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Kathmandu came as a breath of fresh air. Which, given that it is one of the world’s most polluted cities, is rather ironic. I had just arrived from the cloying, clamouring, deafening tumult of Delhi with its maddening touts and unbearable heat and, in comparison, Kathmandu seemed like a relaxing provincial get-away.
I was thoroughly enjoying the place - taxi drivers took me where I asked, touts left me alone after the first ‘no thanks’ and death did not stalk the streets in the guise of insane Indian motorists. By the time I had managed to buy myself some prescription glasses for the equivalent of five pounds, I had already decided this was one of my favourite cities on earth.
The people of Kathmandu seemed like a cheerful bunch - smiling, laughing and genuinely friendly. Whilst many of them would be abjectly poor by European standards, they appeared to be much happier and healthier than the people of Delhi, so many of whom had seemed haunted and hopeless - with vacant stares and troubled frowns.
The highlight, for me, was on the third day. I spent the day walking around the city on the hunt for temples. Which, to be fair, is not terribly difficult as Kathmandu is absolutely heaving with the things. The most interesting - high on a hill overlooking the city - was the temple of Hanuman, the monkey god. A long, steep stone staircase, polished smooth by centuries of footfall, led up out of the city to its tree lined tranquillity.
At the top I paused to catch my breath and survey the multitudinous forest of low buildings that was Kathmandu. To the north, a thin mist shrouded the furthest suburbs and reached out in long fingers to the foothills of the Himalayas. Turning, I examined the temple I had climbed up here to see. In the centre of the complex was a vast structure with pagodic roofs and hung with prayer flags. Around its base were lines of prayer wheels,some still spinning from the last reverential Buddhist who had passed by.
In alcoves sat, with beatific indifference, golden statues of the Buddha - each sprinkled liberally with offerings of food and flowers. Rhesus monkeys, whose temple this was after all, relieved the statues of the more flavoursome of the offerings. Seeming not realise their god-given right to this religious fare, they snuck forward with all the melodrama of theatrical thievery, throwing furtive glances like villains in a silent movie.
I walked around this structure (clockwise, as is the custom) and came to another set of stone steps that led to a grandly pillared doorway. Inside was another Buddha, like the others only a great deal bigger. About him were many garlands of flowers and in the air hung the strong scent of incense. Somewhere, from the bowels of the temple behind, rose the deep rhythmic chanting of monks at prayer. Soon, the clanging of gongs and the great, deep bellow of a horn brought the mild intrigue of the mysterious chanting into the realms of extraordinary spectacle. I stood enchanted, my hard-nosed western cynicism broken by the spell of eastern mysticism for a brief, wonderful moment.
As I stepped back outside, a sudden monsoon downpour was hammering the earth into submission. With a ‘click’ and a ‘pop’, my folding umbrella went up and I stepped into the maelstrom. I took a photo as the late afternoon sun gleamed brightly from the wet stones, statues and plinths; and then another from the walls - of the lush Kathmandu valley - glistening green and wet below. I then headed for my hotel, pleased with my days work and thinking about curry.
I woke suddenly - aware that something was wrong. What was it? I felt too hot… but then I’d been too hot almost constantly since I stepped off the plane at the airport. This was different though; my sheets were wringing wet with sweat and the room seemed to be moving. “Oh God…”
A staggering run took me along the rolling corridor to the toilet. “Oh…”
“My…”
“GOOAAAARGHHHH….”
“Aaa-ha… eghh… Hack! Hack! … splut …”
Oh, man that was bad. That was real bad… wait a minute… oh God, not the other end too…
Food poisoning is pretty bad even when you don’t have to get up at 4.30 am to catch a bus to Tibet. I had to get up at 4.30 am to catch a bus to Tibet.
When I read my diary entry for that day, I impress even myself with the restraint of my understatement.
“Getting up at 4.30 am was somewhat of a trial.”
In actual fact it was a bleeding nightmare. I had stopped ‘evacuating’ approximately two hours before and was, in effect, simply eighty kilos of human wreckage. I poured myself onto the bus like a homeward bound Glaswegian at Kings Cross after a disastrous Scotland game at Wembley (only rather less self-pityingly voluble), found a quiet looking seat, and collapsed into a state of grateful unconsciousness.
The bus was a huge Tata juggernaut, with raised suspension and massive off road tyres. It looked like something one might use to find the source of the Amazon. It was to be my first clue that the optimistically named ‘Friendship Highway’ between Kathmandu and Lhasa may not be a smooth ribbon of carefully maintained tarmac.
I remained asleep for a short, glorious while, but the road was rough and soon I was shaken into wakefulness. We wound slowly upwards through hills and forests for a few hours, until we reached a point where the bus could go no further. A landslide had swept away a section of the road and there was no question that anything short of a land-rover could have crossed the debris.
So I, and the other passengers on the bus, shouldered our packs and scrambled over the jumble of rocks, mud and broken trees. There were several landslides on this section of road and we had to hike a little way before we reached a point where there was a truck ferrying people the last few kilometres to the border. It was a cattle truck, had no windows, and was pitch black inside. I couldn’t resist saying, after a few minutes of stygian silence:
“Lovely view…” in the gentle sarcasm of the British abroad.
Stepping down out of the darkness of the truck, we looked about us at the shabby collection of houses and shops which was the Nepalese side of the border. Standing around, in a rather listless manner, were the first Tibetans of my trip. They had almond eyes set in broad, flat faces which had been beaten into hard oaken lines by their environment. Their straight hair was knotted into braids and their clothing was worn and dusty, yet ornately traditional. They looked, it had to be admitted, both more serious and more exotic than my Nepalese friends.
We passed out of Nepal without much fuss, simply walking past a wooden pole slung across the road. The Tibetan side was both grander and more shambolic. Above our heads, in poorly set totalitarian concrete, loomed the Chinese customs building. At our feet flowed knee deep water. The heavy rains that had caused the landslides on the road to the border had also caused a landslide here. The falling mud and rocks had blocked a stream which had flooded the customs building. Tibet became the only country I have ever waded into.
The road which led on into Tibet was blocked and we had to detour through the surrounding forest. It was a hard scramble up a tiny track on a precipitously steep hillside. We pulled ourselves upwards, slipping on the mud, and hauling ourselves hand over hand through the undergrowth. It took us nearly two hours to reach a point where the Toyota Landcruiser that had been booked by the tour company could pick us up.
Finally in the transport that would take me to Lhasa, I relaxed a little. After hardly any sleep and a night of vicious food poisoning, the journey had taken a lot out of me. A little way up the road we came to another Customs building, where we were given our visas. Soon we were driving up a spectacular road into the heart of Tibet.
The ‘Friendship Highway’, as the main road between Kathmandu and Lhasa is called, was little more than a rough track through the mountains, but the surroundings were truly spectacular. Our road lay on the mountainside like a ribbon dropped from above. Thick, dark green vegetation clung to the steep cliffs that dropped thousands of feet to the valley floor and climbed thousands more above. The white water of powerful streams tumbled noisily down boulder strewn crags and fell in long, drifting waterfalls that roared endlessly into oblivion below. Tibet, I reflected, was the most vertical country I had ever seen.
The valley, our entry-route into this mysterious land, was filled with wreathes of pale mist that obscured the mountainsides. As we drove higher, darkness fell and the country was hidden from us completely. All we could see under the dark night sky, were the hulking silhouettes of high mountains. Coming into Tibet had not just been the toughest border crossing I’d ever done, it had been the most dramatic, the most atmospheric and the most tantalising. The Hidden Kingdom awaited.
After spending a restless night in the tiny, flea-blown hamlet of Nyalam, I piled into my Landcruiser with the other tourists who had bought their tickets for this journey. We were a pretty sorry looking lot, most of us already suffering from altitude sickness. However, we were at 3500 metres above sea-level, a respectable height for an alpine mountain, so perhaps it was not surprising.
This was, nevertheless, far from the highest altitude we would reach that day. Our road seemed to wind on through an increasingly dry and barren landscape, gaining height continuously. It seemed absurd that after several hours we were still going up. After some time we eventually reached the top of the Lalung-la pass. There was no view, unfortunately, just a thick grey mist which obscured everything. We got out of the Landcruiser anyway, glad to stretch our legs and try to clear our heads of the altitude induced fug. A pole stood here, marking the top of the pass, strung with hundreds of prayer flags. They hung limply, jewelled with tiny dew-drops; resting before the next high altitude winds that would beat and tear at them and try to rip them into the heavens. We were 5050 metres above sea level - and still not the highest we would be that day.
As we descended from the Lalungla, we began to see some traditional Tibetan homes squatting by the roadside; tiny collections of square white buildings with flat roofs and painted with thick red and dark blue stripes. Soon, we drove into a slightly larger collection of buildings, but still no bigger than a hamlet. This was Tingri, the famous starting point for expeditions heading for Everest.
We stopped for lunch here, crowding into the darkly cosy interior of one of the buildings that lined the main road. The walls were hung with fabric and low seats and tables formed a square around a cast iron stove in the centre of the room. Small, wide-eyed faces of children appeared at the windows, noses pressed against the grubby panes, then disappeared in fits of giggles as we smiled and waved at them. They ran off into the dusty street; off in the direction of fun, adventure and mischief.
After Tingri the road got worse. The same rains that had caused the landslides at the border had turned the road here into a sticky quagmire. Nearing the top of the Gyatso-la it became almost impassable; indeed two of the army style trucks they have here had found it so and their unfortunate owners stood around staring disconsolately at their immovable bulk. Eventually the road got so bad that we had to get out and walk for half an hour as the driver tried to manoeuvre the landcruiser along the muddy ruts.
Night was falling when we reached the top of the pass, the highest point we would reach that day - indeed the highest point of the journey - at 5220 metres. I would like to be able to say something like - ‘I looked around me at the high mountains and felt balanced on the cusp of two worlds; that of the high places: wild, savage and unspoilt, and that of humanity: the fragile communities huddled in sheltered valleys’, but in reality I just stared into the darkness and felt sick.
By the time we reached Lhatse, and found a guesthouse to spend the night in, we were all thoroughly exhausted. We collapsed into bed; eating nothing, washing nothing, thinking nothing. It had taken us fourteen gruelling hours to cover two hundred and eighty five kilometres.
The following morning, after some Tibetan bread, jam, a boiled egg and several cups of coffee, we were a much happier bunch of travellers. We were starting to get used to the altitude and become hardened to the constant bumping and rolling of the land cruisers on the uneven roads. Tempers shortened slightly after about thirty minutes when we got a puncture and then discovered our radiator was emptying itself over the road, but it was a minor inconvenience and soon we were moving again.
The road soon became much better and save for a few spots where the outer edge had collapsed into a ravine or where a new river was flowing through it, it was actually in quite good condition. We crossed over the Yalung-la and down into an ever widening valley. Suddenly Tibet became far greener and the road travelled straight and fast towards Xigatse, where we were to spend the night.
Sharing the road were just three types of motorised transport: trucks, tractors and land cruisers. Everything else was equine powered - donkeys or ponies pulling medieval looking carts. Surrounding the valley, hemming it in, were tall, dark mountains. The steep, jagged barrier encircled us, making us feel at once cut off from the outside world and yet privy to a fabulous secret.
The following day we arrived in Lhasa. After another long drive we rolled into the city’s outskirts at about 6.30 pm. The outskirts - modern and Chinese - were a disappointment after the crude rural idyll through which we had passed. Once we entered the heart of Lhasa, however, the architecture became older and more genuinely Tibetan. Suddenly, as we turned the corner of a city street we saw it: The Potala Palace.
The Potala has been called one of the great wonders of the world and, in that mesmerising moment, I would not have argued. It’s high walls rose in exquisite white majesty above the prostrate city. Resolute, unassailable and eternal - yet beautifully and divinely proportioned. I had travelled a long and difficult road to see it, and my tired eyes felt duly rewarded.
I spent the next eight days revelling in the extraordinary city of Lhasa. I wandered into the dark interior of the Jokhang Temple, where dozens of Buddhas sat enshrined in alcoves. Thousands of candles threw their flickering glow over the gold statues and their smoke hung in flat mist-like layers near the ceiling. In the main hall monks were praying - the familiar reverberating chant I had heard in Kathmandu. The noise resonated extraordinarily in the claustrophobic room; a chaotic maelstrom of sound that, nevertheless, had a richly harmonic, rhythmic quality.
I explored the city too, walking the streets with my camera. I meandered through the markets - markets aimed at Tibetans not tourists - and looked at the items for sale. Stainless steel cook-ware, plastic buckets, food and drink, votive candles and prayer flags. Occasionally a lady selling trinkets would approach and wave her wares in my direction. “Lookee, lookee, cheapy, cheapy… how are you? … I love you!”
I went to a nightclub, which was an interesting experience, and bought myself a Chinese watch for a couple of pounds. The food was a tricky one, as all the menus were in Chinese. Sometimes I’d just point at something at random on the menu. Other times I’d be taken into the kitchens, where I’d point at various things, mime a little stir-fry wrist action and waited to see what I got. It was nearly always extremely tasty, although I confess I could not manage more than a couple of mouthfuls of sheep’s lung.
And, of course, I went to the Potala. The Potala Palace is one of those structures that seems to seep history from every whitewashed stone, every polished cobble and every ancient timber. Climbing the steps to the entrance I could not help wondering what tumultuous events had occurred here - and what were still to come.
The steps carried on into the palace itself, up into dark passageways that came at last into the sunshine of the main courtyard. Like all the Buddhist monasteries I have ever seen, the Potala is incredibly colourful. Here, in contrast to the white walls and blue window frames of the exterior, the colour scheme was bright orange and deep black.
The rooms of the palace were no less vibrant. There were ochre yellows and burnt oranges, blue and red stripes running along the walls, floral patterns on the woodwork and bright purple ceiling rafters.
The people of Kathmandu seemed like a cheerful bunch - smiling, laughing and genuinely friendly. Whilst many of them would be abjectly poor by European standards, they appeared to be much happier and healthier than the people of Delhi, so many of whom had seemed haunted and hopeless - with vacant stares and troubled frowns.
The highlight, for me, was on the third day. I spent the day walking around the city on the hunt for temples. Which, to be fair, is not terribly difficult as Kathmandu is absolutely heaving with the things. The most interesting - high on a hill overlooking the city - was the temple of Hanuman, the monkey god. A long, steep stone staircase, polished smooth by centuries of footfall, led up out of the city to its tree lined tranquillity.
At the top I paused to catch my breath and survey the multitudinous forest of low buildings that was Kathmandu. To the north, a thin mist shrouded the furthest suburbs and reached out in long fingers to the foothills of the Himalayas. Turning, I examined the temple I had climbed up here to see. In the centre of the complex was a vast structure with pagodic roofs and hung with prayer flags. Around its base were lines of prayer wheels,some still spinning from the last reverential Buddhist who had passed by.
In alcoves sat, with beatific indifference, golden statues of the Buddha - each sprinkled liberally with offerings of food and flowers. Rhesus monkeys, whose temple this was after all, relieved the statues of the more flavoursome of the offerings. Seeming not realise their god-given right to this religious fare, they snuck forward with all the melodrama of theatrical thievery, throwing furtive glances like villains in a silent movie.
I walked around this structure (clockwise, as is the custom) and came to another set of stone steps that led to a grandly pillared doorway. Inside was another Buddha, like the others only a great deal bigger. About him were many garlands of flowers and in the air hung the strong scent of incense. Somewhere, from the bowels of the temple behind, rose the deep rhythmic chanting of monks at prayer. Soon, the clanging of gongs and the great, deep bellow of a horn brought the mild intrigue of the mysterious chanting into the realms of extraordinary spectacle. I stood enchanted, my hard-nosed western cynicism broken by the spell of eastern mysticism for a brief, wonderful moment.
As I stepped back outside, a sudden monsoon downpour was hammering the earth into submission. With a ‘click’ and a ‘pop’, my folding umbrella went up and I stepped into the maelstrom. I took a photo as the late afternoon sun gleamed brightly from the wet stones, statues and plinths; and then another from the walls - of the lush Kathmandu valley - glistening green and wet below. I then headed for my hotel, pleased with my days work and thinking about curry.
I woke suddenly - aware that something was wrong. What was it? I felt too hot… but then I’d been too hot almost constantly since I stepped off the plane at the airport. This was different though; my sheets were wringing wet with sweat and the room seemed to be moving. “Oh God…”
A staggering run took me along the rolling corridor to the toilet. “Oh…”
“My…”
“GOOAAAARGHHHH….”
“Aaa-ha… eghh… Hack! Hack! … splut …”
Oh, man that was bad. That was real bad… wait a minute… oh God, not the other end too…
Food poisoning is pretty bad even when you don’t have to get up at 4.30 am to catch a bus to Tibet. I had to get up at 4.30 am to catch a bus to Tibet.
When I read my diary entry for that day, I impress even myself with the restraint of my understatement.
“Getting up at 4.30 am was somewhat of a trial.”
In actual fact it was a bleeding nightmare. I had stopped ‘evacuating’ approximately two hours before and was, in effect, simply eighty kilos of human wreckage. I poured myself onto the bus like a homeward bound Glaswegian at Kings Cross after a disastrous Scotland game at Wembley (only rather less self-pityingly voluble), found a quiet looking seat, and collapsed into a state of grateful unconsciousness.
The bus was a huge Tata juggernaut, with raised suspension and massive off road tyres. It looked like something one might use to find the source of the Amazon. It was to be my first clue that the optimistically named ‘Friendship Highway’ between Kathmandu and Lhasa may not be a smooth ribbon of carefully maintained tarmac.
I remained asleep for a short, glorious while, but the road was rough and soon I was shaken into wakefulness. We wound slowly upwards through hills and forests for a few hours, until we reached a point where the bus could go no further. A landslide had swept away a section of the road and there was no question that anything short of a land-rover could have crossed the debris.
So I, and the other passengers on the bus, shouldered our packs and scrambled over the jumble of rocks, mud and broken trees. There were several landslides on this section of road and we had to hike a little way before we reached a point where there was a truck ferrying people the last few kilometres to the border. It was a cattle truck, had no windows, and was pitch black inside. I couldn’t resist saying, after a few minutes of stygian silence:
“Lovely view…” in the gentle sarcasm of the British abroad.
Stepping down out of the darkness of the truck, we looked about us at the shabby collection of houses and shops which was the Nepalese side of the border. Standing around, in a rather listless manner, were the first Tibetans of my trip. They had almond eyes set in broad, flat faces which had been beaten into hard oaken lines by their environment. Their straight hair was knotted into braids and their clothing was worn and dusty, yet ornately traditional. They looked, it had to be admitted, both more serious and more exotic than my Nepalese friends.
We passed out of Nepal without much fuss, simply walking past a wooden pole slung across the road. The Tibetan side was both grander and more shambolic. Above our heads, in poorly set totalitarian concrete, loomed the Chinese customs building. At our feet flowed knee deep water. The heavy rains that had caused the landslides on the road to the border had also caused a landslide here. The falling mud and rocks had blocked a stream which had flooded the customs building. Tibet became the only country I have ever waded into.
The road which led on into Tibet was blocked and we had to detour through the surrounding forest. It was a hard scramble up a tiny track on a precipitously steep hillside. We pulled ourselves upwards, slipping on the mud, and hauling ourselves hand over hand through the undergrowth. It took us nearly two hours to reach a point where the Toyota Landcruiser that had been booked by the tour company could pick us up.
Finally in the transport that would take me to Lhasa, I relaxed a little. After hardly any sleep and a night of vicious food poisoning, the journey had taken a lot out of me. A little way up the road we came to another Customs building, where we were given our visas. Soon we were driving up a spectacular road into the heart of Tibet.
The ‘Friendship Highway’, as the main road between Kathmandu and Lhasa is called, was little more than a rough track through the mountains, but the surroundings were truly spectacular. Our road lay on the mountainside like a ribbon dropped from above. Thick, dark green vegetation clung to the steep cliffs that dropped thousands of feet to the valley floor and climbed thousands more above. The white water of powerful streams tumbled noisily down boulder strewn crags and fell in long, drifting waterfalls that roared endlessly into oblivion below. Tibet, I reflected, was the most vertical country I had ever seen.
The valley, our entry-route into this mysterious land, was filled with wreathes of pale mist that obscured the mountainsides. As we drove higher, darkness fell and the country was hidden from us completely. All we could see under the dark night sky, were the hulking silhouettes of high mountains. Coming into Tibet had not just been the toughest border crossing I’d ever done, it had been the most dramatic, the most atmospheric and the most tantalising. The Hidden Kingdom awaited.
After spending a restless night in the tiny, flea-blown hamlet of Nyalam, I piled into my Landcruiser with the other tourists who had bought their tickets for this journey. We were a pretty sorry looking lot, most of us already suffering from altitude sickness. However, we were at 3500 metres above sea-level, a respectable height for an alpine mountain, so perhaps it was not surprising.
This was, nevertheless, far from the highest altitude we would reach that day. Our road seemed to wind on through an increasingly dry and barren landscape, gaining height continuously. It seemed absurd that after several hours we were still going up. After some time we eventually reached the top of the Lalung-la pass. There was no view, unfortunately, just a thick grey mist which obscured everything. We got out of the Landcruiser anyway, glad to stretch our legs and try to clear our heads of the altitude induced fug. A pole stood here, marking the top of the pass, strung with hundreds of prayer flags. They hung limply, jewelled with tiny dew-drops; resting before the next high altitude winds that would beat and tear at them and try to rip them into the heavens. We were 5050 metres above sea level - and still not the highest we would be that day.
As we descended from the Lalungla, we began to see some traditional Tibetan homes squatting by the roadside; tiny collections of square white buildings with flat roofs and painted with thick red and dark blue stripes. Soon, we drove into a slightly larger collection of buildings, but still no bigger than a hamlet. This was Tingri, the famous starting point for expeditions heading for Everest.
We stopped for lunch here, crowding into the darkly cosy interior of one of the buildings that lined the main road. The walls were hung with fabric and low seats and tables formed a square around a cast iron stove in the centre of the room. Small, wide-eyed faces of children appeared at the windows, noses pressed against the grubby panes, then disappeared in fits of giggles as we smiled and waved at them. They ran off into the dusty street; off in the direction of fun, adventure and mischief.
After Tingri the road got worse. The same rains that had caused the landslides at the border had turned the road here into a sticky quagmire. Nearing the top of the Gyatso-la it became almost impassable; indeed two of the army style trucks they have here had found it so and their unfortunate owners stood around staring disconsolately at their immovable bulk. Eventually the road got so bad that we had to get out and walk for half an hour as the driver tried to manoeuvre the landcruiser along the muddy ruts.
Night was falling when we reached the top of the pass, the highest point we would reach that day - indeed the highest point of the journey - at 5220 metres. I would like to be able to say something like - ‘I looked around me at the high mountains and felt balanced on the cusp of two worlds; that of the high places: wild, savage and unspoilt, and that of humanity: the fragile communities huddled in sheltered valleys’, but in reality I just stared into the darkness and felt sick.
By the time we reached Lhatse, and found a guesthouse to spend the night in, we were all thoroughly exhausted. We collapsed into bed; eating nothing, washing nothing, thinking nothing. It had taken us fourteen gruelling hours to cover two hundred and eighty five kilometres.
The following morning, after some Tibetan bread, jam, a boiled egg and several cups of coffee, we were a much happier bunch of travellers. We were starting to get used to the altitude and become hardened to the constant bumping and rolling of the land cruisers on the uneven roads. Tempers shortened slightly after about thirty minutes when we got a puncture and then discovered our radiator was emptying itself over the road, but it was a minor inconvenience and soon we were moving again.
The road soon became much better and save for a few spots where the outer edge had collapsed into a ravine or where a new river was flowing through it, it was actually in quite good condition. We crossed over the Yalung-la and down into an ever widening valley. Suddenly Tibet became far greener and the road travelled straight and fast towards Xigatse, where we were to spend the night.
Sharing the road were just three types of motorised transport: trucks, tractors and land cruisers. Everything else was equine powered - donkeys or ponies pulling medieval looking carts. Surrounding the valley, hemming it in, were tall, dark mountains. The steep, jagged barrier encircled us, making us feel at once cut off from the outside world and yet privy to a fabulous secret.
The following day we arrived in Lhasa. After another long drive we rolled into the city’s outskirts at about 6.30 pm. The outskirts - modern and Chinese - were a disappointment after the crude rural idyll through which we had passed. Once we entered the heart of Lhasa, however, the architecture became older and more genuinely Tibetan. Suddenly, as we turned the corner of a city street we saw it: The Potala Palace.
The Potala has been called one of the great wonders of the world and, in that mesmerising moment, I would not have argued. It’s high walls rose in exquisite white majesty above the prostrate city. Resolute, unassailable and eternal - yet beautifully and divinely proportioned. I had travelled a long and difficult road to see it, and my tired eyes felt duly rewarded.
I spent the next eight days revelling in the extraordinary city of Lhasa. I wandered into the dark interior of the Jokhang Temple, where dozens of Buddhas sat enshrined in alcoves. Thousands of candles threw their flickering glow over the gold statues and their smoke hung in flat mist-like layers near the ceiling. In the main hall monks were praying - the familiar reverberating chant I had heard in Kathmandu. The noise resonated extraordinarily in the claustrophobic room; a chaotic maelstrom of sound that, nevertheless, had a richly harmonic, rhythmic quality.
I explored the city too, walking the streets with my camera. I meandered through the markets - markets aimed at Tibetans not tourists - and looked at the items for sale. Stainless steel cook-ware, plastic buckets, food and drink, votive candles and prayer flags. Occasionally a lady selling trinkets would approach and wave her wares in my direction. “Lookee, lookee, cheapy, cheapy… how are you? … I love you!”
I went to a nightclub, which was an interesting experience, and bought myself a Chinese watch for a couple of pounds. The food was a tricky one, as all the menus were in Chinese. Sometimes I’d just point at something at random on the menu. Other times I’d be taken into the kitchens, where I’d point at various things, mime a little stir-fry wrist action and waited to see what I got. It was nearly always extremely tasty, although I confess I could not manage more than a couple of mouthfuls of sheep’s lung.
And, of course, I went to the Potala. The Potala Palace is one of those structures that seems to seep history from every whitewashed stone, every polished cobble and every ancient timber. Climbing the steps to the entrance I could not help wondering what tumultuous events had occurred here - and what were still to come.
The steps carried on into the palace itself, up into dark passageways that came at last into the sunshine of the main courtyard. Like all the Buddhist monasteries I have ever seen, the Potala is incredibly colourful. Here, in contrast to the white walls and blue window frames of the exterior, the colour scheme was bright orange and deep black.
The rooms of the palace were no less vibrant. There were ochre yellows and burnt oranges, blue and red stripes running along the walls, floral patterns on the woodwork and bright purple ceiling rafters.
Perhaps the most impressive room was the main hall. Pillars, swathed in red fabric, rose high into the dusty light that seeped through windows set high in the roof above. This light dropped, as though pulled by gravity, to the floor in the centre of the room, leaving the extremities in dark, mysterious shadow. In these extremities were huge, dark doors that led into further rooms - lit by candle and arrayed with golden statues of past Lamas and, of course, of Buddha himself.
The Potala is enormous. There seems to be an endless number of rooms, filled with statues and stupas and memories of vanished devotion. This was, after all, the home of the Dalai Lama in exile. It was fascinating to walk through these empty, dusty rooms; to see the art and the architecture and the culture of the Tibetans. But this was a museum only, a glimpse into a past that had been. The Dalai Lama was elsewhere, and his home stood empty. Far below, in the Jokhang temple, Tibetan Buddhism was alive and well, but the Potala palace was a shell. A sad reminder of freedom lost.
At last, after what seemed an age, I came out on the roof. Above was a sky as blue as I remembered it and below was stretched out the city of Lhasa. I drank in the view, looking across the city at the vast mountains that enclosed this hidden kingdom. It was easy to forget that Lhasa was a city under occupation. There seemed, save for a few Chinese soldiers, so few of the trappings of oppression.
But the oppression was there all right. I had talked to the Tibetans and heard their stories. Heard of prison and beatings and summary justice. These mountains, these Himalayas, that had protected Tibet from invasion and colonisation for so long, had now become a liability. Their isolation meant they could be ignored. The Chinese could do what they liked here and no-one would ever pay any attention. Their plight was concealed from the world by their seclusion from it. Tibet was a beautiful, mysterious and subjugated land. A Hidden Kingdom indeed.
The Potala is enormous. There seems to be an endless number of rooms, filled with statues and stupas and memories of vanished devotion. This was, after all, the home of the Dalai Lama in exile. It was fascinating to walk through these empty, dusty rooms; to see the art and the architecture and the culture of the Tibetans. But this was a museum only, a glimpse into a past that had been. The Dalai Lama was elsewhere, and his home stood empty. Far below, in the Jokhang temple, Tibetan Buddhism was alive and well, but the Potala palace was a shell. A sad reminder of freedom lost.
At last, after what seemed an age, I came out on the roof. Above was a sky as blue as I remembered it and below was stretched out the city of Lhasa. I drank in the view, looking across the city at the vast mountains that enclosed this hidden kingdom. It was easy to forget that Lhasa was a city under occupation. There seemed, save for a few Chinese soldiers, so few of the trappings of oppression.
But the oppression was there all right. I had talked to the Tibetans and heard their stories. Heard of prison and beatings and summary justice. These mountains, these Himalayas, that had protected Tibet from invasion and colonisation for so long, had now become a liability. Their isolation meant they could be ignored. The Chinese could do what they liked here and no-one would ever pay any attention. Their plight was concealed from the world by their seclusion from it. Tibet was a beautiful, mysterious and subjugated land. A Hidden Kingdom indeed.
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