothing about me at all - and I like that. Beside the road sit two men, a monk wearing orange robes and wire frame glasses. He's grinning. But his companion is so very sad-looking - a young Tibetan who has the important job of holding up an umbrella to shade the holy man from the sun. A jeep full of locals passes us by. The valley widens and ends with a hump of land high enough to be a watershed. It's a long ride over, and the weather turns bad again as I reach higher ground. My wheel is getting twisted and wobbly. Suddenly, a chill rain pelts all around. Hopeless.

I have to push my crippled bike through the gloomy wet wasteland. The rain is turning into sleet and the horizon disappears. Good luck for me: a lone truck appears. I wave him down. We haggle over how much to get to Darchen, 50 kilometres away. That lasts two minutes. He wants 40 quai, an excessive amount. It's a cold front and he sees my desperation. I tie a rope on my bike, and with great effort, haul it up onto the truck. I get inside the cab, sopping wet. His two very quiet sons, seven and ten, travel with him.

Grey rainy fog. We bounce over horrid ruts at 60 kilometres per hour. I'm so happy to be inside the comfy truck. Fording the flooding rivers is difficult, but this driver is experienced. The rivers are going nuts and mounds of fresh snow lie alongside the rushing torrents.