In preparation for the visit to Tibet the members of our group had read two books advised by the Smithsonian Institute: TRESPASSERS ON THE ROOF 0F THE WORLD by Peter Hopkirk and TIBET by Elizabeth B. Booz. Both were absorbing as well as illuminating. I had not realized that Lhasa, like the Beijing's Forbidden City had for centuries been a closed and secret place, a religious center visited only by devout Buddhist pilgrims, and that a large percentage of its population were monks. No foreigner had penetrated this "city of golden domes" until the early twentieth century. Then a relatively small British force with superior weapons and by brutal means, overpowered the Tibetans who tried to defend their sacred city. It was the beginning of the end for Lhasa and for Tibet. Only a few years before our journey there, the Chinese, by much more brutal means, had conquered this hidden country, protected on all sides by majestic mountain ranges.
All of China has one time zone--that of Bejing. Our flight from Cheng Du was to leave at seven o'clock but it was still night when we reached the airport. We found ourselves at the top of a flight of stairs. There was Ike in his wheelchair. Even Barbara and Haynie were stopped for a moment but John wasn't. This young man had been helpful to Ike all along. He beckoned to Ernie, another young traveler. They made a chair by gripping each others wrists, got next to Ike and he managed to hoist himself on board. In five minutes he was safely at the foot of the stairs. It was daylight when our plane neared the Lhasa airport. As we dipped down, I could see an icy ravine with a river running through it, perhaps less than a thousand feet below. We landed on a short runway. It was a glorious, sunny day and I felt absolutely euphoric. We were on a plateau twelve thousand feet above sea level. I thought I had never felt better in my life. That's what I thought then. We got into the bus for the ride to the city and crossed a wide bridge. The driver stopped on the other side so we could take pictures of the rock hillside on which were painted huge figures from Buddhist legend. It rose above the Yarlong Tsampo [Brahmaputra] River.
An hour later, at the hotel, each of us had a white scarf put around his/her neck--the traditional Tibetan welcome. We went into a reception room where, seated on cushions, we were given keys and tea. After three sips, my euphoria evaporated. I felt terrible. The local guide who had joined us, an observant young woman, was sitting beside me. Without a word, she hauled me to my feet, took the room key from my unresisting hand, and led me to it. Obviously used to this reaction from visitors, she handed me a plastic lined waste-basket. When I collapsed on the bed, she pointed to an oxygen tank beside it, nodded reassuringly, and left me to recover. For a while I thought maybe I wouldn't and I didn't even care. Then Barbara came in, bringing soda crackers, and a coke as
restoratives. She also brought the news that I was not the only sufferer. There were several others but none of us showed signs of the dread "mountain sickness" (pulmonary edema) which would have meant an immediate return to a lower elevation. She said we had an invitation to drink "honey yang" cocktails before dinner but at that point I had no interest in cocktails and turned it down cold.
At breakfast next day I met Betsy, a young professor of theology from Stanford. She was joining us as a study guide. She had been in Lhasa for two months and spoke Tibetan. She advised those of us who looked wan and feeble, to eat the yak milk yoghurt on the table. I had a bowl of it, covered with coarse ground sugar and my internal battery was instantly recharged. It had the same effect on the others and we set forth eagerly to see as much as we could of this fabled city. The holiest site in Lhasa, indeed in all Tibet, the Jokhang Trmple was our destination. It was crowded with reverent Tibetan pilgrims who had prostrated themselves before entering this spiritual center of their country. The entrance to the main hall was guarded by statues of both menacing and benevolent spirits. In row after row, lighted butter lamps glowing softly before altars where pious pilgrims knelt. I had an
impression of a bewildering melange of brilliant colors. We went up flights of stairs and through passages on whose wall were murals depicting scenes from Tibetan history--King Songsten Gampo and his two royal wives, one a princess from China, the other a princess from Nepal. All three are much revered. Here and there were large silvery prayer wheels to be turned to send petitions up to heaven. We saw the sacred golden Sakyamuni Buddha. From the roof of the temple, the Potala Palace could be seen in the distance.
We left to find Ike who had missed all these splendors because of the stairs, in the Barkhor Bazaar which is behind the temple. In this intriguing place prayer flags and hand-held prayer wheels, devil masks, turquoise and coral jewelry, pottery--a vast collection of exotica was for sale and to be bargained for.
On the way back to the hotel we passed a statue of two yaks in the central square of the city. Betsy told us the Chinese had installed it quite recently, apparently in hopes of placating the Tibetans. She had talked to many of them during her stay in Lhasa and she told us that far from being appeased, their fury against the invaders was unabated. They hated the thing and refused flatly to join in any celebration of the Chinese New Year. They would have their own later. They had to keep silent but she said their bitter resentment was almost tangible. Her empathy was deep. We had yet to see the devastated and destroyed monasteries, centuries old, cherished by these non-aggressive people who wanted only to live in peace.