Day 46 – November 2 – Lhasa

I awoke to eyes frozen shut. No, actually, they weren’t but they were damn close. I was freezing. It was awful. The room had no heat and was on an interior courtyard-like open space, so the cold outside air seeped into the room incessantly. I barely made it out of bed and up to the included breakfast. Note to self, bad breakfast. There was a warm soup that was more like dirty water with some strange vegetables in it that were not very appetizing. There was also a hard boiled egg, which I ate, some very doughy bread and dumplings. I ate about half the meal by the time I saw Emma and Lee walking toward me. They took a gander at my meal, maybe a bit apprehensively, and then made themselves a plate. We walked down to the lobby together to meet Cimba who would be taking us to the Jokhang Temple this morning. After about 30 minutes, he arrived to find us slightly perturbed. He just told us to file into the van and we would go start the days visits.

Jokhang Temple is the single most sacred site in Tibetan Buddhism. It was built in the 7th Century C.E. by King Songtsan Gampo and his two wives, one from Nepal and one from China, brought famous statues of Buddha as wedding gifts. It has been the center of pilgrimage to Lhasa for centuries, ever since a famous teacher named Master Atisha taught there in the 11th Century. It sits in the middle of the Barkhor Square, the main public space in the historic section of Lhasa, not nearly as intimidating or daunting as the Potala Palace just a short distance away. The area around the temple is punctuated by four large incense burners spewing copious amounts of thick smoke and ash into the air turning the scene into a surreal masterpiece, almost as if it were being painted before one’s eyes by a Renaissance sfumato master. The strong odor of the incense was not just the typical tobacco-like acrid smoke smell I have become accustomed to in the East, but an additional heavy butter smell permeated the smoke. It was strange to say the least. I don’t think I’ve actually smelled butter before.

Cimba walked us to the front of the temple. The mass of people was incredible. Cimba told us that all of these people were Tibetan pilgrims from areas outside Lhasa who complete an annual pilgrimage to the city and to Jokhang in particular. Many pilgrims were covered in dirt and donned facemasks while others sported Indian Jones-type hats. Older women typically carried prayer wheels, small drums with prayers written on them attached to wooden handles that can be rotated in circles, making a whirring sound as they passed. Some had been traveling for days or weeks to visit this site, especially on this day. Cimba explained to us how once a month Buddhists celebrate the ‘birthday’ of Buddha. I don’t think he had the right translation on that, but it definitely was a festival of some importance as there were scores more people than the previous day. Worshippers walked around the site once, clockwise, and then stood in line up to two hours to enter. They threw barley or butter or other offerings into the incense burners as they passed, resulting in tongues of fire sporadically leaping out of furnaces. Some pilgrims worshipped while accepting alms, throwing themselves prostrate on the ground in a maneuver I like to refer to as Tibetan calisthenics. They wore wooden blocks on their hands and knees, sometimes on their foreheads, as well. From a standing position one would clap the blocked hands three times: above the head, in front of the face, and at the heart. Then, he or she would crouch down, place the hands on the ground, and launch forward so that the body was completely prostrate against the ground with his or hands swept forward in long arcs. At the point of full extension, one taps the ground with the blocked hands and rises to the starting position. Apparently, some pilgrims do this all the way from their homes to Lhasa, taking up to six months. Seriously, what am I doing complaining about lack of public transport in Los Angeles, they haven’t even figured out walking in some parts of the world?

As we stood there watching the scene in front of us, the people started to gawk and smile at us. Back in China and Japan, no one really paid me any heed. Here, it was different. I’m not sure if that is due to the drop in tourism post China’s decision to crack down on Western visitors or a general lack of tourists in general. Children pointed and stared, it was really fun, until some Chinese soldiers interrupted the peaceful setting. There were two of them, and they started harassing one of the worshippers who was engaging in Tibetan calisthenics and seeking alms. They pushed him around, grabbed him and violently flung him into a crowd of people. Two soldiers continually pushed him around until he was on the ground, curled into the fetal position. The pilgrims in the crowd around the beaten man looked upset by the pushing and the ruckus, but not surprised by the harassment of a Tibetan. I asked Cimba what was going on, and he just shook his head, saying that this was “normal.” The man eventually was forced from Barkhor Square and from our vantage point.



After circling the Temple from the outside, always walking clockwise, we walked into the Temple. There was a separate line for tourists, so we didn’t have to wait for hours along with the pilgrims. The interior courtyard contains some amazing paintings showing great teachers through the ages with most incredibly bright and clear. Inside, a heavy scent, both dense and spicy, hung in the air like a blanket. There were candles everywhere, and one quickly realized that one of the methods of donation by pilgrims to the Temple was a gift of butter poured around the candles. This butter acted as wax to fuel the candles. This was one of the most powerful and distinct odors in the room. The interior of the structure was dominated by a series of large statues of Buddha wrapped in prayer flags or golden and silk robes and flanked by dark, heavy pieces of fabric, some with incredibly ornate patterns, stretching the height of the Temple from the ceiling to the ground. The statues were surrounded by a seating area for monks and a banister to keep tourists out of the most sacred areas. Pilgrims walked around this central space in a clockwise movement, ducking into any number of several small chapels dedicated to different teachers, monks or holy figures located on the perimeter. Most of the small chapels included statues and icons of various colors and sizes behind glass viewing panes where pilgrims would squeeze small denomination bills as alms. Handfuls of crumpled, dirty bills in tiny denominations poured from every crack and corner of the chapels. Money stuck to the ground, pasted to the floor by the butter which seemed to coat every square inch of the Temple. I walked through and marveled at the pilgrims who appeared as poor as any people I have seen in my life as they gingerly placed their monthly or yearly alms at the foot of their most revered statues. Looking up at the ceiling, shafts of light pierced the darkness of Temple in places, highlighting the monks’ sitting area and a large bronze statue of the Buddha. It was surreal.

We walked out of the Temple and had the opportunity to climb up to the roof. The view was quite stunning. The cold, clear air was a welcome respite from the buttery tinged atmosphere inside the Temple, and the few wisps of clouds allowed one to view the surrounding mountains and Potala Palace with the utmost clarity. At the top of the Temple, looking out to Barkhor Square below, is a famous piece of art consisting of two golden deer flanking a Dharma wheel. There were about 7 or 8 other tourists up on the roof, walking around and checking out the details of the beautiful carvings and sculptures decorating the area. The colors, red, blue, yellow, green and orange, were vibrant and created a severe difference to the hard brown mountains in the background. We spoke with some monks who were walking around up there, seemingly making their morning stroll in a more calm and quiet area away from the pilgrims. I asked if I could take a photo with one, and he acquiesced with a smile. I also bought a small souvenir at the tiny table of goods on the roof which was manned by two monks. I bought prayer beads, a series of dime sized wooden, wrinkly beads making a bracelet. I asked one of the monks to bless it, which he did. I just wanted to have a unique souvenir from this place that would have significance to me, and that is what this represents. I’m sure I could buy similar beads anywhere, but the fact that the money went directly to the monks and was purchased in a place like this makes them special to me.

It was about 1pm at this point, so Cimba led us to a small rooftop restaurant at the other end of Barkhor Square to meet the other three members of our group who had just arrived. This is where we met James and Tony, two middle-aged British chaps who were beginning a several month travel vacation, and Andre, a 25-year old Lithuanian guy on a two-week vacation. Tony was actually over at another table, apparently speaking with another group of tourists who he thought would be his new travel mates. But, no, we were the new guys he would have to deal with over the next week. Lucky him. As chill and relaxed as Emma and Lee are, Tony and James are quite the opposite: high strung and whiny. But, I should give them a chance. Andre is just silent. I mean, truly, silent. It took me forty minutes to figure out his name and where he was from since he just went off by himself to take photos and would not acknowledge any of us. Oh well. After a light lunch of some noodles, I was not very hungry, we sped off to see one of the monasteries where monks debate.

We arrived at the Sera Monastery, which sits at the base of imposing brown mountains, and immediately headed to a large courtyard where a group of about 75 to 100 monks were debating. The debates have become a significant tourist draw at the monastery. One monk stands among a group of 2 to 10 seated monks, discussing Buddhist theory. When he makes a particularly important point, or, alternatively, asks a question of those seated around him, he claps his hands and snaps a string of beads at them. They then respond to the point or answer the question. I really enjoyed this tableau before me. To me, the term ‘monk’ conjures images of quiet reflection and silent prayer, not loud, emotional discussions on the most important aspects of one’s religious traditions. I was highly entertained and moved by this scene. I love the idea that belief is a dialogue here, rather than a script to be memorized and regurgitated. Now, since I could not understand the ongoing Tibetan dialogue, I had to rely on the translations from Cimba, so some of this appreciation could be rooted in false assumptions, but I hope not. I really enjoyed my time here. We also walked through the interior of the adjoining temples, which were beautiful, filled with statues and tapestries.



Afterwards, the group split up, with Emma, Lee and I walking around the old city center looking for a jacket for Emma. Cimba has been wearing a heavy black coat with a traditional Tibetan pattern lining it. He said it was from Shigatse, the second city of Tibet, and is only worn by Tibetans. We searched for a couple hours before we found one, but it was quite expensive for $35. In Tibet, that is a lot of money. It also would be coming from a Chinese store, where we did not want to spend our money. We tried to negotiate, but that didn’t work out so well, so we decided to ask Cimba to help us drive down the price tomorrow. After, we returned to the hostel. There is a restaurant on the top floor where we sat to have beer and food. We just wanted to relax at this point. The sun was setting over the Potala in the distance, framing the red and white building in red, yellow, blue and purple. This is a very unique vista, with multi-colored prayer flags fluttering in the wind and a whole city embraced by rolling brown mountains on every side. This single largest structure of the Potala Palace is more impressive in its native setting than the Empire State Building in New York. I took my beer and my camera and climbed up a fire escape to the roof of the hostel, sitting in the freezing temperature and watching the sky grow from gold to red to blue. It was perfect, and I could not ask for anything more at this point. Life is damn good.

Day 45 – November 1 – Chengdu – Lhasa

I knew checking out was going to be equally difficult. The same two receptionists from last night sat at the front desk when I arrived this morning. We continued to have issues about my reservation and the fact that it was prepaid. After 45 minutes, I told them that I was leaving to catch my flight, and I would leave my name, phone number and email, and if they had any issues, contact me. I just decided to leave, and if they wanted to follow me, go for it. They didn’t.

I got to the airport and checked in. My Tibetan visa was checked no less than 3 times between the check in desk and the gate. It was weird. I don’t know, I just felt like I was doing something wrong or inappropriate after getting checked so many times. I definitely did not feel welcome. The main portals to enter into Tibet are Chengdu, via air or rail, Kunming, and Kathmandu, Nepal. The Chinese government has made a concerted effort to restrict access to the region in the face of increased international attention to the situation there. After massive protests during the 2008 Olympic Torch relay in both London and Paris, China decided to severely restrict the amount of permits available to Westerners. Even more audaciously, independent travel to the region has been cut off completely. The only way to attain a Tibet Travel Permit is through a Chinese government approved tour agency. I guess the political solution to a human rights controversy in China is to just not allow people to see the controversy unfold. I was hellbent on finding a Tibetan owned and operated company to use for my trip, but they are near impossible to find. I was able to find a company which only hired Tibetans, the least bad alternative. Although I am sure that the money really flows up to the Chinese company, I felt better that I was giving money directly Tibetans. Suffice to say, I got my travel permit in the end. I was not able to do any service in the region, which was my main interest, but at least I would be able to see the people, maybe talk to them and see what they had to say about their lives and situation.

The flight took off late, arrived late, but I was very happy to see my bag made it. I decided not to eat my meal consisting of a liquid-like rice dish accompanied by a small plastic bag filled with liquid and what appeared to be an old, pickled egg. Gross. It was black. It looked inedible, however my buddy, a Han Chinese man sitting next to me with a large, dark fedora, looked at it, saw that I was not going near it, and he picked it off my tray and chucked it into his mouth. I looked at him, with eyes wide with surprise and amusement. He saw I wasn’t upset and decided to strike up a conversation. However, this was a very one-sided conversation, only in Mandarin. Dude, I’d love to speak to you in Mandarin, but right now, I don’t speak any. Try me again in five years! He put his arm around my shoulders, poked me in the ribs, and pointed out the window for me to look at the mountains stretched out as far as the eyes could see. Unfortunately I was in an aisle seat, but I leaned over and took a gander at this incredible vista. The mountains just rolled on forever. It looked like the fingers of an old man, wrinkled and brown, grasped in a haphazard way. A valley here, a knuckle there. Incredible.

I walked out with my bag, hoping to find my guide without much trouble. Lucky me, he was waiting outside and assumed the one Westerner would be me. He was correct. I have been warned that trumpeting the name of guides and their political views on the situation and ethnic tensions in the region could have negative consequences for those guides back at home. So I’ll refer to our guide as Cimba (Cimba is the Tibetan word for “small,” just like our guide). Cimba is originally from Shigatse, the second largest city in Tibet. He leads me to the van which will be our ride for the next seven days across the country. It is pretty spacious at the moment, since only three of us are in the van. I met a really cool couple from the UK named Lee and Emma. Lee and Emma have been living on a narrow boat the past year, motoring along the canals of the UK. They are both musicians, with Lee playing the guitar and playing in a band and Emma playing cello in a trio and with Lee. I immediately think I’m going to like them. We started the drive from the airport to the city of Lhasa which was going to be 2 hours. Cimba told us we could stop at any point to take photos, perfect for shutterbugs like Lee and me. We did stop along the way, taking photos of a couple of rivers and the scenery. I’m really liking it here, already.

Cimba and our driver took us to our hostel in the heart of Lhasa. It was a strange place, with posters lining the walls of poor, dirty children looking rather disheartened. These were advertisements for the hostel. Really? Come stay at a place that puts these children on the edge of tears? No thank you. I’ll stay at the Four Points by Sheraton (a reference to be explained in another post). We decided to split up and explore the city for a while. We were to meet our other three traveling companions tomorrow since their flight had been cancelled. Today was a day for acclimating to the lack of oxygen at this altitude.

Now would be a good point to give some background on Lhasa. The city of roughly 1.1 million people, is the capital of the Tibet Autonomous Region (TAR) in China. Lhasa sits at 11,450 feet. This is really high, particularly for a city so large. To put the population in context, Lhasa would be the 10th most populous US city, just after San Diego. It was the home of the Dalai Lama, the spiritual and temporal leader of Tibet before he fled to India in 1959 in the face of the invading Chinese. With the consolidation of power in the hands ethnic Chinese since the 1950s, the Tibetan population has dwindled while the Han Chinese population has grown considerably, exploding after the inauguration of the rail-line between Beijing and Lhasa. The government subsidizes Han emigration to Tibet. Lhasa contains the two most sacred places in Tibetan Buddhism: Jokhang temple and the Potala Palace. Those I will be seeing tomorrow.

Personally, I have never been higher than 12,000 feet, when I was in Peru. This is high, and cold. I am wearing most of my layers at this point: long underwear, jeans, long-sleeve shirt, t-shirt, vest, and jacket. I am a walking North Face ad. Only thing is, I could be buying all this nice knock-off North Face (it’s spelled Notrh Face here) for cheap, but I’ve already purchased my gear for a nice mark-up at REI. For the record, I am not subsidized by North Face or REI, although I do love their equipment and stores. I haven’t had any issues thus far, but I am going to take my time and enjoy this place. What other way to start with Tibet than to walk to the seat of Tibetan culture, the Potala Palace, the home of the Dalai Lama? I walked down the street, turned right, and walked in the direction that I thought the Potala Palace would be. All of the signs are in Mandarin and Tibetan, sparse with the English. Damn. Some of these streets remind me of a small Beijing: wide boulevards, monumental structures, all apparently without character or a sense of history. The old buildings had been demolished and new structures were built over the past decade. Shame. I arrived at a park near the square facing the Palace. This was a nice park, with several people sitting on benches, conspicuously staring at me. I walked to the expansive square in front of the Palace. This place was just like Tiananmen Square in Beijing, complete with a rather stark and brooding monument in the middle. I stood there with my camera, slowly turning on the spot to take in the scenery around me. The Palace is massive and sits on a hill like a sentry. It is half white and half red. The White Palace contains all the administrative and living quarters while the Red Palace contains only religious areas and shrines. Cimba said we would go there our third day since we would have an easier time climbing it after we had acclimated. I discovered later that the massive square in front of the Palace had been constructed in the past twenty years after razing local homes to make way for the square. Grand. The Palace is amazing, though.

I then wandered around the area for a while, ending up at a large statue of two yaks. The yak is very big here, like the Tibetan mascot. If they had football at highschools here, you would be sure to see the Lhasa High Golden Yaks taking on the South Lhasa Fighting Yaks. I took some photos while a family took some, too. Eventually, the daughter runs up to me, says something in a language I don’t understand, so I start to take her camera to take a picture of her family. No, no, I want a picture with you, she motions and giggles. Okay, got it. So I go up to her, put my sunglasses on her face, my arm around her and smile my face off. I have begun to figure out what they want. It is the same with Americans seeing a group of Japanese teenagers at Disneyland. We want to see them laugh uncontrollably, put up the peace sign, and then giggle until they begin to hyperventilate. You know, the usual stereotypes. So, I’ll give the people what they want. I smile a big toothy grin, put up the peace sign and just act my goofy, Californian way. They love it. Her dad took like eight pictures. I did upset her when I took my sunglasses back. Hey, not yours. Mine.

I stopped for lunch at a place near the Palace that did not look like a typical tourist haunt. No problem there. The waitress had no tourist menu, could not understand my words nor my hand gestures, and I finally had to order whatever (hopefully) chicken dish was pictured on the wall. She comes back and dumps a big bowl of orange-ish chicken in front of me. Okay, nothing like the mixed vegetable stirfry I was expecting, but batter-up. I was hungry. It was 4pm at this point, and all I had eaten thus far was a couple of bites of that rice soup stuff on AirChina. The nuclear-colored chicken did its job, and I went on my way. As luck would have it, I lost my way trying to get back to the hostel. I expected as much, but what I did not anticipate was the lack of English here. In most places with a significant tourist population, I have been able to get directions from a souvenir store or local convenience store. I was having massive issues here, though, attempting to find anyone who spoke enough English to give me directions. No fear, I’ll do what I do when I get too drunk to remember where I’m staying: walk in progressively larger concentric circles until I get to the right place. This allowed me to (i) see more of the city and (ii) refrain from walking up and down the same streets whereby giving the Chinese military police something to notice. Eventually, just before nightfall, I returned to the hostel. I had walked by it a couple of times before, but had mistaken it for a store since they were now selling socks and underwear from the lobby, and a man selling roasted chestnuts was blocking the door. Thanks, guys. Very helpful. I met up with Emma and Lee and we found Cimba. He asked us what we wanted to do for dinner, and we all agreed on something local and cheap. Again, if you know me at all, I’m much more interested in trying the local food, so I was glad to see I was on the same page as my new British friends. Cimba took us wandering through a couple of back allies to a local restaurant he liked. This was definitely a local Tibetan hang out. We sat down and he asked us if we wanted sweet tea or butter tea. Emma went for the sweet tea, Lee got a beer, and I manned up and attempted for the butter tea. We also had Cimba order dinner for us. When the drinks arrived, we toasted and tried our respective drinks. Emma furrowed her brow a bit, considering her opinion of the strange new beverage. She decided it was good. Lee enjoyed his slightly carbonated Lhasa Beer. It was light and refreshing. I nearly choked on my butter tea. After we all tried it, we decided the best comparison was to a mug of melted margarine. It was thick, much too sweet and much too heavy. These people, in this cold weather and high altitude, probably drink it for survival purposes, but I could not have more than 5 sips without needing to run my tough along a piece of sandpaper. I switched to a Lhasa Beer. Initially, I preferred not to drink at this altitude, but my stomach demanded something to dilute the butter tea. Dinner was good: boiled yak meat, spicy noodles and a fantastic potato dish. We were all very happy. The food was quite filling. During dinner, Cimba invited his friends to eat with us. There were seven of them, a couple and their baby, what appeared to be the couple’s sister, and three girls Cimba was hitting on hardcore. No, really, he just sat there staring them up and down. I was thoroughly amused, especially after he told us about his wife in Shigatse. Really, you are married? How lucky for the little lady! We took pictures, laughed and shared some beers around the table. It was all good fun. Cimba left us before we were finished, so we stuck around, making the baby alternatively laugh and cry (I scared the poor child, apparently). We left after a bit, walked back to the hotel, and returned to our ice-cold rooms. Seriously, like sleeping in an icebox. But it was a mattress, so I will limit the complaining. Tomorrow, sites!