The Hotel on the Roof of the World Read Online Free PDF Page A

to Gansu province. On their way to the city of Lanzhou, a two-hour flight from Chengdu, they had received the typical cardboard boxes. Most left the box untouched, one person just had a bite out of his stale bun and tossed it back into the box. Three days later on their return to Chengdu they were presented with cardboard boxes of ‘delicious food only at meal time’. Suddenly one of them called out: ‘Hey! Someone’s had a bite out of my bun!’
    Happily the days of the aged Boeing 707s for CAAC’s flights to Lhasa are now numbered, as they have finally decided to take them out of the sky before they drop out. For many years Chinese authorities insisted that only planes with three or more engines could fly to Lhasa due to difficulties in landing other types of aircraft at an altitude of 12,000 feet. These apparently conscientious safety regulations were very convenient for CAAC. It just so happened that by a complete coincidence, CAAC was the only airline in the region operating aircraft with three or more engines – their good old Boeing 707s.
    In order to convince the Chinese that a plane with less than three engines could land successfully at Lhasa airport, Boeing Corporation flew in a 757 – with the American Ambassador to China aboard. The Chinese requested that the anxious Ambassador, wearing his Victory Desert Storm sweatshirt, be put through a series of one-engine landing and take-off tests before placing their multi-million-dollar order for the 757s. The Boeing pilots performed superbly and the aged 707s are now being replaced. It has taken some of the fun out of flying CAAC but even if the machines are new, the service has the same charm. The immaculate interior of the new aircraft is rapidly changing in appearance and familiar odours peculiar to CAAC planes are already hanging in the aisles.

    On my first flight into Lhasa I had managed to sleep for most of the two-hour journey. I was tired after the trip to the Far East from Europe, the one-night stopover in Hong Kong, Chengdu and then the early-morning departure. Even the stewardesses were asleep now.
    For no apparent reason, I woke suddenly from the depths of a dream – where I had seen nothing around me but barren rocks and Chinese soldiers. Regaining my conscious thoughts, I strained my eyes at the window to estimate our position. Way beneath, veins of ocean-blue river traced across the white sand of the Tsangpo river bed. Mountain ranges rippled away in waves towards the peaks of the Himalayas. To the south, somewhere beyond the tiny speck of Yumbulagang temple was the mountain kingdom of Bhutan. My head was spinning with questions. Could that mountain be Everest? Or perhaps that one over there? They do tend to look alike when seen from above. Where is Nepal? Where are the boundaries between China and India where their soldiers peer at each other from frozen dugouts?
    As my mind pondered on these questions, gazing at the tangled mass of mountains that stretched away into the distance, the aircraft lurched forwards into its descent. The passenger next to me stirred from his sleep. His mouth stretched into a gaping yawn and the pieces of eggshell, which had fallen into the creases of his blue Mao jacket during his meal, now tumbled out onto the floor. They would soon be trodden in to the carpet by the trampling hordes on their way down the aisle. Hundreds of years ago the Mongolian hordes had wreaked havoc on the advanced civilisations of Asia, and soon they would be doing the same to the Boeing 707 carpet.
    Tufts of black hair stood up at unnatural angles from the top of his head, where they had been pressed during the two hours that he had slept. His yawn lasted an eternity. His mouth opened so wide that it took up practically the entire sphere of his otherwise featureless face, giving me an unprecedented view of Chinese dental work. Judging by the display of pickled vegetables in various states of decomposition that were