Hailing a rickshaw to take me from outside the Potala back to the hotel became a bit of a nightmare. Apparently, so I found out later, rickshaws are not permitted to pass in front of the Potala – goodness knows why. Being Chinese, my ‘driver’ was only familiar with the areas inhabited by Chinese so the Tibetan quarter was a mystery to him. By the time we had wound our way around the back of this massive palace I had lost all sense of direction and could not even gesture as to which way we should head. The Chinese area of Lhasa, what seems to be 90% of the city, is set out like a grid; new with bright, gaudy red and gold shop fronts and advertising hoardings. People wear Western dress, as opposed to Tibetans who are mostly in national dress; there are traffic police and much chaotic bustle. Eventually I had to ask a traffic policeman, on duty in the middle of a roundabout, in sign language to direct us to the old city.
The Tibetan quarter is indeed very old and filled with pedestrians; there is little traffic. Tiny shops sell just the basics, stray dogs sleep in doorways, children play in the street and friendly, smiling faces are everywhere. People here wear their traditional costume; delicious Kampa boys in black suits wearing black hats with red plumes look like rows of Johnny Depp doubles; pilgrims in country clothes circumambulate and prostrate at the Jokhang Temple; women in full dress complete with enormous pieces of turquoise and coral incorporated into their long plaited hair stare at our plain and quite frankly boring hiking clothes.
In the Barkhour, the area surrounding this most important temple in Tibet, the Jokhang, are the market stalls. Bartering is encouraged although one feels guilty buying and taking away beautiful jewellery and antiques, items brought from villages to be sacrificed for the price of the next meal. So much to see, to take in; visual delights all around. Magnificent elderly inhabitants with few teeth have such wonderful skins, like polished walnut. Prostrating pilgrims - one had a small sheep tethered to his ankle who had to continually stop and start to keep pace with his owner! The gentle tinkling of prayer bells; the clicking of prayer wheels carried by so many. Did I want to buy a third monk’s skull? I think not. I visited the teaching hospital to view their ancient books. I drank delicious lassies taking in the wonderful aroma of burning juniper and watched the world go by.
But then a truck full of uniformed Chinese trundled past. On a street corner a guard, sitting with a rifle across his lap – for what was he watching? A persistent ominous presence in the heart of this gentle, spiritual land.